The sunlight slipped through the curtains like quiet gold, painting thin bars across Jae-Hyun's room. The silence was soft enough to fall asleep to… until his phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Mr. Oh.
Jae-Hyun's eyelids didn't even twitch.He'd been awake for ten minutes already — thinking.
He accepted the call.
"Good morning," he said, voice smooth.
There was no greeting on the other end — just a shaky inhale.
"Code anomalies detected," Mr. Oh blurted, trying to mask the tremor. "The logs glitched twice overnight. Unauthorized echo-pings. It looks like someone's trying to siphon internal architecture details."
Jae-Hyun leaned back, eyes half-lidded.He'd already seen the exact alerts yesterday — quietly blinking on his phone before the meeting with Mr. Nam started.
"I know," he said simply.
Mr. Oh froze. "...You knew?…How?"
"I built the trap alert myself," Jae-Hyun replied. "Micro-shadows flare when someone tries to copy our internal blueprint."
Mr. Oh swallowed.
"And what should we do? They're disguising their IP. Whoever this is… they know what they're doing."
"They think we don't," Jae-Hyun corrected.
Silence stretched — thin, brittle.
"Do not block them," Jae-Hyun continued as he walked toward his wardrobe. "If you shut the door, they'll know we saw them. Let them believe they're invisible. That's when they get greedy. That's when they make mistakes."
Mr. Oh hesitated. "But sir, if they escalate—"
"If someone could waltz into NovaSec's servers that easily," he said, "we wouldn't be NovaSec."
Silence crackled through the line — half fear, half awe.
"I'll set engineers to passive observation," Mr. Oh said. "Track but don't interfere."
"Good. Tag their fingerprints. Every request they send. When they leave, we'll know exactly who they are."
"Understood," Mr. Oh murmured. "…We'll monitor. Nothing more."
"Good."
He ended the call first.
He set his phone down, exhaled once, and stood.
A quick shower cleared his head. Warm steam drifted off his shoulders, and by the time he buttoned his shirt and smoothed his collar, the tension from the call had faded.
He headed downstairs — footsteps light and steady.
The smell of soy broth and toasted sesame wafted upward, greeting him like a ritual. Morning sunlight cut through the hallway blinds, striping gold across the polished floorboards.
In the dining room, breakfast waited like a still-life painting: soup steaming, toast crisp, fruit glistening with condensation.
As he sat, a silent alert bloomed on his watch:
Unauthorized deep-scan attempt.Failed.Redirected into sandbox.
They were trying to pull NovaSec's internal hierarchy chart.
Cute.
He muted it, picked up his spoon.
"They really think we can't see them," he murmured, amused.
The firewall didn't just block.
It fed them harmless fake data — breadcrumbs leading nowhere.
Every click, every curiosity — captured, recorded, profiled.
They weren't infiltrating NovaSec.
NovaSec was infiltrating them.
Somewhere, in a dark room far away, someone whispered:
"We're in."
They weren't.
They were standing in a funhouse mirror built by a sixteen-year-old.
Eventually…
when they ask the wrong question…touch the wrong imaginary box…
the door they thought they unlockedwould quietly lock behind them.
Jae-Hyun's phone buzzed again — another detection.
He didn't even look.
He just breathed, quietly amused.
Let them play.
The kitchen bustled softly behind him. Mrs. Jung moved gracefully between counter and stove, her apron tied loosely around her waist, humming an old tune under her breath. Morning light spilled through half-open blinds, gilding the small dining table.
Across from him, Eun-Ji poked at her fried egg with her chopsticks, lower lip puffed in mild annoyance — probably because the yolk wasn't perfectly round today. Her brows were scrunched, as if this was the greatest injustice of the century.
"Eomma," she said, eyes narrowing. "Why does Oppa get more side dishes than me?"
Mrs. Jung laughed softly without turning around. "Because Oppa wakes up early and helps set the table. You, on the other hand, barely made it out of bed."
"I was tired!" Eun-Ji protested. "I studied late!"
Jae-Hyun finally looked up, one brow raised. "You mean you stayed up watching dramas again?"
Her jaw dropped. "How did you—"
"Your Wi-Fi history."
Eun-Ji gasped, horrified. "You hacked it again?!"
Jae-Hyun smirked, calm and unbothered. "Don't use my network next time."
Mrs. Jung shook her head with a soft sigh. "You two start fighting before breakfast is even over."
Eun-Ji crossed her arms dramatically. "I'm telling you, Eomma, when I get my own room in our new house, I'm putting a password on my Wi-Fi."
That made Jae-Hyun glance up, amused. "Oh? So you already decided you're getting your own room?"
She blinked. "Obviously. What kind of mansion doesn't have a princess room?"
Mrs. Jung turned with a chuckle. "Princess room?"
"Yes! With a big chandelier, a pink canopy bed, and a balcony so I can have morning tea and watch birds."
Jae-Hyun sipped his tea quietly, hiding a small smile. "You drink bubble tea, not morning tea."
"That's not important," she said, waving him off. "Anyway, we'll need maids. Lots of them. I'm not cleaning that huge house by myself."
Mrs. Jung laughed out loud. "We don't even have the house yet, and you're already hiring staff?"
"I'm manifesting, Eomma," she said with pride.
Jae-Hyun chuckled softly, then glanced at his mother. His tone shifted, gentle but deliberate. "Eomma," he began, "what do you actually want to do?"
Mrs. Jung blinked. "What do you mean? I'm already doing something. I run the restaurant."
"I know," he said calmly. "But do you want to keep running it? Or would you rather stay home, rest, do whatever you want? If you want to stay home, I'll handle the income."
She blinked again, surprised, before laughing softly. "Aigoo, if I stayed home all day, I'd probably pass out from boredom. I need to work — it keeps me sane. And I do enjoy the restaurant."
He nodded once, quietly resolute. "Then I'll make sure you run the biggest restaurant in town."
Mrs. Jung smiled, both touched and exasperated. "You don't have to worry about that, Jae-Hyun."
But he only smiled faintly. "I already told you — I own a very successful company. Buying you a bigger kitchen is the least of it."
Eun-Ji, who'd been mid-bite, froze and gawked. "Wait… so you're seriously rich now?"
He arched an eyebrow. "You're only realizing that now?"
She gasped. "Then we can move into a big house! Like the ones on dramas!"
Mrs. Jung laughed. "Already?"
"Already," Jae-Hyun confirmed. "Tell me what kind of house you want to live in."
Eun-Ji practically bounced in her seat. "Okay! I want a big room with a balcony, a huge mirror, a walk-in closet, maybe even a hidden reading nook—"
Jae-Hyun chuckled, unable to resist. "You're going to read there or scroll through social media?"
"Both!" she said proudly. "A multitasking queen."
He laughed, the kind of low, rare laugh that softened the edge in his voice. "Alright then. I'll get you the most luxurious room you want — and yes, we'll have maids. I'm not letting you two clean that place yourselves."
Eun-Ji beamed. "You're the best Oppa!"
Then, suspiciously narrowing her eyes: "Wait—did you just say 'maids,' plural?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because one maid can't handle my room alone."
He reached over and ruffled her hair. "Brat."
"Yah! Oppa, stop doing that!" she whined, trying to fix her hair.
He only grinned. "You can't complain. I'm buying you a mansion."
She glared but smiled anyway. "Fine. You get one free pass."
Mrs. Jung laughed, the sound soft and warm. "You two never change."
Jae-Hyun stood, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. "I should go. There's basketball practice today."
Eun-Ji gasped. "On a Saturday? That's tragic."
"It's called dedication."
"It's called no social life."
He paused by the door, half-turning with that composed little smile of his. "Careful. If your grades don't improve, I'll change your school. Or kick you out entirely."
"Yah! Oppa!" she shouted as he walked away, laughter bubbling out despite herself.
Mrs. Jung watched the door long after it closed, her smile fading into something quieter.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered when her little boy had learned to sound like a man who carried the world on his shoulders.
And though pride swelled in her chest, a tiny ache nestled beside it — the kind only mothers feel when they realize their children are growing up too fast.
- - -
The gym smelled like floor polish and effort — the kind of air that felt thick with yesterday's sweat.
Thud.Thud.Thud.
Basketballs struck the polished wood in rhythm, echoing off the high ceiling. The Shinseong team was halfway through Jae-Hyun's morning drill, shirts already clinging to their backs. The sound of squeaking shoes and short, sharp breaths filled the space.
"Faster."
Jae-Hyun's voice sliced through the noise — calm, clipped, commanding. He wasn't even shouting. He didn't need to.
Across the court, Min-Seok groaned. "You sure this is still practice and not military training?"
Without looking up from his stopwatch, Jae-Hyun replied flatly,
"You can leave if you'd rather enlist."
Laughter rippled through the team — short, nervous, the kind that dies fast.
Then the door slammed open.
Everyone turned.
Won-Bin stood there, panting, bag slung over his shoulder, hair sticking to his forehead. "S-sorry, Jae-Hyun! I missed the first bus and—"
Jae-Hyun didn't even sigh. He just looked at him. One look — that calm, steady kind that felt worse than anger.
"Twenty laps," Jae-Hyun said, still watching his stopwatch. "Start now. You'll join when you're done."
Won-Bin froze. "Twenty— Jae-Hyun, I—"
"Twenty-five."
Groans exploded from the rest of the team, muffled under their breath. Won-Bin didn't argue again. He dropped his bag and started running, sneakers pounding the floor.
Min-Seok muttered to another player, "Man's building his own grave."
Jae-Hyun's eyes flicked toward them. "And you can help him dig it if you're done talking."
Silence.
Then, quietly, someone snorted. The tension cracked, just barely. Even Jae-Hyun's lips almost twitched — almost.
"Water break," he said finally, clicking the stopwatch. "Two minutes."
The players scattered, collapsing near the benches. The sound of gulping water, groans, and muffled cursing filled the air.
Hyun-Sik, their shooting guard, looked up at Jae-Hyun. "Jae-Hyun, you ever rest?"
Jae-Hyun tossed him a towel. "After we win."
"You mean if we win," Min-Seok said, grinning.
The towel hit him square in the face. Laughter erupted.
When it died down, Jae-Hyun glanced at the clock. The red digits blinked 9:42 AM.
He stood. His tone shifted — quiet, but sharp again.
"We play Daehan this afternoon. They think we're weak because our third-years are gone. Let's make sure they regret underestimating us."
The team straightened. The joking stopped.
"They're fast. So we'll be faster. They're aggressive. So we'll break them first."
A slow smirk tugged at his mouth.
"And if they come at you harder — smile. It'll freak them out."
The team laughed again, but this time it was sharper — that pre-battle kind of laughter that comes right before the storm.
Jae-Hyun waited for it to die down before adding, almost casually,
"But if we lose…"
He looked up, eyes narrowing just enough for the faintest glint of amusement to show.
"I'll double our drills. No water breaks. No mercy. You'll beg for Daehan to play us again just to escape practice."
A few groans erupted, mixed with uneasy chuckles. Min-Seok muttered, "That's not motivation — that's a threat."
Jae-Hyun tilted his head slightly, still wearing that calm, villainous smile — the kind that said he meant every word.
"Exactly."
The team fell silent for a beat. Then, slowly, laughter bubbled again — nervous this time, but electric. They knew Jae-Hyun wasn't joking.
"Alright," Jae-Hyun said, voice cool and final. "Back to position."
The whistle blew.And the gym erupted once more into the rhythmic thunder of bouncing balls and pounding sneakers — every player suddenly twice as focused.
- - -
Meanwhile, across town, the air inside Daehan's gym buzzed with energy — sneakers squeaking, balls slamming, the sharp whip of the coach's whistle slicing through it all.
Captain Kim Joon-Ha clapped his hands once, calling the team together. Sweat glistened down his neck, but his grin was easy — that relaxed sort of confidence that only came from hours of practice and a string of victories.
"Alright, listen up," he said, spinning the ball once on his finger. "Today's not nationals — it's a warm-up. But we're not showing up like it's some friendly neighborhood game, understood?"
"Yes, Captain!"
Coach Yoon Min-Soo stepped forward, hands folded behind his back, his tone serious.
"Don't underestimate Shinseong. Their third-years are gone, but they've still got Ji-Woon, Min-Seok and Hyun-Sik — both dangerous if they're left open. I've seen enough footage to know they can turn a match fast."
Joon-Ha nodded. "I'll handle Ji-Woon. He's the type who plays like he's reading your mind — so I wont give him the chance. You," he pointed to Byung-Woo, "Keep eyes on Min-Seok. He's really fast. Infact we'll have you and Min-Do keep eyes on him."
Byung-Woo groaned. "Perfect. Because guarding him normally wasn't already impossible."
Laughter rippled through the circle, easing the tension a little.
"And for Hyun-Sik, he's explosive, but predictable once you read his tempo."
Everyone nodded, their expressions tense.
"Relax," Joon-Ha said, grinning. "They're good, but they're not Daehan. We've worked too hard to lose our rhythm over three guys.
Coach Min-Soo's voice cut through the laughs.
"Confidence is good. Arrogance gets you benched. Shinseong's been quiet this season — too quiet. That means they're hiding something. Stay sharp."
The laughter faded, replaced by a more focused silence. Joon-Ha nodded again, tossing the ball to his teammate.
"Alright, let's warm up. We'll show them why Daehan's name still echoes in that gym."
* * *
Eomma: Korean for "Mom" or "Mommy." It's an affectionate, casual way to address one's mother.
Aigoo: A common Korean exclamation used to express frustration, surprise, exhaustion, or sympathy — kind of like saying "Oh dear,""Geez," or "Goodness" in English, depending on the tone.