It was a soulless exclamation.
Song Joo-eun roughly shoved the empty cereal bowl and spoon into the dishwasher.
The clattering of the dishes echoed through the silent kitchen.
Here is a list of movies and dramas I have carefully selected for you to watch while you eat.
Would you like to take a look?>
Scanning the hologram list floating in mid-air, Song Joo-eun’s brow furrowed.
It was filled with nothing but psychological thrillers and documentaries on AI ethics.
“Hey, are you really going to keep suggesting things related to my work until the very end?
Does everyone think I’m some kind of workaholic robot?”
Then how about this?
These are the videos currently receiving the highest traffic in real-time.>
The screen changed, and a series of short videos,
barely a minute long, were laid out in a grid.
Provocative thumbnails and garish captions strained her eyes.
“You expect me to kill time with this?
These are just for commuting or a quick break. Besides,
if people repeatedly watch such fleeting videos, their brains….”
Song Joo-eun stopped herself and fell silent.
She was sick and tired of her own professional habit of trying to analyze even the moments she meant to rest.
She pressed her hand to her forehead, her face clouded with frustration.
You are correct. I failed to consider the paper you published seven years ago.>
‘Seven years ago...’
Song Joo-eun couldn’t respond to Artistea’s pinpoint apology.
2021. That year once again stirred the fragments of memories buried deep within her mind.
* * *
- An office at CAI.
A year had passed since the release of Artistea.
The world was in a frenzy over her.
The phones at the CAI office rang so incessantly it felt as if the cords might be ripped out,
and mountains of interview requests occupied the communal tables.
For Mr. Bisnail, the head of finance,
it was both a golden age and a season of war.
He was desperate to clear the massive debts incurred during Artistea’s development.
“The development team needs to show their faces! The public wants the stories of geniuses!”
When stock prices skyrocketed following Chapman’s interview—
the one where he spoke of God—
Bisnail pushed the developers toward the broadcasting stations with unwavering conviction.
He specifically pointed to Song Joo-eun and Karida,
making the blatant assertion that they should become the icons of the company,
possessing both beauty and brilliance.
Song Joo-eun felt uncomfortable with the proposal.
Yet, it was difficult to refuse.
Having grown up watching her parents’ hunched backs as they spent all day ironing in a cramped laundry shop,
she knew the terror of money better than anyone.
Though she was now a successful scholar and lived in abundance thanks to her husband,
the survival instinct etched deep into her marrow made it impossible to ignore the company’s debt.
Or, more accurately, she didn’t even have the time to spend money.
She was so consumed with research and recruiting talent that she had no leisure to check her bank balance.
Ultimately, Song Joo-eun agreed to the broadcast interview carefully selected by Mr. Bisnail.
But doing it alone was out of the question.
She decided to hide behind the ever-approachable Sato Haru.
Sato Haru took off her glasses and rubbed them irritably against the hem of her shirt.
“Honestly, you, Karida, and even that old man Bisnail....
Why does everyone want to go with me?”
She grumbled, furrowing her brow.
Her eyes were sunken, likely the aftermath of an all-nighter.
“Because, Haru, you’re a strong person I can rely on?”
Song Joo-eun smiled as she handed her a freshly brewed cup of coffee from the breakroom.
“Oh, is that so?
Even in the eyes of our great Dr. Song, do I look that way?
Is that the result of your scholarly analysis?”
Despite her rough tone,
Sato took the coffee from her and put her glasses back on with a playful expression.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously behind the lenses.
“Haha, do you want to hear my scholarly analysis? You see, Haru is....”
“Hey! No! Stop! Don’t analyze me! I don’t want to hear it!”
Sato, horrified, lunged at Song Joo-eun and gestured as if to cover her mouth.
Song Joo-eun leaned back and burst into laughter.
A brief spark of life returned to the desolate office.
“Hahaha, you two look like you’re having fun.”
Just then, Karida’s head popped up from over the partition.
Instead of her usual hoodie,
she was wearing a blouse that looked quite sophisticated.
“Ah, Karida. Do you want to come too?”
Sato brushed off her wrinkled shirt sleeves as she stepped away from Song Joo-eun.
“Where to?” Karida tilted her head.
“Mr. Bisnail gave me an earful earlier about having to go on air.
Ugh, look at all this dust. We really need to clean this place up.”
Sato grumbled as she swept her hand over the piles of documents on the table.
Dust flew into the air.
“Ah, I have to appear on another broadcast tomorrow.
And there’s a magazine shoot... and...”
“What? Really?”
Sato Haru and Song Joo-eun shouted in unison,
their eyes widening in surprise.
“Hey, what on earth is that old man up to?
He’s raking in money with Artistea as it is!
Isn’t this crossing a line?!”
Sato shook her head so vigorously that her glasses nearly slipped off as she railed against Bisnail.
“Karida, don’t feel forced to go to those things. We’ll handle it ourselves.”
But Karida only gave a bashful, innocent smile.
“I’m fine. It seems fun, and actually,
I was the one who volunteered to go first.”
“Karida, are you really okay with this? I mean... culturally...”
Song Joo-eun trailed off.
She was concerned about how Karida’s background—
Iraq and the Muslim world—
might perceive a woman’s public activities.
“It’s alright. Who over there is going to watch American television?
Even if they do, it would only be high-ranking officials,
and they’re all beneath my father. Don’t worry.”
At Karida’s naive response, Sato adjusted her glasses and asked:
“What? Just what does her father do for a living?”
“I don’t really know either.
I just heard he’s the Chairman of a famous heavy industry company in Iraq.”
Song Joo-eun shrugged her shoulders.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“Maybe she’s a descendant of royalty?
Aren’t there still quite a few kingdoms in the Middle East?
Or an oil tycoon?”
“Oh, it’s not like that. Anyway, you two have a good trip!”
Karida slipped out of the office,
humming a cheerful tune as if to avoid the question.
Sato and Song Joo-eun stared at each other blankly until the clicking of her heels faded into the distance.
“Should I just go and ask her point-blank?”
Sato started to get up from her seat.
“Don’t. She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
Besides, haven’t you already tried dozens of times every time you drink?”
Song Joo-eun stopped her,
tapping Sato’s shoulder with the documents she was holding.
“Ah... well, yeah. True. But she always makes me so curious.”
Sato smacked her lips and flopped back into her chair.
The chair springs let out a protesting creak.
“Leave it be. It seems we’re the only ones she’s even mentioned her father’s company to.”
“Tsk. Can’t you use that psychology or whatever of yours to coax it out of her?”
“What? That’s not what I studied for.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re so noble. I’d better get going, too.
I need to at least iron my clothes to get ready for the interview. See you tomorrow.”
Sato waved her hand and headed back to her seat.
Song Joo-eun let out a short chuckle watching her walk away, but the laughter didn’t last long.
For the broadcast they appeared on the next day would remain a horrific memory for them both.
* * *
World Times Live Studio
“We don’t necessarily view it as negative.
Even Artistea’s responses are designed to adjust their length based on the user’s tendencies and requirements.
As a psychologist, I am merely stating the facts based on research results.
I am not claiming that people are becoming fools because of these results.”
However, Song Joo-eun’s explanation scattered into the void.
Rather than focusing on Artistea’s innovation,
that day’s broadcast was closer to a hearing,
dissecting her recently published paper,
『The Adverse Effects of Repeated, Short-Cycle Stimuli on Humans』.
In the paper,
she argued that repeated stimuli,
such as short-form content,
rob humans of the time to contemplate.
To prove this, she had poured in vast amounts of time and resources while controlling numerous variables.
Yet, her reputation as the developer of Artistea was a double-edged sword.
The public and the media exploited her pure academic research as a tool for political strife.
‘They said this was an interview to promote Artistea.
Why did no one tell me it would be a place to attack my paper?’
Song Joo-eun frowned, looking around in frustration.
Her dream was simple.
‘I want to know the human heart.’
But the path to that dream was treacherous.
It was layered with obstacles:
being a woman, an Asian, coming from poverty,
and the constant pressure to prove her merit through performance.
“I see. We might also consider the fact that peer review within the academic community has not yet been completed.”
Jimmy Kane, seated in the anchor’s chair,
continued with a smile so oily it bordered on nauseating.
“But considering the reputation you’ve built,
Doctor, wouldn’t it be impossible to ignore the impact?
At the very least,
you would agree that this paper is a direct critique of the short-form content market currently exploding worldwide, wouldn’t you?”
Kane’s questions were subtle and malicious.
Song Joo-eun’s mind went blank.
“I….”
Her mouth felt bone-dry.
The words wouldn’t come.
Kane didn’t miss the opening.
“Seeing as you remain silent, I suppose it’s safe to assume you agree.
Some say this is intentional noise marketing designed to suppress competing platforms in order to recoup Artistea’s development costs.
What are your thoughts on that?”
As the questions grew more blatant, in Song Joo-eun’s eyes,
Kane’s face began to resemble a fighting cock preparing to devour an early worm.
No matter how she answered, he had already reached a conclusion and was herding her toward it.
‘Is this what the bullies who tormented me as a child look like when they put on suits and seize power?’
“What is the true purpose of this paper?
You’re aware of the conspiracy theories suggesting your husband,
CIA Director Brian Lennon,
ordered you to use Artistea to control global information, aren’t you?
Didn’t you release this paper specifically to pressure your competitors?”
THUD!
That was when. Sato Haru, seated next to her,
kicked back her chair with a sound like a cannon blast and stood up.
“Wait, what the hell kind of bullshit is that?!”
Forgetting she was on live television,
Sato pointed her finger accusingly at anchor Jimmy Kane.
Then, she roughly grabbed the wrist of the dazed Song Joo-eun and pulled.
“Did you even bother to properly research Joo-eun before asking these questions?
Did you ever check if she has violated her conscience as a scholar even once?
Do you have any idea how much effort she puts in?
She stayed up every single night,
trying to be of even a little help to people,
trying to make sure they could use it more safely and happily.
What do you know?
Do you even understand the contents of the paper?”
Everyone was dazed by Sato’s momentum,
which felt like someone dragging out cannons hidden in an armory and firing them all at once.
One unnamed staff member even wore an ecstatic expression, as if having fallen for Sato.
“Hey, let’s go.”
While Jimmy Kane, stunned by the attack, could only stare blankly,
Sato pulled Song Joo-eun to her feet.
“What kind of garbage interview is this?”
Sato shook off the hands of the rushing staff members and strode toward the studio exit,
pulling Song Joo-eun along.
“Ah, damn it. We shouldn’t have invited those two.
We should’ve just called Chapman; he’s a smooth talker.”
A staff member behind the camera muttered in an irritated voice.
The sound pierced Sato’s ears.
Sato stopped in her tracks and whipped around. Her eyes blazed with fury.
“Hey! You crazy bastards!
Who were the ones that called us here just because a ‘pretty woman’ would look good on screen?!”
The entire studio froze.
Anchor Kane’s face turned a mottled shade of red and purple.
“What did you say?
You’re the ones who crawled out here all too happily because we said we’d pay you a lot!
Do you have any idea how much money we stuffed into the pockets of your finance chief, Bisnail?
This broadcast accident today—
we are not letting this go. Just you wait for the lawsuit!”
Kane shouted back,
the veins in his neck bulging as he refused to give an inch.
Neither Sato nor Song Joo-eun knew how much Mr. Bisnail had received.
The man was always whining about being broke.
The fact that he—
who complained daily about the need for more features and precision in Artistea while pleading for funds—
had pocketed a massive appearance fee behind their backs made Sato flip her lid.
“Hey! What did you just say? Damages?!”
“Haru! Stop! Please, let’s just get out of here.”
Pale with fright, Song Joo-eun desperately pulled on Sato’s arm.
Ultimately, that day’s broadcast ended in an unprecedented disaster.
Jimmy Kane and World Times did indeed proceed with the lawsuit.
Bisnail went on a rampage,
ranting that Chapman alone was enough when it came to causing trouble,
while Karida gathered the documents for the lawsuit through her tears.
Watching the chaos from the sidelines,
Chapman stared intently at Song Joo-eun,
who stood there dazed, and let out a short chuckle.
“Same as ever.”
Song Joo-eun could not grasp the meaning of those words.
She simply tilted her head, thinking Chapman was making another incomprehensible remark.
* * *
Song Joo-eun did not remember exactly what measures Lennon had taken after the incident.
All she could recall through the hazy fog was the outcome—
that they had won the case thanks to the formidable legal team he had hired.
‘Why can’t I remember?
Is it a defense mechanism?
But I’m the one who researches and treats this...
yet I can’t even look into my own heart...’
As her thoughts spiraled,
a throbbing pain began to pulse in her head.
She stared blankly at her phone,
where the chat window remained frozen.
‘Should I ask Artistea?
No. I’m the one who designed it to warn of the dangers of using it for medical counseling.
I cannot break my own principles.’
Out of frustration,
Song Joo-eun rose from her seat and began to walk slowly through the sprawling house.
Passing the kitchen and entering a long hallway,
she saw countless works of art displayed along the walls.
Paintings by famous artists, exquisite marble statues,
and ceramics from around the world.
Not a single one of them was an original.
They were all replicas,
precisely produced by a 3D printer after Artistea had learned and analyzed the original data.
The technology was flawless,
but they lacked the warmth that time provides.
“Ah, I’m just getting irritated for no reason. It doesn’t even feel like I’m resting.”
While I cannot say for certain,
others might be waiting to hear from you as well, Doctor.
Since it is the beginning of the year,
why not reach out to them?
Or, I could plan a trip for you.>
Having recognized Song Joo-eun’s words,
Artistea processed her words quickly and replied.
She stared blankly at the phone in her hand.
‘Was the dream of that day truly realized?’
“Right, you... you were always designed to wait for humans.”
Song Joo-eun gave a bitter smile and took out a jade-colored ceramic piece from the display case.
Its soft curves and subtle celadon hue.
It was a replica of the Goryeo celadon her parents—
who had passed away over a decade ago—
had cherished so much.
For her, having moved to the UK as a child with only the folktales told by her parents as memories of Korea,
this ceramic piece was like her only remaining root.
‘A trip... alone? Where should I go?’
Suddenly, she remembered Sato Haru’s suggestions to visit Korea whenever she went to Japan.
Each time, she had refused.
Her older brother,
who reportedly died during the Gwangju Democratization Movement,
and her parents,
who had lived trapped within that sorrow.
To her, Korea was a land where painful wounds were buried,
rather than a place of longing.
“If I tell Haru I’m going to Korea alone, she’ll be furious, won’t she?”
“Is that so? She gets mad every time she sees me.”
It was then,
while she was lost in thought,
stroking the smooth surface of the ceramic.
Clack—
The sound of the front door opening without warning echoed through the house.
Song Joo-eun’s nerves tightened.
Today was not the day for the caretaker’s visit.
She carefully set down the ceramic and headed toward the bedroom,
muffling her footsteps.
Step. Step.
The sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway drew closer.
A steady, confident stride.
Too calm to be a thief.
Nevertheless, she reached under the mattress and pulled out the handgun hidden there.
This was the home of the Secretary of Defense.
It wouldn’t be strange for any kind of intruder to burst in.
Click—
The bedroom door opened.
“Freeze! I have a gun, hands up!”
At her shout, the visitor dropped the bag he was holding onto the floor with a heavy thud.
From Chapter 19 onward, updates will be posted every two days.