The Aura Management war room was once again a place of high tension, but the atmosphere had shifted. The frantic, reactive energy of the past few days had been replaced by the cold, coiled stillness of a predator lying in wait. They were no longer the prey, scurrying to avoid traps. Today, they were setting one of their own.
Min-ji sat at her station, her face illuminated by the glow of her laptop. She gave Yoo-jin a single, sharp nod. "The canary is in the cage, CEO-nim," she confirmed, her voice low. "The file is ready. It's clean on the surface, but the tracker is embedded and active."
Yoo-jin stood alone in the center of the room, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a physical confrontation. This phone call would be a performance, perhaps the most critical one of his career. He couldn't be the calculating, confident CEO of Aura. He had to be Han Yoo-jin, the young, brilliant upstart who had finally hit a wall, a crisis too big for him to handle alone. He had to play on Director Yoon's ego, on his deep-seated need to feel superior to the wunderkind who had once been his subordinate. He had to make himself seem small so that Yoon would feel big enough to be careless.
He took a deep breath, picturing Yoon's smug, condescending face. Then, he dialed. The phone rang once, twice, before Yoon picked up, his voice gruff and impatient.
"What is it, Han? I'm busy."
Yoo-jin immediately pitched his voice higher, infusing it with a carefully calibrated note of panic. "Director Yoon, I'm… I'm so sorry to call you like this. I know this is unprofessional. I just… I don't know who else to turn to who understands the industry from your perspective."
He let the sentence hang, a perfect piece of bait. He established his vulnerability, acknowledged Yoon's seniority, and framed his call as a desperate appeal to a seasoned veteran. On the other end of the line, he could almost hear Yoon preening.
"Trouble in paradise over at your little indie kingdom?" Yoon asked, a clear note of smug satisfaction in his voice. This was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Something like that," Yoo-jin said, forcing a strained sigh. He let a beat of silence pass, as if he were too embarrassed, too proud to admit the full scope of the problem. "It's… it's about Kang Ji-won."
"The composer? Your ghost in the machine? What about him?" Yoon's interest was clearly piqued. Ji-won was known throughout the industry as Aura's untouchable, foundational genius. Any problem with him was a foundational crack.
"He's become a problem," Yoo-jin said, letting his voice crack slightly. "A big one. The OmniCorp situation, the protest fiasco, everything… I think it's all gotten to his head. He's making noise. He's been… talking to a lawyer."
Yoo-jin could feel Yoon lean forward in his chair hundreds of miles away. This was the gossip he lived for, the confirmation he craved that Yoo-jin wasn't invincible.
"A lawyer? About what?"
Yoo-jin hesitated again, milking the moment. "His contract," he finally admitted, sounding defeated. "He's claiming he was in a state of 'creative despair' and personal crisis when he signed his exclusive deal with me. He says he was unduly pressured, that I took advantage of his vulnerability. He's threatening to sue to break the contract."
Yoo-jin sold the lie with everything he had, channeling the very real exhaustion and stress of the past weeks into his performance. "He's our foundational artist, Director. You know that. If he walks, it sends a message to our other artists that our contracts are weak. If this gets public, it could cause a run. It could be the end of us. Nam Gyu-ri and OmniCorp would have a field day with it."
He'd laid the bait out perfectly. It was juicy, scandalous, and directly threatened Aura's stability, making it an irresistible piece of intelligence for Yoon to possess—and for a mole to pass on.
On the other end, Yoon made a series of condescending, tut-tutting sounds. "This is what happens when you build a company on temperamental artists instead of solid business practices, Han. You coddle them, and they turn on you. I've seen it a hundred times." He was enjoying this far too much.
"I know, I know," Yoo-jin said, playing the part of the chastened student. "Look, Director… I know this is a huge ask, and you have no reason to help me. But my own legal team is in a panic. They drew up a preliminary analysis of our position, looking at Ji-won's claims. It's… it's not good."
As he spoke, he turned to his laptop and, with a click of the mouse, sent the pre-prepared email to Yoon's private address. The subject line read: URGENT & CONFIDENTIAL: KJW Matter.
"I just sent it to you," Yoo-jin said, his voice now a desperate whisper. "Could you possibly take a look? Just an informal, off-the-record opinion. As an industry veteran, your perspective… it would be invaluable. I'd be in your debt."
It was the final, perfect move. He had empowered Yoon completely, positioning him as the wise old mentor whose counsel he desperately needed. An appeal to ego that powerful was impossible for a man like Yoon to resist.
"Fine," Yoon said with a magnanimous sigh, as if doing Yoo-jin a massive favor. "I'll look at your mess. But don't expect any miracles. Send me the file."
"It's already sent," Yoo-jin confirmed. "Thank you, Director. Truly."
"Yes, yes. Don't call me about this again."
The line went dead.
Yoo-jin hung up, his performance over. He stood in the silent room, his heart hammering in his chest, not from fear, but from the sheer, icy thrill of the deception. He looked at Da-eun and Min-ji, his face a neutral mask.
The bait was in the water. The trap was laid. The digital canary was in flight.
All they could do now was watch the cage and wait for it to sing.