He might just leave an empty husk behind.
The words echoed in Yoo-jin's mind long after the ghost of Namsan Tower had vanished. He stood there for what felt like an hour, the burner phone cold and heavy in his hand, the city lights below blurring into a meaningless smear.
A vampire. A director who didn't just critique art, but consumed the artist.
It explained everything. Yoon Tae-min's S-Rank potential, his almost supernatural ability to pinpoint flaws, his reputation for breaking composers. He wasn't just a tough critic. He was a predator, and Yoo-jin had just led his most precious, SSS-Rank talent directly into his hunting grounds.
He felt a surge of cold, protective fury. He had fought so hard, betrayed his own principles, to protect his team. Now, he'd stumbled into a trap far more dangerous than any corporate backstabbing. This wasn't about Mina's career anymore. This was about her soul.
The ride back to the office was a blur. He walked in just as the sun was beginning to rise, painting the sky in pale, sickly shades of orange and grey. The office was quiet, but not empty.
Mina was asleep on the worn-out sofa in the lounge, a blanket tucked around her. She had a pair of headphones on, the wire leading to a tablet on her chest playing the demo of 'Echo' on a loop. Even in her sleep, she was working.
He looked at her peaceful face, and Ghost's warning felt like a physical wound. An empty husk.
He gently removed the headphones from her ears. Her eyes fluttered open, filled with a sleepy confusion that quickly turned to a warm smile when she saw him.
"Producer-nim," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. "You're back. Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," he lied, forcing a reassuring tone. "Go home and get some real rest. We have a long day tomorrow."
[Lie Detected.]
She looked at him, her gaze surprisingly sharp despite her exhaustion. "You look really pale. Are you sure you're okay?"
[Emotion: Genuine Concern]
[Hidden Motivation: She is sensing your distress.]
"I'm fine," he repeated, more firmly this time. "Go. That's an order."
She finally relented, gathering her things with a reluctant slowness. As she reached the door, she paused. "Thank you... for protecting me at the party last night. I know I messed up."
"You didn't mess up," he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. "You were perfect. Never forget that."
She gave him a small, radiant smile and left. The moment the door closed, Yoo-jin's own exhaustion hit him like a tidal wave. He sank onto the sofa she had just vacated, his head in his hands.
He had to protect her. But how? Pulling out of the OST was impossible. It would infuriate Jung Sae-ri and, by extension, TK Group. It would be a declaration of war he couldn't possibly win.
He was contractually obligated to walk Mina into the vampire's castle.
That meant he couldn't stop it. He had to control it. He had to be there, every step of the way, acting as a shield. He had to manage the 'Muse Drain' itself.
His phone buzzed. A text from an official number. Yoon Tae-min's Production Studio.
Recording session for 'Echo' has been scheduled. Tomorrow, 10 AM sharp. Director Yoon requests the presence of the producer and the vocalist only. No one else.
The timing was impeccable. The condition was a clear power play. He was trying to isolate them. To separate Mina from the support of her team, from Eun-bi and Min-hyuk.
Yoo-jin's jaw tightened. Fine. If the vampire wanted a private meeting, he'd get one.
The next morning, they walked into a recording studio that felt more like a surgical theater.
The walls were a stark, sterile white. The equipment was state-of-the-art but arranged with a cold, minimalist precision. There was no clutter, no personality. It was a room designed for one thing: dissection.
Director Yoon was already there, sitting in the producer's chair behind the massive mixing console. He didn't greet them. He just pointed a single, bony finger towards the vocal booth.
"In," he commanded Mina.
Mina gave Yoo-jin a quick, nervous glance. He nodded reassuringly, though his own heart was pounding. He walked over and stood behind the director, his arms crossed. He was making his presence known. He wasn't just dropping her off; he was co-piloting this session.
"Producer Han," Yoon said, not bothering to look at him. "Your presence is unnecessary. You've delivered the song. My sound engineer and I can handle the rest."
"With all due respect, Director," Yoo-jin said, his voice calm but firm. "I produce my artists. That includes every vocal session. I'm not leaving."
A flicker of annoyance crossed the director's face. He clearly wasn't used to being challenged. But he didn't press the issue.
The session began.
It was brutal. It was unlike any recording session Yoo-jin had ever witnessed. Yoon Tae-min wasn't directing. He was attacking.
"No," he'd snap after Mina sang a single line. "That was pathetic. You sound like a child asking for a lullaby. The character is broken. Give me that."
Mina would sing it again, her voice trembling slightly.
"Worse," he'd spit. "Now you're just imitating sadness. It's a caricature. Are you an actress or a parrot? Sing the truth."
Yoo-jin watched, his skill running constantly, analyzing the monster at work.
[Yoon Tae-min is actively using 'Muse Drain'.]
[Target: Choi Mina]
[Effect: Her creative energy and emotional stamina are being siphoned to fuel his 'Visionary's Insight'.]
He could almost see it. A faint, shimmering aura around Mina was slowly being drawn through the microphone, through the cables, and into the director, whose own focus was becoming preternaturally sharp. He wasn't just hearing flaws; he was tasting them.
He was feeding.
Mina was faltering. Her confidence was crumbling under the relentless assault. Her voice grew weaker, thinner.
[Name: Choi Mina]
[Status: Emotional Stamina at 48% and falling.]
[Emotional State: Humiliated, Desperate]
This was the process. He would break her down, drain her dry, and in that moment of absolute vulnerability, she would produce the single, perfect, soul-shattering take he wanted for his film. And it would cost her everything.
Yoo-jin had to stop it. He couldn't challenge the director directly; that would only make him dig in his heels. He had to be smarter.
"Director," Yoo-jin interjected smoothly, stepping forward. "May I have a word with my artist?"
Yoon waved a dismissive hand. "Waste your time."
Yoo-jin pressed the talk-back button. "Mina. Step out of the booth for a minute."
She came out, her face pale, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He guided her to a corner of the room, turning their backs to the director.
"I can't do it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He hates it. He hates me."
"He doesn't hate you," Yoo-jin said, his voice low and intense. "He's not even listening to you. He's listening to the character. And you're trying to give him a performance. He doesn't want a performance."
He looked her directly in the eyes. "Forget the movie. Forget the song. Forget him. I want you to go back in there and sing to me."
She looked at him, confused. "What?"
"Don't sing 'Echo'," he commanded. "Sing 'Monster'."
Her eyes widened in shock. "'Monster'? But... that's not the song."
"I don't care," he said, his gaze unwavering. "He's trying to make you feel weak, small, and afraid. I want you to remember what it feels like to be angry. To be powerful. Go in there, and you scream that song at the top of your lungs. Do it for me. Now."
It was a completely insane strategy. But he wasn't trying to record the track anymore. He was trying to save his artist. He was staging a rebellion.
Mina stared at him for a long moment, a storm of emotions in her eyes. Then, something shifted. A tiny spark of the defiance he'd seen before flickered to life. She nodded, her expression hardening.
She walked back into the vocal booth, put on the headphones, and looked not at the director, but directly through the glass at Yoo-jin.
She took a deep breath.
And then she unleashed hell.
Without any backing track, a cappella, she roared the opening lines of "Monster." Her voice wasn't pretty. It was jagged, raw, and filled with a furious, untamed energy. It was a declaration of war against the sterile, oppressive silence of the studio.
Director Yoon physically jolted in his chair, his eyes snapping open wide with shock. He stared at the girl in the booth, who was now screaming her defiance into his million-dollar microphone.
This wasn't the sound of a victim. It was the sound of a survivor.
And Yoo-jin, watching the vampire's stunned face, felt a grim, savage satisfaction. The hunt was over. The counter-attack had just begun.