Westchester County, New York.
As he sat at the breakfast table, picking at his bacon, scrambled eggs, and hash browns, George Soros's brow furrowed as he read the Wall Street Journal. An interview with Syed, the Malaysian Prime Minister, caught his eye:
… To counter the predatory acts of George Soros and the Jewish hedge funds, we may restrict all foreign exchange transactions within Malaysia, except those directly tied to trade settlements.
"Tch."
His appetite vanished at the sight of yet another public attack. With a click of his tongue, Soros set down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
"Finished already?" his wife asked.
"Lost my appetite," Soros muttered.
Without another word, he rose from the table and headed straight for his study.
Isla watched him go with a worried frown, then reached for the paper he'd left behind.
"Oh…"
Her face tightened into a grimace as she spotted her husband's name splashed across the article. She shook her head with a bitter sigh.
Seated now at his wide mahogany desk, Soros grumbled under his breath.
"You'd think he'd be satisfied by now… but no, he keeps gnawing at me like a damned leech."
Clicking his tongue again, he grabbed the mouse and checked the ringgit exchange rate.
MYR: 5.59 (▼0.37)
Since Prime Minister Syed's call for draconian currency controls—or even a full freeze on forex trading—the Malaysian ringgit had plunged and couldn't seem to find a bottom.
The PM's constant needling was irritating enough, but what really twisted the knife was this: the ringgit had collapsed even further just days after Quantum Fund cashed out, locking in its profits. And he—George Soros—had exited too early.
"No doubt they're all out there laughing, saying I've lost my touch."
Soros scowled, muttering to himself.
While he'd closed out his position early and missed out on bigger gains, Eldorado Fund had stayed in the trade and scored a massive windfall—leaving him, once again, trailing behind.
His pride smarting, Soros bit down hard on his lower lip.
"Well then… I'll just have to crush Hong Kong even harder and show them I'm still at the top of this game."
There was no way he'd let anyone overtake him. Not yet.
"But first… I need to shut up that loudmouthed Syed once and for all."
With that, Soros reached for the phone.
The line clicked, and after a few rings, his personal assistant Janet answered.
"Yes, Mr. Soros?"
"Janet. Didn't The New York Times reach out a few days ago about doing an interview?" His voice was calm, but low and tight.
"Yes, sir. You said you weren't interested, so I declined on your behalf."
"Call them back. Tell them I'll do it."
"…Excuse me?"
George Soros wasn't particularly fond of media exposure, so Janet couldn't help sounding a little surprised.
"You don't have any major appointments tomorrow afternoon, do you?" he asked.
"Ah, no, sir."
"Good. Set up the interview for a suitable time."
"Understood."
Ending the call, Soros leaned on his desk, resting his chin on his hand as he muttered darkly,
"Let's see how they like getting a taste of their own medicine."
***
Dressed in a pale blue silk shirt and a Gucci tie, Seok-won sat at his office desk, his eyes fixed on the rapidly changing exchange rates and stock movements across Southeast Asia—Indonesia, Thailand, Hong Kong, and beyond—updating by the second.
After a moment, he rolled up his sleeve to check his watch and murmured,
"They said the service would go live at 1 p.m. today, didn't they?"
Moving his mouse, Seok-won opened his web browser. He typed an address into the bar and hit enter. The page loaded: Hanmail.net, Korea's first-ever webmail service.
It wasn't the slick, colorful homepage that users would come to know later. Instead, it was a plain, text-heavy layout—basic but functional, which made sense for an initial launch.
"One of the founders, the one who sadly passed away early, was supposedly a promising photographer. And you can tell… even compared to American sites, this is clean and easy on the eyes."
Pleased at the thought that Korea could now enjoy the convenience of email, Seok-won eagerly signed up and started exploring the site.
Sure, there were plenty of rough edges. But to someone like him—who knew what the future versions would look like—those little imperfections felt almost charming. Fresh, even.
Just then, his secretary, Na Seong-mi, knocked and stepped in.
"Executive Director Yoon is here to see you."
Seok-won quickly took his hand off the mouse and straightened up.
"Please, show him in."
As Na Seong-mi stepped aside, Executive Director Yoon Ki-hoon entered, accompanied by General Manager Yoo Hyun-seok.
Rising from his seat, Seok-won gestured toward the sofa.
"Have a seat."
"Thank you."
Bowing politely, Yoon and Yoo took their places on the sofa to the right.
Circling around his desk, Seok-won settled into the center seat, while Na Seong-mi asked,
"What would you like to drink?"
"I'll have coffee," Seok-won said.
"We'll have the same," added Executive Director Yoon.
With a polite nod, Na Seong-mi left the room.
Leaning back against the sofa, Seok-won crossed one leg over the other and asked,
"Did the deal go through smoothly?"
"Yes," Yoon replied, glancing at General Manager Yoo seated beside him.
Yoo Hyun-seok, in turn, handed over a file folder with both hands, showing due respect.
"As discussed, we've invested 3 billion won and secured a 20% stake in Daum Communications."
Daum, which would go on to become Korea's number one portal service after the IMF crisis—riding the wave of the dot-com bubble to dominate the KOSDAQ—was a company Seok-won had specifically instructed them to back, much like Digital Wave, the MP3 player maker he had handpicked before.
Scanning through the contract, Seok-won set the folder down with a satisfied look.
"They mentioned they'd use the entire investment for server expansion and operating costs, correct?"
Yoon answered promptly, meeting his gaze.
"That's what I heard. They're planning to double their current server capacity to handle the expected surge in users once the email service launches today."
"To capture the market, they need to onboard as many users as possible before any serious competitors show up. But if their servers can't keep up and users run into traffic jams and slow service, that'll be a problem."
"I've heard they've already secured enough servers to handle over 200,000 users without issues. Frankly, I wonder if doubling their capacity before even gauging market response might be a bit rash."
Executive Director Yoon and the other executives had opposed the Daum investment from the start. Their skepticism still lingered.
But Seok-won, well aware of just how successful Hanmail was destined to become, simply smiled.
"The potential of email services has already been proven in the U.S. There's no need to debate it further."
"..."
"Think about Hotmail's success. The servers they have now won't last even six months—maybe not even a few months. Just wait and see."
Though still doubtful, Yoon held his tongue. At this point, with such a large investment already made, he could only hope Daum Communications would succeed—for Daheung Investment's sake as well.
Right then, Na Seong-mi returned, setting down cups of coffee rich with the aroma of fresh beans in front of each man before quietly stepping out again.
"While we're on the subject, tell all our staff to sign up for Hanmail and start using it actively for work."
"I'll take care of it."
As Seok-won lifted his cup, took a sip, and set it back down, Yoon smoothly shifted the conversation.
"We've received a new investment proposal from Millennium Group."
Seok-won raised his eyebrows and looked up.
"Millennium Group? Is this about their Cityphone project, by any chance?"
"Yes. They were granted the Cityphone license last year, and with their official service launch coming up, they're asking if we'd be interested in participating in a 160 billion won capital increase."
Cityphone referred to an outbound-only mobile phone service—it could make calls but couldn't receive them.
Even calls had to be made near a relay station installed at specific public phone booths.
Yet, despite these inherent limitations, Cityphone had become a sensation a few months ago when it launched in the Seoul metropolitan area, thanks to its much lower price point and call rates compared to regular cell phones.
But it's a short-lived glory at best, Seok-won thought.
The moment users stepped beyond the 100-meter radius of a relay-equipped phone booth, their calls would drop. And unlike regular mobile phones, Cityphones couldn't automatically hand off the connection to the next relay station.
If you wanted to keep your call from dropping, you'd basically have to stand glued to a public phone booth. It's mobile in name only.
And with affordable, two-way Personal Communications Service (PCS) phones set to roll out later this year, Cityphone's days as a contender were clearly numbered.
"It seems they're trying to secure funding for nationwide relay station installations through this paid-in capital increase," Seok-won remarked.
"That's correct," Executive Director Yoon confirmed, leaning forward slightly.
"Given that telecom is poised for growth on par with the internet, I believe this represents a highly promising investment opportunity."
General Manager Yoo, seated beside him, nodded in agreement.
But Seok-won, without even asking about the specific terms or investment amount, remained visibly indifferent.
"Cityphone is a business that can never succeed."
"Excuse me?"
The two men couldn't hide their surprise at his flat, definitive response.
"Everyone's under a misconception. Cityphone, which can only make calls but not receive them, was originally designed as a supplementary device to complement pagers, which were receive-only."
"..."
"But now, everyone's under the illusion that Cityphone is some kind of cheap substitute for an expensive mobile phone."
This misconception had been heavily fueled by aggressive marketing campaigns from Cityphone operators, who portrayed it as an affordable mobile solution.
"The only advantage Cityphone has is that it lets people make calls on the go, at a low cost. But once PCS services launch later this year—phones that are just as cheap but can both send and receive calls, and even send text messages—Cityphone will be driven out of the market in no time."
"B-but… even after PCS comes out, isn't it possible Cityphone could survive by carving out a niche, much like pagers did?" Yoon ventured.
"At similar price points, with full two-way calling and text messaging? Do you really think Cityphone stands a chance?"
General Manager Yoo hesitated before responding.
"I can confidently say that within just a few years, both Cityphones and pagers will be out of the market and hard to find."
Executive Director Yoon and General Manager Yoo were both taken aback. Although pagers were still widely used by the public, they couldn't fathom such a drastic outcome.
But as Seok-won had pointed out, once PCS came into play, the viability of Cityphones would undeniably collapse, so they refrained from arguing further.
"Investing in Cityphone would be like throwing money away. Make sure to clearly communicate that we have no intention of participating in the capital increase," Seok-won concluded firmly.
Though Executive Director Yoon still harbored a faint reluctance, he said no more and lowered his head.
"…Understood. I'll make sure of it."