The Scandal-Proof Producer

By the time the sun rose over Seoul, the world had been shaken. "The Ghosts' Testimony" was no longer just a video; it was a cultural event. It was the number one trending topic on YouTube, Twitter, and every other social media platform across dozens of countries. The hashtags #JusticeForJin, #WeSeeYouChaerin, and #LetDaEunRoar were global phenomena. Aura Management had not just thrown a grenade into the industry, as Director Yoon had predicted; they had detonated a small, tactical nuclear weapon, and the fallout was raining down everywhere.

The media was in an absolute frenzy. News outlets from Rolling Stone to the BBC were scrambling to cover the story. But Yoo-jin's PR team, now operating with the calm efficiency of seasoned crisis managers, guided the narrative. They granted exclusive first interviews to respected, serious journalists who they knew would treat the story with the gravity it deserved. As a result, the headlines that morning were not the salacious clickbait of a typical K-pop scandal. They were powerful.

"Brave Artists Expose the Industry's Dark Side in Unflinching Documentary."

"Aura Management's Radical Honesty Challenges K-Pop's Culture of Silence."

"The Stolen Soul: How OmniCorp's AI Ambitions Led to an Unprecedented Artistic Theft."

Inside the Aura office, however, the mood was far from triumphant. It was the chaotic, emotionally raw aftermath of a major battle. The artists were overwhelmed. The act of laying their souls bare for the world had been cathartic, but the resulting explosion of attention was a tidal wave threatening to drown them. Their phones, which Yoo-jin had wisely instructed them to turn off, were overheating with thousands of notifications—messages of support, concern, and pity from friends, distant relatives, and former colleagues they hadn't spoken to in years.

This was Yoo-jin's new, immediate challenge: managing his artists not through a crisis of failure, but through the disorienting vertigo of a massive, validating, and emotionally draining victory.

He found Chae-rin first, curled up on the lounge sofa, weeping quietly. They were tears of relief, not sadness, but they were overwhelming nonetheless. The ghost who had spent her life trying to be invisible was now the most seen person in the world. Yoo-jin didn't say a word. He simply gestured to Go Min-young, who came and sat beside Chae-rin, wrapping a comforting arm around her. Min-young, who understood the weight of a revealed secret better than anyone, would be her anchor.

Next, he had to handle Da-eun. She was pacing in the practice room like a caged tiger, her phone in her hand, her face a mask of thunderous rage. "Can you believe this?" she snarled, shoving the phone in Yoo-jin's direction. It was a text message from her father. It wasn't cruel, just terse and confused: "What is all this nonsense about me on the internet? Call me."

"I'm going to call him and give him a piece of my mind he'll never forget," Da-eun seethed.

"No, you're not," Yoo-jin said calmly, taking the phone from her hand. "Not today. Today, you are going to breathe. You're going to eat. You're going to let the victory settle. You can have that conversation when you're calm and ready, not when you're running on raw fury and three hours of sleep. That's an order." Da-eun glared at him, but she knew he was right. She slumped onto the floor, the fight draining out of her.

His most difficult task was Jin. He found him in the empty recording booth, staring through the glass at the vacant studio, his expression hollow. The public validation had been immense. The #JusticeForJin hashtag was a global rallying cry. But it also meant that his deepest wound, the theft of his secret self, was now public knowledge, a story for millions to consume.

"How do you feel?" Yoo-jin asked quietly, stepping into the booth with him.

"Relieved," Jin admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "And… naked. Like every person on the street knows my most painful secret."

"They don't know your secret," Yoo-jin corrected gently. "They know your story. And there's a difference. A secret is a burden you carry alone. A story is a light you share with others. You're not a victim anymore, Jin. You're a survivor. And your story is giving other people the courage to survive, too." He had to act as both a CEO and a counselor, helping Jin navigate the complex, paradoxical feelings of relief and exposure.

As he was talking Jin through the emotional labyrinth, his phone rang. It was an unknown number, but the prefix was one he recognized. He answered it.

"Han Yoo-jin."

"It's Yoon Ji-seok." The voice of Stellar Entertainment's enigmatic Executive Director was clipped, professional, but underneath it, Yoo-jin could detect a note of stunned, grudging respect. "I'm sitting in my office, watching the entire industry catch fire. What you have just done… you've thrown a live grenade into the annual shareholders' meeting."

Yoo-jin remained silent, letting him speak.

"I have reporters from the New York Times calling me for comment on Kim Jin-hyuk's situation," Yoon continued. "Top Tier Media is in complete chaos. Their stock is plummeting again. They look like fools, at best, and accomplices at worst. And OmniCorp… they've been exposed as predators."

There was a pause. "They are a threat to all of us, Han Yoo-jin. Their methods, their ideology… it's a cancer on this industry. Stellar Entertainment cannot and will not publicly condone your methods." Another pause. "But… we will not stand in your way. In fact, you may find that certain legal obstacles regarding Jin-hyuk's contract with his former agency… quietly disappear in the coming days. Consider it a professional courtesy."

It was a declaration. An unofficial, arm's-length alliance. By forcing the issue into the blinding light of day, Yoo-jin had compelled the other major players to choose a side. And Director Yoon, a ruthless but traditional capitalist, had chosen to side with the humans against the machines.

The ripples continued to spread. In a grimy office across town, the men from New Dawn Financial watched the news reports, their faces pale with dawning horror. They saw the global outpouring of support for Aura. They saw headlines about a "company that protects its artists" and their "brave, honest stories." They realized, with a sickening certainty, that if they had tried to leak their story about Go Min-young's brother, the public would not have blamed her. They would have been drawn and quartered, crucified in the media as monstrous villains preying on a beloved hero. Yoo-jin hadn't just neutralized their threat; he had made it utterly, laughably unthinkable.

In the midst of the swirling chaos, Yoo-jin gathered his three weary, overwhelmed artists in the lounge. "The world has heard your testimony," he said, his voice a calm center in the storm. "You've told them your truth. Now… it's time for them to hear your song."

The final master of their debut track, its title now officially changed to "Hollow (Ghosts' Anthem)," was ready for release. The song was no longer just a song. It was the closing argument. It was the final, emotional proof in their public testimony. Its meaning had been permanently forged in the fires of the stories they had just shared with the world.