The days after the press conference felt like walking through the eye of a storm.
Doksan, once ignored by news vans and drone cameras, became the center of national conversation. The small, cluttered legal clinic where Kang Joon-ho and his team worked turned into a pilgrimage site for journalists, lawyers, and even college students studying public ethics.
But beneath the surface, things weren't settling. They were shifting.
Taurus Holdings had lost face, but not power. Their inner circle was purging itself, reorganizing. The board scapegoated a few executives, released apologetic statements in every major paper, and replaced their PR firm with a crisis management team notorious for smearing whistleblowers.
And they had begun to act.
It started with whispers.
A "concerned citizen" wrote to the National Assembly, claiming Kang Joon-ho had falsified evidence and received foreign funding to disrupt local real estate growth.
Then came the online attacks.
Anonymous threads popped up overnight accusing him of being anti-development, of "destroying Korean progress for personal fame." A few old photos of him drinking with college friends were cropped and weaponized. Sae-bin's school blog was hacked. Professor Han's name was linked to bogus communist forums from the 80s.
They weren't trying to kill the truth.
They were trying to drown it in noise.
---
One afternoon, the clinic received an unexpected visitor.
She wore a light beige suit, carried no bag, and spoke with a tone more accustomed to courtrooms than conversations.
"Assemblywoman Choi Ha-yoon," she introduced herself, flashing her ID. "Special Committee on Ethical Urban Development."
Professor Han stiffened but offered her a seat.
"I've seen you in hearings," he said. "You once made a real estate tycoon cry on live TV."
"I remember. He deserved it."
She turned to Joon-ho.
"You've made powerful enemies, Mr. Kang."
"I've made truthful accusations."
"And that's what worries them."
She opened a slim leather folder.
"There's a motion being raised next week in the Assembly. A push to formally investigate not just Taurus Holdings, but the Ministry's collusion in the Doksan case. It's rare. Risky. But momentum is on your side—for now."
Professor Han leaned forward. "Why come to us?"
"Because the committee wants Joon-ho to testify."
The room fell silent.
Sae-bin set down her cup of barley tea slowly, staring.
"You mean in front of the Assembly?"
Choi nodded. "Live. Televised. With subpoenaed members of Taurus, the Ministry, and the Office of Urban Affairs present."
"That's suicide," Han muttered.
"Or history."
---
The night was colder than usual.
Joon-ho sat on the clinic rooftop, watching the city stretch into neon lines. He turned the small USB from Min Dae-hyun over in his hand. Everything had started with this. Voices in the dark. Signatures buried beneath layers of false companies.
He thought of his mother.
Of the old photo.
Of what it would mean to speak—not just to a camera—but before the very institutions that had once crushed Doksan under their heels.
"You don't have to do this."
Sae-bin's voice came from behind.
"I know."
"But you're going to anyway."
He glanced up.
"She said it herself. If I don't, they'll spin it. Say it was edited. That we manipulated context. If I sit silent, the noise wins."
She sat beside him.
"They'll attack you."
"They already are."
"You might be followed again."
"I already am."
A long pause.
Then she leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Then I'll stand behind you when you speak."
He smiled softly.
"You always do."
---
Preparations for testimony began immediately.
Assemblywoman Choi's team helped guide legal strategy. Professor Han's contacts prepared rebuttals. Sae-bin and Ye-rin worked with an NGO to track Taurus's online smear campaign back to ghost PR firms.
But something didn't sit right.
Ye-rin pulled Joon-ho aside a few days before the hearing.
"I looked into Ashroot again."
"What about it?"
"It's not just about Doksan anymore."
She handed him a file.
"They've replicated the structure. Four more neighborhoods. Daerim-dong. Sillim. Gasan. Even parts of Incheon. Same shell companies. Same lease-buyback methods. They're trying to build a map of cleanly 'redeveloped' communities without public resistance."
"How many people?"
"Eighty thousand. Maybe more. And they're rushing it before the election cycle ends—before new oversight laws pass."
Joon-ho felt the weight of it settle like ice.
"I thought this was about saving our home," he whispered.
Ye-rin met his eyes.
"It was. But now it's bigger."
---
The day of the hearing came like thunder.
National Assembly Room 3 was packed. Cameras lined the upper balcony. News anchors whispered into microphones, preparing for the moment Joon-ho would walk in.
Inside the chamber sat several familiar faces:
Taurus's interim CEO, Yoo Min-jae, looking calm behind a layer of legal aides.
Deputy Minister Hwang, expression unreadable.
Assemblyman Baek, now disgraced but still defiant.
And to Joon-ho's surprise… Min Dae-hyun, seated in the public gallery, wearing a simple cap and half-smile.
When his name was called, Joon-ho stood.
Walked forward.
And placed his hand on the Constitution to begin.
---
His statement lasted nine minutes.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't cry.
He simply told the truth—about the land his mother once swept every morning. About the house that was bulldozed without proper notice. About how Taurus rewrote contracts, falsified community approval, and built a city of ghosts out of names on spreadsheets.
And then he submitted the USB.
"This contains audio of Taurus executives planning to bypass zoning law through shell civic groups. There are also signed internal emails discussing Ashroot's rollout, and one video of a senior Ministry member admitting to regulatory bribes."
He turned toward the chamber.
"I'm not asking for pity. Or even outrage. Just memory. We remember who we are. So we don't forget what they took."
Silence.
Then questions.
One lawmaker tried to trip him up, asking if he doctored any files.
"No," he said plainly. "But if you want to run digital forensics, I welcome it."
Another asked if this was all politically motivated.
"My only politics," he replied, "is that people deserve homes."
When it was over, he walked back to his seat.
Min-jae didn't look at him.
Baek stared, eyes cold.
But someone in the gallery began to clap.
Just once.
And then more.
Until the chamber echoed with applause.
---
That evening, as rain began to fall, the Doksan clinic watched the replay on a borrowed projector.
Joon-ho sat in the corner, quiet, arms folded.
"I didn't think my voice shook that much," he murmured.
Professor Han chuckled.
"You sounded human. That's enough."
"Think it changed anything?"
"For them? Maybe not."
Han poured himself tea.
"But for the next neighborhood they try to erase—it changed everything."
---
The next week, an interim injunction froze Taurus's operations across all Ashroot-affiliated zones. Investigations launched into three ministerial branches. A whistleblower from the Ministry came forward.
Joon-ho's face was on every major paper.
Some called him a hero.
Some called him a threat.
He stayed in Doksan.
---
One night, as he walked home, he spotted a new mural—this time painted along the alley wall near the schoolyard.
It showed the old houses of Doksan. One by one, standing tall. Between them were children, laughing. Dogs on leashes. Laundry lines stretched between windows.
And in the center, a phrase written in brushstroke red:
"We are not ruins. We are roots."