December 14, 2025. Yeouido, Seoul. Temperature: -12°C.

  The whiskey in the crystal glass cost 450,000 won a shot. It tasted like battery acid and ten years of regret.

  Kang Min-jun stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse office, looking down at the frozen Han River. The city of Seoul sprawled out beneath him, a glittering circuit board of ambition and greed. From this height, the people were invisible, the cars mere pixels of light moving through the veins of the metropolis.

  At thirty-one, Min-jun looked forty. His hairline was retreating, defeated by cortisol. His skin had the grey, pallid complexion of a man who lived under fluorescent lights, and his liver throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—a silent protest against a decade of client dinners and explosive cocktails.

  Buzz.

  The phone on the marble table vibrated. The screen displayed a single name: Legal Team 2.

  Min-jun picked it up. His hand didn't tremble. He was beyond fear now; he was in the realm of calculation.

  "Director Kang," the voice on the other end was smooth, sterile, and utterly devoid of humanity. It was the voice of the Daegwang Group. "The transfer is complete. The prosecutors have agreed to the narrative. You acted alone in the slush fund mismanagement of the bio-pharmaceutical subsidiary. It was personal greed, unauthorized trading."

  Min-jun took a sip of the bitter whiskey. "And Chairman Jin?"

  "The Chairman is… deeply saddened by your deviation. However, out of respect for your seven years of service, he has ensured your family will be insulated. Your severance has been deposited. It covers your father’s hospital bills and the outstanding mortgage."

  "Severance," Min-jun chuckled, the sound dry and cracking like dead leaves. "You mean the settlement for my prison term. Five years, was it?"

  "With good behavior, perhaps three. Please surrender yourself to the Seoul Central District Prosecutors' Office by 9:00 AM tomorrow. Thank you for your service, Mr. Kang."

  Click.

  The line went dead.

  Min-jun looked at his reflection in the glass. He wasn't a Director. He was a calculator. A high-end, disposable tool used to hide the incompetence of Jin Hyuk-jae, the third-generation heir of the Daegwang Group.

  Hyuk-jae had torched 600 billion won on a failed Metaverse venture in 2023. Min-jun had spent two years fixing the balance sheet, stripping assets, and firing thousands of workers to cover the heir's mess. And now that the internal audit was looming, Min-jun was the designated corpse.

  He had played the game perfectly. He had studied harder than anyone, graduated top of his class from SNU, worked 100-hour weeks, and sold his soul to the Chaebol. He believed that if he made them enough money, they would let him sit at the table.

  He was wrong. He was just the waiter.

  The Net Present Value (NPV) of my life, Min-jun calculated mentally, closing his eyes, is zero.

  Actually, it was negative. He had no wife, no friends, and his parents were ashamed of him even before the news would break tomorrow.

  He finished the whiskey. He opened the heavy glass door and stepped out onto the terrace.

  The wind was brutal. It cut through his bespoke Italian suit like a knife. He walked to the railing. Below him, the asphalt of the parking lot looked like a dark, inviting pool.

  “If I could short my own life, I would have made a killing.”

  A sharp pain, like a serrated blade, twisted in his chest. Stress-induced cardiomyopathy? A stroke? It didn't matter. The world tilted on its axis. The railing, slick with invisible black ice, offered no grip.

  Gravity took over.

  As the ground rushed up to meet him, Min-jun didn't see a flashing light or a god. He didn't see his life flash before his eyes.

  He saw a ticker tape.

  KANG MIN-JUN (DELISTED).

  Silence...

  "Min-jun! Wake up! You’re going to be late for the opening ceremony!"

  The voice was loud, shrill, and impossibly warm.

  Min-jun gasped, his lungs inflating with a violent suddenness. He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

  He wasn't on the pavement in Yeouido. He wasn't bleeding out in the snow.

  He was staring at a water stain on a yellowed wallpaper ceiling. The shape of the stain looked vaguely like a map of South America. He knew that stain. He had stared at it every night for six years.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He inhaled. The air didn't smell of luxury leather and stale alcohol. It smelled of soybean paste stew (Doenjang-jjigae), damp wool, and… mold?

  "Min-jun!" The door slid open with a familiar rattle.

  A woman stood there. She was wearing a frayed apron over a mismatched tracksuit. Her hair was thick and black, tied back in a messy bun. Her face was flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

  Min-jun froze. His breath caught in his throat.

  "Mom?" he whispered. His voice cracked. It wasn't the deep, gravelly baritone of a thirty-year-old smoker. It was a high, unstable tenor.

  His mother, Lee Sun-ja, frowned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Why are you looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost? Did you have a nightmare about high school already? Get up! It’s your first day!"

  She turned and bustled back to the kitchen, the sound of a ladle hitting a pot echoing through the small apartment.

  Min-jun scrambled out of the blankets. He looked down at his hands.

  They were pale. Smooth. No nicotine stains on the fingers. No callous on the middle finger from gripping a Montblanc pen for twelve hours a day. He touched his face. His skin was tight, elastic. He felt the distinct, bump of a pimple on his chin.

  He rushed to the small, cracked mirror hanging on the back of the door.

  A sixteen-year-old boy stared back. He had shaggy, unstyled hair that fell over his eyes, and he was wearing a stretched-out grey t-shirt.

  He looked at the calendar on the wall. It was a paper calendar from a local fried chicken shop.

  2010. March.

  He grabbed the bulky slide phone sitting on his desk. He flipped it open. The screen resolution was pixelated and terrible.

  07:15 AM. March 2, 2010.

  Min-jun sank to his knees. The floor was cold linoleum, not heated marble.

  He hadn't gone to hell. He had gone back to the opening bell.

  "Min-jun! Rice!"

  He stumbled into the small living room which doubled as the dining room. The table was a foldable round one with peeling lacquer.

  His father, Kang Dong-wook, was sitting there, burying his face in a sports newspaper. He looked younger too, though the weight of poverty was already etching deep lines around his mouth. He wore his taxi driver uniform—a blue vest that had seen better days.

  "Sit," his father grunted, not looking up. "Eat quickly. The bus schedule changed."

  Min-jun sat. He looked at the food. White rice, kimchi, bean sprouts, and a single, small salted mackerel cut into four pieces.

  In 2025, Min-jun ate lunches that cost 300,000 won. He drank wine that cost more than this entire apartment's monthly rent. But as he picked up his spoon, his hand shook.

  He took a bite of the stew. It was salty, spicy, and scorching hot.

  Tears welled up in his eyes. It tasted like life.

  "Why are you crying over mackerel?" his mother asked, placing a bowl of rice in front of him. "Is it too salty?"

  "No," Min-jun wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "It's perfect."

  He ate with a voracious intensity, his brain racing faster than his jaw.

  March 2010.

  I am sixteen. A freshman at Jamsil High School.

  He looked at his father. Dad is still driving the corporate taxi. In six months, the engine will blow. He will take a private loan to pay for the damages because his credit score is too low for the banks. That loan has a 34% interest rate. It spirals. By 2012, we lose the deposit on this house. By 2014, Dad has his first stroke from the stress.

  Min-jun gripped his spoon tighter.

  Not this time.

  He knew the future. Not just his future, but the future. He knew every major market movement, every geopolitical crisis, every tech unicorn that was currently just a garage startup.

  He looked around the shabby apartment. He needed capital. Seed money. You couldn't trade futures with a high schooler's allowance of 30,000 won a month.

  His eyes drifted to the closed door of the small bedroom at the end of the hall.

  Grandfather.

  Kang Byung-ho. A retired construction foreman who lived with them. A stubborn, gruff man who didn't trust banks because he had lost everything in the 1997 IMF Crisis.

  Min-jun knew a secret. A secret he had only found out in his previous life after the old man had died in 2016.

  Grandfather had a stash. It wasn't a fortune—about 10 million won (roughly $8,500). It was his life savings, scraped together from day labor. He was hoarding it for two things: Min-jun’s college tuition and Min-jun’s future wedding. He guarded it like a dragon guarding gold, refusing to lend a single won to Min-jun's father because he knew his son was bad with money.

  10 million won.

  In the world of high finance, it was dust. A rounding error. But in 2010? In the hands of a man who knew exactly what the KOSPI index would do next week?

  It was a nuclear weapon.

  "I'm off," Min-jun said, standing up. He grabbed his school bag. The yellow uniform of Jamsil High felt stiff and uncomfortable, scratching his neck.

  "Study hard," his father said automatically. "Don't cause trouble."

  "I won't," Min-jun said. He paused at the door, looking back at his parents. A strange, cold light flickered in his eyes—the eyes of a predator waking up from hibernation.

  "I'm going to fix everything," he whispered.

  "What?" his mother asked.

  "Nothing. I'll be back for dinner."

  Min-jun stepped out into the crisp March morning. The air was filled with the smell of exhaust fumes and ambition. He walked toward the bus stop, but his mind wasn't on school.

  He was mentally pulling up the historical chart for March 2010.

  The world is recovering from the Subprime Mortgage Crisis. Quantitative Easing is pumping liquidity into the market. The 'Chimerica' era is at its peak.

  And in twenty-four days, Min-jun thought, checking his watch, the ROKS Cheonan naval ship will sink.

  Tragedy for the nation. Panic for the market. And for a man who knew the bottom?

  The greatest buying opportunity of the decade.