Saturday came with gray skies and wind that blew trash into corners. The community center's rusted sign creaked overhead as Kang Joon-ho pushed open the door to the tenant clinic. The air inside was warmer, but barely. The heater in the hallway groaned like it hated its job.
It was barely 10 a.m., but the waiting area was full.
A young mother rocking a stroller. A man in a work uniform nursing a bandaged hand. An elderly couple whispering nervously to each other, holding eviction letters.
Pain didn't need words. It lived in posture.
Joon-ho exhaled. This was the real world—messy, unglamorous, and heavy.
A familiar voice greeted him.
"You're early," said Professor Han, seated at the reception desk.
"You said we open at ten. I assumed we'd need help by nine-thirty."
The professor smiled, his salt-and-pepper hair tied into a small knot today. "You remember what I taught you well."
Joon-ho began sorting the files as more people entered. He wasn't wearing a suit today—just a plain button-up and slacks, sleeves rolled high. In this place, you didn't need polish. You needed presence.
At 10:30, the door opened again.
Yoo Sae-bin stepped inside, crisp white coat flaring behind her, eyes scanning the room like a skeptical auditor.
"You showed up," Joon-ho said, standing to greet her.
"Of course I did. I'm not afraid of a little chaos." She looked around. "...Though this place looks like it lost a war with bureaucracy."
He gestured to a back room. "Then let's arm ourselves."
---
They took the second intake case of the morning.
Client: Kim Yong-bae
Age: 68
Occupation: Former construction laborer
Complaint: Wrongful eviction from unit 3-B. Landlord claims property redevelopment. Kim claims he was promised a five-year lease extension.
The man sat hunched across from them, hands calloused, voice raspy.
"I've been there 12 years," he said. "Never missed rent. Always fixed my own leaks, patched the walls myself. Then this month, I get a notice to vacate in two weeks. Says my contract ended early."
"Did you sign anything new recently?" Sae-bin asked, taking notes.
Kim shook his head. "Landlord said he'd 'handle it' after the renewal. Said don't worry. Just keep paying. I trusted him."
"Do you have written proof of the extension?" she pressed.
Kim looked down. "Just… conversations. I recorded one last year. But I never asked for a new contract."
Sae-bin's lips thinned. "That makes it difficult."
But Joon-ho was already flipping through the scanned complaint file. "Wait. Who's your landlord?"
"Jung Hyun-seok. Owns half the building."
That name. Joon-ho's eyes narrowed. It wasn't unfamiliar.
He pulled out his phone and searched city business records. The name came up fast.
Jung Hyun-seok – Local property owner. Recently acquired multiple buildings in low-income areas. Connected via shell company to Assemblyman Choi Min-jun's brother-in-law.
So it begins.
He tapped the table. "Did you know your eviction was filed under the 'Early Redevelopment Clause'?"
Kim blinked. "No. What's that?"
"It's a loophole clause buried in older property laws," Joon-ho explained. "It allows landlords to evict tenants early if they're 'preparing' for redevelopment—without providing official permits."
"That sounds illegal," Sae-bin muttered.
"It's legal if nobody challenges it."
He looked up.
"Let's challenge it."
---
That afternoon, Joon-ho and Sae-bin visited the site: an aging three-floor apartment building with cracked walls and rusted fire escapes. A real-estate banner was already hanging nearby:
"COMING SOON: Luxury Student Lofts!"
Sae-bin scanned the area with a grimace. "This isn't redevelopment. It's gentrification."
They met Kim outside. He led them up to unit 3-B.
It was modest—two rooms, peeling paint, a kettle on the stove—but clean. Lived-in. The kind of place someone called home.
Joon-ho stepped carefully through the rooms, listening.
"If we request mediation and submit audio evidence of verbal extension promises," he said, "we can argue that the landlord acted in bad faith."
"He'll deny it ever happened," Sae-bin said.
"Then we dig deeper. The business shell he's using to justify redevelopment—Woori Urban Properties—isn't registered for residential construction. They're a holding company."
Her eyes widened. "You're saying this eviction is technically void because the entity isn't qualified?"
He nodded. "Exactly. And if we go public with this, we can stall the eviction with a legal freeze until the permit applications are investigated."
"That's aggressive."
"That's necessary."
They turned to Kim.
"Do you want to fight this?" Joon-ho asked gently. "If you do, it'll get messy. You'll be a name in public complaints. You'll be pressured."
Kim stood straighter. "If I leave, the others will be next. I'll fight."
Sae-bin held out the complaint form. "Then let's begin."
---
Over the next five days, they prepared the case.
Joon-ho combed through city land use records, flagging inconsistencies in Woori's filings. He contacted former tenants who had been forced out the same way—two agreed to testify anonymously.
Sae-bin cross-referenced redevelopment permits across the district and discovered something critical: The landlord had submitted identical 'intent to redevelop' notices to three other buildings but had only filed permit paperwork for one.
"He's faking intent," she said. "Evicting under false pretense."
They shared a long look.
Then began drafting the complaint.
They included:
Audio recordings of verbal lease extension agreements.
Evidence of the holding company's ineligibility to execute redevelopment.
Comparative eviction records to show a pattern of bad faith.
A formal injunction request for tenant protection under low-income housing policies.
By Thursday, the motion was filed.
By Friday, they were sitting across from Jung Hyun-seok himself—slick hair, gold watch, and a smirk that screamed arrogance.
He glanced at the injunction papers and snorted.
"A law student filed this?" he asked. "This is cute."
Joon-ho smiled politely. "We can withdraw it—if you nullify the eviction and extend Mr. Kim's lease by three years."
Jung leaned forward. "Do you know who I know, kid?"
"I do," Joon-ho replied. "Which is why we sent a copy of this complaint to the Office of Municipal Ethics. Your shell company is under preliminary audit."
Silence.
"You're bluffing."
"No," Sae-bin said smoothly. "We're just early."
Jung stood, scowling. "You'll regret this."
"Not as much as you will," Joon-ho replied.
The man left, slamming the door.
Kim sat stunned in the corner. "Was that… a win?"
Joon-ho chuckled. "It's a start."
---
Outside, the wind picked up.
They walked back toward campus, the city lights flickering through narrow alleys.
"That was insane," Sae-bin said.
"You're still processing."
"I'm re-evaluating." She turned to him. "You don't think like a student. You think like someone who's already lost something."
He didn't respond.
She softened. "Sorry. That was too personal."
"No," he said quietly. "You're right."
He looked ahead.
"In my past life… I didn't fight for people like Kim. I fought for people like Jung. And I won. Every time."
She stopped walking.
"You were like them?"
"I was worse."
They stood under a flickering streetlight.
After a long silence, Sae-bin said, "Then I'm glad you're here now."
Her voice was low but sincere.
He nodded.
Somewhere behind them, laughter echoed from a distant street, light cutting through the heaviness.
A new alliance had formed.
Not just in law.
But in purpose.