The press conference was held in the grand ballroom of the Namhae Imperial Hotel, a space more accustomed to weddings and corporate galas than to the public reckoning of a pharmaceutical empire. The chandeliers were crystal, the carpets were crimson, and the stage had been arranged with the precision of a theater production: a single podium of polished mahogany, a backdrop of midnight blue velvet, and a string quartet playing something soft and mournful that Hana recognized as a late Beethoven quartet—the one he wrote after he had gone completely deaf, when he could no longer hear the music except in his own mind.
Dr. Lee Hiroshi had chosen the music himself. He had chosen everything himself, from the seating arrangements to the lighting to the exact shade of his tie, which was a deep burgundy that matched the color of the Soma-X capsules with unsettling precision. He stood at the podium with the relaxed confidence of a man who had spent his life addressing audiences far more hostile than this one, and when he spoke, his voice was warm and resonant, the voice of a beloved professor explaining a difficult concept to a promising student.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, distinguished guests, citizens of Namhae," Lee began, his hands resting lightly on the sides of the podium. "I have called this conference today to address the allegations that have been made against Kurosu Pharma, and to offer my deepest, most sincere condolences to the families of those who have died."
The room was packed. Every major news outlet in the country had sent representatives, their cameras positioned in a semicircle around the stage like a firing squad preparing to execute a prisoner. Hana stood at the back of the room, her press credentials—obtained through a contact at one of the capital newspapers—clipped to her jacket. Park was not with her. He was still at the police station, processing the arrest of Captain Yoon and coordinating with the special prosecutor's office. But Hana had not wanted to miss this. She wanted to see Lee Hiroshi's face when he tried to explain away the deaths of eighty-four people.
"Kurosu Pharma was founded on a single principle," Lee continued, his voice carrying effortlessly across the ballroom. "The principle that human suffering should not be accepted as inevitable. For sixty years, this company has dedicated itself to developing treatments for the diseases that cause the most pain and the most despair. We have brought hope to millions of patients and their families. We have contributed billions to the national economy. We have been recognized internationally for our commitment to innovation and excellence."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the audience with an expression of carefully calibrated sorrow. "But in the pursuit of that innovation, mistakes were made. The Soma-X program, which was intended to develop a breakthrough treatment for vascular dementia, was conducted without proper oversight. The compassionate use protocols that were designed to protect vulnerable patients were circumvented by individuals within the company who placed expediency above ethics. And as a result, lives were lost. For those losses, I take full responsibility."
A murmur ran through the room. Hana felt her jaw tighten. Lee was doing exactly what she had expected him to do—acknowledging the deaths while deflecting blame, expressing sorrow while accepting no consequences, offering condolences while preparing to walk away unscathed. It was the performance of a lifetime, delivered by a man who had spent decades perfecting the art of saying nothing while appearing to say everything.
"Effective immediately," Lee said, "I am announcing the suspension of all Soma-X trials, the closure of the Harbor Light Hospice and the Way of Peace Nursing Home, and the establishment of a victims' compensation fund endowed with five hundred million won. This fund will provide financial support to the families of those who died, as well as to the survivors of the trials who are still living. It is my hope that this gesture, however inadequate, will begin to address the harm that has been done."
The cameras flashed. Journalists scribbled in their notebooks. And then Lee did something that surprised even Hana: he picked up a violin from a stand beside the podium and tucked it under his chin.
"I would like to play a piece of music," he said, his voice softer now. "It is the Sarabande from Bach's Partita No. 2 in D Minor. Bach wrote this piece after the death of his first wife, Maria Barbara. It is a meditation on grief, on loss, on the impossibility of expressing in words what the heart feels in moments of profound sorrow. I offer it now as a tribute to those who have died, and as a promise that their deaths will not be in vain."
The string quartet fell silent. Lee raised the bow, closed his eyes, and began to play.
The music that filled the ballroom was achingly beautiful. Hana had heard the Bach partita before—she had once owned a recording of it, played by a cellist whose name she could no longer remember—but she had never heard it like this. Lee's playing was technically flawless, each note precise and clear, but there was something else beneath the technique, something that made the music feel less like a performance and more like an argument. It was as though Lee were trying to convince the audience, through the eloquence of his bow arm, that a man who could create such beauty could not possibly be a monster.
And it was working. Hana could see it in the faces of the journalists around her—the way their skepticism was softening, the way their pens were pausing, the way their eyes were growing moist despite themselves. Lee was not merely playing the violin. He was seducing them, using art to bypass their critical faculties and speak directly to their emotions. It was the most cynical manipulation Hana had ever witnessed, and it was also one of the most effective.
When the final note faded into silence, the ballroom was still for a long moment. Then the applause began, tentative at first, then growing, spreading through the audience like a wave. Journalists who had arrived prepared to eviscerate Lee Hiroshi were now rising to their feet, their hands coming together in involuntary tribute. The man had played a grieving widower's lament at a press conference meant to address the deaths of eighty-four people, and the sheer audacity of it had left the room unable to respond with anything except applause.
Lee lowered the violin and bowed his head, accepting the ovation with the humility of a man who had expected nothing less. When the applause finally subsided, he returned to the podium and delivered his final statement.
"In the coming weeks, Kurosu Pharma will cooperate fully with all investigations into the Soma-X program. We will turn over all documents requested by the special prosecutor. We will make our employees available for interviews. We will accept whatever findings the authorities reach, and we will implement whatever reforms they recommend. The era of secrecy is over. The era of accountability has begun."
He paused, and for a moment, his mask slipped—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Hana to see something cold and calculating behind the warm, sorrowful eyes. Then the mask was back, and Lee was bowing again, and the press conference was over.
Hana pushed through the crowd toward the stage, her heart pounding with fury. She reached the edge of the platform just as Lee was stepping down, his violin case in one hand and his bow in the other. Two security guards moved to intercept her, but Lee raised a hand to stop them.
"Ms. Yoon," he said, his voice as pleasant as it had been at the podium. "I was wondering when you would introduce yourself. I've been following your work with great interest. You have a remarkable talent for uncovering things that others would prefer to keep hidden."
"You just stood on that stage and played a violin while eighty-four people are dead." Hana's voice was shaking. "You offered condolences in the form of stock options. You called their murders a mistake. And you think a compensation fund and a Bach partita will make everyone forget what you've done?"
"I think," Lee said quietly, "that the world is more complicated than you understand. The compensation fund will help hundreds of families who would otherwise receive nothing. The reforms I've announced will prevent similar tragedies in the future. And the music—" He smiled, a thin expression that did not reach his eyes. "The music was a gift to the dead. They cannot hear it, of course. But the living can. And the living are the ones who will decide what happens next."
"The living are already deciding. The special prosecutor has issued warrants for your arrest and the arrest of your entire executive board. Your compliance officer is testifying against you. Your police captain is in a holding cell. The system you thought would protect you is crumbling."
Lee's smile did not waver. "The system, Ms. Yoon, is more resilient than you think. I have survived investigations before. I have survived scandals, lawsuits, regulatory actions, and the concerted efforts of journalists far more experienced than you. The compensation fund is not a bribe. It is a recognition that the families of the dead deserve something for their loss. And if it also serves to demonstrate to the public that Kurosu Pharma is a responsible corporate citizen that takes accountability seriously—well, that is simply good public relations."
He turned to go, then paused. "One more thing, Ms. Yoon. You should know that the special prosecutor's warrants are not the end of this story. They are the beginning of a new chapter—one that will be written not in courtrooms, but in the court of public opinion. And in that court, I have resources that you cannot begin to imagine."
He walked away, his security guards closing in around him, and Hana was left standing at the edge of the stage, the applause of the journalists still echoing in her ears. She had watched Lee Hiroshi confess to atrocity while accepting no blame, mourn the dead while planning his next move, and play a violin while the families of his victims stood outside the hotel holding photographs of people they had loved.
She pulled out her phone and called Park. "He's going to get away with it," she said when he answered. "He's going to pay a fine and offer condolences and walk away, and everyone in that room was ready to applaud him for it."
"Not everyone," Park said. "Not us. And not the families who were outside the hotel. Did you see them? They didn't applaud. They held up their photographs and they wept, and every camera in Namhae captured it. Lee can play all the Bach he wants, but he can't unplay those images. The public is watching now. The system is watching. And we still have the evidence. We still have the witnesses. We still have Cho, wherever he is."
"Cho sent another message this morning. He says Phase Four is bigger than we thought. It's not just six facilities in three provinces. It's a network that extends across borders, into countries where the regulations are even weaker than ours. He says Lee has been planning this for years—a global expansion of the Soma-X program, using the most vulnerable populations in the developing world."
Park was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was grim. "Then we need to find Cho. We need to find him before Lee's people do, and we need to get his testimony on the record. He's the only one who knows the full scope of the operation. Without him, we can indict Lee for the deaths in Namhae. With him, we can expose the whole network."
Hana looked out the window of the hotel ballroom. The crowd of families was still gathered on the sidewalk below, their photographs held high, their faces illuminated by the flashing cameras of the press. Among them, she saw a familiar figure—Jin Seok, still gaunt from his poisoning, standing shoulder to shoulder with the families of the dead. He was not holding a photograph. He was holding a single persimmon, its skin glowing orange in the afternoon light, an offering to the woman he had called Grandmother Stone.
The violin music still echoed in Hana's mind, beautiful and terrible, a requiem for the dead played by the man who had killed them. But the image that stayed with her was not Lee Hiroshi and his perfectly executed sarabande. It was Jin Seok and his persimmon, standing among the grieving families, bearing witness to the truth that no amount of money and no amount of music could ever erase.
The battle was not over. It was only beginning.
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