After that day, my tiny studio slowly transformed into the operations room of a commander preparing for war.
One wall was plastered with economic newspaper clippings from the past month.
"KOSPI Breaks 2,000!"
"The Rally Shows No Sign of Stopping!"
"If Not Now, When? Join a Fund Today!"
Headlines overflowing with hope and greed.
Over them, I drew a thick black line tracing the KOSPI's movement, then scrawled words in red pen as if defacing the page.
Subprime.
Lehman Brothers.
Crash.
To anyone else, it would've looked like the scribbles of a madman.
To me, it was a prophecy—one only I could read.
Every morning, the first thing I checked was how the U.S. market had closed the night before.
For now, everything was calm.
Occasionally, small warning signs popped up—phrases like "concerns over a housing market slowdown"—but most investors ignored them.
Tiny cracks in a massive dam, visible only to someone who carried eighteen years of memory.
I was a hyena, waiting impatiently for the moment that dam would finally burst.
"The problem is…" I muttered, staring at my screen, "…how do I hunt?"
I sat frozen in front of my HTS, lost in thought.
If this were 2025, it would've been easy.
I could just tap my phone, buy an inverse ETF, or apply for short selling.
But in 2007, for an individual investor, betting on a decline was unfamiliar—almost impossible.
Especially for a retail ant like me, with pocket-change capital.
Short selling?
That was the playground of institutions and foreign investors.
Put options?
The derivatives market—known as the graveyard of retail traders. Jumping in there with a measly 4.6 million won would've been suicide.
I scoured the internet obsessively, searching for any method available to an individual investor at the time.
After days of agonizing thought, I reached a single conclusion.
Futures.
The KOSPI200 futures market—trading the index itself.
A long position if you bet on a rise.
A short position if you bet on a fall.
This was the only way I could bet against the market.
Of course, futures were dangerous too.
Because of leverage, even a small miscalculation could wipe out your entire principal in an instant.
But I wasn't dealing in predictions.
I had certainty.
I immediately called my brokerage's customer service line.
"Yes, how may I help you?"
A polite female voice answered.
"I'd like to open a futures account."
"Ah, futures trading. Please be aware that futures are high-risk derivatives and may result in losses exceeding your principal—"
She began reciting the standard warning.
I cut her off.
"Yes, I understand. What's the minimum margin required?"
"For one KOSPI200 futures contract, the required margin is currently 15 million won."
"…What?"
I thought I'd misheard.
Fifteen million won—for a single contract.
That was more than three times my entire net worth.
It felt like being hit in the back of the head with a hammer.
I knew the future—
but I couldn't even afford the ticket to board it.
"Uh… sir? Are you still there?"
The agent's voice sounded distant.
I didn't answer. I simply lowered the phone.
Click.
The sound of my slide phone closing felt like the door to my hopes slamming shut.
I sank deep into my chair.
A hollow laugh escaped me.
"Hah… seriously. What kind of joke is this?"
What good was knowing the future?
It was like knowing every answer on an exam—
but not having the money to enter the test hall.
Fifteen million won.
An impossible, crushing number.
I clawed at my hair, desperately searching for a way to get the money.
A bank loan?
No bank would lend to an unemployed man.
Loan sharks?
The forty-nine-year-old version of me knew exactly how that road ended.
Absolutely not.
Friends?
The only one left was Kim Dong-cheol.
But he was just another salaryman.
I couldn't ask him for ten million won.
My parents?
Asking my aging parents, running a small shop in the countryside, was worse than death.
"Damn it!"
There was no way.
I stared at the newspaper clippings on the wall.
Faces celebrating KOSPI 2,000.
Their smiles felt like mockery.
I closed my eyes.
Should I give up?
Just sit there and watch the coming crash, helpless?
Go back to living hand-to-mouth, just like before?
Then—
Wait.
Deep inside my mind, a forgotten drawer creaked open.
A faint, insignificant fragment of memory.
Early 2008.
During lunch, I'd once stopped by a brokerage branch with coworkers.
In one corner, an older man had been bragging loudly.
"I told you! Daeyoung Tech was going to explode! It was a penny stock last summer—I just had a feeling!"
"Oh come on, sir. You just guessed, didn't you?"
"No way! There was a rumor—it was supplying semiconductor parts to Apple!"
Daeyoung Tech.
Apple supply.
Rumor.
My eyes flew open.
Yes.
That had happened.
Late August, 2007.
While everyone was focused on blue-chip stocks, one obscure KOSDAQ company—on the brink of bankruptcy—had surged absurdly.
They'd announced an exclusive supply contract with a U.S. company referred to only as "Company A."
That company was Apple.
My hands trembled as I opened the HTS and typed in the name.
Daeyoung Tech.
A pitiful chart appeared.
Current price: 420 won.
I swallowed hard.
If my memory was right—
In one week, this stock would break 5,000 won.
My heart began pounding wildly.
420 to 5,000.
More than ten times.
If I poured in all 4.6 million won I had—
Nearly 50 million won.
Fifty million.
Enough to trade three KOSPI200 futures contracts.
A perfect ticket onto the crash.
But my finger wouldn't move.
This was reckless.
My memory wasn't perfect.
What if the timing was off?
What if this wasn't the same company?
What if it was all just that old man's drunken brag?
I was about to bet my entire life on a rumor overheard eighteen years ago.
I need confirmation.
I opened Internet Explorer and logged into Paxnet, the most popular investor community at the time.
The Daeyoung Tech discussion board was a wasteland.
"Delist this trash already."
"420 won? Give me my money back, you scammers."
"Sell now or get wiped out."
No mention of Apple.
Only despair.
Cold sweat ran down my spine.
Was my memory wrong?
I searched relentlessly—switching engines, combining keywords.
Nothing.
I was about to give up.
Then—
On some obscure financial board, buried deep—
I found a single post.
(Rumor) Daeyoung Tech has something going on with U.S. Company A.
My heart dropped.
The post was dated today.
Everyone in the comments mocked it.
But I knew.
This was the signal only I could see.
I stopped hesitating.
The cursor trembled over the Buy button.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
One click.
Heaven—or hell.
No middle ground.
Is this really okay?
Fear whispered again.
But then I shook my head.
I knew the future.
This wasn't gambling.
This was an exam where I alone knew the answers.
I closed my eyes—
—and bet everything.
I dumped my entire balance into the order.
4.6 million won.
Then I clicked the only leverage a retail investor had back then.
Margin Trading.
A chilling warning popped up.
I hit Yes without hesitation.
My buying power jumped to 11.5 million won.
Every last won went into Daeyoung Tech.
Market order.
Maximum quantity.
Click.
Order completed successfully.
My balance dropped to near zero.
In its place—
Daeyoung Tech: 27,380 shares.
My entire second life was now contained in that number.
If it hit 5,000 won—
136.9 million won.
One hundred million.
Money I'd never even dreamed of at this age.
Enough to stand tall.
Enough to hunt something far bigger.
I closed the program.
The dice had been thrown.
I opened the window wide.
The humid August night rushed in.
The city lights glittered—peaceful, oblivious.
I alone was running straight into the coming storm.
My first hunt had begun.