The conference room fell into chaos the moment the first alarm blared.A red banner sliced across the main monitor: URGENT: SECURITY BREACH DETECTED.
"Wh–what the heck—?" one of the analysts stammered, eyes wide.
Mr. Oh's calm snapped into sharp focus as he barked orders.
"Isolate the node!"
"Shut down auxiliary access!"
"Find the source before it spreads!"
The room turned electric, the hum of machines drowned by rapid keystrokes.
Chairs screeched as people scrambled to their stations. Fingers slammed across keyboards, the sound sharp and frantic.
Lines of code streamed down the monitors like rain — fast, unrelenting, alive.
"The breach is moving— it's jumping through the subnet!"
"I'm losing control of node three!""Someone reroute the firewalls! Reroute now!"
The lights dimmed, replaced by the harsh glow of screens painting faces in blue and red.
Someone swore under their breath.Another muttered, "It's too clean to be external. No trace signatures."
Through it all, Jae-Hyun stood still. Hands in pockets. While the room burned with panic, he simply watched. His expression didn't shift — just the faintest narrowing of his eyes as if he were evaluating them, not the breach.
Mr. Oh's voice cut through the noise, sharp as a blade."Contain it! I want that IP mapped five seconds ago!"
One of the analysts, pale and sweating, shouted, "We've cornered it! It's hitting the decoy server!""Shut it down!"
A keystroke. The room held its breath.The red alert vanished. Silence swallowed the space — heavy, stunned.
Monitors slowly faded back to green.Relief came like a collective exhale, shaky and exhausted.
Mr. Oh ran a hand down his face. "Report."
"Systems stable," an analyst said, voice trembling. "We're clear. Breach isolated and neutralized."
Mr. Oh turned to Jae-Hyun, tension still humming beneath his composure."We've contained it, sir. We'll run diagnostics to—"
"No need," Jae-Hyun interrupted softly.
Every head turned. The quiet authority in his tone stilled the room.
"That breach wasn't external."
Brows furrowed. Mr. Oh's confusion deepened. "Then where—?"
"It was me."
Confusion rippled through the analysts.
"What?" someone whispered.
"You… initiated it?" Mr. Oh asked, staring at him with a mix of shock and grudging awe.
"To test your response time," Jae-Hyun said simply. "You all took three minutes, forty-two seconds to isolate it. Efficient. But the counter-protocols weren't synchronized. I've seen better coordination."
The silence deepened — half disbelief, half awe.
Mr. Oh blinked at him, stunned."You— You what?"
Jae-Hyun's gaze drifted to the now-harmless screens. "If this were a real breach, we'd be having a very different conversation. But don't worry — no one could actually get in."
Mr. Oh stared at him, torn between outrage and reluctant admiration."You ran a live infiltration on your own system… without telling anyone."
"Protocols are meant to be tested," Jae-Hyun finally looked at him, a faint smirk curving his lips. "Besides… if anyone could actually breach my system, I'd retire."
Mr. Oh's lips twitched — not quite a smile, more like resignation and admiration tangled together.
"You're impossible."
"No," Jae-Hyun said, turning toward the door, his voice calm but sure. "Just thorough."
- - -
The next day, the classroom buzzed with life, a chaos that somehow worked. Laughter burst here and there like sparks — groups of students leaned over desks, trading gossip and weekend stories. A couple of boys had turned the aisle into a makeshift basketball court, dribbling an invisible ball and shouting, "Three points!" as imaginary crowds cheered.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, glinting off half-zipped pencil cases and the occasional soda can someone wasn't supposed to have. The air smelled faintly of chalk dust and mischief.
Then, amid the noise, the door slid open.
Jae-Hyun stepped in — calm, unhurried, his backpack hanging loosely from one shoulder. His dark hair fell neatly into place, catching the light for half a second before he tucked it back with the same quiet ease he carried into everything.
"Yah, Jae-Hyun!" Jae-Suk called from the third row, his grin wide enough to light the hallway.
"Morning, Jae-Hyun!" Tae-Ho added, elbowing Jae-Suk like they were in a race for his attention.
Jae-Hyun nodded, sliding into his seat beside them. "Morning."
"So," Jae-Suk began immediately, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "how was your weekend?
Jae-Hyun chuckled quietly, unbothered. "Nothing that exciting. Just… things at home."
Tae-Ho squinted. "Things at home, huh?" He rested his chin on his hand. "You say that like you're covering up a secret double life."
Jae-Hyun chuckled softly. "Nothing that dramatic, Tae-Ho. Just… things at home."
Jae-Suk's eyes narrowed playfully. "Yeah, about that 'things at home'… I've been wondering… why does my dad always call you in private? I mean, almost every time you're around, he wants to speak to you alone. What's going on?"
Jae-Hyun casually leaned back in his chair. "It's nothing for you to worry about. Really."
"Nothing? Come on, Jae-Hyun, don't tell me it's 'nothing.' My dad never even calls me into his office that often. And I'm his son!" Jae-Suk pressed, clearly determined to get an answer.
Jae-Hyun looked up, his smile subtle but knowing. "You could always ask him."
"Oh, come on!" Jae-Suk groaned. "You're dodging again. What are you two plotting?"
"If I told you," Jae-Hyun said lightly, "you'd have to sign an NDA."
Tae-Ho nearly choked on his laughter. "He's joking—right? You're joking, right?"
Jae-Hyun didn't answer, which only made it worse.
Jae-Suk pointed an accusing finger. "See? He didn't deny it! There's definitely something going on."
Jae-Hyun shrugged. "If you really want to know, ask him yourself. Whatever he says is the truth."
"That's exactly what someone suspicious would say," Tae-Ho muttered, grinning.
Jae-Suk leaned back dramatically. "You're impossible."
The bell rang, slicing through the chatter, but the two still eyed him like detectives who'd just found their most evasive suspect.
- - -
Meanwhile, miles away in a sleek, glass-walled office in downtown Seoul, cold glass walls reflected lines of glowing code, server lights blinking like tiny heartbeats.
Mr. Oh sat behind his desk, posture straight, his focus razor-sharp as multiple monitors displayed real-time analytics — threat reports, client logs, encrypted data streams.
The hum of machines was steady, like a calm undercurrent of power.
A soft knock interrupted the rhythm.
"Mr. Oh?" a young team member said, stepping in with a tablet clutched to her chest. "There's a new client request. They're asking for a direct consultation."
Mr. Oh looked up from his monitors, nodding calmly. "Alright. Give me the details."
She swiped quickly, fingers tapping the screen to reveal a profile. "Hwaseong Dynamics. Their Technical Director says it's urgent. He wants a meeting today."
Mr. Oh's brow lifted. "Hwaseong Dynamics?" He leaned back slightly, recalling the name — a tech giant with a spotless public image and a notoriously paranoid internal network. "Set up the call. Now."
Within minutes, the sleek monitor blinked to life, revealing the face of a man in his early forties — crisp suit, sharper expression, the kind of person who carried his skepticism like a badge.
"Mr. Oh," the director began, skipping greetings, "I assume you're the point of contact for NovaSec?"
"That's correct," Mr. Oh replied evenly.
"Good. Then let's not waste time. The last firm we hired left our systems exposed within two months. If you're just another overpriced consulting company with fancy words, we'll end this now."
The tension hit instantly — like static in the air.
Mr. Oh didn't flinch. "Understood. But I think you'll find NovaSec a little different. We don't deal in fancy words — only results."
The director's eyebrow twitched. "Results, huh? And what guarantees do you offer?"
"A breach-free infrastructure and continuous monitoring," Mr. Oh said, tone crisp. "If there's a problem, we find it before anyone else can."
The director leaned closer to his screen. "That's a bold claim."
"It's not a claim," Mr. Oh said, his composure unshaken. "It's policy."
A flicker of approval — grudging, but there — crossed the man's face. "Alright, Mr. Oh. Tell me how you plan to assess our system."
Mr. Oh shared a document across the screen, the NovaSec logo sliding into view. "We begin with a complete audit — every access point, every internal communication line. From there, we isolate weak nodes, implement containment protocols, and rebuild from the inside out."
The director listened, unimpressed at first — until Mr. Oh began listing vulnerabilities that hadn't even been disclosed in the client's brief.
"Those were found during your preliminary scan?" he asked sharply.
"Preliminary?" Mr. Oh allowed himself a small smile. "No. Just intuition."
The director blinked, speechless for half a second before clearing his throat. "I see… well, that's impressive. But if anything goes wrong, we cut ties immediately. I don't tolerate failure."
"Neither do we," Mr. Oh replied, with the kind of certainty that needed no emphasis.
After a pause, the director finally nodded. "Very well. I'll expect the contract within forty-eight hours."
"You'll have it within twenty-four," Mr. Oh said.
When the call ended, he exhaled softly — not from relief, but calculation. He began typing the full operation summary, detailing projected timelines and system assessments before sending it directly to one name on his encrypted list.
To: J.H.Report complete. Initial plan for Hwaseong Dynamics ready for review.
He hit send, then leaned back in his chair, watching the blinking light of his secure line — the one that connected only to him.
For a moment, Mr. Oh allowed himself a small, knowing smile.
In a classroom across the city, that same boy — now pretending to care about math formulas and cafeteria rumors — was quietly rewriting the blueprint of corporate power.