The flour arrived at midnight, wrapped in burlap and silence.
So-young stood in the alley behind Han Bakes, her breath fogging in the cold air as the delivery truck idled, its headlights off. The driver—a grizzled man with a scar over one eyebrow—didn't speak as he unloaded the sacks. He didn't need to. The faded Gangwon-do Mill stamp on the bags said everything.
Last loyal supplier. For now.
Li Na emerged from the shadows, her knife already slicing through the twine. "Let's see if it's worth the black-market price."
The flour spilled out like pale gold, coarser than their usual blend, flecked with bran. So-young pressed a pinch to her tongue. Earthy. Slightly sweet. No chemical aftertaste.
"It'll work," she said.
Li Na's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her mouth tightening. "Three more cancellations. That's every major supplier gone."
Dae-ho kicked a pebble across the pavement. "Moon & Son's offering them double. Plus 'exclusivity contracts.'"
So-young clenched her fists, flour dust sticking to her palms. Exclusivity. A polite word for strangulation. Without suppliers, Han Bakes would be kneading air by next week.
The delivery driver cleared his throat. "There's… something else." He reached into his cab and pulled out a small blue notebook.
Seong-ho's handwriting.
So-young's heart lurched. "Where did you—"
"Old mill archives. Found it stuffed behind some ledgers." The man avoided her eyes. "Your uncle paid us to burn anything with that symbol on it." He pointed to the apricot blossom inked on the cover. "But my father liked Seong-ho. Said he was the only Han who kneaded dough like a farmer."
Li Na snatched the notebook, flipping through pages dense with diagrams. "These are fermentation schedules. Temperature logs. And—" She froze. "Oh, you bastards."
So-young leaned over her shoulder.
Project Morning Glory.
Moon & Son's logo glared up from the top corner of a memo paper-clipped to the page. Below it, a list of ingredients—methylcellulose, calcium propionate, synthetic gluten enhancers—and a handwritten note:
"Han Foods will never approve these additives. Buy the mills instead."
Dated three days before Seong-ho's death.
Han Foods Headquarters – 7:03 AM
The boardroom smelled of leather and lies.
So-young sat stiffly between Grandfather and Li Na, watching Moon & Son's CEO—Kim Sang-chul—smile like a man who'd already won.
"Joon-ho-ssi," he said, spreading his hands. "This feud benefits no one. Let's discuss a merger."
Merger. The word slithered through the room.
Grandfather's cane tapped once. "You mean acquisition."
Kim's smile didn't waver. "Your retail branches for our distribution network. A fair trade."
Li Na snorted. "Your 'network' is our stolen suppliers."
A murmur rippled through the Han Foods executives. So-young kept her eyes on Kim's hands—soft, manicured, the pinky ring glinting under the fluorescent lights. A Moon & Son executive had worn that same ring in Seong-ho's journal photo.
Same snake, new skin.
She slid the blue notebook across the table.
Kim's smile faltered.
"Page forty-two," So-young said. "Where your R&D director notes that Wellness Formula #9 causes 'mild gastrointestinal distress' in test subjects. But you approved it anyway."
The room went still.
Kim recovered first. "Ancient history. Those formulas were discontinued—"
"Last month," Li Na cut in. "When the Korea Times started asking about 'mystery illnesses' near your factories."
Grandfather stood abruptly. "We're done here."
Kim's voice followed them to the door: "You'll kneel within the week."
Han Bakes Kitchen – 3:17 PM
The dough wasn't rising.
So-young glared at the slack mass in the mixing bowl, willing it to puff up. The Gangwon-do flour absorbed water differently, throwing off her ratios. Behind her, Dae-ho pounded on the temperamental oven.
"We need that starter stronger," Li Na muttered, stirring the sluggish culture.
So-young reached for Seong-ho's notebook. His Emergency Levain page was dog-eared, the margins crammed with symbols she'd overlooked before—tiny apricots drawn next to certain steps.
"Knead under the tree," one note read. "Moonlight matters."
She hesitated. Then grabbed the bowl.
Courtyard – Midnight
The apricot tree's branches cast lace shadows over the dough. So-young kneaded furiously, her arms burning. It was stupid. Superstitious. But Seong-ho had believed in this—in the way night air changed gluten structure, in the wild yeasts clinging to the tree's bark.
A crunch of gravel.
Grandfather stood at the edge of the courtyard, his robe hanging loose. For a long moment, he just watched her. Then—
"He used to talk to the dough."
So-young's hands stilled.
"Your uncle." Grandfather stepped closer. "Said it needed encouragement." His gnarled finger touched the bowl's rim. "I called it sentimentality."
The dough, impossibly, had begun to bubble.
Grandfather exhaled. "Tomorrow, we visit the farmers."
Jeolla Province – Dawn
The rice fields shimmered gold in the morning light.
Old Man Park stood in the doorway of his mill, squinting at Grandfather. "You. Here."
Grandfather bowed. "We need your help."
Park spat. "Fifty years I've milled. Fifty years Hans bought from corporations instead." He eyed So-young. "But you—you're Seong-ho's blood."
She opened the notebook to a marked page. *"Whole grain rye, stone-ground within 48 hours of baking."*
Park's calloused finger traced the words. Then, without a word, he turned and yelled over his shoulder: "Abeonim! The Han girl's here!"
From the mill's depths, a chorus of voices erupted. Doors slammed. Engines coughed to life.
Park grinned, revealing two missing teeth. "Let's show Moon & Son what real tradition tastes like."