Chapter 30: The Name
The argument about the company name lasted four hours, consumed six cups of coffee, and nearly ended two friendships.
They were in Sarah’s lab—the unofficial headquarters, now that the team had grown from “Daniel brings coffee at 2 AM” to “four people argue about strategy while Sarah pretends she’s not listening.” The lab was the only space on campus that was consistently available, mostly because normal humans didn’t occupy basement labs at 10 PM on a Saturday.
“Phoenix Technologies,” Marcus said, for the third time, with the conviction of a man who had been selling his whole life and wasn’t about to stop now.
“No,” Sarah said, also for the third time. “Phoenix is cliche. Every failed startup in history has named itself after a mythological bird. It screams ‘we want to sound impressive because our product isn’t.'”
“It screams ‘rebirth and transformation.'”
“Same thing.”
“What about Vanguard?” Minho offered from the corner, where he was sitting on the floor eating tteokbokki from a cup. He’d brought six cups, one for everyone plus two extras, because Minho’s solution to every problem was to feed it until it went away.
“Vanguard is a mutual fund,” Daniel said. “We’d get sued.”
“TechPulse?” Minho tried again.
“That sounds like a B2B SaaS newsletter, not a company,” Sarah said.
“Horizon Systems?”
“Generic.”
“StarBridge?”
“That sounds like a dating app.”
“Okay, you come up with something then.”
Sarah turned back to her monitor, which was displaying the server architecture she’d been designing between naming arguments. “I don’t care what it’s called. I care that it works. Call it ‘Bob’ for all I care.”
“We’re not calling our company Bob,” Marcus said.
“Bob Technologies has a certain charm,” Minho mused.
“No.”
Daniel had been quiet during the naming debate, not because he didn’t have an opinion, but because he already knew what the company should be called. He’d known since the moment he woke up in that classroom fourteen months ago. The name had been with him through two lives, through bankruptcy and rebirth, through high school and stock markets and midnight coffee sessions.
But he’d waited. Because the name needed to come at the right moment, when the team was formed and the vision was clear and the energy in the room was high enough to carry it.
“Nexus,” he said.
The room went quiet. Marcus lowered his coffee. Minho’s tteokbokki fork paused mid-air. Even Sarah turned from her screen.
“Nexus,” Marcus repeated, tasting the word. “Nexus Technologies.”
“A nexus is a connection point. A place where things come together.” Daniel looked around the room—at Sarah, who built; at Marcus, who sold; at Minho, who connected. “That’s what we are. The connection between technology and people. Between ideas and products. Between what exists and what’s possible.”
“Nexus Technologies,” Marcus said again, slower this time. His sales instinct was running—Daniel could see it happening, the rapid-fire evaluation of how a name would land on a pitch deck, a business card, a press release. “Two syllables. Clean. Technical without being cold. And the ‘connection’ angle is strong for marketing.”
“I don’t hate it,” Sarah said. Which, from Sarah, was a glowing endorsement.
“I love it,” Minho said. “Nexus. That’s a name people remember.”
Daniel felt something shift in his chest—a gear turning, a lock clicking open. Nexus Technologies. The same name. The same vision. But built differently this time. Built with the right people, for the right reasons, with guardrails that his first life had never had.
“Nexus Technologies,” he said. “Let’s make it official.”
Soyeon arrived an hour later, carrying a folder of documents she’d prepared without being asked, because Kim Soyeon existed in a permanent state of anticipatory preparation.
“Company registration requires a minimum capital of 100 million won as of the 2009 commercial code revision,” she said, settling into the chair next to Daniel’s and opening the folder with the efficiency of a surgeon preparing instruments. “However, there’s an exemption for technology startups under the SME support act. Minimum capital drops to 5 million won if the company qualifies as a ‘technology venture enterprise.'”
“Do we qualify?” Daniel asked.
“Not yet. You need either a patent, a technology evaluation from KISED, or a designation from the Small and Medium Business Administration. The fastest route is the technology evaluation—I’ve drafted the application. Sarah’s distributed systems work qualifies as the core technology.”
Sarah looked up. “You drafted an application using my research?”
“I referenced your published papers and the server optimization library. Everything in the public domain.” Soyeon didn’t blink. “If you’d prefer to review it before submission, I have a copy here.”
“I’d very much prefer to review it.”
“Of course. Highlighted sections indicate where your input is needed. Blue highlights are technical descriptions that I may have oversimplified. Red highlights are legal terms that require your signature.”
Sarah took the document. Read the first page. Then the second. By the third page, her expression had shifted from suspicious to grudgingly impressed.
“This is… actually very good,” Sarah said.
“Thank you.”
“The technical descriptions are only slightly oversimplified.”
“I’ll accept that as praise.”
“Don’t push it.”
Marcus leaned over Daniel’s shoulder to look at the folder. “Soyeon, how long have you been preparing this?”
“Since Daniel first mentioned starting a company. October of last year.”
“That was seven months ago.”
“Preparation takes time. Would you prefer I hadn’t prepared?”
“I prefer women who come prepared.” Marcus grinned.
“I prefer men who don’t comment on my gender when discussing legal documents.” Soyeon’s voice could have frozen the Han River.
“Fair. My apologies.”
“Accepted. Moving on.” She pulled out another document. “Incorporation timeline. If we submit the venture designation application by June, we should receive approval by August. Incorporation can be filed immediately after. Estimated total cost for registration, legal fees, and initial accounting setup: approximately 3 million won.”
“I’ll cover it,” Daniel said. “From the portfolio profits.”
“The portfolio.” Soyeon’s pen tapped three times. “Current value?”
“Approximately 25 million won.”
The room reacted. Marcus whistled. Minho’s eyebrows rose. Sarah didn’t react because Sarah didn’t react to money, but her typing slowed fractionally.
“Twenty-five million from an original investment of what?” Marcus asked.
“Six point three million. Over fourteen months.”
“That’s a three hundred percent return.”
“The market was generous.”
“The market was apocalyptic. You were generous—to yourself.” Marcus shook his head. “When this company takes off, I’m making you the case study in every marketing presentation. ‘Our CEO turned six million won into twenty-five during a global financial crisis while still in high school.’ That’s not a story. That’s a legend.”
“It’s not a legend. It’s compound interest and good timing.”
“Same thing, in marketing.”
Soyeon cleared her throat. “If we’re done being impressed, there are seventeen more items on the incorporation checklist.”
“Seventeen?” Minho groaned.
“Incorporating a company is not simple. If it were, everyone would do it.” She flipped to the next page. “Item one: registered business address. We need a physical address for the company registration.”
“The lab?” Sarah suggested.
“A university lab cannot be used as a registered business address. However, there are shared office spaces in Gwanak-gu that offer virtual address services for approximately 200,000 won per month.”
“I’ll find us something better,” Minho said. “My dad knows a guy who runs a business center near Gangnam Station. Might be able to get us a deal.”
“‘My dad knows a guy’ is not a business plan,” Soyeon said.
“It is in Korea.”
She conceded this with a slight tilt of her head, which was the Soyeon equivalent of a full nod.
They worked through the checklist until midnight. Soyeon had answers for almost every question, contingency plans for the ones she didn’t, and a timeline that mapped every milestone from now until the company’s official launch.
By the time they finished, the lab was littered with coffee cups and tteokbokki containers, the whiteboard was covered in diagrams and deadlines, and Daniel had the specific, exhilarating feeling of standing at the edge of something enormous.
“One more thing,” Daniel said as they packed up. “Roles. We need to formalize them.”
He went to the whiteboard and wrote:
Nexus Technologies – Founding Team
CEO: Cho Daniel
CTO: Yoon Sarah
CMO: Lee Marcus
VP Business Development: Park Minho
Legal Counsel / Advisor: Kim Soyeon
“No CFO?” Minho asked. His voice was neutral. Carefully neutral.
“External. Ernst and Young for the first two years. When we’re big enough, we’ll hire internally.” Daniel met Minho’s eyes. “This protects everyone. Including you.”
Minho held the gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded. “Okay. VP Business Development. I’ll make it work.”
“You’ll make it exceptional.”
“Obviously.” The grin was back. Bright, confident, Minho. “I don’t do ‘work.’ I do ‘exceptional.'”
Sarah rolled her eyes. Marcus laughed. Soyeon made a note in her folder. Daniel stood at the whiteboard, looking at the five names—the same names, in some configuration, that had built Nexus Technologies in his first life. But differently arranged. Differently balanced. With safeguards that hadn’t existed before.
“Nexus Technologies,” he said. “We start in September.”
“Why September?” Marcus asked.
“Because by September, we’ll have the venture designation, the legal framework, and—if things go well—our first product concept.” He capped the marker. “And because September is when I turned twenty. It seemed appropriate.”
“Starting a company on your birthday.” Minho shook his head. “You really are the most extra person I’ve ever met.”
“I prefer ‘ambitious.'”
“Same thing, different—”
“If anyone says ‘different packaging’ one more time,” Soyeon interrupted, “I’m leaving.”
They laughed. Five people in a basement lab at midnight, surrounded by code and coffee and the intoxicating, terrifying promise of something new. Outside, the SNU campus slept. But in Lab B-204, the future was wide awake.
Nexus Technologies.
It was just a name on a whiteboard. But names had power. Daniel knew this better than anyone—because he’d seen what this name could become. Not in a dream. Not in a fantasy. In a life he’d already lived.
This time, the name would mean something different.
This time, it would mean something better.