The Apology Broadcast
Mir Guild.
A crowd of people bustled about noisily.
“Hey! Where’s the tape? You still haven’t brought it?!”
“Did you tell the other departments not to come in here? Or not?”
“Hey, hey, stand right here. Just a sec… It’s too bright. Seyoung-ssi!! I’m gonna pull some lights!”
“PD—no, Team Leader!! We need time to check the script!!”
Mir Guild hadn’t only grown in size after its promotion to League 2. It had hired a wide range of specialists to strengthen its foundation and was expanding in multiple directions.
One such effort was the newly formed Broadcast Content Team.
Lee Shin had been keeping an eye on the external production company that had handled the legendary opening with Sanwang. The moment Mir Guild was promoted, he brought them in-house.
Professionals were professionals for a reason. Ever since the Broadcast Content Team joined, the quality of the official channel and event broadcasts—previously managed by the PR team—had skyrocketed. Fans were even sending gifts in thanks.
“Alright, we’ll go with the basics and improvise if anything unexpected happens.”
“Then we’ll go full chaos mode. One-take day?”
“But Hyunji, this Q&A… Are we really doing it like this? The tone… is it okay?”
“Ha… Oppa, did you seriously think I wrote that? Even I know when to hit the brakes.”
“Don’t tell me…”
“Stop guessing. You’re right.”
“They gave us one day to prepare… My head’s a mess. How is this even working?”
While everyone scrambled to finish, the youngest staff member came running over.
“They said makeup is almost done.”
The team leader clapped his hands and gathered everyone.
“Listen up! Today’s the day we prove what we can really do. Stay sharp, act like pros, and don’t mess up. Clap and move.”
Clap, clap!!
They finished the final checks with applause.
Cameras, lights, spare script boards, cables that might trip someone, even bottled water—nothing was forgotten.
Finally, they set up the green chroma-key backdrop.
Right on cue, today’s star appeared.
Lee Shin walked in.
“Oh, you’ve set everything up nicely.”
His usual bright voice was the same, but his appearance was completely different.
The flashy suit had been replaced by something resembling mourning attire. His normally bouncy curls looked messy and unkempt. His vibrant face was covered in pale, haggard makeup.
Everything about him felt deliberately toned down.
“Shall we start the rehearsal, Director?”
“Let’s go right away.”
The team leader kept his eyes on the monitor and brought his hand down.
“Action.”
At that moment, Lee Shin, standing in front of the chroma key, clasped his hands with a gloomy expression.
He bowed deeply at a perfect ninety degrees.
Has Lee Shin ever apologized in public?
Surprisingly, not even once.
What made this shocking was that even during his days as the infamous troublemaker—before he became the current Lee Shin—he had never once apologized. He hadn’t even bowed his head.
Yet here it was—a sudden YouTube notification.
How could anyone resist clicking?
1 viewer… 100… 1,000… 10,000… 110,000…
The live viewer count skyrocketed at light speed.
At this timing, the only thing Lee Shin would apologize for under the Director title was the recent controversy surrounding Mir’s raid party.
Reactions split into three groups.
The first: casual viewers who simply enjoyed Mir Guild’s matches and antis who disliked what the guild was doing.
They took “apology = admission” exactly as Lee Shin had predicted.
The second group: the so-called “fashion Yongbungi”—Mir fans who hadn’t yet peered into the abyss.
They defended the guild, but their defense was of the quick apology itself, while still acknowledging the controversy.
The third group: the true, devoted Yongbungi.
These were the reliable older brothers and sisters who would defend Mir Guild no matter what—as long as it didn’t cause too much social trouble. (Or even if it did…!)
Oh, and also:
These people were fundamentally fierce.
As the live chat turned into a battlefield and comments flew too fast to read, the on-screen timer hit zero.
Lee Shin finally appeared.
And everyone was shocked…
Pale face, unkempt hair, and instead of his usual luxurious suit and shirt, he wore something shabby. Even so, his striking looks still shone through, which was somehow annoying.
His usual breezy demeanor was gone, replaced by something 180 degrees different.
Seeing the green chroma-key backdrop—the standard for streamer apologies—behind him, viewers wondered if he was really going to apologize. Was this serious?
While everyone held their breath, Lee Shin finally opened his mouth.
“Hello. I am Lee Shin, the director of Mir Guild. I sincerely apologize to the fans who may have been inconvenienced by my shortcomings.”
───!!
It exploded!!
The moment Lee Shin bowed, the once-chaotic chat froze as if someone had hit pause.
The waist that had never bent even during his countless scandals—was actually bowing here?
But that moment didn’t last. Viewers quickly sensed something was off.
“I, Lee Shin, acknowledge that I failed to properly reinforce our roster during the off-season due to excessive projects, including the stadium. I also acknowledge that the early-season performance issues caused by this are my fault.”
“Furthermore, I acknowledge and deeply apologize for failing to sufficiently convince the team of the need for unity before stepping away from the transfer market.”
Something felt wrong.
His serious demeanor was certainly unlike him.
He was admitting fault without excuses and apologizing sincerely—at least on the surface.
But… the way he spoke was strange.
Everything he mentioned was about the shaky early-season performance. Not a single word about the actual controversies.
And shockingly, he never mentioned them even until the apology ended.
“That is all. I will work even harder to protect Mir Guild’s legacy from now on.”
Just then, a donation alert sounded.
A big spender had finally lost patience.
“Ah, I forgot to turn off donations. First, eh… whatever. I don’t know. Just refund all the Superchats, English-nim. Sorry about that. And regarding that controversy…”
That was when it happened. Lee Shin removed the bracelet he had been wearing on his wrist and tossed it aside.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Life returned to his previously dull eyes. The calm corners of his mouth twitched upward, finding their usual place.
The viewers didn’t know that Lee Shin had been using an item to forcibly nerf his Charm stat (-20).
The moment it was removed, the overwhelming presence he had been suppressing exploded, making it look as though Lee Shin had dramatically transformed.
“Phew. Now that the apology’s over, I’ll speak freely.”
Lee Shin grinned at the camera like usual.
“Why would I apologize for that?”
A bombshell statement.
“We’ll talk about it in Part 2.”
The screen went dark, and a timer appeared.
5:00… 4:59… 4:58…
“Part 2 starts in five minutes!!”
“We’re moving the set!”
“Equipment teeeam!!”
The broadcast team moved frantically while Lee Shin walked alongside the content team leader toward the Part 2 set.
“How was it?”
“What can I say? You killed it.”
The content team leader gave a thumbs-up.
He was a veteran with years of experience in the industry, and even he couldn’t stop marveling.
“You have more screen presence than any actor I’ve ever seen.”
“Haha, you’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Absolutely not!”
His interview skills were a bit lacking, but his persuasiveness, pacing, showmanship—and above all, the sheer charm of his very existence—were on another level.
People sometimes said S-rank top stars had charm that pierced through the camera. Lee Shin didn’t just pierce it—he punched the camera in the face and forced his charm down its throat, shouting, “I’m Lee Shin! I said I’m Lee Shin!!”
“Makeup back to normal right away.”
“I already had an idea. Hear me out and tell me what you think.”
The content team leader could only marvel at Lee Shin’s idea that followed.
Back when he was a rookie AD, a senior CP had once said, “Heaven-sent clowns actually exist!!” This man had to be the one his senior was looking for.
A short while later.
Part 2 began… and the viewers who had waited five agonizing minutes couldn’t believe their eyes.
The same man who had just apologized with a haggard face was now openly having his makeup fixed.
Amid the flood of “???”, watching Lee Shin calmly receive makeup was absurd—yet somehow so very Lee Shin that it made people laugh.
“Part 2 has started. In Part 2, let’s talk about the controversies you all wanted to hear about. Honestly, as a former troublemaker myself, I still don’t understand why this is even a controversy. It’s just too obvious, don’t you think?”
The best way to handle controversies that only brought losses was to let them simmer for a moment, then quietly resolve them behind the scenes.
After all, that was what corporations did all the time. When trouble arose, they’d go “Hmm!” and shut their mouths, smoothly moving on.
The fact that companies moving trillions of won used this tactic proved how effective it was.
Kirin Guild’s consistent strategy of ignoring Lee Shin’s provocations during his cooldown windows was another example.
But this was Mir Guild.
A guild for the fans, by the fans, of the fans.
And its director was Lee Shin.
The symbol of attention and communication.
So burying it wasn’t an option.
Then there was only one answer.
“Let’s start with Park Jeong-seok Hunter’s two-timing issue……”
Charge straight in.
“They’ll bring up anything. He’s twenty-five years old—let him handle his own relationships.”