The editing suite at Aura Pictures was a sanctuary of darkness, cool air, and quiet focus. The only light came from a wall of massive, high-resolution monitors that cast a shifting, spectral glow on the two figures standing before them. The air smelled of ozone and cooling electronics, the scent of creation in the digital age. On the main screen, a scene from The Gyeongseong Alchemist played out, raw and unpolished, without the score that Kang Ji-won was still meticulously crafting.
Even silent, it was mesmerizing.
The camera was tight on Kwon Ji-hyuk's face. He was in character as Lieutenant Kenji Tanaka, the series' elegant and monstrously cruel antagonist. Dressed in a perfectly tailored 1930s Western suit, he sat in an opulent office, a thin stream of smoke curling up from a cigarette holder held delicately between his fingers. He was speaking in flawless, aristocratic Japanese to a terrified Korean businessman.
"Gratitude is a currency, sir," Ji-hyuk purred, his voice a silken threat. "And you have spent yours lavishly on trivialities. Now, I have come to collect on your debt, and I find your accounts are empty. This is not just poor planning. It is an insult." He leaned forward, his handsome face twisting into a smile that held no warmth, only a terrifying, predatory glee. "And I do so hate being insulted."
The scene ended. The monitors went black.
Director Oh Se-young, a woman whose face was permanently etched with a kind of weary pragmatism, let out a slow breath. She turned to Han Yoo-jin, a rare, almost imperceptible flicker of wonder in her eyes.
"I was skeptical, Han Yoo-jin," she admitted, her voice a low rasp. "When you first came to me, you were rebuilding my career from ash. You brought me an indie rock singer with puppy-dog eyes and told me he was my monster. I thought you were insane."
She gestured towards the dark screen. "But that... that is pure venom in a silk waistcoat. His politeness is more menacing than another actor's shout. The camera loves his cruelty."
A quiet surge of profound satisfaction flowed through Yoo-jin. This was the validation. This was the proof of concept. He hadn't just salvaged a career; he had discovered a generational talent where no one else had even thought to look. "Talent is talent, Director. Sometimes it just needs the right stage and the right lines to bring it out."
"The initial feedback from the investor previews has been overwhelmingly positive," Director Oh continued, crossing her arms. "They talk about Yoon Chae-won's raw emotional power, of course. But they are terrified of him. They can't take their eyes off him. You didn't just find a villain. You created a star."
"That was the plan," Yoo-jin said calmly, though inside, his strategic mind was already celebrating. His gamble, this whole audacious Aura Pictures venture, was not just going to work. It was going to be a monumental success.
As he watched the director cue up another scene, Yoo-jin let his gaze soften. He focused on his memory of Kwon Ji-hyuk, on the earnest, slightly overwhelmed musician he had first met. He activated his Producer's Eye, not out of concern, but as a form of self-congratulation, a final check on his flawless investment.
The familiar blue interface materialized in his vision.
[Displaying Status: Kwon Ji-hyuk]
[Potential: SSS-Rank (Acting - 88% Unlocked)]
[Current Condition: Excellent (Physically)]
[Mental State: Stressed (Moderate)]
[Scandal Factor: LV 2 - Low (Historical data indicates minor, non-threatening indiscretions from indie band career. No current red flags.)]
Then, a new line of text appeared, a notification he hadn't seen before.
[New Debuff Detected: 'Weight of the Crown (LV 1)']
[Description: Minor psychological stress resulting from the rapid transition from public anonymity to manufactured stardom. Symptoms include elevated fatigue, heightened sensitivity to public perception, and a suppressed desire for escapism.]
[Projected Risk: Minimal.]
Yoo-jin read the debuff with the detached air of a mechanic noting a slightly worn tire tread. It was expected. In fact, it was a sign the process was working. Fame was a heavy coat to suddenly throw on anyone's shoulders. The pressure, the expectations, the constant scrutiny—it was natural for it to cause some strain. Minimal risk, the system had said. It was nothing a managed PR schedule and a well-deserved vacation couldn't fix. He dismissed the notification, his confidence unshaken. His system had flagged the problem, assessed it as trivial, and confirmed that he was in complete control.
Later that evening, Yoo-jin was walking through the sleek, minimalist lobby of the Aura headquarters when he saw Kwon Ji-hyuk leaving a practice room. The young man looked exactly like the person his Eye had just described: tired, but buzzing with a kind of frantic, electric energy.
"CEO-nim," Ji-hyuk said, bowing slightly, his eyes wide.
"Ji-hyuk. I just came from the editing suite. You're doing incredible work," Yoo-jin said, offering a rare but genuine compliment. "Director Oh is very pleased."
A relieved, grateful smile flashed across Ji-hyuk's face, but it didn't quite settle. It seemed to hover there, fragile and temporary. "Thank you, sir. Director Oh... she's a miracle worker. She's pulling things out of me I didn't know existed. It's exhilarating." He hesitated, running a hand through his already messy hair. "But... it's a lot. The role gets under my skin sometimes. I go home and I still feel him there, you know? That coldness."
"That's the sign of a great actor, Ji-hyuk," Yoo-jin replied, his voice slipping into the smooth, reassuring cadence of a producer managing his talent. "It means you're fully committed. But you have to remember the line between you and the character. Don't let him follow you home."
"I try," Ji-hyuk said, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I really do."
"We've already scheduled a long vacation for you as soon as principal photography wraps up," Yoo-jin added, seeing the conversation as a simple management issue to be solved. "Go to Bali. Or somewhere quiet in Switzerland. Turn off your phone. Decompress. Forget Kenji Tanaka ever existed."
"Yes, CEO-nim. A vacation. That sounds... good," Ji-hyuk said, but his agreement was hollow. For a split second, Yoo-jin saw a flicker of something else in the young man's eyes—a desperation for a more immediate release, a craving for an escape that couldn't wait for schedules and plane tickets.
But the moment passed, and Yoo-jin, his mind already moving on to quarterly budgets and global distribution strategies, simply nodded. "Good. Get some rest. You have a major scene tomorrow." He clapped a hand on Ji-hyuk's shoulder and walked away, the brief interaction already fading from his mind, filed away as a minor issue, successfully handled.
Hours later, Yoo-jin sat alone in his office on the top floor. The city of Seoul sprawled out beneath him, a breathtaking tapestry of light and energy that he was beginning to feel he owned. His sister was in Europe, building a new outpost for his empire. Quantum Music had been declawed and silenced. His first major television series was a masterpiece in the making. His world was a meticulously designed clockwork mechanism, and every gear was turning in perfect, harmonious alignment.
He leaned back in his leather chair, allowing himself a rare, unguarded moment of pride. He had won.
The quiet of the office was shattered by a sharp, urgent buzz. It was his secure line, the one reserved for emergencies. He glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. Annoyed by the intrusion, he pressed the speaker button.
"Han Yoo-jin speaking."
"CEO-nim..." The voice on the other end was choked and thin. He recognized it instantly. It was Go Min-young, his first employee, the unwavering heart of his company. He had never heard her sound like this. Her voice was tight with a panic so raw it felt like it could shatter at any moment. "CEO-nim... I'm so sorry to call this late. There's... there's been an incident."
Yoo-jin's calm vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp alertness. "What is it, Min-young? Spit it out."
He could hear her take a ragged breath, trying to steady herself. It didn't work. When she spoke again, her voice was a trembling whisper, laced with pure horror.
"It's Kwon Ji-hyuk."
A knot of ice formed in Yoo-jin's stomach.
"The police..." she stammered, her voice cracking completely. "They have him. You need to come to the Gangnam police station. Right now."
"Min-young, what happened?" he demanded, his voice hard as steel.
"Something terrible," she sobbed. "Something terrible has happened."