The Scandal-Proof Producer

The interrogation room at the Seoul Central District Prosecutor's Office was designed to be as soul-crushingly bland as possible. The walls were a sterile shade of off-white, the table was cold, gray metal, and the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and quiet desperation. It was a place where narratives came to die, stripped down to their bare, verifiable facts.

Han Yoo-jin sat on one side of the table, his posture straight, his expression a carefully constructed mask of calm cooperation. Beside him, his lawyer, Kang Hye-rin, was a picture of sharp, formidable competence, her files arranged in a neat, orderly stack before her.

Across from them sat Prosecutor Kim Young-tae. He was a man in his mid-forties with tired but incredibly piercing eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He wasn't a theatrical, table-pounding prosecutor from a courtroom drama. He was worse. He was patient, intelligent, and methodical.

"Thank you for coming in, CEO Han," Prosecutor Kim began, his voice polite, almost gentle. It was a disarming tactic, one Yoo-jin recognized immediately. The prosecutor started with the basics, walking Yoo-jin through his early career at Stellar Entertainment, his promotions, his relationship with Kang Min-hyuk. Yoo-jin stuck to the script he and Hye-rin had rehearsed for hours, painting a picture of a difficult but ultimately professional rivalry, a clash of creative philosophies. He was calm, his answers concise, his story consistent.

After thirty minutes of this foundation-laying, Prosecutor Kim leaned forward slightly, the shift in his posture signaling a change in temperature.

"Let's talk about the events leading to Director Kang's downfall," he said, his gentle tone remaining, but his eyes sharpening. "It's quite a series of coincidences, isn't it, CEO Han? You, his primary rival, leave the company. You start a successful independent agency. And then, just as he begins to see you as a threat, a series of detailed, accurate, and completely anonymous tips regarding his criminal activities just happen to land on our desk and the desk of the National Tax Service." He gave a small, thoughtful smile. "It's very convenient timing."

"The world is full of coincidences, prosecutor," Kang Hye-rin interjected smoothly, stepping in to protect her client.

"Indeed it is," Prosecutor Kim agreed, not taking his eyes off Yoo-jin. "But we are paid to be skeptical of them."

Under the intense, unwavering pressure of the prosecutor's gaze, Yoo-jin felt an unwelcome, familiar tingle at the edge of his consciousness. His ability, agitated by the high-stakes environment and the prosecutor's focused intent, was beginning to stir against his will. He fought to keep his mental firewall up, terrified of what an uncontrolled sync might do in this room. But small flashes, like psychic feedback, began to leak through.

[Prosecutor Kim: He's too polished. The story is too clean. Every answer is perfect. He's hiding something. The question is, is he the source, or is he just protecting someone else?]

Yoo-jin's heart hammered in his chest. The prosecutor already suspected him. He wasn't just fishing; he was trying to confirm a theory.

Prosecutor Kim seemed to sense he had hit a nerve. He leaned forward further, his voice dropping. "Let's talk about the Prism incident," he said, opening a file on the table before him. Yoo-jin saw his own name on the tab. "Kang Min-hyuk, in his sworn testimony, was quite vocal on this subject. He referred to you as having, and I'm quoting here, 'an almost psychic ability to predict disaster.' He told us all about your infamous report, how you predicted every single scandal that befell that group—from gambling debts to plagiarism—with what he described as impossible, terrifying accuracy."

The prosecutor looked up, his sharp gaze pinning Yoo-jin in place. "So, let me ask you a direct question, CEO Han, and I advise you to answer it carefully. How did you know?"

This was the moment. The kill shot. The same question Nam Gyu-ri had asked him over dinner, but this time, it wasn't a power play. It was a question being asked by a man who held the power to indict him, to destroy his life with the stroke of a pen.

Yoo-jin's mind raced. His prepared narrative, the story of his obsessive data analysis and logical deductions, felt thin and academic in the face of this direct, penetrating question. He opened his mouth to begin the rehearsed speech, to talk about patterns and proxies and public records searches.

But at that exact moment, his over-stressed ability flared violently. A powerful, uncontrolled sync washed over him, not of the prosecutor's thoughts, but of something deeper. A memory.

It was a memory from years ago. Prosecutor Kim, younger, was standing in a hospital hallway, his face etched with a grief so profound it was breathtaking. He was listening to his younger sister, a pale, tear-streaked girl in a hospital gown, tell him how her dreams had been shattered. She had been a talented singer, a trainee at a small, ruthless agency, and she had been chewed up and spat out by a corrupt manager—a man just like Kang Min-hyuk—who had stolen her hope and left her with a nervous breakdown.

[CRITICAL SYNC INSIGHT: Subject's motivation is not purely professional. It is deeply personal. He possesses a profound, hidden contempt for the industry's corrupt establishment, born from personal family trauma.]

The insight was a lightning bolt. In a split-second, game-changing decision, Yoo-jin threw his meticulously crafted alibi into the fire. A plausible lie was a house of cards. But an emotional truth… an emotional truth might be a key.

He took a deep breath, letting the carefully constructed mask of the calm CEO fall away. He met Prosecutor Kim's gaze, and for the first time, he let the man see the real, raw weariness in his own soul.

"How did I know?" he repeated, his voice quiet, all the practiced confidence gone, replaced by something raw and genuine. "I knew because I have spent my entire career watching men like Kang Min-hyuk—men drunk on their own petty power—destroy talented, hopeful young people for profit and ego."

He didn't look at his lawyer. He spoke only to the prosecutor.

"I knew the leader of Prism's father was a high-risk gambler because I've seen that same hollow-eyed desperation in the faces of a dozen other parents, mortgaging their lives on their child's impossible dream. I knew the main vocalist was in a secret relationship because I've seen the soul-crushing toll that the industry's mandatory loneliness takes on a young woman who just wants to feel loved. I knew their demo was a plagiarism risk because I know how many desperate producers cut corners to make a quick sale, and I know how companies are too greedy to do their due diligence."

He leaned forward, his hands flat on the cold metal table. The words were pouring out of him now, not from a script, but from a deep well of frustration and rage.

"You want to know my secret source, Prosecutor? My great, psychic ability?" His voice was a low, intense whisper. "My secret is that I was the only person in that boardroom who still saw those five girls as human beings instead of a financial asset. My secret is that I actually listened to them. I saw their fear. I saw their pain. That is my source. And it's the one thing men like Kang Min-hyuk and Chairman Choi will never have access to, and will never understand."

He had confessed. Not to his ability, but to his philosophy. Not to a crime, but to his own righteous anger. He had, without knowing the specifics, spoken directly to the ghost of the prosecutor's own sister, to the wound that had clearly driven him to this very room.

Prosecutor Kim stared back at him, his face unreadable. Kang Hye-rin sat beside Yoo-jin, her expression one of pure, unadulterated shock at her client's decision to completely abandon their strategy.

The prosecutor was silent for a long time. Then, his professional mask seemed to crack for just a fraction of a second, and behind it, Yoo-jin saw a flicker of something else. Not suspicion. Not accusation. It was a look of shocked, profound, and deeply weary understanding.

Yoo-jin had no idea if it had worked. But he had just gambled his entire future on the belief that sometimes, the most powerful truth isn't found in the evidence, but in the confession of a shared pain.