The Frenchman arrived on a Thursday, when the humidity made the dough sticky and tempers shorter.
I knew the moment he entered—not by the jingle of the bell, but by the way Taehyun's shoulders stiffened mid-knead, his knuckles bleaching white around the dough scraper.
"Anton Laurent," the man announced, his Korean flawless but his accent dripping Parisian arrogance. He flicked a business card onto the flour-dusted counter. "Moon & Son's new... quality assurance consultant."
The card smelled like expensive cologne and betrayal.
The Inspection
Laurent made a show of examining our kitchen, his designer loafers squeaking against the tile. He paused at the starter jar, sniffed, then smirked.
"Forty-three years?" He tapped the glass. "In France, we have starters dating to Napoleon."
Jeong's mist coiled around my ankles like an agitated cat.
"Funny," I said, loading a tray of pain au son into the oven. "Your last bakery went bankrupt after a Staphylococcus outbreak."
The color drained from his face. That scandal hadn't made Korean news—but Taehyun's intel network reached far.
The Challenge
At noon, Laurent returned with a camera crew.
"Monsieur Han!" He spread his arms like a game show host. "A friendly competition, yes? Your hotteok versus our new 'Seoul Delight.'"
Moon & Son's version glistened under the lights, perfectly round, dusted with photogenic powdered sugar. Ours were irregular, their edges caramelized dark from the cast-iron pan.
The reporter handed samples to passing shoppers.
"Moon & Son's is sweeter!" a teenager exclaimed.
But the grandmother who tried ours pressed a wrinkled hand to her chest. "This... this tastes like my mother's kitchen."
Laurent's smile turned brittle.
The Sabotage
They struck that night.
I was elbow-deep in tomorrow's starter when the crash echoed from the alley. By the time I reached the back door, the intruder was gone—but our flour sacks lay slashed open, their contents strewn across the pavement like fresh snow.
Taehyun arrived ten minutes later, his pajama pants stuffed into rain boots, a baseball bat in hand.
"Security cameras?"
"Pointing the wrong way." I crouched, sifting flour through my fingers. Then I froze. "There's something mixed in."
Tiny blue pellets glittered amidst the white—rat poison.
Jeong's mist turned the color of a bruise.
The Countermove
We worked through dawn.
Taehyun called every Sunyang-connected supplier. Mother scrubbed the contaminated equipment. And I—
I baked.
Not in our tainted kitchen, but in the park across the street, using the portable oven we kept for festivals. Neighbors brought their own bowls and spoons. The elderly woman from the tea shop contributed her vintage mixing bowl.
By sunrise, we'd produced 200 perfect hotteok—and livestreamed every step to Dae-ho's 85,000 followers.
"This is real bread," he narrated, zooming in on Laurent's face as he watched from across the street. "Made by real hands in your damn neighborhood."
The Alliance
The health department arrived at Moon & Son at 9:01 AM.
Not because of our complaint—but because Chairman Kang had called them personally.
Taehyun watched from our doorway as officials hauled away boxes of Laurent's "artisan" dough. "Grandfather doesn't appreciate foreigners disrespecting Korean food traditions," he murmured.
I handed him a hotteok fresh from the park oven. "Tell him thanks."
For the first time, Taehyun's smile reached his eyes.
Jeong's mist curled around our shoulders like a shared shawl as the first autumn wind blew in.