The break room was a sanctuary of fake wood and cheap coffee beans. Min-jun stood by the industrial machine, watching the dark liquid drip into his cup. His hands were steady now. The initial shock had hardened into a cold, focused chill in his gut.
The system's warning pulsed in his peripheral vision like a faint afterimage. Cognitive Load: 12%. Manage intake. The headache was a dull, persistent throb behind his eyes. A tax. He could already feel the rules: the more voices he listened to, the longer he held the connection, the heavier the cost.
He wasn't just hearing words. He was feeling the emotions behind them—the slick greed of Analyst Kim, the callous calculation of Manager Park, the venomous possession of Director Han. It was a psychic stench.
He finished making his coffee. Hot. Black. No sugar. He needed the bitterness to feel awake, to feel real.
His plan was insane. It was built on the shakiest foundation imaginable: the unverified inner thoughts of a corrupt man. But the look on Evelyn's face… the silent terror in her eyes that matched the vile monologue in Han's head… that was real. That was a truth he couldn't ignore.
He walked back onto the floor, his senses dialed up. He practiced control. He looked at a junior associate in a cheap polyester suit walking by.
"God, I need to pee. Why did I get the large latte?"
The thought was simple, mundane. It slipped into Min-jun's mind and out just as easily. The cognitive load didn't budge. Trivial secrets were cheap.
He needed information. Context. He couldn't just walk up to Evelyn and say, "I heard Director Han's thoughts about blackmailing you with a photo." She'd think he was insane, or worse, in league with Han.
He needed to become a ghost. A whisper in the machinery.
He saw his target: Choi Min-ho, a mid-level manager in Legal. The man Manager Park had suspected of leaking the private investigator info. Choi was in his forties, with a permanent slump of resignation in his shoulders. His suit was good but worn. He was sitting at his desk, staring at a dense contract on his screen with the empty gaze of a man counting down to retirement.
Min-jun approached, holding his coffee like a shield. "Manager Choi? Sorry to bother you. I'm Lee Min-jun, from M&A. I was asked to get a precedent on non-disclosure enforcement for a… sensitive personnel matter. Manager Park said you'd have the template."
He lied smoothly. The words felt alien in his mouth. But he focused on Choi's face, on his navy blue suit.
Choi looked up, annoyance flickering in his eyes. It was quickly buried under a layer of professional weariness. "Personnel NDA? That's HR's thing. You should talk to–"
"Park. That little weasel. Sending his errand boy to poke me. He knows. He must know about the PI retainer I approved for the Sejong deal. Is this a warning? Testing my loyalty?" Choi's inner voice was a frantic, paranoid whisper. His outer expression remained a bland mask. "...but I suppose I have a general file. Wait here."
Min-jun nodded, sipping his coffee. Cognitive Load: 15%. The connection was stronger. Choi's fear was a rich fuel.
As Choi turned to his filing cabinet, Min-jun risked a deeper probe. He focused on the name "Han." On "blackmail."
"...need to be careful. The Han situation is a live wire. That poor girl in PR. The photo was from my nephew's club. Han had me get the surveillance still. I cleaned the metadata. But if it ever gets out I facilitated… my severance, my pension… all gone. I'm just a tool. A clean, quiet tool."
Bingo.
Choi handed him a USB drive. "Generic templates. Don't bother me again for this, intern."
"Of course. Thank you, Manager Choi." Min-jun took the drive, his fingers tingling. He had a source. A reluctant, terrified source. He now knew the secret was real. The photo existed. Choi was the weak link in Han's chain.
The next step was riskier. Direct contact.
He waited until he saw Evelyn get up and walk, somewhat unsteadily, toward the women's restroom. He gave it a thirty-second count, then walked to the bank of printers near the hallway. He pretended to collect a printout.
As she emerged, her eyes downcast, he "accidentally" stepped into her path, gently bumping her shoulder.
"Oh! I'm so sorry," he said, his voice infused with practiced, harmless intern concern.
"It's… it's alright," she murmured, not even looking at him.
"Just end it. Just jump. From the roof. It would be easier than tonight. But then father… he'll be destroyed. I'm trapped. I'm so trapped."
Her inner voice wasn't a monologue of manipulation. It was a shattered, swirling pool of despair. It hit Min-jun harder than any of the greedy thoughts. It was pure, undiluted pain. The cognitive load spiked to 18%. He welcomed the sharp throb in his temple.
"Miss Evelyn?" he said, keeping his voice low, for her ears only. He made sure to look at her suit, maintaining the connection. "I… I couldn't help but notice Director Han speaking with you earlier."
She froze. A rabbit in headlights. Her eyes, wide and terrified, finally met his. "What about it?" Her voice was a brittle thread.
"He knows. Someone knows. Is he with Han? Is this another test?"
"He's known for being… demanding with his mentorship," Min-jun said, choosing each word like stepping on thin ice. "I just wanted to say… sometimes it helps to document things. Unofficially. Times. Dates. Keywords. In a secure place." He was speaking in code, but her inner thoughts were his guide. He saw the word "photo" flash in her mind like a neon sign of shame. "Especially digital things. They can have… copies in unexpected places."
Evelyn's face paled. The fear was being joined by something else—a sliver of desperate, wild hope. "Why… why are you telling me this?"
"Who is he? What does he want? Is this a trick?"
"Because an intern sees things," Min-jun said, offering a small, tired smile that wasn't entirely fake. "We're invisible. And sometimes, invisible people don't like seeing visible pain." He paused. "A secure place. Not on the company cloud. Not on your phone. A standalone drive. Label it something boring. 'Budget Q3.' Something he'd never ask for."
He was giving her a lifeline. A way to fight back, not by confronting the dragon, but by documenting its scales. It was a small, fragile weapon.
Before she could respond, a smooth, authoritative voice cut through the hallway.
"Evelyn? There you are."
Director Han stood at the end of the corridor, smiling. It was a perfect, benign smile. Min-jun focused on him.
"Who is that boy? Talking to her. The intern from M&A. Lee something. Why is he talking to her? What did he say? Her face is pale. Did he upset her? I'll have to remind Park to keep his strays on a leash. After I deal with tonight."
"Director Han," Evelyn said, her voice instantly morphing into a professional, submissive tone. The hope Min-jun had seen vanished, buried under sheer survival instinct.
"I need you to prepare the media brief for the charity gala tonight," Han said, his eyes gliding over Min-jun as if he were a piece of furniture. "My driver will pick you up at seven. We can finalize it on the way." The order was draped in plausible deniability.
"Seven. Perfect. She'll be in the car. No excuses."
"Of course, Director," Evelyn said, her eyes dropping to the floor.
Han's gaze finally settled on Min-jun. The smile remained, but the eyes were like two depthless pools. "Intern. You have work to return to, yes?"
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Min-jun bowed slightly, playing his part perfectly. The meek, forgettable intern.
As he walked back to his cubicle, his mind raced. He had planted a seed with Evelyn. He had identified Choi in Legal as an access point. But Han was moving faster. The timeline had collapsed. It wasn't about gathering evidence for some future case. It was about stopping something from happening tonight.
He couldn't call the police. With Han's influence and a lack of physical evidence, it would be useless. He couldn't confront Han directly. He'd be crushed.
He needed to apply leverage. Not to Han. Not yet. He needed to shake the tree and see what fruit fell.
He sat at his desk, opened a new, untraceable browser window on his work computer, and began to research. He typed: "Kronos Capital Director Han philanthropic foundation financial disclosures."
He cross-referenced with: "Han Seung-ju property holdings penthouse."
And finally, a shot in the dark: "Choi Min-ho nephew club nightclub name."
The headache grew. Cognitive Load: 22%. The system was a hungry engine, and truth was its fuel. He was burning himself up, piece by piece.
But as the fragments of data began to coalesce, a ghost of a plan formed. It was dangerous. It was reckless. It relied on the vanity and paranoia of a powerful man.
Min-jun looked at the clock. 4:37 PM.
He had just over two hours to build a weapon from whispers and secrets.
He took a final sip of his now-cold coffee. The bitterness was familiar. It tasted like resolve.