A week after Simon Vance's verdict had detonated their lives, the small, spartan office of Aura Management felt like the eye of a distant hurricane. The world outside was raging with activity, but inside their four walls, there was a strange, surreal calm. A large whiteboard, purchased with their first trickle of royalty income, was now mounted on the wall. It was covered in Han Yoo-jin's neat, strategic handwriting, tracking the explosive growth of their project. It was the only tangible evidence that the chaos was real.
Yoo-jin stood before it like a general surveying a battle map, pointing at the numbers with a pen, a current of sleep-deprived but triumphant energy radiating from him.
"One million streams on Spotify in the first week," he announced, his voice filled with a quiet awe. "Over two million views on the live performance video. And look at this." He circled a list of countries. "We're charting on the 'Viral 50' playlist in twelve different countries. Sweden, Brazil, Germany, the Philippines, the UK… we are an international indie phenomenon."
Go Min-young, sitting at the folding table, was practically vibrating with an excitement she could no longer contain. "Da-eun's Instagram has over one hundred thousand followers already!" she chirped, looking up from her phone. "And they're all real fans, not bots! They're from all over the world, and they're translating my lyrics into their own languages in the comments. They're having full-blown discussions about the meaning of the song."
Ahn Da-eun, leaning back in her chair, listened to all of this with a thoughtful, almost detached expression. The change in her over the past week was subtle but profound. The hard, cynical shell was still there, but it was no longer her default state. Now, it was a jacket she could take off when she was in the safety of their office. For the first time, she looked less like a cornered animal and more like an actual artist contemplating her own work.
"It's weird," she said, her voice quiet. "Online, I'm 'Seoul's new queen of soul-baring art-pop,' according to some British magazine I'd never heard of before yesterday. But yesterday, I took the subway to my parents' place, and then I worked my evening shift at the convenience store. No one looked at me twice. An old man yelled at me for being too slow when I scanned his ramen."
She shook her head, a wry smile on her face. "It doesn't feel real. It's like I'm living two completely different lives. One is this famous person everyone is talking about online, and the other one is just… me."
Her words perfectly captured the bizarre, inverted nature of their success. They had achieved a level of international critical acclaim and digital fame that most established K-Pop groups would kill for, but in their own country, in the physical world of Seoul, they were still ghosts. Yoo-jin looked at her, his Producer's Eye confirming his observations. The system panel next to her head had updated. Under [Key Strengths], a new line had appeared: [Growing Self-Confidence]. And her [Critical Weakness] had been amended: [Performance Anxiety (Reduced, but still triggered by large domestic crowds)]. She was healing. She was growing. But the final boss battle—the one here at home—was still to come.
"That disconnect is our next challenge," Yoo-jin said. "But it's also our greatest strength. We're not playing their game. We're building our own."
His phone buzzed, vibrating against the table. He glanced at the screen. It was a number he didn't recognize, but it had a Seoul area code. His heart gave a little jump. Every call from an unknown Korean number felt like a potential turning point. He answered cautiously, putting it on speaker.
"Hello, is this CEO Han Yoo-jin of Aura Management?" a young, polite female voice asked.
"This is he," Yoo-jin replied.
"Hello, CEO Han. My name is Kim Ji-soo. I'm a junior writer for Sound & Seoul magazine."
Yoo-jin's eyes widened. Sound & Seoul was a small but highly respected domestic music publication. They were known for their intelligent criticism and their focus on artistic merit over idol popularity.
"I have to confess," the writer continued, a note of excitement in her voice, "I'm a big fan of Simon Vance's channel, which is how I found your artist, Ahn Da-eun. The international buzz is incredible, but no one here seems to be talking about it yet. It's very strange. My editor-in-chief is skeptical—he thinks it's all just manufactured hype—but he said if I can secure the first-ever domestic interview with Ahn Da-eun, he'll run it as a feature."
This was it. The first crack in the great wall of silence. The inverted wave was starting to ripple back home. This wasn't a major broadcast station, but in some ways, it was better. It was a credible, respected voice in the Korean indie scene.
"We would be honored, Ms. Kim," Yoo-jin said, his voice smooth and professional, betraying none of his soaring excitement. They arranged the interview for the following afternoon.
After he hung up, a cheer went up in the small office. It was their first official recognition on home turf.
Later that day, feeling triumphant, Yoo-jin stepped out to a nearby cafe to get coffee for the team. As he stood in line, waiting to order, he saw a familiar face behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine. It was Lee Seo-yeon, the immensely talented trainee whose dream he had been forced to watch get crushed in the Stellar Entertainment conference room.
She looked tired, the light in her eyes he remembered now dimmed by the exhaustion of working a menial part-time job. Her hair was tied back under a plain black cap. When she looked up and saw him, her eyes widened in recognition. She finished with the customer she was serving and then approached him, bowing her head respectfully.
"Manager Han," she said, her voice soft.
A sharp pang of guilt shot through Yoo-jin. He was the CEO of a company celebrating its first taste of success, while this girl, whose talent was undeniable, was serving coffee. "Seo-yeon," he said, his voice filled with a genuine warmth. "How are you?"
"I'm okay," she said, the automatic, polite Korean response. But her eyes told a different story. "I… I heard about what happened at Stellar. That you left." Her gaze fell to the floor for a moment. "And… I saw the article about your new artist. The one from the UK. I listened to her song."
She looked back up at him, and he was struck by the complete lack of jealousy or bitterness in her expression. There was only a sad, profound sense of admiration. "It's… amazing," she said sincerely. "Her voice is so real. And the lyrics… You really did it. You built something different. Something real."
Her words hit him harder than any critic's praise. This was the voice of the person he was fighting for. She was the ghost of the system's failures, a living reminder of the stakes.
"The system was wrong about you, Seo-yeon," Yoo-jin said, his voice low and intense. "You have a gift." He pulled a plain white business card from his wallet. "When we're ready for our second artist, you will be my first call. If you still want to sing."
Tears welled in her eyes as she took the card. "Thank you, Manager Han," she whispered.
The encounter deeply affected him, reaffirming his mission with a renewed sense of purpose. He returned to the office, his mind racing with possibilities for the future. As he walked in, however, the celebratory mood had vanished. Min-young and Da-eun were staring at a laptop screen, their faces pale with worry.
"What's wrong?" he asked, setting the coffee tray down.
"Look," Min-young said, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. "There's… there's a new article. On 'Idol Insider.'" It was the corrupt blog Yoo-jin had identified weeks ago, the one that took money for media play.
The headline was written in a large, sensationalist font, clearly designed to be malicious.
"Is Viral Sensation Ahn Da-eun a One-Hit Wonder or a Stellar Reject? The Troubled Past of Seoul's New 'Indie Darling'."
Yoo-jin's blood ran cold as he read the article. It was a classic, professionally executed smear piece. It barely mentioned the quality of the music or the international praise. Instead, using quotes from an "anonymous industry insider," it "revealed" that Ahn Da-eun was a "problematic trainee" who was "let go for attitude issues and a lack of motivation" from a major agency. It painted her as a talentless failure who got lucky with one song, and subtly framed Yoo-jin as a disgruntled ex-employee using a discarded trainee to get revenge on his former company.
It was a clear, calculated attack designed to poison her reputation in the domestic market before she could even get a foothold. Director Kang had finally fired his first direct shot. The war had come home.