POV: Kang Ha‑young
The soft glow of crystal chandeliers stretched across the ornate mirrored walls of the Grand Chaeum Hotel's backstage corridor, lengthening the shadows between the gilded doors of Ballroom A. Ha‑young pressed her back against the cool marble, clutching her black lace clutch to her chest as she surveyed the organized chaos around her. Waitstaff in crisp white shirts rushed by, balancing trays of champagne, while technicians manned mobile VIP check‑in stations. Somewhere beyond the double doors, a hush had fallen over the guests as the gala's formal program began.
Her pulse drummed a rapid tattoo against her ribcage. In just minutes, she would step into that illuminated hall—under the watchful eyes of billionaires, philanthropists, and the mercurial Lee Jae‑woon. She inhaled, tasting the sharp tang of her own nerves. She told herself: You're ready. You've prepared. You will not falter.
A sleek black tablet buzzed in her purse. She slipped it out and tapped the screen: it was the final version of the presentation slideshow, titled "MiraWell & LJW Foundation: Nourishing Communities Through Culinary Innovation." She swiped to the last slide—an image of a child's hand reaching for a bowl of nutritious porridge at a rural feeding center. It was the emotional payoff she had crafted for maximum impact.
Her phone chimed again—a message from Yoo‑ra:
You're going on in three. Be calm. Be brilliant. Love you. ❤
Ha‑young allowed herself a small, shaky smile. Yoo‑ra was already secured at a corner table, watching the back of her head through a discreet camera lens. To her left, a line of MiraWell executives, each outfitted in tailored suits and evening gowns, orbited in whispered clusters.
She should join them. But something was wrong.
She tapped her lipstick‑stained finger to the tablet's screen. The file name at the top read "Final_SLIDES_⏳.pptx." But when she tapped the first slide, her heart sank—the screen was blank. The list of thumbnails on the left-hand side pulsed for a moment, then vanished in a white whirl of error messages:
"ERROR: FILE NOT FOUND. PLEASE RECONNECT YOUR DRIVE."
Her breath caught. The tablet had been charged, synced, and double‑checked all afternoon. She'd downloaded the file from the office cloud before boarding her cab, ensuring offline access. How could it be gone?
She swallowed, tightening her grip. The scheduled gala presentation wasn't an optional speaking slot—it was the culmination of weeks of work. She was to speak after the evening's keynote address by Chairman Lee himself, unveiling the joint philanthropic initiative. Her heart pounded with equal parts pride and terror.
A hand rested on her elbow.
"Ha‑young? Everything all right?" Yoo‑ra's calm voice cut through the haze.
She jumped and nodded, forcing a smile. "Yes, just… reconnecting."
Yoo‑ra's eyes narrowed. "Let me see." She reached for the tablet and tapped a few commands. The screen blinked, but no slides appeared—just the same error.
Yoo‑ra's brow furrowed. "This shouldn't happen. Let me call IT."
Ha‑young shook her head, voice trembling. "No time. I… I'll fix it."
"How?"
Ha‑young racked her brain. She'd prepared a printed backup of her notes—bullet points, statistics, backup URLs—but she hadn't printed the slides themselves. She needed the visuals to support her speech, to move the audience. Without them, it would be raw data and her voice alone—and in a room this size, absence of imagery meant absence of impact.
She closed her eyes, searching for calm. Inhale. Exhale.
Then, a memory surfaced—unexpected, vivid.
Busan, Eight Years Ago
The wind rattled the café windows with ferocity, hurling water against the panes as though nature itself aimed to tear them down. Twelve‑year‑old Ha‑young stood amid the wooden tables, sleeves rolled up, sleeves soaked and heavy. Lightning split the charcoal sky outside, and thunder shook the building's foundation. The small café was her mother's world, their family's sole lifeline—and it was in danger of being swallowed by the storm.
Her mother, Mi‑sook, knelt at the back door, mop in hand, tears mingling with sweat on her cheeks. She had worked through the afternoon rush without rest, her apron stained with spilled rice and coffee grounds.
"Mama!" Ha‑young called, voice firm despite the chaos. She snatched an empty bucket and ran across the waterlogged floorboards, stacking it beside a decorative clay pot that strained under the weight of collected water. Another migraine‑like crack of thunder sent nearby guests scattering for chairs. Rain poured in like a waterfall, soaking the front room.
Her mother froze. "What are you doing, Ha‑young? You should be inside—out of the storm."
Ha‑young's bangs clung to her forehead. She squared her small shoulders. "I can help. We can't let this café flood." She balled her fists at her sides, summoning every ounce of resolve.
Her mother's tear‑filled eyes met hers. "It's dangerous out here."
"I'm not afraid." She crossed to the register, ringing it closed for the evening hours and pulling the heavy metal shutter down. Sparks crackled as the latch slid into place. She heaved at the buckled wood door, forcing it almost closed to keep the wind at bay. Floodlights flickered.
A gust blasted through a gap, bringing in a swirl of leaves, dust, and rain. The water rose at her ankles. But she did not flinch. She grabbed her mop and began guiding the rising water into buckets, carrying them to the back room—and then emptying them outside, onto the sloped cement path.
Ten, twelve, fifteen trips. Each time she returned, her shoelaces were loose, her uniform sodden; but she kept moving, mind focused on the task. The mop creaked on the floorboards as she pushed one last slick pool toward the drain. She looked up at her mother, who helped hoist the final bucket.
The storm raged, but the flood had been contained. The café still stood.
Mi‑sook wrapped her arms around Ha‑young in the dim glow of the emergency light. "You saved us tonight, my brave girl."
Ha‑young's chest swelled with a fierce pride. In that moment, she knew: she would always fight the flood, tame the storm. She would never let the tide pull her under.
Back in the hotel corridor, Ha‑young's shoulders straightened. The memory faded—but the feeling remained: clear determination and unshakable resolve.
She set her jaw. "I'll do this," she said, voice steadier. "I can.
First, we'll borrow a laptop from the IT station. Then I'll run a quick transfer from the cloud via Wi‑Fi. It'll take five minutes—max."
Yoo‑ra's expression softened into admiration. "That storm story—they should record that in your bio," she said, handing Ha‑young her clutch. "I'll handle any curveballs that come our way here."
Ha‑young allowed herself a small, grateful smile. She strode down the corridor toward a sign flashing "IT SUPPORT →" and disappeared around the corner.
IT Support Station
A cluster of laptops, cables, and stern‑faced tech staff awaited her. A young technician looked up, eyes widening when he saw her gala attire.
"Ms. Kang, we weren't expecting you down here."
"I need a laptop—Windows 11 or Mac, whichever you have with HDMI—and fast," Ha‑young said, striving for calm authority. "My file disappeared from my tablet. I need to transfer the presentation directly and load it."
He nodded, scaling a whisper to a co‑worker. They handed her a sleek MacBook Pro, charger, and HDMI adapter. She settled at a small table, feet tapping once with adrenaline.
Yoo‑ra hovered behind her, clipboard in hand. "How's the data?"
Ha‑young exhaled, scanning the hotel's secure Wi‑Fi list. She connected, reopened her cloud storage, and located the file. It began downloading—250 megabytes, estimated two minutes. She watched the progress bar inch forward, willing it to speed up.
Forty seconds. Thirty. Twenty.
Then the ping of success.
She opened the folder: there were her slides, intact and vibrant. She plugged in the HDMI adapter, connected it to the portable projector she'd borrowed from the staff (another bold but necessary move), and mirrored the display onto her tablet. The thumbnails appeared in a sleek carousel.
"Got it," she said, pushing the laptop toward Yoo‑ra. "Let's move."
Yoo‑ra slid her hand into Ha‑young's. "Lead the way."
Ballroom A Backstage
The double doors swung open again, and Ha‑young stepped into the hushed backstage antechamber. A crew member offered her a headset microphone; the earpiece clicked in place with a reassuring tap.
"Three minutes," whispered the stage manager, gesturing at the countdown clock above the stage curtain.
She took a final deep breath, feeling the weight of her clipboard in her hand—the printed index cards with her speech prompts. She clicked her heels together once, channeling the discipline she'd learned that stormy night in Busan. The adrenaline was now a weapon, forging her nerves into sharp focus.
The curtain parted, and she emerged into the spotlight.
The gala audience greeted her with polite applause, but their eyes were curious—some skeptical, some anticipatory. She tapped the remote. The first slide appeared behind her: a globe entwined with a steaming bowl of bibimbap.
"Good evening," she began, voice warm, confident. "I'm Kang Ha‑young of MiraWell, and I believe a single taste can tell a story—one that transforms communities and builds bridges across cultures. Tonight, I am honored to announce our partnership with the LJW Foundation to launch the 'Community Kitchens' initiative, bringing nutritious meals to underserved regions across Asia."
Her words flowed with the momentum of conviction. She clicked to the next slide: a montage of smiling families in rural villages, volunteers in branded aprons, and smiling children receiving bowls of porridge.
"As part of this initiative, MiraWell will provide both financial support and culinary expertise, working alongside local producers to source ingredients and train volunteers. By integrating Korean flavors with community-driven programs, we will foster economic growth and cultural exchange."
Behind her, the slideshow transitioned to graphs illustrating projected impact: number of meals served, local job creation, and long-term program sustainability. She spoke about the metrics—each statistic bolstered by a personal anecdote:
"I remember a night in Busan when my mother's café was flooded. The community rallied around her, bringing buckets, brooms, and encouragement. That night taught me that nourishment is about more than food; it's about standing together in the storm."
A ripple of appreciative murmurs passed through the audience. She clicked forward again, revealing the final slide: the hand of a smiling child, reaching for a spoonful of steaming porridge.
"With your support, we can ensure that no family faces hunger alone. Together, we can weather any storm."
She paused, letting her words sink in. The silence was ripe with possibility. Then, a single, resonant round of applause swelled into a standing ovation. Ha‑young smiled, fighting back moistness at her eyes. She delivered a humble bow and exited stage left, heart pounding in exhilaration.
Backside Corridor
The stage curtains closed behind her, and she removed the headset. Yoo‑ra enveloped her in a fierce hug. "You were incredible."
Ha‑young laughed, breathless. She felt lighter than she had since moving to Seoul—an elation she hadn't known in years. "I couldn't have done it without you."
Yoo‑ra pressed a hand to her forehead dramatically. "You're going to need a cold shower and maybe a stiff drink, but hell—look at you now."
Before Ha‑young could respond, a familiar figure emerged from the shadows: Lee Jae‑woon, straightening his cufflinks, expression unreadable.
"Ms. Kang," he said, his voice measured. "That was… impressive."
Her heart stuttered. The memory of his cold critique in the conference room seemed worlds away. Here, under the soft glow of stage lights, he sounded almost… sincere.
"Thank you, sir," she replied, smoothing the front of her dress.
He inclined his head. "I look forward to discussing next steps tomorrow. For tonight, enjoy your success."
He turned and walked away, the hem of his suit catching the light in a way that made her knees go weak. She exhaled, leaning into Yoo‑ra's shoulder.
Across the corridor, Min‑joon waved and approached with two champagne flutes. "Congratulations," he said, handing her a glass. "You were amazing."
Ha‑young accepted the flute, the effervescent bubbles tickling her senses. She raised it to him and then, by sheer force of will, lifted her gaze toward the stage doors. "To weathering storms," she toasted, "and finding our strength inside them."
Min‑joon smiled warmly. "To the storm‑tamer herself."
They drank, and in that moment, Ha‑young felt the winds of possibility swirling around her. The storm had broken—and in its calm aftermath, she stood stronger than ever.