At the center of the spacious conference room—large enough to accommodate dozens—sat an oval wooden table with seating for more than twenty. Each chair facing the projector was an executive model upholstered in special cushioning, arranged in neat rows, while microphones and tablet PCs rested atop the table.
Behind the seats reserved for the executives, two rows of office leather chairs lined the wall for associates and staff. The high-end amplifiers and electronic equipment beside them likewise boasted of the room’s prestige. This was clearly where important meetings requiring mandatory attendance by partner attorneys were held. They had stocked the space with expensive items befitting their status.
Yet if that were all, Yoon Shin, who had grown up wanting for nothing, would not have been so intimidated.
His complicated gaze reached the abstract paintings hanging on the wall behind the head of the table.
‘Where did I see those paintings before? I’m certain I read an article a few years ago about them selling at auction.’
Works by famous artists that one encountered only in overseas auctions cost at least several hundred billion won. It wasn’t the CEO’s office, nor a partner’s private office, nor a reception room for greeting guests—this was a conference room used solely by staff—yet several expensive paintings hung here, leaving his judgment wavering. The unidentifiable shapes within them seemed to stir, as though they were poised to overpower him.
Feeling that he stood at a very important crossroads, he was more nervous than when appearing in court. Biting his lip tightly to brace himself, Yoon Shin moved the trackpad. The presentation screen he had prepared in advance appeared on the front display. Evidence pertaining to the case and the points of contention were organized for easy readability.
It was still before the official start of work. Having entered early to prepare for the test alone, Yoon Shin’s face was etched with exhaustion. Partly because this unnecessarily extravagant place exerted considerable psychological pressure, but more so because he had pulled two all-nighters in a row without a wink of sleep.
When he rose slightly, his vision swam. It wasn’t merely sleep deprivation; he had spent every available moment frantically reading text and organizing material, and the fatigue had accumulated. Barely straightening his back, he heard the door open from outside. The one entering was Secretary Tak.
He carried the documents Yoon Shin had requested and placed one copy at each seat where the seniors would sit. Then he set down a steaming cup of coffee before Yoon Shin.
“Drink this first. I brewed it very strong, so it’ll jolt you awake.”
Having already washed up, Yoon Shin bowed his head in sincere gratitude and accepted it.
“I won’t forget this kindness. Please tell the office manager as well that I’m grateful he came in early to help.”
“What kindness? I’m only doing what I should.”
“But I’m not yet formally a lawyer at this firm. Strictly speaking, there’s no reason for you to help me. Not yet.”
Secretary Tak smiled gently and replied.
“By the way, did you read all of that material? It was over ten thousand A4 pages. I prepared the files, so I know.”
“To be honest, the volume was so vast I couldn’t read all of it. I divided it by category and selectively speed-read only the essential parts. So I’m a bit worried.”
While answering and taking a sip of coffee, Secretary Tak carefully observed Yoon Shin’s attire. The white dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up and the necktie hanging awkwardly from his collar were both somewhat disheveled. That much might have been fine, but the problem lay elsewhere.
“You couldn’t sleep a wink anyway. Did you barely manage to wash up in the shower room, Lawyer?”
“Yes. Is there a problem? Sometimes there are people who stay overnight on the floors above and below.”
“That’s not it. From now on, bring a change of clothes. I can’t stand seeing you wear the same thing twice.”
“Is that Chief Kang’s order?”
Secretary Tak shrugged as if to say, ‘Who else could it be?’ The gesture left Yoon Shin somewhat confused. The Seheon he knew had seemed like someone who wouldn’t care at all about the attire of associates.
“Does he pay attention to associates’ clothing?”
“Not particularly, but his memory is excellent. If he sees someone two days in a row and they’re wearing the exact same outfit, it seems to give him the feeling that he is doing yesterday’s work all over again. A sense of the day repeating? I recall another junior being called out for it before.”
“Just a simple warning?”
“‘Get the hell out of my sight,’ is what he said. And he kept getting sent away. To the corporate M&A team.”
Perhaps because Yoon Shin’s expression turned quite gloomy as he listened, Secretary Tak added as if making an excuse.
“Ah, fortunately, it wasn’t a dismissal.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
It seemed exactly like the kind of irrational fixation a busy, fastidious person like Seheon would have. Yoon Shin loosened his necktie and stuffed it into his pocket, then smoothed his shirt as neatly as possible. Thankfully, Secretary Tak offered his own necktie. As Yoon Shin looped it around his neck and tied the knot, the image of Seheon coldly loosening his own tie flashed through his mind, prompting him to pull it tighter for no reason.
Seeing this, Secretary Tak subtly tilted his head, watching with an intrigued gaze.
“Are you imagining strangling Chief Kang or something?”
“No, not at all.”
“That’s strange. All the other juniors do. I do too, sometimes. He works us like mad.”
Unable to admit to it now, Yoon Shin awkwardly changed the subject.
“By the way, what is your relationship with him? I noticed he treats you quite comfortably.”
“Ah, me? I was his junior in middle school. Lawyer Song and Lawyer Kang are both my seniors.”
“Oh, really? That’s the first I’ve heard of such a connection.”
“The age gap means the three of us never attended school together. In the past, Chief Song provided financial support to several protected children among his alma mater juniors. Lawyer Kang and I gratefully lived with that assistance, so we knew of each other through the foundation. We weren’t close, though.”
Hearing that much, Yoon Shin’s eyes widened.
Protected children.
Meaning orphans under the age of eighteen.
He had heard various rumors about Seheon’s family background. That both parents were physicians with Médecins Sans Frontières, or professors at prestigious overseas universities—that had been the prevailing rumor. When Seheon chose to become a lawyer rather than a prosecutor, word had even circulated that he was the out-of-wedlock child of a famous domestic law firm chairman. Yoon Shin knew that Seheon had never personally acknowledged any of them.
“Does Lawyer Kang not have… parents?”
Perhaps because Yoon Shin wore a very complicated expression as he asked, Secretary Tak added with a troubled look.
“Ah, didn’t you know? He’s from a chaebol family by marriage, and Lawyer Song personally scouted and placed him here, so I assumed you would be well-informed on matters like this. Oh, did I speak out of turn?”
“Is that something Lawyer Kang tries to hide?”
“Not exactly. But he doesn’t enjoy talking about it.”
“Then I suppose it was a slip of the tongue. I’ll act as though I never heard it.”
Secretary Tak smiled as if grateful. Yet the awkwardness of having unnecessarily exposed a superior’s private affairs reached Yoon Shin, making it impossible to press the matter further. He changed the topic as naturally as he could.
“About this test—does everyone go through it?”
Secretary Tak brightened and answered.
“This much is the basics of the basics. More like tradition, you could say. When a new associate first joins the firm, the teams usually hold mock trials to embarrass them. To crush their spirits. But Lawyer Kang finds that bothersome, so he doesn’t hold actual trials. Even when he does, he usually delegates it to the senior lawyers beneath him. Oh right, he’s reportedly attending today himself. I wonder why?”
“He must be bored out of his mind.”
Just as the two were conversing, they turned simultaneously toward the source of the sound. Footsteps seemed audible from afar, and there at the doorway stood Seheon, leaning at an angle. Today as well, his neatly worn three-piece suit suited him impeccably. Even the shape of his shadow stretching long from his toes was flawless.
Behind him stood several senior attorneys from the same team whom Yoon Shin had passed in the hallways of the building on several occasions. At a rough count, it appeared only about ten-odd team lawyers had attended—a portion of the team. Their ages ranged from their thirties to their fifties, with varied years of experience and sub-specialties.
Thanks to their presence, come to evaluate him, his mind snapped sharply to attention. The razor-sharp neatness of their attire and the cold, dispassionate rationality evident in their expressions tensed every muscle in Yoon Shin’s body.
He belatedly regretted why he had insisted on asking Seheon to attend, when such veteran lawyers were already at his beck and call, but it was already too late.
“Secretary Tak. If you could remain in the conference room during the briefing…”
Sensing a crisis instinctively, Yoon Shin reached out toward Secretary Tak, but heartlessly, the secretary gave him a look as if to say, ‘Keep your promise,’ and quickly slipped out of the room. Left with no choice, Yoon Shin turned his gaze to Seheon, who was looking at him with an expression of extreme displeasure, making his throat feel scratchy.
Ahem. Just as Yoon Shin cleared his dry throat to speak, Seheon opened his mouth first.
“Fourth-year. Is begging just anyone to stay by your side your hobby?”
“Excuse me? No way.”
“I saw it with my own eyes just now, and you say ‘no way’?”
“Ah, that was because I felt like I had no allies here. There’s no special reason. Of course, I don’t mean that Chief is an enemy.”
“Are you sure?”
“Really, no.”
“Fine then. Don’t obstruct the proceedings and step out.”
Before Yoon Shin could move aside, Seheon brushed past him irritably and took the head seat. Then the other lawyers, who had been waiting respectfully, entered the room and filled their seats one by one.
While they looked over the papers laid on the table, Yoon Shin quietly caught his breath and earnestly repeated to himself to calm his racing heart.
You prepared your best. Just don’t make mistakes.
Soon, after exhaling a deep “Hoo,” he bowed politely before his senior colleagues.
“Greetings. I am Do Yoon Shin.”
There was no reply. Most of the seniors were reading the documents Yoon Shin had distributed. Several seemed to offer quite favorable evaluations of his concise summaries. Only Seheon, sitting crookedly beneath the abstract paintings, fixed his gaze unwaveringly on Yoon Shin standing before him.
As Yoon Shin seemed about to continue with further pleasantries, Seheon checked his wristwatch once and cut him off immediately.
“Skip the trivialities and start. Everyone here is busy.”
Yoon Shin’s lips moved as he bowed his head.
Then he picked up the illuminated pointer and aimed it at the screen.
“Then, I shall begin. This case is a construction payment claim lawsuit. The plaintiff, who failed to receive construction payment, filed a complaint against the defendant. Because no written contract recording the agreement with the defendant, the building owner, remains, an audio recording of an oral contract was submitted. Construction was in fact carried out, and the payment deadline has passed without the plaintiff having received payment. All litigation requirements are satisfied.”
One senior scanning the documents turned on a microphone and asked.
“The written summary is clean. What about the payment deadline? Generally, the balance on construction fees is paid upon handover of the building. In this case, the defendant is arguing that the building has not been fully expanded. So their position is that since the deadline has not yet arrived, there is no need to pay. How do you intend to resolve this?”
“Construction was halted over six months ago. During this process, there are circumstances indicating that the defendant, the building owner, prevented the completion work.”
Yoon Shin flipped the screen and presented evidence. Photos showed that the sued defendant had erected fences around the property and damaged construction materials. The defendant was claiming these were measures taken to control wild animals in the vicinity.
Yoon Shin pointed to the photos with his pointer and added:
“Furthermore, there is precedent that when circumstances change—such as construction being halted—the agreed deadline likewise changes from that point, so that the payment deadline is deemed to have arrived. As shown in the paper provided.”
Just as Yoon Shin’s gaunt hand lifted the paper to check the page number, Seheon rolled the pen he had been twirling between his fingers toward Yoon Shin, blocking his action. He seemed to find something deeply unsatisfactory.
“Wait.”
“Lawyer?”
“So, the money should be paid?”
“Based on my review of the case, a secured claim exists and the payment deadline has arrived. In principle, payment must be made.”
Upon hearing the answer, Seheon turned his head with a very subtle expression, as if questioning something dubious. Then he pointed decisively to one senior seated across from him.
“Now, a question for all of you. Are we the plaintiff or the defendant? A very easy question.”
The senior hurriedly skimmed the documents and answered with confidence.
“The plaintiff.”
As if to say, ‘Did you hear that?’ Seheon turned his gaze forward again. This time he asked Yoon Shin:
“He says plaintiff. Why? Because the presenter described it as a case where payment was not received, not a case where payment was not made.”
“….”
“Which side’s lawyer are you?”
“Doguk.”
“Our firm?”
Yoon Shin’s lips moved as he hesitated, barely forcing out the words.
“…Represents the defendant.”
“Are you a prosecutor, by any chance? An apostle of justice. That would suit Lawyer Do Yoon Shin perfectly. Or perhaps a judge. Ah, if not that, then maybe an audience member who upholds principles. Principles are wonderful indeed.”
As his words continued, it felt as though cold water were being poured into the room, and the air chilled. The obviously sarcastic tone naturally drew the other lawyers’ gazes toward Seheon and Yoon Shin. However, Yoon Shin was not entirely without grounds for rebuttal, and he answered immediately.
“But what you demanded from me was not argumentation—it was the summary and organization of this case. Therefore, I attempted to maintain an objective perspective without being swayed by either side’s logic. We need only find evidence to rebut the plaintiff’s logic that I laid out. This process is also necessary.”
“Very necessary indeed. But do you truly believe the defendant is us? I am asking about your mindset. Anyone can see that the person swindled out of tens of billions feels aggrieved. Yesterday, the summary I saw in your room was full of that sentiment. Was I mistaken? I have yet to read it, but this paper seems to be the same.”
Momentarily at a loss for words, Yoon Shin shut his mouth tightly. Seheon’s words were the unvarnished truth. Every case Yoon Shin had handled until now had involved representing people like this plaintiff. Naturally, he could not claim that he had avoided viewing the materials through that victim-like perspective during the process of organizing them.
As his opponent fell silent, Seheon—who had been facing forward—slightly turned his body and tilted his head. He swept his gaze over the seniors surrounding him, then singled out two lawyers his eyes met first with a tilt of his chin and posed a question.
“Now, you two. One question. You seem to have understood the case generally from the documents. What counterstrategy could the defendant employ in this case? It’s not difficult, so let us proceed with orthodox answers.”
The designated seniors responded one by one.
“The contract can be rescinded. We will prove that a significant defect occurred despite construction being carried out. Certain flaws always surface during the building process. If we prove that additional repair costs were incurred due to defects, liability for warranty of defects becomes possible. There is precedent that in such cases, the construction payment need not be made in full.”
“Correct. I handled a similar case in the past where we scoured the building and discovered that a portion of the first-floor staircase was very slightly tilted. We secured the defective area, amplified the danger through media reports to expand the issue, temporarily dropped the construction company’s stock price, and eventually won.”
After hearing the responses, Seheon turned toward Yoon Shin once more.
“Lawyer Do Yoon Shin.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“How were you planning to win? Answer me, excluding the methods the seniors just mentioned.”
“What about offsetting via delay penalties? Either way, construction was delayed, and damages must have been incurred. Both sides bear the burden of debt.”
“Yet there are circumstances indicating the defendant prevented completion work. How do you intend to ignore that?”
His mind went blank in an instant, and as Seheon’s pressure-interview-style barrage continued, the quick thinking he had been exerting ran dry. He racked his brains trying to formulate an answer, but nothing came to mind. After tightly shutting and reopening his eyes, Yoon Shin replied in an uncertain tone:
“If you give me some time, I will think of a way from now.”
“I already gave you two days. This is a very simple lawsuit. Experienced juniors could handle it with their eyes closed.”
“You gave me two days and instructed me to study it thoroughly and brief on the case.”
A disappointed glint—one that seemed to say, ‘I knew you’d say that’—settled in Seheon’s narrowly opened eyes.
“So what you’re saying is, you did only the homework assigned. Memorizing documents, making slides, organizing points, summarizing files. Is this a law school for bar exam prep? For two days, you did not think at all about how we could win.”
Yoon Shin could not answer.
“Fourth-year. Doguk does not need an objective lawyer. It wants a winning lawyer. Time? You must have been lacking. But will you say the same to the client? ‘Dear client, you only gave us two days. We lost—our apologies. You must pay damages to the plaintiff.’”
His already pale face, listening to the rebuke, turned even whiter. Seheon’s words were all correct. He had assumed one-dimensionally that Seheon was testing memorization and summarization skills—that the ill-tempered Kang Seheon was trying to stress him out with a mountain of materials.
But if he thought about it calmly, how could someone too busy to even blink engage in something like that? This was a law firm where someone incapable of such simple work could not have set foot in the first place. He ought to have discerned the other purpose behind this assignment.
“It’s been a month since you joined, yet you are still an outsider. Should I wait longer? Would another month help?”
“I am sorry. My thinking was short-sighted.”
“Pro bono work is fine too. Playing prosecutor, seeking justice, helping pitiful people. You can keep doing exactly what you did outside. That way your conscience stays clear, and you can continue the philanthropic life of a rich young master you’ve led so far. If that is what you want, say so. I have no hobby of keeping around an associate I cannot commit to, either.”
The moment he finished speaking, he hurled the papers lying neatly on the table behind him. The fluttering pages fell beyond his head, partially obscuring the wall paintings before settling one by one onto the bare floor. Watching Seheon discard the fruits of his two days’ labor like trash, Yoon Shin felt quite choked up. Even so, he maintained his composure as best he could and opened his mouth.
“Are you saying you will not listen to any more of it?”
“Did you not say it yourself? That a little time is all you need. You keep forgetting your own words. A bad habit.”
“The criminal case remains. Occupational negligence causing bodily injury.”
Seheon, who had been half-rising as if to leave, paused. Then he quietly watched Yoon Shin switch the screen to the criminal case summary, as if composing himself.
Soon their eyes met. Yoon Shin’s eyelashes trembled slightly in clear indignation, but that was all. Though he felt wronged, he understood the point being made. He was being scolded for the essence of his heart—a heart that still resisted the work style of a large firm despite all his talk. Yoon Shin tried to persuade him with a composed, calm voice.
“You said you would attend the test. Those were your words, Chief. And it is still my time. I still have things to say.”
“It will only be the same thing repeated.”
“I was foolish, so I deserve to be scolded. Yet I wish to finish showing what I have done.”
The seniors watched silently, gauging the atmosphere. Seheon’s eyebrows twitched; then, for whatever reason, he sat back down. He crossed his legs, folded his arms, and gestured arrogantly with his chin.
“Go on. I’m curious what role you’ll take this time.”
Yoon Shin bit his lip hard and gripped the pointer more tightly. Then he resumed the presentation. Seheon observed his manner with extreme care.
The precarious atmosphere grew increasingly heavy, sinking lower and lower.
* * *
Drip, drip. Water running down his smooth jawline flowed into the washbasin drain. Looking into the mirror above the sink with a wet face, Yoon Shin’s eyes were bloodshot.
〈After all, no one at this firm calls your name. They all call you parachute.〉
Surprisingly, what Seheon had given him then seemed to have been a hint. As a partner of Seheon’s stature, there must be small tasks requiring a junior’s help, yet he had never once issued Yoon Shin a work order. It was not that Yoon Shin was left idle because he lacked skill. It was because Seheon could not yet be certain that Yoon Shin was truly one of Doguk’s own.
“So that’s why he kept saying fourth-year, fourth-year…”
He had assumed that Seheon deliberately avoided using his name to wound his pride. But that was not it—he truly saw Yoon Shin as merely a lawyer who had wandered outside for four years. It was quite humiliating.
He had done his best for two days straight to avoid being humiliated. He had really tried. In the end, he felt like shit, as though he had suffered the maximum humiliation possible. Though he bore part of the blame, Seheon’s method of instruction was too ruthless regardless. The image of Seheon mercilessly discarding the results of his two days’ effort kept vividly replaying before his eyes.
“Sadist.”
Yoon Shin pulled several paper towels and dried his hands. Then he recalled how Seheon had transferred the moisture clinging to his own eyelashes to his lips, and he roughly wiped his own face as if to erase the thought.
“He could have guided me properly from the start if he’d looked inside my head. Does he have a hobby of humiliating people? Or is his personality just fundamentally trash? His temper is filthy too—there should be a limit.”
“Both? Probably.”
While roughly wiping the water from his face without paying attention, he sensed someone’s presence at some point.
At first, the voice was so familiar that it seemed pleasant to the ear, but within seconds his thoughts did a one-eighty. It was a voice he absolutely should not have been hearing here right now. Barely turning his stiff neck to stare at the source of the sound, he saw Seheon—who had rolled up the sleeves of his jacket over his solid frame—approaching the sink.
I’m fucked.
Yoon Shin’s face turned ashen, his expression full of turmoil.
How much did he hear?
Sadist?
Trash?
“Unfortunately, I heard from ‘sadist.’”
Seheon, washing his fountain-pen-ink-stained hands, answered a question that had not been asked. Startled, Yoon Shin watched his reflection in the mirror in a panic.
“Chief, do you read minds?”
“I rather wish I did—my work would be much easier. Wipe your face gently. Good looks are among the most useful weapons you possess. I may need to utilize them appropriately later, so use them sparingly.”
Yoon Shin clutched the wet towel as if it were Seheon himself and finished wiping his face. Then he stared at him with a complicated expression. Perhaps because that attention felt uncomfortable, Seheon—who had not so much as glanced his way until then—finally looked at Yoon Shin in the mirror.
Through the clean, transparent glass that seemed capable of reflecting not only physical things but inner thoughts as well, their gazes crossed.
And in that moment, one side of Seheon’s face—which had remained composed despite hearing blatant slander—crumpled as if collapsing. He asked without the slightest attempt to hide his displeasure.
“Why are you looking at me like that? It disgusts me.”
“I’m confused.”
“That is precisely what I fail to understand.”
“You administer poison, then medicine. You just humiliated me, and now you say you’ll make use of me later.”
“This is medicine? You’re quite easy. I don’t usually match well with easy ones.”
“Do you know that doing this to someone’s face is exactly what a sadist does?”
“A behind-the-back slanderer like you is worse than an honest sadist.”
Ah. Recalling the earlier incident, Yoon Shin immediately apologized.
“I’m sorry. I was just… angry. They say people curse the president behind their backs too, so please overlook it.”
“Is this bastard lacking in propriety, or simply lacking brains?”
Shaking his head as if he wanted nothing more to do with him, Seheon wiped his cleanly washed hands with a paper towel. Then he ignored Yoon Shin and turned to leave. But Yoon Shin immediately blocked his path.
“If you had clearly stated what you wanted, my output would have been different. It is true that I approached it simply, but your part was also nothing more than nitpicking. You went too far.”
Surprisingly, Seheon showed an attitude of acknowledgment.
“Court is like that. You submit evidence and nitpick, nitpick, nitpick. Victory and defeat depend on who can prove and refute more plausibly. That is why I said my being present would not help much. You should have heeded my advice.”
“Yes, I shall engrave the lesson of preparedness against the unexpected into my bones.”
“Well. You seem exactly like the type to refuse to listen, consistently. I won’t expect much. I told you yesterday. Do the work assigned. Don’t cause me trouble.”
One moment he said to only do assigned work; another time he had scolded him for doing only assigned work. Yoon Shin could not figure out how he was meant to interpret Seheon’s orders.
“Should I only do what I’m told? Should I also do what I’m not told? I cannot read your true intentions, Lawyer.”
“That is also a test. Find the answer yourself.”
Clients often lied.
They would clutch the most important or dangerous pieces of information they held, hide them throughout, then be discovered by the opposing party at a decisive moment, leaving their counsel in an awkward position. They also frequently muddled the very case that was their own with unclear arguments, causing chaos.
Perhaps he was trying to see how Yoon Shin overcame a crisis while being subjected to that very kind of confusion. However, Seheon’s inner strength was too great for Yoon Shin, who was not skilled at keeping things close to his chest, to engage in such a tug-of-war.
With his mind a jumble, Yoon Shin suppressed the swarm of questions toward Seheon as if compressing them.
Meanwhile, Seheon added:
“Move aside already.”
“Wait a moment, Senior Kang Seheon.”
Just as Seheon reached out as if to push past him if necessary, he suddenly froze. Then, for some reason, he unceremoniously cornered Yoon Shin’s thin body against the wall.
Thud! Yoon Shin, his back striking the marble wall, furrowed his brow. And that was not all. Large, straight hands gripped his bony shoulders as if wringing them, forcefully and firmly. With no expression on his face, there was no way to know why he was suddenly doing this.
“Urk—that hurts!”
Seheon, standing directly before him, was significantly taller than Yoon Shin. Because of this, a dark shadow fell across his pale face like a canopy. Seheon’s expression remained dry, but his voice was lower than usual. He whispered in a ghastly tone:
“Do not call my name. Do not call me senior, either. I never permitted it. Address me by my title.”
Depending on the person, this could indeed be a sensitive issue. Yoon Shin could fully understand disliking one’s name being called. The firm atmosphere was not such that outside habits had surfaced, and he had realized his misstep.
But he could not understand Seheon’s excessive defensiveness about the title “senior.” It was not merely as a legal junior—he was, in fact, Yoon Shin’s direct senior in both undergraduate and law school. As that question mingled with the pain evident on his face, Seheon loosened his grip and answered in a strangely kind tone:
“I don’t like having my personal relationship defined in that way with someone I barely know. There are only three things you may call me. Lawyer Kang, Chief Kang, or Team Leader Kang.”
“I—I will keep that in mind.”
Yoon Shin’s hand trembled slightly as he replied. Useless strength entered the hand clutching the damp towel. After glancing down at his own wrist, Seheon—who had caught that fleeting moment with his eyes—took one step back. Still, the distance between them remained close.
“You asked me yesterday how I brought that business partner to the courtroom.”
Recalling that moment from the previous day due to the abrupt topic, Yoon Shin calmly nodded, and Seheon continued.
“I didn’t give her anything.”
“Ridiculous. Why would she go there if she had nothing to gain?”
“Instead, I threatened to send all the evidence of her sleeping with the chief of security to her only son if she did not come out and state the facts properly. Fourth-year. Maternal love always yields results beyond my expectations.”
Seheon’s explanation did not immediately register, so Yoon Shin tilted his head. He narrowed his eyes in deep thought before arriving at a reasonable conclusion.
In other words, he had not offered compensation to entice her, but had taken her family hostage and threatened her.
To make the party walk into the lion’s den herself in order to protect them.
It was a method baser than imagination, and though his expectations were already so low there was nothing left to disappoint, it was nonetheless deeply disappointing.
‘This trash…’
“Did you really have to go that far, grasping at weaknesses like that?”
His clear pupils were full of heartfelt reproach. As Seheon stared into them intently, he bit his moist lips tightly for a moment. As if he had been subjected to the crudest insult imaginable, his eyes turned cold. His face chilled as well. An incongruous tremor crossed a face that was usually composed and unmoving.
“Are you some kind of Jesus? If you’re going to act so noble, go join a religious order—why on earth did you come here?”
“That is not what I mean—at least a minimum of…!”
The moment Yoon Shin tried to press his rebuke, Seheon grabbed the tie around his neck exactly as he had done when he came to Yoon Shin’s room days before. Then he pulled it taut as if applying pressure.
“Lawyer? Urk!”
“I didn’t know you and Secretary Tak shared ties, too.”
“How did you know that, this is—”
“Want to explain? That is not what I want. Shut your mouth.”
His panicked eyes shook violently. However, Seheon paid no heed to his confusion and only increased the strength of his grip.
It began hurting not from the thin fabric, but from the pressure of his large hand. Seheon’s hard knuckles pressed against the protruding larynx. Yet even as Yoon Shin