The Counter-Kill Angle
I glanced around the waiting room. Tucked away in a corner, it was empty. The bathrooms and exits were far off, foot traffic was light, and it sat well away from any storage areas, so no one was likely to wander this far. That was probably why Oh Yuri had chosen this spot to speak. Certain we were alone, I asked, “Blackmail? What do you mean by that?”
Oh Yuri, dressed in a flying squirrel onesie, carefully pushed back the hood with its stitched-on eyes, nose, and ears. Twirling one end of her pink pigtails between her fingers, she said, “…I know your secret, Team Leader Seon.”
I had more than one or two secrets, and none of them would look good if exposed. Sensing the conversation was about to take a dangerous turn, I quietly switched on the pen-shaped recorder I always carried and asked, “Which secret would that be?”
“The secret that you made a deal with PD Kim Seonye.”
…Well, well. If I panicked and asked how she knew, I’d be playing right into her hands. I had never left any concrete evidence of the transaction, and Kim Seonye wouldn’t have leaked it either. For now, I had to treat her words as a probe. Of course, if she actually knew the truth, things would get very complicated.
Keeping the recorder’s quiet whir in mind, I answered as carefully as I could. “That’s a rather startling claim. And frankly, a little insulting. It’s an accusation that smears both PD Kim and myself at the same time.”
I couldn’t deny it outright. First, I had to express genuine displeasure at the supposed insult. Only after that could I offer an explanation. “Still, if my own shortcomings are to blame, let me make one thing perfectly clear: no such deal ever took place. The gap between a manager at a brand-new agency and a main PD like Kim Seonye—who has real pull at the network—is simply too wide for any real transaction to occur. Besides, she’s far too busy to even meet with someone like me.”
Whether I had regressed or whether our company was stacked with S-rank talent didn’t matter; none of that information existed outside these walls. To the public, I was nothing more than the manager of a fledgling agency. Most people would agree that someone in my position wasn’t on equal footing to negotiate with a main PD.
“At this point, I don’t know what rumor you heard, but I hope you understand that the story is logically impossible.”
“No. The only person who could have made a deal with her is you, Team Leader Seon.”
Oh Yuri fidgeted with the edge of her flying-squirrel onesie, looking uneasy. “…More precisely, the only person who made an additional deal after the initial arrangement was already in place.”
The words carried heavy implications. I was half-convinced now. This girl knew something. Still, I kept my expression neutral and asked, “You keep using the word ‘deal.’ What exactly do you mean by that?”
Her round eyes, which had been sparkling like a small flying squirrel’s, now filled with resolve as she looked straight at me. “This broadcast is rigged.”
“…Who told you that?”
“No one. I figured it out myself.”
“Then would you mind explaining how you reached that conclusion?”
Oh Yuri moistened her lips and said, “Girl 100’s debut-group selection system runs on paid message votes.”
“That’s right. The catchphrase is that viewers create the debut group with their own hands.”
“I believe those votes are being manipulated.”
“…”
I stayed silent. Regardless of whether I agreed, the recorder was running; I couldn’t afford to voice any personal opinion here. When I simply watched her without replying, Oh Yuri seemed to take it as a request for more explanation and continued.
“There have been five voting rounds so far, correct?”
“Yes. The show has aired five times, so five rounds of voting have taken place. The rankings have shifted dramatically. Why bring that up?”
“The vote totals are strange.”
Oh Yuri glanced around, spotted a whiteboard in the waiting room, and began scribbling numbers and tables with a marker. The data looked familiar. “Is that the voting results up to the fifth round? How did you…?”
“I memorized them.”
Wow. A kid who belonged in the Olympics was trying to become an idol. Still, why not just show it on her phone? “You say you memorized them, but there shouldn’t be any errors. Feel free to check.”
I pulled out my smartphone, compared the chart, and said, “The numbers match exactly. Impressive. …But couldn’t you have just shown it on your phone?”
“They confiscated it.”
Ah, right. Come to think of it, Girl 100 banned trainees from bringing in any communication devices or electronics to prevent leaks. Security was tight and the penalties severe, so it made sense she had no phone. …Which also meant she couldn’t record anything.
I checked the pen recorder without letting her see. It was still running perfectly. As if she somehow knew what I was doing behind her back, Oh Yuri circled several entries on the fifth-round results and went on.
“I’ll explain why these totals are strange in simple terms. Across one hundred trainees and five voting rounds, the exact same vote margin appeared seventeen times. That can’t be coincidence.”
“Couldn’t that many instances still be random chance?”
“No, they couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because when you divide those vote counts, you get a constant percentage that always terminates at exactly two decimal places—0.05 percent. Every single one of the twelve trainees I circled shows this pattern.”
I pointed at Kaori, who was ranked twelfth among the circled names. “Then what about her? Her margin doesn’t match the constant you mentioned.”
“That’s because the leftover votes were dumped on her to make the final percentage a whole number. The adjustment is roughly 0.002 percent.”
Exactly as she said. If the surplus votes had been funneled to Kaori, everything lined up. In fact, that was precisely what the later court proceedings would reveal.
When I didn’t argue, Oh Yuri finished writing an equation on the whiteboard and said, “In my opinion, certain trainees have fixed integer coefficients attached to their ranks. When you multiply their raw vote counts by the same constant, the final totals match. We don’t have enough cases to be certain yet, but I believe these will form an arithmetic sequence. Once voting reaches the final twelfth round, it should become obvious.”
“…”
“I don’t know whether this percentage—or the unique constant in the vote totals—is the result of simple rounding or some kind of processing error. But there’s one thing I can say for certain.”
Oh Yuri underlined the derived constant with the marker and looked at me. “It means someone artificially interfered with the votes.”
“…Wow.”
I was genuinely impressed. The formula she had just presented was identical to the suspicion netizens would later raise after seeing the final results. At the time, that post had been dismissed as random internet nonsense, but it would eventually grow into a massive storm that swept through Mnet and the entire entertainment industry—a legendary butterfly effect. Yet there was a crucial difference between those netizens and this girl. The netizens had only spoken after seeing the twelfth-round results, whereas Oh Yuri, armed with insider knowledge, had reached the same conclusion using only the data up to the fifth round and filling in the gaps with pure deduction. That level of judgment and reasoning was extraordinary for a middle-schooler.
“And among those twelve people is Winter unni. She wasn’t included in the first pre-recording vote, but starting from the second round she suddenly fits the constant. That suggests an additional deal was struck after filming began—unlike the original eleven who had already been arranged beforehand.”
“…”
She pulled out a red marker, underlined every vote total Han Gyeowool had received, and flicked the tail of her flying-squirrel onesie. “This is the evidence I used to conclude that Team Leader Seon made a deal with PD Kim Seonye. And if you don’t comply with my demands, I intend to make this evidence public.”
This kid was impressive. Truly impressive. Her analytical ability, her willingness to act on her deductions, and the sheer nerve it took to blackmail me outright—everything about her was remarkable. But she had overlooked one crucial detail.
“Go ahead. Make it public.”
That wasn’t evidence, Yuri.
“…Huh?”
“Even if you don’t, I’ll do it myself. The moment I walk out of this room.”
She couldn’t hide her shock. “Then won’t you be the one in trouble?”
“No. You’ll be the one in trouble, Oh Yuri. Not me.”
The formula she had shown was a powerful lead for raising suspicion, but it wasn’t solid proof. Concrete evidence would only surface later, after prosecutors stormed in with warrants and seized everything. Publicizing it now would accomplish nothing except giving the manipulators time to erase the trail. So I had nothing to fear. Revealing it wouldn’t hurt me in the slightest. But it would hurt Oh Yuri—because I would make sure it did.
“I find your accusation deeply offensive. You just called Girl 100, this sacred competition, nothing more than a rigged scam. I have no intention of letting your words slide as a mere rumor. This could seriously damage the show’s future.”
I took the pen recorder from my suit pocket and shook it lightly. “And, conveniently, this entire conversation has been recorded. I plan to hand the transcript straight to PD Kim Seonye. It’s far too dangerous for me to simply look the other way—especially when it could harm Gyeowool as well.”
Yuri, you only draw your sword when you’ve already secured the perfect kill angle.
“I’m not sure how this will turn out, but you won’t be the only one held responsible. Your agency, Flower Entertainment, will be dragged in too. …You’re going to be very busy from now on.”
Or, sometimes, the perfect counter-kill angle appears instead.
Oh Yuri stared at me with wide eyes, then murmured as if she had just realized something. “I’m screwed, aren’t I?”
It was an impressively objective self-assessment. At that moment, as if commemorating my flawless counter-kill judgment, a message window appeared.
Genius Dog Bocksil has been awarded as a reward!
…So why the hell did I get Bocksil?