His father was dying. The surgery cost: 82.3 million won ($61,000 USD). And that was when the phone rang from an unknown number.
[March 19, 2019. 11:47 PM] [Seoul Central Hospital, 8th Floor Intensive Care Unit]
Yun-jae stood before a vending machine at the end of the corridor.
He reached for the coffee button but hesitated. Total remaining in his pocket: 3,400 won. A can of coffee: 1,200 won.
"Let’s just stick to water."
He opted for a 700-won bottle of mineral water. He took a sip. It was neither cold nor warm—just lukewarm, like his current life.
The 8th floor. The ICU. That was where his father lay, tethered to machines.
[11:52 PM] His phone vibrated in the silence of the night. An unknown Seoul area code.
He ignored it at first. Three minutes later, the same number flashed again.
"Yes? Who is this at this hour?" "Am I speaking with Prosecutor Han Yun-jae?"
The man's voice was cold, precise. Too precise for a voice phisher, Yun-jae thought. A chill ran down his spine.
"I’m not a prosecutor anymore. I resigned." "I am aware. Born 1984. Seoul National University Law. 42nd batch of the Judicial Research and Training Institute. Former Prosecutor at the Cheonan District Office."
Yun-jae held his breath.
"Resigned in 2014 after clearing a researcher in an industrial espionage case—refusing pressure from the higher-ups. Correct?" "Who… who are you?" "Academic Solutions." A name he had never heard.
"What do you want?" "I have a proposal for you." "A proposal?" "Han Ki-chul. Your father. 73 years old. Terminal liver cancer. Surgery scheduled for April 5th."
Yun-jae’s heart skipped a beat. "How do you know that?" "Total medical bills: 82.3 million won. Deposit deadline: March 27th. Current bank balance: 340,000 won ($250)."
"How the hell do you…?" "We know everything about you, Mr. Han. Don't waste time doubting us or asking how."
The hallway was empty, yet Yun-jae felt as if eyes were burning into his back.
"Why are you calling me?" "You need money, don't you?" "..." "82.3 million won. You have eight days to find it." "What are you saying?" "We can help."
Yun-jae let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Are you loan sharks? Because you clearly know I used to be a prosecutor." "Loan sharks? Ha. No. Think of us as an academic consulting firm." "Academic...?" "To put it simply, we provide ghostwriting services for academic papers." "Ghostwriting?" "Yes. PhDs, Masters, papers for corporate promotions. Professional writers handle it for the clients."
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Yun-jae was about to hang up, but he stopped. "What does that have to do with me?" "We need a writer like you." "Me?" "A former prosecutor with peak logical writing skills. You’re the perfect candidate. Believe me, you complete the first assignment, and we pay 15 million won ($11,000)." "15 million?" "Yes. But there’s a limit. You must complete a 100-page thesis within 72 hours."
The math started running in his head. 15 million won would cover the initial deposit for his father. But... "That’s illegal, isn't it?" "Let's just call it a 'grey area.' You know the law better than anyone." "But—" "Let me ask you one thing. What is most important to you right now?"
Yun-jae couldn't answer.
"Is it the 'integrity' that got you kicked out of the prosecution? Or is it saving your father’s life?"
The words pierced him. He looked toward the heavy doors of the ICU.
His father. 73 years old. A man who drove a taxi for 40 years and never once thought about breaking the law. That man was now dying—simply because he didn't have the money.
"What’s the assignment?" Yun-jae asked.
"The client is confidential. The purpose is for a promotion review. The topic: AI-based Medical Diagnostics." "Medical? That’s not my field." "Don't worry. we provide the raw data. You just have to make it look… 'plausible.'" "That’s insane. Is that even possible?" "For you? Yes."
The man’s voice turned sharp. "You wrote plenty of indictments as a prosecutor, didn't you?" "I did." "Think of it as the same thing."
Yun-jae let out a long sigh, looking out at the city lights of Seoul. So many lights. How many of those people were actually living 'honestly'?
"Han Yun-jae," the voice called again. "Decide. Save your father, or keep your conscience."
Five years ago, he chose his conscience. He lost everything, but he didn't regret it. At least, not then.
"How big is the scale of the work?" "Depending on the difficulty, 10 to 30 million won per piece."
82.3 million won. The calculation finalized in his brain. One for 15 million, a few more for 10 million. About six papers.
"How many do I have to write?" "That's up to you. Do as much as you want, and get paid for what you do. Payment is wired within 24 hours of completion."
It sounded too good to be true. But his gut told him one thing: Once I start, there's no turning back.
[12:12 AM] "How do I contact you?" "I contact you. Tomorrow, a USB will be in your gosiwon mailbox." "How do you know where I live?" "It's what we do. No more questions."
A brief silence, then the man spoke one last time.
"Welcome aboard. From now on, you will be referred to as Writer A-73."
The line went dead. Yun-jae looked at his screen. Call duration: 15 minutes, 32 seconds.
He looked at the ICU doors again. Inside, his father was drifting closer to death. Yun-jae pulled out a 20-year-old photo from his wallet. His father was smiling—a simple, ordinary smile.
"Dad." He tucked the photo back in. His mind was made up.
[12:23 AM] Leaving the hospital, Yun-jae boarded the last subway train. Among the exhausted crowd, he felt like the most broken man there.
He opened the door to his gosiwon—a three-pyeong cubicle smelling of mold. On the desk sat a laptop he hadn't opened in months. A laptop that used to be used for justice.
Now, he would use it to write lies. Yun-jae lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"It starts now."
From this moment on. He was Writer A-73. An academic ghostwriter.
His final thought before sleep:
Five years ago, I chose my conscience. This time… I choose survival. ...Is this right?
[Next Chapter Preview]
The midnight choice is made. But the real hell is just beginning.
100 pages in 72 hours. And a number he will soon face: 3,870.
