Rain pounded the city again, relentless as the pressure building beneath its skyline. It was the third straight day of public protests.
Kang Joon-ho watched from the rooftop of the legal clinic, hoodie pulled tight over his head. Down on the street, students held signs—"Doksan is not for sale," "People Over Profit," and "Justice Can't Be Gentrified."
He should have felt victorious.
Instead, he felt watched.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown Number:
"You're not a hero, Joon-ho. You're a pawn."
He deleted the message without replying.
It wasn't the first.
And it wouldn't be the last.
---
Inside the clinic, the mood was tense.
Professor Han stood by the whiteboard, listing case names, eviction notices, pending class-action suits. The room was packed—students, reporters, and a few neighborhood elders who had come to seek help.
Sae-bin sat cross-legged beside a pile of legal files, scribbling notes furiously.
"Assemblyman Baek is denying everything," she muttered.
"Expected," said Han. "Taurus will scapegoat a lower exec. Say it was an isolated abuse of city contracts."
"But they can't cover the photos," Joon-ho said. "The ones with Baek and Park—"
"Circumstantial." Han's tone was calm, measured. "They'll say it was a charity event. A birthday party. A fundraiser. You need more than proof of a meeting. You need a paper trail."
Joon-ho rubbed his temples.
"You have three days," Han added. "The media cycle will move on if we can't sustain the pressure."
Three days.
That was all they had.
---
That night, the university sent him a formal email.
"Due to disruption of academic protocols and unauthorized media involvement, your status as a student at Kangwon University is under disciplinary review. You are suspended effective immediately, pending an inquiry."
He stared at the message.
His hands trembled—but only for a moment.
Then he closed his laptop and stood.
---
The next morning, he received a call from a blocked number.
He answered.
"You've made powerful enemies," said a deep voice. "But not all power is monolithic."
"…Who is this?"
"Someone who thinks Taurus Holdings grew too arrogant."
Joon-ho narrowed his eyes.
"I don't deal with shadows."
"Then listen carefully. There's a file—internal compliance logs—stored in the city's Ethics Office archives. Digital and physical. Room 4B. It was sealed after a whistleblower vanished."
"Vanished?"
"Park made sure no one found the body."
The line went dead.
He sat there for a long time, then slowly stood.
It was time to visit Room 4B.
---
The Seoul Metropolitan Ethics Office stood like a mausoleum—quiet, cold, tucked between government buildings no one looked at twice.
Room 4B was in the sub-basement.
He needed help getting in.
Sae-bin came with him, posing as a graduate assistant with a request for archival review.
The clerk at the desk looked half-asleep.
"Fourth floor's under fumigation," he said.
"Then why is the elevator still working?" Sae-bin replied sweetly.
The clerk blinked. "Uh…"
They passed him without another word.
Room 4B had a rusted label and an old-fashioned punch code lock.
Joon-ho hesitated.
Then entered 1989—the year Taurus Holdings was founded.
The door beeped.
And opened.
Inside were rows of steel cabinets, file drawers, and a server console blinking dimly.
He moved quickly.
Cabinet 12.
Compliance logs, marked with red tape.
He pulled out a folder.
Confidential Internal Memo – 2016
Subject: Site Compensation Delays – Doksan Phase I
From: E. Lee (Project Oversight)
"…Three family units reported unpaid compensation despite eviction compliance. Regional Manager Song was instructed to falsify the timestamp entries. Warning issued but no HR follow-up. File closed under Director Park's orders."
Sae-bin gasped. "This proves they knew. They altered records."
Another document surfaced.
Employee Exit Report – Case No. 041
"Investigator: Park Min-woo. Last seen June 5, 2019. Reported fraud in Phase III allocations. Escalated findings to Ethics Office. Resignation never submitted. Status: Missing."
Joon-ho exhaled slowly.
A whistleblower had tried to speak up—and vanished.
He looked to Sae-bin.
"Scan everything. Backup twice. This is our fire."
---
By noon, the story was in Ye-rin's hands.
This time, her headline was bolder.
"The Disappeared: Whistleblowers, Forged Logs, and the Rot Inside Taurus"
It exploded across networks.
Live broadcasts. Protests swelling into thousands. Even members of the National Assembly began tweeting cautious statements of concern.
By nightfall, Taurus Holdings' website was down.
Its stock had dropped 11%.
And Assemblyman Baek was named in a formal parliamentary ethics complaint.
---
But fire draws wind.
And wind brings the storm.
That same evening, a black SUV waited outside Joon-ho's dorm.
Two men approached him on the way back from the clinic.
"Mr. Kang. We'd like a word."
"No."
He turned—but one grabbed his shoulder.
"You're making enemies you can't see."
He didn't flinch.
"And you're assuming I'm alone."
From the alley behind, three law students stepped forward.
One held his phone, recording.
The other carried a pepper spray canister.
The men hesitated—then withdrew.
No words.
Just a cold glance.
And then they were gone.
---
Inside the clinic, things had changed.
Now, volunteers came from other universities.
Printouts of eviction notices were taped to the wall, red ink circling suspicious patterns—zones that Taurus had marked but never officially announced.
Professor Han stood in the center, gazing at it all.
"This is no longer a clinic," he said.
"It's a campaign."
---
But campaigns require sacrifice.
Two days later, the first lawsuit came.
Taurus Holdings v. Kang Joon-ho
Defamation. Data Theft. Criminal Trespass.
Sought damages: ₩2.5 billion.
Joon-ho received the notice with numb fingers.
Sae-bin read it twice, then whispered, "They're trying to drown you in paper."
He nodded. "I expected this."
Han added, "This isn't about winning the case. They're trying to freeze your assets, tie you in court for years, and isolate you from your allies."
"Let them try."
But inside, fear scratched at the edge of his resolve.
---
Later that week, he met Ye-rin in person for the first time.
They sat at a rooftop café in Mapo-gu, hidden under umbrellas as a gentle drizzle fell.
"You're calm," she said, sipping coffee.
"I'm not."
"Good. Means you still care."
She passed him a folder.
Inside were affidavits—from displaced families, a former Taurus intern, and even a mid-level subcontractor who handled land assessments.
"Anonymous for now," she said. "But ready to testify if needed."
He looked at her.
"Why help me?"
Ye-rin's gaze hardened.
"My uncle lost everything in Phase II. They called it 'renewal.' It was erasure. I've waited five years to burn them."
---
As May ended, the courts rejected Taurus's injunction request.
The judge ruled that "preliminary evidence supports the public interest of the disclosures."
It wasn't a win.
But it was not a loss.
And that was enough.
For now.
---
One night, Joon-ho stood again on the rooftop.
The city's lights stretched endlessly—beautiful, indifferent.
Behind him, the clinic buzzed with new students, new files, new energy.
But in his heart, he knew this wasn't the end.
It wasn't even the middle.
Taurus would strike back harder.
Other companies would step in where Taurus fell.
Power didn't die.
It adapted.
But now he had allies.
Now he had a voice.
And now he knew something Taurus hadn't expected:
He wasn't afraid anymore.