The folder, heavy with secrets, slipped from Hana’s fingers, landing with a soft thud on the plush carpet. Ji-han’s presence filled the doorway, his silhouette stark against the muted hall light. The air grew still, heavy with suspended queries. His stare, normally a practiced blankness, was now sharp, accusatory. He took a single, deliberate step into the room, then another. Hana, despite her instinct to retreat, held her ground. Her mind, usually sluggish, raced. The locket, the unidentified girl, the years of investigation. “I didn’t touch anything,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of defensiveness she rarely exhibited. Doji, who had been nestled at her feet, whined softly, sensing the tension, nudging her calf. Ji-han didn't respond immediately. His eyes flickered to the scattered papers, then back to her. “This information is classified. Unauthorized access has consequences.” Hana scoffed, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound. “Consequences? I’m the designated successor, remember? What, am I going to fire myself?” She glanced at the photo on the floor. “Who is she?” A sharp, insistent chime echoed from the main living area. It was the penthouse’s main wall monitor, traditionally reserved for schedules or weather. The sound was urgent, repeated. Ji-han’s stern expression wavered, replaced by a flicker of professional alert. He gave the files one last, pointed look. “We’ll discuss this later.” He moved with a quiet urgency, exiting the room. Hana hesitated, then snatched the folder from the floor, tucking it under her arm. Doji trotted beside her as she followed, a prickle of unease spreading through her. The wall monitor in the living room now aired a live news transmission, the N-Vis logo rotating slowly in the corner, but the reporter’s face was taut. “—unfolding crisis at N-Vis,” the reporter’s voice cut through the sudden quiet. “Just moments ago, Gyeol Yoon of StarForge announced accusations regarding the newly appointed successor, Seo Hana.” Hana froze. *Yoon again?* The panel cut to a split-view. On one side, the reporter; on the other, Yoon, standing before a phalanx of microphones. His smile was predatory, his teeth catching the studio glare. “For weeks, questions have swirled around the legitimacy of Ms. Seo Hana’s claim. Today, I present irrefutable evidence that she is a fabricated proxy, a puppet installed by corrupt N-Vis directors to maintain their stranglehold on the company’s assets.” A doctored image flashed on the glass: Hana in a poorly photoshopped wig, standing awkwardly next to a grinning, unidentified man labeled “Executive Park Jae-hyun, N-Vis Head of Finance.” The image was grainy, clearly manipulated, but the implication was devastating. “Our sources,” Yoon continued, his voice dripping with false concern, “indicate Ms. Seo Hana is not the true heiress, but an unwitting pawn. This blatant deception jeopardizes N-Vis’s integrity and, more critically, the careers of its artists.” The ticker running along the lower frame scrolled rapidly: *N-Vis Stock Plummets Amidst Fraud Allegations.* The news continued to blare, filled with speculation and condemnation. Ji-han stood rigid by the window, his gaze fixed on the glass pane, tendon flexing along his cheek. Do-yoon, Min-ki, and Sun-woo rushed into the living room, their faces etched with shock and growing alarm. Do-yoon pointed a trembling finger at the TV. “What is he saying? A…a proxy?” “It’s a lie!” Sun-woo exclaimed, his consistently bright voice laced with fury. “That photo, it’s fake!” Min-ki said nothing, but his fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white. The next thirty minutes were a blur of frantic phone calls and panicked whispers. The penthouse felt like the epicenter of an earthquake. Hana, however, felt a strange calm settle over her. Lies, fabricated evidence, synthetic manipulation… this was a language she understood. She retreated to the dining table, pulling out her sleek, unassuming notebook. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, a blur of motion. Later, in the opulent, wood-paneled boardroom, the N-Vis directors, a collection of stiff suits and anxious faces, were in full meltdown. The large conference terminal projected the plummeting stock charts like an electronic guillotine. “This is catastrophic!” Director Kim shrieked, slamming his hand on the table. “Our investors are pulling out! Our reputation is in tatters!” “And all because of *her*!” Director Lee pointed a trembling finger at Hana, who sat at the far end of the table, laptop open, completely unfazed. “We told you this would happen! An untested, unknown girl as heiress? It was lunacy!” “She needs to make a public statement,” another board member declared, wiping sweat from his brow. “Deny it! Anything!” Hana didn’t look up from her notebook. The cacophony of panicked voices was merely background noise to the silent hum of her processors. She had already traced the deepfake’s digital signature, followed its breadcrumbs across a labyrinth of proxy servers, and finally, pinpointed its origin. StarForge. Specifically, a private server registered to Yoon himself. “She’s not even listening!” Director Kim yelled, his voice cracking. Hana finally closed her computer with a soft click. She pushed it across the polished table, her eyes, usually distant, now held a sharp, dangerous glint. “I’m listening. And I’ve found your problem.” Before anyone could respond, the massive conference projector, which had been tracking the N-Vis stock graph, flickered. The executives gasped. The glass now carried the live feed again, focusing on Yoon, who was mid-sentence, pontificating about corporate ethics. Then, the feed glitched. Chairman Yoon’s face, still talking, suddenly contorted into a grotesquely adorable crying baby filter. Fat, cartoon tears streamed down his cheeks, and a pacifier materialized in his mouth. His voice, still booming about integrity, was now overlaid with comical wailing sounds. The board members stared, aghast, then a few stifled snorts broke the silence. Overlaying the ridiculous image, Hana’s console view appeared, presenting lines of code, IP addresses, and a clear, undeniable routing trail leading directly to ‘STARFORGE_YOON_PRIVATE_SERVER_07.’ The evidence was undeniable, projected for millions to see. A live, global humiliation. Yoon’s baby-filtered face turned beet red on the feed, pupils dilating in confusion and dawning horror. The desk presenter, caught off guard, struggled to maintain composure. The stream descended into chaos. Eventually, the baby filter vanished, revealing a furious, sputtering Yoon. He ripped off his earpiece, glaring directly into the camera. “Seo Hana! You audacious brat! You will pay for this! I swear it, you will regret this day!” He stormed off, the video cutting to a bewildered presenter trying to make sense of the unprecedented signal hijack. The boardroom erupted, a mix of stunned silence and hesitant laughter. Hana merely retrieved her notebook, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. Later that evening, after the dust had settled, after the N-Vis stock had begun its slow, painful climb back, Hana sat on the penthouse balcony, watching the city lights shimmer. Doji snored softly at her feet. Her phone vibrated. An unsaved number. She opened the message. *He’s not the only one who knows your secret.*

A Hostile Broadcast