The Scandal-Proof Producer

The arrival of Oh Min-ji felt like a Trojan horse being wheeled into the small, fiercely independent city-state of Aura Management. She was accompanied by her father, Director Oh Seung-hwan of Stellar Entertainment, a man whose tailored suit and expensive watch could not quite conceal the desperate hope in his eyes. He was a corporate titan reduced to the role of a nervous pageant dad.

"CEO Han, thank you for this incredible opportunity," Director Oh said, his handshake firm but his smile strained. "My Min-ji has been working so hard for so long. She has a true passion for music. All she's ever needed is the right producer to see her potential."

Han Yoo-jin nodded, his own expression a careful mask of professional courtesy. Beside her father, Oh Min-ji stood silently, a stark contrast to his effusive praise. She was not, as Yoo-jin had perhaps expected, arrogant or entitled. There was no hint of a spoiled chaebol daughter. Instead, she was a black hole of teenage apathy. Dressed in a simple, oversized gray hoodie, she stared at the floor, her shoulders slumped, her entire being radiating an aura of profound, bone-deep indifference. When Yoo-jin greeted her, she offered a barely perceptible bow and a monosyllabic mumble.

This was his debt payment to Yoon Ji-seok. This sullen, unwilling girl was the key to securing an ally on Stellar's board.

"Why don't we go to the practice room," Yoo-jin suggested. "I'd love to hear something."

In the small, soundproofed room, Director Oh did most of the talking, listing his daughter's accomplishments—the years of vocal training, the dance classes, her supposed "diligence." Min-ji simply stood by the microphone, looking as if she would rather be anywhere else in the world.

"Alright, Min-ji," Yoo-jin said gently. "Whenever you're ready."

She nodded, took a breath, and began to sing. The song was a generic, technically demanding ballad that had been a huge hit for a popular idol soloist the year before. Her performance was… flawless. And utterly, completely empty.

Her pitch was perfect. Her control was immaculate. She hit every note with the clean, sterile precision of a studio synthesizer. There was not a single flaw, not a single tremor, not a single hint of human feeling. It was the performance of someone who had been drilled and corrected relentlessly, who had memorized the exact shape of every sound, but who had absolutely no connection to the words she was singing. It was, as Yoon Ji-seok had predicted, mediocre in the most frustrating way possible: perfect, yet completely forgettable.

When she finished, Director Oh beamed with pride. "You see? A crystal-clear voice. So much potential."

Yoo-jin just nodded. "Thank you, Min-ji. That was very… clean." He turned to her father. "Director Oh, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with Min-ji alone for a while. The producer-artist relationship requires a certain rapport."

Reluctantly, but eager to please, Director Oh agreed and left the room. The silence that descended was thick and uncomfortable. Min-ji went back to staring at her shoes.

Yoo-jin knew he couldn't break through this wall with conversation. He needed to understand the root of the problem. He leaned back in his chair, observing her, and activated his ability, pushing past a simple scan. He needed to feel what she was feeling, or more accurately, what she wasn't.

[Synchronization Mode: TARGETED]

[Selected Frequency: Apathy / Motivational Core]

[Establishing Connection... Sync Rate Climbing... 20%... 35%...]

The connection established, and the information that flowed into his mind was not what he expected. It was a complete, stunning refutation of everything her father had just claimed. The apathy he was feeling from her wasn't a lack of passion. It was an active, deeply held resistance to it.

[Subject: Oh Min-ji]

[Key Strength (Suppressed): Exceptional Analytical Mind (S-Rank); Pattern Recognition, Logic, Data Analysis]

[Critical Weakness: Living someone else's dream (Her father's). Has no personal desire or ambition to be a performer.]

[Dominant Emotion: Resentful Resignation. Feels profoundly trapped by her father's ambition and her own sense of familial duty.]

The sync deepened, and he accessed her thoughts. They were not the thoughts of an aspiring artist.

[Current Thoughts: Just get through this. Just sing the notes right so he doesn't look disappointed. Now comes the part where this new producer tells me to 'feel it more.' They don't get it. I don't want to feel it. I want to be at home solving logic puzzles on my computer. I wish he'd just tell me I have no talent so Dad would finally let me quit and study computer science.]

Yoo-jin felt a jolt of pure shock. This girl wasn't an untalented idol. She was a suppressed genius of a completely different kind, forced onto a path she actively hated. Her father's dream was her prison. Forcing her to sing, to become a star, would not just be pointless; it would be an act of profound cruelty.

His deal with Yoon Ji-seok had just become infinitely more complicated. His "payment" was not to make an average trainee good. It was to mentor a brilliant young analyst who was being psychologically crushed by the weight of her father's misplaced ambition. He couldn't produce her music. Not yet. He had to produce her life.

He severed the sync, the secondhand resignation leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He looked at the sullen girl across from him, and for the first time, he saw her. Not as a debt to be paid, but as a puzzle to be solved.

He changed his entire approach.

"Your performance was technically perfect," he said, his voice neutral. Min-ji didn't react. "You've clearly had excellent training. Your pitch is better than 99% of the trainees I've ever heard."

She finally glanced up, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. This wasn't the usual critique.

"But it was boring," Yoo-jin stated bluntly. "And it's not your fault. It's the song's fault. It's a stupid song."

Min-ji's mouth fell open slightly.

"So, we're done with singing for today," Yoo-jin said, standing up. He walked over to a shelf and picked up a tablet used by the staff. He quickly downloaded an app, a famously complex and difficult business simulation game that required high-level strategy, resource management, and pattern recognition. He walked back and handed it to her.

"This is your new training," he said. "I want you to beat this game by our next session. I want you to find every exploit, every optimal path. I want you to break the game's economic model. Don't sing a single note until you do."

Oh Min-ji stared at him, then at the tablet in her hands, utterly bewildered. She looked from the complex game interface back to his face. For the first time since she had walked into the building, a genuine spark of curiosity, of interest, appeared in her dull, apathetic eyes.

"Why?" she asked, her voice a small whisper.

"Because a good producer knows you have to understand the system before you can create anything worthwhile," Yoo-jin replied, a small, enigmatic smile on his face. "Your training starts now."

He had just started down a path of mentorship that had absolutely nothing to do with music. He knew, with a producer's certainty, that he had to unlock her brilliant mind and let her be her true self before he could ever hope to find her real voice.