Chapter 484: The Fall

The morning sun hit the glass facade of the Baek Group headquarters, but inside, the atmosphere was as cold as a morgue. The prestige of the building, once a symbol of absolute authority, now felt like a fragile shell. For Baek Ji-hwan, the waking hours had been a descent into a living nightmare.

The mainstream media had finally caught up with the internet. The headlines were brutal.The Korea Heraldran a front-page story titled"The Soul vs. The Machine: LUNE’s Triumph and the Baek Group’s Digital Mirage."Other outlets were even more vicious, detailing the record-breaking viewership ofThe Fox Priestesson Netflux and contrasting it with the lapped-up—no,visceral—backlash againstThe Neon Genesis. The narrative was no longer about a competition between two movies; it was a public autopsy of the Baek Group’s corporate culture.

Ji-hwan sat at his desk, his face a mask of frozen rage. His phone was vibrating incessantly, a rhythmic, jarring buzz that seemed to echo the pounding in his temples. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Every call was from an investor, a partner, or a board member, all wanting to know how a "guaranteed" success had turned into a public relations disaster.

The board of directors and senior managers stood in a semi-circle before him, their postures rigid, their eyes fixed on the floor. None of them dared to speak. The silence in the room was heavy, saturated with a fear that had become palpable. They had all played their part in the deception—some had encouraged the rush, others had ignored the warnings—but now that the storm had arrived, they were all looking for a place to hide.

"Do any of you have the decency to tell me how this happened?" Ji-hwan’s voice was a low, dangerous hiss. He didn’t look up from the tablet on his desk, which was displaying a scrolling feed of the latest critiques. "I gave you a budget that could fund a small country. I gave you the best technology money could buy. And yet, we are being mocked in the national press as a ’digital wasteland’."

The lead manager cleared his throat, his voice trembling. "Sir, the AI results were... inconsistent. We tried to mitigate the issues with manual animation, but the public caught on. The dissonance between the trailer and the final product created a backlash that—"

"I don’t want to hear about ’dissonance’!" Ji-hwan roared, slamming his fist onto the desk. The sound caused the managers to flinch. "I want results! I want the public to love the AI project! I want the investors to be confident! Instead, I have a movie that is being called ’soulless’ and a company that is being accused of treating its staff like disposable tools!"

He stood up, his movements jagged and aggressive. He began to pace the length of the room, his presence a looming, oppressive force. "The laped-up—no,visceral—hatred on social media is a direct reflection of your incompetence. You allowed the ’human’ element to be ignored. You allowed the workers to become resentful. And now, our dirty laundry is being aired for the entire world to see without any restraint."

He stopped in front of the lead manager, his eyes narrowing. "Find a solution. I don’t care if you have to buy out the critics, bribe the influencers, or fire half the staff. Fix this. Now."

The managers huddled together, their voices a low, frantic murmur. They discussed "rebranding" the project, releasing a second "corrected" version, or launching a massive PR campaign to pivot the narrative toward "technological growing pains." But as they spoke, it became clear that there were no easy fixes. The damage wasn’t just in the imagery; it was in the trust. The public had seen the gap between the promise and the reality, and that was a void that couldn’t be filled with a few press releases.

"We could try to offer a public apology," one manager suggested tentatively. "Admit that the AI is still in a beta phase and promise a more ’human’ approach for the next project."

"Apologize?" Ji-hwan sneered. "The Baek Group does not apologize. We dominate. An apology is a sign of weakness, and weakness is a scent that sharks can smell from miles away."

As the meeting dragged on, the tension in the room reached a breaking point. The managers were exhausted, their suggestions growing more desperate and less realistic. Ji-hwan’s rage was no longer a simmering heat; it was a boiling overflow. He was a man who had spent his entire life in control, and the sudden loss of that control was an agony he couldn’t endure.

Suddenly, the door to the office opened. A junior staff member entered, looking pale and shaken. He didn’t even have time to speak before Ji-hwan snapped.

"Get out!" Ji-hwan screamed, pointing toward the door. "I told you not to interrupt me unless the world was ending! Get out before I fire you on the spot!"

The staff member scrambled out, nearly tripping over his own feet. But as the door began to close, it was pushed open again.

A man entered. He was elderly, dressed in a severe, charcoal-grey suit that looked as though it had been tailored in another decade. He carried a leather briefcase and moved with a slow, deliberate authority that demanded attention. He didn’t look like a corporate lackey; he looked like a judge.

"Who the hell are you?" Ji-hwan demanded, his voice strained.

"My name is Arthur Sterling," the old man replied, his voice a dry, rasping, yet powerful tone. "I am the legal representative for the consortium of major investors who provided the initial seed funding for the AI project. As you are well aware, our contract included a ’performance and ethics’ clause."

Ji-hwan’s expression shifted from rage to a flicker of alarm. The Sterling group was the backbone of his financial stability. If they pulled out, the entire venture would collapse.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ji-hwan asked, trying to regain his composure.

"The meaning," Sterling replied, his gaze cold and unwavering, "is that the Baek Group has failed on both counts. The project is a technical failure, and the reports of labor exploitation and harassment are a liability we can no longer ignore. We are notifying you that we will proceed with legal proceedings to reclaim our investments and dissolve the current partnership as soon as possible."

Ji-hwan froze. "Now wait a minute. We can negotiate this. I can give you a better percentage of the future profits, or we can restructure the board—"

"We are beyond the point of negotiation, Mr. Baek," Sterling interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion. "You were given the resources to succeed, and you chose to manufacture a lie. We will wait for your formal reply in court."

Without another word, the old man turned and walked out, the heavy thud of his briefcase against his leg sounding like a gavel hitting a block.

The silence that followed was deafening. The board of directors stood frozen, their faces pale. They had seen the lapped-up—no,visceral—collapse of the project, but they hadn’t expected the financial foundation to vanish in a single conversation.

Ji-hwan stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving. The rage, the stress, and the sudden shock of the legal blow collided in a single, violent surge. He tried to speak, to shout one last command, but his voice failed him.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through his chest, a crushing pressure that felt as though an invisible hand was squeezing his heart. His vision blurred, the edges of the room spinning. He reached out for the edge of his desk, but his fingers slipped.

With a choked, guttural sound, Ji-hwan collapsed. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, his body convulsing as a stroke struck him with the force of a hammer.

"Sir!" the lead manager screamed, finally breaking his paralysis. "Mr. Baek! Someone call an ambulance! Now!"

Panic erupted in the room. The managers, who had spent the last hour fearing for their jobs, were now fearing for the life of the man who held their fates in his hands. As the medical sirens began to wail in the distance, the image of the once-mighty Baek Ji-hwan lying broken on his own expensive carpet was the final, visceral image of the fall.