The scent of expensive leather and stale coffee permeated the air, a stark contrast to the familiar aroma of instant ramen and overclocked CPU fans that typically filled Seo Hana's mornings. Her gaze drifted from the polished mahogany table to the rain-streaked window of the legal firm's conference room, where the grey Seoul sky offered a fitting backdrop to her current state of disinterest. She’d been dragged here by a vaguely worded summons concerning a distant relative she hadn’t known existed, let alone cared for. It felt like a particularly dull side quest, the kind she usually skipped in her games. “...and therefore, as per the stipulations of the late Chairman Yeom Min-jun’s last will and testament,” the legal counsel, a man whose tailored suit seemed ironed flat against his ribs, pushed up wire-rim spectacles. “The entirety of his estate, including the controlling shares of N-Vis, is bequeathed to his granddaughter, Seo Hana.” Hana blinked. The words, though clearly spoken, felt like they belonged to a different conversation, one happening several rooms away. She'd been half-planning her next game stream, specifically how to avoid the notoriously grindy ‘Reputation’ questline. This sounded like a forced questline with no skip button. “Transfer of… what, exactly?” she muttered toward her shoes. Her finger twitched, mentally mapping out an escape route, perhaps through the ventilation system if necessary. The idea of *anything* that required her to interact with more than three people a day was already anathema. Beside her, a tall, imposing man in a dark suit, who had introduced himself only as Kwon Ji-han, remained utterly unmoving. He had the quiet, watchful presence of a very expensive, very dangerous statue. Hana had tried to initiate small talk earlier, a rare attempt for her, but had been met with a flat, motionless glare that made it obvious he had zero interest in discussing her no-damage clear through *Stygian Depths Online*. “N-Vis, Miss Seo,” Cheon said, tapping a pen against the desk blotter. “One of the largest agencies in South Korea. The document is explicit. You are named as sole beneficiary.” Her jaw dropped, a rare show of emotion. N-Vis Entertainment. The company behind EON, the biggest K-pop group on the planet. This wasn't a side quest; this was a forced main storyline, and the difficulty rating felt off the charts. “But… why?” Hana finally managed, her voice cracking slightly. She was a programmer. A streamer. Her life revolved around lines of code and the occasional sardonic comment to her chat. Managing an entire corporate empire? That sounded like work. Actual, physical, soul-crushing work. “There is, additionally,” Cheon continued, untroubled by her stare, “a mandatory condition. To claim the assets, you must serve as primary manager for the company's flagship group, EON, for one calendar year. Should you abandon the post before twelve months elapse, the estate defaults to a private foundation.” Hana stared. Manage EON. For a year. A *year*. That was 365 days of not being left alone, 8,760 hours of social interaction. Her vision swam. This was an unpaid corporate prison sentence. Before she could articulate her horror, a new, booming voice cut through the air. “This is an outrage! A complete farce!” A portly man with silver hair and a sharp goatee stood up on the other side of the mahogany table, smoothing his silk lapels. Nameplates identified him as Gyeol Yoon, founder of StarForge Media. “Mr. Yoon, please,” Cheon started, but Yoon cut him off with a flick of his wrist. “Forgive the intrusion, Counsel, but this timing is absurd. Yeom Min-jun kept no family on record for decades, yet an heir materializes right as his pulse gives out? An anonymous girl handed the reins of an industry titan? It reeks of obstruction. A desperate maneuver to block StarForge from buying out N-Vis assets.” His gaze landed on Hana, sharp and accusatory. “Who is this girl, really? What are her credentials? This entire arrangement is suspicious. Highly suspicious.” Hana flinched, shrinking in her seat. The sudden public scrutiny, the implication of a conspiracy – it was all too much. She wanted nothing more than to phase out of existence. Kwon Ji-han took a measured stride sideways, squaring his broad frame between Hana and Yoon's sightline. “Her DNA match and lineage records are certified,” Cheon said, snapping his portfolio shut. “The document has cleared probate.” Yoon gave a dry scoff and settled back into the leather cushion, fingers drumming the armrest. He knew this wasn’t the end. He was merely firing the opening salvo. “And the apartment?” Hana asked, trying to steer the conversation back to something manageable, something that sounded like a legitimate reward for this absurd situation. “The summary mentioned a private residential unit, fully wired. That transfers to me as well, correct?” She pictured a sleek, minimalist space, filled with custom gaming rigs and a fridge stocked with energy drinks. Her sanctuary. Cheon tapped the index page. “Indeed. Your grandfather set aside the top-floor residence inside the central tower. It includes full automation hardware and independent server links.” Hana sat up straighter. An isolated roost eighty stories above the street. Dark curtains, zero foot traffic, endless broadband. “One administrative detail remains,” Cheon added, resting his pen on the file. “To guarantee hands-on oversight during production cycles, that upper level doubles as the secured living quarters for EON. And for round-the-clock protection, Mr. Kwon will occupy the corner suite.” Her lungs emptied. Her quiet sanctuary dissolved into static. The top floor, shared with pop stars and a mute bodyguard? This wasn’t a sanctuary; it was a fishbowl. A very large, very glamorous, very crowded fishbowl. Less than an hour later, the reality of her predicament hit with the force of a perfectly executed combo attack. She stood on imported marble in the center of the tower's top-floor commons. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Seoul, but Hana barely registered it. Her eyes were fixed on the four figures arranged awkwardly on the plush velvet sofas. Four young men sat under the recessed ceiling lights. Kwon Ji-han posted up by the reinforced doorway, arms clasped behind his spine. A white Samoyed puppy trotted out from behind an ottoman, trotting straight to Hana's calf to plant a warm, black nose against her denim. Cheon had introduced the dog as Doji back at the law office, calling him a bequest from Yeom's private estate. Doji gave a soft sneeze and sat on her sneaker. The leader of the group, Han Do-yoon, rose slowly. On variety shows he was all polished warmth and ready grins, but here his mouth was pulled into a hard, defensive crease. The group’s composer, Choi Min-ki, sat with his arms crossed, a dark, intense look on his face, radiating an aura of barely contained frustration. Park Sun-woo, the youngest, kept turning the silver button on his sleeve over and over, avoiding eye contact. Do-yoon pinned Hana with a direct, measuring stare. His voice, typically smooth and melodious, was laced with an edge she hadn’t heard in any of EON’s interviews. “So,” he said, the word hanging heavy in the opulent space, “you’re the one who decides if we still have a career?”

The Inheritance Clause