The conference room at Aura Management had transformed. The air, once thick with defeat, now hummed with the high-frequency tension of a bomb squad at work. Yoo-jin's "Stampede Gambit" was no longer a theoretical outburst of desperate genius; it was a live operation, and every decision made in this room in the next hour would be critical. The initial chaos of the idea had been honed into a grim, methodical purpose. It was well past midnight, the city outside a glittering, sleeping giant, unaware of the small war being orchestrated from this glass-walled office.
Min-ji had taken command of the technical setup. Three laptops, unconnected to Aura's main network, sat on the conference table. Their screens glowed with the complex architecture of layered proxy servers, their digital footprints routed through a dizzying maze of servers in Singapore, Stockholm, and São Paulo. Each machine was a ghost, a sterile weapon waiting to be fired.
The focus of the room was on the quiet, intense collaboration between Yoo-jin, Jin, and Da-eun. This wasn't a matter of simply dumping information onto the internet; each leak had to be a carefully crafted piece of psychological warfare, tailored to its specific audience to achieve maximum, uncontrollable impact.
Yoo-jin stood over Jin's shoulder, his presence a quiet, intense pressure. "The message to the 'Lost Stars' has to be emotional, not tactical," he instructed, his voice low. "It must feel like a secret, something illicit, shared from one betrayed fan to another. We're not giving them an order. We are giving them a piece of forbidden knowledge. No call to action. Just the truth, framed for maximum impact."
Jin stared at the blank message box on the screen. His fingers, usually so nimble on a fretboard, felt clumsy and foreign on the keyboard. This felt dirtier than any corporate battle. This felt personal. He typed a sentence, then deleted it with a frustrated sigh.
"They love Eclipse," Jin said, his voice barely a whisper, not looking at Yoo-jin but at his own reflection in the dark screen. "The idea of it. The memory. It's pure to them. Using that love… twisting it, weaponizing it to create a mob… it feels like a violation. It feels like what they do."
Yoo-jin's response was immediate and devoid of sentiment. It was the cold, hard logic of a general who had already accepted the necessity of collateral damage. "Nam Gyu-ri and OmniCorp used your art, your talent, your very soul, to build her AI machine. We are using their love for your art to tear that machine down. It is not a violation; it is a necessary, symmetrical justice. Don't think of it as using them. Think of it as arming them with the truth. They have a right to be angry. We are simply telling them where to point their anger."
His words, brutal as they were, had the intended effect. They reframed the act from manipulation to empowerment. Jin's jaw tightened. He took a deep breath and began to type again, his fingers moving with a newfound certainty. The message was short, intimate, and devastatingly effective.
"A friend who still works at Stellar told me something I shouldn't be sharing, but I can't keep it to myself. The corporate execs behind the Kai Project, the ones who let Eclipse die, are having a private victory party tomorrow to celebrate. This is where they'll be celebrating what they did to our boys. I just thought you should know."
He attached the sleek, corporate screenshot of the showcase invitation, its logo an arrogant symbol of their enemy's triumph. His finger hovered over the 'send' button. For a moment, he hesitated, feeling the immense moral weight of the act, the irrevocable step he was about to take. He was about to ignite the passion of thousands of people who still believed in him, and he had no idea where the flames would lead.
Across the table, Da-eun was facing her own version of the dilemma. Her task was different—not to ignite love, but to stoke a sense of shared injustice. She understood her audience with a clarity born of her own recent struggles.
"For the indie community, it's about solidarity," she said, thinking out loud as she typed, her words sharp and focused. Her own evolution from a shy rock artist to a pragmatic warrior was on full display. "They don't care about idol groups or fan clubs, but they care about the idea of a corporate machine trying to crush one of their own. They understand the SLAPP suit. They understand bullying."
Her message was consequently sharper, more political, a call to arms disguised as a cynical observation.
"Heads up, everyone. A little dose of irony for your evening. Remember that tech conglomerate trying to bankrupt Ahn Jae-ho's family restaurant with a bogus lawsuit? Turns out they have enough money to host a lavish, private party for their investors tomorrow. Funny how they can afford champagne and canapés but have to sue small business owners to get by. Anyway, here's where they'll be patting themselves on the back."
She attached the same screenshot. The message was designed to spread not through emotional devotion, but through righteous, anti-corporate outrage.
As both of them prepared to commit, Min-ji, ever the voice of pure data and consequence, issued a final, stark warning from her station.
"CEO-nim," she said, looking up from her monitors, her young face grim. "A final risk assessment. Once you press send, we have zero control. This information will propagate through social media like a virus. We cannot recall it. We cannot steer it. The narrative could mutate in ways we can't predict. Our messages are the spark, but the online ecosystem is the fuel. It could turn into a peaceful protest. It could turn violent. We are lighting a fire, but we don't get to choose what it burns or how hot it gets. The potential for unintended consequences is… significant."
Yoo-jin met her gaze and gave a single, sharp nod. He knew. This was the core of the gambit—to trade control for chaos, precision for overwhelming force.
He looked at Jin, then at Da-eun. "Are you ready?"
They both nodded, their faces set with a heavy, resolute determination.
"On three," Yoo-jin commanded. "One… two… three."
In the quiet, sterile conference room, two clicks sounded almost simultaneously. The messages, carrying their payloads of weaponized love and righteous anger, vanished into the vast, invisible network of the internet.
A profound silence fell over the room. The die was cast. The dominoes had been tipped. There was nothing left to do now but wait and see if the world would catch fire.