The Scandal-Proof Producer

The knowledge of Project Nightingale lit a fire under Aura Management. The next 48 hours were a blur of focused, feverish activity, the office buzzing with a purpose that transcended the normal pressures of a comeback. This wasn't about topping charts anymore; it was about drawing a line in the sand.

The final recording and mixing sessions for "Echo & Roar" were a world away from the tense, awkward encounters that had started the project. In the soundproofed booth, Ahn Da-eun and Park Chae-rin were no longer two opposing forces, but two halves of a single, powerful entity. The shared threat, the shared mission, had forged a bond between them stronger than any team-building exercise could have.

"Hey, on that last harmony," Da-eun said during a pause, her voice relaxed and collaborative through the talkback. "What if you came in just a fraction of a second later? Let my note hang for a beat before you cut through it. Make it more of a surprise."

Chae-rin, who once would have shrunk from any direct suggestion, nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, let's try. And Unni, on your lead-in to the final chorus, maybe pull back just a tiny bit? So the roar feels even bigger when it hits."

They laughed at minor mistakes, offered each other water, and worked with a seamless, intuitive chemistry that was breathtaking to witness. They were no longer fire and fog; they were the lightning and the thunder of a coming storm. The fortress and the ghost were now allies, haunting the same battleground together.

In the control room, Yoo-jin was in his element. He was a general in his command center, overseeing the final battle plan with his lead engineer, Kang Ji-won. The weight of their new knowledge pushed them to an even higher standard of perfection.

"The bass drum needs more heart, Ji-won," Yoo-jin said, leaning over the console. "Not just low-end thump. I want to feel a heartbeat. Use that vintage compressor, let it breathe a little."

"And the reverb on Chae-rin's vocal," Ji-won added, already turning knobs. "I'm going to use a plate reverb instead of a digital one. It's less perfect, it has more character. More… human flaws."

They worked for hours, obsessing over the smallest details—the precise length of a piano note's decay, the subtle grit in Da-eun's voice as it cracked on a high note, the sound of Chae-rin's soft intake of breath before a crucial line. They weren't just mixing a song; they were weaving a tapestry of beautiful, human imperfections.

Yoo-jin leaned back in his chair, listening to the near-final mix play through the studio monitors. It was magnificent. It was the sound of his team, united and defiant. It was the sound of their rebellion. He felt a sense of profound pride and satisfaction wash over him, a warmth that spread through his chest.

And then he felt it.

It was a faint, unsettling sensation, like a single, sour note played on a distant, out-of-tune piano. It wasn't in the music—the mix was flawless. It was a dissonance inside him. He blinked, shaking his head slightly, attributing it to the long nights and the immense pressure. Stress. Fatigue. It had to be.

He let his gaze drift across the control room, a silent roll call of his trusted team. Ji-won was lost in the music, his head nodding to the beat. Da-eun and Chae-rin were in the lounge, visible through the glass, sharing a joke. And then his eyes landed on Go Min-young. She was sitting on the sofa, a notebook in her lap, watching the singers with a proud, almost maternal smile. She was their anchor, their quiet, steady center.

Out of sheer habit, a producer's instinct to check on his people, he activated his Eye, focusing on her. He expected to see the familiar, comforting stats that had defined her since the day he met her: [Loyalty (SSS)], [Work Ethic (S+)], [Emotional Stability (A+)].

The familiar blue window materialized in his vision.

[Target: Go Min-young]

[Potential: S (Lyricist)]

[Current Emotional State: Content (80%), Proud (75%), Anxious (15%)]

The flicker of anxiety was normal, given the circumstances. But then, a new line of text appeared below it. A line he hadn't seen since the chaotic early days of the company, and never, ever associated with her. The text was flashing a dull, insistent, sickening red.

[Scandal Factor: C-Rank (Latent). WARNING: External Familial Vector Detected.]

Yoo-jin's blood ran cold. The warmth in his chest evaporated, replaced by an icy dread. It felt as if the floor had dropped out from under him, leaving him in a dizzying freefall.

Min-young? His rock. The first person who had believed in him. The quiet, fiercely loyal, completely unproblematic core of his company. It was impossible. It made no sense. A 'C-Rank' was low, a minor issue by industry standards, but the word 'Latent' meant it was a ticking time bomb, a hidden vulnerability waiting for the right circumstances to detonate. And the descriptor… 'External Familial Vector.' The problem wasn't with her. It was with her family. A weak point in their fortress that he had never even known existed.

His first, primal instinct was to use the full, terrifying power of his ability. He could activate the "Perceptual Memory Analysis," dive into her mind, and see the source of the problem as clearly as watching a film. He could identify the family member, the issue, the threat, all in a matter of seconds. He could have the answer and a plan to fix it before she even knew he was looking.

He started to focus, to push his ability towards that deeper, more intrusive function.

And then he stopped.

A wave of self-disgust washed over him. This was Go Min-young. This was the woman who had followed him from a top-tier agency to a shoebox office based on nothing but faith. This was the woman who had written the lyrics that had just healed the rift between his two star artists. Hacking into her private memories, her family life, her innermost fears… it felt like the ultimate betrayal. It was the very thing OmniCorp did—viewing a person as a collection of data to be analyzed for weaknesses.

It was the same moral line he had drawn with Chae-rin's phone, but this was a thousand times more personal, more intimate. This was a violation of the soul.

He leaned back in his chair, the beautiful music from the speakers suddenly sounding distant and unimportant. He had built his entire career, this second chance at life, on his ability to see and neutralize these kinds of threats before they could destroy his artists. But what was the cost of that protection? If he used his power this way, what kind of man would he become?

The time bomb was ticking. And for the first time, he felt that his greatest weapon, the Producer's Eye, was not a gift, but a terrible, agonizing curse.