Han Yoo-jin turned the key in the lock, and the door opened with a protesting groan. The space before them was small, dusty, and smelled faintly of old paper and neglect. It was an office on the third floor of an aging building in Mangwon-dong, a neighborhood known more for its indie cafes and quiet residential streets than for corporate power. A single large, grime-streaked window overlooked a busy street below, letting in the grey afternoon light. The room was completely empty except for a cheap folding table and three mismatched chairs that Yoo-jin had picked up from a second-hand store that morning.
"It's not much," Yoo-jin said, a hint of apology in his voice as he gestured to the barren space.
Go Min-young, standing beside him, looked around with wide, shining eyes. A huge, genuine smile spread across her face. "It's perfect," she breathed, the word filled with reverence. "It's ours." She walked to the center of the room and spun around slowly, as if she were standing in a palace. "What's it called? Our company?"
Yoo-jin reached into his bag and pulled out a single sheet of A4 paper. He had written two words on it in clean, bold strokes: Aura Management.
"Because we're not going to manufacture idols or sell images," he said, showing it to her. "We're going to find and nurture auras. The unique energy that makes a true artist."
Just then, the intercom buzzer on the wall, a relic from the 1990s, squawked loudly. Yoo-jin pressed the button. "Hello?"
"It's me," came the clipped, impatient voice of Ahn Da-eun.
He buzzed her in. A few minutes later, she appeared at the doorway. She was dressed in black jeans, a black hoodie, and a black expression. Her sharp eyes swept over the shabby office, taking in the dust, the mismatched chairs, and the general lack of anything resembling a successful entertainment company. Her face was an unreadable mask.
"This is it?" Da-eun asked, her skeptical tone making it clear that this was not what she had envisioned.
"For now," Yoo-jin said cheerfully. He motioned for her to sit at the folding table, where two copies of a legal document were laid out, held down by his phone. "This is for you. Please read it carefully. I'd still recommend you take it to a lawyer, but I think you'll find it's exactly what we discussed."
Da-eun sat down, her posture rigid, her guard fully up. She pulled one copy of the contract toward her and began to read, her eyes scanning the text with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. Go Min-young sat nervously in one of the other chairs, watching her.
As Da-eun read, her eyebrows, which were knitted in suspicion, slowly began to rise. She read the first page, then flipped to the second, her movements becoming less tense and more bewildered.
"A 70/30 profit split… in my favor?" she said aloud, her voice laced with sheer disbelief. She looked up at Yoo-jin. "That's… impossible. No company gives a rookie a majority share."
"It's fair," Yoo-jin replied simply, meeting her gaze. "You'll be the one on stage, bleeding for your art. I'm just the support system. The talent should get the lion's share."
She dropped her eyes back to the page, still searching for the trap. "Clause 7B: No trainee debt. All expenses related to training, production, and promotion are considered company investment and are not recoupable from the artist's share…" She kept reading, her voice a low murmur. "Clause 9: Full creative consultation rights on all songs, concepts, and marketing materials… Clause 11C: A mandatory mental health support clause, guaranteeing access to a company-provided therapist or counselor at the artist's request…"
She finally reached the end and looked up at him, her hard, cynical facade completely gone, replaced by profound confusion. Her eyes searched his face, trying to solve an impossible puzzle. The system panel next to her head was a clear reflection of her thoughts.
[Current Thoughts: What is this? Is this contract real? I've read it three times. There's no trap. There's no hidden penalty clause, no vague language. He's giving me all the power. He's giving me everything they took away. Why? What does he get out of it?]
"What's the catch, Yoo-jin?" she asked directly, her voice softer than he'd ever heard it. "There has to be a catch."
Yoo-jin leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. "The catch is that I expect you to work harder than you have ever worked in your life," he said, his voice serious. "Not for me. Not for this company. For yourself. The catch is that I am giving you all of this freedom and all of this power so that if you fail, you have no one and nothing to blame but yourself. I am methodically removing all of your excuses. All of your walls. When we're done, all that will be left is you and your S-Rank potential. The rest is up to you."
He didn't mean to say "S-Rank." It just slipped out, a word from his world bleeding into hers.
Da-eun frowned. "S-Rank potential? What is that, a video game term?"
He recovered quickly. "It's a term I use. A-Rank is a star. S-Rank is a legend. That's what I see in you."
Da-eun was silent for a full minute, her gaze shifting from the contract, to Yoo-jin's earnest face, to the hopeful, nervous expression on Go Min-young's. She picked up the pen that lay on the table. With a hand that was surprisingly steady, she signed her name on the signature line of both copies. Ahn Da-eun.
Aura Management had officially signed its first and only artist. Yoo-jin and Min-young both let out a breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
Da-eun pushed one copy of the contract toward him and leaned back in her chair, a flicker of her old defiance returning. "Okay, CEO-nim," she said, the honorific dripping with a touch of irony. "I'm signed. What's next? You got a dusty, empty vocal booth hidden in the back closet for me to start screaming in?"
Yoo-jin smiled. "No. Our first lesson doesn't happen in a practice room." He stood up, grabbing his jacket. "Come on."
He led them out of the shabby office building and into the vibrant, chaotic heart of Hongdae. The streets were teeming with life—university students, tourists, aspiring musicians, and shoppers. The air was a thick soup of sound: K-Pop blasting from cosmetic stores, the sizzle of tteokbokki from street food stalls, the roar of conversations, and the distant, amplified sound of a young man singing his heart out with an acoustic guitar.
Da-eun immediately looked uncomfortable, pulling her hoodie up and shoving her hands in her pockets, trying to make herself smaller. "What are we doing here? This is not a studio."
"This is the real studio," Yoo-jin said. He guided them toward a busy intersection where street performers, or 'buskers,' often set up to play for the crowds. "And this is your first lesson."
He turned to Da-eun. Her anxiety was a palpable thing, a nervous energy coming off her in waves. The system panel next to her head was starting to flicker with yellow warning signs. [Anxiety Level: 65% and rising]
"I'm not going to ask you to sing," he said, his voice calm and reassuring. "The task is much simpler. And much, much harder. I want you to go stand in that open space right there." He pointed to a spot in the center of the plaza, a small clearing in the river of pedestrians. "And I want you to just stand there. For five minutes. That's it."
Da-eun stared at him as if he'd just asked her to juggle chainsaws. "Stand there? And do what? Just… stand there?"
"Exactly. Do nothing," Yoo-jin confirmed. "Let people stare at you. Feel their eyes on you. Hear them whisper as they walk by. Absorb all of it. All that judgment and attention you're so afraid of. I want you to face it head-on, without a song or a dance to hide behind. And then, I want you to realize something important: none of it can actually hurt you. They'll look, they'll judge, and then they'll move on with their lives five seconds later. Your fear is a ghost. It only has power over you because you keep running from it. It's time you stood your ground and proved to yourself that it's not real."
The color drained from Da-eun's face. He was asking her to willingly step into her own personal hell. To be exposed, vulnerable, with no performance, no attitude, nothing to hide behind. It was a form of psychological torture designed specifically for her. She shook her head, taking a step back. "No. I can't."
"Yes, you can," Yoo-jin said, his voice firm but kind, not a command but a statement of fact. "Min-young and I will be right here. We won't leave. Five minutes. That's all I ask."
There was a long, tense moment where Da-eun's fear battled with the sliver of trust he had earned. Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath that was more of a gasp, she gave a stiff nod. She walked forward, her movements wooden, and stepped into the designated space.
The effect was immediate. People walking by noticed her. A girl standing completely still in the middle of a bustling plaza was an anomaly. They looked. They stared. They whispered to their friends. Da-eun stood rigid, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, her eyes fixed on a crack in the pavement.
The system panel in Yoo-jin's vision was a flashing red alert. [Anxiety Level: 95%] [System Warning: Fight or Flight Response Activated] [Critical Weakness: EXTREME PERFORMANCE ANXIETY].
She was trembling, her whole body vibrating with the effort to not bolt. Yoo-jin stood his ground, his expression calm, trusting his artist, trusting his unconventional method. One minute passed. It felt like an hour. Then two. Da-eun's breathing was ragged, but she didn't run. With a visible effort of will, she forced her head up, her terrified eyes meeting the curious gazes of the strangers. Three minutes. Four. The trembling lessened, just slightly. She was enduring it. She was surviving.
At the exact five-minute mark, Yoo-jin walked over to her. "Okay," he said softly. "It's done. You did it."
Da-eun stumbled back toward him and Min-young, her legs unsteady, but she was still standing. She was pale and her forehead was slick with sweat, but as she looked at him, a tiny, brilliant spark of triumph was visible in her wide, exhausted eyes.
"See?" Yoo-jin said quietly, a small, proud smile touching his lips. "You survived."