The Scandal-Proof Producer

Kang Ji-won retreated to his studio like a wounded animal seeking its den. The space, officially a part of Aura Management's modest office but functionally his own sovereign territory, was a sanctuary of controlled chaos. Wires snaked across the floor like dormant pythons, linking monoliths of audio equipment whose blinking lights provided the room's only illumination. It was a soundproofed bunker, a fortress built against the compromises of the outside world.

Tonight, the fortress felt more like a cage.

He slumped into his worn leather chair, the unresolved argument from the conference room replaying in his mind on a toxic loop. He believed in Yoo-jin's strategy. Logic dictated that 'Titan' was the only viable weapon for the coming battle. It was a battering ram, and they were laying siege to a castle. You don't start a siege by whispering poetry at the walls.

But Da-eun's words—"sanding down the edges"—had struck a deeply resonant and unsettling chord within him. He, Kang Ji-won, the composer known as Ghost, was the ultimate purist. He had walked away from mainstream offers, choosing obscurity over the artistic neutering he saw everywhere in the industry. Had he come all this way, only to become a high-end craftsman of commercial weapons?

A discreet chime emanated from his main monitor. It wasn't an email, not a text. It was a notification from a heavily encrypted, peer-to-peer messaging client he kept for emergencies and for communicating with a few trusted, equally paranoid figures in the music underground. He didn't recognize the username. It was one word: Cassandra.

He instinctively reached for the delete key. It was almost certainly spam, a phishing attempt.

Before his finger could press down, a second message appeared.

Cassandra: Are you Composer 'Ghost'?

His hand froze. The alias was his most closely guarded secret. Only Yoo-jin and the Aura inner circle knew it.

Cassandra: Don't worry. I'm not a reporter. I'm not a fan.

Another pause. The typing indicator blinked slowly, deliberately.

Cassandra: Think of me as a colleague. One who is worried a genius is being misused.

Ji-won's suspicion warred with a powerful, dangerous curiosity. Misused? After the argument he'd just had, the word landed with surgical precision. Against his better judgment, he typed a single, terse reply.

Ghost: Who is this?

Cassandra: A name wouldn't mean anything to you. What matters is that I know your work. Not just the Aura tracks. I'm talking about the 'Nocturnes for a Burning City' suite you uploaded under a different alias three years ago. I'm talking about your use of the Lydian dominant scale in the bridge of track four, 'Asphalt Blooms'. It was audacious. Brilliant.

Ji-won felt a jolt, a strange mix of violation and validation. That suite was a deeply personal, experimental project he thought had vanished into the digital ether, heard by no one. This person hadn't just heard it; they had dissected it. They spoke his language.

Ghost: What do you want?

Cassandra: To offer a perspective. I've listened to the album leaks—the low-quality snippets the fans are sharing. Your music is, as always, impeccable. 'Titan' is a monster of a track. A commercial atom bomb. But I see the seams.

Ghost: Seams?

Cassandra: The seams where the pure composition was tailored to fit the 'Aura Narrative'. It's subtle. You're too good a craftsman for it to be obvious. But it's there.

Ji-won bristled. It's my music.

Cassandra: Of course. But music in this industry is never just music, is it? It's a product. And the primary product Aura Management sells is 'Ahn Da-eun's Authentic Story'. Her pain. Her struggle. Her triumph. It's an incredibly powerful narrative. Han Yoo-jin is a genius for building his company on it. But a narrative that strong demands that everything else serve it. The lyrics must serve it. The visuals must serve it. And the music... the music must ultimately bend the knee.

Every word was a drop of carefully formulated poison, designed not to kill, but to infect. Nam Gyu-ri, sitting in a dark, minimalist apartment miles away, smiled at her screen. This was her new art form. Not a public smear, but a private vivisection of a man's artistic soul. She had studied Ji-won's profile. His weakness wasn't greed or lust. It was pride. A deep, intellectual pride in his own uncompromising artistry.

Cassandra: A CEO, even a 'good' one like Han Yoo-jin, will always make the choice that best serves the narrative. It's his job. He's not a villain for doing it. He's just a CEO. The story he needs to sell tomorrow is 'The Underdog Who Fought Back and Won'. 'Titan' sells that story perfectly.

Ji-won's fingers tightened on his mouse. The conversation was mirroring the one from the conference room with an unnerving, clairvoyant accuracy.

Ghost: Get to your point.

Cassandra: You have another track on the album, don't you? The one the fans are calling 'The Void Song'. Musically, it's a risk. It's complex, melancholic, unresolved. It's the kind of song that defines an artist, not a brand. But it doesn't fit the simple 'Triumphant Survivor' story they need to sell right now to beat Eclipse. It complicates the narrative. So, it will be buried as a B-side.

The Viper typed her final, devastating lines.

Cassandra: Your music is becoming the high-quality, emotionally resonant soundtrack for someone else's biography. You are no longer the author; you are the illustrator. I've seen it happen to a dozen great composers. They get brought in for their unique voice, and slowly, piece by piece, that voice is modulated to better fit the product until one day they wake up and they're just writing very, very good jingles.

A cold dread washed over Ji-won. He felt seen in the most terrible way. This anonymous messenger had articulated the vague, formless anxiety that had been gnawing at him for weeks.

The typing bubble appeared one last time.

Cassandra: You don't have to believe me. Just watch. Watch what happens when art has to compete with marketing. The artist will protest. The CEO will soothe her. And in the end, the choice will be made that ensures the highest number of first-week streams. It's inevitable. It's gravity. Good luck, Ghost. I hope you don't become one.

And then, the user Cassandra vanished. The chat history wiped itself clean, leaving no trace. It was as if the conversation had never happened.

But the damage was done. The poison was in his system.

Ji-won was left alone in the blinking darkness of his studio. He stared at the complex waveform of 'Titan' displayed across his largest monitor. An hour ago, he saw power, precision, a masterpiece of sonic engineering.

Now, he saw a compromise. A beautifully crafted, exquisitely produced lie. And he heard Ahn Da-eun's voice in his head, not defiant anymore, but pleading. Don't let me become them. He had thought she was talking about herself. Now he wondered if she was talking about all of them.