The Scandal-Proof Producer

Yoo-jin's new global strategy was not a long-term vision; it was a plan for immediate, aggressive action. While the rest of his team began reorienting their work towards an international stage, he turned his attention to a ghost he had recently acquired.

He sat in his office, a secure video call connecting him to a small, unassuming apartment across the city. On the screen was Park Chae-rin, the former main vocalist of the ill-fated group Prism. The defiant anger she had worn like armor during their first meeting was gone, replaced by a nervous, fragile hope. She had taken his advice. She had written a song.

"I don't know if it's any good," she stammered, clutching an acoustic guitar. "It's… it's not like the songs I used to sing."

"That's the point," Yoo-jin said, his voice gentle but firm. "Don't judge it. Just play it."

She took a shaky breath and began. The song that emerged from her was a revelation. It was a raw, heartbreakingly beautiful ballad, its melody simple but haunting, its structure unconventional. The lyrics, which she sang in a voice still clear but now imbued with a lifetime of pain, were a brutal, unflinching account of her experience—the dizzying hope of debut, the cold shock of betrayal, the long, lonely years of shame and regret. It was a song born from a deep, authentic wound.

As she played, Yoo-jin closed his eyes, allowing a controlled, low-level synchronization to connect them. He didn't need to see her potential; he needed to feel the soul of the song. He was hit with a wave of pure, unadulterated melancholy, a feeling so potent and real it made the hair on his arms stand up. This wasn't a product. It was a confession.

The ability's interface provided a stark analysis.

[Song Title: 'Unheard Note']

[Composition Analysis: Simple chord structure, but highly effective melodic and lyrical synergy.]

[Commercial Viability (Korea): 40%. Lyrical content considered too dark and specific for mainstream idol pop market.]

[Commercial Viability (International): 75%. High potential to resonate with Western markets for raw, confessional artists (e.g., Adele, Billie Eilish, Lewis Capaldi).]

The international potential of the song was a flashing green light. It was the perfect first missile to launch in his new global campaign. An audacious idea began to form in his mind, a way to build a bridge across the ocean before the Starlight Festival even began. He thought of Simon Vance. He thought of the critic's obsession with "real" artists, with music born from authentic pain. This song was a direct appeal to that sensibility.

When Chae-rin finished, her voice trailing off, she looked at him with wide, terrified eyes, awaiting his judgment.

"It's brilliant," Yoo-jin said, his voice filled with a genuine conviction that made her flinch with surprise. "It's one of the most honest songs I've ever heard." He paused. "Which is why we're not going to release it in Korea."

"What?" she asked, confused. "Then… what's the point?"

"The point," Yoo-jin said, a slow, strategic smile spreading across his face, "is to think bigger."

His next move was a leap of faith based on years of industry knowledge and a healthy dose of audacity. He spent two days calling in old favors, navigating a web of contacts until he secured what he wanted: an email address. It belonged to Alistair Finch, a legendary, semi-retired British music producer. Finch was a notorious cynic, a musical purist who had produced some of the most iconic atmospheric rock albums of the 80s and 90s. He was also, Yoo-jin knew, a close, personal friend of Simon Vance.

Yoo-jin didn't ask for a favor. He didn't pitch a business proposal. He crafted a simple, direct email.

Subject: An Unheard Note from Seoul

Mr. Finch,

My name is Han Yoo-jin. I am a producer in Seoul. I believe in a kind of music that seems to be vanishing. I have attached a file. It is a rough demo from a forgotten artist with a true story to tell. I believe it is the sort of thing you might still appreciate.

Thank you for your time.

He attached the raw audio file of Chae-rin's performance, along with a simple text document containing a literal, un-prettified English translation of her lyrics. He hit send, launching his message in a bottle across the globe.

Two days passed in agonizing silence. Yoo-jin began to think his gambit had failed. Then, on the third day, an email with a UK address appeared in his inbox. It was from Finch's manager, requesting a video call.

The man who appeared on his screen looked exactly like his reputation: grizzled, weary, and deeply unimpressed by the world. Alistair Finch sat in what was clearly a high-end recording studio, a cup of tea in his hand.

"Mr. Han," Finch began, his voice a gravelly baritone. "I get a hundred of these emails a week. I delete ninety-nine of them without listening. I don't know why I listened to yours." He took a sip of tea. "The girl. The song. There's something real there. It's messy. It's wounded. I like it. What do you want from me?"

This was the moment. Yoo-jin had done his research. He knew Finch had a daughter who had briefly pursued a music career before having a breakdown due to the pressures of the industry. He was banking on the fact that Chae-rin's story had struck a personal chord.

Yoo-jin initiated a very faint, very distant synchronization. He wasn't trying to read Finch's mind. He was just trying to project a single, resonant frequency across the thousands of miles between them: the feeling of protective empathy for a talented, wounded young woman.

"I want to propose a collaboration," Yoo-jin said calmly. "Something I think the world hasn't seen before. A true transatlantic production. I want you to co-produce this song with me."

Finch raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You want me to produce a K-pop song?"

"No," Yoo-jin countered smoothly. "I want you to produce a great song that happens to be sung in Korean. We handle the vocal production and recording here in Seoul, perfecting her performance. You provide your signature touch from your studio in London—the atmospheric arrangements, the depth, the texture. We create a final mix that is a genuine fusion of Korean soul and British production polish."

He laid out the final piece of his vision. "We're not just making a song, Mr. Finch. We are creating a story. 'The Korean Idol Ghost, Forgotten by Her Industry, Rediscovered and Championed by the Legendary British Producer Who Recognized Her Truth.' It's a story that our mutual friend, Simon Vance, will find irresistible. It's a story the entire Western music press will find irresistible."

Alistair Finch was silent for a long time, staring at Yoo-jin through the screen. A slow, grudging smile formed on his face. He was a producer to his bones. He recognized a brilliant angle when he heard one.

"You're a clever, dangerous young man, Han Yoo-jin," Finch said finally. "Alright. Send me the session files. Let's see what kind of noise we can make."

The call ended. Yoo-jin leaned back in his chair, a feeling of profound triumph washing over him. The bridge was being built. He was no longer waiting for the world to notice him. He was reaching out and grabbing its attention, crafting a global narrative for his artist before she had even signed a contract. His rivals were fighting over a schedule for a local festival. He was fighting for a space on the world stage.