The Scandal-Proof Producer

Nam Gyu-ri was reeling. She sat in her pristine white office at OmniCorp, a silent monument to rage and miscalculation. She had been publicly and comprehensively outmaneuvered. Han Yoo-jin had not only refused to play her game of whispers and shadows; he had flipped the entire board, exposing his own pieces to the light in a move of such reckless, strategic brilliance that it left her breathless.

But Nam Gyu-ri was a cornered viper, and that is when she was at her most venomous. Panic was an emotion for amateurs. For her, a catastrophic failure was simply a new set of operating parameters. She couldn't suppress the story now. It was a global phenomenon. So, she would do the next best thing. She would co-opt it. She would absorb it. She would reframe it.

With a speed that was terrifying, she began her counter-attack. The multi-million-dollar ad campaign for the "happy, joyful" Kai was scrapped with a single, brutal email. Her new plan was far more insidious. She drafted an official statement from OmniCorp's global headquarters, a document that was a masterclass in corporate manipulation.

Within the hour, it was released to every major news outlet in the world.

The statement began by expressing "deep and profound concern" for the "emotional distress" of Mr. Kim Jin-hyuk. It claimed that his unsolicited, anonymous demos had been submitted to a vast, automated music analysis subsidiary, and that their ORPHEUS AI, in an early, unrefined beta phase, had analyzed his unique vocal style as part of a routine data ingestion process.

The creation of Kai's voice, the statement explained, was a "regrettable and unintentional error in the beta-testing phase," where the AI, in its attempt to create a "market-ready composite vocal," had unfortunately and accidentally over-indexed on Mr. Kim's "inspirational and highly unique vocal signature."

It was a work of genius. It reframed grand artistic larceny as a simple, regrettable copyright dispute. It painted OmniCorp not as a villain, but as a clumsy, well-intentioned innovator who had made a technical error they were now desperate to rectify.

The statement concluded by announcing that OmniCorp had already reached out to Mr. Kim's former management to discuss a "generous and fair compensation package for his foundational influence" on the Kai project.

Nam Gyu-ri followed this public move with a private one. A direct, confidential email was sent to Han Yoo-jin. It was an olive branch dripping with poison.

She proposed a settlement. On behalf of OmniCorp, she offered Kim Jin-hyuk a staggering sum of money, an amount that would make him wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. In addition, they would offer him a public credit as a "Co-Executive Producer" on Kai's debut single. In exchange for this, Jin and Aura Management would be required to sign a permanent, ironclad Non-Disclosure Agreement, preventing them from ever again claiming the work was "stolen" or that OmniCorp had acted with malicious intent.

She was trying to buy their silence. She was attempting to reduce their righteous, moral crusade to a simple business transaction. If they accepted, Jin would be rich, but he would be validating her story—that he was just a paid contributor, not a victim. He would be paid to agree that his soul had a price tag.

Back at Aura, Yoo-jin read the email, then projected it onto the conference room screen for the team to see. The number on the screen, the sheer volume of zeros, was dizzying. It was life-changing money. For a moment, the room was silent, the allure of the offer a tangible thing. It was the easy way out. A golden bridge away from the battlefield.

Yoo-jin watched Jin's face. He saw the flicker of temptation. Who could blame him? It was more money than he would likely ever see in his career. But then, Jin's expression hardened. He looked at the title they were offering him—'Co-Executive Producer.'

"He's not a co-producer," Jin said, his voice quiet but hard as diamonds. He was speaking of Kai as if it were a real person. "He's a ghost. My ghost. And she wants to pay me to pretend we're colleagues. She wants to pay me to stay dead."

He looked at Yoo-jin, his eyes clear and resolved. "Tell her to go to hell."

The team let out a collective breath they didn't realize they'd been holding. Da-eun grinned, a look of fierce pride on her face. Chae-rin smiled, her faith in him affirmed.

Yoo-jin closed the email. The Viper's final gambit had failed. He had his answer. He had his united army. He had the world's attention. The narrative was his to command.

"It's time," he said, his voice calm and final. "The world has heard the testimony. Now, it's time for them to hear the anthem."

He gave the order.

Across the globe, phones buzzed with a new notification from Aura Management's YouTube channel. The title was simple: Aura Chimera - 'Hollow (Ghosts' Anthem)' Official Music Video.

The video that appeared was the footage from their studio sessions. It opened not with music, but with a simple, stark white title card on a black screen:

"This song is dedicated to all the ghosts."

Then, the music began. The haunting, melancholic piano melody that Jin had written alone in the dark filled the silence. The camera focused on his face as he sang the opening verse, his expression raw and vulnerable. As he sang, a simple, unobtrusive line of text appeared at the bottom of the screen, like a subtitle in a documentary:

Jin's original demo for 'Hollow' was composed and recorded in his private studio, 2022.

The verse ended, and the camera cut to Da-eun, her eyes closed, her hand on her guitar, as she joined in with her deep, resonant harmony. The music began to build. The text at the bottom of the screen changed:

Aura Chimera's version was arranged and recorded at Aura Management studios, last week.

The song continued to swell, Chae-rin's ethereal voice now weaving through the other two, a thread of light in the beautiful darkness. The energy was building to the chorus, a testament to their collaborative, human process. Then, just before the chorus hit, the music paused for a single, dramatic beat of silence. The screen cut to black, and a new line of text appeared:

OmniCorp's virtual artist, Kai, and his debut single were officially announced yesterday.

The context was laid bare. It was no longer an accusation; it was a timeline. It was evidence.

Then, the chorus exploded.

The camera pulled back to show all three of them in the room together, their voices united in a soaring, defiant harmony. It was a sound of glorious, messy, human power. It was the sound of three broken souls who had found strength in each other, a sound no machine could ever replicate. It was the sound of redemption. The sound of the truth.

The song played on, a direct, powerful, and undeniable challenge to the silent, stolen voice of their enemy. The battle of the bands had officially, and spectacularly, begun.