While Aura Management was scrambling to contain the human fallout of their chaotic victory, the architect of their crisis was stewing in a cage of her own making. The penthouse apartment was a testament to minimalist, brutalist luxury—all polished concrete, sharp angles, and vast panes of glass offering a god's-eye view of the Han River. It was a space designed not for comfort, but for control. And tonight, Nam Gyu-ri had lost control completely.
She stood in the cavernous, darkened living room, the only light coming from the seventy-five-inch television screen mounted on a concrete wall. It was tuned to a 24-hour news channel, the screen filled with live footage of the protest she had just escaped. The roar of the crowd, a chaotic mix of idol chants and anti-corporate slogans, was a faint, tinny echo of the humiliation she had felt just an hour earlier. An overturned Eames chair lay on the expensive Persian rug. Beside it, a half-empty tumbler of what was undoubtedly very expensive whiskey sat on a cold marble table, a single coaster-sized ring of condensation marring its perfect surface.
She was still dressed in the impeccably tailored, severe black suit she had chosen for her keynote speech, a suit meant to project power and unassailable confidence. Now, it felt like a costume from a play that had been cancelled mid-performance. Her posture was ramrod straight, a pillar of rigid fury against the backdrop of her public failure. She was watching the news footage with a predator's stillness, memorizing every chanting face, every critical news banner, every frame of her defeat.
Her phone, lying on the table next to the whiskey, buzzed with a sharp, intrusive vibration. The screen lit up with a name that made her jaw clench almost imperceptibly.
OmniCorp HQ - Sterling.
She took a single, deep, centering breath, smoothing the anger from her face and replacing it with a mask of cool, unbothered professionalism. She let it ring twice more before answering, her voice as smooth and placid as the river outside her window. "Mr. Sterling."
The voice on the other end was cold, disembodied, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the voice of a man who measured the world in quarterly earnings and stock prices. "Gyu-ri. I've been watching the news. It seems your showcase had some… uninvited guests."
"A minor, emotionally-driven disruption," she replied, her tone dismissive, as if discussing a brief rain shower. "It was easily contained by local authorities."
A dry, mirthless scoff crackled through the phone's speaker. "Minor? I have the Chairman of Daesung Capital on my other line asking if our primary business strategy is now antagonizing pop music fan clubs. Our European investors are demanding an explanation for the 'civil unrest' at our tech demonstration. The Kai Project's public launch, which this event was meant to kickstart, is now on indefinite hold. This pathetic little stunt by Han Yoo-jin has set us back six months and cost this company millions in investor confidence and market goodwill. Your definition of 'minor' is proving to be very expensive."
"Han Yoo-jin's methods are crude," Nam Gyu-ri said, her voice remaining perfectly level, a marvel of control. She walked over to the window, turning her back on the television screen as if its images were beneath her notice. "He used a mob of children and malcontents. It is the tactic of a barbarian, not a strategist. It is a one-time trick, a flash fire that burns itself out. It will not work again."
"See that it doesn't," Sterling's voice turned from angry to glacial. "Frankly, your performance since joining OmniCorp has been… disappointing. The board has lost its appetite for this personal vendetta of yours against your former subordinate. It's becoming an embarrassment."
The word 'subordinate' was a deliberate, calculated barb, and it landed with pinpoint precision. Nam Gyu-ri's hand tightened on her phone, her knuckles turning white.
"You have one last chance to neutralize Aura Management," Sterling continued, his voice taking on the tone of a final verdict. "The civil suit against the rock singer's family, the media plant at Prime Dispatch which has now been neutered—see them through to a successful conclusion. And this mole you have cultivated at Stellar Entertainment… make sure they remain a reliable and productive asset. We need results, Gyu-ri. We need wins. Not embarrassing international headlines and angry phone calls from shareholders. Don't call me again until you have one."
The line went dead.
Nam Gyu-ri slowly lowered the phone, her arm feeling unnaturally heavy. She stood in perfect stillness for a long moment, the silence of the vast apartment pressing in on her. The mask of cool professionalism remained in place for another five seconds, then four, then three.
Then it shattered.
A scream tore from her throat—a raw, ragged, inhuman sound of pure, undiluted rage. It was the sound of a perfect machine breaking down, of immense pressure finding a violent, explosive release. With a sudden, fluid movement, she snatched the crystal tumbler from the table and hurled it with all her strength at the television screen.
The heavy glass impacted the screen with a sickening crack, shattering against the news anchor's smiling, oblivious face. The screen fizzled for a second before the image returned, now obscured by a spiderweb of fractured pixels. The expensive amber whiskey trickled down the screen like blood, dripping onto the pristine floor below.
She stood there, breathing heavily, her chest heaving, the beautiful suit now feeling like a straitjacket. She was no longer the cool, calculating puppet master, the untouchable viper moving silently through the grass. She was a cornered predator, wounded, publicly humiliated, and now facing an ultimatum from her own masters. And that, she knew with a terrifying clarity, made her infinitely more dangerous than she had ever been before. The rules of engagement, the corporate oversight, the pretense of professional rivalry—all of it was gone. All that was left was the burning, personal need to destroy Han Yoo-jin. No matter the cost.