The celebrations had faded. The triumphant energy that had pulsed through the Aura office for days had finally given way to the quiet, steady rhythm of a company getting back to work. But late at night, long after the last employee had gone home, Yoo-jin sat alone in the silent expanse of his office, locked in a private, unresolved battle.
On his desk, his phone lay face up, the screen illuminated. It displayed the three-word message that had been haunting him for days, a ghost at the feast of his victory. The text from his sister, Han Ji-young.
"Heard the broadcast. I'm sorry."
Beneath it, the cursor in the reply window blinked with a steady, maddening patience. He had been staring at it for hours, the simple act of forming a response feeling more complex and fraught with risk than launching a global album. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was completely and utterly unsure of what to do. His Producer's Eye, the supernatural compass that guided him through the treacherous waters of his professional life, was useless here. This wasn't a strategic problem with a quantifiable outcome. This was a matter of the heart, a tangled knot of family history, and his ability offered no solutions, only silence.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking in the quiet room, and let his mind drift back, not in a deliberate search for answers, but in an aimless, melancholic wander. He remembered the fierce, almost vicious board game competitions of their childhood, the way Ji-young would meticulously plan her strategy in Risk only for him to win with a series of audacious, high-risk gambles. He saw a flash of his parents' faces at a dinner table, his own report card, covered in glowing praise, held up for admiration while his sister's, nearly as good, sat beside her plate, unremarked upon. He was the golden boy, the prodigy; she was the steady, reliable one, and in their family, reliability was never as exciting as genius.
Then, a warmer memory surfaced, a ghost of a different kind. He was thirteen, struggling to form a G-chord on a cheap, second-hand guitar. Ji-young, two years older and already a competent player, had sat with him for hours, patiently repositioning his clumsy fingers until the chord rang out, clear and true. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated sibling connection. A memory from before the rivalry had curdled into something toxic, before he had so quickly and ruthlessly surpassed her.
He returned to the present, the blinking cursor still waiting. He tried to analyze her message with a producer's detachment. I'm sorry. What did it mean? Was she sorry for what she had done, for the pain she had caused, for the betrayal? Or was she simply sorry that she had backed the losing side, a pragmatic apology from a failed conspirator? Did it even matter?
He knew, with a certainty that went deeper than logic, that the apology, however flawed or incomplete, was an opening. It was a single, trembling hand reaching out across a chasm that had been carved between them over a decade. The thought of taking that hand was terrifying. What if he replied, pouring out his own complex feelings of guilt and anger, only to be met with silence? What if he replied, and her apology turned out to be just another calculated move in a game he no longer wanted to play? The risk of being hurt, of having that old wound torn open again, was immense.
In a moment of sheer, frustrated desperation, he did something he had never done before, something that felt vaguely narcissistic and deeply strange. He turned his Producer's Eye on himself. He caught his own reflection in the dark, panoramic window of his office, the glittering lights of Seoul forming a constellation behind his head, and he focused his ability on the man staring back at him.
The system flickered, the data streams unstable, as if the ability was struggling to perform an analysis on its own operator.
[Analyzing Subject: Han Yoo-jin]
[Core Trait: The Producer's Eye (SSS-Rank)]
[Emotional State: Conflicted (Anxiety LV 6 / Hope LV 4)]
Then, a new line of data appeared, something hidden deep within his own code that he had never seen, or perhaps, never allowed himself to see.
[Hidden Vulnerability Detected: 'Familial Guilt Complex (A-Rank).']
[Description: Subject possesses a deep-seated, unresolved guilt regarding his competitive and often neglectful relationship with his sister, Han Ji-young. This guilt acts as a significant emotional blind spot, making him prone to strategic hesitation, emotional avoidance, and self-doubt in all matters concerning her.]
Seeing his own deepest flaw laid bare in the cold, objective language of his ability was a profound shock. It was like having a doctor read you a perfect diagnosis of a disease you never knew you had. It clarified everything. His hesitation wasn't about strategy. It wasn't about a rational fear of being manipulated. He wasn't afraid of her. He was afraid of the guilt she represented. He was afraid that engaging with her, forgiving her, would mean having to fully confront and accept the depth of his own past sins, the casual cruelty of his ambition. It was easier to keep the wall between them intact.
He looked back at the phone. He understood now. This wasn't about winning or losing. It wasn't about strategy at all. It was about whether he was brave enough to take a single, small step toward healing a wound he himself had helped create.
His fingers moved, typing out a reply. It was simple, open-ended. It was not an accusation, nor was it a full-throated offer of forgiveness. It was just an open door.
"I'm glad you watched. We should talk."
His thumb hovered over the 'send' button for a long, agonizing moment. He could do it. He could send it and see what happened. He could take the risk.
But then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he deleted the message, character by character, until the reply window was once again blank.
It wasn't that he was afraid. It was a different realization, a quieter, more mature one. The first move, the apology, had been hers. It was a monumental step, one that must have cost her a great deal of pride. A quick, simple reply felt… inadequate. It felt like trying to solve a decade of pain with a few words on a screen. This conversation, if it was to happen, needed more. It needed time. It needed care. Perhaps he wasn't ready. Or perhaps, he realized, she wasn't ready for his reply. The apology might have been all she had to give right now. Pushing for more felt like the old Yoo-jin, the one who always forced the issue, who always pushed to win.
The new Yoo-jin chose patience.
He turned off his phone, the three-word message from his sister left unanswered, but not forgotten. He had accepted the stalemate, not out of fear, but out of a newfound, quiet wisdom. The war was over. He didn't need to win this, too. He just needed to wait.