Chapter 60: The Challenge of Dawn

3:50 a.m.

I woke up before the alarm rang.

It felt as if my heart woke up first, pounding hard once, then steadily picking up its pace.

I’d only slept for an hour and a half. My shoulders and lower back felt as stiff as rocks, and especially the nape of my neck throbbed.

Whether it was the pillow’s fault or yesterday’s tension, I couldn’t afford to sort it out.

Still, I had to get up.

I shoved off the blanket and sat at the edge of the bed; a wave of dizziness washed over me for a moment.

Weariness crept slowly upward from my heels to the crown of my head. I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them again.

My task was clear.

I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water.

The first touch of icy water on my forehead jolted all my nerves awake at once.

After the second and third splash, the fog in my mind cleared away.

I skipped shaving.

Today, accurate procedure mattered more than a clean jawline.

What was important now wasn’t appearance, but getting those 50 cans of preserves made on time.

Instead of a suit, I reached for my work clothes.

The fabric was still stiff, and the distinctive sizing smell of new clothes subtly rose up.

I folded my cap, shoved it into my pocket, slipped on a fresh knit shirt, then fastened my work jacket on top.

Into my pocket I packed a small notebook, a pencil, and the checklist I’d written up last night.

I left the Hotel.

At 4 a.m., New York seemed to hold its breath in silence.

Only streetlights cast faint halos on the pavement, and the displays in shop windows waited, frozen through the night for their owners. Puddles gathered in cracks of the street shivered slightly in the breeze.

The last wind of March crept into my collar and stole my body heat with indifference.

I hunched my neck and buttoned up once more.

There wasn’t a taxi in sight.

That was to be expected at this hour.

The drivers would be sleeping now.

“Ramja.”

I quickened my steps.

Each time my foot hit the ground, the checklist replayed automatically in my mind.

Produce 50 more units, fulfill standing orders, packaging and seal orders, reassign security, establish new entry records, double up on key management, review introducing box barcodes… The list was endless, but strangely, I felt energized.

When crisis strikes, the enemy’s name becomes even clearer. Bancroft. When the goal is clear, actions become simple.

Had I walked for about 15 minutes?

From a distance, I heard the sound of a carriage.

Clop, clop.

It was the milk delivery cart.

In the dawn air, the sound of metal and glass set an odd rhythm.

“Hey!”

I waved at the coachman, who was about to pass by.

“Can you give me a ride to the Brooklyn factory district?”

“I’m on milk deliveries…”

“I’ll give you four dollars.”

At the mention of money, the coachman’s face relaxed.

After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.

“Hop in.”

As I climbed onto the cart, the glass bottles rattled.

The fresh smell of milk brushed past my nose.

It was just like that scent from some childhood morning, wafting from the milk cart at the alleyway’s edge.

The horse’s hooves beat on the deserted street.

Clip, clop.

The steady rhythm guided me through the dim streets.

In twenty minutes, I arrived at the factory.

I handed over the dollars and got down; the factory was already aglow inside.

White steam rose gently between the tall windows, and the metal tools on the workbench gleamed like blades under the lamps.

When I opened the door, Yu Ilhan was checking the machinery.

His face showed he hadn’t slept; dark circles lay under his eyes.

But his hands were gentle and precise.

Pressure gauge, valve, water supply line.

As his fingertips passed in sequence, the machines responded as if answering, vibrating with a tiny hum.

“You’re early.”

“I managed to close my eyes for a bit.”

We exchanged tired but brief smiles.

The smile was short, but that brevity felt strong.

“I brewed coffee. Made it strong.”

He handed me a mug.

The deep bitterness awoke my tongue.

As it went down my throat, I could practically feel the caffeine spreading through my veins.

The factory’s metallic scent, the aroma of blanched vegetables, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingled in layers.

“How’s the raw material prep?”

“I took it out in advance earlier. The mung beans are washed clean.”

“Ah.”

He’d clearly stayed up, and a wave of guilt hit me for a moment.

Anyway, where Lee Jun-hyuk’s gaze landed—

Large baskets were filled to the brim with mung beans.

Any moisture was drained off in a colander.

The white threads of the stalks looked alive, the root ends pristine.

Yu Ilhan was truly remarkable at preparation.

That trait would save the Company again today.

“Well then, shall we begin?”

“Yes.”

The two of us put on our white work clothes.

We donned caps, tied on aprons, pulled on gloves.

We put on hairnets and taped down the cuffs one more time.

The sanitation was flawless.

Yu Ilhan fired up the boiler.

A match brushed the igniter and blue flame bloomed.

The smell of gas spread lightly, and the pipes shivered minutely.

The machine rumbled awake as if taking a deep breath.

Steam began to rise, and the cold air gradually loosened.

“Check the water temperature.”

“It’s climbing to 180 degrees.”

The red mercury line on the Temperature Gauge crept up slowly. 160, 170, 180.

“Let me know when it hits 200.”

Lee Jun-hyuk sorted through the mung beans for any impurities.

There was no knowing if Bancroft had tampered with the raw materials.

Anything spoiled or mixed in was to be removed.

With tongs, he lifted sections of the stalks, holding them up to the light, double-checking the texture with his fingertips.

Not even a single odd fragment would be tolerated.

“Reached 212 degrees.”

White steam blossomed up to the ceiling from the boiling water.

Droplets beaded on the walls of the stainless tank, running down to the drain with a ‘drip, drip.’

“Let’s start blanching.”

Pushing the first batch into the water, a hissing sound filled the air.

The fresh scent of mung beans spread.

I checked the clock.

Exactly two minutes.

One second too long and they’d turn soggy; one second too short, they’d lack crispness.

After 30 seconds, the stalks grew a little brighter, and at 1 minute 30, they gained a sheen.

Two minutes in, I quickly scooped them out with tongs.

Lifting them with a large colander, I moved them straight into the ice water.

Hot steam brushed my face, quickly replaced by the chill of cold vapor.

Sweat beaded instantly on my forehead.

I reset the Timer and readied the next basket.

“At this pace, we can finish before seven.”

Yu Ilhan brought the next basket.

In, two minutes, out. The pace picked up.

On one side, water was drained off; on the other, seasonings were mixed in set ratios.

Salt, sesame oil, a bit of vinegar—a Standard Operating Procedure to ensure uniform distribution.

That’s when it happened.

The door opened, and someone entered.

A man holding his fedora in his hand, catching his breath.

It was the plant manager, Walter Smith.

“My goodness, you’ve already started! What’s happened, at this hour…?”

“Well, actually…”

Lee Jun-hyuk briefly explained last night’s break-in, the rat hair, and the disposal of 50 cans.

As the explanation went on, Walter’s face flushed red. His index and middle fingers unconsciously tapped the corner of the workbench.

A sign he was suppressing his anger.

“Those bastards! To dare touch our products… We put so much heart into making these!”

It was a blatant insult to the pride of a Conserves Artisan with thirty years’ experience.

He swallowed his words and rolled up his sleeves.

“I’ll help. These old eyes are still good for something.”

When Walter changed into his work clothes and joined, the pace picked up sharply.

One person blanched, one person drained, one person seasoned.

Walter checked the filling weight of every can on the scale.

He focused so intently that his eyesight seemed to tremble, not letting the 3g margin over 180g slip by.

“Reminds me of old times. When I was young, we’d work like this from dawn. All to put food on the table.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his expression was bright.

His hands were quick, age making no difference.

Thirty years’ experience brought precision. Even the circles he made sealing the cans with cloth were regular and steady.

By 5:30, workers started trickling in.

“Oh? You’re already working?”

“What’s going on…?”

Lee Jun-hyuk gave them only the core points.

Faces hardened, then soon turned to resolve.

“We’ll help! If we all pitch in, it’ll be done in no time!”

No one had to be told—they joined in willingly.

They changed clothes, washed hands, took their places. Some blanched, some seasoned, some filled cans, some sealed.

The inspector just before sealing pressed his hairnet down again and rubbed extra sanitizer on his hands.

“Temperature check!”

“Pressure check!”

“Next batch!”

Calls flew back and forth as everyone moved like parts of one machine.

Each time the heating indicator blinked, all hands at the workbench stopped at once; as soon as the second hand hit twelve, they moved again.

The line breathed in steady rhythm like an army on march.

“So this is our Company.”

Lee Jun-hyuk murmured inwardly.

What Bancroft wanted to break wasn’t the factory—it was these people’s workplace, their livelihood, and their pride.

The pain of discarding the tainted cans last night had turned to a strange heat, burning now in his chest.

“We will not lose.”

At the end of the line, the labeler worked at a steady speed.

Small nails were driven into the boxes, tendons standing out in the wrists of the stamping hands.

On one side of the packing table, the sample design for the new Seal Sticker to be ordered was taped up as a temporary measure.

Tamper-Proof ㅡ La Choy (LA CHOI) No exchange if damaged. Reading those words, everyone nodded.

All fifty additional cans were completed before 7 a.m.

“It’s done!”

When Yu Ilhan lifted the last can, cheers erupted.

Hands were slapped in celebration, laughter spread.

They were covered in sweat and grime, but everyone’s face was shining.

Walter glanced at the wall clock, then, as if confirming he’d predicted right, raised his thumb high.

“Great job, everyone.”

Walter spoke on behalf of all.

“This is our Company. If we don’t protect it, who will?”

The fifty new cans were packed in identical Packaging to the ones discarded last night.

Nails hammered, labels attached.

On the lower left corner of the box, ‘4:30 A.M Batch’ was stamped in bold.

The Production Log now included, starting today, a ‘Signature Section’ for accompanying witnesses. The warehouse door already had a new Seal in place until a numbered key could be fitted.

“All right, let’s have breakfast and start the regular shift! We’ve got a backlog of Orders today.”

That’s right.

Gourmet Deli 200, Chinatown 180, plus the new Orders coming in!

Now the real day was beginning.

The workers took out their packed meals in the break room.

Sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, apples… When Mary handed him a sandwich, Lee Jun-hyuk accepted it with grateful eyes and took a bite.

It was delicious.

Once again, steam rose from the coffee pot.

The morning light shining through the break room window brightened the stains on the table.

No one complained.

“But what do we do now? Bancroft will keep trying things like this…”

Worry was only natural.

The enemy was William Bancroft, railroad tycoon. A man with no limits to his money, connections, or means. Lee Jun-hyuk nodded and calmly began to speak the preparations he’d made.

“From today, we’ll have 24-hour security. Packaging will be changed too, so that tampering shows immediately. Entry records every half-hour, two witness signatures required for dispatch. For labels, I’ll get a quote on hologram patterns.”

“Ah, that’s a relief.”

The shadow of worry didn’t disappear entirely.

But over that shadow, the sound of order began to layer.

Regulations, procedures, signatures, Seals.

In that way, the Company grew even stronger.

Just then, the phone rang in the office.

“I’ll get it!”

Yu Ilhan hurried up the stairs, then called out through the open window.

“Boss! Emergency call!”

Lee Jun-hyuk rushed up and grabbed the receiver.

On the other end, there was the sound of slightly rough breathing, typing in the background, and the short, clipped orders of someone nearby.

The sounds of the Newsroom.

“Hello?”

“President Lee Jun-hyuk?”

It was an unfamiliar man’s voice.

The short but crisp pronunciation, the habit of not raising his tone at the end of sentences—a reporter.

“This is Mark Sullivan from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle.”

A newspaper?

“What is it?”

“I have an urgent question. Did you know that William Bancroft was arrested last night?”

His heart dropped.

Lee Jun-hyuk instinctively checked the clock.

The second hand hesitated at the twelve, then started ticking again.

“Arrested?”

“Yes. For arson and extortion. You’re also mentioned as a victim, President.”