The Scandal-Proof Producer

Chairman Choi's penthouse office was less a workspace and more a temple to absolute control. It was a vast, minimalist expanse of black marble and cold chrome, perched atop the Top Tier Media tower like an eagle's nest. One entire wall was a seamless, floor-to-ceiling bank of monitors, a silent, flickering god's-eye view of the world: news feeds from every major global outlet, real-time social media trend maps, and glowing green and red stock tickers.

Chairman Choi stood before it, a small, delicate porcelain teacup held in his hand, observing the digital chaos of the morning with the unnerving calm of a man watching a weather report. The storm was of his own making, and he was safely above the clouds.

Near the door, the PR Director who had overseen Jin's disastrous interview stood with his head bowed, his face pale and slick with a cold sweat. He looked like a man awaiting his own execution.

"...we never anticipated he would go off-script, Chairman," the director stammered, his voice thin and reedy. "The questions were vetted, the preparatory sessions were extensive… I take full responsibility. I will, of course, tender my resignation immediately…"

Choi held up a single, elegant hand, and the man's desperate apology died in his throat. He didn't turn around, his gaze still fixed on a screen displaying a dozen different articles about Jin's "cry for help."

"You misunderstand the nature of your failure," Choi said, his voice soft but carrying the immense weight of his authority. It cut through the silence of the vast room. "Your failure was not in your inability to control him. Your failure was in believing the goal was to create a perfect pop star."

He took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. "The goal," he continued, "was to create a perfect asset. And you failed to grasp the distinction."

He finally turned, his eyes, cold and dark as polished obsidian, pinning the trembling man in place. There was no anger in his expression, only a profound and chilling disappointment, which was infinitely worse. "Perfection is not the absence of flaws. Perfection is the absolute control of the narrative. All of it. The triumphs, the struggles, the manufactured controversies, and yes, even the breakdowns. Jin did not fail to be perfect. He failed to be mine. You are dismissed."

The PR Director's shoulders sagged in a strange mix of terror and relief. He bowed low, a jerky, puppet-like motion, and all but fled the room, the silent closing of the heavy doors sealing his professional doom.

Choi's gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where Nam Gyu-ri, The Viper, had been standing in silence, observing the entire exchange with the detached curiosity of a scientist watching a lesser predator be put down.

"Approach," Choi commanded softly.

She moved with a fluid, confident grace, stopping a respectful distance from his desk. He placed his teacup down with a faint click.

"Your public smear campaigns against Aura Management were clumsy," he stated, not as a criticism, but as a simple statement of fact. "They were based on obvious lies, and lies are fragile things. They can be disproven. They create martyrs." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "However, your private efforts… your more recent initiatives… seem to be bearing more interesting fruit."

Nam Gyu-ri's expression remained perfectly neutral, but she felt a flicker of pride. He didn't know the details of her conversation with Kang Ji-won, but his intelligence network was clearly good enough to detect the seismic shift in the composer's loyalty. He didn't need to know how she did it; he only cared that she had changed tactics and succeeded where brute force had failed. She had passed his unspoken test.

"Han Yoo-jin's artists trust him implicitly," she said, her voice a cool, analytical monotone. "Their loyalty is his shield. It is more effective to poison the well from which they drink than to try and bomb the city."

A flicker of something—not quite a smile, but an approximation of approval—touched Choi's lips. "Precisely. Your considerable talents are wasted on writing press releases and bribing C-list reporters. From now on, you will report directly to me. Your purview is no longer public relations. It is… strategic destabilization."

He turned back to the wall of screens, a god reviewing his flawed creation. "The public pities Jin," he mused. "They see a beautiful, caged bird. They decry the pressures of an industry that I, more than any other man alive, helped to build and perfect. How sentimental." He gestured with his chin towards a graph showing a massive spike in positive social media sentiment for Jin. "Our enemy thinks he handed them a weapon. So, we will take that weapon from their hands and teach them how it is properly used."

He began to outline a new strategy, his voice calm and terrifyingly cynical. "Leak his practice schedules. The real ones. Let the fan sites 'discover' them. Let them see the eighteen-hour days. Have a 'former trainee' give an anonymous interview to a sympathetic blogger about his diet, his dedication, how he would practice until he collapsed. We will not deny the pressure; we will embrace it. We will reframe it."

His eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "We will have Jin release a sincere, handwritten letter to his fans. Apologizing for worrying them, but reaffirming his unwavering commitment to delivering the perfection they deserve. We will turn his moment of weakness into a testament to his superhuman dedication. Han Yoo-jin sells authenticity born of rebellion. We will sell authenticity born of noble suffering and sacrifice. We will co-opt his brand and make it our own."

His gaze then drifted across the screens until it landed on a candid photo of Han Yoo-jin, caught by paparazzi outside his office building. Choi's expression hardened, the strategic game-playing falling away to reveal a core of pure, personal contempt.

"But that is merely fighting the battle. To win the war, we must understand the enemy general." He turned fully to face Gyu-ri, his voice dropping to a low, intense frequency. "Han Yoo-jin's greatest strength, his only true strength, is that he knows things he has no right to know. An actor's catastrophic gambling debts, hidden from everyone. A fabricated plagiarism demo, sourced from an obscure artist in another country. He doesn't just predict his enemy's moves; he knows their secrets before they are even secrets. His insight is… unnatural."

He looked Nam Gyu-ri directly in the eye, giving her a new, ultimate directive. "Your media games are over. Your new, singular priority is Han Yoo-jin himself. I don't want his artists broken; I want him broken. I want him exposed. Investigate every facet of his existence. His sealed juvenile records. His university transcripts. His finances. His relationships. Every person he has ever worked with. Find out how he gets his information. Find his source. Find the crack in his own armor, because every man has one."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice a bare whisper. "I want to know what he had for breakfast. I want to know who he fears in his darkest moments. I want to know the secret to his perfect vision." He straightened up. "Find it. And bring it to me."

A small, cold smile finally graced Nam Gyu-ri's lips. This was the game she was born to play. Not throwing mud in the press, but the slow, patient, meticulous dismantling of a man, piece by piece. The hunt was no longer for a headline. It was for a soul.

"Yes, Chairman," she said, her voice filled with a newfound and terrible purpose. "I'll find it."