The department responsible for planning the company's overall direction and drawing the big picture of the future.
That was the Strategic Planning Team—where I used to work.
In truth, all of that was just an illusion.
Every decision was made at the top anyway. Our job was merely to wrap ideas in a way that suited the tastes of the old men upstairs and present them nicely.
If you tried to stand out by pushing something genuinely innovative, you'd usually get slapped down for it.
So the only proposals that survived were the safe, boring ones.
Honestly, it wasn't a fulfilling job.
I'd been doing that kind of work for years.
I'd made manager, and like the vast majority of men, I was destined to live out my life as an unremarkable salaried worker.
Then, by sheer coincidence, an opportunity came my way.
"Review of AI-Based Marketing Utilization."
We were tasked with examining how AI could be applied to our company's marketing.
The thinking of upper management was obvious.
"AI is all the rage these days, right? Shouldn't we try something like that too? Put together a nice-looking proposal!"
Just another routine task.
There was no need to take it seriously—just dress up something that would appeal to them and submit it.
But that day, I took it seriously.
Because a company perfectly suited to that proposal immediately came to mind.
IntelliOn.
I first became aware of the company at a partner briefing session.
The company I'd originally gone to see had suddenly canceled their presentation, so I decided to sit through the remaining ones to kill time.
The conference hall was nearly empty.
Most people had come for the canceled company's presentation, after all.
Predictable solutions from small and medium-sized businesses. "New technologies" that were little more than renamed old ones.
I was probably the only person bored enough to listen to them.
But that day, that small AI startup's presentation was different.
"We analyze not the result a customer chooses, but the process that leads to that choice."
The young presenter's voice was filled with confidence.
How does a customer react when they see an advertisement?
Which ads do they click, and which do they ignore? What wording makes them stop and read—or scroll past? If they read it, how many seconds do they spend? And ultimately, which ad leads them to make a purchase?
A system that precisely analyzes a customer's micro-level data—eye movement, hand motion, time, location, even breathing—what could rightly be called chaos—and applies optimal, individualized marketing.
This was technology that belonged on a Silicon Valley stage.
Yet it was being presented in the corner of a hall barely the size of a palm.
And still, no one there was truly listening.
The only audience members were middle-aged men watching a cute, freshly graduated young woman present with indulgent smiles.
That groundbreaking presentation ended quietly, without drawing any real attention.
"Are there any questions?"
The final Q&A.
By then, even the few remaining attendees had left.
In the silent hall, I alone raised my hand.
"The 'emotion-curve-based conversion prediction' model you mentioned—how many data samples was it trained on?"
The presenter looked startled, as if she hadn't expected any questions, but she answered.
"Initially, around five hundred users. After that, we expanded to about thirty thousand users' real service logs. The training starts with a static model, then transitions to an adaptive model based on real-time responses."
"And the prediction accuracy?"
"It varies by context, but churn prediction averages about 82%, and purchase prediction is over 68%."
I nodded.
If that was true, it was an absurdly strong result.
Which also meant there was a high chance it was nonsense.
About as believable as claiming to have built a room-temperature superconductor in Korea.
I exchanged contact information on the spot—IntelliOn didn't even have business cards yet—and decided to verify the company myself.
And the results of that verification were more than satisfactory.
IntelliOn's technology was actually running—and the outputs closely matched what they claimed.
To think a bunch of kids barely out of college had created something global corporations would covet.
It felt like witnessing the early days of Microsoft or Apple.
It was dazzling.
IntelliOn was a tiny company.
Under a young female CEO, they had only five employees.
All of them were alumni from the same science and technology university, seniors and juniors.
The company barely scraped by, earning little revenue and paying minimum wage.
And yet, the technology created by these young people—who were worried about tonight's dinner—could be worth tens or even hundreds of billions.
For the first time in a long while, my heart raced.
"We need to sign an exclusive contract with this company immediately!"
In an otherwise lifeless meeting, I passionately insisted.
Assistant Manager Park looked at me as if to say, Has this guy lost his mind?
"Team Leader! We absolutely have to push this through! Trust me and leave it to me!"
"Now hold on, Manager Kang. You can't just rush into something like—"
"The other side is made up of pure researchers. We still have a chance. If anyone else even catches a whiff of this, we'll lose a golden opportunity!"
Our team leader was a parachute hire—an older man who barely participated in actual work.
Typically, he received tasks from above, passed them to the assistant manager, who then dumped them on me or another working-level employee.
"Seeing you insist this much, it must be solid."
"Yes! This one's solid!"
"Alright. I'll trust you with it."
The team leader didn't work much, but he was reasonable.
And just like that, the entire project landed squarely on my shoulders.
"But still, signing an exclusive contract like that… being dragged around by some unknown little venture doesn't look good for our company…"
Someone—namely, the assistant manager—grumbled, but it didn't matter.
My proposal passed, and negotiations with IntelliOn began immediately.
The talks proceeded smoothly.
IntelliOn was a fledgling company just learning to walk, and signing a contract with a conglomerate like ours was something they desperately wanted.
From my perspective, it was the opposite.
Honestly, I even felt a twinge of guilt—Are we undercutting them too hard?
IntelliOn's entire team leaned more toward research than business.
They didn't fully understand their own market value.
That was why securing an exclusive contract—on terms heavily skewed in our favor—had been so easy.
All of which Assistant Manager Park later ruined completely.
"So… how should I open this conversation?"
A company that could one day become the next Microsoft or Apple.
Even though I'd left my job, there was no harm in maintaining the connection.
Because of what Park had done, I might be lumped together with him and treated like trash—but I still planned to reach out.
If by some miracle I won the lottery, I might even invest in the company.
Even if not, I could still invest a small amount of my own savings.
To do that, I needed to keep the relationship alive.
"…Come to think of it, I shouldn't use my work email."
Aside from the first exchange of contact info, all communication with IntelliOn had been through my corporate email.
Out of habit, I almost used it again—but I was no longer with the company.
"I guess I'll send a text…"
Reaching out personally to someone I'd only contacted professionally felt a bit awkward.
I carefully typed out a polite message.
[CEO Cha Yoonjung, this is Kang Suhyeok from Hwangsan Group's Strategic Planning Team. It's been a while.]
"Haah…"
Cha Yoonjung, CEO of IntelliOn, was deep in thought.
The contract with Hwangsan Group had fallen apart right before completion.
"I should've been more careful…"
There was no point in regretting it now.
She'd already crossed a point of no return with their new contact person.
The original representative from Hwangsan had been a good person.
He treated IntelliOn as an equal business partner—even though, compared to the conglomerate, they were little more than dust.
He understood the technology.
She still remembered the thrill of receiving a serious question during the presentation.
Having someone recognize their value meant more than money to them.
But just before the contract was finalized, everything unraveled.
When she heard the original representative had been replaced, she could hardly believe it.
Manager Kang Suhyeok had suddenly left the company.
No matter how much she asked, she was told it was due to "personal reasons."
The newly assigned representative was outrageous.
"So… you've got five employees? And not much capital?"
He looked down on the company from the very first meeting.
"Well, honestly, if you want to sign a contract with a place like us, you should show a bit more sincerity. I'm not exactly free, you know."
He openly demanded "sincerity."
"Maybe things were different with Manager Kang, but I'm not that easy."
He even changed the terms of a contract that had already been agreed upon.
"From our perspective, this is a risk. AI companies are everywhere these days. And frankly—do you have any concrete achievements?"
He didn't understand the technology at all.
"And are you really the CEO? You look awfully young. For this kind of business… wouldn't a different approach be more effective? You're young and… firm, after all."
Then came the sexual harassment.
"Oh right. There's a nice bar I go to these days. How about we meet there next time? You should dress more appropriately for the venue. You know—be bold. Like the MZ generation."
In the end, she threw water in his face.
The contract collapsed on the spot.
"Haah…"
At the time, she'd thought it was the only reasonable response.
Now, she even regretted that.
Because in truth, they were the ones who desperately needed the contract.
She'd started the company with her juniors, driven purely by passion.
They'd been young and fearless, believing that ideas and technology alone guaranteed success.
They'd thought it was fine to make little money at first.
Reality was harsher.
Despite having incredible technology, not a single company showed interest.
Without investment, even paying minimum wage was difficult.
She was borrowing money from her parents just to cover server costs.
In truth, Cha Yoonjung wasn't really a businessperson either.
She was CEO simply because she was the only one capable of external communication.
The others were developers through and through, locked away with code.
Still, she couldn't afford to give up.
Because of her, promising juniors were on the verge of going hungry.
They were talented, capable—anywhere else, they'd be valued.
She couldn't allow their first challenge to end in failure.
"…Maybe I should bow my head and go back to them…"
You couldn't succeed by staying clean.
Society had its dirty sides.
She had just been naïve.
Without connections or backing, this was the path they had to take.
If she swallowed her pride, contacted Hwangsan again, and restarted negotiations…
She'd surely face even worse demands than before.
But if she endured it herself…
Just as Cha Yoonjung was steadying her resolve—
Her phone buzzed with a message.
[CEO Cha Yoonjung, this is Manager Kang Suhyeok from Hwangsan Group's Strategic Planning Team. It's been a while.]