Red threat banners crawled across the primary operations wall, each alert stacking over the last in jittering cascades. Connection logs spiked. Port activity surged. Foreign handshakes mapped themselves like an infection branching through nerves.
"Segment the subnet—now!"
"Throttle inbound traffic!"
"I'm losing packet visibility on node twelve—!"
The server floor was a rapid-fire orchestra: keyboards clacking in irregular tempo, chair wheels screeching against tile, status lights strobing an anxious wash of color across faces. A map of the network pulsed with surges of flashing red, nodes flickering like failing stars.
Mr. Oh stood braced over a central console, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened. His voice cut sharply above the din.
"Identify the source! Where is that traffic originating?"
"West coast proxy—no, it's hopping. Germany now—!"
"Keep tracing!"
The Director of Cybersecurity, Jeong Do-Gwan, rattled orders to his tier-two analysts, finger stabbing across monitors.
"Don't isolate that segment! They're trying to bait you—route around, route around!"
Sweat dotted brows. Breath came shallow. They were good. Very good. But the attack was cleaner, faster, smarter.
They weren't panicking because the system was falling.
They were panicking because they didn't know it wasn't.
Someone cursed under their breath
Then the back door hissed open.
The noise didn't stop—but the air tilted. Heads flicked up, gazes drawn like filings to a magnet.
Jae-Hyun stepped inside, bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from practice. His posture was relaxed. Measured. Eyes coolly scanning the chaos with the quiet interest of someone inspecting a puzzle they already solved hours ago.
He watched for exactly ten seconds—hands clasped lightly behind him—before walking forward.
"Enough."
The word wasn't raised, but authority threaded through it. It spread like a wave: keyboards slowed, voices trailed, swivel chairs froze mid-spin. Silence settled, broken only by the soft hum of server racks.
Do-Gwan hurried across the floor, tablet held like a shield.
"Chairman—sir—there's been a breach attempt. We're tracking persistent intrusion probes—very advanced. Multiple decoy layers, polymorphic packets—whoever's behind this knows what they're doing. We're isolating traffic now, but we still haven't identified—"
Jae-Hyun lifted one hand. The words died on his tongue.
"It's Black Wall."
Gasps popped around the room—small, involuntary.
Mr. Oh's brows pinched. "Are you certain?"
"They always use rotating handshake shells," Jae-Hyun answered. "Too clean. Too tidy. They never leave real footprints."
A young analyst swallowed. "But… what do they want?"
"Profit," Jae-Hyun said simply. He stepped toward the projection wall, the glow reflecting in his eyes.
"Black Wall earns money when companies are desperate. They release hacks that break systems, then sell the cure. They sell tools to criminals. They rent out vulnerabilities like apartments."
Quiet horror tightened the air.
"But when NovaSec fixes those vulnerabilities faster than they can sell them…"
He tapped one red alert.
"…those tools become useless. No one pays for something that no longer works."
He tapped another.
"Their customers lose confidence. Their products expire. Their revenue dries up."
He touched a final alert.
"And every time our firewall closes a hole…"
"…they lose money."
Understanding settled across faces like a heavy coat.
"So," he continued, "they want NovaSec off the board."
A murmur spread.
"But there's more." He zoomed into the probe pattern.
"They're not only sniffing defenses. You see these requests? These behavioral queries? They're mapping structure."
Director Jung nodded slowly. "…Organization identity."
"Correct."
NovaSec was new. Too good. A ghost in the industry.
"And unknown talent terrifies real criminals," Jae-Hyun murmured. "When they don't know the face, they can't threaten it."
Eyes widened.
"So keeping our leadership anonymous," he said, turning, "is priority one."
A junior engineer whispered, "So… are they inside?"
"No," Jae-Hyun said.
He lifted his hand; the board shifted. A hidden panel shimmered open — revealing a duplicate of NovaSec's system architecture.
"They're in a mirror."
Fake documents. Fake emails. Fake budget sheets. Fake launch plans.
"They're reading stories we wrote," he said. "Everything they click is a trap. Every curiosity leaves a fingerprint."
Shock. Awe. A few uneasy laughs.
Do-Gwan stared, wide-eyed. "You built this in—what—three days?"
"One night," Jae-Hyun replied simply.
Someone muttered, "That's insane…"
"You're welcome," he said lightly.
A ripple of incredulous laughter broke tension cleanly in half.
Jae-Hyun checked his watch, brows lifting faintly.
"It's past closing."
Heads snapped toward the wall clock—20:42.
"You all did well today. Go home." He stepped back, offering the faintest nod. "Our systems won't fall that easily."
A collective exhale. Shoulders dropped. Monitors were powered down, badges collected, chairs pushed away.
The crisis—illusionary as it was—began to dissolve.
Mr. Oh stepped beside him as hallway lights dimmed to night-mode.
"I'll drive you home, sir."
Jae-Hyun nodded.
The car rolled forward, swallowed by night.
The building doors slid open, and cold night air hit Jae-Hyun's still-damp hair — neat, dark, a few strands clinging annoyingly to his forehead. He didn't look exhausted. He looked mildly inconvenienced by the existence of sweat.
Mr. Oh's sedan rolled forward, door unlocking with a soft beep. Jae-Hyun slid in, buckling up with the sort of efficiency that suggested he'd time-trialed it before.
"You smell like overpriced body wash," Mr. Oh commented.
"Victory," Jae-Hyun corrected.
"Your team survived?"
"They're dramatic," he said. "They acted like dying."
"…Were they dying?"
"No. They were breathing. Which, apparently, counts as rest now."
Mr. Oh blinked. "Normal humans require recovery."
"I let them inhale oxygen. That's generous."
"…That's basic survival, Jae-Hyun."
"Exactly. See? I'm not unreasonable."
Traffic swallowed them.
"So," Mr. Oh tried, "can we expect more mercy tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Oh thank goodness."
"I'll only break them mentally."
Mr. Oh slammed the brakes a little harder than necessary.
"…What did they do to deserve you?"
"Lived."
Silence. Night lights smeared across the windshield.
Then, casually:
"I'm buying a house."
Mr. Oh did a slow, pained turn of his head.
"…You just dropped that like a grocery item."
"I'm done with the apartment. Too cramped. Too noisy. No space for equipment."
"…Equipment?"
"For work."
"Cybersecurity equipment?"
"…Mostly."
A beat.
"Jae-Hyun."
"It's for research. And development. And maybe mild surveillance."
Mr. Oh inhaled through his teeth. "That sounds illegal."
"It's only illegal if you get caught. I don't."
"…Wonderful life motto."
"I think so."
Streetlights pulsed over his face — soft, clean, strangely adult for someone still in uniform.
"I'll sign it under my mother's name," Jae-Hyun added. "No direct trail. It lifts pressure off me and keeps my family insulated if someone starts digging."
Mr. Oh swallowed.
"You're preparing for that already?"
"Attackers are trying to figure out who runs NovaSec. That alone is enough reason to prepare. I'd rather move before it becomes… interesting."
"…Interesting?"
"Messy. Explosive. Fun."
"Please do not describe explosions as fun."
"Depends where you stand."
Mr. Oh massaged his temples. "What kind of house?"
"Massive. Luxurious. Private. Lots of power capacity. Big basement potential. Soundproofable. Clean lines—no odd architecture. Far from nosey neighbors."
Mr. Oh arched a brow. "…You're not opening a secret lab, right?"
"No comment."
"Jae-Hyun."
"I'm not denying it."
Mr. Oh sighed.
"Oh, and make sure there's room for a home gym," Jae-Hyun added.
"You… already have a school gym."
"My friend fits poorly in a locker."
Mr. Oh stared. "…You use him as equipment?"
"He's perfect counterweight."
"And the other two?"
"Backup commentary."
"You mean hype men."
"No. They scream encouragement. That's different."
"You're terrifying."
"I'm adorable. They said so."
"And who are 'they'?"
"…My mother."
Mr. Oh sighed. Deeply. "I'll contact real estate. Remote viewings first. Secure entries. Blank contracts. Ghost paperwork."
"Good. You understand me."
"Oh I do. I wish I didn't, but I do."
Jae-Hyun leaned back, head thumping lightly against the headrest—finally letting fatigue catch him.
"Wake me when we get there."
Mr. Oh stole one last glance.
Tired…
young…
dangerous.
"…Sleep," he said. "I'll handle the rest."
The car turned, taillights sliding toward a darker road.
Lights faded behind them.
And somewhere, in an unseen server farm across town…
Black Wall celebrated progress inside a maze of mirrors.
- - -
The next day, morning sunlight poured into Shinseong Academy like spilled honey. Students streamed through the courtyard, blazers half-buttoned, hair ruffled from sleep, bags slung across shoulders.
"Hyung!" Raon jogged over, shoes squeaking. "I swear you're trying to kill us with practice."
Jae-Hyun paused beside his locker, eyebrow raised. "If a little conditioning hurts, how will you survive regionals?"
"A little?" Raon wheezed. "We have practice matches every day now, plus your weird body language training — I'm losing my actual bones. They're turning into soup."
"That explains the smell," Jae-Hyun mused.
Tae-Ho snorted behind his camera strap. "You walked into that."
Jae-Suk tapped his notebook, pushing his glasses higher. "Imagine crying this much before preliminaries even start."
Raon glared at them all. "Says the student council gremlin and the photography nerd—"
"We are thriving," Tae-Ho said proudly.
"We have sleep," Jae-Suk added.
Jae-Hyun shut his locker with a soft click. "Raon, if you think this is intense, wait until regionals."
Raon slapped a hand to his face. "Don't say that. My soul just left my body."
Tae-Ho's eyes narrowed, not at Raon's dramatic collapse — but at how comfortably he hovered near Jae-Hyun, shoulders nearly touching.
He didn't say anything.
Yet.
Jae-Suk closed his notebook, face calm but eyes sharp. "Comfortable this morning, Raon? You're awfully close."
"I'm cold," Raon lied.
"You're radiating steam."
"So?"
Jae-Hyun started walking. Raon followed instantly.
"So," Jae-Suk muttered, "he's clingy."
Tae-Ho hummed under his breath, subtle displeasure flickering across his face like static.
Bell chimes echoed overhead, sharp and bright.
Class time.
Raon groaned like it physically hurt. "Save me from trigonometry."
"You'll live," Jae-Hyun said.
"No promises."
He dragged his feet toward his classroom, waving halfheartedly. Jae-Hyun watched him go, quiet amusement slanting across his mouth — just enough emotion to make Jae-Suk's eyebrow twitch.
"Are you two getting along… unusually well?" Jae-Suk asked, tone deceptively casual.
"More like Raon chasing him around," Tae-Ho added lightly, though his grip tightened around his camera.
"Maybe I'm just approachable," Jae-Hyun deadpanned.
Both boys stared.
Silence stretched.
"…Sure," Jae-Suk said slowly.
"Let's go before we're late," Tae-Ho sighed.
They walked away together, their glances sharp, silent suspicion tucked behind casual steps.
Not friends.
Guard dogs.
- - -
Meanwhile, across town, the boardroom door sealed with a muted click, locking out the sound of the city. The hum of privacy dampeners settled into the walls like a second heartbeat. Long panes of frosted glass blurred skyscraper lights into pale streaks. Chairs were already filled; posture straight, eyes sharp. It was rare for NovaSec to gather this many executives at once. Rarer still without their chairman.
Mr. Oh stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, hair crisp. Calm.
"Good afternoon. Let's get straight to it."
A gesture, and holographic intrusion logs sprang into the air—threads of red weaving through directories like veins.
"We are maintaining stability after last night's probe," he began. "But our response protocols will tighten."
A rustle of acknowledgment. A pen paused mid-note. No one breathed wrong.
"No internal names leave this building," Mr. Oh continued. "Lead developers, vendor contacts, infrastructure maps. If anyone asks what you do here, the answer is vague and painfully boring."
A handful of dry chuckles. Someone muttered, "Finally, my specialty."
"Jokes aside," Mr. Oh said lightly, "identity is our strongest shield. The less the world knows who leads this company, the less leverage they can apply."
Everyone understood the subtext:
No one ever spoke the chairman's name in public. Not even privately. Especially not now.
He flicked to the next projection.
"When digital breaches fail, attackers go human. Expect phishing attempts. Sudden recruiter messages. Old classmates asking for drinks. Free business seminars that you never signed up for."
A security officer scoffed quietly. "Hacker magnets."
"You laugh," Mr. Oh replied, expression flat, "but half of cybersecurity collapses because someone accepted free coffee and decided to gossip."
Silence.
A few shoulders tightened.
Moving on, he highlighted a cluster of glowing directories.
"They're currently stuck in the mirror system. Which means"—he tapped twice—"we expand the bait."
New fake files began populating like spores:
Future contract lists.
Upcoming firmware plans.
Fictional vulnerabilities.
Duplicate client ladders.
The engineers around the table leaned forward, fascinated and a little horrified. "It looks real," someone whispered.
"It's supposed to," Mr. Oh answered. "We don't just mislead them. We guide them. Breadcrumbs with edges sharp enough to keep their curiosity bleeding."
A ripple of impressed exhale.
"Additionally," he continued, "no external chatter. No casual mentions to family. Friends don't need to know you've had a long week. Partners don't need to know why you're tired. Social media stays silent."
The directive settled like fresh snow—pretty, quiet, and cold.
"At this stage," he added, voice low, "rumors are a weapon. Panic is a currency. If the public sees cracks, investors start imagining craters."
A PR manager slid several windows open—graphs of sentiment, early whispers in private forums.
"They're already spinning theories," she said. "Anonymous threads. Shadow speculation."
Mr. Oh didn't blink. "We answer with calm. Confidence. And paperwork that looks boring enough to cure insomnia."
That earned soft laughter. Tension eased without losing edge.
Assignments rolled out like clean soldiers:
Who monitors press channels.
Who updates the mirror infrastructure.
Who profiles the attacker's behavior.
Who logs footprints into pattern libraries.
Mr. Oh powered down the projections one by one. "Listen carefully. We will not escalate. We will not look rattled. We maintain our pace. When predators miss their bite, they thrash. Let them."
He scanned the table, eyes sharp.
"We are the quiet floor beneath their feet. If they keep digging, they fall."
Chairs creaked as people stood, composed but electric.
Some gathered their tablets. Others mentally rehearsed their new silence.
And as the door sealed behind them, the hum of privacy shifted—quiet, patient, lethal.