While chaos reigned in the plaza and trust imploded in the back of a speeding SUV, the shockwaves of Ryu's attack hit the corporate suites of Seoul with the force of a tectonic event.
In the opulent, penthouse office of Stellar Entertainment, Chairman Choi stood before a wall of silent, flat-screen televisions. Each screen showed a different news channel, but they all displayed the same two soul-destroying images: the sordid video of his right-hand man, and the pathetic, weeping face of the actor he had tried to crucify. His carefully orchestrated media crusade had been turned into a public joke, his own company's filth displayed right next to his enemy's. His face was a terrifying mask of apoplectic rage, the veins in his temple pulsing visibly.
Kneeling on the expensive Persian rug before him was the source of half his humiliation, Executive Director Moon Ji-tae. The portly, confident man who had strutted through the halls of Stellar like a feudal lord was now a trembling, sweating mess, his face ashen, his forehead pressed to the floor in a desperate, pathetic kowtow.
"Chairman-nim… I beg your forgiveness… It was a mistake, a moment of weakness…" Moon whimpered, his voice muffled by the carpet.
Chairman Choi didn't look at him. He continued to stare at the screens, his voice a low, venomous hiss that was far more terrifying than any shout. "A mistake?" he whispered, the words dripping with poison. "You let yourself be filmed. Like a common, foolish animal in a trap. You brought this filth, this gutter-level shame, into my house. Onto my name."
He slowly turned his head, his cold, reptilian eyes fixing on the pathetic figure on the floor. "You have not just embarrassed me, Moon. You have made me look weak. You have made me a laughingstock. And that," he said, his voice dropping even further, "is an unforgivable sin."
He turned away and picked up the private phone on his massive mahogany desk. He pressed a single button. "Security Head," he said into the receiver. "Come to my office. Now."
A few moments later, two imposing figures in sharp suits entered the office. They looked at the kneeling Executive Director without a flicker of emotion.
"Take him downstairs," Chairman Choi commanded, his back still to them as he watched the news. "To the sub-level garage. Make sure he understands the full, painful extent of my displeasure." He paused. "Then, put him on the first flight to our new 'resource development office' in Vladivostok. He will not be returning. His office is to be cleared out by morning. He no longer exists."
The security guards hauled the weeping, protesting man to his feet and dragged him from the room. The Chairman paid them no mind. He was already focused on the bigger problem. His grand, righteous crusade against Kwon Ji-hyuk and Aura Management was now hopelessly compromised. It looked like nothing more than a petty squabble between two corrupt companies. Ryu's savage attack had checkmated him on the public board. He had been outmaneuvered, and the rage that burned within him was now searching for a new target.
Miles away, in the grimy billiards hall that now served as his command center, Nam Gyu-ri was no longer laughing. The initial euphoria had passed, replaced by a cold, professional focus. He sat before a newly delivered, top-of-the-line computer rig, its glowing components a stark contrast to the squalor of the room. A high-resolution video call was active on one of his monitors, showing the tense, tired face of Oh Min-ji. Yoo-jin had forced his two diametrically opposed geniuses to work together, and the friction was palpable.
"It's brilliant," Gyu-ri said, a note of grudging, professional admiration in his voice as he analyzed the data packets from the attack. He was looking at Ryu's work the way a master painter would study the brushstrokes of a rival. "Absolutely savage. He didn't just expose secrets; he weaponized them to create maximum chaos at the point of maximum emotional impact. He turned Da-eun's strength—her connection with her audience—into a delivery system for his poison. He's not just a hacker anymore. He's a theatrical producer of terror."
Min-ji, unimpressed by the poetic analysis, pushed back from her end of the call. "He's a coward who used a known exploit in the A/V broadcast signal controller for the jumbotrons. It's a common vulnerability in large-scale event hardware. But it has a major weakness: it requires physical proximity to the master control unit. He wasn't in a high-rise halfway across the city. He was close. Very close. He had to be in or near the plaza."
Gyu-ri leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face. Min-ji's words had triggered a new line of thought. "Physical proximity…" he murmured, tapping a finger on his desk. "The sasaeng. The one you paid. 'ShadowBroker.' He wasn't just an informant, you fool. He was Ryu's mule."
The realization hit Min-ji like a physical blow. "What?"
"Think about it!" Gyu-ri snapped, his excitement growing. "Ryu is a ghost. He wouldn't risk being in that crowd himself. He needed a proxy. He hired the sasaeng not to take a picture, but to plant a device. Something small. A raspberry-pi-style signal injector, probably. He would have just had to get it within a few meters of the broadcast truck, attach it with a magnet, and walk away. Ryu could then activate it remotely from a safe distance."
Yoo-jin, who had been listening to the call on a secure line, felt the final piece of the puzzle click into place with sickening certainty. The sasaeng wasn't just a source. He was an active accomplice, the delivery mechanism for the bomb.
"Min-ji," Yoo-jin commanded, his voice cutting into the conversation. "Find him. Find ShadowBroker. Pay whatever you have to, use any resource. That man is now our only physical link to Ryu."
Min-ji's expression, visible on Gyu-ri's monitor, turned grim. She typed furiously for a moment, her face growing paler. "It's too late, CEO-nim," she said, her voice heavy with defeat. "He's gone. The encrypted accounts he used on the forums have been deleted. The crypto wallet you paid him with has been emptied and erased. His entire network presence has been wiped clean in the last thirty minutes."
She looked up, her young face etched with the frustration of a hunter whose prey had vanished into thin air. "He's a ghost again."