The Scandal-Proof Producer

A week passed in a flurry of unprecedented creative harmony. The breakthrough in the practice room had shattered the walls between the three artists. "Aura Chimera," the tongue-in-cheek project name Kang Ji-won had coined, was beginning to feel less like a monstrous hybrid and more like a singular, powerful new entity. Jin's raw, emotional songwriting, filtered through Da-eun's foundational power and Chae-rin's ethereal complexity, was evolving into a sound that was utterly unique. They were building their weapon, and it was beautiful.

The sense of progress, of righteous purpose, was a warm, protective bubble around the Aura office. They were so focused on the internal work of creation that they failed to notice the first, subtle shift in the outside world.

It didn't come as a frontal assault. Nam Gyu-ri was far too smart for that. Her first move was silent, insidious, and expertly placed. It appeared not as a scathing article in a major newspaper, but as a seemingly innocent "think piece" on a small, obscure online music forum—the kind frequented by hardcore music critics and industry insiders. It was a place designed for its ideas to be "discovered" and then disseminated to a wider audience, giving them the veneer of intellectual credibility.

The article was titled: "The Price of Authenticity: Can 'Second Chance' Artists Ever Truly Escape Their Past?"

It began innocently enough, discussing the recent trend in the music industry of artists who find success after overcoming significant hardship or failure. It praised the public's growing appetite for "real stories." Then, without naming Aura Management directly, the Viper began to inject her poison.

The anonymous author wrote about a "fiery rock singer, recently finding acclaim for her explosive stage presence." The piece then posed a seemingly thoughtful question: "But where is the line between genuine artistic expression and the simple, public performance of unprocessed trauma? Is her powerful roar a true act of musical creation, or is it merely the sound of a wound that has never been allowed to properly heal?"

Da-eun's greatest strength—her raw, powerful authenticity—was being subtly reframed as a potential psychological instability.

Next, the article pivoted to a "fragile female vocalist who found sudden, unexpected global fame with a song born from years of obscurity." The question here was different, but no less venomous: "While her debut was undeniably moving, one must ask if she is a true, sustainable artist, or a one-hit-wonder defined entirely by a compelling backstory. Is the public connecting with her art, or are they merely consuming her tragedy?"

Chae-rin's miraculous success was being painted as a fluke, a gimmick based on pity rather than talent.

Finally, the piece addressed the rumors swirling around the industry since the fall of Chairman Choi. It spoke of a "certain famous boy group leader, known for his polished image but rumored to have deeper artistic ambitions." The speculation was couched in concern: "Can an artist so thoroughly shaped by the machinery of a top-tier agency ever truly succeed on his own? Or will his 'authentic' solo work forever be judged against the manufactured perfection that made him a star, proving he cannot exist without it?"

Jin's very real struggle was being preemptively framed as a potential failure, an artist who was nothing without the system he was trying to escape.

The article was a masterpiece of psychological warfare. It was classic Nam Gyu-ri. It didn't use any facts that could be disputed or sued over. It used questions. Insidious, carefully crafted questions designed to plant a seed of doubt in the reader's mind. It took Aura's greatest strength—the real, troubled, and authentic histories of their artists—and twisted it into a potential weakness. It whispered to the world, "Are you sure what you're seeing is real? Or are you just being sold a very convincing story about pain?"

The effect was not instantaneous, but it was viral. As intended, the post was "discovered" by a slightly larger music blog, which wrote a response piece titled, "Provocative New Article Asks Hard Questions About K-Pop's Authenticity Trend." From there, it jumped to Twitter. The carefully crafted questions began to spread, detached from their original source.

Fans began to argue, defending their favorite artists. But the poison was already in the bloodstream. The conversation was no longer just about Aura's great music; it was now also about whether their artists' stories were legitimate. The pure, positive narrative Yoo-jin had so carefully built around "Echo & Roar" was being subtly polluted.

Yoo-jin was in his office reviewing the final marketing budget when Min-ji forwarded him the link to the original article. He read it once, then a second time, a cold, familiar dread settling in his stomach. He knew her signature style. The subtle character assassination, the weaponization of doubt, the way it attacked the foundation instead of the building. It was her.

This was her opening salvo. She hadn't attacked him. She hadn't attacked the company's finances. She had gone for the heart. She was launching a precision strike against the core belief system of his artists, aiming to destabilize them from the inside out by making them, and the world, question the very source and sincerity of their art. If she could make them doubt themselves, their collaborative chemistry would crumble. The Chimera would tear itself apart.

He called his team into the conference room, the celebratory mood of the past week vanishing the moment they saw his grim expression. He projected the article onto the main screen and let them read it in silence.

He watched their faces as they processed the words. He saw the flicker of Da-eun's old anger, the shadow of Chae-rin's former insecurity, the hint of Jin's fresh despair. The Viper's poison was working, triggering their deepest fears.

"She's begun," Yoo-jin said, his voice as cold and hard as steel. "She's not attacking our music. She's attacking our story. Our truth."

He looked at his three artists, at the way they were now subtly avoiding each other's eyes, the article having momentarily resurrected the walls between them.

"She thinks she can control our narrative," Yoo-jin said, a dangerous, competitive glint appearing in his eye. He would not let this stand. He would not let her win. "She wants to fight a war of whispers and shadows. Fine. We'll fight a war of light and thunder."

He turned to his team, his voice ringing with a new, audacious plan. "We're not going to counter with a press release. We're going to counter with a testimony. She wants to question our story? We're going to give them a story so raw and so real that it can never be twisted."

He looked directly at Go Min-young, the architect of their emotional honesty. "I have a new idea for the debut of this project group. It's time we let the world hear directly from the ghosts in the machine."

He was planning to counter Nam Gyu-ri's sophisticated media manipulation with a radical act of public truth-telling, using his artists not as performers, but as witnesses.