Chaebol Syndrome

Outside Professor Kim's office, the mood between the two students couldn't have been more different.

Yoonjung walked with a lightness in her step, practically beaming with excitement. Her chatter filled the corridor—light, breezy, almost melodic.

She glanced sideways at Jihoon with a grin that suggested she wasn't just happy to be there—she was happy to be with him.

Jihoon, on the other hand, looked like he'd just bitten into a sour plum. His expression was tight, jaw clenched, eyes forward.

The contrast between them was almost comical: one bright and open, the other cool and guarded.

Professor Kim, ever the observant mentor, stood at the door and watched them walk away, a quiet, content smile on his face.

He had noticed it immediately—the subtle shift in Yoonjung's demeanor the moment she stepped into the room and saw Jihoon.

Her eyes had lit up with recognition, her posture relaxed, and that usually guarded, frosty expression melted into something warm and unexpectedly soft.

It caught him off guard.

The Yoonjung he knew—at least from the brief reports and early faculty introductions—had been described as distant, cool, even intimidating.

The kind of student who excelled but didn't engage. Polite, but never personable.

And yet, here she was, openly chatting with Jihoon as if they were longtime friends. It was a side of her he hadn't expected to see.

He didn't know why her attitude had shifted so suddenly, but he didn't mind it.

In fact, he found it encouraging. As far as he was concerned, familiarity was the fastest way to build collaboration.

If she already knew Jihoon—and seemed this comfortable around him—it could only mean smoother group work, better creative synergy.

That was a win in his book.

But what Professor Kim didn't know and what no one at Seoul National University really knew—was that Choi Yoonjung wasn't just any gifted transfer student.

She was the heiress of the SK Group.

One of South Korea's most powerful chaebol families.

And her transfer to SNU had nothing to do with academic rankings, or department strengths, or career ambitions.

She came because Jihoon was here.

It wasn't a coincidence. It was a decision—one she made with intention, and one that only she truly understood.

Not even Jihoon could fully piece it together.

But he felt the shift, and he knew enough to sense that whatever low-profile life he had been trying to build for himself…

Was already beginning to unravel.

As they walked side by side across the tree-lined campus path. Yoonjung still chatted easily, her voice was light and delight.

Jihoon, hands in his pockets, offered the occasional short reply, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

He wasn't in the mood for small talk.

The plan—blend in, stay invisible, buy time—now felt paper-thin.

Because if Yoonjung was here, and if she was already this casual with him in public, then others wouldn't be far behind.

Eyes would start to turn. Questions would be asked. And worse—expectations would follow.

To the average student, it might seem like nothing: a pair of acquaintances reconnecting by chance.

But this wasn't just anyone.

This was Choi Yoonjung—SK Group's future matriarch.

And Jihoon? He was the grandson of the Lee family. The bloodline behind Samseong.

That kind of pairing didn't slip by unnoticed. Not in this country.

To rival conglomerates, to political insiders, to powerful old men in corner offices, it would send a message.

A loud one.

Because in South Korea, the name Choi meant far more than just wealth.

It meant influence—old, systemic, far-reaching power, rooted since the economic rise from the 80s.

The Choi family's connections stretched well beyond the boardroom.

Their bloodlines intertwined with political dynasties, military elites, and Korea's most protected institutions.

Yoonjung's mother—the current matriarch of the SK's Choi—was the daughter of President Roh, South Korea's sixth president and a former general of the armed forces.

That single connection was enough to bend bureaucracies to her will.

And SK's grip didn't end with politics.

They had their fingers well blended in the country's judiciary, ties to top prosecutors, and dominion over major commercial media.

From broadband infrastructure to cellular networks, from televised news to online portals—if it broadcasted, streamed, or printed in Korea, chances were SK had a stake in it.

And with that, came something even more powerful: the ability to shape public narrative.

To control what people heard and believed. What would they feared. What they can followed.

It wasn't hard to see their intent.

Influence the conversation, and you influence the country.

But pulling that off required more than money—it demanded backing from the nation's most powerful political figures.

And they had it.

If Samseong held sway over Korea's economy—controlling nearly a third of its GDP—then SK controlled the national conversation.

Jihoon had grown up surrounded by that reality.

And he knew too well that his own family, the Lees of Samseong, weren't any less embedded in those elite circles.

Which meant that any public association between him and Yoonjung wouldn't be seen as happenstance. It would be studied, dissected, manipulated.

Because in the world of chaebols, nothing happened without purpose.

Every meeting was a negotiation. Every relationship, a potential merger. Every smile, a message.

So no, Jihoon wasn't smiling.

Because with Yoonjung now walking beside him, the thin veil of anonymity he'd tried to live under—the quiet life he hoped to build for himself at SNU—was already unraveling.

"YA! I'm talking to you! Can you at least pretend to listen?" Yoonjung snapped, halting mid-step.

Her voice cut through the warm afternoon breeze like a slap of cold water.

Jihoon blinked, pulled abruptly from his spiraling thoughts.

He glanced over to see her frowning at him—arms crossed, brows drawn tight, her lips pursed in royal irritation.

Truth be told, she wasn't wrong.

She'd been chatting for a while, her voice light and animated, while he'd only replied with half-hearted "mm"s and "yeah"s.

He hadn't been ignoring her on purpose, but his thoughts had drifted—too far, too fast.

They were the same age, so Yoonjung had quickly dropped the honorifics, speaking to him casually.

But nothing about her presence felt casual.

She carried herself with the subtle arrogance that came from years of being treated like royalty in tailored uniforms and chauffeured cars.

It wasn't conscious—more like inherited reflex.

As if she'd grown up expecting the world to match her pace, and if it didn't, then clearly the world was the one being rude.

If Jihoon had to put a name to it, he'd probably call it chaebol syndrome—that quiet disease of entitlement that afflicted the children of the top one percent.

Polished manners with a built-in assumption: You owe me your attention.

He gave her an awkward smile, unsure whether to confront her head-on or simply go with the flow.

From what he'd gathered in their brief reunion, Yoonjung was—surprisingly—kind of naive.

She didn't seem to grasp the full weight of what her presence around him meant.

Or maybe she just didn't care. Either way, it made her unpredictable, and Jihoon didn't like unpredictable.

"I was thinking about my ceremony performance," he said finally, flashing a sheepish grin.

"Hmph." Yoonjung let out a sharp breath through her nose—half-annoyed, half-satisfied—before tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Fine. Then tell me what's on your mind, now that you're finally talking."

She sounded more curious than angry now, though her pride wouldn't let her admit she'd been a little eager to hear from him.

Up until now, the conversation had been one-sided, with her happily filling the silence.

At least now, Jihoon was making an effort.

He watched her expression for a beat longer. 

Then chose his words carefully.

"Professor Kim said you're good with the cello," Jihoon said slowly. "I need help completing a classical piece I've been working on. Something a bit… experimental."

He kept his voice casual, but there was weight behind it. 

He knew he couldn't stop the storm that was brewing, not now.

Yoonjung had shown up, and their names were already being whispered together by those who paid attention.

There was no walking away clean.

So if he couldn't resist the pull of the power games they were both born into…

He'd at least choose how he played the opening move.

For now, he'd play nice.

But later?

He'd be ready to rewrite the rules.

[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu, Night_Adam and Daoistadj for bestowing the power stone!]