The legal papers arrived wrapped around a baguette.
I stared at the French bread on our counter, its crust split open to reveal the rolled-up documents inside. The flour dusting the parchment stuck to my fingers like ash.
"Moon & Son v. Han Baking: Intellectual Property Theft, Defamation, and Unfair Competition."
Dae-ho let out a low whistle. "They're really going with the 'you stole our stolen recipes' defense?"
Jeong's mist curled around the baguette, darkening where it touched the paper.
The Accusation
Anton Laurent held his press conference at the Grand Hyatt, flanked by Moon & Son's lawyers.
"Han Baking has fraudulently claimed ownership of recipes developed by our R&D team," he declared, flashing a document dated 1972—a recipe for hotteok with Moon & Son's letterhead.
The TV screen flickered as Grandfather's fist connected with the counter. "That's Seong-ho's handwriting!"
Taehyun, hunched over his laptop, pulled up a digital archive. "They've backdated everything. Even faked a lab notebook." His fingers flew across the keys. "But look—the ink spectral analysis doesn't match the paper age."
A knock interrupted us. Three health inspectors in white coats stood at the door.
"Anonymous tip," said the lead inspector. "Alleged rodent infestation."
Jeong's mist shot toward the basement—where we stored Seong-ho's original notebooks.
The Basement
The inspectors tore through our kitchen with surgical precision, swabbing surfaces and peering into mixing bowls. I slipped downstairs, Jeong's mist guiding me to a loose floorboard beneath the flour bins.
The hidden compartment held three items:
Seong-ho's 1973 Paris Expo badge
A black-and-white photo of him with a young Chairman Kang
A postcard from Claire: "The yeast behaves strangely here. Bring the Korean starter."
A boot scuffed the stairs. Laurent stood silhouetted in the doorway, his phone recording. "Stealing evidence, mademoiselle?"
Jeong's mist surged—just as the lights went out.
The Blackout
In the darkness, three things happened:
A sickening crack (Laurent's phone hitting the concrete)
A yowl (probably Dae-ho's doing)
The unmistakable sound of Taehyun's dress shoe connecting with a shin
When the lights flickered on, Laurent was clutching his ankle, the postcard safely tucked into my apron. The inspectors frowned at their contaminated swabs.
"These tests are useless now," muttered one.
Taehyun adjusted his tie. "What a shame."
The Counterattack
We reconvened at dawn in the only safe place left—Mrs. Park's tearoom.
Taehyun spread the evidence on the lacquered table:
Sunyang's 1972 financial records (proving Moon & Son didn't exist yet)
Claire's lab notes (showing the hotteok recipe's true origin)
A single vial of bluish powder
"This," Taehyun said, "is what they mixed into your flour."
Dae-ho leaned in. "Looks like laundry detergent."
"It's calcium propionate laced with bromate—banned in the EU since 1990." His jaw tightened. "My grandfather used it in Sunyang's bakeries... until workers started getting sick."
Jeong's mist recoiled from the vial.
The Broadcast
Dae-ho's livestream hit 500,000 viewers in ten minutes.
We didn't just present evidence—we baked with it.
On camera, I made two batches of hotteok:
Moon & Son's "original" recipe (with their additives)
Seong-ho's 1973 version
The difference was visceral. Their dough stank of chemicals; ours sang with honey and yeast.
When I fed both to lab mice (courtesy of Taehyun's science club connections), the results spoke for themselves:
Moon & Son batch: Mice became lethargic within minutes.
Han Baking batch: Mice happily stole extra crumbs.
The video ended with me holding Seong-ho's Expo badge to the camera. "This man invented what they're stealing. And he died for it."
The Aftermath
Laurent was on a plane to Paris by nightfall.
Moon & Son's stocks plummeted.
And Chairman Kang arrived at our door with two bottles of soju and a weary smile.
"Your uncle," he told me, "would be proud."
As he and Grandfather drank to Seong-ho's memory, Taehyun slipped me a note:
"Meet me at the train station. Bring the postcard."
Jeong's mist swirled toward the tracks, brighter than I'd ever seen.