The Scandal-Proof Producer

The Aura Management office, which just twenty-four hours earlier had been a tense, strategic war room, was now in a state of joyous, unrestrained chaos. The morning after the Starlight Festival, the world had woken up and discovered Park Chae-rin. Phones were ringing off the hook, the sound a constant, frantic symphony of incoming opportunities. The main conference room monitor, once a board for tracking threats, was now a dizzying, triumphant collage of international media coverage.

"The Guardian, UK," Go Min-young shouted over the din, her voice hoarse with excitement as she read from her laptop. "'A Star is Born from the Ashes: The Haunting Debut of Korea's 'Idol Ghost'… they're calling the production a landmark collaboration!'"

"Pitchfork gave the video a 'Best New Music' tag!" Kevin Riley yelled from his own corner, holding up his phone. "They said, and I quote, 'Unheard Note' is a brutal, beautiful testament to the power of authentic, unfiltered songwriting, a stark antidote to the polished sheen of modern pop.'"

The hijacking of the festival had worked beyond Yoo-jin's wildest dreams. The music video for "Unheard Note" wasn't just a hit; it was a global cultural event. It was trending #1 worldwide on YouTube, not in the 'Music' category, but in the main, overall chart. Major publications like NME in the UK, Rolling Stone in the US, and Der Spiegel in Germany had already published long-form articles, not just about the song, but about the story. The narrative he had carefully crafted—"The Korean Idol Ghost Resurrected by UK Legend Alistair Finch"—was proving irresistible. Simon Vance's seal of approval had opened the floodgates, giving the story instant, unimpeachable credibility in the West.

The small office was a whirlwind. Min-young was trying to manage a flood of incoming calls from international record labels in London, booking agents in Los Angeles, and music publishers in Berlin, all wanting to know who Park Chae-rin was and who represented her. Kang Ji-won, for his part, was on a call with the legendary pianist Kim Shin, who was laughing with delight, saying he hadn't had this much press attention since the 1990s.

But in the center of this triumphant, joyous hurricane sat a single, still point of terror.

Park Chae-rin was huddled on the small couch in Yoo-jin's office, staring at her phone with the wide, terrified eyes of a person watching their own plane crash. After seven years of being invisible, of being a ghost in her own life, she had woken up to find herself the most talked-about new artist on the planet. Her face was everywhere. Her story—her painful, private story—was being debated and analyzed by millions of strangers.

"They're… they're calling me a genius," she whispered, her voice trembling as she scrolled through a translated comments section. "They're comparing me to… Adele." Her breathing grew shallow. "I don't… I can't… This isn't real." She was spiraling, on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. The collision of her past trauma and her sudden, overwhelming success was a force her fragile psyche was not equipped to handle.

Yoo-jin saw the warning signs immediately. He calmly closed his office door, shutting out the celebratory noise. He knelt in front of her, bringing himself to her eye level. He wasn't a CEO right now. He was a producer, and his product was a terrified human being who was about to break.

He didn't talk about contracts, or streaming numbers, or the call he'd just gotten from a major American late-night show. He activated his ability, not to analyze her, but to shield her.

[Synchronization Mode: TARGETED (Emotion: Anxiety/Fear)]

He opened himself up just enough to feel the wave of her panic, the overwhelming conviction of her imposter syndrome, the gut-wrenching terror that this was all a dream, a cruel joke, and that at any moment she would wake up back in her drab apartment, her brief moment of hope extinguished. He felt it, understood it, and then spoke directly to it.

"Chae-rin," he said, his voice calm and steady, an anchor in her storm. "Listen to me. Breathe." He waited until her frantic breathing hitched and slowed. "Good. Now, I want you to ignore all of this." He gestured vaguely towards the world outside his office. "Ignore the noise. Ignore the headlines. Ignore the number of views. None of that is real. It's just weather."

He leaned in closer. "What's real is the song you wrote in your small apartment. What's real is the courage it took for you to sing it. You told your truth, and the world is listening. That is all that has happened. That is all that matters." His words were a shield, deflecting the crushing weight of the industry machine he himself had aimed at her. "Your only job right now," he finished, "is to breathe. We will handle the rest."

She looked at him, tears welling in her eyes, but her panic was receding, replaced by a fragile, tentative trust. She nodded, a small, jerky movement.

Across town, in the silent, cold penthouse office of Chairman Choi, the mood was the polar opposite of celebratory. He and Nam Gyu-ri stood before a massive screen displaying the same triumphant headlines, the same viral video. Choi was not just angry; he was deeply, fundamentally unsettled.

"How?" he snarled, gesturing at a Forbes article titled 'Is Aura Management a New Model for Global K-Pop?' "How did he do this? We spend billions on marketing, on strategic media partnerships, on carefully planned international collaborations. We have an entire division dedicated to breaking into the Western market, and we've barely made a dent. And this… this boy… does it overnight with a forgotten trainee and a sad song?"

Han Yoo-jin had done something they, with all their immense resources, had failed to do. He had achieved genuine, organic crossover success. He hadn't just won a battle; he had changed the entire map of the war. He was no longer fighting for a piece of the domestic pie. He was baking his own, and the whole world wanted a slice.

"He's not just a nuisance anymore," Chairman Choi said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "He is a direct threat to the entire K-pop export model that we have built. His success delegitimizes our methods. He makes us look like lumbering, out-of-touch dinosaurs." He turned to his Viper. "Find a way to stop him. I don't care what it takes. Ground his plane before it leaves the runway."

Back at Aura, Yoo-jin had just managed to calm Chae-rin down, getting her a cup of tea and assuring her she didn't have to look at another news report for the rest of the day. As he stepped back into the main office, his own phone rang. It was an international number, a UK country code. He answered, a knot of anticipation in his stomach.

"Is this Mr. Han Yoo-jin?" The voice on the other end was unmistakable, a gravelly, authoritative baritone that he had heard a thousand times through speakers.

"This is he," Yoo-jin managed to say, his own voice sounding small in his ears.

"Simon Vance," the voice announced, a hint of dry, wry amusement coloring the words. "It seems your little 'video presentation' has caused quite a stir. A rather brilliant move, I must admit. It appears you and I have a great deal to talk about."

A pause.

"I'm coming to Seoul. I'll be there next week. I'm making a documentary about all of this. About you. Be ready for your close-up."

The line went dead. Yoo-jin stood frozen, the phone still pressed to his ear. The mystery of their connection, the man who might hold the key to understanding his own power, was coming to his front door. The tidal wave had just reached his shore.