The Price of Ambition

The piano piece flowed quietly like a babbling brook.

The hotel’s Korean restaurant, renowned for its refined and elegant hansik, had opened only a single table for a special guest.

In the dim hours before dawn, Mujin approached a middle-aged man who was having an early breakfast with his aide nearby. He offered a greeting and took a seat across from him.

Chairman Kwon swallowed the last of his tteokguk. When Mujin ordered only an espresso from the server, Chairman Kwon clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“I told you not to start the day with that watered-down nonsense. You never listen to your father, do you?”

“I drank a bit too much last night.”

Chairman Kwon raised an eyebrow at the excuse. “What nonsense are you spouting at this hour? In all my years, have I ever seen you drunk? Don’t pretend to be a normal human being.”

“We’ve regained the exclusive negotiation rights for HCN.”

Mujin, as always, cut off his adoptive father’s feeble jokes with talk of work. Chairman Kwon, who had been moving his spoon, took a few more sips of the soup before responding.

“What about Yangsu?”

Chairman Kwon didn’t bother asking about the terms or progress. He could tell without asking that Mujin had somehow managed to accomplish the impossible task he’d been given. Though he barely showed it, he was so shocked that the food seemed to lodge in his throat.

He had thrown him a hopeless case, and yet he had snatched it up. The order had been laced with malice: ‘Frankly, even you can’t handle this.’ Unless Zenith Capital—desperate to break into the broadcasting industry—was nothing but a scarecrow, this feat should have been impossible.

“820 billion won. We’re acquiring 9.5 million shares, and the government review will begin shortly.”

Chairman Kwon smiled wryly and lifted the bowl of dongchimi to his lips. Mujin’s skill at pulling off miracles with minimal investment was now almost unsettling. He hadn’t anticipated this amount. And yet, the brat remained as impassive as ever, as if the world could crumble around him and he wouldn’t bat an eye.

When the coffee cup was set down, the bitter scent of roasted beans filled the air. Mujin brought the espresso to his lips, his whole body reeking of coffee. Chairman Kwon knew this wasn’t his first cup. That stubborn devil had probably been drowning in that black brew since dawn, just like his own unyielding personality.

Chairman Kwon put down his spoon. While others struggled with a single project, Mujin juggled several at once, solving them as effortlessly as drinking that espresso. No matter what was thrown at him.

‘If he were truly my blood, he would have the world in his grasp by now.’

“Good work. The Jien Group is still in the process of splitting, right? Chairman Lee left behind something substantial. And that house in Yongcheon, too. I didn’t think you’d devour it so completely.”

There was a spiteful edge to his words as he changed the subject. In Yongcheon, a place of stark contrasts, an elegant old mansion had stood for years as a symbol of the wealthy district. Mujin had crushed it underfoot.

Mujin replied in a flat tone, seemingly unfazed by the barb: “It should be wrapped up soon.”

“I’m not telling you to rush. But you seem to be taking on a lot despite being busy. You’ve taken on an agency and seem to be paying it quite some attention.”

“It’s just a hobby. A ball that goes wherever you hit it is no fun.”

Chairman Kwon laughed out loud at Mujin’s dismissive comment about golf. Between his hoarse laughter, Liszt’s La Campanella, a Paganini étude, quietly filled the room. Instead of the piano, Mujin’s mind began to follow the violin melody that lingered in his memory.

A fair face playing Paganini’s Caprice. That insolent brat who stared straight into his eyes while performing a piece so difficult even professional violinists found it daunting.

Mujin downed the rest of his cold coffee. According to the file, that boy was a rough diamond with a unique presence—elegant and pure, the kind of delicate beauty that was rare these days when most faces were standardized.

But he didn’t like faces like Lee Hae-jun’s. He preferred calculated, artificial faces. They were familiar and predictable. That seemingly well-bred young master appeared to have no special talent besides his looks, so he had intended to let him go. That was before the boy looked at him with defiance and played the violin.

‘Lee Hae-jun… I feel like I’ve heard that name somewhere before.’

“You have strange tastes. Even back when you studied abroad. You graduated so quickly it surprised your father, and yet you also got degrees in art and music. One would think taste comes from upbringing and environment.”

“I thought I should cultivate some refined tastes.”

At Mujin’s indifferent reply, Chairman Kwon threw his head back and laughed. “Right, money piles up overnight. What else would a man with no wife or kids do? Might as well play.”

Chairman Kwon, who had been chuckling happily, nodded when his secretary approached to remind him of the time. “I should get going. When you get old, you have to exercise as soon as you set down your spoon.”

Mujin bowed politely and turned away. Once his footsteps faded, Chairman Kwon, who had been holding back a sly smile, stared after him intently. When the server brought dessert, a man who had been standing like a statue in the back accepted it and set it before the chairman.

“That one is truly untamable. That’s the tragedy of it.”

Gyeong-hwan nodded in agreement at the chairman’s seemingly random remark. Mujin was unparalleled among the many talents Chairman Kwon had gathered. That was why he had been adopted. But everyone knew that someone with that temperament would never submit to anyone.

“Do you know what makes a beast easy to handle? If you scatter food, they won’t attack. Unless their survival is threatened, they don’t need to risk their lives. That’s why I snatched him up as my ally.”

Chairman Kwon had not legally registered Director Cheon as his son, but he had adopted him. Thus, the two maintained a formal parent-child relationship. He was also the chairman’s official successor in the public eye.

Chairman Kwon muttered as he split a fine red bean yokan in half. “People are the same as animals. No matter how much you talk about reason and personality, in the end, you tame them with violence or food.”

He clicked his tongue, recalling the past. But that bastard couldn’t be broken by anything. In all his life, he had never seen such a stubborn person. That’s why he had gotten impatient and stirred up unnecessary trouble.

“Even so, he’s human on the surface, so he’s become somewhat docile. Look at his face. That bastard is so good-looking you wouldn’t believe he has such a fierce nature. Every time I see him, I feel regret. If only his origins were better, he would have been perfect.”

Gyeong-hwan didn’t concur. Director Cheon, with his overwhelming intelligence, physical prowess, and flawless appearance that cowed other men, was the very person who had solidified the belief that one’s looks have nothing to do with their character. The heart of this man, who seemed to have been carved from the image of a god, was more ruthless and venomous than a viper.

“Shall I give orders to proceed with the official registration of your son as planned?”

Chairman Kwon waved his wrinkled hand. “We need to stoke the fire a bit more. The one with the hotter seat will be more accommodating. He’s still stiff-necked. You have to be careful when dealing with something with sharp teeth.”

Chairman Kwon slowly set down his cup and wiped his mouth with a soft cream-colored cloth napkin. A hint of unseemly curiosity curled his lips, carrying a strange anticipation.

****

“Hae-jun, are you not looking in the mirror? Make your movements bigger! Your tempo is too slow! Lee Hae-jun!”

Every time the trainer’s sharp voice rang out, Hae-jun had to repeat ‘I’m sorry’ endlessly. The other trainees would turn and whisper. He wasn’t even embarrassed anymore. At break time, he collapsed against the bar and chugged water.

Just as Tae-rok had said, he had survived. But the acceptance came with a warning: he was lacking, and if he didn’t improve, it would be tough. Still, signing the trainee contract had given him a signing fee to pay for his mother’s hospital bills. Yet the money from selling an uncertain future quickly evaporated, and he started to feel restless.

At first, he hadn’t realized how much harsher the world was. Without money, he couldn’t go back to school, and his mother couldn’t receive treatment. Gradually, the idol debut that had started half-jokingly became desperate, and he began to be consumed by the desire to debut.

“Tae-rok, can’t you fix that mumbling pronunciation? Why can’t you fix it? Are you going to spend ten years as a trainee?”

Hae-jun, who was practicing separately from the team, almost choked on his water. ‘Ten years? Did I hear that wrong?’ He nearly turned his head but quickly averted his gaze, stunned.

After class, Tae-rok was only released after enduring a storm of nagging. He shuffled over and snatched Hae-jun’s water. Pouring it over his own head in frustration, he muttered weakly.

“Ah, f*ck. She’s a real demon. I feel sick just thinking about it. Who would want to be like that? f*ck, why does she have to spew such venom?”

‘Is that really true? It’s not a joke?’ Hae-jun couldn’t show his shock and looked away. Tae-rok slid down the wall and lay on the floor, mumbling.

“It’s been seven years. If I can’t even get into a debut team by this year, I’ll be let go. At best, they’ll recommend me to a small agency.”

He had heard that small agencies had no system or influence, and even if you debuted, it was hard to get media exposure. So even as a trainee, he clung to Alive Entertainment, which had newly risen as a major company.

“Now I can’t quit even if I want to. What would I do out there at this age? All I’ve learned since middle school is being an idol. What am I supposed to do?”

‘My situation is exactly the same. Music was my entire world, and being suddenly thrown into the real world made me realize I knew nothing.’

“f*ck. I don’t know if I can ever debut. If I’m giving it my all and it’s still not enough, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

Tae-rok looked depressed, as if the criticism had hit him hard. The notoriously bad-tempered vocal trainer had really poured salt on the wound. Hae-jun wanted to comfort him, but finding himself at a loss for words, he remained silent.

Hae-jun drank the bitter water and gazed at the sky outside the window. He recalled standing outside this building, clutching a single business card. That memory brought back the audition. When he had offered to play the violin in the face of being cut, the man who had dismissed him had met his eyes during the performance, and everything changed. There was something eerie about the gaze—like a potent poison that numbed his entire body.

Suddenly, Hae-jun shivered, goosebumps rising. He rubbed his arms vigorously and gulped down more water. The cold gaze had been relentlessly probing his senses, leaving a strange sensation he couldn’t quite explain.