The Scandal-Proof Producer

The main boardroom at Top Tier Media was a tomb. It was not yet dawn, but every department head had been summoned by a terse, non-negotiable message from the Chairman's office. They sat around the monolithic marble table, a collection of the most powerful executives in the Korean entertainment industry, looking like frightened schoolchildren awaiting the principal's wrath. The air was ice-cold with a fear so palpable it felt like a pressure drop before a typhoon.

Chairman Choi stood at the head of the table, his back to the panoramic window that was just beginning to show the first grey streaks of morning. He was not angry. He was not shouting. He was radiating a cold, focused fury that was infinitely more terrifying. Beside him, a silent sentinel, stood Nam Gyu-ri, her face an impassive mask of corporate loyalty.

"Good morning," the Chairman began, his voice deceptively soft, yet it carried to every corner of the silent room. "I have called you here because this company has a cancer."

A collective, silent intake of breath.

"It has come to my attention," he continued, his gaze sweeping slowly over the faces of his terrified executives, "that we have suffered a significant security breach. Proprietary strategic information, confidential internal assessments, and future business plans have been… disseminated… to an outside party. To a competitor."

He didn't mention Han Yoo-jin. He didn't mention Aura Management. He didn't have to. The context of their brutal, public war hung unspoken in the air.

"There is a leak in this company," Choi stated, his voice dropping to a low growl. "A traitor who believes their petty personal grievances or foolish, misguided ambitions outweigh their loyalty to this company. To me. To the people who sign their paychecks. This will not be tolerated. The cancer will be cut out."

He paused, letting the threat sink in, letting the fear marinate. "Therefore, effective immediately, I am initiating a full, company-wide internal audit. Every communication will be subject to a forensic review. Every email you have sent. Every message on your company phone. Every document on your server profile. Nothing is private. Nothing is sacred. We will find the source of this betrayal."

The atmosphere in the room went from fear to outright terror. These were people whose lives were built on back-channel deals, on discreet messages, on the careful separation of their public and private personas. The Chairman was threatening to burn that all down.

He then gestured to the silent woman beside him. "Ms. Nam Gyu-ri will lead this internal audit. She will have unrestricted access to all personnel, all departments, and all records. Her authority in this matter is absolute and supersedes all existing chains of command. If she asks you for your password, you will give it to her. If she requisitions your hard drive, you will provide it. If you obstruct her in any way, you will be terminated. Am I understood?"

A ragged chorus of "Yes, Chairman," filled the room. Nam Gyu-ri had just been officially crowned the Grand Inquisitor. Her secret hunt had just become a very public crusade, and every single person in the room was now a suspect.

Jin, seated further down the table with the other members of Eclipse and their direct management team, felt a cold sweat prickle the back of his neck. He kept his face a practiced mask of polite, serious concern, a look he had perfected over years of fan meetings and vapid interviews. Inside, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was caught. He was trapped inside the very witch hunt that he, himself, had helped to create.

His eyes flickered for a microsecond towards Nam Gyu-ri. She was sweeping her gaze across the room, and for a moment, her cold, analytical eyes met his. There was no recognition, no hint of suspicion. She looked at him with the same detached disinterest she showed the trembling head of accounting. But in that split second, Jin felt like a biological specimen pinned to a board, every fiber of his being under her microscope. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that he was a primary suspect. His public 'rebellion,' his so-called 'suffering'—it all painted a perfect motive for betrayal.

Chairman Choi wasn't finished. He needed to show them he was serious. He needed to spill blood.

"Mr. Park," he said, his voice suddenly sharp, addressing a mid-level marketing director who visibly flinched. "It seems that during a preliminary sweep last night, we discovered you forwarded the Q4 marketing proposal to your personal email address. A minor, but clear, violation of company security protocol."

The man, Park, went deathly pale. "Chairman, I… it was just to work on it from home, I swear…"

"Your employment with Top Tier Media is terminated, effective immediately," Choi said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Security will escort you from the building. You have five minutes to collect your personal belongings."

Two large, grim-faced men in dark suits entered the room as if on cue and stood behind the marketing director's chair. The man looked around the table, his eyes pleading for help, but his colleagues stared fixedly at the marble tabletop, at their hands, anywhere but at him. The message was brutally, unequivocally clear: no one is safe, and no one will help you.

The paranoia began to spread like a contagion. The moment the meeting was dismissed, the atmosphere in the building shifted. Colleagues who had been friends yesterday, who had shared jokes over coffee an hour earlier, now eyed each other with suspicion. Every conversation was stilted, every glance held a potential accusation. The collaborative, high-energy culture of Top Tier Media turned toxic in an instant. It became an echo chamber of fear.

Later that day, hidden in the supposed privacy of his dorm room, Jin retrieved his burner phone from its hiding place. His hands were shaking. The walls felt like they were closing in. He knew it was only a matter of time before the Viper's digital hounds came for him. He had to warn his co-conspirator.

He sent a frantic, coded message, his thumbs flying across the tiny keyboard.

Mockingbird: Your stone has shattered the hornet's nest. The Viper is now the Grand Inquisitor. Full forensic audit on all personnel. He made an example of someone today. The fear here is a sickness. The walls are closing in. My own communications are under direct and immediate scrutiny.

He paused, the next part feeling like a defeat.

The risk of contact has increased tenfold. I need to go dark for a while. Don't try to reach me. I'll re-establish contact when I can. Stay safe.

He sent the message, then immediately powered down the phone, removed the SIM card, and snapped them both in half, dropping the pieces into a glass of water.

Han Yoo-jin received the message in his office. He read it, and a grim understanding settled over him. His gambit had worked—perhaps too well. He had successfully ignited a firestorm of chaos and paranoia inside his enemy's camp. But in doing so, he had also just lost his most valuable intelligence asset, his only eyes and ears inside the fortress. He was blind again, right at the moment when the war was about to become more dangerous than ever.