The Scandal-Proof Producer

The silence of Han Yoo-jin's apartment was a poor defense against the screaming in his own mind. It was late, the city below a distant, slumbering beast. He sat on his couch, the lights off, the only illumination coming from the cool, blue glow of his laptop screen. He was haunted. The experience on the music video set—the "Synchronization Rate," the phantom chill, the borrowed exhaustion—had shaken him to his core. It had been happening in fleeting, subtle ways for weeks, moments he had dismissed as stress or empathetic projection. But now, it had a name. It was a feature. And he needed to understand it.

Fear was a luxury he couldn't afford. Ignorance was a death sentence. He had to know what was happening to him. He had to conduct an experiment.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and navigated to a video file on his desktop. It was a high-definition recording of a small outdoor music festival from a week ago. Lee Seo-yeon had performed a three-song set. He remembered the night well; she had been crippled with anxiety beforehand, calling him three times just to hear him say she would be okay. Her performance had been beautiful, but fragile. The perfect test case.

He pressed play. The video filled the screen. Seo-yeon, looking small and vulnerable on the large stage, was clutching the microphone stand, her knuckles white. The opening notes of her ballad, "Thaw," began to play.

Yoo-jin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and focused his entire will on the image on the screen. He didn't just watch; he observed with the full, intentional force of his ability, consciously trying to trigger the new phenomenon.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the familiar interface flickered into existence, overlaying the video. Standard data first.

[Subject: Lee Seo-yeon]

[Live Performance Analysis: Vocal Pitch Accuracy - 97%]

[Emotional State: Acute Performance Anxiety (Severity: 8/10)]

[Audience Reaction: Sympathetic Engagement - 88%]

And then, at the bottom of the screen, the new metric appeared, blinking into existence like a warning light.

[Synchronization Rate with Subject... 10%]

He kept his focus locked on her image. He watched the number begin to climb. 20%... 30%... 40%...

He felt it begin. A faint, but undeniable, tightness in his own chest. His breathing, which had been calm and even, became slightly more shallow. He could feel his heart rate increase, a dull, thudding drumbeat that matched the nervous rhythm of Seo-yeon's own heart. His palms, resting on the laptop, started to feel damp. He was feeling her fear. Not as an abstract piece of data, a number on a screen, but as a genuine, physical sensation invading his own body. It was invasive. It was overwhelming.

A part of him, the sane part, screamed at him to stop, to look away, to shut the laptop. But the producer, the strategist, the man who had to know every angle, pushed forward. He needed to know the limits. He needed to know the cost.

He gritted his teeth and pushed his focus deeper, willing the connection to strengthen. The number on the screen climbed faster. 50%... 60%... 70%...

The sensations intensified dramatically. He could feel a phantom version of the hot, humid air of the outdoor festival on his skin. A dryness coated his own tongue as Seo-yeon swallowed nervously between lines. When she stepped closer to the microphone to sing the song's powerful, soaring chorus, he felt a lump of pure anxiety form in his own throat. It was the physical manifestation of her fear of cracking on the high notes. He could feel the specific tension in her shoulders, the slight tremble in her hands.

He was no longer just watching a performance. He was experiencing it from a terrifying, dual perspective—his own, and hers. He was a ghost in her machine.

She reached the bridge of the song, the most vocally demanding section. As she took a deep, shuddering breath and launched into the highest note of the ballad, Yoo-jin felt a sharp, sympathetic strain in his own vocal cords. It didn't hurt, not in the way a real injury would, but it was an acute, undeniable physical echo. He felt the vibration, the tension, the sheer muscular effort it took for her to sustain the note. He felt her relief as she held it, pure and clear, and the slight dizziness that followed.

The song ended. The crowd erupted in applause. On the screen, Seo-yeon gave a shaky but heartfelt bow. The [Synchronization Rate] on Yoo-jin's display flashed 92% before the entire interface faded, severing the connection as abruptly as it had formed.

The silence in his apartment was absolute. Yoo-jin slumped back against the couch, gasping for air as if he had just run a marathon. A cold sweat drenched his shirt. His muscles ached with a fatigue that was not his own. The phantom sensations receded, leaving him feeling hollowed out, scoured clean, and utterly, profoundly drained. It was as if a piece of his own life force had been siphoned away to power the connection.

He sat there for a long time, breathing heavily, trying to process what had just happened. The potential of this new ability was staggering. It was the ultimate tool for a producer. To not just know, but to feel an artist's anxiety, their strain, their elation. He could guide them with a level of empathy and precision that was literally superhuman. He could tell them to rest their voice before they even knew it was tired. He could adjust a key or change a tempo based on the physical anxiety a chord change produced in them.

But the price… the price was terrifying.

It was a tax on his own soul. An empathy so profound it threatened to consume him. What would happen if he used it too often? Could it cause permanent psychological damage? Could he lose track of where his feelings ended and his artists' began? What would happen if he accidentally Synchronized with an enemy? What would it feel like to be flooded with Chairman Choi's boundless narcissism and cold, predatory ambition? Would he be able to withstand it? What if, one day, he couldn't turn it off?

He pushed himself off the couch and walked to the window, looking down at the sleeping city. His greatest weapon, the secret that had built his entire world, had just evolved. It had become something more powerful, more intimate, and infinitely more dangerous than he could have ever imagined.

He caught his own reflection in the dark glass of the window. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a new and terrible understanding. He was a producer who could feel the very soul of his art. He was also a man who had just discovered a ghost living inside him, and he had no idea if it was an angel or a demon. He only knew that it was hungry.