The problem with freedom, Yoo-jin realized, was the volume.
He sat in his office at the new Starforce HQ, headphones clamped over his ears. His eyes were bloodshot. On his screen, the "Open Mic" server dashboard was flashing red.
Pending Submissions: 45,203.
"Make it stop," Yoo-jin muttered, ripping the headphones off.
"It's democratic," Director Park said cheerfully, placing a stack of files on the desk. "Everyone gets a chance! That's what you wanted, right? A revolution?"
"I wanted talent," Yoo-jin rubbed his temples. "I just listened to three hundred versions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star sung by death metal bands. And one guy who just screamed into a bucket for four minutes."
"The Bucket Guy is trending on TikTok," Park noted. "People call it 'avant-garde'."
Yoo-jin groaned.
Without the System, he had no filter. No [Potential Grade: F] warning to save him time. He had to listen to everything. The sheer noise of the industry was crushing him faster than the Ministry ever did.
"We need A&R reps," Yoo-jin said. "Hire twenty more. I can't be the only ear."
"We can't afford twenty more," David Kim walked in. He wasn't wearing his usual velvet suit. He wore a sharp, charcoal business suit. He looked serious.
"David," Yoo-jin stood up. "I thought you were in New York handling the merger."
"I flew back," David closed the door. "Because we have a situation."
He dropped a tablet on the desk.
It wasn't a chart. It was a stock ticker.
Starforce (STF): -15%
"We're tanking?" Yoo-jin frowned. "We just saved the industry. We have the #1 song."
"We have hype," David corrected. "But hype doesn't pay dividends. Investors are scared of your 'Open Mic' project. They think you've turned the premier agency into a charity."
David walked to the window, looking out at the Seoul skyline.
"And they're hearing rumors. Rumors that Han Yoo-jin lost his touch. That the 'Midas Hand' is just a normal hand now."
Yoo-jin hid his trembling hand under the desk.
The sharks were circling. They smelled the blood in the water. They knew the System was gone, even if they didn't know what it was.
"Let them talk," Yoo-jin said, forcing confidence. "We're going to the Grammys tomorrow. When Sol & Luna win Best New Artist, the stock will double."
David turned. His mismatched eyes were cold.
"That's the other problem. The Grammys aren't just an award show, Yoo-jin. It's a trade show. And there's a buyer looking to acquire us."
"We aren't for sale."
"Everyone is for sale," David said grimly. "Especially when the buyer is Zenith Global."
Yoo-jin froze.
Zenith Global. The American media conglomerate that owned half of Hollywood and most of the streaming services. They were the whales that ate dragons.
"They invited us to Los Angeles a day early," David said. "A private reception. Hosted by Mason Gold."
"The CEO of Zenith?"
"The man who invented the modern streaming algorithm," David nodded. "He wants to meet the man who broke it."
Incheon Airport. The next morning.
The departure gate was a frenzy.
Sol and Luna waved to the cameras, looking like seasoned pros. Min-ji wore sunglasses and ignored everyone, carrying her guitar case like a weapon.
Eden trailed behind them. He was holding a notebook.
"What are you writing?" Yoo-jin asked, walking beside him.
"Lyrics," Eden said. "But rhymes are difficult. 'Orange' does not rhyme with anything."
"Door hinge," Yoo-jin suggested automatically.
"That is a construction material. It has no emotional resonance."
Yoo-jin smiled. It was a small moment of normalcy.
But as they approached the VIP lounge, Yoo-jin felt a prickle on the back of his neck.
He stopped and scanned the crowd.
No blue windows. No threat indicators.
Just hundreds of faces. Travelers. Fans. Security.
But someone was watching. He could feel it. A gaze that felt heavy, calculating.
"Yoo-jin?" Sae-ri touched his arm. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Yoo-jin shook it off. "Just... phantom pains. Let's go."
He didn't see the man in the gray suit standing by the newsstand, speaking quietly into a wrist microphone.
"Target is mobile. Boarding flight KE017. Initiate Phase Two."
Los Angeles. Zenith Tower.
The reception wasn't a party. It was an interrogation disguised as a cocktail hour.
The penthouse of the Zenith Tower overlooked the entire city of LA. The walls were glass. The floor was marble. The guests were the titans of the global music industry.
Yoo-jin felt underdressed, even in his bespoke suit.
"Stay close," Yoo-jin whispered to his team. "Don't sign anything. Don't drink anything you didn't see poured."
"You're paranoid," Olivia Ray laughed, grabbing a shrimp from a passing waiter. "This is just how Hollywood says hello."
"No," Yoo-jin scanned the room. "This is how they size up the meat."
A man separated himself from the crowd.
He was tall, with silver hair cut in a military fade and teeth that were blindingly white. He wore a tuxedo that cost more than Yoo-jin's car.
Mason Gold.
"Mr. Han!" Mason boomed, extending a hand. "The legend himself. The Dragon Slayer."
Yoo-jin shook the hand. It was dry and firm.
"Mr. Gold. Thank you for the invitation."
"Please, call me Mason. And this must be the miracle," Mason turned his gaze to Eden.
He didn't look at Eden like a person. He looked at him like a specimen.
"Subject One," Mason murmured. "Amazing. The Ministry actually pulled it off. Biological interface. Perfect pitch. Zero latency."
Yoo-jin stepped between them.
"His name is Eden. And he's an artist, not a subject."
Mason laughed. It was a smooth, practiced sound.
"Of course. An artist. That's the brand, right? The 'Human' angle. Very clever pivot."
Mason gestured to the glass wall.
"You know, Yoo-jin... can I call you Yoo-jin? I've been watching your 'Open Mic' project. It's fascinating. Chaotic. Messy."
"It's real," Yoo-jin said.
"It's inefficient," Mason corrected gently. "You have 45,000 submissions. How many are hits? Five? Maybe ten? That's a 0.02% success rate."
He sipped his champagne.
"My algorithms have a 60% success rate. We predict what people want before they know they want it. We don't find talent. We calculate it."
"We tried that in Korea," Yoo-jin said coldly. "It almost killed the industry."
"No," Mason smiled. "You tried it with outdated hardware. The Ministry was using tech from the 90s. Clunky. Invasive."
He leaned in closer. The smile didn't reach his eyes.
"What if I told you we built something better? Something that doesn't need to be implanted? Something that doesn't hurt the artist?"
Yoo-jin's heart stopped.
"What are you talking about?"
"Project Muse," Mason said. "Zenith isn't just a label. We're a tech company. We've mapped the neural pathways of musical creativity. We don't need to force an idol to be perfect. We just... nudge them."
He pulled a thin, transparent tablet from his jacket.
He tapped it.
Across the room, the lights dimmed. A screen descended.
"Let me show you the future, Yoo-jin."
On the screen, a video played. A young girl, maybe sixteen, singing in a booth. She wore a sleek pair of headphones. Not normal headphones. They pulsed with a soft, violet light.
As she sang, the light pulsed in rhythm with her brainwaves.
Her voice started shaky. Then, the headphones glowed brighter. Her posture corrected. Her pitch locked in. Her expression went from anxious to euphoric.
It was perfect.
"She's not being controlled," Mason whispered. "She's being optimized. Real-time dopamine reinforcement. The headphones reward her for hitting the right notes. It's gamification of the soul."
Yoo-jin felt sick. It was the System. But repackaged. Sleek. American. Consumer-friendly.
"Why are you showing me this?" Yoo-jin asked.
"Because I want to buy Starforce," Mason said. "Not for your roster. For your data."
"What data?"
"The data you stole from the Red Room," Mason's voice dropped to a hiss. "The raw files from the original System. The 'Kill Code'. That code is the only thing that can bypass our firewalls."
He placed a hand on Yoo-jin's shoulder.
"Sell it to me, Yoo-jin. I'll give you a billion dollars. You can retire. You can be the hero who saved K-Pop."
"And if I refuse?"
Mason sighed. He looked disappointed.
"Then you aren't a guest anymore. You're a bug."
He snapped his fingers.
Suddenly, the music in the room stopped.
Every screen in the penthouse—the TVs, the phones, even the digital wallpaper—glitched.
A violet symbol appeared. An eye inside a triangle.
[System Detect: Hostile Network]
Yoo-jin blinked.
He saw it.
For a split second, a blue window flickered in his vision.
[Warning: External Override Attempt]
[Source: Zenith Server]
It vanished as quickly as it came.
Yoo-jin staggered back. "You... you're broadcasting it."
"We're testing the range," Mason smiled. "It's airborne, Yoo-jin. We don't need wires anymore. We just need a signal."
Mason looked at Eden.
Eden was clutching his head. His eyes were flashing violet.
"Get out of my head!" Eden screamed.
"Eden!" Yoo-jin lunged for him.
"Security!" Mason called out calmly. "My guests are feeling unwell. Please escort them to the holding area."
Four large men in suits moved in.
"We're leaving," Yoo-jin snarled, grabbing Eden's arm. "Now!"
"You can't leave," Mason said, checking his watch. "The building is on lockdown. And your stocks? I just shorted them. By morning, Starforce will be worth less than the coffee in your cup."
He turned his back on them.
"Welcome to the big leagues, kid. Play ball, or get played."
Yoo-jin looked at his team. They were surrounded. Eden was glitching. The exit was blocked.
The Dragon was dead. But the Leviathan had just opened its mouth.
Yoo-jin reached into his pocket. He gripped the USB drive containing the Kill Code—the one thing Mason wanted.
He looked at Sae-ri. She gave him a microscopic nod. Fight.
Yoo-jin smashed his champagne glass on the floor.
"Min-ji!" Yoo-jin shouted. "Acoustic jamming! Make some noise!"
Min-ji didn't hesitate. she grabbed a metal serving tray and slammed it against a marble pillar.
CLANG!
The sharp, dissonant noise cut through the violet hum in the air.
Eden gasped, his eyes clearing for a second.
"Run!" Yoo-jin yelled.
He threw a chair through the glass wall of the terrace.
Wind roared into the penthouse.
"We're taking the fire escape!"
They sprinted for the shattered window. 80 floors up. A narrow metal catwalk waiting outside.
Yoo-jin looked back at Mason Gold.
"You want a war?" Yoo-jin shouted over the wind. "I'll give you a war."
He stepped out onto the ledge.
"But first, I'm going to crash your party."