Chapter 35: The Request
The email from Minho arrived at 11:43 PM on a Wednesday, and it was the most carefully worded thing Daniel had ever read from a man who typically communicated in exclamation marks.
Subject: Quick thought on vendor payments
Hey Daniel,
Quick question. I’ve been working with our new cloud hosting vendor (the one in Pangyo) and they’re asking for payment terms that E&Y is taking forever to process. We’re talking about a 15 million won quarterly contract, and the vendor wants net-15 payment. E&Y’s standard processing is net-30. The vendor is threatening to switch us to a lower-priority tier if we can’t meet their terms.
Would it make sense for me to have limited access to the company payment system? Just for vendor payments under 20 million won. It would streamline the process and keep our hosting partners happy.
Let me know. No rush.
Minho
Daniel read the email three times. Then he closed his laptop, walked to the window of the Nexus office, and stared at the Gangnam skyline until his heartbeat returned to normal.
There it is.
Not aggressive. Not suspicious. Just a reasonable request from a reasonable person solving a reasonable problem. Exactly how it started the first time.
In his first life, the request had come differently—Minho had asked for full financial access during a period of rapid growth, when Daniel was too busy closing deals to question it. “I need to move fast,” Minho had said. “The vendors won’t wait.” Daniel had given him the access. Six months later, the first shell company appeared in the books. Twelve years after that, fifty million dollars was gone.
It always started small. A reasonable request. Limited access. Vendor payments. The financial equivalent of a foot in the door.
But this isn’t the same Minho. This Minho has been transparent about everything. He brings deals to the table, introduces clients, charms VCs. He’s never asked for financial access before. Maybe this really is just about vendor payments.
Or maybe it’s a test. A probe. The first gentle push against the guardrail to see if it gives.
Either way, the answer is the same.
He called Minho the next morning. Not email—voice. Because this conversation needed tone, and tone didn’t survive the written word.
“Hey, got your email,” Daniel said, keeping his voice casual. Office-casual. The voice of a CEO discussing process, not a man reliving his worst nightmare.
“Yeah, what do you think? The vendor thing is becoming a bottleneck.”
“I talked to E&Y this morning. They can expedite vendor payments to net-15 with a priority processing fee. It adds about 50,000 won per quarter to our accounting costs, but it solves the timing problem without changing our access structure.”
Silence on the other end. Not long—maybe two seconds. But Daniel counted them.
“That works,” Minho said. His voice was normal. Neutral. No trace of disappointment or frustration. “I didn’t realize E&Y had a priority option.”
“They do for high-volume clients. I asked Soyeon to look into it last month when the hosting contract came up.”
“You already knew about the vendor payment issue?”
“I know about all the payment issues. It’s my job.” Daniel paused, choosing his next words carefully. “Minho, I want you to know—the external finance structure isn’t about not trusting you. It’s about building systems that protect everyone. If the company ever gets audited—and at our growth rate, it will—having clear separation between operations and finance is what keeps us clean.”
“I get it. I do.” Another pause. “It just feels slow sometimes. When a vendor is on the phone asking for payment and I have to say ‘let me check with our external accountant,’ it doesn’t exactly project confidence.”
“Then don’t say that. Say ‘our finance team will process it.’ That sounds professional, not slow.”
“Our finance team is two people at Ernst and Young who also handle twelve other companies.”
“They handle twelve other companies because they’re good. And they’re good because they have systems.” Daniel softened his voice. “Minho, you’re the best business development person I’ve ever worked with. Every partnership you’ve brought in has exceeded expectations. I need you doing that—building relationships, opening doors—not processing vendor invoices. That’s a waste of your talent.”
The flattery was genuine. It was also strategic. Daniel knew from twenty-five years of management that the best way to redirect someone was to remind them of their strengths rather than emphasize the restrictions.
“Yeah,” Minho said. The tension in his voice had eased. “You’re right. I’ll let E&Y handle it.”
“Great. I’ll have the priority processing set up by Monday.”
“Thanks, Daniel.”
“Of course. That’s what partners are for.”
They hung up. Daniel sat at his desk and let out a breath he’d been holding since 11:43 PM the previous night.
Was that genuine? Was Minho really just frustrated about vendor processing? Or was it the first push?
I’ll never know. I can never know. That’s the curse of knowing someone’s future—you can never be sure which version of them you’re seeing.
But the guardrail held. And that’s what matters.
He told Soyeon about it over their Thursday study session, which had evolved from CSAT preparation into a weekly strategic review. They still met at the Bupyeong library when Daniel was home for the weekend—same third floor, same table by the window, same mint hot chocolate, now supplemented by spreadsheets and legal documents instead of practice exams.
“He asked for payment access,” Soyeon said, her pen pausing mid-note.
“Vendor payments. Limited. Under 20 million.”
“And you said no.”
“I said there was a better solution through E&Y.”
“Which is a polite no.” She set down the pen. “Daniel, why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re our legal advisor, and any changes to financial access require your review.”
“That’s the business reason. What’s the real reason?”
Because in another life, I didn’t notice the early signs. I didn’t have anyone to tell. I carried the weight of suspicion alone until it was too late, and by then, the trust was gone and the money was gone and everything was gone.
You’re the person I can tell. Not everything. But enough to not carry it alone.
“Because I trust your judgment,” Daniel said. “And I want a second opinion.”
“On whether Minho’s request was reasonable?”
“On whether my response was proportional.”
Soyeon was quiet for a moment. Her pen tapped—once, twice, three times. The thinking rhythm that Daniel had learned to wait for.
“Your response was proportional,” she said. “External finance with priority processing solves the operational problem without changing the control structure. If Minho is genuinely frustrated about vendor timing, this fixes it. If he has other motivations—” She paused. “You’ve considered that possibility.”
“I’ve considered it.”
“And?”
“And I don’t have enough information to conclude anything. He’s been exemplary in every other way. His partnerships are real. His clients are real. His work ethic is genuine.”
“But.”
“But I’m careful. I’m always careful.”
“Being careful about a friend is a painful way to live.”
“It’s better than being careless and losing everything.”
Soyeon looked at him with the expression she reserved for statements that were logically sound but emotionally incomplete. The look that said you’re right and you’re also missing something.
“Have you considered talking to him?” she asked. “Not about the vendor payments. About the fact that you’re watching him. He knows, Daniel. He’s smart enough to feel it even if he can’t name it.”
“I’m not watching him.”
“You are. Every time he makes a request that touches money, you tense up. I’ve seen it. If I can see it, he can feel it.” She picked up her pen again. “Trust is a two-way system. If you don’t trust him, he’ll eventually stop trusting you. And a partnership without trust is just two people sharing office space.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I suggest you decide what kind of relationship you want with Park Minho. If he’s a colleague you manage, keep doing what you’re doing—systems, controls, guardrails. It works. It’s professional. But if he’s a friend—a real friend—then at some point, you have to take the risk of trusting him with something that scares you.”
“That’s easy to say.”
“Nothing I say is easy. I just make it sound that way.” Three taps. “Drink your hot chocolate. It’s getting cold.”
Daniel drank his hot chocolate. It was the mint kind, green label, the same brand he’d been buying since he was seventeen. The taste was familiar—sweet, slightly artificial, absolutely reliable. The taste of a simpler time, when his biggest problem was the CSAT and his biggest secret was that he knew the future.
Now the future was here, and it was more complicated than any timeline he’d ever imagined.
“Soyeon.”
“Hmm?”
“If—hypothetically—someone had a reason to be suspicious of another person. A reason based on something they couldn’t explain. Not evidence, not behavior, just—knowledge. What would you advise?”
Soyeon looked at him for a long time. Her eyes were steady, analytical, the eyes of a future lawyer who was already learning to see through the walls people built around their real questions.
“Hypothetically,” she said, “I would advise that person to remember that knowledge from an unexplainable source is not the same as truth. People are not fixed points. They change. Sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is treat someone as the person you think they’ll become instead of the person they currently are.”
“That’s surprisingly philosophical for a law student.”
“Law is applied philosophy. The entire justice system is built on the principle that people should be judged by what they’ve done, not what they might do.” She closed her notebook. “Judge Minho by his actions. Not by your fears.”
Judge him by his actions, not by my fears.
His actions have been good. Every single one. For two years, Minho has been loyal, hardworking, and honest. The only evidence against him comes from a timeline that doesn’t exist anymore—a future that I changed by being here.
Maybe the guardrails aren’t protecting me from Minho. Maybe they’re protecting me from myself—from the paranoia of a man who was hurt so badly that he can’t stop expecting to be hurt again.
“You’re right,” Daniel said. “As usual.”
“I know. It’s my defining characteristic.” But she smiled—the two-millimeter smile that Daniel had learned was her version of warmth. “Now, can we discuss the IP licensing structure for the Forge platform? I have concerns about section 4.2 of the terms of service.”
“Lead the way.”
They worked until the library closed. The familiar sounds—the hum of the air conditioning, the distant shuffling of the sleeping college student who was somehow still here after two years, the librarian’s gentle throat-clearing that meant closing time, please leave—wrapped around them like a blanket.
On the bus home, Daniel opened his notebook and wrote:
Minho asked for financial access. I said no (politely). Soyeon says I’m judging him by fears, not actions.
She’s probably right. She’s usually right.
But I’m keeping the guardrails anyway. Not because I don’t trust him. Because the version of me that trusts blindly is the version that dies alone in an office with a bottle of whiskey.
I’ll trust with my eyes open. That’s the best I can do.
He closed the notebook. The bus rattled through the Bupyeong night. Somewhere in Seoul, Minho was probably having dinner with a potential partner, charming them with his easy grin and his genuine warmth. Somewhere in the lab, Sarah was debugging code. Somewhere in Gangnam, Marcus was drafting next quarter’s marketing plan.
And Daniel was on a bus, carrying a secret that weighed more than any portfolio, trying to build a future that was better than the past without breaking the people who were helping him build it.
It was, he thought, the hardest thing he’d ever done in either of his lives.
And he was only getting started.