I stood outside my goshiwon, the noon air damp, carrying the tang of wet asphalt and Soo-jin's jjigae in its Styrofoam box. I hugged it close, my phone buzzing with Kang's text: Coffee tomorrow, Yeouido, 3 p.m. It felt like a challenge I couldn't dodge. My account was at 5 million won, built on dreams that always hit—until last night, when a shadow in the vision threw me off, like a song skipping mid-beat.
Inside, my room's bulb flickered, the light soft over my messy table. Kang's card sat next to my notebook, its pages stuffed with tickers. HORIZON METALS was at 39,000 won, close to 42,000 in eight days. CRESCENT LOGISTICS hit 26,200 won, aiming for 30,000. AURORA TEXTILES was at 17,000, up from 15,000. But the dream's shadow, moving behind jagged charts, made AURORA's 22,000 won promise feel shaky. VISTA ENERGY—28,000 to 40,000, twelve days—had flashed too, then vanished. What the hell was that?
I opened the jjigae, the broth's spice hitting me like a hug. I ate a spoonful, the heat waking me up. Soo-jin's texts, her worry, were a lifeline to before—before Kang, before PARK VENTURES. I texted her—Jjigae's awesome, noona. Calling soon—and sent it, feeling a bit less alone. Kang's card, though, was a reminder I wasn't free. Coffee tomorrow. A chance to dig into his game, or a step too far.
I slung my backpack on and took the subway to Yeouido, the carriage rattling, smelling of rain-soaked coats and fried mandoo. HORIZON METALS was at 39,500 won, an 950,000 won gain. I should've been grinning, but Kang's You're not invisible echoed. I scrolled a financial blog, some post about "ghost traders" who got burned by slick mentors. My throat tightened. Kang's watch, his cologne—too smooth, too perfect.
My Yeouido office was a dive, the ceiling stained, the desk buried in snack bags. I sat, the chair squeaking, and fired up my laptop, its fan groaning. I searched KANG & ASSOCIATES—zip, nada. Kang was a shadow, his card the only trace. I thought of PARK VENTURES, a real company someday, not this hole. But Kang's deal could make it happen—or ruin me.
Ji-hoon texted: Café, Sinchon, 6 p.m. Study group. You coming? I'd been ghosting his crew, lost in trades. But I needed his dumb jokes, his normal. I replied—I'm in—and checked CRESCENT LOGISTICS—26,800 won. AURORA TEXTILES was at 17,500. The dream's shadow bugged me. What if it was off?
The Sinchon café was warm, its air sweet with coffee and pastries, a guitar tune playing low. Ji-hoon was in a booth, his notebook a mess, with Hye-jin, who talked too fast, and Dong-woo, sketching quietly. I slid in, the seat's vinyl warm, and Ji-hoon tossed me a muffin.
"Thought you were dead," he said, grinning. "What's with the lone wolf act?"
"Just swamped," I said, biting the muffin, its blueberry tang sharp. Hye-jin ranted about their project, Dong-woo doodling a dog. I wanted to spill—the dreams, Kang, the 5 million won. But the café's buzz, Ji-hoon's laugh, felt too good to break.
"You're distracted," Ji-hoon said, nudging me. "What's up, Min-jae?"
I sipped my coffee, the mug hot. "Just school," I lied. He frowned but didn't push, turning back to Hye-jin's tirade.
That night, in my goshiwon, the jjigae's container sat empty, its spice on my breath. The alley was still, a bike's bell ringing faintly. HORIZON METALS was at 40,000 won, CRESCENT LOGISTICS at 27,000, AURORA TEXTILES at 18,000. I read a blog about a trader who tanked on a "sure thing." Was AURORA my screw-up? I held off on VISTA ENERGY, the dream too weird.
Kang's card was worn from my fingers. Tomorrow's coffee was a fork in the road. I texted him—I'll be there. What's your deal?—and sent it, my gut twisting. Sleep hit slow, the city's hum soft. The dream came, blurry, the shadow sharper. AURORA TEXTILES flickered, VISTA ENERGY half-there. I woke, scribbling both, the glitch scaring me.
Morning was gray, the alley's bins dripping. I headed to Yeouido, the subway's sway calming me. AURORA TEXTILES was at 18,500 won. I didn't buy VISTA. At the café, its windows fogged, Kang sat, his coffee steaming. I slid into the booth, the table's edge rough, and stared him down.
"On time," Kang said, his smile too easy. "Ready to talk real money?"
"Who are you, really?" I said, my voice firm, my nerves electric.
Kang's grin widened, and I leaned in, ready for truth—or more smoke.