Geumsan Research Institute, main conference room.
Thirty-three researchers began taking their seats one by one.
In the front row on the right sat Deputy Director Seong Gihwan. Senior researchers took seats beside him.
Gihwan quietly looked around.
‘Everyone’s face looks grim.’
At the very back, Jeong Minsu and Park Sehui sat side by side.
Jeong Minsu opened his laptop. On the screen was a recruitment notice for the Hanguk University Research Institute. He had revised his résumé over and over until two in the morning last night. He planned to submit it as soon as today’s meeting was over.
Park Sehui was in a similar situation. She was thinking of sending her résumé to an overseas research institute. Communicating in English was no problem, but she was dissatisfied with the fact that she wouldn’t be able to eat Korean food to her heart’s content.
‘Still, the food, the climate—Samcheok was perfect for me······.’
She shook her head hard and pulled herself together. She didn’t want to waste energy on a research institute that was about to go under, all because of food.
Park Sehui whispered softly to Jeong Minsu beside her.
“What are they announcing today?”
“Who knows. Maybe another grandiose plan······.”
Jeong Minsu replied cynically. His mouse cursor hovered over the “Apply” button.
Park Sehui glanced at his screen.
“Hanguk University Research Institute?”
“A senior I know has been telling me to come for a while.”
Jeong Minsu closed his laptop with a bitter smile.
Dr. Lee Dongjin was sitting alone.
He had maintained neutrality. He neither fully trusted Taeho nor completely doubted him.
Jo Sang-o approached the seat beside him.
“Dr. Lee. Do you think something’s going to happen today?”
“I think so.”
Lee Dongjin glanced toward the back seats as he spoke.
“It’s the first time all the researchers have gathered in one place like this, isn’t it?”
“Do you think it’s good news or bad news?”
“Whatever it is, I don’t think it’ll be anything light.”
Lee Dongjin shrugged.
Just then, the conference room door opened and Kang Taeho entered.
In his hand were a tablet and a USB drive. His face looked unexpectedly calm, and there was no wavering in his eyes.
The murmuring among the researchers stopped.
Taeho went up to the podium and plugged the USB into the computer. The projector turned on, and a blank screen appeared.
At exactly ten o’clock, Taeho checked the time and opened his mouth.
“Is everyone here?”
“Yes, Director.”
Gihwan answered as representative.
Taeho slowly looked over the faces of the researchers one by one.
Thirty-three people. Faces that trusted him, faces that doubted him, faces that were neutral.
He paused to steady his breath, then spoke.
“The materials I will show you today are top secret. They must never be leaked outside this conference room. Not to family, not to friends.”
The researchers’ expressions hardened. Some even held their breath.
“This information is directly connected to national security—no, to the survival of all humankind. Therefore, everyone attending today’s meeting must sign a confidentiality agreement.”
A murmur spread.
Taeho gave Gihwan a look. Gihwan stood and brought over a prepared stack of documents. Thirty-three confidentiality agreements.
Taeho added,
“You may leave now. You may refuse to sign. I promise there will be no disadvantage to you. But once you sign, it becomes legally binding. If you leak this information, you will face criminal punishment.”
Silence fell.
No one moved.
“Then, Deputy Director, please hand out the agreements.”
Gihwan began distributing the agreements from the first row.
Lee Dongjin, seated at the front, received his first. He adjusted his glasses and carefully read through the contents.
After reading for quite a while, Lee Dongjin picked up his pen. Then, without hesitation, he signed.
Scratch.
The sound of the pen tip scraping across the paper echoed through the quiet conference room.
In the back row, a young researcher raised his hand.
“Um······ Director.”
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Is this legally valid? We’re not criminals, so do we have to sign something like this?”
Taeho answered calmly.
“It is legally valid. And you are not criminals. But the information you will learn today is that dangerous. If it is leaked improperly, the entire country—no, the entire world—could fall into chaos.”
The young researcher bit his lip. Then he nodded and signed.
Park Sehui received her agreement.
With trembling hands, she read through the contents. Her eyes stopped on the phrase, “In the event of violation, liability for damages shall be incurred (up to 5 billion won).”
“Five billion? I couldn’t pay that back even if I worked my whole life.”
Park Sehui sighed. Then she picked up her pen.
Scratch. Her name was engraved on the agreement.
Jeong Minsu also received an agreement.
As usual, he read it meticulously, line by line.
Legal terms, punishment clauses, scope of damages.
“A lawyer wrote this.”
He glanced at his laptop.
The recruitment notice for the Hanguk University Research Institute.
This was his last chance. He could stand up and leave right now.
But he picked up his pen.
‘Well, Hanguk University Research Institute will still be there later.’
Scratch.
Five minutes passed.
Gihwan collected the signed agreements. He checked through to the last page and nodded to Taeho.
“Director, everyone has finished signing.”
Taeho looked around at the researchers.
Some had signed with determined expressions, some with anxious expressions, some grumbling—but all of them had stayed.
“Thank you. You have just become part of history. Whether in a good sense or a bad one.”
It sounded like a joke, but no one laughed.
“What I’m about to show you now will be the most shocking thing you have ever seen in your lives.”
He pressed a button.
The screen changed.
Against a blue background, a 3D structural diagram of a virus appeared. Surface proteins protruded like spikes, and inside, strands of RNA were twisted together.
To an ordinary person, it would have looked like nothing but an exceedingly complicated image, but to the researchers gathered here, it was more familiar than their own faces.
“Last year, at the International Marine Biotechnology Conference in Brest, France, a mass infection incident occurred. Of the 1,200 attendees, 427 were infected and hospitalized.”
Several researchers nodded. It was an incident they had seen on the news.
“The official announcement was that it was seasonal flu. But this is not influenza.”
Taeho clicked the screen. Detailed genetic analysis data appeared.
At the center of the screen, a gene sequence was enlarged.
“It is based on influenza H3N2, but look here, at this part. A neurotoxin gene targeting the dopamine D4 receptor has been inserted.”
A murmur spread.
“The dopamine D4 receptor?”
Lee Dongjin raised his hand. His expression had hardened.
“Isn’t that in the brain’s prefrontal cortex, especially in areas related to creative thinking?”
“Correct.”
Taeho nodded.
“It is a receptor directly connected to creativity, innovative thinking, and problem-solving ability. This is a neurotoxic virus designed to attack a specific brain region.”
Taeho’s voice was heavy.
“Follow-up investigations of the infected showed that 85% complained of reduced creative thinking ability, decreased concentration, and cognitive dysfunction.”
Park Sehui covered her mouth with her hand.
“Then they deliberately targeted the conference attendees, the scientists······.”
“They did. They selectively targeted the creative thinking ability of researchers at the forefront of the international marine biotechnology field.”
The conference room froze.
Jeong Minsu asked in a trembling voice,
“Is this naturally possible? A virus targeting only a specific brain receptor?”
“It’s impossible. This is a combination that could never arise in nature. Influenza viruses attack respiratory cells; they do not selectively attack specific neurons in the brain.”
A specific pattern in the DNA sequence was highlighted on the screen.
“Look at these restriction enzyme cleavage sites. EcoRI and BamHI cleavage sites are arranged at exactly 100-bp intervals. This is a typical pattern of gene cloning. It is an arrangement that could never result from natural mutation.”
“Are you saying it was edited with CRISPR?”
“That’s right.”
Taeho moved on to the next screen.
“This part is decisive.”
Another gene sequence appeared on the screen. A specific part was highlighted in yellow.
“It’s a PAM sequence. The target recognition sequence of CRISPR-Cas9 remains exactly as it was.”
“They left traces behind.”
“Precisely. Here, and here. The 5’-NGG-3’ PAM sequence remains in three consecutive places. The traces of Cas9 protein cutting the DNA are clear.”
Lee Dongjin leaned forward and stared at the screen.
“This, this is clear evidence of artificial editing. There’s no room for rebuttal.”
“And what’s even more chilling is the origin of this neurotoxin gene.”
The results of a phylogenetic tree analysis appeared on the screen.
“It does not match any known toxin. It is a completely newly designed synthetic neurotoxin. It was custom-made to selectively block only the dopamine D4 receptor.”
Taeho looked around at the researchers.
The conference room had gone quiet. The data was clear. There was no room for rebuttal.
Jeong Minsu clasped his trembling hands together.
Taeho changed the screen.
“The second case.”
A new viral structure appeared. This time, it was more complex.
“Four months ago, four Arab patients were admitted to Geumsan Samcheok Hospital. The official diagnosis was severe acute respiratory syndrome. But this too is an artificial virus. It is based on SARS-CoV-2, but it was designed for an entirely different purpose.”
A DNA sequence appeared on the screen alongside a complex protein structure.
“This virus targets HLA, the human leukocyte antigen. More precisely, only certain HLA types.”
“HLA-specific? Is that possible?”
“It is.”
Taeho moved to the next slide.
“Look at the receptor-binding domain of this spike protein. It has been modified differently from ordinary SARS-CoV-2. And here, too, the same traces of CRISPR editing remain.”
One researcher inhaled sharply.
“Using the same method as the France conference virus?”
“Exactly. The same restriction enzyme pattern, the same PAM sequence arrangement, even the same codon optimization method.”
Taeho displayed the two viruses side by side.
Sophie raised her hand.
“Then are you saying they were made in the same laboratory?”
“That’s how we have to see it. Gene-editing techniques are like handwriting. Each researcher has their own unique pattern. These two viruses share the same signature.”
Amid shock and horror, Taeho moved the screen forward.
“The third case.”
The most complex structure yet appeared on the screen.
The air in the conference room grew heavy.
“Three months ago, an infection incident occurred at the royal palace in Abu Dhabi, UAE. This information is classified at the very highest level. I am disclosing it with the direct permission of the UAE royal family.”
The researchers widened their eyes and leaned forward.
“Four princes collapsed simultaneously from an illness of unknown cause. The initial symptoms were high fever, bleeding, difficulty breathing, and rapid multiple organ failure.”
Park Sehui covered her mouth with her hand.
“This is a chimeric virus combining an Ebola Zaire variant and SARS-CoV-2.”
The entire conference room froze.
Jeong Minsu sprang to his feet.
“T-that’s impossible! Ebola belongs to the Filoviridae family, and coronavirus belongs to the Coronaviridae family. Their RNA structures, replication methods, and host-cell entry mechanisms are completely different!”
“It was impossible. But someone did it.”
A detailed genetic map appeared on the screen. The genes of the two viruses were distinguished by color.
“They combined Ebola’s VP40 matrix protein with SARS-CoV-2’s spike protein in a chimeric fashion.”
Taeho pointed to the fusion site with a laser pointer.
“It is a virus that has both Ebola’s cellular destructive power and hemorrhagic characteristics, and coronavirus’s respiratory transmissibility and ACE2 receptor-binding ability.”
“What is the fatality rate?”
“Based on actual infection cases, approximately 55%.”
Silence.
“And its transmissibility is estimated to be about 1.8 times that of COVID-19. Its basic reproduction number, R0, is about 10.”
“If R0 is 10, that means one person infects ten people······ And if the fatality rate is 55%, even assuming 30% of the world’s population is infected, about 2.5 billion people would be infected, and 55% of them would······.”
“1.3 billion people would die.”
Jo Sang-o raised his hand.
“Wait a moment. If R0 is 10, explosive transmission should have occurred, so why did it infect only four people and stop?”
“Good question.”
Taeho nodded.
“This virus is still incomplete. The chimeric fusion of Ebola and coronavirus is unstable, so its natural transmissibility is far lower than the theoretical value. It did not spread unless administered directly to a person.”
“Then are you saying this is a prototype?”
“Exactly. They are still in the experimental stage. Once it is stabilized······.”
He stopped speaking. No further explanation was necessary.