I stood in Yeouido Park, the evening thick with the smell of roasted corn from a cart nearby. The Han River sparkled, catching Seoul's skyline like a mirror. At 7:50 p.m., the park hummed—joggers in bright gear, couples with ice cream, salarymen with loosened ties. My hoodie felt too warm, my phone heavy in my jeans. The texter's message—Yeouido Park, tomorrow, 8 p.m.—had kept me up, my brain chewing on who they were, what they wanted.
I shifted, grass crunching under my sneakers. My goshiwon's tight walls were a world away from the park's open lawns, but I didn't feel free. The dreams had given me 4.6 million won, a Yeouido office for PARK VENTURES, a shot at something big. They'd also landed me here, waiting for a stranger who knew too much.
I picked a spot by a wooden bench, a maple tree's branches swaying above. The park's lamps glowed soft, but the shadows made me twitchy. I checked my phone—no texts. HORIZON METALS was at 34,000 won, up from 30,000. The dream said 42,000, twelve days left. The numbers should've pumped me up, but I was too wired.
A guy walked up, his outline sharp against the lamps. Mid-thirties, dark blazer, slacks, hair slicked like he'd stepped out of a Gangnam office. He held a coffee cup, steam curling, and moved like he owned the place. My stomach knotted. He stopped a few feet away, smiling like we'd met before.
"Park Min-jae?" he said, voice smooth, like he was selling me a car.
I nodded, mouth dry. "Who're you?"
"Kang," he said, sipping his coffee. He pointed to the bench. "Wanna sit?"
I hesitated, then sat, keeping space between us. Kang eased down, leg crossed, cool as ice. His watch caught the light, silver and understated, the kind my dad would've called "fancy nonsense." Up close, he smelled faintly of cologne, sharp and expensive.
"You're good," Kang said, like we were chatting over drinks. "DAWN BIOTECH, STAR CHIP, RIVER ENERGY, OCEAN DATA. All winners. That's not luck, kid."
My heart sank. He knew my trades, down to the names. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, fingers curling. "What do you want?"
Kang chuckled, warm but fake. "Chill, Min-jae. I'm not here to screw you over. I'm offering a deal." He set his coffee down, the steam fading. "You're small-time. A few million won? Peanuts. You've got a knack, and I can make it huge."
My head spun. A knack. He didn't know about the dreams, but he was close. "I'm fine on my own," I said, voice hard.
"Are you?" Kang's smile dropped. "Small trades add up. Regulators notice, rivals notice, guys like me notice. You're careful, splitting your buys. But you're not invisible."
His words hit like a slap. I thought of the subway headline, the forum posts about young traders. I'd been too caught up in the dreams to see how loud my wins were. "What's your game?" I asked. "You want my picks?"
Kang laughed, shaking his head. "Not just picks. A partnership. I've got connections, money. You bring the wins, I bring the scale. We both get rich."
I stared at the grass, my sneakers sinking into the dirt. The park's noise—kids giggling, a busker's guitar—felt distant. A partnership could mean a real PARK VENTURES, not just a sign on a door. But Kang's slick vibe, his knowing too much, screamed trouble. Soo-jin's voice echoed, warning me about guys who promise the moon.
"I'll think about it," I said, standing. My legs wobbled, but I held his gaze.
Kang stayed put, sipping his coffee. "Smart. But don't wait forever. Deals like this don't last." He handed me a card—KANG & ASSOCIATES, a phone number, nothing else. "Call me."
I took it, the paper smooth, and walked off, the park's lights blurring. The river's breeze hit my face, but my head was a mess. Kang was a door, but to what?