The high-resolution news photograph on the main monitor was a brutal monument to their victory. The girl's tear-streaked, defiant face, the faded Eclipse t-shirt, the cold professionalism of the police officers—it was a perfect, terrible image, and it had poisoned the air in the conference room. The elation of their improbable win had curdled into a thick, sickening guilt.
Jin was frozen, staring at the screen as if it were a portal to his own personal hell. He had seen thousands of adoring faces in crowds, read countless messages of support, but this single image—this proof of a fan's loyalty being repaid with handcuffs—was more real than any of it. He slowly sank into a chair, his body looking as if its strings had been cut, his face a mask of utter self-loathing.
The team, their own sense of triumph fractured, reacted in a discordant chorus of rationalization and remorse.
"This is awful, but… it's a consequence of war," Da-eun said, her voice harder than she intended it to be. She was trying to build a wall around the moment, to protect the team's fragile morale from the blow. "She knew the risks when she decided to protest. We didn't force her to go. This happens." Her words were pragmatic, logical, but they landed in the emotionally charged room with all the comfort of falling stones.
Chae-rin, who had been standing beside Jin, shook her head, unable to accept the cold calculus. She moved to his side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, a small anchor in his swirling guilt. "Da-eun, she's just a kid," she said softly, her own voice thick with empathy. She couldn't look away from the crying girl in the photo. "She's a fan. She went there because she believed in him, in what he represented. This isn't on her. It's on us."
Jin finally spoke, his voice a choked, broken whisper. "I did this." He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly. "I used her. It was my name, my group, my story. I used her love for our music, and for me, and I got her arrested. How am I any better than they are? They use artists, I use fans. It's the same rotten game."
Yoo-jin had been listening to the exchange, his face grim, his mind processing not just the emotional fallout but the strategic failure. His gambit had worked on a macro level, spectacularly so, but he had overlooked the human cost. He had been so focused on the corporate enemy that he had forgotten the collateral damage to his own side. The girl in the photo was not a statistic in a successful operation; she was a failure of his leadership.
He walked over to the monitor and stared at the image, his expression unreadable. He saw the pride in her eyes, the loyalty emblazoned on her t-shirt, and he felt a cold, heavy knot of responsibility settle in his gut. This was his mess.
He turned from the screen, his period of reflection over. His decision was made. The detached, calculating strategist was gone, replaced by the CEO who had to clean the rubble left by his own controlled demolition.
"No," Yoo-jin said, his voice cutting through the room, sharp and absolute. It was directed at Jin, but meant for all of them. "You didn't do this." He walked over and stood in front of Jin, forcing the broken artist to look up at him. "I did. It was my plan. My strategy. My failure to accurately predict and account for this specific outcome. The responsibility for that girl, and for anyone else in a cell right now, is mine. And mine alone."
The declaration was unequivocal. He was absorbing the blame, shielding his team, but more than that, he was claiming ownership of the consequences. He turned to Min-ji, his voice shifting into a rapid-fire series of commands.
"Get me her name. Not her username. Her real name. I want to know who she is. And I want to know which precinct she was taken to. Cross-reference protest footage with police reports. I also want a comprehensive list of every other protestor who was arrested tonight. I don't care how long it takes."
He didn't wait for her to respond before pulling out his phone and dialing a number that made the others in the room sit up straighter. It was Mr. Kwon, the lead partner at Aura's top-tier corporate law firm—the legal shark they reserved for their biggest and dirtiest fights.
"Mr. Kwon," Yoo-jin said, his voice cold iron. "I am sending you a list of names in the next hour. They are private citizens who were arrested tonight during a protest outside an OmniCorp event in Gangnam. I want you to get them out. All of them. Post their bail. Handle their arraignments. Aura Management will be covering all legal fees, for every single person."
The muffled, protesting squawk of the expensive lawyer was audible even from the phone. Yoo-jin cut him off.
"I don't care that they aren't employees. I don't care about the precedent. I don't care about the cost. The young woman whose name is at the top of that list—I want you to represent her personally. I want her treated like our most valuable client. Clear your schedule."
He listened for another moment, his jaw tight. "Because they are fans of our artists," Yoo-jin said, his voice dropping, but with an intensity that silenced any further argument. "And that makes them our people. Get it done."
He hung up, the finality of the act echoing in the silent room. He had just committed Aura to a massive, unbudgeted legal and financial expenditure. But it was a necessary one.
He looked at his stunned team, his gaze finally landing on Go Min-young, who had been watching the entire exchange with wide, comprehending eyes.
"Min-young," he commanded, his voice returning to its usual strategic tone. "Draft a press statement. We are not hiding from this. We are not letting OmniCorp or the police frame these people as violent rioters. The statement will say that Aura Management fully supports the rights of music fans to peacefully assemble and voice their opinions. It will state that we were disturbed to see the heavy-handed police response to a passionate but peaceful demonstration. And it will conclude by stating that we will be providing and funding full legal support to the brave fans who were wrongfully detained while exercising that fundamental right."
He took a breath, his vision clear now. He saw the path forward. "We're not just going to win the secret war fought in back alleys and boardrooms. We are going to be seen winning the public one, right out in the open."
He had taken a disastrous, guilt-ridden consequence and, at great expense and risk, was forging it into a weapon—a powerful, public declaration of loyalty that would bind the fans to them in a way no hit song ever could. He was cleaning his own rubble, and using the pieces to build a new wall.