What is this?
A gentler version of Samho Group's infamous "lion-cub survival program"?
Yoojin tilted her head slightly.
"There are thirty recruits in the 30th entry class. Thirty people for the 30th class—quite symbolic, isn't it? Each of you will be assigned in pairs to departments notorious for their heavy workload. The person sitting next to you—odd and even numbers—will be your partner."
When Dongha turned around, the number 27 was printed on the seatback behind him. That meant his assigned partner wasn't Yoojin, but Jang Seohee.
Glancing to Yoojin's side, Dongha saw a scrawny man with thick horn-rimmed glasses. The man kept sneaking glances at Yoojin as if he had just won the lottery.
Dongha's sharp gaze locked on him. The man froze, feeling an icy chill crawl down his spine, then slowly turned his head. When Dongha tilted his chin slightly with a predator's patience, the man gulped, sighed, and finally stood up. Shuffling sideways, he vacated his seat beside Yoojin and slipped away to sit next to Dongha instead.
"Thanks," Dongha murmured flatly.
He immediately slid into the empty seat next to Yoojin, leaning ever so slightly toward her.
Yoojin blinked, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing as she stared at him, half-baffled, half-annoyed.
Then a deep laugh rolled from the back of the hall.
It was Chairman Yoon Tae-young.
The HR manager, who had been explaining the onboarding program, froze mid-speech and looked visibly flustered.
"C-Chairman, did I explain something incorrectly?"
With his usual unhurried grace, Tae-young waved his hand dismissively, as though to say no, no. But as every eye turned toward him, he rose smoothly and made his way to the stage.
Yoon Tae-young—eldest son of the Samho Group—had entered the company through the 17th class of recruits and risen to the top through a string of massive project successes. Three years ago, when the former chairman, Yoon Jae-sang, collapsed from a stroke, Tae-young earned the board's favor and became chairman in his mid-thirties.
Smiling with effortless charm, he took the microphone and gazed over the thirty new employees, his eyes calm and calculating. The air grew taut with nervousness as every rookie stiffened in their seat.
Then his eyes stopped—on one face.
But Dongha, half-turned toward Yoojin, met his brother's piercing stare without flinching.
Even if his brother carried the blood of a predator—head of a conglomerate and heir of power—Dongha knew that the heat in that gaze wasn't hostility. It was obsession. Familial, suffocating obsession.
Still, he hated it.
Tae-young was forty now; Dongha, twenty-two. They were eighteen years apart.And the first time they met was long ago, on a sweltering August afternoon when Tae-young was twenty-six—and Dongha, only seven.
＊
It was the day Tae-young returned from the U.S., fresh from graduation and language study.
When he entered the family mansion, he immediately sensed the tension in the air. The servants, who usually greeted him with warmth, now bowed awkwardly and hurried away. Something had happened—something unpleasant.
"What's going on?"
He asked the housekeeper, but she merely shook her head and vanished down the corridor.
Tae-young walked deeper inside. The vast marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting of the Samho family's grand Hannam-dong residence. His mother, Madam Lee Sun-ok, sat rigidly on the living-room sofa, one leg crossed over the other, her expression frozen with disdain.
"Mother, what happened?"
Her lips trembled with rage.
"Go look in the storage room. Some filthy wretch has crawled in."
"...Excuse me?"
A wretch? The family had never owned pets—such frivolous affection was beneath them.
When he opened the small storage room door, hot, stagnant air pressed against his face.There, in the corner, sat not a dog, but a small boy with unkempt hair and pale skin, dressed in clothes that hadn't been changed in days. The smell was sharp, human, and raw.
Despite the filth, his delicate features—the sharp nose, long lashes, and finely shaped mouth—were impossible to miss.
When Tae-young approached, the child recoiled, burying himself deeper in the corner.
"Hey… what's your name?"
No response. Only strange, guttural sounds—half-animal, half-foreign.
He didn't even speak Korean properly.
Tae-young crouched and, with a soft sigh, said,
"Do you want some cookies?"
The boy tilted his head, not understanding, so Tae-young left briefly and returned with a pack of chocolate biscuits.
The boy snatched them the instant they appeared and devoured them like a starving animal, crumbs scattering on the floor.
Watching the boy eat, Tae-young realized the truth. He'll disappear soon, like the others.
He had seen this pattern before—five times, maybe more.
He clenched his jaw. Enough was enough.
"Mother, who is that child?"
"Oh, that brat? Your father's mess from Russia. Apparently, some Russian woman he stayed with for a few months decided to have his child. Can you believe that?"
Her tone was loud, scornful, and practiced—like a woman too used to betrayal to feel anything but disgust.
"Does he have a name?"
"No birth certificate, no records. His relatives smuggled him here, claiming he was your father's. Pathetic."
An unregistered child—dangerous. Vulnerable.
Tae-young stared at his mother, voice low and steady.
"Are you going to get rid of him too?"
Her eyes narrowed, intrigued by his tone—and by the rare word Mom slipping from his lips.
"Of course. Why would I raise someone else's bastard?"
"Then I'll raise him."
"You? And what if another one shows up?"
"Then I'll stay out of it. Just… not this one."
Her brow arched sharply.
"You're supposed to go abroad next year, aren't you?"
"I changed my mind. I'll join the company through open recruitment instead."
"Because of that brat?"
"No. Because it's time I start taking care of Father's company."
At that, her cold mask cracked—slightly. Ambition glimmered in her eyes. A son voluntarily entering the company as a regular recruit could become the perfect heir.
"And maybe," Tae-young added with a half-smile, "I'll make myself a subordinate. It gets lonely being the only one in this house."
Lee Sun-ok stared at her son, expression unreadable.
"The boy's mother ran off to Europe. Some dancer, apparently."
"Good. Then she won't come looking for him. I'll take him."
And so the boy was given a name—
Yoon Dongha (洞河), the river flowing between valleys.
If Tae-young's name meant the sun that shines brightly, then Dongha's name—the river beneath the sun, flowing through the lowest valleys— was a reminder that no matter how far he rose, he would always run below his brother.