POV: Kang Ha‑young
The early afternoon light was pale and flat as Ha‑young stepped into the cavernous lobby of the LJW Group headquarters. Though the sun shone outside, inside everything felt muted—marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, walls of frosted glass, and the distant hum of air handlers blending with hushed footsteps. She'd arrived ahead of the Phase 2 kickoff meeting, intending to review her notes one last time before presenting the first Community Kitchen pilot plan.
But the moment she passed through the security checkpoint, the air shifted. A ripple of tension threaded through the lobby's normally impassive staff. Ha‑young's gaze flicked right: a cluster of twenty—or more—protestors, clad in black LJW-shirts with white block letters: "STOP LJW MONOPOLY." They held placards and chanted in low, insistent rhythms, their banners flapping like dark flags in a wind Ha‑young couldn't feel.
Her breath caught. Despite the boardroom protest two days earlier, she hadn't expected a lobby demonstration. Security officers formed a tight semi‑circle, arms out, positioning themselves between the protestors and the elevator banks. Corporate receptionists hovered behind bullet‑proof glass, their eyes wide. Executives slowed, hovering in doorways as if caught between curiosity and dread.
Ha‑young clenched her portfolio, heart hammering. The dossiers she'd found at last week's gala—the clandestine "Seung‑woo" files—had hinted at sabotage, but she had dismissed it as idle rumor. Now, the evidence stood before her, chanting in defiance of everything she and Jae‑woon had worked to build.
A security guard intercepted her. "Ms. Kang, please step back. This area is restricted."
She offered him a calm nod. "Thank you." She retreated ten paces, heart pulsing. Her mind raced—this was exactly what Seung‑woo's NovaTech faction wanted: public disruption to spook shareholders, sow doubt, derail momentum.
A sudden, familiar voice called from behind.
"Ha‑young‑sshi!"
She turned to see Park Eun‑sook striding toward her, leather briefcase swinging at her side. Her mentor's expression was razor‑sharp—eyes flicking between protestors and security—and she moved with the confidence of a woman who'd weathered far worse storms.
"Eun‑sook‑unnie," Ha‑young said, sliding her portfolio under her arm. "I didn't expect them here."
"I doubt they expected you," Eun‑sook replied, her voice low. "Security briefed me—they mobilized within twenty‑four hours, coordinating with a handful of online influencer accounts to broadcast this live." She tapped her tablet, pulling up a real‑time map of social‑media engagement: hashtags like #BoycottLJW and #FairMarketNow trending. "They're flooding feeds. If we don't neutralize this quickly, it'll bleed into tomorrow's news cycle—and your pilot launch."
Ha‑young's stomach clenched. The pilot launch depended on public goodwill: transparency, compassion, and community empowerment. A lobby protest painted them as corporate bullies. "What do you suggest?"
Eun‑sook's eyes sharpened. "First, we contain. You and I will head to the crisis‑war room on the twentieth floor. We'll coordinate a rapid response: hold a press briefing in twenty minutes, release an official statement emphasizing the Community Kitchens' mission, and schedule interviews with NGO partners to drown out the protest narrative."
Ha‑young nodded. "I'll need talking points that highlight our rural‑pilot successes and the scholar‑fund legacy you and I discussed at dinner."
Eun‑sook's lips curved into a precise smile. "Already prepared. Follow me."
They threaded through the crowd, moving past the protestors whose chant had risen into a defiant crescendo: "LJW, stop! LJW, stop!" Ha‑young pressed a button on her earpiece, opening a secure line to Jae‑woon's office.
"Ha‑young here," she whispered, listening as the line connected. "Chairman Lee, we have a lobby protest led by NovaTech sympathizers—calls itself a 'fair-market' demonstration. I'm en route to the war room with Eun‑sook. I'll coordinate the press briefing in five."
There was a pause. Then Jae‑woon's voice, calm but resolute: "Proceed. I'll handle the board updates and instruct security to maintain order without escalation. Keep me informed."
She exhaled, swallowing the surge of adrenaline. "Understood." She clicked the line closed and followed Eun‑sook into a glass‑walled elevator marked "Operations Center →."
Operations War Room
The elevator doors slid open onto a corridor lit by blue LED panels. At the end, a heavy door bore the LJW emblem in brushed steel. Eun‑sook tapped her badge; the door clicked open to reveal a hive of activity: a dozen staffers hunched over monitors showing live news feeds, social‑media dashboards, and security‑camera streams. At the far wall, a video wall splashed with multiple feeds: the lobby protest, stock‑ticker updates, and a live stream from an NGO partner in rural Vietnam praising the new Community Kitchen.
A young crisis‑manager, Min‑hee, looked up. "Eun‑sook‑unnie, Ha‑young‑ssi—good timing. We're about to draft the statement." She handed Ha‑young a tablet. "Here's the draft. We need your quotes on community impact and partnership intentions."
Ha‑young scanned the text. It was solid: a strong opening condemning property damage (there was none yet, but it set the tone), a clear statement of commitment to fair markets, and an exhortation to engage with local beneficiaries. The final paragraph read:
"We welcome constructive dialogue with all stakeholders, including concerned community members and industry peers. Our mission remains to serve those in need through sustainable innovation, and we invite participation from NGOs, local governments, and the public to ensure transparent, equitable growth."
Ha‑young tapped her stylus. "Add a sentence here: 'Our Chairman's mother established scholarships for rural students a decade ago—this legacy guides every decision we make, from corporate strategy to community outreach.' That personal note will humanize our stance."
Min‑hee nodded, typing swiftly. "Good. What about the press briefing location?"
"We use the atrium," Eun‑sook said. "Floor 3, near the public reception. It's visible to media, but controlled."
Min‑hee pinged a message to security and PR teams. "Press arrival is confirmed in fifteen minutes."
"Great," Ha‑young said. "Now, the talking points for Q&A."
She spoke into the microphone at her earpiece:
Focus on impactful metrics: number of meals served, communities engaged, scholarship students supported
Emphasize transparency: live-streamed updates, open-door policy for NGO partners
Redirect questions about protests to a constructive dialogue invitation
Within minutes, the statement was finalized, shared across LJW's corporate social‑media channels, and emailed to major news outlets. The war‑room monitors flickered: feed after feed updated, replacing protest chatter with positive community stories. Stock‑ticker monitors blinked steady green arrows—a sign investors were reassured.
Eun‑sook gave Ha‑young a curt nod. "Time to face the cameras."
Atrium Press Briefing
Ha‑young walked to the raised podium, crisp white podium lights illuminating her burgundy dress. The atrium's soaring glass ceiling let in just enough daylight to soften the chandeliers' glow. Behind her, a banner read "LJW Group & MiraWell: Community Kitchens Initiative" with an image of children sharing a bowl of porridge.
Reporters jostled at the lip of the stage, cameras clicking and mics thrust forward. She took the microphone, inhaled, and spoke:
"Good afternoon. I'm Kang Ha‑young, strategic lead for the Community Kitchens initiative jointly launched by LJW Group and MiraWell. We are aware of the demonstration outside our lobby. While we respect everyone's right to express their views, we believe this protest is driven by misinformation about our mission."
She paused as cameras panned across her face. "Our focus remains unchanged: to provide nourishing meals and capacity‑building resources to underserved rural regions. Since our pilot launch last month, we have served over 10,000 meals in central Vietnam and trained 200 local volunteers in Jeolla Province. These volunteers include families who once relied on our support—they are now partners in growth."
A reporter raised her hand. "Ms. Kang, protesters accuse LJW of monopolistic practices that harm small businesses. How do you respond?"
Ha‑young tilted her chin up, her voice steady. "We believe in collaboration, not domination. That is why our rural‑pilot program sources ingredients directly from local producers, compensating them at premium rates in exchange for quality and sustainability standards. We've allocated 20% of our program budget to micro‑grants for these producers so they can expand their operations independently. Our goal is to foster self‑sufficiency, not dependency."
A second reporter chimed in. "Will LJW consider delaying the urban rollout to address these monopoly concerns?"
She met the question with calm authority. "Our urban and rural phases run concurrently, because both are critical. Urban markets provide the revenue stream that funds our rural expansion, and rural operations validate our corporate social responsibility model. Delaying one would undercut the other. However, we remain open to stakeholder feedback and will continue to refine our approach collaboratively."
After ten minutes of Q&A, security officers gently ushered the protestors out of view. The last question cracked like a final whip:
"Ms. Kang, any message to the protestors themselves?"
She laid down her notes. "I invite them to join this dialogue—not as adversaries, but as partners in building fair, nutritious food systems. We are stronger together than divided." She offered a brief, genuine smile. "Thank you."
The applause was polite, but it carried weight. Ha‑young stepped down from the podium to find Eun‑sook waiting, arms crossed in pride.
"Nicely done," Eun‑sook said. "You turned this around."
Ha‑young exhaled, adrenaline ebbing into relief. "Thank you. Now, back to the boardroom?"
Eun‑sook tapped her tablet. "Yes—Phase 2 meeting starts in five minutes on the twentieth floor conference deck. Shall we?"
She offered Ha‑young a hand. "After you, partner."
Elevator to Twentieth Floor
Inside the elevator, Ha‑young closed her eyes for a moment, the soft hum of machinery a stark contrast to the clamor she'd just left. She replayed the press briefing in her mind—the confident tone of her voice, the firm clarity of her answers. The monitors in the war room had already flipped back to merger progress slides, charts glowing with forward momentum. Investors were back in green; the protest had become a footnote rather than a headline.
The doors opened, revealing the familiar conference deck. Jae‑woon stood at the head of the table, arms folded, eyes meeting hers with an approving nod. Security guards remained posted at the doors, but the protestors were gone.
"Welcome back," he said in a low voice.
She offered him a tired smile. "Crisis averted, thanks to you and Eun‑sook."
He inclined his head. "Your leadership was crucial. Now, shall we continue with Phase 2?"
She placed her portfolio on the table, chest swelling with quiet pride. "Absolutely. Let's map out the next steps for scaling Fusion Flavors and rolling out our next Community Kitchen pilots."
As she opened her laptop and the slide deck flickered to life—maps, timelines, resource allocations—Ha‑young felt a surge of confidence. Today had tested every skill she possessed: strategic planning, crisis management, public speaking, and emotional intelligence. Yet she had emerged not only unscathed but stronger and more validated.
The protestors might return, new obstacles might arise, but she knew now that she and Jae‑woon formed a formidable team. Together, they would weather any disruption—turning storms into opportunities and doubt into determination.
With every chart she clicked through, every timeline she adjusted, Ha‑young realized that the world she was building with Jae‑woon was bigger than any corporate merger. It was a vision of purpose-driven growth, community engagement, and authentic leadership. And in this moment, she knew they were just getting started.