The Scandal-Proof Producer

The Hongdae live hall was a cavern of anxious silence. Five hundred empty seats stretched out in the gloom, a void that seemed to absorb all sound and confidence. On the brightly lit stage, the emptiness felt even more profound, more intimidating, than a full house. This was the final technical rehearsal, the last moment of quiet before the storm, and the tension was a palpable thing, a low-frequency hum beneath the occasional feedback squeal of a microphone.

The entire Aura Management team was on stage, each member a bundle of focused, jittery nerves. This showcase wasn't just a concert; it was their company's formal declaration to the world. It was their moment of truth. Kang Ji-won, looking deeply uncomfortable outside the familiar chaos of his basement studio, was in a tense, technical argument with the venue's head sound engineer, gesticulating wildly about the precise decay time on the vocal reverb. Kevin Riley, off to the side, was tuning his acoustic guitar for the tenth time, his fingers fumbling slightly, his eyes wide as he stared out at the dark, cavernous space. Lee Seo-yeon was pacing back and forth at the back of the stage, doing quiet vocal warm-ups, her hands clasped in front of her.

And in the center of it all, under a single, harsh work light, stood Ahn Da-eun. She was motionless, staring out at the sea of empty chairs, her expression unreadable.

Han Yoo-jin stood in the middle of the empty hall, a tablet in his hand, trying to watch everything at once. He scanned the digital reservation list for the industry section one last time. The names were a who's who of the Korean music world. Executives from Stellar Entertainment, YG, JYP, HYBE. Representatives from every major broadcast station. The most influential music critics. They weren't just here to see a show; they were here to judge, to scout, to witness either the birth of a new power or the spectacular failure of an upstart. The weight of expectation was immense.

"Alright, let's run Da-eun's new ballad, 'Echo in the Void,' one more time from the top," Yoo-jin's voice called out, amplified slightly by the hall's acoustics.

Ji-won grumbled but moved to the keyboard. The melancholic, piano-driven melody began, and Da-eun brought the microphone to her lips. She began to sing. The song was a masterpiece of vulnerability, a stark contrast to the defiance of "My Room." The lyrics, penned by Min-young, were about the loneliness that comes after a great battle. Her voice was technically perfect. The notes were clear, the pitch was flawless. But something was missing. A small, almost imperceptible waver appeared in her voice during a sustained note. It wasn't a technical flaw. It was an emotional one. A tremor of fear.

Yoo-jin saw it instantly. He raised his hand. "Stop. Hold on a second."

The music cut off. Da-eun looked at him, a flicker of frustration in her eyes.

"Let's take five, everyone," Yoo-jin announced. As the others dispersed, he walked down the aisle and climbed the steps onto the stage, meeting her at the center.

He didn't need his ability to know what she was feeling, but he used it anyway, a diagnostic tool to confirm the diagnosis. The blue panel next to her head was clear.

[Ahn Da-eun's Current Thoughts: Everyone is watching. All those important people. What if 'My Room' was just a fluke? A lucky shot? What if I'm not good enough to carry a whole album, a whole show? What if I disappoint him? After everything he's done… what if I fail?]

Her anxiety had shifted. It was no longer the fear of her enemies or the judgment of the public. It was the far heavier burden of not wanting to let down the people who finally believed in her.

Yoo-jin led her to the very front edge of the stage. They stood together, looking out at the silent, empty hall.

"Look out there," he said quietly, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. "Tonight, that void will be filled with people. Hundreds of them. Some of them will be fans who already love you. Some will be curious newcomers. And some," he said, his voice hardening slightly, "will be our enemies, sitting there with their arms crossed, praying for you to fail. None of them matter."

He turned to face her, his expression more serious than she had ever seen it. "The only people in the entire universe who matter tonight are on this stage with you. Me, Min-young, Ji-won, Seo-yeon, Kevin. Your family. The one we built together. We've been through hell and back to get to this stage. Your only job tonight is to stand here and tell your story. Our story. You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to hit every note like a machine. You just have to be you. You just have to be honest. I promise you, Ahn Da-eun, that is more than enough."

He saw the tension in her shoulders lessen, just a fraction. He knew he needed to give her something more. He needed to formally take the burden off her shoulders.

"From the moment you step into that spotlight until the moment the last person leaves this hall," he continued, his voice low and intense with a solemn promise, "your only responsibility is the music. Nothing else. Not the ticket sales, not the press, not the industry snakes in the VIP section. I will handle everything else. The business, the enemies, the politics. All of it. That is my job. I will be your shield, so that you can be our voice. That is the promise of Aura Management. So go out there and sing without fear, because I am taking care of the rest of the world."

A single tear escaped her eye, but she wiped it away quickly. It wasn't a tear of sadness. It was a tear of release. He had just unshackled her from the final weight on her soul. She looked at him, and her eyes, once filled with doubt, now held a clear, calm, and powerful resolve. She nodded.

While this was happening, a different, quieter moment of support was unfolding backstage. Kevin Riley was a nervous wreck. His hands were clammy, and he felt a distinct urge to run out of the building and disappear into the crowded streets of Hongdae. This was his first real performance in years, and it was in a foreign country, for a crowd that had every reason to be skeptical of him.

Lee Seo-yeon, who had just finished her own warm-ups, saw his panic. She, who had so recently been the one consumed by fear, walked over to him with a calm confidence.

"It's loud out there, isn't it?" she said gently in careful English.

Kevin jumped, startled. "Yeah," he mumbled. "It's… a lot."

"I know how you feel," she said, her voice soft and empathetic. "When your mind gets too loud, focus on one thing. Not the crowd. Not the critics. Just the music. And… find Min-young in the audience. She'll be in the third row. When you go out there, just sing your part of the song to her. It helps. Trust me."

Kevin looked at this kind, gentle young woman offering him advice, and his own anxiety seemed to lessen. He was not alone up there. It was a simple, profound gesture, a sign that the positive, supportive culture Yoo-jin was trying to build was becoming self-sustaining.

Just before the doors were scheduled to open, Yoo-jin stood alone in the wings of the stage, the quiet hum of the stage lights the only sound. He was doing a final check of the schedule on his phone when it buzzed with a new text message from an unknown number he instantly recognized as belonging to one of Chairman Choi's aides.

The message was simple: Looking forward to the show. And to your answer.

The Chairman was reminding him that even here, in his moment of triumph, he was still a player in a larger, more dangerous game. Yoo-jin stared at the message for a long moment, the weight of his next decision pressing down on him. He thought of his team, of the promises he had just made to Da-eun. He thought of the freedom they had fought so hard for.

He typed a reply, his fingers firm and steady.

Thank you for the interest, Chairman. For now, my only 'skill' is producing my artists. I hope you enjoy their performance.

He hit send. It was a polite, respectful, but firm refusal. It was a declaration of independence. He was choosing his own path, a harder and more dangerous one, but it was his. He slipped the phone into his pocket, silencing it. The outside world, with its threats and its temptations, no longer mattered.

From the front of the house, he heard the roar of the crowd as the doors were opened and the five hundred fans began to pour in. It was showtime.