When Han Yoo-jin returned to the office, the exhaustion of his high-stakes negotiation was overshadowed by a nervous, triumphant energy. He relayed the outcome of his meeting with Chairman Choi—not the acquisition, but the single-performance deal for M Countdown. The news was met with a stunned silence, followed by an explosion of frantic excitement. They had done it. They had their shot.
The next ten days were a blur of focused, desperate activity. The Aura Management office became a war room, and their chosen battlefield was a small, grimy dance practice room Yoo-jin had rented by the hour in a less fashionable part of Hongdae. The mirror was slightly cracked in one corner, and the sound system was tinny compared to the state-of-the-art equipment at Stellar, but it was their space. It was their boot camp.
"We can't compete with the big agencies on spectacle," Yoo-jin said, standing in front of the whiteboard he had dragged to the practice room. It was covered in diagrams and notes. "They have massive LED screens that cost more than our entire company. They have elaborate moving sets, pyrotechnics, and two dozen perfectly synchronized backup dancers. We have a budget of basically zero. Trying to match their scale would be foolish. We'd just look cheap and pathetic."
He drew a single circle in the center of the board. "So, we compete on artistry. We have to create a moment. Something so powerful and emotionally resonant that it makes all their flashy sets and fireworks look like cheap, soulless distractions. Our concept is minimalism. A dark stage. A single, stark white spotlight. And you," he said, looking directly at Ahn Da-eun. "That's it. That's the entire show. The pressure is all on you."
Da-eun, who had been stretching in the corner, felt a familiar cold dread wash over her. It was one thing to perform in the safety of Ji-won's basement, or for a camera with only her team present. But M Countdown was a live broadcast. Millions of people would be watching. Her old classmates. Her relatives. And, most terrifyingly, the ghosts from her past—the directors and staff at Stellar Entertainment, including Director Kang himself. They would all be watching, waiting for her to fail, ready to say, 'See? We were right about her.'
In the first few practice sessions, her anxiety was a palpable force. Her voice was technically perfect—her pitch flawless, her breathing controlled—but it was stiff, hollow. It was the voice of a student taking an exam, not an artist telling a story. She was singing from her head, not her heart.
Yoo-jin watched her, his Producer's Eye confirming what he already knew. The system panel next to her head was flashing with warnings. [Critical Weakness: Performance Anxiety (Massive Spike - Fear of Domestic Judgment)]. The trauma of that final evaluation room at Stellar was replaying itself in her mind.
"It's not working," she said after one particularly wooden run-through, her voice tight with frustration as she stopped mid-song. "I can't do it. I feel like I'm sixteen again, standing in that cold room with them staring at me, picking me apart."
Yoo-jin walked over and gestured for Min-young and Ji-won to take a break. He pulled Da-eun aside, to the corner with the cracked mirror.
"Look," he said, his voice quiet and firm. "This isn't that room. In that room, you were alone. Completely alone. Now look around." He gestured to Go Min-young, who was walking over with a bottle of water for her, her face etched with concern. He pointed to Kang Ji-won, who was in a heated, technical argument with the part-time sound tech Yoo-jin had hired, insisting on a very specific reverb setting for her live microphone feed.
"You have a team now," Yoo-jin continued, his voice low and intense. "You are not there to be judged. You are not there to get a passing grade. You are there to make a statement. To tell your story. Our story. When you step into that spotlight, you're not just singing for yourself. You're singing for Min-young, whose words they called 'too dark.' You're singing for Ji-won, whose music they called 'not commercial.' And you're singing for me. You are our voice. Don't sing to them. Sing at them."
His words seemed to steady her. But the real catalyst for change came from an unexpected, and ugly, direction.
During a break, Min-young, who had made it her solemn duty to monitor all their social media mentions, let out a horrified gasp. "CEO Han… you need to see this."
She held out her phone. Yoo-jin, Da-eun, and Ji-won huddled around to look. On a popular online forum for K-Pop fans, in a section notorious for gossip and anonymous slander, a new post was rapidly gaining traction. It was titled, "Something feels off about Aura Management's CEO…"
The post itself was a masterpiece of insidious manipulation. It contained no direct accusations, no provable lies. It was all smoke, all poisonous innuendo, crafted to prey on suspicion.
"Am I the only one who thinks it's a little weird that this 30-something male CEO's only two recruits are a very young, vulnerable-looking singer and a shy intern girl? His whole story is based on 'saving' them from the big bad industry… it just feels a little creepy to me. Like he's collecting damsels in distress. I heard from a friend of a friend who works in the industry that he has a history of getting a little too close to the female trainees he manages. No proof of course, just whispers. But it makes you think, doesn't it?"
Yoo-jin's blood ran cold. This wasn't a random hater. The language was too precise, too carefully constructed to be libelous while still being deeply damaging. This was the work of a professional. This was The Viper's first strike. He focused his ability on the text on the screen. The system couldn't identify the anonymous user, but it gave him a chilling analysis of the post itself.
[Source: Professional Media Manipulator. Objective: Character Assassination via Innuendo. Intended Effect: To create a negative psychological association between Han Yoo-jin and his young female artists, framing him as a potential predator and undermining the company's 'ethical' brand.]
"What is this garbage?" Ji-won growled, disgusted.
"What do we do?" Min-young asked, her eyes wide with horror. "Should we issue a statement? Threaten legal action?"
"Nothing," Yoo-jin said, his face grim but his voice steady. "We do absolutely nothing. That's what they want. If I respond, I look defensive and instantly guilty. If I deny it, the headline tomorrow becomes 'Rookie CEO Denies Creepy Behavior With His Artists.' They've set a trap. The only way to win is not to play. We have to ignore it and focus completely on the performance. Our actions on that stage will be our only response."
He was saying it for the team, but he was also looking at Da-eun. He needed to see her reaction. He expected her to withdraw, to see this as yet another sign that the world was against them. But he was wrong.
As Da-eun read the malicious post, a profound change came over her. The fear in her eyes, the anxiety that had been holding her captive, was suddenly burned away by a hot, protective fury. This wasn't an attack on her anymore. This was an attack on Yoo-jin, the man who had pulled her out of her dead-end life, who had seen her not as a flawed product but as an artist. This was an attack on their team, on their sanctuary. And she would not stand for it.
She looked up from the phone, her eyes blazing with a fire Yoo-jin had only seen glimpses of before. It was the defiant fire of the girl on the rooftop, now focused into a laser beam.
"Let's go again," she said, her voice quiet, cold, and absolutely steady. She turned to Ji-won. "Play the track."
She walked to the center of the practice room, her posture no longer rigid with fear but straight with righteous anger. When Ji-won started the music this time, she was transformed. The voice that came out of her was no longer just sad and defiant; it was furious. She wasn't just singing about her own pain anymore. She was singing for all of them. She was singing against the slander, against the whispers, against Director Kang and his hired Viper, against the entire rotten system that had tried to crush them.
The performance was no longer just a song. It was a weapon. It was electrifying.
Yoo-jin watched from the side, a grim but proud smile on his face. The enemy had tried to poison them with a whisper campaign. But in doing so, they had inadvertently given their artist her cause. They had given her a war to fight. He knew, with absolute certainty, that she was finally ready.