That evening, several reporters gathered for a get-together.
People in this industry were no strangers to dinners and gatherings, but tonight’s lineup was a bit different.
These weren’t reporters from the same newspaper—they were from different outlets entirely. And they weren’t even connected by school ties or regional ties, so it was safe to say the atmosphere was awkward.
If it hadn’t been for that topic, anyway.
“...That thing—are we sure she really came up with it on the spot? Say, reporter from Sangam Daily, do you know anything? Maybe you got a tip-off from somewhere, something like that?”
“Me? Oh, no, of course not. Even if there was something like that, I wouldn’t know.”
“Hmm. Fair enough. Still, it really feels like the times are changing by the day these days... It’s all so turbulent.”
A rookie reporter, by nature, must have enough charm and sociability to smile and ask questions even when getting cussed out by total strangers.
And tonight, everyone was dying to talk about that outrageous scoop.
Yoo Ha-yeon, youngest granddaughter of Daehwa Group chairman Yoo Seong-pil.
She had always been whispered about as a prodigy, but not many people truly knew her. She wasn’t particularly famous.
Until suddenly, there wasn’t a single person in Korea who didn’t know her name.
When the IMF crisis—a day of national humiliation—swept over South Korea with devastation and grief... she achieved a level of success that had no precedent anywhere in the world.
Logically, the success of a third-generation chaebol heir shouldn’t have much to do with the lives of ordinary citizens. But at a time when people were desperately in need of emotional consolation, they all rejoiced in her success as if it were their own.
And they wondered.
The more you learned about Yoo Ha-yeon’s success, the more unbelievable it seemed. Even if she was a chaebol heir, how in the world had she pulled it off?
“...I was wondering how she did it...”
Having seen her in action, Yoo Ha-yeon’s talent wasn’t just impressive—it was on a whole different level. It was outright insane.
They said she’d made her fortune in finance—but that was supposed to be one of those vague talents, right? But if someone who could put that much effort into memorizing people’s names directed that same focus toward making money...
You couldn’t help but nod.
“Still, don’t you think that was just some pre-planned show? Isn’t that what business genius is all about? Faking it till you make it, setting the mood with preparation and confidence... Of course, even that would make her a prodigy. But even so, wasn’t what she did just now a bit too much?”
“...I don’t think so. Think about it again. Hey, Daehwa Daily reporter. Do you remember what Yoo Ha-yeon said to you back then? Did she act like she recognized your face?”
“Me? Hmm... No, now that you mention it, I don’t think so. She only seemed to realize who I was after hearing my name... Oh.”
He nodded slowly.
Come to think of it, Yoo Ha-yeon’s display of insight wasn’t flawless—it varied slightly from person to person.
—“What’s wrong with you all? Hmm, I read a lot of newspapers, so I know the press scene pretty well. Want to test me? Han Seo-in from Dongseo Daily. Joined two years ago, Korea University, Korean Literature, class of ’91, right? And you over there from Daehwa Daily... What was your name again?”
She’d recognized the man who threw the egg and the Dongseo Daily reporter just by their faces, but for the Daehwa Daily reporter, she’d needed to hear his name first before placing him.
That, ironically, made {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} her seem even more credible.
“...Han Seo-in, have you ever had your face published anywhere? Oh, and that egg-thrower—wasn’t his name Jeong Sang-guk?”
If you really wanted to nitpick, sure, there were oddities.
Information about journalists could probably be found if she’d dug around ahead of time, like she said. She could’ve just memorized it. But if she didn’t know the Daehwa Daily guy, how come she recognized the egg-thrower by sight? That was weird.
“Well... how would I know that? I don’t keep track of stuff like that.”
Exactly. Most people don’t even know when their own photo’s been published. That’s normal.
Apparently, she’s not most people. No one could say how it was possible, and it couldn’t be proven.
“....”
Then another reporter suddenly slapped his knee and snapped his fingers.
“Ah! I remember that guy now! He was in a full-page spread not too long ago. Must’ve been in a progressive paper—couldn’t recall it clearly, but now that you say he went to Hanyang Engineering, yeah, it’s him.”
“Phew... So she remembered him from that short glimpse and dropped it in conversation? She really is something.”
This... this was a scoop.
Sure, they’d have to smooth it out a bit due to press guidelines, but that wouldn’t be difficult. At least when it came to raw ability, stating the facts would sound more unbelievable than any lie.
***
While the newspapers were once again buzzing with Yoo Ha-yeon’s name...
I was back in the clubroom at school, humming a tune that wasn’t even halfway written yet—enjoying a bit of long-missed hobby time.
“Okay, add one cup of water here... Hmm, when was I supposed to add this part? Something’s off about this curry.”
That’s right. Cooking.
I heard a cooking club had formed at school, so I came to learn how to cook a bit—and maybe brew some real coffee while I was at it. I mean, even if I am rich, it wouldn’t look great if I couldn’t cook at all, right?
Yup, that’s totally the reason.
It’s definitely not about indulging a weird personal taste.
Creak.
Oh, the club president is here.
The moment she heard I’d joined the cooking club, she came running in socks. I greeted Cha Ba-da with a smile.
“Hey, Ba-da. Long time no see?”
“...What the hell are you wearing.”
Oh my. That’s cold.
It had been a while since I last saw Cha Ba-da—heiress to Mirae Group and future politician—but she immediately pointed a finger at me.
“Why the hell are you naked! Y-You pervert!”
“Come on, naked? It’s called a naked apron.”
“...That is naked! Or—wait. More importantly! What the hell are you even doing! Not wearing your school uniform is one thing, but this—this is...!”
She trailed off, completely flustered, staring at me in disbelief.
I gave her a sweet little eye-smile and tilted my head.
“Pfft. Why? Is it turning you on too?”
“W-What are you saying!? Take that apron off right now!”
“...?”
I blinked.
Looking between the apron and Ba-da a few times, I let out a quiet laugh and started to lift the apron just a little.
“Ooh... So this is what you want me to take off? You’ve got bold tastes, Miss Ba-da.”
Realizing how that sounded, Ba-da turned as red as a teapot and started flailing her arms and legs.
“T-That’s not what I meant!”
As Ba-da screamed loud enough to shake the clubroom walls, I smiled gently and said,
“Hmm, but shouldn’t you at least close the door first? I don’t mind, but... I feel like this is going to stir a lot of interest in cooking from our classmates.”
Tap tap.
I knocked lightly on the table to draw her attention and pointed at the half-open door.
“...Eep!”
Thump thump thump.
Clatter. Slam.
Mmhmm.
She’s really cute, honestly.
Leaving the suspiciously off-colored curry behind, I turned to Seo Ji-yeon, who was slumped over in the corner with dead eyes.
“Ji-yeon.”
“....”
Wow, no reaction?
Even after I went to the trouble of dressing like this?
How rude.
Feeling a bit slighted, I grabbed a ladle and pointed it toward her.
“Ji-yeon, this batch of curry’s a failure. Want to help me eat it anyway?”
“N-No! No thank you! I-I really don’t want to eat it!”
Trembling.
“Aww, don’t be like that. I was trying to make white curry this time, but something went wrong. Maybe I added too much milk? I tried compensating with more starch, but it’s still weird...”
“...Why can’t you just make instant curry? You’re bad at cooking... Just follow the recipe!”
Follow the recipe, huh.
That’s one of the phrases I hate most.
I have to be special. Which means, of course, my cooking has to be special too.
Of course, anyone with even middle school-level economics knows that rarity and value aren’t the same thing... but oh well.
Feeling playful, I recalled the fun I had playing Warcraft 2 yesterday and said:
“Drink, Hellscream.”
Snickering to myself, I scooped up some of the white, gooey mess and forced it into Ji-yeon’s mouth. She looked at me with tearful eyes, then gave in and opened her mouth.
“Mmph... mmph...”
Gulp.
She actually swallowed the horrendous, lumpy white curry (it was still curry, technically) and pouted at me with big, betrayed eyes.
“...Mean. That was so mean.”
“That’s what you get for ditching me yesterday. Hmph.”
“I-I told you I don’t like computer games...! And I have so much work, you know that!”
Hmm. What a ridiculous excuse.
Just because she doesn’t like my hobbies, does that mean she doesn’t have to go along with them? Please. The only reason we’re even friends is because she isn’t the type to push back.
Still, this time was a little different. It wasn’t just a hobby—this time, it was also work.
“Really? Then let me ask you something. Did you know I’m planning to start a telecom business?”
“...What?”
“Tsk tsk, told you. Listen up. I decided to invest around a billion dollars into Korea. In exchange for rolling out a high-speed internet network, I’ll get some perks and incentives... that sort of thing. I’ll create jobs and so on with that money.”
Now, finally—
The age of the internet is coming.
The next administration (planned) is going to aggressively push IT companies. The policy lines up perfectly with my tastes, so I’ve decided to throw in some cash too.
Honestly, it’s been exhausting up until now.
The government gets economic growth, the unemployed get jobs, computer users get faster internet, I get to monopolize the privatized telecom industry...
Win-win.