The strategic excitement from the war room began to curdle the moment the meeting ended. A plan that had felt brilliant and necessary in the echo chamber of their unified determination now felt heavy and sharp-edged in the quiet reality that followed. The most jagged edge of that plan was to be wielded by Park Chae-rin.
She found Yoo-jin in his office, staring out the window at the sprawling cityscape of Seoul, his hands clasped behind his back. He seemed to be looking at the headquarters of his rivals, as if trying to win the war through sheer force of will. Chae-rin hesitated at the doorway, the phone feeling like a cold, heavy stone in her hand.
"CEO-nim," she began, her voice barely above a whisper.
He turned, his expression unreadable. "Chae-rin. Is there a problem?"
She stepped into the office, clutching the phone tightly. "About the plan. About Hana." She took a breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I know everyone agrees, and I know it's probably the only way… but is this right?"
Yoo-jin's expression didn't change. He remained silent, letting her speak, a tactic he often used to draw out the full scope of a problem.
"The first time," she continued, her voice trembling slightly, "she was just talking to someone. We coached her, but she was just being herself, asking questions. This time… this time we're asking her to actively deceive someone to get one of us into a high-security event. We're turning her from a source into an active accomplice."
Her own history, the memory of Ryu's gentle manipulations, felt like a phantom limb, aching with a pain she couldn't ignore. "She's just a kid who wants to make music. That's all she wants. We're pulling her deeper and deeper into this… this fight. What if something goes wrong? What if they suspect something and she's the one who gets caught? What happens to her?"
Yoo-jin walked from the window to his desk, creating a small, formal distance between them. His voice, when he finally spoke, was devoid of sympathy. It was the voice of a commander, not a mentor.
"What happens to all of us if we do nothing, Chae-rin?" he asked, the question sharp and rhetorical. "What happens to the next dozen artists OmniCorp finds and hollows out for their project? What happens to Da-eun's family? To Jin's stolen identity? What happens to this company?"
He leaned against the desk, his eyes hard. "You're right to be concerned. It shows your heart is in the right place. But we are past the point of clean hands and easy choices. This is a war, and in a war, sometimes civilians get caught near the front lines. Our job is not to avoid the battle; our job is to protect our assets and win. Hana is an asset."
The word 'asset' landed like a slap. It was the same word the OmniCorp recruiter had used to describe Ryu. Chae-rin flinched.
Yoo-jin saw her reaction and his tone softened, but only fractionally. It was a calculated adjustment. "Our job is to make sure she is protected. We will have contingency plans. We will have legal support ready to deploy at a moment's notice. But we must use the tools we have. This showcase is a critical intelligence target. We cannot afford to miss it."
He held her gaze, his own unwavering. "I'm asking you to make the call because you're the only one who can do it correctly. You understand her. You can handle this with the care and empathy it requires, in a way no one else here can. I trust you to do that."
It wasn't an order. It was a burden, neatly wrapped in the language of trust and delegated directly to her. There was no room left for argument. Chae-rin gave a small, defeated nod, turned, and left his office.
She didn't go back to the main area. She found an empty recording booth, a small, soundproofed box, and sat down in the dark. The silence was absolute. She took a few deep breaths, forcing the image of the kind, manipulative Ryu from her mind and replacing it with the bright, eager face of Hana. She was doing this to protect girls like her. It was a mantra she repeated until it felt almost true. Then, she dialed.
"Hana-ssi? It's Chae-rin."
"Unni! Hi!" Hana's voice was a burst of sunshine, pure and uncomplicated. "I was just listening to your album again! It's so good!"
Chae-rin forced a warm, gentle laugh. "Thank you, Hana. I'm calling because I heard the good news. The showcase invitation? That's amazing. It's a huge step. I'm so proud of you."
"I know! I can't believe it! I was so nervous, but I did what you said and just tried to be myself."
"And it worked perfectly," Chae-rin said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "Listen, I had an idea. An event like this… it's a big deal. Lots of executives, lots of important people. It can be overwhelming. I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to have someone there with you."
"Oh," Hana said, a note of uncertainty in her voice. "Like a friend?"
"More like a professional partner," Chae-rin suggested smoothly. "It would look very professional if you brought your producer and mentor. It shows you're serious, that you have a team. It would give me a chance to talk to some of the executives on your behalf, to make sure you get the best possible opportunity."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Chae-rin's heart hammered against her ribs.
Then, Hana's voice exploded with excitement. "You mean… you would come? With me? Oh my god, Chae-rin-unni, really? That would be… that would be incredible! I wouldn't be nearly as scared if you were there!"
The hook was set. The relief Chae-rin felt was immediately followed by a wave of profound self-loathing.
"Of course," Chae-rin said, her voice impossibly gentle. "Just ask your contact, Min-hee, if you can get a 'plus one' for your producer. I'm sure she'll understand."
After hanging up, Chae-rin didn't move. She just sat in the soundproof darkness, the phone held loosely in her hand, feeling like she had just successfully corrupted something pure. She had gotten what they needed, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to wash the feeling off.
She finally emerged from the booth and gave the team a thumbs-up. A quiet cheer went through the room. Their plan was in motion.
Just as the tense excitement began to return, Da-eun's phone buzzed with a sharp, insistent vibration. She glanced at the caller ID, a small smile touching her lips. "It's my mom."
She answered, her voice cheerful. "Mom! Perfect timing, we were just…" Her expression froze. The color drained from her face, her smile evaporating as if it had never been there. The team fell silent, watching her.
"Mom? What's wrong?" Da-eun said, her voice suddenly tight. "Slow down… What are you talking about? What do you mean they froze the account?"
A beat of silence as she listened, her knuckles turning white where she gripped the phone.
"Which account? ... No. Not that one. Wait… all of them? The restaurant's operating funds too? How is that possible? No, that's not possible, our lawyer said they couldn't touch the business assets without a judgment…"
Another agonizing pause. The team watched, frozen, as the one-sided conversation painted a picture of absolute disaster.
"What did their lawyer say? ... An emergency injunction? On what grounds? You have to be kidding me." Da-eun let out a harsh, incredulous laugh that had no humor in it. "'Flight risk'? My dad? That's insane, he hasn't left the country in twenty years! He hasn't even been out of the city!"
She listened for one more moment, her face a mask of cold fury. She hung up without saying goodbye. The phone clattered onto the table from her limp fingers.
She looked up at Yoo-jin, her eyes blazing with a helpless rage.
"They did it," she whispered, her voice trembling. "While we were in here planning our clever little mission, Nam Gyu-ri's lawyers filed an emergency injunction on all of my father's assets, personal and business, claiming he's a potential flight risk. A judge signed off on it this morning. His business is frozen. They can't pay their suppliers. They can't make payroll."
Her voice broke, but she fought it back, replacing the sorrow with steel. "They're trying to ruin him before we even get to court."
The room was deathly quiet. The victory they had secured just moments ago felt like a child's game. While they were carefully setting up a chessboard for a future match, their enemy had walked up and thrown a grenade into their house. The war wasn't coming. It was already here.