Leaving Korea felt less like escape and more like erasure.
Ji-hoon did not tell anyone how much of himself he was leaving behind. To his guardians, it was an opportunity. To his teachers, it was a reward for discipline. To the records, it was just another student traveling overseas.
Only Ji-hoon understood the truth.
He was stepping into a life where his past could not reach him.
Abroad, he used his second name exclusively. The pronunciation felt unfamiliar at first, like a borrowed suit, but he wore it until it fit. Under that name, he was polite, observant, unremarkable and extremely careful.
He did not chase opportunity,
He positioned himself near it.
The businessman's name surfaced during his second year. Not through headlines, but through patterns. Companies that survived crises untouched, investments that arrived moments before markets shifted, partnerships that dissolved without conflict.
Chairman Lee Min-jae.
A man rumored to be ruthless, precise, and untouchable.
Ji-hoon did not try to meet him.
That was the first rule.
Instead, he learned where Chairman Lee spent time . Not publicly, but habitually. A private gallery he funded quietly. A foundation event that received little press. A small lecture series at a university he donated to but never attended openly.
Ji-hoon volunteered.
He ensured his presence was natural, forgettable.
The first meeting lasted less than ten seconds.
Chairman Lee dropped a document during a closed-door seminar. Ji-hoon picked it up and handed it back without comment, without eye contact.
"Thank you," the man said.
Ji-hoon bowed slightly and walked away.
The second meeting came three months later.
This time, Ji-hoon asked a question during a discussion. A sharp, restrained, and entirely unexpected from someone his age. Chairman Lee's gaze lingered a moment longer than politeness required.
"You've thought about this," the man said.
"Yes, sir," Ji-hoon replied. "But not enough to pretend certainty."
That answer earned silence.
Silence, Ji-hoon knew, was not rejection.
It was assessment.
The third meeting was deliberate.
Chairman Lee requested him by name.
They spoke over tea. Not about business, not about ambition, but about systems. Why some nations collapse and others rot slowly instead. Why power prefers stability over justice. Why fear is cheaper than loyalty.
Ji-hoon never argued.
He listened.
At the end of the meeting, Chairman Lee said, "You don't look at people when you speak."
Ji-hoon met his eyes for the first time. "People reveal more when they think they're not being watched."
The man smiled.
From then on, the relationship grew quietly. No announcements, no promises, just invitations. To observe, to assist, to sit in rooms where decisions were shaped before they were made public.
Chairman Lee never asked about Ji-hoon's past.
That, more than anything, confirmed Ji-hoon's judgment.
This was a man who valued usefulness over origin.
Years later, when Chairman Lee referred to him as "my son" in casual conversation, Ji-hoon felt something unfamiliar tighten in his chest.
Not affection.
Alignment.
By the time Ji-hoon turned eighteen, his education was complete in ways no institution could certify. He understood leverage, patience, and the cost of mistakes made too early.
When he booked his return ticket to Korea, Chairman Lee watched him silently.
"You're going back to unfinished business," the man said.
Ji-hoon nodded. "Yes."
"Do not rush," Chairman Lee warned. "Revenge destroys those who lack structure."
Ji-hoon bowed deeply. "I've been building mine for years."
As the plane lifted into the sky, Ji-hoon closed his eyes.
The boy who had left Korea no longer existed.
What was returning had purpose, protection, and a name powerful men respected.
And somewhere in Korea, Kang Dae-seok still did not know he was being studied.
That ignorance would not last forever.