The Scandal-Proof Producer

The office was a tomb of white marble and sound-dampening glass. From her perch on the 47th floor, Nam Gyu-ri could look out over the entire sprawling cityscape of Seoul, a kingdom of light at her feet. But all she could see was the reflection of her own failure in the darkened window.

The Kai Project was not just a failure; it was a global laughingstock. A meme. A cautionary tale taught in university ethics classes. She was presiding over the autopsy, and the corpse was her own creation.

The video conference call was a gallery of stone-faced inquisitors. Senior OmniCorp executives from Frankfurt, London, and Palo Alto stared out from her wall-sized monitor, their expressions ranging from cold fury to bored disappointment, which was somehow worse. They were sharks who had smelled blood, and it was hers.

A man with a severe haircut and a German accent, the head of Global Marketing, did not mince words. "Ms. Nam," he began, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Your mandate was to control the narrative surrounding the launch of Project Nightingale's first asset. The prevailing global narrative, as of this morning, is that our flagship project is a soulless, unethical fraud built on the blatant theft of a real artist's work. Explain the discrepancy between your strategy and this catastrophic outcome."

They didn't care about art. They didn't care about Jin or Aura Management. They cared about the numbers. And the numbers were brutal. Their stock had taken a noticeable dip, not from financial malpractice, which the market understood and often forgave, but from something far more damaging in the long run: being publicly, globally perceived as both villains and, more unforgivably, fools.

Nam Gyu-ri remained unnervingly calm, her posture perfect, her expression a cool, unreadable mask. She let the accusation hang in the silent, sterile air before she responded.

"You are mistaken, Director," she said, her voice as smooth and cold as the marble desk in front of her. "My strategy was not a failure. It was a diagnostic."

A flicker of interest appeared on the German's face.

"I treated Aura Management and its CEO, Han Yoo-jin, as a standard competitor," she continued, her words precise and confident, as if she were describing a successful experiment. "I employed proven methodologies of narrative disruption and preemptive framing. The result of this diagnostic test was that Han Yoo-jin does not play by standard industry rules. He does not respond to pressure or subtle manipulation. He weaponizes sincerity. He treats radical transparency not as a defensive shield, but as an offensive weapon. He takes what should be his greatest vulnerability and turns it into his primary point of attack."

She was analyzing her own defeat with the detached, bloodless precision of a scientist studying a petri dish. "This was an expensive lesson," she conceded, a masterful understatement. "But it was a necessary one. I now possess a complete and accurate psychological profile of my opponent's methods. I will not make the same mistake again."

The executives murmured amongst themselves, their video windows a silent flurry of muted conversations. They were ruthless capitalists, but they respected audacity. They understood the value of a costly lesson learned.

The lead executive, a woman from the Palo Alto headquarters with eyes that seemed to see right through the screen, finally spoke. "The 'Kai' avatar and its associated launch are now irrevocably compromised. A complete write-off. But Project Nightingale itself is not. Your objective has changed, Ms. Nam."

Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of an imperial decree. "Your new mandate is no longer to win a popularity contest. It is to neutralize the threat. Han Yoo-jin and his 'Aura' have successfully positioned themselves as the global champions of flawed, human art. You will prove, through any means necessary, that human art, and more specifically, human artists, are inherently flawed, unstable, and ultimately, a bad long-term investment."

It was a declaration of total war.

"Acquire them, break them, or publicly discredit them beyond any hope of recovery," the woman continued, her expression unchanging. "Your methods are your own. The budget," she added, a hint of a chilling smile touching her lips, "is unlimited."

The call ended, the wall of faces blinking out of existence, leaving Nam Gyu-ri alone in the silent, white office. The professional humiliation of the past 24 hours had burned away the last of her sophisticated, arm's-length strategies. Her fight with Han Yoo-jin was no longer just a high-stakes job. It was personal. He had outmaneuvered her, outplayed her, and publicly humiliated her. Twice.

Her new plan would not be about subtle articles and clever questions. It would be about direct, brutal, personal attacks. She pulled up the comprehensive dossiers OmniCorp had compiled on every member of Aura Management. The files contained everything: school records, financial histories, medical information, family connections. She scanned past Jin and Chae-rin; their traumas were now public knowledge, their wounds transformed into shields. Attacking them there would be pointless.

Her eyes lingered on the file for Go Min-young. She noted the information about her brother, his gambling addiction, the recent settlement of his debts. A dead end for now. Yoo-jin had been thorough there.

Then, she opened the file for Ahn Da-eun.

She scrolled past the details of her performance anxiety, her rebellious youth. It was all part of the public narrative now, part of her 'brand.' Gyu-ri was looking for something else. Something private. Something that couldn't be spun as a badge of honor.

And then she found it. Buried in a subsection on family financials was a note about Da-eun's father, Mr. Ahn. Years ago, he had co-owned a successful restaurant with a business partner. The partnership had dissolved acrimoniously. There had been accusations, never formally proven, of embezzlement. A quiet, out-of-court settlement had been reached to make it all go away. The file noted that the former business partner was now struggling financially, bitter, and held a deep, lingering resentment towards the Ahn family.

A cold, sharp smile touched Nam Gyu-ri's lips. This was it. This wasn't a story about an artist overcoming a personal demon. This was a story about money, betrayal, and potential crime. It was ugly. It was messy. And it was aimed directly at the family of Aura's fiery symbol of integrity.

She would no longer attack their stories. She would attack their lives.

She picked up her secure, encrypted device and typed a short, simple message to an unseen contact, an asset she had been cultivating for years—a disgruntled, ambitious director buried deep within Stellar Entertainment's corporate structure, a man who resented Director Yoon's power.

Phase two. I need you to find Ahn Da-eun's father's former business partner. His name is Choi. Offer him a significant investment for a new business venture. All he has to do in return is reopen an old wound. Be creative. The objective is maximum public disruption for the Ahn family.

She hit send. The war had moved from the charts and the blogs to their front doors. And the Viper, wounded and furious, was finally ready to bite.