Morning light filtered through the glass windows of the campus law clinic, falling across a row of exhausted faces.
Yoo Sae-bin sat at the front desk, phone to her ear, voice calm but strained. "Yes, ma'am. I understand. But I assure you, your landlord cannot just—" She paused. "Yes. We can file a stay. Please bring the documents tomorrow."
She hung up and turned to the others.
"That's the eighth one today," she muttered. "All from the same three districts. It's starting."
Kang Joon-ho stood behind her, arms folded. "C&T isn't just threatening residents anymore. They're accelerating everything."
"And targeting us," said another voice.
Professor Han walked in, holding a thin white envelope.
He set it down on the table.
Everyone leaned in.
To: Kangwon Law School Legal Clinic
Subject: Administrative Inspection Notification
"You're kidding," muttered Sae-bin.
Joon-ho took the letter and read through it. Bureaucratic language cloaked in polite terms—but the meaning was clear: someone had reported them for "irregular legal practices" and "unauthorized student representation."
Han didn't look surprised. "It's textbook intimidation. And it'll work if we let it."
"They're trying to choke us with red tape," Joon-ho said.
"They're trying to break morale," Han corrected. "The inspection starts in three days. Until then, assume anything you write or file is being monitored."
Sae-bin raised her hand slightly. "Do we stop taking new cases?"
Han shook his head. "No. We move smarter."
He glanced at Joon-ho. "And we start finding the cracks in their armor."
---
Later that day, the clinic's basement archive became their new war room. Sae-bin had pulled together every case connected to C&T over the past two years.
"It's more than just Doksan-3," she said, pointing at a pinned map. "This goes back to the Gongdeok project. Remember that failed shopping complex?"
Joon-ho nodded. "They declared bankruptcy six months after opening. But then Taurus Holdings absorbed the land and resold it under another name."
"Exactly. It's a cycle. Bankrupt, acquire, redevelop, rebrand."
She handed him a folder. Inside was a photo.
A smiling middle-aged man, greying hair, sharp eyes.
Park Joon-hyuk. CEO of Taurus Holdings. Former public procurement director.
"He's the one coordinating everything," Sae-bin said.
"And he knows the law inside out," Joon-ho murmured.
"Worse," she added. "He knows how to bend it without breaking it."
---
Three hours later, Joon-ho sat alone on a campus bench, staring at the city skyline.
Again.
It was a ritual now—his quiet between storms.
He didn't hear the footsteps until someone sat next to him.
A woman. Elegant in posture, formal in appearance.
Long black coat. Slight trace of rose perfume.
"I heard you're making quite a stir," she said, not looking at him.
Joon-ho turned slightly. "And you are?"
She smiled faintly. "Choi Mira. Assistant legal counsel for C&T's Seoul development branch."
He stared.
She wasn't older than thirty. Yet her eyes held the cold polish of someone who had walked through fire without flinching.
"Are you here to threaten me?" he asked quietly.
"No. Just to observe."
She reached into her coat and pulled out a small envelope.
He took it warily.
Inside was a black business card.
No name.
Only a symbol: a serpent coiled around a gavel.
"I was once like you, you know," she said, folding her hands. "Believing the law could save the world. Until I realized… the world doesn't want to be saved. Just reordered."
"What does that mean?"
She stood. "It means you can fight. But don't pretend you're clean while doing it. The moment you challenged us, you became part of the game."
She began walking away, heels clicking against the pavement.
Then paused.
"Oh—and tell Professor Han I said hello. He'll remember me."
Then she was gone.
---
That night, Joon-ho couldn't sleep.
He sat at his desk in the dorm, the black card sitting like a curse in front of him.
The serpent.
The gavel.
A quiet promise: Power without morality.
He opened his laptop and began drafting a letter to a journalist he'd once interviewed with during undergrad.
Her name was Kang Ye-rin—an independent reporter known for exposing corrupt land deals and corporate fraud. She'd once gone undercover for six months to infiltrate a mining company in Gyeonggi Province. Her story had made national headlines.
He typed quickly:
To: Kang Ye-rin
Subject: Story Submission — Ongoing Corporate Manipulation of Low-Income Zones (C&T Group)
Hello, Ms. Kang,
I'm a third-year law student currently working with the Kangwon Legal Clinic. In the past two months, I've been handling several tenant eviction cases that all seem tied to a common entity—C&T Group, under its subsidiary Taurus Holdings.
The evidence I've gathered suggests not only coordinated buyouts but also falsified documents and retaliatory pressure against legal aid workers.
I believe there is a larger story here. If you're interested, I have names, timelines, and internal documents.
If I disappear, I trust you'll know where to start digging.
– KJH
He hesitated, then hit Send.
---
The next morning, two unexpected things happened.
First, an inspector from the city's education committee showed up unannounced. Clipboards. Stern voice. Too polite.
Second, Yoo Sae-bin didn't come to the clinic.
By noon, Joon-ho called her twice. No answer.
By 1 p.m., a text came in.
[Yoo Sae-bin]: I'm sorry. I won't be coming in for a while.
He called again.
Voicemail.
Something was wrong.
---
That evening, he took the subway to the address she'd once listed on her intake form—an older apartment building in Nowon district.
He rang the doorbell three times before it opened.
A woman stood there. Middle-aged. Eyes red from crying.
"Are you Sae-bin's mother?"
She nodded cautiously. "And you are?"
"Her friend. From school. I'm… worried."
She exhaled and stepped aside.
Inside, Sae-bin sat on the couch, arms wrapped around her knees, face pale.
"Sae-bin."
She looked up.
And for the first time, he saw real fear in her eyes.
"My father got a call this morning," she said softly. "He's up for a district court judgeship next year. They told him... if I keep working on these cases, the appointment will be rescinded."
Joon-ho felt cold.
"They're going after our families now."
She nodded. "He didn't yell. He just… asked me to stop. For him."
Silence lingered like fog.
Then she looked up.
"I'm sorry."
He stepped forward. "Don't apologize. You're not giving up. You're protecting your father."
"But I still feel like a coward."
"You're not."
He knelt beside her, taking her hand.
"I'm going to keep fighting. And when it's safe again, I want you there. Not because you owe me—but because I don't want to do this alone."
Her lips trembled.
Then she nodded.
---
Two days passed.
The inspection came and went, quiet as a shadow.
By the end of the week, two more law students withdrew from tenant rights cases, citing "academic pressure."
And on Friday morning, Professor Han handed Joon-ho a new file.
"You're being reassigned temporarily," he said.
"To where?"
"To the city's housing review board. As a student observer."
Joon-ho frowned. "That's not a clinic role."
Han gave a knowing look. "No. It's a doorway."
Inside the folder was a pass.
Temporary Clearance – Seoul City Housing Review Panel
And a handwritten note from Han:
"Some truths can't be seen from below.
Climb higher. Learn the structure. Then dismantle it."
---
That afternoon, as the sun dipped behind a curtain of clouds, Kang Joon-ho stood at the edge of Seoul's City Hall—press pass in hand, eyes sharp, spine straight.
He wasn't just fighting anymore.
He was infiltrating.