The Scandal-Proof Producer

While Han Yoo-jin was engaged in a quiet battle of wits and philosophies, Top Tier Media was waging a war of overwhelming force. Their "Perfection Project" was in full swing, and its nerve center was a massive, state-of-the-art dance practice studio in their gleaming new headquarters. The room was the size of a small gymnasium, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a sprung dance floor designed to prevent injuries, and a sound system powerful enough to shake the foundations of the building.

Inside this pristine, climate-controlled environment, the twelve members of the boy group Eclipse were moving as one. Their new choreography was a breathtaking display of athleticism and precision. It was a whirlwind of complex footwork, acrobatic lifts, and razor-sharp synchronized movements that demanded the highest levels of stamina and skill. They moved like a single organism, a flawless, beautiful machine designed for ultimate performance.

Watching them from the side was a man known only as Director Son. He had been poached from a top-tier dance academy at an exorbitant price by Chairman Choi. His title was Performance Director, but his role was that of a drill sergeant. He watched their every move with a cold, predatory eagle eye, a towel slung around his neck and a bamboo pointer stick in his hand, which he would use to rap sharply against the floor to mark a mistake. Simon Vance's documentary crew had been granted access to this session, and their cameras were rolling, capturing the relentless pursuit of perfection.

The music, a high-energy electronic track from their Swedish-produced album, cut off abruptly.

"Again!" Director Son barked, his voice echoing in the vast room. He pointed the stick at the group's leader, Jin. "From the top! Jin, your arm on the second eight-count was a centimeter too low. Do you think a centimeter doesn't matter to a high-definition camera? Perfection is a game of millimeters! Do not be lazy! Go!"

The twelve young men, already drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, didn't complain. They immediately jogged back to their starting positions, their faces disciplined masks of determination. They had been practicing this single three-minute routine for ten hours straight, with only two five-minute water breaks.

The documentary crew pulled Jin aside for a quick interview while the others caught their breath. He was the picture of a charismatic, professional idol. He smiled for the camera, his breathing remarkably even despite the grueling practice.

"The pressure is high, of course," he said, his voice smooth and confident. "But it's a good pressure. It pushes us to be better. Chairman Choi has given us an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and all of us are working hard to live up to his expectations. We want to deliver a flawless, powerful performance for our fans, who have been waiting so patiently for our comeback."

He was a perfect spokesman. But a hypothetical Han Yoo-jin, had he been there, would have seen the system panel flashing with a desperate, hidden truth. [Jin's Current Thoughts: My left knee feels like it's on fire. I think I tore something yesterday, but if I mention it, I'll be pulled from the promotions and replaced. I haven't slept more than four hours a night in three weeks. Flawless… I feel like I'm about to break into a million pieces.]

The practice resumed. The music blasted, and the machine went back to work. They were in the middle of a particularly difficult sequence, a ripple effect of controlled falls that led into a complex lift. A younger member of the group, Min-ho, his face pale with exhaustion and dehydration, lost his footing for a split second. His timing was off by a fraction, and he stumbled during the lift, causing the member he was supporting to nearly fall.

Director Son stopped the music with a furious jab of a button. The silence that followed was heavy and terrifying.

He strode over to the trembling young man. "What was that?" he snarled, his face inches from Min-ho's. "Are you a professional idol or a clumsy child? Do you have any idea how much this company has invested in you? In this comeback? Your mistake just cost us a full second of synchronized perfection. Are you trying to sabotage this entire project?" The verbal assault was relentless, humiliating, delivered in front of his teammates and the quietly filming documentary crew. Min-ho stood with his head bowed, tears of shame welling in his eyes. "Get up!" the director shrieked. "You will do it again, and you will keep doing it until you don't fall!"

It was Jin who stepped forward, placing himself between the director and the shaking younger member. "Director, please," he said, his voice respectful but firm. "He's exhausted. We all are. Let's take a five-minute water break. We'll come back stronger."

"Are you the director now, Jin?" the man sneered, turning his venom on the group's leader. "Is that what you want? To lead this team to failure with your soft-heartedness? Get back in your position."

Jin did not move. He stood his ground, his professional smile gone, replaced by a look of steely resolve that surprised everyone, including his own members. "We are professionals," he said, his voice quiet but unyielding. "And as professionals, we need five minutes to ensure we can continue to perform safely and at the level you require."

The tense standoff was a moment of pure, unscripted drama. The documentary camera zoomed in, capturing the silent battle of wills. It was the first, visible crack in the flawless facade of the "Perfection Project." After a long, tense moment, Director Son, aware that he was being filmed, let out a disgusted sigh and waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. Five minutes. Don't waste it."

Later that night, the members of Eclipse were back in their pristine, company-provided dormitory. It was more like a luxury hotel suite than a home, with minimalist furniture and a conspicuous lack of any personal items. Jin was alone in his room, icing his swollen knee, the pain a dull, constant throb. He was supposed to be studying their schedule for the next day, but instead, he was secretly watching something on his phone, the screen hidden from the view of the doorway.

He was watching Aura Management's "The Story of My Room" documentary. He watched Ahn Da-eun, Go Min-young, and Kang Ji-won sitting in their messy office, laughing and arguing, talking about their fears and their passions. He saw them collaborating, building a song from a place of shared, painful experience. He saw a creative process that was messy, emotional, and deeply human.

His group's manager knocked on the open door. "What are you watching, Jin?"

Jin quickly shut off his phone, his heart giving a guilty jolt. "Nothing, hyung," he lied smoothly. "Just monitoring the competition. It's important to know what they're doing."

The manager nodded, satisfied. "Good. Stay focused. Tomorrow is another long day." He left, closing the door behind him.

Jin waited until he was sure he was alone, then turned his phone back on, replaying the video from the beginning. He watched the members of Aura Management, and a look of profound, secret longing filled his face. The leader of Chairman Choi's perfect, beautiful machine was looking at the small, flawed, underdog team not with a sense of rivalry, but with a deep and dangerous envy. He was beginning to realize, with a clarity that terrified him, that his flawless, gilded prison was still a prison. The war of songs, he now understood, was about much more than just music. It was about freedom.