Sae-ri didn't waste a single breath begging him to rest.
She didn't dramatically throw her arms around his bleeding neck or start weeping hysterically about his shattered ribs. She completely understood the terrifying, rapidly ticking clock governing their survival.
She violently pivoted away from Yoo-jin on the hot asphalt. Her dark eyes rapidly scanned the chaotic, blinding sea of five million screaming fans pressing against the broken military barricades. She instantly spotted Ha-eun standing on the roof of a crushed Ministry police cruiser.
The fierce, young fan-general was aggressively gripping a heavy, battery-powered riot megaphone.
Sae-ri didn't ask for permission. She violently shoved her way through a line of confused, terrified riot police who had completely dropped their shields to stare at the exposed subterranean bunker.
She grabbed the heavy white plastic megaphone forcefully from Ha-eun's hands. The teenager didn't resist. Ha-eun's dark eyes were completely locked on Yoo-jin's pale, bleeding face standing in the afternoon sun.
Sae-ri sprinted directly back across the hot asphalt.
She stopped mere inches from Yoo-jin's chest. She aggressively shoved the heavy megaphone directly into his uninjured right hand.
"The cameras are rolling, Producer," Sae-ri stated flatly, her chest heaving heavily.
She violently grabbed the clean white silk sleeve of her ruined designer jacket. She reached up and aggressively wiped a thick smear of dark, wet blood off Yoo-jin's left cheekbone. She rubbed the skin hard until it was completely clean, ensuring his face looked sharp, defiant, and perfectly framed for the thousands of smartphone lenses actively broadcasting his image to the world.
Yoo-jin stared down at her fierce, unblinking focus. A massive, overwhelming surge of profound human pride violently swelled in his battered chest.
His Muse wasn't a fragile liability waiting to be rescued. She was a ruthless, battlefield manager actively dressing her leading man for the most important press conference of his life.
He didn't thank her. The absolute, synchronized trust between them didn't require useless dialogue.
Yoo-jin aggressively clicked the heavy switch on the side of the megaphone. A harsh, electronic squeal violently pierced the chaotic roar of the massive crowd.
Five million teenagers instantly went absolutely, terrifyingly silent.
The sudden drop in decibels was physically staggering. The only sound left in the massive, ruined plaza was the faint, rhythmic whirring of several news helicopters circling high above the smoke-filled Seoul skyline.
Yoo-jin slowly stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching loudly on the shattered glass covering the asphalt. He completely ignored the agonizing, tearing pain in his broken ribs.
He walked directly up to the massive, kneeling figure of Dr. Oh.
The arrogant Ministry director was completely broken. His pristine white lab coat was heavily covered in gray soot and thick black grease. He was sobbing pathetically into his large, trembling hands, his face buried deeply in his knees. He was completely surrounded by an impenetrable, blinding wall of brightly glowing Starforce lightsticks held by thousands of silent, furious teenagers.
Yoo-jin stopped two feet away from the ruined bureaucrat. He slowly raised the heavy megaphone to his bloody lips.
He didn't give a boring, drawn-out political speech. He didn't cite international law or bore the live-streaming audience with complex bureaucratic terminology. He weaponized the massive, global entertainment industry metaphor directly against his enemy.
"The Ministry of National Defense is officially a failed, corrupt idol agency," Yoo-jin's deep, cold baritone violently echoed across the massive plaza, aggressively amplified by the heavy plastic speaker.
The thousands of smartphone cameras aggressively zoomed in on his battered, defiant face.
"They didn't recruit artists," Yoo-jin continued flawlessly, his restored human memories supplying every single terrifying detail he needed. "They illegally manufactured bio-engineered weapons using stolen, intellectual property from Zenith Entertainment. They treated human lives like disposable, disposable props for a violent domestic debut."
Dr. Oh violently flinched at the booming sound of Yoo-jin's voice. The massive bureaucrat slowly raised his tear-stained, soot-covered face. His dark eyes were wide with absolute, unadulterated terror.
"Subject 736," Yoo-jin stated coldly into the microphone, his dark eyes locking fiercely onto the camera lenses. "Subject 737. Subject 738."
He rapidly listed the exact, classified numerical designations of the six perfect clones currently trapped behind the heavy blast doors. He didn't stutter. He didn't pause for dramatic effect. He systematically, ruthlessly exposed the massive, multi-billion won black-budget program to five million live-streaming witnesses.
"They are perfectly synchronized, heavily armed, and entirely devoid of human empathy," Yoo-jin declared loudly, his voice completely stripped of fear. "And this man, Director Oh, intentionally programmed them to slaughter innocent civilians to protect his agency's precious catalog."
A massive, unified gasp of absolute horror violently rippled through the massive crowd. The glowing ocean of lightsticks suddenly turned a stark, warning crimson red.
"You're completely canceled, Doctor," Yoo-jin whispered coldly, lowering the megaphone directly toward the kneeling man's face. "Your debut stage is permanently closed. I am publicly firing you from the industry."
Dr. Oh opened his mouth to scream a desperate, pathetic denial.
He didn't get the chance.
A massive, deafening chorus of approaching police sirens violently wailed in the distance. A fresh, heavily armed wave of Ministry riot police in thick black armor rapidly rounded the corner of the massive plaza. They carried heavy tear-gas launchers and long, black riot batons. Their direct orders were clearly to violently extract Dr. Oh and permanently silence the broadcast.
Yoo-jin didn't even turn his head to look at the approaching threat. He didn't need to issue a frantic order to retreat.
Ha-eun violently blew a shrill, piercing silver whistle from the roof of the crushed police cruiser.
The massive crowd of five million teenagers didn't panic or scatter at the sight of the heavily armed police. They moved with terrifying, unblinking military precision.
Thousands of fans instantly violently linked their arms tightly together. They rapidly stepped forward, closing every single gap in the massive crowd. They actively formed a terrifying, completely unbreakable human barricade directly between the approaching riot shields and Yoo-jin's bleeding body.
The fresh wave of police violently slammed into the front row of the crowd.
They instantly bounced off. The sheer, terrifying physical volume of five million tightly packed bodies completely paralyzed the armored units. The police couldn't swing their batons without striking an unarmed teenager holding a camera. They couldn't launch tear gas into a dense, screaming mob without triggering a catastrophic, globally televised stampede.
The massive, heavily armed government force was completely neutered by raw, weaponized fandom culture. They were aggressively protecting their Producer.
The massive adrenaline spike violently holding Yoo-jin together suddenly vanished.
His vision swam violently, the edges of the bright plaza instantly dissolving into a dark, fuzzy haze. His knees buckled aggressively under his heavy weight. He stumbled violently backward, dropping the heavy megaphone onto the hot asphalt with a loud, plastic clatter.
Sae-ri caught him flawlessly.
She violently wrapped her small arms firmly around his waist, aggressively bracing her boots against the pavement to keep him upright. She didn't panic at his sudden, massive loss of physical control. She didn't scream for a medic.
She looked up at his pale, sweating face with fierce, calculating eyes.
"Where is the next venue, Producer?" Sae-ri asked rapidly, her voice completely steady and entirely focused.
Yoo-jin violently gripped her shoulder with his right hand, his breathing horribly ragged. He aggressively forced his dark eyes to focus on Kai and Min-ji, who were rapidly jogging over with their stolen rifles slung across their soot-covered backs.
He didn't sugarcoat the terrifying reality of their situation. He violently exposed David's horrifying intelligence update to his core cast immediately.
"The massive database deletion stalled," Yoo-jin choked out, violently coughing a drop of dark blood onto his own collar. "Mason Gold's automated failsafe triggered. The remaining fifty-eight percent of the Zenith catalog is violently downloading into an offline cryogenic pod at the Zenith Headquarters."
Sae-ri's dark eyes narrowed dangerously, but she didn't flinch. Kai aggressively racked the slide of his stolen rifle, a fresh, sharp metallic click echoing in the chaotic noise.
"Subject 000 is rapidly waking up," Yoo-jin stated coldly, the absolute dread dripping heavily from his rough voice. "Mason Gold is actively transferring his own sociopathic consciousness into a perfect, invincible clone body. The tour isn't over."
He violently pushed himself completely upright, leaning heavily against Sae-ri.
"We have to permanently strike Zenith Headquarters before the massive download hits one hundred percent," Yoo-jin ordered fiercely, his dark eyes burning with absolute resolve.
He aggressively turned away from the massive, chanting crowd of fans completely blocking the riot police. He completely ignored the pathetic, sobbing bureaucrat kneeling helplessly on the hot asphalt. The massive political fallout was no longer his problem.
Yoo-jin looked at his battered, soot-covered cast standing fiercely together in the blinding afternoon sunlight.
"Load the vans," Yoo-jin commanded coldly. "We are canceling Mason Gold's final debut."