The Scandal-Proof Producer

The news of the prosecutor's expanding investigation into the entertainment industry, with Han Yoo-jin named as a "person of interest," spread through the corridors of power like a toxin. For most, it was a source of fear and uncertainty. But for Yoo-jin's enemies, it was the scent of blood in the water. They saw not a shared threat to their world, but a golden, unmissable opportunity to eliminate their most troublesome rival.

In the penthouse office of Top Tier Media, Chairman Choi watched the evening news report on the scandal, a rare, genuinely triumphant smile gracing his lips. The report featured a stern-faced legal expert speculating on the seriousness of the probe and the potential for high-profile figures to be ensnared. For the first time in weeks, the Chairman felt the familiar, intoxicating sensation of being in complete control.

"Perfect," he said, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. He turned to Nam Gyu-ri, who stood silently beside him. "The boy has finally overplayed his hand. A common mistake of the young and arrogant. He thought he could use the law as a weapon against me, and like a foolish child playing with his father's gun, he has shot himself in the foot."

He paced before the massive window, the city lights a glittering carpet at his feet. "He believed he was a master strategist. But he has blundered into an arena where his tricks are useless. A prosecutor does not care about viral music videos or clever press conferences. A prosecutor cares about evidence and testimony. And Han Yoo-jin is a man made of secrets."

He stopped and turned to Gyu-ri, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light. His new directive was simple and brutal.

"The internal witch hunt for the leak is over," he declared. "It is no longer necessary. The prosecutors will now do our work for us, and with the full power of the state behind them. Your new job, Ms. Nam, is to help them."

Gyu-ri's expression remained impassive, but she understood the shift in strategy perfectly.

"I want you to become the prosecution's most valuable anonymous source," the Chairman continued. "Dig up every piece of dirt, every whisper of misconduct, every rumor of impropriety from Han Yoo-jin's entire career at Stellar. Find every disgruntled ex-employee he ever crossed, every failed trainee he ever cut from the program. I want you to create a steady, untraceable stream of 'anonymous tips' to Prosecutor Kim's office. We won't give them a single, verifiable crime. That would be too obvious. We will simply give them smoke. A thousand little fires. We will paint a picture of Han Yoo-jin as a reckless, ambitious, corner-cutting rule-breaker who was always destined to find himself on the wrong side of the law. Enough smoke," he finished, a cruel smile playing on his lips, "and even the most cautious man will be convinced there is a raging fire."

Nam Gyu-ri inclined her head in a gesture of perfect understanding and obedience. This was a far more elegant strategy than her previous efforts. Why bother trying to expose his unbelievable, supernatural ability when you could simply use the mundane power of the state to crush him under the weight of a thousand minor, plausible infractions? She immediately began making calls, reactivating her vast network of informants, not to find his secrets, but to manufacture his guilt. The hunt had changed. The goal was no longer to understand him, but to bury him.

Miles away, in a sleek conference room at Stellar Entertainment, Sofia Kang also saw the news. She was in a tense production meeting, arguing with a team of Stellar's old-guard engineers about the technical feasibility of a new lighting rig. An assistant discreetly showed her the news alert on a tablet.

She read the headline: AURA MANAGEMENT'S HAN YOO-JIN SUMMONED BY PROSECUTORS IN WIDENING INDUSTRY PROBE.

A sharp, predatory smile cut across her face. Her battle with Yoo-jin had been frustrating. He had outmaneuvered her at the press conference, turning her logistical power play into a philosophical debate she couldn't win. She had been forced to retaliate with the quiet, bureaucratic attack on his composer, a move that had been only partially successful. But this… this was different. This was a vulnerability she could exploit directly.

She excused herself from the meeting and stepped into the hallway, pulling out her phone. She dialed a number from her private contacts, a man she knew on the Starlight Festival's primary sponsorship committee, a senior vice president at a massive telecommunications company.

"Director Park, it's Sofia Kang," she said, her voice a smooth blend of concern and professionalism. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm seeing some… troubling news." She paused, letting him connect the dots. "Yes, about Aura Management's CEO. A prosecutor's investigation… it's a very bad look, isn't it?"

She continued, her tone now one of a responsible producer looking out for her partners. "Our corporate sponsors, especially a family-friendly brand like yours, value a clean, scandal-free image. This kind of negative press associated with the festival could be very damaging. I think it would be prudent, from a brand safety perspective, for the sponsorship committee to review the contracts of all participating production companies."

She delivered the final, venomous payload. "A morals clause is standard in these agreements, isn't it? It would be a terrible shame if one of our key partners had to be… replaced… due to a pending legal scandal that could tarnish the festival's reputation. We must protect the integrity of the event."

She hung up the phone, a feeling of deep satisfaction washing over her. She was no longer trying to win a petty battle over a schedule. She was moving to have him kicked out of the festival entirely. She would use the sterile language of corporate brand safety and morals clauses to achieve her goal. She was a shark, and Han Yoo-jin was bleeding.

In his study in London, surrounded by shelves holding thousands of vinyl records, Simon Vance read an English-language report of the escalating scandal on the website of a major music publication. The headline was stark: K-POP IN CRISIS: STAR PRODUCER HAN YOO-JIN AT CENTER OF WIDENING CORRUPTION PROBE.

He frowned, a look of deep concern etching lines on his face. This was not the story he had intended to follow. He had been intrigued by the narrative of the young upstart creating authentic art, of the battle between human creativity and corporate algorithms. This ugly turn into legal battles and potential criminal charges was something else entirely. It was messy. It was dangerous.

And it was a much, much better story.

He picked up his phone and made a call to his personal travel agent.

"Clarice," he said, his voice a low rumble. "My trip to Seoul. Move it up. I want to be on the next available flight."

He hung up and stared out his window at the gray London sky. He was no longer going to Seoul merely to observe a fascinating cultural moment. He was flying into the heart of a storm, a storm that threatened to consume the one truly interesting thing to happen in music in years. He was no longer coming as just a critic. He was coming to intervene. His documentary had just found its third act.