The broadcast hall smelled of burnt wiring and sour, lukewarm coffee. On a hastily erected stage, Jin Tae-woo, impeccably suited despite the hour, clutched the lectern until his fingers lost color. The backdrop, a digital banner emblazoned with the conglomerate's logo, presented an image of corporate stability. But the tremor in Tae-woo’s voice, carefully modulated for the cameras, betrayed the frantic scramble that brought him here. Hours. That’s all they had left until the first anniversary, the deadline that loomed over everything. “...an unfortunate series of events,” Tae-woo began, his gaze sweeping across the throng of journalists, “has left our future in a precarious position. My cousin, Jin Haneul, has, regrettably, demonstrated a profound instability, culminating in reckless behavior and even outright criminal acts.” The buzz in the room intensified. Flashbulbs popped, painting the scene in strobe-lit bursts. Tae-woo paused, letting the implication hang. “It is with a heavy heart, therefore, that I, Jin Tae-woo, must step forward to ensure the continuity and integrity of our respected enterprise. Effective immediately, I will assume full control of the parent group, protecting it from further... unconventional leadership.” A murmur rose, a low hum of speculation. Tae-woo’s lips curved into a thin, triumphant smile. He leaned closer to the microphone. “Evidence of Mr. Jin Haneul’s erratic conduct, including attempts to defraud the company and endanger public safety, will be released to the appropriate authorities. He is a danger to himself and to those around him.” The smile froze. The massive digital display behind him, moments ago bearing the conglomerate's polished logo, flickered. It went dark for a beat, then ignited with a new image: Haneul. His face, calm and unreadable, took over the monitors, answering Tae-woo’s sneer. Rina stood slightly behind him, her posture regal, a subtle, knowing smirk playing on her lips. The floor erupted. Journalists surged forward, their shouts echoing. Tae-woo spun around, disbelief twisting his features. “What is this? Cut the feed!” he roared, his voice cracking. But the feed held. Haneul’s voice, clear and amplified, filled the room, overriding Tae-woo’s panicked commands. “Good evening, esteemed members of the press. And good evening, Cousin Tae-woo. It appears you’ve forgotten to check the guest list for your little announcement.” Rina stepped forward slightly. “Or perhaps, you simply underestimated us.” Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, met the lens, projecting an unnerving confidence. The monitors shifted. The corporate logo reappeared, overlaid with a stark watermark: ‘PROJECT SERAPHIM’. Lines of code, financial figures, and cryptic notations scrolled across the background. A new window opened, displaying meticulously organized spreadsheets. Dates, names, transaction IDs. It was the black book, digitized and laid bare. “For decades,” Haneul’s voice narrated, steady and sharp, “the family firm has maintained a shadow bookkeeping system. This archive, codenamed ‘Seraphim,’ chronicles illicit dealings, offshore accounts, and systematic bribery used to manipulate markets and silence dissent.” The faces of the journalists were a mixture of shock and hungry eagerness. Their pens scratched furiously against notepads. Tae-woo stumbled back from the lectern, his color draining, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Rina took over. “Specific entries link directly to the acquisition of several small-to-medium sized enterprises, whose owners mysteriously vanished or were coerced into selling their assets at drastically undervalued rates.” A zoomed-in section of the document appeared, highlighting dates and names. “One such instance involves the Seojin Electronics acquisition in 2012. The chairman, Park Jun-ho, was found dead, ruled an accident. This paper trail tells a different story.” The display then tracked an illicit routing of cash into an agency shell fund, prompting gasps through the room. Rina’s former CEO. Her voice remained cool, though a flicker of something raw crossed her eyes. “My former agency management profited from the exploitation of talent, locking us into predatory contracts. The ‘Seraphim’ records reveal significant payouts disguised as corporate investment capital directly funneled into those accounts.” The implication was brutal. Her own escape from her contract, the very foundation of her fake marriage, was now a weapon against those who bound her. Haneul reappeared on the monitors. “And now, for the architect of today’s little charade.” The split view held; on one side, the transaction columns continued to roll. On the other, a stark, black interface with a single play button. A familiar logo appeared in the corner: ‘Obsidian Spire Security Feed.’ A crisp, clear audio file began to play. It was Tae-woo’s voice, unmistakable, sharp with venom. “...don’t care if you have to burn the building down. Just make sure Haneul and the girl don’t make it out. Loose ends. Understand? No witnesses.” The floor went utterly still. Even the camera shutters seemed to pause. The recording cut out, leaving a hollow hush across the room. Tae-woo slumped against the wooden stand, his knees buckling. He stared up at Haneul’s steady gaze as if confronting an apparition. His carefully constructed empire, his smug dominance, shattered in the space of a few minutes. The double doors at the back of the room burst open. Uniformed police, armed and flanked by investigators, streamed in. The lead inspector, a woman wearing a gold-trimmed uniform, raised a warrant. “Jin Tae-woo, you are under arrest for attempted murder, conspiracy, and embezzlement. You have the right to remain silent.” Chaos erupted. Microphones jabbed toward the arresting unit while reporters shouted over one another. Tae-woo, crimson with humiliation, was dragged off the platform. He thrashed against their grip, fixing his glare on the overhead monitors where Haneul and Rina looked back with detachment. Haneul leaned slightly closer to the lens, his voice cutting through the surrounding uproar with finality. “The performance is over.”

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