February 12th
Nine days remained until the futures expiry date.
Normally, this would be the time to leisurely head into work and glance over the futures charts—but not this time.
Because an unprecedented event had every single futures trader in the industry laser-focused on their screens.
[“Cushing is full... No more oil storage left.”]
[“Oil storage lease fees spike sharply... Daily storage fees surge from $10,000 to $200,000—warehouse owners laughing.”]
[“‘Even tankers are full’... Crude oil packed onto tankers docked at port.”]
Using oil tankers as makeshift storage. It was absurdly extravagant.
It’s like using silver for wiring just because it has better conductivity than copper. Not only is keeping a tanker idle in port for too long unfeasible, but tankers are fundamentally more expensive than proper oil storage tanks.
But just like during the Manhattan Project, when silver wiring was used due to a lack of copper—exceptions always exist. And right now, the oil storage crisis was dire enough that even those high-cost tankers were being used as stopgaps.
“Why won’t they open Busan Port?”
An oil trader asked nervously. He’d sold most of his March contracts, but the moment positive signals appeared, he jumped back in.
The people around him only shook their heads—they didn’t know either.
“Maybe... it’s a deliberate move to drive up value.”
“Still keeping the storage closed in this situation? Do you know what the daily storage rate is?!”
Despite his words, the trader already knew the answer.
It wasn’t illegal, and it didn’t violate any ethical trading codes. But still...
‘Fucking lunatic. I wondered how someone so young ended up as a director.’
It was utterly insane.
Just opening that storage would bring in millions # Nоvеlight # of dollars a day, and yet she was holding out like some kind of street hawker. He was stunned.
Most Koreans didn’t realize it, but at that point, Busan Port ranked third in the world by cargo volume. If Busan properly received crude oil and temporarily used its warehouses for storage, the entire crisis could be relieved.
Sure, the oil industry might see things differently, but for traders, it didn’t matter. They just needed to sell once prices rose.
Saying a dusty warehouse couldn’t be used for crude oil storage was pointless. At this stage, people were desperate enough to pour oil into their backyard kiddie pools—or even their bathtubs.
And Yoo Ha-yeon, the director, knew that too.
If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t be doing this in Korea. She would’ve just opened the storage and accepted all the oil already.
***
February 13th, Busan
I smiled faintly as I looked at the sea for the first time in a while.
“Nice view.”
It was still February, so the sea breeze was brisk, but something about the ocean made my lungs feel clearer.
“The view, huh? From here all I see are oil tankers,”
muttered Yelizaveta, wearing a crop top with her belly exposed despite the chill. Now fluent in Korean, she was officially the head of Security Team 2.
I smiled and nodded.
“Yeah, that’s the kind of view I like.”
“Well, I suppose you’ve seen the sea enough times to be numb to it.”
“Ahaha, true. I go to the beach every summer, after all. But Busan’s a little different. I haven’t been here much, yet it feels nostalgic somehow.”
Unlike the rapidly developing Seoul, Busan still held remnants of its older landscapes. It strangely reminded me of my childhood.
Hooonk—!
A ship horn echoed. Not an oil tanker, but just an ordinary vessel.
Though it was still massive.
Even though Busan was big, it wasn’t exactly a crude oil port. Technically speaking, Ulsan was closer.
Tap, tap.
I strolled through the empty lot, glancing around with curiosity.
“They built it faster than I expected, huh?”
“It’s a petrochemical plant... but not really. They’ve only set up the framework—none of the actual internals are complete.”
“Well, that’s half on purpose. We can use that space to temporarily store oil.”
Though she was head of security, Liza had broadened her horizons enough to talk shop with me. She did major in architecture, after all.
As we chatted, a Yukong employee approached—probably a department head.
“...Are you really planning to use this warehouse as a crude oil storage facility?”
“Huh? Mm, yeah. Why? Worried it can’t handle the volume?”
“To be honest... yes. The scale is... a bit excessive.”
He looked at the warehouse with clear reluctance. Anyone unfamiliar with crude oil futures would probably feel the same.
Who would imagine we’d be paid to accept oil?
Of course, the reason oil was being sold with money attached was because no one wanted it. But I was fine with that.
There were a lot of moving parts. For instance... I may have secured a government contract for national oil reserves storage...
But I didn’t feel the need to explain all that.
“Ahaha. Deputy Manager Gam Seon-uk, do you not want a promotion?”
“I-I’m sorry!”
The Yukong manager bowed at a 90-degree angle, flustered and fawning over me.
—“Is she implying she’ll promote me if I cooperate?”
That’s probably what he was thinking.
In these post-crisis times, getting promoted instead of laid off was like plucking a star from the sky.
Clack.
“Mmm, this is tasty. I usually don’t like seafood... Anyway, don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.”
I casually dipped a shrimp in soy sauce as I spoke. My bodyguards and secretaries were hustling around, setting up dishes from a famous Busan restaurant.
Eating slowly while walking actually felt nice. With all the silver trays laid out, curious passersby couldn’t help but peek over.
As expected—money makes everything better.
“Is this sushi? If I eat the rice too, I’ll be too full...”
I picked the fish off the top and popped it in my mouth, smothering it with chili paste.
Sashimi’s all about the sauce anyway. Picking the fish off sushi rice is basically sashimi, right?
Some Busan locals nearby were visibly twitching, but I just smiled sweetly and let it go.
“Anyway, how long until the next schedule?”
“Seven minutes for CME, and one hour twenty-three for Cushing.”
I see.
I gave a slight nod at my secretary’s answer and turned away. These days, the sharp ones were already catching on that a large crude oil storage facility had popped up in Korea.
And somehow—despite all that—they also knew that no contracts had been made yet and the tanks were still empty.
Which is why they were swarming in like moths to a flame. They couldn’t stand the idea of oil resting quietly in a tiny country like Korea.
All these oil-bloated players were probably imagining themselves begging me to hurry up and relieve their burden.
Miss Yoo Ha-yeon is just too pretty. So many people have fallen for my radiant charm—it’s exhausting, really.
.
.
.
Do you know what happened after Kim Seon-dal sold the Daedong River?
There are several versions, but in the most common tale, the merchants who bought the right to sell water from the river ended up mocked and beaten by the townsfolk.
I agree wholeheartedly.
How dare someone try to sell naturally occurring crude oil? How absurd and blasphemous.
Water fees are for the labor of hauling, not for scooping water from a spring and claiming ownership.
So, I’ll do the same.
***
February 15th
Six days remained until the futures expiry date—but still, there was no news of production cuts.
Busan’s crude oil storage tanks remained firmly shut. And bizarre rumors about Director Yoo Ha-yeon only grew—some said she was skiing atop a tanker docked in Busan Harbor.
In any case, WTI crude futures were now approaching $6 a barrel.
“This—this crazy witch bitch...”
Thud!
“Even Exxon begged her, and she still won’t open the tanks! How much more goddamn money does that whore Yoo Ha-yeon need?! Storage fees have doubled in just two days!”
The trader was shaking his fist, screaming that this must be illegal and grounds for a lawsuit.
Scratch, scratch.
“Hmm? What are you writing?”
“Ahaha, nothing much. Just notes for headquarters.”
The traders at the Chicago Mercantile Exchange were sweating bullets. The stress was so intense that despite a broken heater turning the office into a frozen cave, they were sweating.
The suspicious-looking Asian heater technician had been tinkering with the unit for far too long, but no one had the energy to say anything.
“...”
Their eyes scanned the chart nonstop.
–$6.02
–$5.97
The psychological barrier shattered again. Six dollars per barrel, gone in an instant.
“Dump it.”
His voice trembled.
“...Excuse me?”
“I said dump it!! Five fifty, no—five dollars flat! Just sell everything we’ve got left!”
In the tense silence that followed, they dumped all their remaining March contracts.
In this age of digitized trading, it was that simple. Just a few button presses, and tons of contracts hit the market.
But...
“It’s not selling.”
A groan.
Then a slow wave of fear spread through the room. A classic sign of a market with no liquidity.
When no one wants the product, the bid-ask spread collapses. Even at what was clearly a cheap price, no one was buying the March contracts.
Only about one-tenth of the volume had moved.
“...”
Only then did the traders realize—
They might actually drown in oil.