The Scandal-Proof Producer

The single, chance encounter in the deserted park became a quiet addiction for Chae-rin. The feeling of being seen as just a person, not a phenomenon, was a powerful drug, and she found herself chasing that feeling with a near-desperate need. The late-night walks were no longer aimless; they now had a destination.

She began to meet Ryu regularly. It became their unspoken routine. Two or three times a week, after the lights at Aura had gone out and the city had settled into a low hum, she would slip away to their small, quiet park. It was her escape, a secret world that belonged only to her, completely walled off from the pressures of her new life.

Their time together was always centered around music. He would bring his battered acoustic guitar, and she would bring the quiet, sharp insight she had honed over years of lonely creation. He would play her his songs—raw, unfinished things full of dark, poetic lyrics about loss, betrayal, and a simmering, directionless anger. They were worlds away from the polished pop she had been trained in or the anthemic rock Aura was now known for, but she found them achingly beautiful and tragically real.

She, in turn, became his first and only audience, his unofficial producer. "The melody in the verse is strong," she'd say softly, "but you lose the momentum in the chorus. Maybe try lifting this note here?" Or, "Your lyrics are so powerful, but you're burying them with that strumming pattern. Try something simpler. Let the words breathe."

He would listen with a focused intensity, trying her suggestions and marveling when they worked. In these moments, she felt a sense of agency and confidence she'd never experienced before. At Aura, she was the fragile ingénue, the rescued project. Here, in the dim light of the park, she was a mentor. A seasoned expert. This secret role reversal was intoxicating.

One night, the comfortable bubble of their secret world was pierced. They were sitting on their usual bench, laughing quietly after he'd fumbled a chord, when two figures appeared at the edge of the park. They were silhouettes against the city glow, but their posture was predatory and unmistakable.

"Ryu," one of the men called out, his voice a low, gravelly sound that cut through the night air.

The change in Ryu was instantaneous and absolute. The relaxed, passionate artist vanished, replaced by a tense, cornered animal. His shoulders hunched, his easy smile evaporated, and a flicker of pure, hunted fear appeared in his eyes.

"You should go," he said to Chae-rin, his voice suddenly tight and urgent. He didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on the approaching men. "Now. I'll see you next time."

Confused and alarmed, Chae-rin didn't argue. She stood up, pulling her hood down low, and quickly walked away into the shadows. But she didn't leave the park. She hid behind a thicket of overgrown bushes, her heart pounding, and watched.

The two men confronted Ryu. Their conversation was too low for her to hear the words, but the body language was a universal language of intimidation. They crowded him, jabbing fingers at his chest. Ryu looked terrified, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. The argument was heated but brief. It ended with Ryu reaching into his pocket, his movements jerky and reluctant, and pulling out a crumpled wad of cash. He handed it over. One of the men counted it, sneered, and then slapped Ryu hard across the face before they both turned and swaggered out of the park.

Ryu just stood there for a long moment, his head bowed, a solitary, defeated figure under the flickering lamplight.

The image was burned into Chae-rin's mind.

The next day at the studio, she was a ghost of a different kind. She was distracted, distant, her thoughts a million miles away. Go Min-young, ever the perceptive one, noticed immediately. During a break, she approached Chae-rin with a warm cup of tea.

"Is everything okay?" Min-young asked, her kind eyes filled with genuine concern. "You seem a little distant today. Worried about the festival?"

Chae-rin's heart leaped into her throat. Her first instinct was to tell Min-young everything. But to do that would be to confess her secret late-night excursions, to admit she'd been meeting a strange boy. It would invite questions, concern, and worst of all, protection. Her secret world, the one place she felt normal and in control, would be invaded by the well-meaning people she was trying to escape.

So, for the first time since joining Aura, she lied to one of them.

"No, I'm fine, Unni," she said, forcing a small, unconvincing smile. "Just tired. Thinking about the choreography for the festival. A lot on my mind."

The lie felt both terrible and thrilling. It was a betrayal of the trust this family had shown her, but it was also an act of self-preservation. It kept her secret world safe. It was hers, alone.

That night, she went back to the park. Ryu was there, a dark, fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone. He looked ashamed and was quick to apologize for his behavior the other night.

"I'm so sorry you had to see that," he murmured, staring at his worn-out sneakers.

"Who were they?" she asked softly.

He sighed, a long, ragged sound, and then he fed her a carefully constructed, tragic story. It was a symphony of victimhood, every note perfectly calibrated to pluck at her empathetic heartstrings. He told her the men were loan sharks. He explained that his parents had died in an accident a few years ago, leaving him with not just grief, but a mountain of their secret business debt. He was trying to pay it off by working multiple grueling, dead-end part-time jobs, all while desperately clinging to his one dream, his one escape: his music.

To Chae-rin, a girl who knew the crushing weight of being trapped and helpless, who had been rescued from her own prison, the story was utterly believable. It resonated with the deepest parts of her own experience. She didn't see a single flaw in the narrative. She saw a tragic, misunderstood artist, a kindred spirit being crushed by a world that didn't care. She felt a deep, powerful, and dangerous surge of empathy. She felt the urge to help him, to be his savior, to rescue him the way Yoo-jin had rescued her. Her greatest strength as an artist—her profound, bottomless well of empathy—was rapidly becoming her greatest vulnerability as a person.

He seemed to sense this. He looked up at her, his sad, soulful eyes locking with hers. "The only way I'll ever get out of this hole," he said, his voice thick with a despair that felt completely genuine, "is if my music takes off. If I could just get a real record deal. But no one will listen to a nobody like me. They don't even open the demos."

He sighed, picking up his guitar. "If only I had a way to get my music into the hands of a real producer… someone who actually understands artists. Someone like that genius Han Yoo-jin at your company."

He didn't ask her directly. He was far too clever for that. He just planted the seed, a desperate, hopeless wish. He was presenting himself as the lock, and her connection to Yoo-jin as the only possible key.

He was a perfectly deployed weapon, aimed at the single weakest point in Aura's armor.

But Chae-rin didn't see a weapon. She saw a kindred spirit. A beautiful, tragic boy with a guitar. A stray she could save.

And as she sat there in the darkness, she began to contemplate a secret, fateful act of betrayal, born not from a single shred of malice, but from a heart overflowing with compassion.