Overnight, snow had blanketed Central Park, transforming the vast view beyond the penthouse's wide windows into a field of white. Dressed in light loungewear, Seok-won sat by the sunlit window of his Plaza Hotel penthouse, enjoying a leisurely breakfast.
On the table before him were scrambled eggs, toast topped with avocado, and a steaming cup of coffee.
It was a simple meal, yet every item had been prepared with the finest ingredients by the Plaza Hotel's executive chef himself.
Across the room, a large television mounted on the wall was playing CNN. The famous anchor was reporting on how the much-feared Y2K bug had passed without any major issues.
There had been minor incidents around the world — such as a 101-year-old man being mistaken for a one-year-old child by an airline reservation system, leading to the wrong birth year being printed on his boarding pass — but compared to the catastrophic computer failures everyone had feared, it was a remarkably smooth transition into the new millennium.
"The only reason we got through the Y2K problem unscathed," Seok-won murmured, "was because governments and corporations around the world poured astronomical sums of money and manpower into fixing it."
Although it hadn't been widely publicized to prevent public panic, the truth was that most nations and major companies had been operating on a near-war footing for months.
Since the Y2K crisis had first come to light, the global cost of resolving the issue had reached a staggering four hundred billion dollars.
Programmers across the world had worked without weekends or holidays for an entire year, dedicating themselves day and night to debugging and fixing errors.
It was, quite literally, the sacrifice of countless programmers that allowed humanity to avert what could have been a global catastrophe.
As Seok-won took another sip of his coffee, he suddenly recalled the IT departments of Bluehole Securities and WB Bank — which he had briefly visited before leaving for the United States.
The employees there had looked utterly exhausted, their wrinkled, grimy shirts stained with sweat, and the dark circles under their eyes so deep they might as well have reached their knees.
They had shaved in a rush upon hearing that Seok-won was coming, but the fatigue etched into their faces was impossible to hide. The memory made him feel a pang of sympathy.
"I should tell them to make sure those people get a generous bonus," Seok-won murmured, popping the last bite of avocado toast into his mouth.
Just then, a familiar face appeared on the television screen.
It was none other than Donald Trump — the famous New York real estate developer who, in the future, would go on to become President of the United States.
"Right… if I remember correctly, he ran in the Republican primaries but dropped out early and then switched to the Reform Party to run in the presidential election," Seok-won recalled, thinking back to what Landon had once reported.
On CNN, the interviewer asked:
"There are rumors that you're planning to run as a candidate for the Reform Party. Is that true?"
Donald Trump, ever the showman, gestured dramatically as he replied:
"That's right. If the Reform Party nominates me as their presidential candidate, I plan to spend one hundred million dollars on my campaign."
The anchor looked momentarily taken aback by his confident declaration, made straight into the camera.
"A hundred million dollars is an enormous sum. Are you serious?"
With a smug lift of his chin, Trump responded proudly:
"My net worth exceeds five billion dollars. Coming up with that kind of money isn't difficult for me."
"That's incredible," the anchor said, smiling wryly. "As expected from one of the biggest names in real estate."
"Ha ha ha! It's something only I can do," Trump boasted, puffing out his chest.
Listening to their exchange, Seok-won let out a quiet, amused chuckle.
It was true that Donald Trump was a prominent real estate magnate with immense wealth.
But most of that fortune was tied up in property — not in liquid cash.
Of course, one might assume he could simply take out loans using those assets as collateral.
However, nearly all of his land and buildings were already pledged to secure financing for a massive new real estate development project he was pursuing, making additional borrowing extremely difficult.
"He said he's building a massive casino, hotel, and resort complex in Atlantic City, New Jersey, all under his own name."
It was a colossal real estate project, costing over one billion dollars.
Yet, despite his ambitious plans, the bursting of the dot-com bubble and the ensuing real estate downturn soon hit, and the entire project collapsed into bankruptcy.
"He's already gone bankrupt twice before, so this isn't anything particularly extraordinary," Seok-won thought.
From this perspective, Donald Trump wasn't exactly a financial prodigy, no matter how polished his public image appeared.
Still, the fact that he had repeatedly bounced back from bankruptcy and leveraged his image as a resilient real estate mogul to eventually reach the White House showed that he was not a man to underestimate.
"Even if you're nominated in the primaries, the Reform Party is so new that its support base is weak. Doesn't that make winning the general election highly unlikely?"
The anchor asked, trying to probe him, and Trump responded with his usual self-assured swagger:
"Exactly why I must be the candidate. If I can spend more money than the Republican or Democratic nominees, I can win the election."
Seok-won let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head at Trump's blatant admission of planning to buy his way to victory.
"One thing's certain," he mused, "now and in the future, Donald Trump is as consistent as ever."
The irony was that, at this moment, most people viewed Trump's behavior as foolish and negative. Yet in a few years, he would ride the enthusiasm of the American public to win re-election, proving his critics wrong.
"Life really is unpredictable," Seok-won muttered, taking a sip of coffee.
At that moment, his cellphone vibrated on the table.
He picked it up and, seeing the name on the screen, his eyes lit up as he quickly answered.
"Governor, what a surprise," he said.
[I hope I'm not bothering you while you're busy.]
George Walker Bush, the Governor of Texas, spoke in his cheerful, easygoing tone. Seok-won smiled in response.
"You're probably much busier than I am, Governor, given that you're deep in the middle of your campaign," Seok-won replied.
[Ha ha ha. That's true—I'm running around like crazy. But I actually called to say thank you.]
Seok-won immediately understood and responded.
"You mean for the donation," he said.
[Exactly. When Nick told me you contributed a million dollars, I thought he'd misheard and meant only a hundred thousand at first.]
It made sense—Seok-won had single-handedly donated an amount equivalent to one-tenth of all the primary fundraising so far collected by George W. Bush's campaign.
"I mentioned before that I would support you if you ran for president," Seok-won said.
[Yes, but I never expected you'd contribute such a large sum.]
"To win not only the primaries but also the general election and secure the White House, you need to have a strong financial backing. If you ever need more campaign funds, don't hesitate to let me know," Seok-won added casually.
Governor Bush burst out laughing at the nonchalant tone.
Since their first meeting over the acquisition of the Texas Rangers and several subsequent personal encounters, the two had developed a close rapport. Bush's voice was filled with gratitude.
[It's reassuring just to know that the richest man in the world has my back.]
"I only hope it helps, even if just a little, with the important work you're doing," Seok-won replied.
[I'll never forget what you've done to help.]
Reluctantly, Bush continued.
[I'd love to chat longer, but I have to catch a flight to Florida soon, so I'll have to hang up for now.]
"Of course," Seok-won said.
[We'll talk again soon.]
After ending the call, Seok-won set his cellphone down and thought to himself:
"So, the real primary race is about to begin."
If his memory served him right, the early stages would be chaotic, with no clear frontrunner. But as time passed, Governor George W. Bush—riding the prestige of his former president father—would steadily consolidate his lead.
Naturally, campaign donations would gravitate heavily toward the candidate with the highest poll numbers.
"The money given early in the race, when the campaign isn't yet well-funded, leaves a stronger impression and engenders more gratitude than contributions given when victory is almost certain."
That was exactly why Seok-won had provided such a substantial donation at this early stage.
Even seeing that Governor Bush himself, rather than his closest aide Nick Watt, who managed the campaign operations, had personally called to express his thanks, confirmed that the intended effect had been achieved.
As he sipped his coffee with a satisfied smile, someone approached and spoke.
"Boss."
Seok-won turned his head to see Landon walking over, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, and gave a slight nod.
"Come in."
"I hope I'm not interrupting your meal," Landon said.
"I was just finishing up and about to get up," Seok-won replied, waving it off. He stood and moved over to the living room sofa.
Landon followed, taking a seat on the left sofa, and got straight to the point.
"There's an interested party for the acquisition of the Modunet shares you mentioned last time."
"Who is it?"
"CalPERS."
"You mean the California Public Employees' Retirement System?"
"Yes, that's right."
The California Public Employees' Retirement System, commonly known as CalPERS, was established in 1932 and had grown into one of the world's five largest pension funds, managing hundreds of billions of dollars in assets.
"As you know, unlike other pension funds that focus on stable returns, CalPERS is famous for its aggressive investment strategies. When they heard you were selling the Modunet shares, they immediately expressed interest and sent the first purchase proposal," Landon explained.
"Silicon Valley is in California, so it makes sense they'd be interested in dot-com companies," Seok-won remarked.
"Other parties have also shown interest," Landon continued, "but CalPERS offered the most favorable terms."
Seok-won nodded and asked, "What price are they offering?"
"They proposed $90 per share, plus a 30% premium," Landon replied.
Resting both hands on the armrests, Seok-won quickly did the math in his head before speaking.
"That means the total sale would be roughly $620 million," he said.
"Exactly $628.87 million," Landon confirmed.
Landon then glanced at Seok-won's face and added, "As I mentioned, there are multiple interested buyers. If we give it a little more time, we could probably get an even better price."
Seok-won stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment before shaking his head.
"No. This is a fair price. Proceed with the deal as it stands."
"Understood," Landon said, hiding a hint of disappointment but accepting the decision without question.
"Ah, and there's one more thing I need to instruct you on," Seok-won added.
"Go ahead," Landon replied.
Seok-won lowered his voice slightly, speaking with seriousness:
"What's the current value of our Cisco shares?"
Without much hesitation, Landon immediately responded.
"Exact numbers would require a full calculation, but based on yesterday's closing price, it should be roughly $48.4 billion," Landon replied.
"Considering we spent less than $500 million to acquire those Cisco shares, that's an incredible return," Seok-won remarked.
"All thanks to your exceptional foresight, Boss," Landon said with a broad smile.
Indeed, Seok-won had identified Cisco early on as a prime beneficiary of the dot-com boom, yielding extraordinary profits—a fact that had not gone unnoticed by every investor on Wall Street.
Landon's cheerful expression quickly stiffened as Seok-won delivered his next instruction.
"Sell all of our Cisco shares in tranches."
"...!"