The Scandal-Proof Producer

The location chosen by Simon Vance's team was a deliberate and telling choice. It wasn't a sterile hotel conference room or a bustling coffee shop. It was a traditional tea house, tucked away in a quiet, cobblestoned alley in Insadong. The air inside smelled of aged wood, roasted tea leaves, and a serene, almost monastic calm. It was a place that valued patience, tradition, and authenticity—a clear test from the very beginning.

Han Yoo-jin arrived a few minutes early, dressed in a simple, well-tailored dark grey suit with no tie. He wanted to look professional but not corporate, a creative CEO rather than a shark. He was shown to a private room with paper screens and low wooden tables. Simon Vance was already there, sitting perfectly straight on a floor cushion. He looked up as Yoo-jin entered, his sharp, intelligent eyes taking in every detail. A single, unobtrusive camera was set up in the corner of the room, its red recording light a silent, unblinking eye.

Simon ignored the camera completely. He gestured for Yoo-jin to sit, then began the formal, meditative process of preparing the tea, pouring hot water from an iron kettle into a tiny clay pot with practiced, precise movements. The silence was not awkward; it was analytical. Yoo-jin felt less like a guest and more like a specimen being observed under a microscope.

After pouring two small cups of the fragrant, pale green tea, Simon finally spoke. He didn't begin with questions about music, albums, or his rivalry with Chairman Choi. He went straight for the philosophical jugular.

"Let's be candid, Mr. Han," he began, his voice a calm, incisive murmur that was a perfect match for the room's atmosphere. "The story you have crafted for your company—the plucky, authentic underdogs fighting against the corrupt corporate machine—is incredibly compelling. From a branding perspective, it is a marketing masterstroke. It positions you as heroes before a single note of music is even judged." He took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving Yoo-jin's face. "My question is this: how much of what you do is genuine artistic belief, and how much is simply brilliant brand management?"

It was a direct attack on his integrity, a question designed to trip him up, to force him into a defensive posture. Yoo-jin had anticipated this. He met Simon's gaze directly, his own expression calm and open.

"In my experience, Mr. Vance," he answered, his voice steady, "the most effective brand management is simply telling the truth in a compelling way. My company was not born from a marketing meeting. It was born from a moment of profound frustration. I spent ten years inside that corporate machine. I saw true, undeniable talent get discarded like office trash because it didn't fit a market-tested mold. Aura Management is the direct result of that frustration."

He picked up his own teacup. "The narrative you see isn't one I meticulously crafted in a boardroom. It's simply the natural, unavoidable story that emerged from our actions. We don't have the resources to create a false image or a flashy concept. We have no choice but to show the world who we truly are, flaws and all. Our authenticity isn't a strategy; it's a necessity born of our limitations."

Simon listened, his expression unreadable. He moved on to his next test, a probe designed to gauge Yoo-jin's definition of success.

"Let's talk about your rival, then. Eclipse," Simon said. "Chairman Choi is spending a fortune on them, a sum that could likely fund your company for the next fifty years. Their music will be scientifically engineered by the best hitmakers in the world to be popular. By every conventional industry metric, they should win this 'showdown' easily. Are you prepared for the commercial failure of your artists, even if they happen to be critically acclaimed by people like me?"

It was another perfectly laid trap. If Yoo-jin claimed he didn't care about commercial success, he would sound like a naive, sanctimonious liar. If he said he only cared about winning on the charts, he would sound like a hypocrite, no different from the men he claimed to be fighting against.

Yoo-jin chose a third path: a redefinition of the terms. "My primary responsibility as a CEO is not to top the charts in the first week," he replied carefully. "My primary responsibility is to create an environment where my artists can create the most honest and powerful work of their lives, and to use that work to build a sustainable, long-term career for them. Chairman Choi is playing a hundred-meter dash, aiming for an explosive, front-loaded victory. I am building the foundation for a marathon."

He looked at Simon with conviction. "I believe that over time, a deep, genuine connection with a loyal and passionate audience is infinitely more valuable than a fleeting, chart-topping hit that everyone has forgotten six months later. If we achieve that connection, we have succeeded, regardless of where we land on the charts in week one."

He saw Simon's system panel flash in his mind's eye. [Current Thoughts: He is not giving me the standard, sentimental 'art for art's sake' nonsense. Nor is he a pure capitalist. His definition of success is artist-centric but also deeply pragmatic and strategic. Interesting. He is more complex than I initially assumed.]

Simon gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He refilled their teacups, the silence stretching for a moment before he delivered his final, most pointed question.

"One last thing, Mr. Han," he said, his tone turning casual, almost off-the-cuff. But Yoo-jin knew it was anything but. "I've been looking into your history. You seem to have an almost preternatural ability for finding diamonds in the rough. A singer like Ahn Da-eun, a lyricist like Go Min-young, a producer like Kang Ji-won… S-rank talents, all of them, completely discarded by the system. And you seem to have an uncanny knack for navigating potentially career-ending scandals, not just for your own company, but even in your past. Is it just incredible luck? An unparalleled intuition?"

He paused, a glint in his eye as he delivered the final, probing phrase. "Or is there something more to your 'Producer's Eye'?"

The phrase hit Yoo-jin like a physical jolt. It was the name he himself had secretly given his ability in his own mind. There was no way Simon could know that. It had to be a coincidence, a figure of speech. But the directness of it, the way Simon's sharp gaze seemed to peer right through him, was deeply unnerving. It was a casual remark, but it felt like a direct probe at the very heart of his secret, a final, brilliant attempt to pierce his veil and see what lay beneath.

Yoo-jin's mind raced. How could he possibly answer? He couldn't reveal the truth, but a simple denial would feel weak, evasive. He needed an answer that was both honest and a misdirection.

He allowed a small, wry smile to touch his lips. "Mr. Vance," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden pounding in his chest. "After you spend ten years watching a system consistently make the wrong decisions, throwing away gold and polishing rocks… you don't need a supernatural ability to see the obvious. You just need to have been paying attention."

It was the perfect answer. It was true, it was confident, and it subtly flattered Simon by implying they shared a similar, superior perspective.

Simon held his gaze for a long moment, then he smiled. A genuine, appreciative smile. "Well said, Mr. Han," he said, raising his teacup. "Very well said indeed."

Yoo-jin knew he had passed the test. He had established his narrative, defended his philosophy, and protected his secret. He had won the respect of the kingmaker. Now, all he had to do was win the war.