Chapter 49: The Question
The Series B closed in October 2012. Ten billion won at a 55 billion pre-money valuation. Primer Capital led again, with Haneul Capital and two new investors—a Singapore sovereign wealth fund and a Japanese corporate VC—joining the round.
The announcement made the front page of the Korean financial press. NEXUS TECHNOLOGIES RAISES 10 BILLION WON IN SERIES B, read the headline. MOBILE APP STARTUP VALUED AT 55 BILLION. The article called it “the largest Series B for a Korean tech startup founded by someone under twenty-five.” Marcus clipped the article and framed it. Sarah read the article, found a factual error about the platform’s technical specifications, and emailed the reporter a correction.
The money changed things. Not immediately—money never changes things immediately. It changes the possibilities, which change the decisions, which change the trajectory. The trajectory changed fast.
By December, Nexus had 3,200 paying customers. The KB Kookmin partnership was generating 500 new activations per month. Three more bank partnerships—Shinhan, Woori, and NH—were in various stages of signing. The engineering team had grown to 35 people. The total headcount was 62.
Sarah’s AI features—the menu digitization tool, the automated content generation, the smart recommendation engine—had launched to enthusiastic reviews. A bakery owner in Mapo-gu had gone viral on social media after posting a video of the AI converting her handwritten paper menu into a digital format in thirty seconds. “The future is here,” she’d captioned it, “and it’s making my pastries famous.”
Daniel was twenty-two years old and running a company valued at 55 billion won. In his first life, this level of success hadn’t come until his late twenties. The timeline was compressed, accelerated by future knowledge and a team that was—he could say this now without the qualifier “so far”—exceptional.
But the question that kept him awake at night wasn’t about the company.
It was about his father’s health.
The checkup was scheduled for a Friday in November. Daniel had been tracking the date since September—not on his calendar app, but in his head, where the important dates lived alongside market bottoms and product launches and all the other inflection points that shaped his two-timeline existence.
In his first life, his father had shown no symptoms until 2019, when the heart attack came without warning. But ten years of hindsight had taught Daniel that “without warning” usually meant “with warnings that were ignored.” High blood pressure. Elevated cholesterol. The fatigue that his father attributed to the factory and that was actually the slow, silent accumulation of cardiovascular damage.
This time, Daniel had intervened early. He’d convinced his father to get annual checkups starting in 2010—”The company health insurance covers it, Dad. It’s free. Just go.”—and had quietly hired a private cardiologist to review the results each year.
For two years, the results had been normal. Elevated cholesterol, managed with diet changes that his mother had implemented without his father’s knowledge (“The oil is different because it was on sale,” she’d told him. It was actually a heart-healthy variety that cost twice as much). Blood pressure slightly high, but within acceptable range.
This year’s checkup showed something new.
“Mild left ventricular hypertrophy,” the cardiologist told Daniel over the phone. “It’s early—very early. The heart muscle is slightly thicker than normal, which suggests it’s been working harder than it should. Consistent with years of physical labor and elevated blood pressure.”
“Is it dangerous?”
“Not at this stage. With medication, lifestyle changes, and regular monitoring, it’s completely manageable. The important thing is that we caught it now, not in ten years when it becomes symptomatic.”
Ten years. In my first life, it became symptomatic in 2019. Exactly ten years from now. The heart attack that killed him was the culmination of decades of undiagnosed cardiovascular strain. We just caught the beginning of what killed him.
“What do we do?”
“I’ll prescribe a mild ACE inhibitor for the blood pressure. He needs to reduce sodium intake—I know that’s difficult with Korean food. And he should transition to less physically demanding work within the next two to three years.”
“Less physically demanding work. He’s a factory worker.”
“I understand. But the combination of physical stress and cardiovascular strain is the risk factor here. If he continues heavy physical labor for another decade, the hypertrophy will progress.”
Daniel thanked the cardiologist, hung up, and sat in his office staring at the wall for fifteen minutes.
Early retirement. I need to get my father out of the factory. Not in five years—in two. Before the heart gets worse. Before the damage accumulates beyond what medication can manage.
The money is there. The portfolio is at 50 million won. My salary from Nexus is enough to cover my parents’ living expenses. I can buy them a house in a better neighborhood, away from the factory pollution, with a proper kitchen and a balcony big enough for the jade tree.
But Dad won’t accept it. Cho Byungsoo doesn’t accept charity. Not from his son. Not from anyone. He’ll work until his body breaks because that’s what he’s always done and the idea of stopping terrifies him more than the idea of dying.
He went home that weekend. Not to deliver the news—not yet. To sit with his father and watch the evening news and drink beer and figure out how to tell a proud man that his body was failing in a way that required the one thing he feared most: dependence.
“You’re quiet,” his father observed. Saturday evening. Beer. News. The holy trinity.
“Thinking.”
“About the company?”
“About you.”
His father’s beer paused midway to his mouth. “About me?”
“Dad, when was the last time you took a day off?”
“Tuesday. National holiday.”
“That doesn’t count. A real day off. A day where you didn’t think about the factory.”
His father considered this. The consideration took longer than it should have, which was itself an answer.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
“That’s the problem.”
“It’s not a problem. It’s a work ethic.”
“It’s a work ethic that’s wearing out your heart.” The words came out before Daniel could soften them. He closed his eyes. Took a breath. “Your checkup results came back.”
“I know. The doctor said everything was fine.”
“The doctor said you have early-stage left ventricular hypertrophy. That means your heart muscle is thickening because it’s been working too hard for too long.”
Silence. The television talked about trade negotiations. His mother was in the kitchen, out of earshot. Minji was at the library.
“The doctor told you this,” his father said. Not a question.
“I asked the cardiologist to send me the detailed results.”
“You have a cardiologist reviewing my checkups.”
“I have a cardiologist reviewing everyone’s checkups. The company provides it.”
“The company provides it for a factory worker in Bupyeong?”
“The company provides it for my father.” Daniel set down his beer. “Dad, it’s early. It’s manageable. Medication, diet, less physical stress. But ‘less physical stress’ means—”
“Less factory.”
“Eventually, yes.”
His father was quiet for a long time. The kind of long time that contains thirty years of identity built around a single job, a single purpose, a single way of defining what it means to be a man.
“I’m forty-nine years old,” his father said. “I’ve been at that factory since I was nineteen. Thirty years. Half my life.”
“I know.”
“You’re asking me to stop.”
“I’m asking you to consider stopping. Not now—in a year or two. The medication will manage the condition in the meantime. But long-term, the doctor recommends transitioning to something less physically demanding.”
“To what? What does a man who’s pressed metal for thirty years do when he stops pressing metal?”
“Whatever he wants.” Daniel’s voice was steady, but his chest was tight. “Dad, the portfolio is at 50 million won. My salary at Nexus is more than enough to cover expenses. I can buy you and Mom a house—a real house, not an apartment. With a garden for the jade tree.”
“I don’t need a garden.”
“You need to stop working twelve-hour shifts in a factory that’s slowly breaking your heart. Literally.”
The word “literally” hung in the air. His father looked at the television, which was now showing the weather forecast. Rain tomorrow. Clearing by the weekend.
“Your grandfather worked until he died,” his father said quietly. “Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. Because after he lost everything, work was all he had left.” He paused. “I don’t want to be my father. But I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“You’re already something else, Dad. You’re the man who opened a brokerage account for his seventeen-year-old son because the son asked him to trust a bet he didn’t understand. You’re the man who rode a water ride at Lotte World three times and laughed. You’re the man who checks the stock portfolio every evening and pretends he doesn’t care.” Daniel’s voice cracked. He let it. “You’re more than a factory worker. You’ve always been more.”
His father didn’t respond immediately. He drank his beer. Set the can down. Picked it up. Set it down again.
“The jade tree,” he said.
“What about it?”
“It’s been on that balcony for fifteen years. In a pot. It’s never been in the ground. A jade tree in the ground can grow three meters tall. In a pot, it stays the same size forever.” He looked at Daniel. “Maybe it’s time to put it in the ground.”
“Is that a metaphor?”
“It’s a plant. But maybe it’s also a metaphor.” His father almost-smiled—the Cho men were genetically incapable of more than almost. “Find me a house with a garden, Daniel. I’ll consider it.”
“Consider it?”
“I said consider. Don’t push.”
“Okay.”
“And the medication. What is it?”
“An ACE inhibitor. Once daily. Minimal side effects.”
“Will it affect the fishing?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll take it.”
His mother appeared in the doorway. She looked at them—at the two beers, at the television playing to no one, at the specific quality of silence that exists between a father and son who have just agreed on something important.
“What are you two whispering about?” she asked.
“Jade trees,” his father said.
“And houses,” Daniel added.
“Houses?” His mother’s face did the thing it did when new information arrived that required immediate processing. “What houses?”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Daniel said. “Over breakfast.”
“Is this a good house conversation or a bad house conversation?”
“Good. Very good.”
“Then I’ll make pancakes. Good conversations deserve pancakes.” She went back to the kitchen, already humming.
Daniel and his father sat in the living room and watched the weather forecast. Rain tomorrow. Clearing by the weekend.
Both of them heard the metaphor. Neither of them said it.