RR 02
[002] A Servant’s Life – Part 2
Mr. Kim, the plaything, smirked as he stepped into the fitting room.
Almost immediately, Madam’s coquettish voice seeped through the door.
“Aigoo~ Stop it! That tickles!”
The store staff began giggling, while the female secretary’s cheeks burned red with embarrassment.
The word “surreal” didn’t even begin to cover it.
The playful tone soon faded, replaced by something far more… suggestive.
“Hmm… Ah—! Hah…”
The flimsy veneer paneling of the fitting room creaked and trembled slightly.
This crazy old hag! No way—
But there was no mistaking it. The lustful granny and her young toy boy were definitely going at it in that cramped space.
Now I understood why Madam had suddenly decided to raid a rival department store.
Normally, she’d summon luxury brands to her mansion. They’d haul their entire collection into her living room, where she’d leisurely pick outfits in her robe.
But today?
The thrill of doing it in public must’ve struck her perverted mind. And now, she was living out that fantasy.
Damn it. Of all days—my wife’s birthday—I’m stuck guarding this obscene circus!
.
.
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Sunyang Group.
Annual revenue: Nearly 400 trillion won.
Operating profit: Over 30 trillion won.
The combined market cap of its listed subsidiaries? A staggering 440.7 trillion won—surpassing the national budget.
Sunyang’s influence on the stock exchange? A dominant 27%.
From automobiles and electronics to telecom, heavy industry, chemicals, retail, fashion, and food—there’s no sector Sunyang hasn’t touched.
They’ve even swallowed up mom-and-pop stores, from convenience chains to tteokbokki stalls. At this point, South Korea’s economy and Sunyang are practically conjoined twins.
Yet Sunyang’s origins? Two dirt-poor brothers who apprenticed as goldsmiths.
In the early 1920s, under Japanese rule, Jin Soon-chul and Jin Yang-chul scraped by as jewelry craftsmen.
The elder, Soon-chul, had nimble hands. The younger, Yang-chul, had a sharper mind—a match made in capitalist heaven.
Once Soon-chul mastered the craft, he began skimming gold dust. Yang-chul? He found buyers.
Their savings were meant for farmland—until liberation in 1945 changed everything.
Had they bought land earlier, Sunyang Group would’ve never existed. They’d have died as anonymous farmers.
But Yang-chul abandoned that dream when he learned of enemy property auctions—assets left behind by fleeing Japanese.
The U.S. military government and Korean officials sold them off, mostly high-end homes.
Yang-chul, however, bid on a warehouse.
Not just any warehouse—the Joseon Rice Granary, once storing 1.5 million sacks.
No one knew the exact remaining stock.
Post-liberation riots had looted it, and the Japanese burned the ledgers to hide their embezzlement.
Yang-chul’s target? The “missing” rice.
Before the government could audit, the brothers sold it all—amassing a fortune overnight.
With that seed money, they bought confiscated homes and companies… and Sunyang Group was born.
Yang-chul, ever the opportunist, later monopolized U.S. aid sugar and borrowed relief funds at dirt-cheap rates.
Soon-chul focused on machinery, laying the groundwork for heavy industry.
Their synergy was explosive—until greed tore them apart.
Power, even between brothers, isn’t shared.
When the craftsman and the schemer clashed over control, the outcome was inevitable.
Yang-chul, who handled all finances, cooked the books on Soon-chul’s subsidiaries.
Soon-chul was branded an ill-gotten wealth hoarder and jailed. He died in prison, his lineage fading into obscurity.
Yang-chul took the throne, steering Sunyang into a national empire until his death at 78.
His legacy? Four sons, one daughter, twelve grandchildren—and the current chairman, Jin Young-ki (76), his eldest.
The vice chairman? Jin Young-joon (50), Young-ki’s heir.
And me? One of seven managers in the Future Strategy Office, serving the vice chairman.
Officially, I handle “critical operations.”
In reality? I’m a glorified janitor for the Jin family’s dirty laundry.
But don’t underestimate this role.
To Sunyang’s 70,000 employees, I’m envied.
They’re slaves—I, at least, am a servant with a shot at butler.
And I will make that leap.
Despite my no-name provincial university degree, I caught Sunyang’s eye by winning a HR strategy contest.
When the acceptance letter came, my father threw a feast.
“Sunyang knows talent—even from the sticks! Future Strategy? Only elites from SNU dare apply!”
But on my first day, I learned the truth.
Prestigious hires refused degrading tasks—so they recruited disposable graduates like me.
My debut assignment?
“You can’t tell grass from weeds? And yank those dandelions—they spread like rats!”
The one barking orders wasn’t a manager—just the chairman’s landscaper.
In a suit and dress shoes, I sweated through manual labor while Ivy League hires drafted reports.
Within months, my fellow “disposables” quit.
I endured.
I studied harder than a college-entrance student, mastering English and financials until I earned desk work.
Only then did sneers turn to wariness.
I’d found my weapon: access.
The Jin family’s homes became my second workplace.
Every royal knew my name—Yoon Hyun-woo—and their darkest secrets.
Eight years in, I made manager.
Twelve years later? One of the few who shares soju and chicken gizzards with the vice chairman at pojangmachas.
At 40, my goal—butler within a decade—is no pipe dream.
And now…
The moment has come.
“Manager Yoon. You’re going on a trip. Pack light.”
“Yes, sir. But… may I ask the purpose?”
“Moldova.”
Slush funds.
Though I’ve never physically handled cash, I know every hidden digit on those documents.
“Understood.”
“Prosecutors are investigating offshore leaks. Intel says they’ll pounce in a week. Open an account, withdraw everything, and move it to yours.”
“…Mine?”
I couldn’t believe it. No more paperwork middleman—this time, my hands would touch the money.
Sunyang’s Moldova stash? Over $1 billion USD.
And he wanted it under my name.
“I don’t even trust my wife—but I trust you. You’re the only one who can hold this.”
The vice chairman studied me, then smirked.
“What? Tempted to flee to some European castle and live like royalty?”
“Don’t joke, sir.”
“Withdraw it, lay low, then wire it to my Virgin Islands account when I say. Prosecutors will close the case once the money ‘vanishes.’”
“Understood.”
“Oh, and tell no one—not even your wife. Call it a ‘business trip.’ Mention Moldova, and you’re dead.”
As I left, she handed me a dossier—the flower-like secretary.
“Everything you need’s in there. Moldova… jealous!”
“Wanna come? I’d love company.”
“Pfft. Dream on. I only fly private.”
Right. She’s the private-jet mistress.
Wake up, Hyun-woo.
The next day, I boarded Korean Air First Class—bound for Moldova.
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