The Scandal-Proof Producer

Han Yoo-jin had not slept. The decision to accept Jin's insane proposal had settled in his bones like a permanent chill. He sat in his office in the dead of night, the city lights outside a silent, glittering witness to his treason. He wasn't just a CEO anymore. He was a co-conspirator. A revolutionary. And if he made a single mistake, a traitor.

The weight of it was immense. Every shadow seemed to hold a hidden microphone, every flicker of his monitor a potential breach. Paranoia was no longer a state of mind; it was a baseline operating procedure. He spent three hours, guided by Go Min-young's frantic, remote instructions via a secure chat, setting up a new communication channel. It wasn't just one layer of encryption; it was three, routed through a series of anonymous servers in different, non-extradition-treaty countries. It was overkill. It felt insufficient.

Once the digital fortress was built, he sent his first official message into the void, addressed to the ghost in the machine he now knew as his ally. He had to establish the rules. This couldn't be a partnership of friends. It had to be a cold, professional exchange between two soldiers fighting in the dark.

He typed, each word deliberate, stripping away all emotion.

To: Mockingbird

From: Producer

The terms of our engagement are as follows.

Rule #1: We never meet in person again. Ever. The risk is unacceptable.

Rule #2: All communication through this channel only. The hardware you are using is to be physically destroyed and replaced every 72 hours. No exceptions.

Rule #3: No names. Not mine, not yours, not his. From this point forward, he is 'The Chairman.' I am 'The Producer.' You are 'Mockingbird.' Refer to all other parties by designated code names. We will establish them as needed.

Rule #4: Information only. Verifiable facts, dates, names of personnel, direct quotes from meetings. No emotional talk. No speculation. No 'I think he might...' I need actionable intelligence, not your diary.

Acknowledge receipt of terms.

He hit send and leaned back, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He had just formalized a conspiracy to commit corporate espionage against the most powerful man in their industry. He felt a dizzying mix of terror and exhilaration. For the first time, he wasn't just reacting to attacks; he was building a weapon.

He waited. An hour passed. Then two. He forced himself to review budget spreadsheets, to answer emails about tour logistics, to perform the mundane duties of a CEO, all while a part of his brain was screaming, waiting for the reply that would confirm his new reality.

Finally, a notification chimed. A new message from Mockingbird. It was one word.

Acknowledged.

Yoo-jin let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The connection was live. The game had begun.

He waited again, this time for the first move. For the first piece of intel that would prove this insane gambit wasn't a catastrophic mistake. It came three hours later, just as the sky was beginning to lighten. The message was concise, cold, and utterly electrifying.

Mockingbird: The Chairman is making a move on your composer, 'Ghost.' He has tasked 'The Viper' to poach him. Offer will be a solo vanity label under Top Tier, complete creative control, and an eight-figure annual budget. Ten times your estimated operating capital. The approach will be made within the next 48 hours.

Yoo-jin read the message, and his blood ran cold. Jin's value had been proven instantly, catastrophically. The Chairman wasn't just coming for his company; he was coming for its very foundations, for the musical genius that had powered their success.

The information, however, presented an immediate and infuriatingly complex problem. He couldn't just walk into Kang Ji-won's studio and say, "My secret spy inside Top Tier Media told me they're planning to offer you the world. Don't take it." Ji-won's trust in him was already shattered. He would see it as a paranoid, manipulative tactic to control him, a desperate lie to keep him shackled to a sinking ship.

Frustrated, Yoo-jin closed his eyes and focused his ability on his own memory of his estranged composer, trying to find a path, an angle, a way to fix the broken trust between them. The interface flickered to life, but the data it provided was a confirmation of his powerlessness, not a solution.

[Subject: Kang Ji-won (Ghost)]

[Overall Potential: S+]

[Key Strengths: Visionary Composition, Uncompromising Artistry]

[Critical Weakness: Artistic Pride; Highly Prone to Cynicism (Severity: 9/10)]

[Current Status: Hostile. Trust Metric: 8%. All attempts at direct, logical persuasion have a 92% probability of failure and will increase hostility.]

The numbers were stark. His ability could diagnose the sickness with perfect, clinical clarity, but it offered no cure. Honesty would fail. Logic would fail. Trying to be a good, transparent boss would only push Ji-won further away.

He opened his eyes, a grim realization dawning. He couldn't fight the offer. He couldn't prevent it from being made. He had to let the temptation come. His only move was to try and inoculate Ji-won against it beforehand, but indirectly. He couldn't appeal to Ji-won's loyalty. He had to appeal to his ego.

A new, dangerous plan began to form. He wouldn't try to save Ji-won from the temptation; he would try to frame the temptation as an insult.

He picked up his phone. "Min-young, get Director Choi on the line. Tell her I need an emergency creative meeting about the 'Echo' video. And make sure Ji-won is there. Tell him the director has notes on the score. It's a lie, but it'll get him in the room."

An hour later, the four of them were gathered in the conference room. Ji-won was sullen, radiating pure resentment. Director Choi Soo-jin looked annoyed at being summoned so early.

Yoo-jin expertly steered the conversation away from the music video and towards a more philosophical topic. He started by praising Ji-won's score for the video, calling it a masterpiece. Then he turned to the formidable director.

"Director Choi, you understand what makes Ghost's music so special, better than anyone," Yoo-jin said, his tone one of deep artistic sincerity. "It's not just that it's good; it's that it's completely, utterly uncompromising. It's pure. Can you imagine what would happen if a corporate hack like Chairman Choi ever got his hands on it?"

Director Choi, a fellow purist who despised the corporate music machine, scoffed loudly. "Please. That corporate ghoul wouldn't know real music if it bit him on his perfectly tailored ass. He'd hear a piece like 'Echo in the Void,' and his first note would be to 'make the chorus hit sooner.' He'd sand down all the interesting, abrasive edges, add a generic synth drum for the kids, and turn it into a jingle for a new phone."

Yoo-jin nodded gravely. "He'd probably pair a genius like Ghost with some soulless, auto-tuned idol and call it a 'synergistic collaboration.'"

"It would be a crime against art," Director Choi declared, slamming her hand on the table for emphasis. "A desecration."

Throughout the exchange, Kang Ji-won said nothing. He just sat there, his arms crossed, listening. But Yoo-jin, watching him from the corner of his eye, saw the way his posture had subtly changed. He was no longer just sullen; he was listening intently.

The seed was planted. Yoo-jin hadn't warned him about the offer. He had redefined it. He had framed the exact golden opportunity that was about to be dangled in front of Ji-won not as the chance of a lifetime, but as an act of profound artistic violation. And he'd used a respected, impartial third party to deliver the verdict.

It was a subtle, deeply manipulative move, born of pure desperation. It was the first real play in a new, darker game. And as the meeting ended, Yoo-jin could only pray it would be enough.