The next morning, presenting the SK Telecom idea to Mr. Choi felt like a dress rehearsal for a play where I knew the ending, but had to act surprised at every plot twist. I laid out my (his) logic: growing internet penetration, government support for infrastructure, solid fundamentals.
"Hmmph. Not going to make you rich overnight, boy, but it's a sound horse to bet on for a steady canter," Mr. Choi conceded, stroking his chin. "Alright. Call the broker. Buy 500,000 won worth at market open. And then, we watch. Don't you dare get itchy fingers just because it blips up or down a few hundred won."
The call was made. The trade executed. It was official. My first "legitimate" trade under his tutelage was live. I spent the day dutifully watching the SK Telecom price, making notes, asking what I hoped were intelligent questions about support levels and trading bands. Inside, though, another part of my brain was running a completely different, far more intricate simulation.
That evening, the café buzzed with its usual clatter and chatter. As I wiped down tables, the meager wad of my own earnings from weeks of work felt both pathetic and precious in my pocket.
This was the seed money for NeoPharm. Not Mr. Choi's clean, instructive half-million, but my money, earned through honest, mind-numbing labor. The irony wasn't lost on me. I was about to use it in a way that was anything but.
The plan for NeoPharm required a delicate touch, a puppeteer's finesse. The Korean internet of 2000 was a wilder, less policed space. Information, or misinformation, could catch fire quickly on the myriad of BBS-style forums and early stock discussion boards hosted on portals like Daum or Lycos Korea. Regulation around market manipulation via online rumor-mongering was practically non-existent, or at least very difficult to enforce. Anonymity was a given.
My first stop after my café shift was a PC Bang. These smoky, dimly lit havens, filled with the clatter of keyboards and the low murmur of dozens of online conversations, were perfect. Untraceable, mostly, if you paid cash and didn't use the same machine twice in a row. I chose one far from my neighborhood, paid for an hour, and sat down at a terminal in a shadowy corner.
My went to work designing my online "assets." I wouldn't be just one anonymous poster. That was too crude. I needed a small cast.
First, I created "saviourGojo." This persona would be cautious, thoughtful. He'd post on a popular stock message board called 'GaeMi's Gathering' (Ants' Gathering – a common term for retail investors). His first post was simple: "Anyone looking at NeoPharm Hearing some very faint whispers about their pipeline. Probably nothing, but thought I'd ask if others have noticed anything." Vague, non-committal, designed to just plant the company name.
Next, on a different, slightly more aggressive trading forum, 'BullRun Central,' "DayTraderKim" was born. This account would be more excitable. "Guys, keep NPHM on your watchlist. My source (can't reveal!) says some big players are accumulating. Might be a short-term pop incoming. DYOR (Do Your Own Research)! jajaja" The classic "unnamed source" gambit.
A few hours later, from a different PC Bang, "BioSeeker" popped up on a smaller, more specialized biotech investment board. This persona was the pseudo-academic. "Fascinating preclinical data on NeoPharm's NP-007 compound.
If even half of this translates to Phase II, the valuation could see a significant reassessment. Monitoring closely." A touch of jargon, an air of knowledgeable authority.
I let these initial seeds sit overnight. The goal wasn't to trigger a buying frenzy immediately, but to weave NeoPharm into the online consciousness, to make it a name that traders started noticing, wondering about. I used different writing styles, different posting times. Meticulous.
The next day, while ostensibly tracking SK Telecom with Mr. Choi (it had nudged up a tiny, respectable amount), I excused myself for "library research." Back to the PC Bangs.
"saviourGojo" posted a follow-up: "Interesting. Saw a few others mentioning NPHM. Price hasn't moved much yet. Still watching."
"DayTraderKim" added: "NPHM volume slightly up today? Anyone else see that? Told ya! Something's brewing!"* (Even if the volume wasn't significantly up, the power of suggestion was key).
I then used my own carefully saved café money – around 200,000 won – and placed a buy order for NeoPharm. The stock was cheap, trading at a low point. My small buy barely registered. This was just an anchor.
The real work was online. I spent hours subtly engaging. If someone asked about NeoPharm, one of my personas would reply, offering a slightly more positive (but still unconfirmed) spin. I'd "like" or "upvote" (where such features existed on these primitive forums) any mention of NeoPharm.
I even created a fourth persona, "ConcernedMom," who asked on a general investment forum if "this NeoPharm stock my son mentioned is a safe bet for a small inheritance?" further normalizing its discussion.
It felt… strangely exhilarating. Like conducting an invisible orchestra. I was shaping perceptions, nudging thoughts, all from the anonymous glow of a computer screen. There were moments, flickers of what my mother would call a conscience. Was this right? Manipulating strangers, however indirectly?
But then I'd picture Hana's bright future, the relief on my parents' faces if I could lift them out of their struggles. The rich did this sort of thing all the time, I reasoned, just on a grander scale, with PR firms and analyst reports. I was just a kid with a modem and a plan, leveling a tiny part of the playing field. The "wrongness" felt distant, an abstract concept against the very real, very urgent needs of my family.
By the end of the week, SK Telecom was up a modest 2%. Mr. Choi grunted his approval. "See, boy? Patience. There is not all sunshine and rainbows out there , it takes time , this is how you learn."
I nodded dutifully. "Yes, sir."
But online, the NeoPharm whispers were growing. The stock ticker NPHM was appearing more frequently in forum searches. A few small, independent "analysts" (likely just other hopeful traders) were starting to mention it as a "potential speculative play." The price had ticked up a tiny fraction.
The bait was in the water. Now, it was time to see if the fish would bite. The edge of the path i was taking didn't feel like a cliff edge at all; it felt more like a gentle, inviting slope. And I was sliding down it with a growing sense of anticipation.