The mill smelled of rebellion and burnt toast.
So-young stood in the center of Old Man Park's ramshackle warehouse, watching as a dozen farmers in dust-streaked work clothes dumped burlap sacks onto a splintered wooden table. The flour exploded in pale clouds, coating everything—the rusted scales, the cracked ceramic bowls, the faded family photos taped to the walls.
Park's grandson, a lanky teenager with flour in his eyebrows, grinned as he slapped a sack in front of So-young. "Jeonju barley. Ground this morning."
She dipped her fingers in. The flour was warm, unevenly textured—nothing like the sterile, bleached powder Han Foods usually bought. It smelled alive.
Li Na whistled. "This'll piss off the food scientists."
Dae-ho, already elbow-deep in a sack, sneezed violently. "Are we sure this is safe?"
Old Man Park cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. "Safe? Boy, my grandfather ate this flour during the war when rats were a luxury." He turned to Grandfather, arms crossed. "But it won't be cheap."
Grandfather didn't blink. "Name your price."
Park's grin turned sharp. "Not money. Labels." He jabbed a finger at the nearest sack. "Our names on every bag. Park Mill. Jeonju. No more 'Han Foods Premium Blend' nonsense."
A murmur rippled through the room. Putting supplier names on packaging was unheard of—corporations bought flour cheap and sold it high, erasing the farmers' existence entirely.
Grandfather's cane tapped once. "Done."
The farmers erupted into cheers. Someone broke out a bottle of soju.
Han Bakes Kitchen – 4:32 AM
The dough fought back.
So-young wrestled with the barley mixture, sweat sticking her shirt to her back. The flour absorbed water like a desert, crumbling when she tried to knead. Across the room, Li Na cursed as another batch of rye starter slid off the table.
"This is like kneading gravel," Li Na muttered.
Dae-ho peered over So-young's shoulder. "Maybe we should've stuck with the industrial stuff."
She shot him a glare. "Then we're no better than Moon & Son."
A shadow fell across the counter. Grandfather rolled up his sleeves—an act so shocking So-young nearly dropped the dough. His gnarled hands plunged into the mess, fingers working with unexpected precision.
"Seong-ho's notes," he grunted. "Page sixty-seven."
So-young flipped the notebook open. There, wedged between moisture calculations, was a crude sketch of hands kneading with the heel of the palm rather than fingers. "For coarse grains—press, don't pull."
She mimicked the motion. The dough sighed, finally yielding.
Grandfather nodded. "He learned that from the farmers."
A timer buzzed. The first test loaf—baked with Park's flour and a stolen hour of sleep—emerged golden and lopsided. So-young tore off a piece.
The crust shattered. The crumb was dense, nutty, with a sour tang that lingered like a memory.
Dae-ho's eyes widened. "That's… insane."
Li Na grabbed her phone. "We need to trademark this before Moon & Son steals it too."
Moon & Son Headquarters – 11:15 AM
Kim Sang-chul's office reeked of artificial lavender.
So-young sat stiffly beside Grandfather, watching as Kim examined their loaf with the disdain of a man inspecting roadkill.
"Rustic," he sneered. "Consumers want consistency."
Grandfather didn't move. "They also want to know who grew their food."
Kim's smile tightened. He tapped a button on his desk. The screen behind him lit up with a spreadsheet. "Your 'farmers' alliance' is charming. But we control the ports." He pointed to a shipping log. "No foreign wheat enters Korea without our approval."
So-young's stomach dropped. Flour embargo.
Li Na leaned forward. "Then we'll use only Korean grain."
"With what land?" Kim smirked. "We bought the Jeonju fields this morning."
The air left the room. Jeonju—Park's mill.
Grandfather's cane creaked under his grip.
So-young stood abruptly. "We're done here."
Kim's laughter followed them out. "Enjoy your peasant bread!"
Train to Jeonju – 3:47 PM
The text came as the train rattled past endless fields of barley, their stalks bent under the wind.
Dae-ho groaned. "Moon & Son's press release." He turned his phone around:
"Moon & Son Announces Heritage Revival Project—Partnering with Jeonju Farmers for Authentic Korean Bread."
Below it, a photo of Kim shaking hands with a man in a Park Mill cap.
Li Na cursed. "That's Park's nephew. The one who wanted to sell to corporations last year."
So-young pressed her forehead to the window. The fields blurred. They'd been outmaneuvered.
Then—
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Meet at the back gate. Bring buckets.
Park Mill – Dusk
Old Man Park stood knee-deep in grain, shoveling barley into burlap sacks like a man possessed. His entire family—wives, children, grandchildren—worked in silent frenzy under the flickering warehouse lights.
He threw a sack at So-young. "Take it. Quick."
She staggered under the weight. "What's happening?"
Park's daughter wiped sweat from her brow. "Nephew sold the land, not the harvest. Moon & Son owns dirt, not this grain." She jerked her chin toward the fields. "We've been working since dawn."
Dae-ho gaped at the mountains of sacks. "This is… theft."
Park spat. "This is survival."
Grandfather stepped forward. "We'll pay triple."
"Keep your money." Park shoved another sack into Li Na's arms. "Just put our names on the damn bread."
So-young gripped the coarse fabric. For the first time in days, she smiled.