The chaos had reached its peak. The looping, silent GIF of Ahn Da-eun's targeted face was a virus that had consumed Aura's digital soul, broadcasting their vulnerability on every screen in the building. The news of Kwon Ji-hyuk's official charges was the second, fatal blow, a public execution orchestrated by Chairman Choi. For a single, terrifying beat, Han Yoo-jin stood frozen in the eye of the storm, overwhelmed, outmaneuvered, and utterly defeated.
Then, something shifted. The panic in his eyes, the raw, naked fear that had shocked his employees, receded. It was replaced by a cold, hard fire, the look of a commander who, having seen his front lines collapse, was now preparing to sacrifice his pawns to save the king—and the queen. The time for reacting was over. It was time to command.
He turned, his voice cutting through the panicked din with renewed, chilling authority. He jabbed a finger at Oh Min-ji, who was still staring in horror at her compromised console.
"Kill the network!" he roared, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Not a software shutdown. A physical disconnect. Get our engineers to the main server room and tell them to sever the building's primary fiber optic cable. Scorch the earth. I want this building to be a digital island, effective immediately. I want Ryu's eyes out of my house. Now!"
It was a brutal, primitive solution, the technological equivalent of blowing up the only bridge into a besieged city. It was an admission of total defeat in the digital realm, but it was also the only way to be certain they were alone again.
He then turned to a pale and trembling Go Min-young. "Min-young! Get Da-eun out of that office. Take her downstairs to Kang Ji-won's main recording studio. Studio A. It's the most secure, soundproofed location in the entire building. Sub-level, no windows, one reinforced entrance. Take her phone, her tablet, her laptop, everything. I want her completely offline until I say otherwise."
With the immediate digital and personal threats contained—or at least, temporarily quarantined—Yoo-jin turned his focus to the raging legal firestorm. He, a grim-faced Director Oh, and the head of his legal team, Mr. Park, convened in a small, private conference room, far from the chaos of the main floor. A few minutes later, two security guards escorted Kwon Ji-hyuk inside.
The young actor was a ghost. The confident, charismatic man who had dominated the screen, the earnest musician who had dreamed of stardom, was gone. In his place was a hollow-eyed young man in a wrinkled suit, his spirit seemingly broken by the news that he was now officially a criminal defendant in the eyes of the state. He sank into a chair, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat.
Lawyer Park was the first to speak, his voice tight with the pressure of the situation. "They're moving with incredible speed. Chairman Choi's influence is all over this. The arrest warrant will be served within the hour. We can try to file an objection, delay it for a day or two, but with the prosecutor's office already holding a press conference, it's a losing battle. It will just make him look like he's running from the law."
Director Oh, her face a mask of cold fury, slammed her hand on the table. "So we fight them! We release the blackmail videos of Executive Director Moon. We leak everything! If Choi wants to burn us, we'll burn him to the ground right alongside us! Mutually assured destruction!"
Yoo-jin shook his head, his voice devoid of emotion, a cold, hard instrument of pragmatism. "No," he stated flatly. "It's too late for that. We had a brief window to use that as leverage. We missed it. Now, Choi has already framed the narrative. He's the righteous crusader against celebrity corruption. If we release those tapes now, it looks like a desperate, vindictive act of revenge. They'll say we're trying to deflect from our own guilt. He'll paint us as villains who entrap his employees with honey traps and then defame them when we get caught. We've lost that angle. He played his hand better than I anticipated."
The admission of a strategic miscalculation hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Yoo-jin swiveled his chair to face the silent, trembling Kwon Ji-hyuk. He looked at the young man he had plucked from obscurity, the one whose life was now shattering because of his own corporate war. He took a deep breath and made the hardest, most painful decision of the night. He gave the unthinkable order.
"Ji-hyuk," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "You are not going to be arrested."
A tiny flicker of hope sparked in Ji-hyuk's eyes.
"You are going to turn yourself in," Yoo-jin finished.
The room exploded. "Are you out of your mind?" Director Oh yelled, shooting to her feet. "You're sending him to the slaughter!"
Ji-hyuk stared at him, his face a canvas of pure, uncomprehending terror. "CEO-nim… what?"
Yoo-jin held up a hand, silencing the objections. He leaned forward, forcing Ji-hyuk to meet his gaze, explaining the cold, brutal logic of his plan. "Listen to me. An arrest is an image of guilt. It's a picture of police officers dragging you out of your home or your office in handcuffs. It's a visual that will be replayed on every news channel for the next year. It brands you as a criminal before a trial even begins. We cannot allow that image to exist."
He continued, his voice steady and compelling. "But a voluntary surrender… that's a different picture entirely. You, flanked by your lawyers, dressed in a suit, walking with your head held high into the prosecutor's office on your own terms. That is not the image of a guilty man running from the law. That is the image of an innocent man, confident in the truth, who has nothing to hide. It's our only move left. We must lose today's legal battle spectacularly, publicly, so that we can begin to fight the real war—the PR war—tomorrow."
An hour later, the scene played out exactly as Yoo-jin had orchestrated. The front lobby of the Aura headquarters, now cleared of all employees, was a seething pit of media. Dozens of reporters and cameramen were crushed against the police line, a chaotic wall of flashing lights and shouted questions. The mood was a frenzied, bloodthirsty circus.
Then, the main glass doors opened. A path was cleared. Kwon Ji-hyuk emerged. He was deathly pale, and the terror in his eyes was still visible to anyone who looked closely, but his shoulders were back and his head was held high. He wore a perfectly tailored dark suit. He looked not like a criminal, but like a man attending a funeral. His own.
He was flanked on one side by the stoic Mr. Park, his lawyer. And on the other, in a shocking, defiant move that sent a ripple of gasps through the media horde, was Han Yoo-jin himself. The CEO, the producer, the kingmaker, walking alongside his disgraced artist. It was a silent, powerful, and incredibly risky statement of unwavering belief.
They didn't run. They didn't push. They walked, slowly and deliberately, through the screaming chaos. The flashes were blinding, the shouted questions a meaningless wall of noise. They walked past it all, their faces set like stone, and moved towards the waiting, unmarked police car. It was a dignified, heartbreaking picture of defeat. A strategic surrender played out for the entire nation to see, a calculated sacrifice on the bloody chessboard of public opinion.