The Scandal-Proof Producer

Yoo-jin didn't let the toxic silence fester. He didn't pull Da-eun aside for a scolding or coddle Chae-rin with reassurances. That would be treating the symptoms. He needed to operate on the disease itself. He sent a single, terse message to the core creative team's group chat: "Conference room. Ten minutes. Urgent."

Ten minutes later, they were all there. The tension was a living entity in the room. Ahn Da-eun sat with her arms crossed, radiating a defiant pride. Park Chae-rin had folded herself into a chair in the corner, as far from Da-eun as possible, her gaze fixed on a single, meaningless scuff mark on the table. Kang Ji-won leaned back, looking bored and annoyed at having his creative process interrupted, while Go Min-young sat poised with her notebook, her perceptive eyes darting between the two singers, sensing the storm.

Yoo-jin walked in and went directly to the whiteboard. Without a word, he picked up an eraser and, with two broad, deliberate swipes, wiped away the "Sword" and "Shield" diagram. He wiped away the arrows, the grand strategy, the entire architecture of their declared war, leaving only a blank, white space.

The act silenced the room. Ji-won sat up straighter.

"The strategy is sound," Yoo-jin began, his voice calm and even as he placed the eraser back in its tray. "But a sword is useless if the person wielding it is at war with themselves. A shield with a crack in it is worse than no shield at all."

He turned to face them, his gaze sweeping over each person before landing on his two star artists.

"Our next project will not be a solo for Da-eun. It will not be a follow-up ballad for Chae-rin." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the charged air. "It will be for Aura. As a whole. We're going to produce a duet."

For a full five seconds, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner. Then, the room broke.

Kang Ji-won was the first to react, not with anger, but with a sound that was half-scoff, half-laugh of disbelief. "A duet? CEO-nim, are you serious? Between them?" He gestured with a pen from Da-eun to Chae-rin, as if outlining an impossible equation. "Their vocal colors are incompatible. Their genres are from different planets. Their entire artistic identities are polar opposites. It's oil and water. Fire and fog. You can't mix them."

Before Yoo-jin could respond, Da-eun shot to her feet, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. "A duet? With all due respect, CEO-nim, how?" she asked, her voice laced with indignation. This wasn't just a creative disagreement; to her, it felt like a demotion, a personal slight. "My voice would swallow hers whole. It wouldn't be a collaboration; it would be a steamroller. This is ridiculous."

Across the room, Chae-rin flinched as if struck. She didn't speak, but her body language screamed her terror. The idea of being forced into the spotlight on equal footing with the powerful, confident Ahn Da-eun was her worst nightmare made real. She physically shrank in her seat, her head bowing as she tried to make herself smaller, to disappear.

Yoo-jin let their reactions hang in the air, a chaotic symphony of protest and fear. Then, he answered.

"Exactly, Ji-won," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "It's fire and fog. And that's precisely the point." He began to pace slowly, his tone shifting from that of a CEO to that of a strategist laying out a brilliant, counter-intuitive gambit. "OmniCorp's algorithms are built on predictability. Their machine can analyze the demographic appeal of a rock anthem. It can model the emotional contagion of a fragile ballad. It understands 'oil' and it understands 'water.' It knows what happens when you pour one on top of the other. What it cannot understand, what it cannot model, is the chemical emulsion you create when you force them to combine under pressure. It cannot predict true novelty born from conflict."

He stopped pacing and looked directly at Kang Ji-won. "They can predict your next rock song, Ji-won. They can predict Chae-rin's next lament. They cannot predict this."

He then turned his attention to his two singers, his voice softening slightly but losing none of its intensity.

"Da-eun," he said, addressing her with a directness that commanded her to listen. "I'm not asking you to weaken your voice. I'm challenging you to control it. Your mission isn't to overpower her. It is to learn how to make your fire burn in a way that illuminates the fog instead of just burning it away. To turn your roar into a protective fortress of sound. That is a greater display of power than sheer volume ever could be."

The anger in Da-eun's eyes flickered, replaced by a flicker of confused contemplation. He wasn't telling her she was wrong; he was telling her to be better.

He then shifted his gaze to the corner of the room. "And Chae-rin," he said gently, but firmly enough to make her look up. "Your mission is not to hide in the fog. It is to understand that a whisper can cut deeper than a scream if it's sharp enough, if it's aimed correctly. Your strength isn't in volume; it's in your vulnerability. I want you to find the steel in it. We're not asking you to roar. We're asking you to turn your voice into a blade."

Go Min-young watched the exchange, her pen still. She understood Yoo-jin's logic, but her heart ached for the two women. She saw the immense emotional pressure he was placing on them, especially on Chae-rin, and she worried it would break them.

But across from her, something had ignited in Kang Ji-won. His initial skepticism had vanished, replaced by a manic gleam in his eyes. He had already grabbed a notebook and was sketching furiously, his pen flying across the page. "A protective roar and a piercing whisper…" he muttered to himself, lost to the world. "Contrasting dynamics… A call and response that builds into a layered, dissonant harmony… The mix would be a nightmare… but fascinating…"

The impossible musical puzzle had hooked him. Yoo-jin's gambit, while emotionally fraught, was a creative catalyst of the highest order.

Yoo-jin let the new energy settle. "This is our next single," he announced, his voice firm again, leaving no room for further debate. "It's our next weapon in this war. I don't expect you to be best friends by the end of this. I don't even expect you to like each other. I expect you to be professionals."

He looked at his lyricist and composer. "Min-young, I want you to write their story. The story of this conflict. Give them the words. Ji-won, I want you to build them a world to have this fight in. Give them the music."

Finally, his gaze locked onto his two singers, pinning them in place. "And you two," he said, the words hanging between them like a physical contract. "You will find a way to make it work. The war isn't just with OmniCorp anymore. It starts here. In this room."

He turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. He had laid down the gauntlet. He had given them their mission. The rest was up to them.

In the conference room, a thick, heavy silence descended, a hundred times more uncomfortable than before. Da-eun slowly sank back into her chair, her arms no longer crossed, her expression a complex mixture of resentment and grudging respect. Chae-rin hadn't moved, but her head was no longer bowed. She was looking across the table at Da-eun, a flicker of something new in her eyes—not defiance, but a terrified, dawning resolve. Their conflict was no longer a private matter. It was now an official company project.