Hawon Medical.
For a medical-equipment firm, it ranks as a solid midsize company.
It maintains steady accounts with numerous small and midsize hospitals, and lately it has been negotiating with several large hospitals that need to replace their entire equipment suites.
Because such a sizeable deal was something the company had never handled, headquarters was more excited than ever.
Not that any of this really registered with the low-paid workers exiled to the annex, far from the main office.
The smoking room, ground floor of the annex, start of the workday.
Here the hottest topic had nothing to do with sales figures.
“What? Section-chief Cho did that?”
“Don’t even start. You know Chu Go-yeol, the administrative chief at Cheonggang Hospital Mokdong Branch? The guy actually stammered in front of him!”
Chu Go-yeol, infamous enough to be on every rep’s blacklist, wrung salespeople dry right up to contract time. In truth, the branch was too small to be called a general hospital, and the orders it placed were never big.
But by trading on the “Cheonggang” name, one of Korea’s flagship medical centers, Chu strutted like a big shot.
“No way, that Chu Go-yeol?”
Hence the reps’ nickname for him: Chu Go-blood, as in “squeezes every last drop.”
“Swear to God. Section-chief Cho just said, ‘I’m a bit drunk, so I’ll be heading out first,’ and the guy goes ‘okay.’ At the end of that night, the hospital director and the admin chief both jumped up to bow him out.”
The teller, Yu Min-seok, beamed, shoulders inflated. Yes, he was exaggerating.
“Come on, quit making things up.”
“Section-chief Cho isn’t the type.”
“Exactly. You expect us to believe he stormed out of a client dinner?”
“Idiots. Do you swallow everything you’re fed? I’m telling you it happened.”
Min-seok mashed out his cigarette.
“Still, Deputy-manager Yu’s got the corporate card, so…”
“Right. It means he picked up the tab in the end.”
“Whatever. We’ll know for sure when Section-chief Cho shows.”
“Funny, he’s late today.”
“First time I’ve ever seen him come in after nine.”
“Guess even he’s allowed a slip.”
They had worked with Cho Jin-hyeok nearly six years. In short, to the rank-and-file, he was a respected human being yet the last boss you wanted to be assigned to.
He never dumped work downward, never stole credit, took on the stuff everyone avoided, and never wagged his tail at upper management. Sheer diligence alone had got him his section-chief’s stripes.
The problem is he had been only a section chief for fifteen years. Twice he’d had a shot at deputy manager and both times juniors leapfrogged him. In Hawon, people normally made deputy manager by their thirteenth year. Cho’s refusal to join any faction kept him stuck.
All the same, no underling spoke ill of him. He was stiff, humorless, but the cleanest man in the office, with zero “old-man” speeches. Yet nobody drew too close—corporate life taught survival by staying clear of dead-end lines.
“Anyway, next office party Section-chief Cho’s gonna blow your minds. Never heard anyone sing like him,” Min-seok boasted.
Colleagues nodded, half admiring, half embarrassed. They knew exactly which slimy ladder they themselves were climbing.
Elsewhere, Shin Yu-jeong sat with her cousin-manager Shin Gi-su, phone glued to his ear.
“Yes, we understand you can’t reveal customer info, but… fifty, how does that sound?”
Yu-jeong flashed five fingers—fifty million won. Gi-su nodded.
“Naturally we’ll wire it at once. I’m a public figure; stiffing people would be suicide…”
He muted the line.
“Contact at that bar says the guy is admin chief at Cheonggang Mokdong. But since it’s a hostess joint, he may clam up.”
“So he’s hospital staff? Pharma rep? Medical-device sales?”
“Something like that. Going straight to the admin chief is risky.”
Yu-jeong frowned. Those worlds weren’t ones she liked to picture.
“Time to go from the top down,” Gi-su grinned. Cheonggang Foundation’s chairman adored her charity concerts.
Yu-jeong pulled out her phone that was turned off since yesterday because of the nonstop calls.
Notifications exploded. Among them a message from Prof. Lee Seong-cheol, dean of the Korean National University of Music: “Yu-jeong, cut the pretense. Who is that pianist?”
She hit call.
“Ha ha. Your little brother topped the chart again.”
“A headache for the family, that one.”
“With your two elder brothers ruling the business world, what’s wrong with one who’s loved by the public?”
“He’s just immature.”
“Whatever the reason, number one is number one, no?”
Kim Chung-seok, chairman of Changcheon Group, twitched an eyebrow: the nuance was “Well, at least he’s number one at something—unlike you.”
It was a compliment that wasn’t.
Dragging up the brother was plainly meant to needle him.
Everyone knew Changcheon openly propped the singer up: chart-rigging, suppressing bad press, the works. The brother’s image wasn’t his alone.
He was Changcheon’s third son, the family black sheep.
As a public figure he had to be spotless and the best because the company’s image rode on him.
All done quietly at corporate level. Everybody knew, nobody said it out loud.
Kim looked at the real power behind Cheong-gang Group, director Jin Bong-gu.
“Thank you for the compliment.”
He understood the man’s feelings. He’d let it slide today.
“Let’s wrap up the U.S. patent suit here. Cheong-gang Electronics will survive without that patent, no?”
“Yes. It seems the ruling is already decided. We’ll lower our flag.”
Jin had brought up the younger brother on purpose to salve the sting of a huge defeat.
Kim spoke of settling for a reasonable damages sum. Jin agreed.
It was a simple pride match.
“By the way, your brother masters every genre. How about classical next?” Jin landed one last jab.
Jin himself had been praised for piano talent since childhood and still gave small recitals. The comparison stung.
Kim’s face twitched.
“He’ll manage classical fine. I’ll pass on your suggestion. Then…”
Instead of offering the victor’s handshake, Kim simply turned and left.
“Safe trip back,” Jin said, lip curling.
They had lost the lawsuit and would pay plenty, but this small victory felt sweet.
When Kim was out of sight, Jin slapped his thigh and burst out laughing.
Just then a knock.
“Sir, Dean Lee Seong-cheol from KN University of Music called.”
Jin’s eyes lit up. What perfect timing after using “classical” to score a hit.
“Oh, yes, put him through.”
At Hawon Medical main office.
A roar split the quiet.
“Hey! Cho Jin-hyeok, what time do you call this?”
Everyone froze. Deputy-manager Kwak Doo-chang’s favorite sport was public humiliation.
Standing in the doorway was Cho. One full hour late, no tie, shirt untucked.
“What, did you eat something bad?” Kwak sneered.
“Hmm, no. Fried chicken last night, skipped breakfast.”
Kwak was confused. Cho never talked back.
“You’re not wearing a tie.”
“Dress code doesn’t require it. I’ll wear one when necessary; working’s easier like this.”
“You gone crazy?”
“Inside the office please refrain from pejoratives. Shall I record and file for workplace harassment?”
Cho smiled brightly. Kwak’s jaw worked soundlessly.
“I apologize for being late. May I begin work now?”
Cho bowed and walked off. Kwak clutched his neck in mute fury. The office was dead silent—then internal cheers erupted behind suppressed grins. Yu Min-seok stared, awestruck.
“Oh! Good morning,” Cho said lightly, lips quirked.
The day suddenly felt warmer.
Leave a Reply