Chapter 9

More than a hundred game cartridges were assembled in no time. Chief Jang checked them personally, making sure there were no defects, then tightly wrapped them in spare clothes and packed them into two large cardboard boxes.

"Dad, you're practically the real boss of Yongcheon Electronic Works now. How come the county never issued you a van?" Young asked as he climbed onto the back of the family's old tricycle, hugging his heavy coat against the cold.

"There used to be one, but the county repossessed it. Anyway, the factory can't even afford fuel now, so why argue? Sit tight and don't catch cold, all right?" Gwangsu puffed and strained as he pedaled the loaded tricycle down the icy road—much tougher than his usual ride to work.

"When I make enough money next year, first thing I'll do is buy you an imported ride," Young teased, a chunky knit scarf wound round his neck.

"Do you even know how expensive that is? A Volga sedan costs a small fortune. All you kids way too bold with dreams," Gwangsu chuckled, but there was longing behind the words.

There was a pause. "All right, be real with me. When did you start thinking about this game cartridge idea? Must be something you're not telling me," the old man said as he steered over a pothole.

Young shrugged. "Didn't take long. It all started when Mouse—Li Ho—bought a Japanese game console and said cassettes were crazy expensive. Made me think, if there were cheap alternatives, they'd sell like crazy."

"So you went to Wang Kangsu at the video hall and pitched him?" Gwangsu guessed.

"Exactly. He has connections and needed stock. City prices are still over a hundred thousand won per cassette, even secondhand runs eighty. I cut a deal with him at fifty apiece. Are you seeing the margin here?"

Screee—

The trike's brake squealed to a stop. Gwangsu peered over his shoulder. "What did you quote Kangsu? Fifty thousand?"

Young nodded sheepishly.

"But you told me twenty-five thousand! Where's the other half going?" The old chief engineer looked hard at his son.

"That's… our family's cut. Hear me out, Dad."

He explained, "Look, in the city, people do bali (brokerage) all the time—freelancers pull business for factories, and the factories pay commission on every order. It's fair for me to earn five thousand a tape as the go-between, right?"

"But this wasn't just sales: I cracked the code, worked out the tech, got the copy process right—there's no way the average guy at the factory could do that."

"Science and technology drive productivity, Dad. I came up with the scheme, sourced the business, and I'm the reason we're in the game—not some outsider bringing business from Seoul."

He warmed up. "And let's be honest. I could've partnered with any factory—next county, Gumi, even Daegu. But I brought it to our family first. For my work, isn't twenty thousand per cassette fair?"

He paused for air. "Besides, you should get a share too! You're out in this freezing weather, riding the bike, getting the team working, organizing production. Of course, the house gets a slice."

Gwangsu grunted. "But you tipped the scales too much—the factory supplies all the parts and labor for pennies, and you're pocketing most of the profit."

"Dad! Flip your thinking. There'd be no deal at all without me. If I hadn't stepped in, Yongcheon Electronics would still be dead. Take a look around—plenty of Southerners are hauling up digital watches for pennies and reselling here; markups are insane."

"Calculators are another gold mine—cities sell them cheap, but out here they're rare and pricey. Our accounting office is still using an abacus. Meanwhile, Old Choi down the street runs a few stills with family and makes more than a public factory does in a year!"

"In this country—no, in this economy—it's the hustlers and risk-takers who win. Even the cadre's kids run consignment in the South. Why should we work twice as hard for less?"

He looked at his father, eyes serious now. "Look at Grandpa—he's not well, Uncle has been caring for him. You always sent one hundred a month, but your wages have been delayed for months. Everything's squeezing Mom's salary."

"And Grandpa's medical bills—could you dig up a hundred million won if he needed specialist care in Seoul? Wouldn't you want us to have it?"

He took a breath. "And if politics gets in the way, heck, you could leave too and open your own business. Bring over the loyal ones. You'd make more and Grandpa would have peace of mind."

Gwangsu couldn't answer. Young's mention of his aging father, their family's real pressures, hit home.

The bike creaked forward again. "All right. But tell me, how long can you keep this up? You know my 'iron rice bowl'—my public post—isn't as stable as people think."

Young kept going. "Dad, there's no surplus in the county, and the big cities aren't thriving either. We're not the industrial powerhouse anymore. When the government and factories run out of options, what happens to us?"

"Even the best state jobs can't promise a future now. If a batch of meat's served, you have to grab your chopsticks first—wait too long and all that's left is scraps. You don't want to wait until the county tells you to leave, do you?"

He gave a sour smile. "You know the system—nobody gets ahead here unless they 'gift' their way in these days."

Gwangsu said nothing more, only pedaling. "Let's make this deal work first. Then we'll see."

Young nodded, satisfied. If Mom backs me too, and Dad sees the first big payout, no way will he want Yongcheon Electronics to just wither away. Families can't be sacrificed for empty promises.

He didn't hear Gwangsu's muttered words, sp

oken over the rumble of the cart:

"All this… belongs to our family."