The Scandal-Proof Producer

The hotel suite at the Shilla had been transformed into a temporary, high-end film set. Softbox lights cast a warm, flattering glow, and two state-of-the-art cameras were positioned to capture every nuance of the conversation. It was a space designed for intimacy, but it felt like a high-stakes interrogation room.

Han Yoo-jin sat opposite Simon Vance. The legendary critic, who had seemed so warm and approachable in the lobby, now possessed a quiet, professional intensity. The air between them crackled with unspoken questions. The director, a quiet, efficient professional, gave a brief countdown, pointed a finger, and the interview began.

"Han Yoo-jin," Vance started, his voice the familiar, resonant baritone that had launched and sunk countless careers. "In a remarkably short time, you've gone from a disgraced producer to arguably the most talked-about figure in the Korean music industry. Some people are calling you a visionary, a protector of true artistry. Others," he paused, a slight, knowing smile playing on his lips, "call you a ruthless manipulator who uses artists' stories for your own gain. In your own words, which is it?"

The question was a classic, double-edged opening. A trap disguised as an inquiry. Yoo-jin had prepared for this. He knew this interview would be a chess match.

"I think a good producer has to be a bit of both, Mr. Vance," Yoo-jin replied smoothly, his voice calm. "You have to be a visionary to see the art inside a person. And you have to be a manipulator to protect that art from an industry that wants to turn it into a product."

Vance nodded, accepting the answer. The initial questions were standard, covering the formation of Aura, the discovery of Ahn Da-eun, the philosophy behind their music. But with each question, Yoo-jin could feel Vance probing, searching for something deeper than the rehearsed answers.

Yoo-jin knew he couldn't get a true read on this man from his words alone. He needed more. He decided to risk a targeted sync, focusing on the one thing that had eluded him in the lobby: the mysterious, unidentified five percent of Vance's emotional state. It was a gamble. After the last mutual sync, he knew Vance might be able to feel his probe.

He subtly focused his will, aiming his ability with surgical precision.

[Synchronization Mode: TARGETED]

[Query: Identify unknown emotional signature. Isolate and analyze.]

He pushed the connection, a psychic scalpel seeking a specific nerve. For a split second, he felt it again—a strange, calm, humming sensation, like a powerful engine at idle. It was an emotion he had no name for, a state of being that was completely alien to him. It felt like… pure perception. But just as he was about to get a lock on it, to analyze its properties, a wall slammed down in his mind.

[SYNC FAILED. Target has deployed a perceptual counter-measure. Active psychic firewall detected.]

Yoo-jin's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he caught himself. A firewall. Vance hadn't just accidentally resisted the sync. He had actively blocked it. He knew.

As if on cue, Vance, without missing a beat in the rhythm of the interview, changed his line of questioning. The shift was subtle, but to Yoo-jin, it was a declaration of war. A knowing, almost challenging look entered the critic's eyes.

"It must be exhausting," Vance said, his tone still conversational, but the words were now loaded with a terrifying new meaning. "Seeing the world as you do. Constantly analyzing everyone, not just their music, but their character. Seeing the potential for failure hidden behind every smile, the potential for scandal in every unchecked ambition. Does your 'Producer's Eye' ever get tired, Mr. Han? Do you ever just wish you could turn it off and listen to a song without deconstructing its soul?"

He had said it. Producer's Eye. The trigger phrase. He was no longer hinting. He was openly acknowledging his awareness of Yoo-jin's ability, using the very name that had first bridged the impossible gap between them. He was showing Yoo-jin that he knew he was being scanned, that he could feel it, and that he could block it. The interview was no longer an interview. It had become a direct confrontation between two beings of a similar, and still mysterious, nature.

Yoo-jin felt a jolt of cold fear, quickly followed by a surge of adrenaline. The game had changed. He couldn't win this with a psychic assault. He had to meet his opponent on the field of language, of veiled truths and layered meanings.

He met Vance's piercing gaze, a calm smile fixed on his own face.

"It's not something you can turn off, Mr. Vance," Yoo-jin replied, his voice smooth, his words chosen with extreme care. "Any more than you can 'turn off' your own ear for music. It's a way of seeing. A way of listening. It's like when you hear a symphony. You can't simply choose to be deaf to the one violinist who is playing slightly flat. Once you can perceive it, you can't un-perceive it."

He was admitting everything, while admitting nothing. He was speaking about his supernatural ability, but framing it as a simple, elegant metaphor for a producer's intuition. It was a message he knew Vance, and only Vance, would understand perfectly.

"So the real challenge isn't turning it off," Yoo-jin concluded. "It's learning to filter the noise so you can still hear the music."

A look of deep, profound understanding passed between the two men. It was a silent, mutual acknowledgment of their shared reality. They were two duelists who had just bowed to each other before drawing their swords.

The rest of the interview was a blur of professional questions and polite answers, the real conversation having already taken place in the spaces between the words.

When the director finally called, "Cut," the tension in the room broke. The film crew began to bustle around, packing up lights and cameras. Simon Vance stood up and walked over to Yoo-jin, who remained seated.

"An excellent interview, Mr. Han," Vance said, his voice back to its warm, public tone. "You have a very… compelling narrative." He paused, then leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, private murmur meant only for Yoo-jin. "A well-honed filter is a producer's most important tool. But sometimes, it's what you let through that truly defines you."

He straightened up. "The Starlight Festival. I will be there. After your stage performance is complete, come and find me. My hotel suite. We'll have a proper conversation. Off the record. No cameras. And no," he added with a final, meaningful look, "filters."

The invitation was clear. The time for games, for veiled questions and psychic probes, was over. After the festival, after Yoo-jin had put his philosophy on stage for the entire world to see, they would finally talk. Man to man. Power to power. And Yoo-jin would finally get the chance to ask the question that was now burning in his mind: What are you?