The quiet that followed the Assembly hearing was misleading.
To the outside world, it looked like Kang Joon-ho had won. The headlines sang his name—"Whistleblower Shakes Parliament," "Doksan Voice Echoes in Assembly," "Taurus Project Frozen Indefinitely."
Civic groups reached out with offers. Politicians tried to associate their platforms with his name. Even a documentary crew showed up, hoping to secure exclusive rights to his story.
But inside the clinic, no one was celebrating.
Joon-ho could feel it—the tension, like coiled wire beneath the floorboards.
They had stopped Taurus Holdings' current plans. But what about the ones they didn't know yet? The structures they hadn't uncovered? The replacements the conglomerate was likely preparing?
One corporation falling back was not the same as retreat. It was just repositioning.
And worse still, something in the air felt off.
Like a betrayal was blooming somewhere too close.
---
It started with whispers in the local redevelopment council.
At first, harmless things.
"That Kang kid… he doesn't really live here anymore, does he?"
"I heard he gets funding from outside—NGOs from Europe or somewhere."
"He's not against development. He just wants control over it."
Joon-ho caught wind of it through Sae-bin.
"They're planting seeds," she said, arms crossed, scrolling through a community forum. "See this post? It's written like a concerned neighbor, but it's word-for-word the same as a comment from a Taurus-affiliated site."
He frowned. "So they're trying to split the community?"
"Exactly. They're turning people against you."
It hurt more than it should've.
Because these weren't strangers. These were the people who used to leave side dishes for his mother. Who called him 'Joonie' as a child. Who attended funerals together and lent rice when times were hard.
---
The blow landed three days later.
The Doksan Community Council, a semi-formal group that had helped organize tenants during the first evictions, issued a joint statement. It was printed in local dailies and sent out to urban planning commissions.
"We thank Mr. Kang Joon-ho for his activism and dedication. However, his recent public statements and political posturing do not represent the current voice of Doksan residents, many of whom seek orderly redevelopment and economic progress."
Sae-bin nearly threw her tablet.
"They stabbed you in the back."
Joon-ho didn't respond. He just read the last paragraph again and again.
"…We hope that future redevelopment proposals proceed without unnecessary disruption from external parties."
External.
That word burned.
"I lived here my whole life," he muttered.
Professor Han placed a hand on his shoulder.
"They don't see you as you, Joon-ho. They see you as a symbol now. And symbols are easy to distort."
---
Later that night, a knock came at the clinic door.
It was Min Dae-hyun.
The former Taurus aide looked thinner. His hair unkempt. He entered silently, glancing around like he expected cameras.
"You shouldn't have come here," Joon-ho said, not unkindly. "They're probably watching you."
"They are," Dae-hyun admitted. "But I had to warn you. The smear campaign? The statement from the council? That's just step one."
Joon-ho narrowed his eyes. "What's step two?"
"They're pushing a new company front. A softer one. Korean-named. Hometown-branded. They're calling it Hanul Partners—makes them sound grassroots. Locally founded. But it's just Taurus, repackaged."
"How do you know?"
"They offered me a job there."
Silence.
Joon-ho's voice dropped.
"Did you take it?"
Dae-hyun hesitated. "No. Not yet. But I thought about it."
He looked exhausted.
"You don't understand what it's like after whistleblowing. You think people cheer you, lift you up—but they disappear. Doors close. My father won't speak to me. My brother told me I ruined our name."
Joon-ho's anger deflated.
"I do understand," he said. "But the only thing worse than standing alone is kneeling with everyone else when you know they're wrong."
Dae-hyun sighed.
"I left something for you. A list of upcoming Hanul zoning proposals. You'll want to look at the one for Sillim. They're planning a rush vote."
He turned to leave.
"And Joon-ho… be careful of Assemblyman Baek. Just because he's disgraced doesn't mean he's gone."
---
The next week brought another blow.
An anonymous tip alerted reporters that Kang Joon-ho had falsified elements of his Assembly testimony. It was a blatant lie—anyone who examined the data could see that—but the accusation was enough to cause trouble.
Within hours, conservative outlets ran with it.
"Activist or Opportunist?"
"Hero of Doksan's Claims Face Scrutiny"
"Whistleblower's Data May Have Foreign Ties."
Online, bots flooded comment sections again. The same phrases repeated:
"Too polished. Feels like a setup."
"He's a puppet for NGOs."
"He just wants to be famous."
Even Ye-rin, ever composed, looked rattled.
"They're trying to poison the well," she said. "Make your name so controversial that no politician will touch you."
Sae-bin leaned against the wall, jaw tight.
"So what do we do? Clear his name again? Debunk every rumor?"
Joon-ho shook his head slowly.
"No. We don't chase lies. We plant truth."
---
That night, he held a live Q&A in the heart of Doksan.
Not a fancy broadcast. No makeup artists or consultants.
Just folding chairs. A mic. A banner that read:
"I Will Answer—No Filters, No Stage."
They came in trickles at first. An old man who used to run the corner store. A mother with two children. A student who had once been caught between protest lines.
"Why are you doing this?" someone asked.
"Because you deserve to hear directly," Joon-ho replied.
One man stood. "What about the people who want redevelopment? Who see a better future in glass towers and new roads?"
"I understand them," Joon-ho said. "But I ask: better for who? Are they part of that future—or just made invisible so it can happen?"
Another asked, "Are you going to run for office?"
"No," he said simply. "I don't want power. I want memory. So they can't erase us again."
By the end of the night, the crowd had grown.
No headlines reported it.
But the wind shifted.
And Joon-ho knew: this was how they'd survive the next storm.
Not with institutions.
With each other.
---
Two days later, he received an invitation.
A regional planning board was reopening hearings for the Sillim redevelopment project. Community stakeholders could attend. Taurus—under its new Hanul mask—would present its "vision for urban rebirth."
He was expected.
So he went.
Not to shout.
But to listen.
Inside the small city hall room, slides flickered on. Hanul Partners presented artist renderings of tree-lined streets, high-rise apartments, community gardens. It all looked beautiful.
Too beautiful.
He raised his hand.
"Where will the 4,200 current residents go while construction happens?"
The presenter stammered.
"Well, some will be offered temporary housing, and…"
"And after construction?"
"Some may qualify for return leases—"
"How many?"
A pause.
"Approximately 14%."
Gasps rippled across the room.
Joon-ho stood slowly.
"I ask you again: a city is not just steel and glass. It is people. Their habits, their history. If you remove 86% of them, what exactly are you rebuilding?"
Silence.
He turned to the residents.
"Don't let them beautify your erasure."
---
That night, he got a message from an unknown number.
A single line.
"You were warned. Now we escalate."