The notebook smelled like betrayal.
So-young pressed her palm flat against the yellowed pages of Seong-ho's journal, the brittle paper crackling under her touch. Moonlight bled through the Han estate's library windows, casting long shadows over the hastily scribbled formulas—fermentation ratios, temperature logs, notes in margins so cramped they looked like frantic afterthoughts.
Across the table, Li Na tapped her fingernail against a vial of murky liquid. "This can't be the Strain. It looks like pond water."
"It's not the Strain. It's the antidote," So-young corrected, tracing a diagram of what looked like a cross-section of bread dough, labeled in Seong-ho's jagged handwriting: *"Yeast strain HK-49: Neutralizes heavy metal absorption."*
A knot tightened in her chest. He'd been trying to fix it all along.
The kitchen door creaked open. Grandfather stood in the doorway, his silhouette rigid against the hallway light. For a man who'd built an empire on precision, he looked unnervingly off-balance—his knuckles white around his cane, his gaze locked on the notebook.
"Where did you find that?"
Li Na stiffened. So-young didn't blink. "Buried under the apricot tree. Right where you told me to look."
A lie. The tree had led her there—its roots upturning the soil in a perfect circle, as if nature itself had pointed. But Grandfather didn't need to know that.
He stepped forward, his shadow swallowing the pages. "That research was banned by the board. It was… unstable."
"Bullshit." Li Na slammed her palm on the table. The vial rattled. "You banned it because it would've cost Han Foods millions to reformulate. Healthier ingredients, slower fermentation—no profit in that, right?"
So-young expected anger. Instead, Grandfather exhaled like a man surrendering to gravity. "We were wrong."
Silence pooled between them. Somewhere in the house, a pipe groaned.
Then—
A notification chimed from Dae-ho's phone across the room. He squinted at the screen, then let out a low whistle. "Well. Moon & Son's moving fast." He turned the screen toward them: a press release announcing their new "Premium Heritage Line"—using "traditional Han family techniques."
So-young's stomach dropped. Their suppliers.
Just this morning, three of Han Bakes' oldest flour merchants had canceled contracts. Now she knew why.
"They're cutting us off at the knees," she muttered.
Li Na was already reaching for her coat. "I'll call the lawyers—"
"No." Grandfather's cane struck the floor. "Lawyers take time. We need bread on shelves tomorrow." His gaze slid to So-young. "What can you make with what we have left?"
2 Hours Later – Han Bakes Test Kitchen
The flour sack hissed as So-young ripped it open. Coarse, unbleached grains tumbled into the mixing bowl—a rustic blend from a tiny Gangwon-do mill, the last supplier still loyal to them.
"This isn't our usual grade." She rubbed a pinch between her fingers. "Higher bran content. It'll need extra hydration."
Dae-ho, perched on a stool, scrolled through his phone. "Moon & Son's trending. Hashtag RealTradition." He snorted. "Their 'artisan' loaf has xanthan gum as the third ingredient."
Li Na dumped a jar of wild yeast starter onto the counter. "So we give them real tradition." She nodded at Seong-ho's journal, open to a page titled "Emergency Levain." "Let's wake up the old man's recipes."
So-young's hands moved before her mind caught up—measuring water, folding in the stiff starter. The dough came together stubbornly, tearing at the edges. Wrong texture. Too dry. She reached for the kettle.
A hand stopped her.
Grandfather, sleeves rolled up past his bony elbows, pressed a vial into her palm—the murky antidote. "Try this."
She hesitated. "This is—"
"What he would've wanted."
The liquid smelled like nothing. Like rain on hot pavement. She stirred it in.
The change was immediate. The dough relaxed, turning supple as skin. When she lifted the edge, it stretched thin as rice paper without breaking.
Just like Mother's used to.
Li Na's breath hitched. "What the hell is that?"
"A culture Seong-ho isolated." Grandfather's voice was rough. "From the apricot tree's bark. It… resists contamination."
A truth, but not the whole one. So-young could see it in the way his throat worked around the words. She didn't press.
Instead, she shaped the dough into tight rounds, the way Seong-ho's notes dictated—"For maximum crust bloom." As she slid the loaves into the oven, the kitchen filled with a scent that shouldn't have existed: caramel and crushed herbs and something achingly familiar.
Dae-ho sniffed the air. "Weird. Smells like—"
"Grandmother's rice cakes," Grandfather finished quietly.
No one asked how he knew.
Dawn – Han Bakes Storefront
The bread sold out in 17 minutes.
So-young watched through the bakery window as a college student bit into the crust, then froze. The boy's eyes widened. He said something to his friend, who immediately took a bite—then bolted back to the counter to buy three more loaves.
Dae-ho grinned. "Called it. Hashtag BreadGate is trending." He flashed his screen: a side-by-side photo of Moon & Son's gummy slices and their own open-crumb masterpiece.
Li Na elbowed So-young. "Look."
Across the street, a Moon & Son executive stood scowling at the line snaking out of Han Bakes. He pulled out his phone, snapped a photo of their display—then tossed his own company's loaf into the trash.
So-young turned away before he could see her smile.
In her pocket, Seong-ho's journal weighed heavy. There were still pages she hadn't read. Secrets she wasn't ready for.
But for now, the dough had risen.
And for now, that was enough.