It was the sort of Seoul morning that made even the city's steel and glass seem gentle—sunlight spilling through high windows, tracing the gold and cobalt silks draped on mannequins along one wall. But inside Lumina's top-floor conference room, the mood was anything but gentle.

Kim Joon-ho sat in a tailored shirt, jacket slung over the back of his chair. He looked every bit the calm center of a storm, chin propped on his knuckles as he studied the man across from him. Park Jae-hyun, notorious breaker of entertainment contracts, stacked legal folders on the table with the measured patience of a surgeon about to make the first cut.

Park slid a heavy manila folder between them. "EON's offer," he said quietly. "Such as it is."

Joon-ho's eyes narrowed. "Let's hear it."

"Three billion won in penalties," Park recited, not bothering to mask his disdain. "That's the headline demand. They also want Mirae to cover every outstanding brand deal—actual and projected. And she must assume full responsibility for any sponsor fallout. All residuals, legal indemnities, everything."

Joon-ho let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "Not a surprise. That's how they always play it, isn't it?"

Park nodded, flipping to a marked page. "It's their standard script: price her freedom so high, most talents fold and crawl back. And if she still tries to leave, they bury her—smear her online, poison her reputation, make every agency and sponsor see her as radioactive."

His jaw tightened. "The really charming part? They're insisting on a non-disclosure for the process itself—so even if we paid, she wouldn't be allowed to warn others. But they know I'll never sign that. Not after White Prism last year."

Joon-ho rifled through the folder, studying a paragraph with a lawyer's wariness and a fighter's focus. "Here—they've doubled up. Endorsement responsibility, plus creative output clauses. Looks like they're trying to get two bites at every apple."

"Good catch," Park said. "If they push, we counter. Legally, they've overreached—and if this went to court, their own greed could backfire. But the court of public opinion is another battlefield."

Joon-ho shut the folder. "Even if we win on paper, they'll just drag her name through the mud. Social media, gossip columns, bot swarms. She'd need a new agency with real muscle. Otherwise, they'll just target her new managers until everyone's too scared to work with her."

Park leaned forward, folding his hands, his eyes sharp. "Or, you could build your own agency. No mid-tier team can stand up to EON's bullying—not unless you've got something new. But you? You've got enough goodwill to set up your own shop. Netizens adore you, networks are hungry for the Coffee Prince effect. Mirae could be your first client, your anchor. Maybe the first of many."

Joon-ho blinked at him—half-amused, half startled by the audacity. "And you, hyung? You ready to run my legal department and fight every snake in the business, day in, day out?"

Park grinned, a flash of boyish excitement crossing his sharp features. "Better than suing EON from the outside. I could actually help set policy for once, instead of cleaning up after disasters."

Joon-ho glanced at the legal pad in front of him, mind already racing. "It'd be a circus at first. Tabloids sniffing around, old managers throwing shade, EON's legal goons trying to find dirt. The PR alone would cost a fortune. And that's not counting the accountants, contracts, new-hire chaos…"

Park was already scribbling a list. "I've got people. One's a forensic accountant from White Prism's fight; another runs the only honest PR shop in Gangnam. They hate the current system as much as I do."

Joon-ho rubbed his eyes. "Feels… personal, though. What if I'm just fighting for Mirae, not for a real cause? What if this is all about her?"

Park met his gaze, all trace of amusement gone. "That's why it works, Joon-ho. This business only changes when someone bleeds for it. You want to build a safe haven for one woman? Fine. But you'll end up helping dozens more. That's always how it starts."

The sun shifted, slicing light across the boardroom. Joon-ho imagined it: an agency where the contracts were fair, the pay was real, the rumors stayed outside the door. He thought of Mirae's face after her panic attacks, the way her hands trembled when she signed her last, doomed extension.

He thought of his own name, now plastered across a million hashtags—#CoffeePrince, #ProtectMirae, #NewAgencyNow. He wasn't a star, not by his own standards. But maybe, just maybe, he could be a shield.

He shook his head, lips quirking in reluctant acceptance. "You're good, hyung. I'll think about it. But first, we get Mirae free—clean, public, no hush money, no threats."

Park nodded. "I'll push for a formal negotiation tomorrow. If EON tries to leak or smear her before that, I'll get an injunction. But after the release? It's open season. She'll need backup."

Joon-ho: "We'll have it."

Park stood, gathering the files. "Call me as soon as you decide. If you want to do this—really do it—I'll sign on. No more watching from the sidelines."

Before either man could say more, the door swung open with a gentle click. Seo Yura entered, her face drawn and tired, her hair pulled back in a severe bun that only accentuated the fatigue in her eyes.

She greeted Park first, voice cracking with relief. "Perfect timing, oppa. I need you for family law this time."

She looked to Joon-ho—a silent exchange, an old pain rekindled. He saw immediately: the crisis with her husband, the stress barely masked.

Yura dropped her phone onto the table with a sigh. "Sorry to interrupt. But I have a feeling your agency's not the only thing about to get messy."

Park offered her a chair, instantly shifting gears. "Sit. We'll talk."

Joon-ho made room, heart pounding with a new kind of urgency. Whatever storms were coming—personal or public—they'd face them together.

As sunlight faded against the cityscape, three people, each battered by a different kind of industry war, leaned in over coffee and contracts, plotting something like revolution.

The conference room was quieter now, sunlight slanting gold over scattered legal folders and coffee cooling in untouched mugs. Yura, called away by another crisis—this time her father's strained voice on the phone, relaying pressure from the family elders and a particularly meddlesome uncle—slipped out, leaving Joon-ho and Park alone for the first time since the meeting had started.

Joon-ho watched Park as he tidied up the chaos of contracts, intent and deliberate. "Hyung," he said, breaking the silence, "why do you do this? You could have gone corporate, made a fortune. Why break your back fighting for people like us?"

Park's hands stilled on a folder. For a long moment, he said nothing. The hum of the city below seemed louder, then faded again into the background.

"My mother," Park said finally, voice low. "She was a singer—back when girl groups were four to a room, eating ramen for dinner and singing to empty seats in winter basements. Her contract was iron. The agency promised her the world, but when her looks faded, they dumped her. Blacklisted her. She never recovered." He shrugged, but his voice had sharpened to a scalpel's edge. "My sister—brighter than me, smarter, tougher—almost got pulled into a ring, sex-for-favors, managers passing girls around as payment. She got out, but a lot of girls didn't. That's why I went to law. I couldn't protect them back then. This is the only way I know now."

The confession hung in the air, raw and unvarnished. Joon-ho, quiet, nodded. He understood now: the fire in Park's eyes wasn't just professional pride—it was a lifetime's worth of pain, fury, and guilt, distilled into a mission.

"But how do you know I won't become just another CEO Choi?" Joon-ho asked softly. "Power corrupts. Even good intentions twist."

Park's mouth curled in a crooked, tired smile. "You're right to be scared. Most men aren't. That's why you should try. I've watched you fight for Mirae when it cost you. I saw what you did for Yura, how you stuck your neck out for the café staff. You're stubborn, you piss people off, you don't know when to quit. And most of all—you care. Not for the headlines, but for the people. That's the only way any of this changes."

He leaned back, eyes steady on Joon-ho. "Besides, we write the contracts this time. Full transparency. Staff can walk, no NDA gag orders, no forced extensions. Medical coverage. Real breaks. If you start acting like a shark, I'll take you down myself."

That got a genuine laugh out of Joon-ho, for the first time all day. He ran a hand through his hair. "Sounds almost utopian."

"It won't be. It'll be hard, dirty work. They'll come for us—EON, Prism, the lot. But if we don't start, who will?" Park's tone softened. "We don't just free Mirae. We build a model—take care of the next scared kid who walks through the door. Offer counseling, mentorship, a place for burned-out idols to land when the machine spits them out."

Joon-ho gazed out the window, the sky bruised with dusk, city lights beginning to flicker on. He could almost see it: a small office, a handful of determined staff, scared rookies and broken stars finding a real home for the first time. A place where no one was disposable.

"We start small," he said, voice settling with conviction. "Mirae first. And then we look for the next one—whoever needs saving."

Park stuck out his hand, the gesture both challenge and pact. "Deal. I'll line up the paperwork. You handle the dreamers."

They shook, both feeling the weight and hope in that simple grip. It was the start of a fight that would upend both their lives.

The door opened again. Yura returned, her face drawn with fatigue but still composed. She dropped into the chair next to Park, exhaling hard.

"Sorry—family stuff." She grimaced, pushing hair behind her ear. "Park, I need your help. This time… it's divorce law."

Park arched a brow, not unsympathetic. "That bad?"

She nodded, voice low. "He's not going to let me go quietly. There's money, leverage—he thinks he can make me stay, threaten my father's business, even drag me through the press if he has to."

Park's gaze hardened, sympathy giving way to familiar battle-readiness. "We'll meet this week. Gather everything—documents, threats, texts, contracts. We'll make sure he doesn't get away with a damn thing."

Yura's relief was almost palpable. "Thank you, oppa."

Joon-ho squeezed her hand under the table, offering silent solidarity. "You're not alone, Yura. None of us are."

For a moment, the three sat together, united not just by ambition but by wounds—old and new, public and private. Outside, dusk stretched its shadows across the city. In this quiet room, the future seemed fragile and dangerous but, for the first time, just a little bit possible.

No one spoke as the lights of Seoul shimmered through the glass, but a silent vow passed between them: Whatever came next, they would fight together—for justice, for freedom, and for every story that deserved a different ending.

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