Fallout from the Awards Ceremony
The morning after the Mellow Music Awards.
The faces of Mellow’s executives had gone deathly pale.
Devastating headlines from major news outlets poured out one after another. View counts climbed just as fast, and the public’s comments cut like knives.
If it had stopped there, they might have shrugged it off—Let the idiots rage all they want. Issue a half-hearted apology and it’ll blow over in a week.
−18.9%
Nearly a trillion won in market cap had evaporated in a single day.
An absurdly massive boomerang for the crime of simply restricting one VTuber’s appearance.
It wasn’t some righteous fury over discrimination against VTubers that had the netizens this enraged. The real culprit was a single song.
Everyone already knew that music-platform usage was slowly declining. Still, those platforms remained essential enough that the drop never quite registered as a crisis.
Then A-il’s new track pulled the trigger.
No music-platform registration. Just a lonely upload sitting on YouTube. There was no reason—not even a speck of one—to do something like that. Throwing away hundreds of millions of won in streaming revenue made no sense at all.
So the public took A-il’s YouTube-only release as a declaration: We don’t need music platforms. Dropping a track on YouTube is enough! It poured gasoline on the growing notion that “everyone already listens on YouTube anyway—aren’t streaming platforms finished?”
If it had been some mediocre diss track, the fire might have flared and died. But Invisible was far too captivating to ignore.
The comments were packed with people who’d set the controversy aside and simply fallen for the song. Industry experts piled on, calling it title-track quality from a major agency idol group.
Views sat at six million in under a week.
Convinced the lack of platform registration had been deliberate, people kept muttering about the end of the music-platform age. And the result:
“How the hell are you going to take responsibility for this?!”
Director Choi of Mellow bellowed. Across from him, the elderly critic Park’s lips trembled.
“I never said not to show them on screen at all! Your side took my advisory opinion far too aggressively!”
“You’re the one who said from the start that some cartoon character on the screen made you uncomfortable, Mr. Park!”
“I gave an opinion! I didn’t make the decision!”
“Then whose fault is it?!”
Every eye in the conference room swung toward PD Jang. He cleared his throat.
“I just did what upper management told me—”
“You should’ve handled it yourself!! What kind of executive producer has zero instincts?!”
“Excuse me?! Everyone agreed this approach would keep the stage production clean, and now you’re pinning it all on me?!”
As they hurled blame at each other and the room dissolved into chaos, CEO Lee Sang-hoon slammed his palm on the table.
“Enough! That’s enough.”
Silence snapped over the conference room in an instant.
“This is not the time to assign blame. Damage control comes first.”
Putting out a fire like this was a race against the clock. From early morning, every employee had been scrambling while cursing the higher-ups under their breath. The PR team was on its seventh draft of an apology statement. IR was drowning in investor calls. Strategic Planning was losing its mind juggling comprehensive scenarios and press responses.
Even Jeong Su-bin, a fan of Lunari who happened to work there, was flying through her tasks—though for a very different reason.
Ugh, this is delicious.
She was happily mulling over what kind of compensation Muse Family should receive.
After a storm of documents and heated debate in the crisis-management committee, everything was settled. Apologize aggressively. Compensate pragmatically. Acknowledge the discrimination, pledge it would never happen again, and punish those responsible. For the wronged party—Muse Family—priority ad placement on Mellow’s main pages, partial financial compensation, and production support for any future albums.
“Roughly how much does this cost us?”
“Banner ads plus the compensation package… around two billion won.”
“Pocket change compared to the stock freefall. Contact Muse Family before we announce. Apologize first and start unofficial negotiations.”
“Understood.”
With a path finally sketched out, CEO Lee Sang-hoon reviewed the documents and exhaled.
“I suppose part of the problem was that I’m not from this industry and leaned too hard on the advisory committee and all of you. I’ll take clear responsibility for this incident.”
A few people flinched under the sudden flash in the CEO’s eyes. When the meeting ended, internal details spilled outward through an anonymous Mellow employee’s SNS account.
“……Huh.”
Kang Seong-min was staring at the endless stream of follow-up articles. He’d expected some noise, but the aftershock of that diss track went far beyond anything he’d imagined. The stock graph plummeting into the blue, Mellow flat on its face—terrifying results no matter how many times he looked.
This guy can play the long game too.
A perfect counterpunch. No protest at the awards. No appeal to the press. Just one song that rattled the very identity of the music platforms.
“Damn.”
Even IG, far larger than Muse Family, couldn’t have pulled off a fight like that.
“……He’s not just good at writing songs.”
The release timing, the decision to upload exclusively to YouTube, the pressure of dropping it right before the awards—none of that could be coincidence. It had to be calculated.
If he’s the strategist type, he’ll actually be easier to recruit.
After some thought, Kang Seong-min decided to attempt a full courtship of Yeong-il. Pure artists were hard to handle, but people who used their heads could be negotiated with. Figure out what they want and put it on the table.
Executive position, extraordinary package—go all in.
With a special case like Kim Hye-min, a mistake during re-contracting had left her improperly locked down. This time, he would keep the talent tied to the company no matter what.
Kang Seong-min had his secretary summon Kim Hye-min from her ongoing production work. As always, she appeared in the CEO’s office in comfortable clothes with that vacant look on her face.
“Ah, h-hello, sir?”
“Hye-min, thanks for coming.”
Today Kang Seong-min was treating her not as chief producer but as Representative Kim Hye-min, so he layered on the courtesy. She sat and rolled her eyes a little.
“…Umm? W-what is it?”
Kang Seong-min smiled faintly. This was always her tone—hesitant, mumbling—yet when the decisive moment arrived, no one steered people more smoothly.
“I’ll get straight to the point.”
“Y-yes.”
“Composer Yeong-il. We want him at IG.”
Behind her glasses, Kim Hye-min’s eyes blinked once, small and quick.
“That friend of yours needs to come to us. I saw it with this new track. He’s a goose that lays golden eggs. And looking at this whole incident, he’s sharp on top of it. Real business sense.”
“I-is that so…?”
Kang Seong-min straightened his posture.
“The terms will be similar to what we offered you. Unlimited access to IG’s top-tier studios, industry-leading settlements, an executive contract. Of course, you turned down the executive title and took a label instead.”
“…….”
“There’s a plus-alpha too. Whatever Composer Yeong-il wants, I’m prepared to accommodate within reason.”
He was talking about poaching her label’s flagship composer. Surprise, anger—some kind of reaction should have been coming. He’d known she had little interest in her own label, but this level of non-reaction?
“Hmmm?”
Kim Hye-min’s inscrutable expression only made his insides itch.
“S-sir. If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be better to just buy Muse Family wholesale?”
“……That’s a bit.”
He hadn’t failed to consider it. But—
“The company’s grown. It’s gotten far too expensive.”
Kim Hye-min’s next words made Kang Seong-min’s eyes widen.
“W-well, either way, Yeong-il is a no. Unless he wants it himself.”
“Why? You don’t care about your company.”
“That’s true. Huh? H-how did you know?”
“Who doesn’t know that…! No—that’s not the point. Why is it a no?”
He’d expected an easy green light. Instead Kim Hye-min rolled her eyes and slid her gaze sideways.
“Ah! Once MAMA is over this time, I’m, um, stepping down as representative.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. Resigning the representative post.”
Past “no interest in the company” and all the way to throwing it away. Absurd, but he forced his mind to stay calm. If Kim Hye-min left and Yeong-il left with her, the company would collapse—so that was why she was refusing. A possibility surged up in Kang Seong-min’s head.
Swallowing Muse Family whole. Kim Hye-min leaving and the company naturally folding into IG. Free of charge, basically?
“……Hye-min.”
“Yes.”
“Who are you planning as the new representative? We had a prior agreement, didn’t we? You’d choose from inside IG.”
The new representative couldn’t be brought in from outside. That had been the deal.
I might be able to swallow this without spending a dime.
Would Yeong-il write girl-group tracks well too? Kang Seong-min’s fantasy didn’t last long.
“I’m thinking of giving it to Yeong-il or Han So-yeong.”
“Sorry? Who’s Han So-yeong?”
“Our operations manager.”
Kang Seong-min went blank.
“Those people aren’t IG employees.”
“Hm? Our contract said ‘IG and its affiliates,’ didn’t it? W-we’re an independent label, but we are still an affiliate?”
“Ah…… well, yes.”
Why had he assumed she’d hand it to people from the IG side? Because Kim Hye-min had no interest in Muse Family? Because she’d worked at IG so long that of course she’d pass it to someone with connections there?
“……Who is this person that you’d hand them the entire company? Family?”
“Ah, n-no? Just some guy.”
Why hand a company to a complete stranger? He couldn’t read this woman’s true intentions. He wasn’t even sure she had any. Kang Seong-min pressed his fingers to his brow.
His head was getting more tangled by the second when one clause surfaced.
In the event of a future change in Muse Family’s representative, the newly appointed representative shall hold a right of first refusal on the additional 10% equity held by IG.
IG currently held a total of 15% of Muse Family’s profit shares. Of that, 10% could be purchased by a new representative. Muse Family’s market value was now dozens of times what it had been at the time of the contract. Buying that 10% would take an enormous sum—far beyond what an ordinary office worker could pay.
“Hye-min. Is Han So-yeong by any chance a chaebol third-generation, or rich?”
Kim Hye-min let out a tiny snort of a laugh.
“As far as I know, she’s an ordinary company employee.”
Then Yeong-il was the problem. After the massive success in Japan, the next settlement check would be staggering. If Yeong-il became representative, he could buy out IG’s shares. The recruitment attempt would go back to square one, and Muse Family would slip out of reach entirely. Frustration boiled up and spilled out.
“……Hye-min. Why didn’t you tell me about something this big in advance?”
“I-I’m telling you now, aren’t I? I o-only decided recently. Hehe.”
“I suppose so.”
Faced with Kim Hye-min’s brazen composure, he had nothing left to say. She hadn’t actually resigned yet, after all.
If I hadn’t asked today, she probably never would have said a word beforehand.
Every plan kept falling apart. All he felt was frustration.
I should have locked her down completely when she was young. Stopped her from running wild however she pleased.
He looked at Kim Hye-min, who seemed utterly at peace with the world, and sighed. Even if Yeong-il re-purchased the full 10% IG had taken, the returns would still be profitable. He might not buy the shares at all. A clean negotiation might still be possible.
What nagged at him was Yeong-il’s pattern of moves. Since he’d joined Muse Family, the company had been growing at a monstrous rate. Writing great songs was part of it, but the world didn’t run on that alone. Maybe the man had an innate gift for business as well.
The opponent is a master. Approach carefully.
Before Hye-min handed the company over, he would make Yeong-il a separate, extraordinary offer. Yeong-il—ending up with the company in his hands as well.
He was more dangerous than I thought. How the hell did he rope in Kim Hye-min?
With the kind of skill it took to shake Mellow, it made a certain sense. Kang Seong-min took one last jab at her.
“If you hand it over to someone internal on our side, we’ll run it well for you.”
“Hmmm! Ah, nooo. I don’t think that’s a decision for the person who’s leaving to make.”
She smiled sweetly as she offered a plausible reason—while thinking something entirely different inside.
If Yeong-il goes under an agency, he won’t be able to write freely. It’d be a waste of talent.
Just like the old Kim Hye-min.
Someday you can buy me a meal, junior.
The company was the company. As a senior who’d once been called a genius just like him, she had no intention of standing by while he repeated her path.
We’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry
“P-please calm down.”
Han So-yeong’s mental state had completely collapsed.