Ruthless Ambitions

It was exactly one year ago when he, once a brilliant producer, had been pushed out of a major entertainment agency following a bitter internal power struggle.

For Gwon-ho, it was a moment of humiliating defeat he hated to even recall. He had scoffed at the fools who failed to read the ever-changing industry trends and aimed for K-POP’s globalization in all the wrong ways—yet the reality was that they remained at the label while he was left in pathetic isolation.

Back then, Gwon-ho’s only choices were to recklessly start his own company or move to an agency so small that his former employer wouldn’t even bother to suppress it. That was how Gwon-ho ended up at Star Entertainment, a place he never dreamed he’d ever have even a minor collaboration with.

The only saving grace was the scouting offer CEO Hyeong-jun had extended. Viewing the famous producer as his last hope for his struggling idol groups, Hyeong-jun promised him full creative and directorial authority.

Furthermore, who could have guessed that a gem like Pentagram would be hidden away in Star Entertainment, a place he had chosen merely as a temporary shelter?

“I’ll say it again: Pentagram isn’t a group that will just be a flash in the pan. For their future, we need to do some pruning. This might be the most appropriate opportunity.”

At the time, Pentagram was considered a “failed” idol group, having flopped with two mini-albums and leaving zero impression on the public. But in Gwon-ho’s eyes, the members looked completely different.

Misaligned concepts, incompetent support from the agency, and a debut so poorly timed it felt sabotaged—these were the reasons why the raw diamonds of Pentagram hadn’t yet shone.

Gwon-ho saw a glimmer of hope that he could finally achieve the ambitions he hadn’t fulfilled elsewhere.

“The management team won’t follow my plan? That’s even better. It’ll be a chance to cut out those tiresome incompetents. No matter how stubborn CEO Kang Hyeong-jun is, he can’t afford to get rid of me now.”

Observers who saw a three-year-old “nugu” group suddenly skyrocket to popularity called it a stroke of divine luck, but the leadership at Star Entertainment knew better.

They knew everything was possible because of Gwon-ho’s touch.

The image of Pentagram performing passionately in a downpour, in front of a jeering crowd waiting for bigger names, wasn’t a lie. However, the way that scene was framed, filmed, and distributed—all of that was Gwon-ho’s calculated plan.

The length of the fancams, the titles of the videos, the timing of the uploads, and the methods used to push the media once the trend started—he orchestrated it all.

He had anticipated that people who found Pentagram through the fancams might be disappointed by their previous title tracks. Songs chosen under the vague, messy concept of “Five Stars of Diverse Light” were nothing more or less than tedious idol tracks. Therefore, Gwon-ho selected the B-side track , which emphasized a rugged, masculine charm, and pushed it to the public.

It coincided perfectly with the rapid growth of the youngest member, Ha-un, and the fact that Pentagram possessed a more distinctive masculine appeal compared to other boy groups.

And so, the miracle of a “chart reversal” was born.

There was no need to even count the group’s perfect concept change or the high first-week sales of their 3rd mini-album. If half of Pentagram’s success was thanks to the members’ talents—which had been buried by incompetent producing—the other half was undoubtedly thanks to Gwon-ho’s planning.

The problem, however, was that in Gwon-ho’s vision for Pentagram, the existence of Ji-ho didn’t fit.

“Even if we handle the accident smoothly, Ji-ho is nothing but a bomb for the group. The public’s reaction to this article is proof of that.”

“It can’t be helped that people are being swayed, since there’s a faction actively targeting one member,” Hee-jun noted.

“And you expect me to waste this company’s already scarce resources to correct a misguided public opinion? Give me one reason why I should.”

“When you moved me from the producing team to the newly established A&R team, didn’t you say so, Team Leader? That Pentagram’s goal won’t stop at just the domestic market.”

“Correct. I saw potential in them. My goal is to make Pentagram a global group, something far beyond just a K-POP idol group that sells decently overseas.”

“Then why only Ji-ho…? Even you admitted, Team Leader, that Ji-ho was a member with sufficient skills from the start because of his long-term training at a major agency. Plus, he’s more diligent than any of the others.”

“That’s exactly all he is. Even with all that, he’s nothing more or less than a common, run-of-the-mill idol. If we were just aiming for a ‘decent’ group, a ‘hexagon’ member like him? Fine. He fits various concepts easily, he’s not the type to cause trouble, so he’d have a long career. He even listens to the company? He’d be very easy to control.”

“Then you know…!”

Hee-jun seemed desperate to stop Gwon-ho from ousting Ji-ho from the group. Although he acknowledged Gwon-ho’s talent and had left his original team to join A&R to learn from him, he still found Gwon-ho’s cold, calculating side—rarely seen at Star Enter—difficult to stomach.

“Enough. Let me put it simply. Ji-ho is not the ‘product’ I want. That’s all. I want idols who know how to shine on their own, enough to captivate the world. A charm the other members have, but Ji-ho lacks.”

Hearing Gwon-ho’s firm conclusion, Hee-jun had to give up on persuading him. Since he had volunteered to be Gwon-ho’s subordinate, captivated by the big picture despite knowing his coldness, it was difficult to go against his superior any further.

Gwon-ho’s following words were softer than before. Whether he intended to soothe the depressed Hee-jun, who felt sorry for Ji-ho, he brought out the same silver-tongued rhetoric he had used with Ha-neul.

“Lee Hee-jun, you don’t need to feel guilty. The failure to block the current public opinion against Ji-ho is the incompetence of the PR and Management teams. Failing to block a single rumor regarding an expelled trainee? Do you think they are functioning properly as an entertainment agency?”

“…But the decision for the company to remain silent about the possibility of sudden unintended acceleration being the cause of the accident was the opinion of our A&R team. Because of that, the controversy over the seatbelts not being worn arose.”

“In this country, it’s difficult for sudden acceleration to be recognized as the cause of an accident. It would take years just to start the investigation and get a verdict. It’s better to keep our mouths shut and take the benefits that fall to us in the future.”

“Benefits?”

“Once the criticism dies down, the car manufacturer will offer Pentagram something to dispel the suspicions surrounding the acceleration issue. An advertisement would be the icing on the cake.”

“Don’t tell me… have there already been under-the-table talks with the manufacturer?”

Gwon-ho’s ability was undeniable, as proven by Pentagram’s chart reversal. Especially the network he had built during his time at the major agency—it was a value far beyond what Hee-jun, an employee of a small agency, could ever hope to match.

“It’s rare for a conservative brand like a car company to use idols. If it happens, Pentagram’s value in the advertising world will jump a level, regardless of the controversy. Besides, there are rumors that the heir to that company is interested in the entertainment business. If we play nice, wouldn’t it be easy to secure an investment?”

“And for that, you’re using Ji-ho to settle the current chaotic public opinion all at once.”

The strength had left Hee-jun’s voice, and he merely spat out the answer Gwon-ho wanted. Yet, even as he faced his subordinate’s exhausted face, Gwon-ho’s expression didn’t waver in the slightest.

“‘Using’ is a strong word. My conscience is clear. He’s injured his leg anyway, so he’ll need a recovery period. And once the 4-member promotion for the full album is successful, there won’t be any need for coercion regarding future issues. There’s only one person I owe an apology to: Team Leader Jin, who almost got framed as the cause of the accident.”

“……”

Are you planning to use the public support for a 4-member Pentagram—which will naturally arise if the 1st full album is a massive hit through the combined efforts of the company—to semi-forcibly kick Ji-ho out of the group? Hee-jun wanted to ask this question, but ultimately kept his mouth shut.

“Sigh, let’s first discuss how the CEO, who is currently overseas, will respond when he finds out.”

In the end, Hee-jun was also a collaborator in this plan.

****************************************************

“If Ji-ho leaves the group, the whole situation will be resolved. Tell Oppa to try and persuade him. That’s what Manager Kim said. If that happens… won’t Oppa’s situation improve as well?”

Without imagining for a moment that Ji-ho might be eavesdropping, Ha-neul and Yong-ha continued their conversation. The atmosphere between the two seemed too serious to be just a talk between lovers.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘leaving’? Are you talking about him withdrawing from the group?”

Yong-ha seemed extremely bothered by the instructions she had brought from the A&R Team Leader. It was only natural, as it concerned the future of an idol he cared for like a younger brother.

“It’s not like that. Manager Kim said it’s better for Ji-ho to officially take a hiatus. Even after the treatment is over, it’ll be hard for Ji-ho to promote immediately with his leg in that state.”

“Don’t lie. You noticed it too, Ha-neul. If it was just about a simple recovery period, he wouldn’t need to ask us to persuade Ji-ho. Manager Kim’s intention lies elsewhere. Is there anyone in the company who doesn’t know he’s been intentionally marginalizing Ji-ho since the planning of this promotion?”

Startled by Yong-ha’s sharp point, Ha-neul hesitated before confessing what she had heard.

“Actually… he suggested we announce Ji-ho’s suspension of activities and move up the schedule for the full album to release it as a 4-member group.”

“Just as I thought,” Yong-ha sighed. There were already more than enough headaches to deal with, but having internal company politics—which everyone had been silently ignoring—brought up made things incredibly complicated.

When Gwon-ho joined Star Enter, bypassed the existing producing team to create a new A&R team, and CEO Hyeong-jun left the country after handing over full authority for a sabbatical, how could the employees not feel a sense of crisis? Ultimately, Pentagram achieved unexpected success, but an internal power struggle like never before had emerged.

As the leader of the small management team, Yong-ha had tried his best not to get caught in the middle, but he never expected the sparks to fly toward an individual member.

“A hiatus is one thing, but the kids’ first full album? Proceeding with that while excluding Ji-ho? Does that make any sense?”

“I think so too, but either way, we need the current controversy to die down before we can release a full album, don’t we?”

“No, no matter how I look at it, it’s the same as telling him to quit the group. It was strange that Manager Kim suddenly suggested psychiatric treatment, mentioning PTSD and all. He’s just collecting evidence in advance so no one can say the agency was coercive later. Why on earth is Manager Kim doing this to a kid who works so hard…?”

However, Ha-neul seemed to be leaning toward Gwon-ho’s opinion. Her following words were closer to persuading Yong-ha.

“You might be overthinking it, Oppa. This situation isn’t good for Ji-ho, either. Do you think it’ll be okay for Ji-ho to jump right back into activities after resting? Every time a small problem arises within the group, Ji-ho will be the one getting the hate.”

“…This is all my fault, seriously. I don’t know why everyone is so hell-bent on tearing Ji-ho apart.”

“See? We don’t have a solution ourselves, so how is Ji-ho supposed to recover properly in this situation? If anything, if Ji-ho is excluded from promotions, it might generate public sympathy. And if Manager Kim really is trying to kick Ji-ho out like you suspect, we can step in and help him then.”

Ha-neul didn’t realize she was repeating the exact words Gwon-ho had told her the day before.

Yong-ha, who had shown anger at Gwon-ho’s proposal, seemed to have a change of heart after listening to his girlfriend’s persuasion. He shook his head, saying he didn’t know anymore. His face, leaning back against the couch, was etched with exhaustion.

“Sigh, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t be like that; think about it again. Rather than the relationship between the A&R team and Ji-ho souring, it might be better for you to talk to Ji-ho yourself. Honestly, I’m worried. About your police investigation, Oppa. I heard that when media attention is high, they sometimes give out excessive punishments.”

“……”

“If you can’t do it, I’ll step forward and try to persuade Ji-ho.”

Having made up her mind, she bit her lip and grabbed Yong-ha’s right hand.

It wasn’t that Ha-neul didn’t care for Ji-ho. She had viewed Ji-ho—who was more polite and naturally gentler than the other members—as a younger brother for several years now.

But in the end, she had no choice but to prioritize the well-being of the boyfriend she was considering marriage with. She deceived herself, thinking that even if this meant turning her back on Ji-ho, she had no choice as a mere employee, and that she didn’t truly intend to cast him out.

After a moment, Yong-ha spoke with a groan.

“No. I’m the manager; I should be the one to talk to him. Just… in a little bit. Ji-ho will be confused by all this too.”

Caught up in their difficult decision, the two failed to notice. They didn’t notice that the hospital room door, which had been slightly ajar, had quietly closed, nor that the sound of wheels from an assistive device had faded away behind it.