The soft tapping of keys filled the room.
Min Jae-Hyun sat hunched over the desk, the dim light of the screen casting a pale glow on his face. The world outside had shifted into late morning, the sunlight growing sharper, louder through the thin curtains. He barely noticed. His focus was elsewhere—entirely locked onto the contents of his browser window.
Company after company. Graph after graph.
He dug through old finance blogs, archived investment reports, early-stage development leaks. None of it made much sense to a normal fifteen-year-old. But he wasn't normal anymore.
It felt like pulling faded pages from an old book he'd read years ago. The pieces weren't crystal clear, but they were there—disjointed, floating in his mind like fragments of a dream.
And then he found it.
His scrolling stopped.
A small, almost buried mention of a struggling startup tucked into a regional business news site: Baekho Dynamics.
The name made his breath hitch.
He stared at the screen.
Baekho Dynamics.
He remembered that name.
Not because they were big at the time—no, right now, they were barely staying afloat. Negative revenue flow. Unstable management. Rumors of layoffs. Nothing about them seemed worth a second look.
But Jae-Hyun knew better.
Because two years from now, this same company would unveil a revolutionary breakthrough in clean battery technology—an innovation that would shake the automotive and tech industries to their core. They'd move from a company teetering on the edge of bankruptcy to one swallowed up in a ten-figure acquisition war between two of the top conglomerates.
They would become the Baekho Group, an overnight juggernaut.
He remembered the news anchors calling it a miracle.
He remembered how it became a case study in every economic class.
And he remembered thinking how insane it was that no one saw it coming.
But now he did.
Now he had the chance.
He sat back, staring at the screen like it might burn a hole through his skull. His fingers tapped against the desk.
"This is it," he murmured. "This could be my way in."
He stood up abruptly and began pacing.
If he could get in early,really early,he wouldn't just profit. He could build leverage. Buy shares before they were worth anything. Secure influence before anyone else paid attention. Plant his flag before the gold rush started.
But then the obvious problem hit him.
Money.
He didn't have any.
Well, he had some. Enough to live on. Enough to eat, keep the lights on, cover school supplies. But to invest?
To get a real stake?
Not even close.
He stopped in the middle of the room, running a hand through his hair.
"...Damn it," he muttered.
Behind him, Hae-Lin had been quietly watching, hovering with her usual composed presence. She hadn't interrupted him once, simply observing.
"I take it you've found something," she said softly.
"I found a door," Jae-Hyun replied, turning his head toward her. "But I don't have the key to open it yet."
She tilted her head. "What do you plan to do?"
"I'm still figuring that out," he said. "But I will figure it out."
There was a pause.
Then he stepped closer to her, his expression serious.
"I think I can manage on my own for now."
Her glow pulsed faintly, not in offense, but understanding.
"You wish for space?"
"Not permanently. Just… for a while. I need to think, move, make decisions without depending on someone to explain every little step to me."
"You are allowed to stand," Hae-Lin said, nodding slowly. "That is the purpose of walking again."
He gave her a small smile.
"If I need you…?"
"Call my name," she said simply. "And I will come."
"Then I'll see you soon, Hae-Lin."
And just like that, her glow dimmed. Her form blurred, dissolved into faint particles of light, and faded into the air without a sound.
Jae-Hyun was alone again.
And yet, not.
He stood in the silence for a long while after Hae-Lin vanished. The room felt a little emptier without her strange glow floating in the air, but it also felt clearer somehow. Like he could breathe without the weight of something watching over his shoulder.
Min Jae-Hyun turned back to his desk and sat again, the soft creak of the old chair grounding him.
Two years.
That was the window.
Baekho Dynamics wouldn't explode overnight. Their breakthrough tech was still in development, buried in R&D meetings and failed prototypes. The world hadn't noticed them yet, and wouldn't for a long time.
Which meant, for now, there wasn't much he could do but wait.
He hated waiting.
But this wasn't wasted time—not if he used it well.
Two years. That was enough time to build something. To grow himself into someone worthy of the life he wanted to lead. There were other paths, other plays he could make before Baekho ever took its first step into the spotlight.
"I've got time," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the desk. "So I'm going to use it."
There were more companies like Baekho. Not as big. Not as groundbreaking. But small, undervalued names with potential. Companies he vaguely remembered from headlines. Ones that boomed just a little—enough to matter. Enough to start laying the foundation for everything to come.
If he could stack a few quiet wins before the major play… he could turn drops of water into a flood.
He stood again, heading toward the old metal cabinet by the corner of the room. It was dented and rusted along the edges, barely holding together under years of use. But it was where they kept everything that didn't have a place—documents, broken chargers, expired coupons, and sometimes, forgotten money.
He crouched and opened the bottom drawer, digging past envelopes and a few old bank books.
"Come on…"
It took a minute, but his fingers finally brushed against something familiar—a flat envelope, creased and a little dusty. He pulled it out, carefully peeling the flap open.
Inside were a few neatly folded bills, bound together with a rubber band.
Not a lot.
But not nothing.
He counted it slowly.
₩58,000.
Money he'd earned from weekend chores—helping clean the apartment, running errands, folding laundry, picking up groceries when his mom was too tired. She never gave him much, only what she could afford, and even then only occasionally.
But he'd saved what he could.
He sat back on his heels, exhaling through his nose.
It wasn't even enough to call a real investment.
But it was a start.
He stood again, crossing to the desk. He booted up the old desktop and opened a browser, fingers moving quickly now. This time, he wasn't looking for miracles. He was looking for patterns.
He narrowed it down to three small companies. Ones he vaguely recalled from his first life—not because they went public or changed the world, but because they survived, even thrived, after a certain tipping point. Local logistics. Niche manufacturing. One of them, he remembered, partnered with a major retailer later down the line.
He leaned closer to the screen.
One name stood out more than the others.
HanulTech.
Low profile. Not flashy. But stable. And more importantly, grossly undervalued for what they were about to become.
He pulled up a trading site, eyes narrowing in thought.
"This is the one," he muttered. "Slow burn, but solid."
He reached for the small booklet beside the keyboard—a worn record of old banking logins—and began flipping through it, searching for the youth savings account his mom had helped him open the year before. He hadn't touched it since.
After a moment, he found the passbook tucked behind a photo of him and his mother, a little bent at the edges, but still intact.
He held it in his hand for a moment, staring at the faded bank name and his own messy handwriting on the inside cover.
"Alright," he said under his breath. "Let's get to work."