Yoo-jin's plan to counter Quantum Music was not just a defensive maneuver; it was a declaration of a new philosophy. Quantum believed stars were assets to be acquired. Yoo-jin was about to prove they could be built. The Aura Management building transformed into a high-intensity, dual-purpose star factory, with its two powerful engines—Music and Pictures—working in perfect, synchronized harmony to forge their uncut diamond, Kwon Ji-hyuk, into the polished weapon they needed.
The first phase of the plan was a masterclass in narrative control, executed by the music division. Yoo-jin signed Kwon Ji-hyuk not to Aura Pictures as an unknown actor, but to Aura Music as a promising solo artist. It was a brilliant piece of misdirection.
He convened a meeting in the main recording studio, bringing together the wary, still-suspicious Kwon Ji-hyuk and the intrigued Kang Ji-won. He had already used his Eye to confirm their potential synergy, a shared sensibility for a darker, more melancholic style of rock.
"Ji-hyuk," Yoo-jin began, his tone direct and professional. "Welcome to Aura. Your first project is not with your band. It will be a solo track. A digital single. It will be the lead song for the original soundtrack of our upcoming series, The Gyeongseong Alchemist."
Ji-hyuk looked stunned. "A solo track? But my band…"
"Is on an indefinite hiatus, fully compensated by this company," Yoo-jin said, cutting him off before he could protest. "Your focus is now here. Ji-won will be your producer. I want you to write a song that captures the soul of a character from the series: a man who is powerful, charismatic, but haunted by a deep loneliness he can't escape. I want it to be the best song you have ever written."
Yoo-jin's instructions were a hidden form of character work. By forcing Ji-hyuk to write a song from the antagonist's perspective, he was making him dive into the psychology of Kenji Tanaka through the medium he understood best: music.
The collaboration between the raw, instinctual rocker and the meticulous, architectural composer was surprisingly potent. Backed by Aura's formidable marketing machine, the resulting track—a moody, charismatic, and intensely romantic rock ballad titled "Echo in the Silence"—was released two weeks later. It became a surprise hit. Kwon Ji-hyuk, the unknown indie musician, was suddenly on the public's radar. His handsome, brooding face was in magazine spreads, his soulful voice was on the radio. He was gaining a fanbase, a brand, an identity, all before he had ever stepped in front of a camera. He was becoming a star, and Quantum Music had no idea he was their enemy.
Simultaneously, the second, more grueling phase of the plan was executed in secret by the pictures division. Every morning, before his music sessions, Kwon Ji-hyuk was put through an intensive, one-on-one acting "boot camp" with Director Oh Se-young. It was a brutal, relentless process designed to deconstruct the performer and forge an actor.
Director Oh, now a full believer in the young man's raw talent, was a merciless and brilliant teacher. But she was accustomed to working with trained actors. Ji-hyuk was a block of uncut marble, and she was struggling to find the right tools to shape him.
Yoo-jin sat in on these sessions, not as a producer, but as a secret diagnostic tool for Director Oh.
On the third day, they were working on line delivery. Ji-hyuk was stiff, his words sounding recited and unnatural.
"No, no, no," Director Oh said, her patience fraying. She held up her hands in frustration. "You sound like you're reading a poem. Your voice has a beautiful tone, but there is no truth in it. The lines are just sounds. They don't feel connected to any thought."
Yoo-jin, watching from the corner, activated his Eye. The data instantly pinpointed the problem.
[Analyzing Subject: Kwon Ji-hyuk - Acting Deficit]
[Blockage Detected: 'Vocal Performance Habit.']
[Analysis: As a singer, the subject is subconsciously focusing on the pitch, rhythm, and melodic cadence of the dialogue. He is 'singing' his lines, not 'speaking' them from a place of character.]
"He's a singer," Yoo-jin interjected quietly. Director Oh turned to him, an annoyed look on her face. "His brain is wired for musicality," Yoo-jin continued. "He's hearing the rhythm in the words, not the meaning behind them. You need to break that habit."
"And how do you suggest I do that, Mr. Han?" she asked, her tone sharp.
"Deconstruct the musicality," Yoo-jin said simply. "Give him an exercise with no rhythm. Take that monologue. Have him shout the lines until he's hoarse. Then have him whisper them so quietly you can barely hear him. Have him say the whole thing with a completely flat, robotic affect. Break the connection between the words and his beautiful voice."
Director Oh looked at him, her skepticism warring with the strange, undeniable logic of his suggestion. She sighed. "Alright. Mr. Kwon. Let's try it Mr. Han's way. Scream it at me. I want you to hurt my ears."
The exercise was awkward, almost comical at first. But as Ji-hyuk shouted the elegant, menacing lines, something broke. The practiced, melodic quality in his voice shattered, replaced by something raw and real. When he then whispered them, he was forced to focus only on the intent, the pure meaning of the words. He was having a breakthrough. He was discovering the difference between performing and inhabiting.
This process repeated itself for every aspect of the craft. When he struggled with physical movement, looking stiff and self-conscious on camera, Yoo-jin's Eye identified the cause: [Kinesthetic Awareness rooted in 'concert performance.' Subject is used to playing to a large crowd, his movements are too broad, not intimate enough for the camera.] Director Oh, armed with this diagnosis, designed exercises in small, confined spaces, forcing him to learn a new, more subtle physical language.
Yoo-jin was the diagnostic machine; Director Oh was the master craftswoman. Together, they were compressing years of actor training into a matter of weeks, their methods a revolutionary fusion of supernatural insight and veteran experience.
The culmination of their efforts came a month later. In the Aura war room, Yoo-jin cued up a file on the main monitor. It was Kwon Ji-hyuk's final screen test, a scene opposite their brilliant lead actress, Yoon Chae-won.
On one side of the monitor, Yoo-jin played Ji-hyuk's hit music video for "Echo in the Silence." In it, he was the charismatic, brooding rock star, the image the public was currently falling in love with.
On the other side, the screen test played. The man on this screen was transformed. The rock star was gone. In his place was Colonel Kenji Tanaka. His posture was ramrod straight, his movements economical and precise. His charm was still there, but it was now a weapon, a cold, glittering surface hiding a deep well of menace. The chemistry between him and Yoon Chae-won was electric, a dangerous dance between two powerful, opposing forces. His performance was not just competent; it was shockingly, undeniably brilliant.
The team looked on in absolute awe. They had not just found a star. They had taken a piece of raw coal and, under immense pressure, forged a diamond.
As they were watching, Yoo-jin's phone rang. It was the Quantum Music executive. His voice, for the first time, had lost its smug, confident edge. It was replaced by a tone of genuine, wary confusion.
"Han Yoo-jin," the man said, dispensing with the pleasantries. "I've been hearing things. Seeing things. This new singer of yours… Kwon Ji-hyuk. He's suddenly everywhere. Who is he? Where did he come from?"
Yoo-jin leaned back in his chair, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face as he watched his newly minted star deliver a chillingly perfect line on the screen. He had turned Quantum's greatest strength—their absolute reliance on established, predictable data—into their greatest weakness. He had created a variable their algorithms could never have predicted.
"We made him," Yoo-jin said simply, and hung up the phone.