The producer's chair felt less like a throne and more like an electric chair.
It was morning in the basement studio, and the air buzzed with creative tension so thick it could almost be seen. Eun-bi and Ji-ho were hunched over the keyboard, heads close together as they refined a haunting melody. Min-hyuk adjusted a vintage microphone with reverent care. Inside the booth, Mina's voice flowed through her warm-ups—clear, pure, and trembling with emotion.
Yoo-jin watched them from the corner, a cold pit in his stomach. He hadn't slept.
The image of the highlighted clause in Director Ahn's contract burned behind his eyes. Medical care as collateral. He looked at Ji-ho—focused, confident, lighter than yesterday. Ji-ho believed he was finally free.
Yoo-jin knew better. The studio wasn't a sanctuary. It was a cage. And he, Han Yoo-jin, was the warden.
On the monitor, colorful soundwaves danced across the screen. In the reflection of the glass, Yoo-jin saw his own face—hollow, sleepless, haunted.
The official recording began.
Ji-ho transformed. The quiet boy vanished, replaced by a relentless perfectionist.
"Again," he said after the seventh take, eyes glued to the screen. "The vibrato at the end lingers half a second too long."
"Again. The breath before the high note's too loud—it ruins the emotion."
By the tenth take, Mina's voice was trembling. Min-hyuk finally intervened, leaning toward the mic. "Kid, give her a break. She's not a machine."
Ji-ho didn't look up. "It has to be perfect."
Yoo-jin's blood turned cold. It wasn't passion driving Ji-ho. It was fear—the terror of a man whose mother's life depended on perfection. Because it did. Yoo-jin had made it so.
"Fifteen-minute break," Yoo-jin announced. His voice cracked through the tension.
Mina sagged with relief. Min-hyuk shot Ji-ho a glare. Ji-ho shrank, the obsessive producer fading.
Outside in the hallway, Yoo-jin found him scrolling through his phone. On the screen: a photo of a frail woman smiling weakly from a hospital bed. His mother.
The weight of guilt pressed down on Yoo-jin's chest. He could keep the secret and use Ji-ho's fear as fuel. It would work. Or he could tell him the truth—and risk everything.
He walked over, his voice steady but low. "Ji-ho. I need to tell you something about your debt."
He said it all. TK Group. Director Ahn. The fake rescue. The medical collateral. He didn't sugarcoat a word.
Ji-ho went pale. His hope shattered, replaced by that same hollow despair from before. He sank to the floor.
"So… I'm still a prisoner," he whispered.
Yoo-jin crouched, forcing him to meet his eyes. "No. You're my producer. And I'm your shield. This team is your shield."
He spoke with desperate conviction. "I made a deal with the devil to get you—but I'm not letting him collect. We'll make this album a success because we're the best, not because we're scared. Got it?"
For a moment, Ji-ho just stared. Then, behind the fear, a flicker of trust appeared. For the first time, someone wasn't using him as a commodity.
The studio door opened. Hana stood there, tablet in hand, her usual smirk gone. "You need to see this," she said.
She turned the screen.
A video was playing. Two minutes long. Already viral.
Titan Entertainment's Aurora debut trailer.
A cinematic, high-budget masterpiece—futuristic outfits, thunderous choreography, every frame polished to perfection. The last five seconds teased their title track, an explosive, hyper-energetic EDM anthem engineered to dominate charts.
[Song Title: 'APEX']
[Genre: Hyperpop / EDM]
[Potential: S-Rank]
[Marketing Note: Calibrated for maximum chart performance and viral challenges.]
Min-hyuk whistled, low and grim. "They're not bringing a knife to a gunfight," he muttered. "They're bringing a tank."
The video looped again and again, each replay hammering the team's morale further into the ground.
Eun-bi bit her nails. "How do we compete with that?" she whispered. "They're perfect. The song, the visuals, everything."
Mina stared silently at the four goddess-like idols on screen, her confidence shrinking. Ji-ho, still pale, murmured, "Their mix is flawless. Titan's sound engineers don't miss a frequency."
The impossible goal—five hundred thousand copies—no longer sounded ambitious. It sounded cruel.
The room was suffocating. Yoo-jin's mind raced for an answer, but every logical path ended in disaster.
Then Hana spoke, her voice sharp as glass. "Stop whining. It's pathetic."
Everyone turned.
"You're too busy staring at their strength to see their weakness." She stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes burning. "I know their producer, Atlas. And I competed against Isabelle Moon for years. Titan's strategy is perfection—flawless, mechanical, lifeless."
Her voice hardened. "Every note will be pitch-corrected to death. Every dance step timed to the millisecond. Every stage—perfect. And soulless. It's not art. It's product."
It was the first time Hana had ever spoken like a real teammate.
Lightning struck in Yoo-jin's mind. The despair in him flipped into dangerous excitement.
"She's right," he said, his eyes bright. "They're selling perfection. So we'll sell the exact opposite."
The others blinked.
"They just dropped a flawless trailer," he said, pacing fast. "So we won't drop one at all. No teasers. No concept photos. No countdown."
He turned to Mina. "Instead, we 'leak' a video. Tonight. A raw, one-take live recording. Just you and Ji-ho at the keyboard. No editing, no polish. We don't even show your face clearly—just your silhouette."
Eun-bi gaped. "No teasers? That's suicide."
"It's a counter-attack," Yoo-jin said. "They're machines. We're human. They sell perfection. We sell emotion. They fight with a tank; we fight with truth."
He pointed to the bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. "That's our lighting. The truth is our concept."
No one moved for a moment. Then, slowly, Ji-ho nodded. Mina drew a breath, her eyes hardening. Even Hana looked almost impressed.
They started recording.
The atmosphere in the room shifted—no longer fear, but defiance. Ji-ho's fingers danced across the keys, his music raw and alive. Mina sang like she was tearing her soul open, her voice cracking just slightly on the high note—but that imperfection made it real.
When the final note faded, the studio was silent.
Yoo-jin uploaded the file to a brand-new anonymous account.
[LEAKED] Starforce Trainee – Debut Title Track (Studio Live Ver.)
His cursor hovered over the Upload button.
This was it. The red line. Once he clicked, they'd be declaring open war on Titan Entertainment with nothing but heart and honesty as their weapons.
He hesitated—just a second.
Mina stepped beside him, calm and certain. Her hand rested over his. Their eyes met in the glow of the screen.
"Push it," she said.
He did.
And in that moment, a spark lit the fuse of the biggest storm the K-pop industry had ever seen.