Lee Hyori Song

The air inside the tucked-away Seoul BBQ joint was thick with the smell of sizzling meat and laughter.

The steady szzzz of pork belly crackling on the grill mixed with the clink of soju shot glasses and bursts of easy banter.

It wasn't some glitzy celebrity hangout—just a cozy little hole-in-the-wall, hidden enough for four big names to sit, eat, and drink without worrying about paparazzi.

At the center of it all sat Jihoon, Hyori, Jaesuk, and Haha, squeezed around a round table loaded with banchan, grilled meat, lettuce wraps, and enough soju to light up a bonfire.

As Jihoon poured another round of drinks, Hyori tilted her head, watching him with playful curiosity.

"Oh, really?" she asked, raising one elegant brow. "What were you saying about me earlier? You better not be out there ruining my image, you punk!"

Jihoon burst into a laugh and held both hands up like he was getting arrested. "I swear! All good things, nonna! I mean, mostly…"

He sighed and rubbed his forehead dramatically like the memory physically hurt him. "Ugh, I got a headache just thinking about it again."

"It's that article—your new agency deal. You signed for what, 2.2 billion won?" He squinted at her. "Even Jieun suddenly wants to become an idol after reading that."

Haha burst out laughing, tossing his head back. "Haha! That greedy little girl! Already chasing after the money, huh?"

"She's ambitious," Jaesuk chimed in with a fond smile. "I've said it before—Jieun really has the vibe to debut. She's got that spark."

Jihoon's expression darkened slightly, and he let out a long sigh. "Hyung, Nonna, you're all veterans in the industry—like, actual top-tier names."

"You know what this industry is like behind the cameras. How am I supposed to feel okay tossing a kid into that kind of mess?"

Jaesuk clinked his shot glass down with a little more force than usual, giving Jihoon a serious look. "You're overthinking it, Jihoon-ah."

"Sure, the industry's dirty, but you're not some powerless rookie. You've got connections, a name, and more importantly—us." He gestured to the table with his chopsticks.

"If the four of us can't protect one girl, then what have we even been doing all these years?"

Jihoon blinked, then grinned slightly. "Wow, hyung. That almost sounded heroic."

"I am heroic!" Jaesuk puffed out his chest, striking a dramatic pose. "Just... usually in a suit and glasses."

"Yeah, heroic ugly!" Haha burst out laughing, nearly choking on his soju. "Like a discount Clark Kent who never makes it to Superman!"

Jaesuk threw a napkin at him. "Ya! I save lives—with my wit!"

"More like witless," Haha cackled, ducking behind Hyori for cover.

Jihoon shook his head, chuckling, then turned back to Hyori. "But enough about us. What about you, Nonna? You called this dinner, didn't you?"

Hyori leaned in slightly, her tone shifting. "I switched agencies. Planning to release a new album next year."

Jihoon blinked. "That's a good thing… isn't it?"

Hyori smiled slyly. "Which is why—I want you to write a song for it."

Jihoon groaned and slumped in his seat like someone had just asked him to run a marathon in flip-flops. "Aigoo… writing songs again?"

"Ya!" Jaesuk barked, laughing. "What, you thought she wanted you to sing on the album? Don't flatter yourself. If you have any problems, just say so. We're friends, no?"

Hyori nodded along, playful but serious underneath. "Yeah, you can say no, but don't make that face like I asked you to solve world hunger."

Jihoon scratched his head, clearly conflicted. "It's not that I don't want to."

"It's just... your song 'Ten Minutes' left such a massive impression."

"Like, it's a national anthem at this point! Trying to top that is like trying to outdo Michael Jackson at moonwalking."

"Then don't top it," Jaesuk interjected. "Just ride the same wave. Keep the same vibe. Who says we need to reinvent the wheel?"

"Hyung, that's exactly the problem," Jihoon groaned. "If we keep the same style, it will get compared. And if we change it, people might not accept it. It's a lose-lose."

Hyori's smile faltered slightly, a hint of vulnerability flashing through. "You think I don't know that?" she said softly.

 "Every composer I've talked to has said the same thing. Since 2003, no matter what I put out, nothing's really clicked with the public like 'Ten Minutes' did."

She paused, brushing her hair behind her ear. "This new company is really betting on me. If this album flops too... I might have to seriously think about stepping back. Maybe change careers altogether."

The table went quiet for a second. Even Haha sobered up a little.

Hyori was that kind of person—generous, loyal to a fault. Her agency had paid a hefty price to sign her, and if she didn't deliver, she'd feel like she owed them something.

"I get it, noona. Are there any time commitments I should know about?" Jihoon asked.

"The schedule's still flexible," Hyori replied, setting her wine glass down. "We're aiming to release the album around June or July next year."

Jihoon nodded slowly, taking it all in.

"Jihoon-ah! Come on, have a drink with your noona!" Hyori grinned, lifting her glass and sliding it toward him.

Jihoon's eyes widened. "Noona, I already drank too much earlier!"

"Ah! How many kids are out there who actually waited until they were legal to drink? You probably already drank enough to build some tolerance! Come on—just one more glass!" she teased, nudging him.

"Hyori-ah, forget it," Jaesuk cut in, stepping in like a dad at prom. "It won't look good if we stumble out drunk. There are people watching."

Hearing that, Hyori pouted, then relented. "Alright then… we'll continue this next time."

After dinner, Hyori and Jaesuk didn't linger long. They were both constantly booked—torn between shoots, variety shows, and production meetings.

Still, they managed a few more laughs, a couple rounds of soju, and some light-hearted teasing before Hyori turned to Jihoon with her phone out.

"Come on, give me your number. You're not escaping that songwriting gig."

Jihoon chuckled, tapping in his digits. "You sure this isn't just a clever trap to make me ghostwrite your whole album?"

She gave him a playful wink. "You'll never know."

With that, the two veterans slipped out into the night, leaving Jihoon alone at the table, fingers drumming quietly, mind already spinning with ideas.

Sure, the food had been great and the jokes even better—but Jihoon hadn't come just to hang out.

Throughout dinner, he'd been carefully, almost casually, digging for intel.

"So… these agencies," he'd asked between bites of grilled mackerel, "how much creative freedom do artists actually get? Like, who really runs things?"

Jaesuk leaned in, smirking. "Let's put it this way: the agencies? They're just storefronts. Most of them are owned by conglomerates. Real estate, telecom, finance—you name it. It's all connected."

Hyori had nodded, her tone uncharacteristically serious. "It's a web. And if you're not paying attention, it'll wrap around your ankles before you even notice."

Jihoon had expected as much. In his past life, he'd seen it firsthand.

The entertainment world was flashy on the outside—but inside? It was a maze of boardrooms, money trails, and invisible power plays.

He wasn't in a hurry, though. He had time to play this game strategically.

Or… at least he thought he did.

Jieun clearly had other ideas.

The very next morning, she burst into his room like a whirlwind—bedhead, oversized hoodie, and fire in her eyes.

"Oppa! Get up. We need to go!"

Jihoon squinted, still clutching his coffee. "Go… where?"

"Loen Entertainment!" she said, like it was obvious. "They're doing open trainee auditions!"

Jihoon blinked. "And you want to go?"

Jieun didn't even bother answering. She grabbed his wrist and started dragging him out of the room.

"Ya! I haven't even brushed my teeth yet!"

"Then brush them on the way! We don't have time!"

Jihoon groaned, letting himself be pulled along.

Part exasperated. Part amused. And part… deeply uneasy.

Loen Entertainment.

In his past life, that was the company where Jieun—no, IU—got her start.

A place that shaped her, launched her. They had treated her well there, for the most part.

But now, in this timeline, the company was still small, still under the radar.

More importantly, it was still under the control of SK Group—the telecom giants and one of Korea's most powerful chaebol families.

But that wasn't the part that made Jihoon pause.

The real kicker? In 2010, Loen would be acquired by Kakao Corp.

And Kakao's founder? That was where things got interesting.

Brian Kim—a name that barely rang bells in 2007.

But Jihoon knew better. Because Brian was the first person he ever knew to truly slip the leash of Korea's corporate aristocracy.

His story? The kind that actually lived up to the American Dream.

He wasn't born with a silver spoon—not even a wooden one. Brian's family lived paycheck to paycheck, scraping by with factory jobs just to survive. His mom even worked as a hotel maid to help make ends meet.

No connections. No fancy degrees stamped with ivy.

He started off as a developer at Samseong—yes, Jihoon's own family's empire.

But instead of climbing the corporate ladder, Brian quit.

Just… walked away. He left the corporate ladder behind and launched a humble internet cafe business that eventually morphed into Hangame—Korea's first major online gaming portal.

That's where he struck his first pot of gold.

But by 2000, with the economy shifting and consolidation in the air, Hangame was merged with Naver to form NHN. And Brian was named a representative director—a title that sounded impressive on paper.

But titles, especially in chaebol territory, come with strings. The kind only Korea's power families know how to pull.

To the public, it looked like a clean, strategic merger.

But to Jihoon—or anyone paying attention—it was just a velvet-gloved takeover. A quiet, calculated way to edge Brian out of his own creation without the world ever noticing. The elegant version of a hostile takeover.

When this happen, Brian didn't sulk. He vanished—moving to Silicon Valley in 2005, a place where tech giants are born.

There, he slipped under the radar, because unlike in Korea, the media and moguls couldn't follow him.

There was no one to leak stories, no backdoor deals.

He went dark, and in that darkness, he grew stronger.

No one in Korea had a clue what he was building.

Until 2010.

When he came back with KakaoTalk—a simple messaging app that would go on to dominate 90% of Korean smartphones.

One man.

One app.

One nuclear-level disruption.

The one move that would one day make him the sixth-richest man in Korea.

And that "simple" app? It would go on to dominate 90% of Korean smartphones—rewiring the entire communications landscape overnight.

Jihoon could already imagine the corporate panic—the whispered boardroom gossip, the hushed urgency behind closed doors. No one could trace who was actually backing Brian Kim.

Kakao's pre-IPO shareholder structure was deliberately opaque. Foreign investors held 25.7%, while individuals and private organizations controlled 37.3%.

That meant over 63% was in the hands of unidentified entities—giving Brian effective control even before Kakao went public.

One man, up against the system. And somehow, he won.

Jihoon could practically hear his grandfather's blood pressure rising just thinking about it—because Brian had once been his employee.

And by 2010, he would be completely out of his control—and out of reach of any chaebol influence.

But now? In 2007?

Kakao was still in its planning phase. Brian was probably still in California, sharpening his tools. Loen was still a puppet of SK Group.

The chessboard was barely set.

And yet… Jieun was already charging onto it.

Eyes bright. Heart first. Completely unaware of the power structures beneath her feet.

Jihoon sighed, letting himself be dragged toward Loen HQ—shoes barely on, coffee half-drunk.

"This is gonna get messy," he muttered.

[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe, JiangXiu and OS_PARCEIROS for bestowing the power stone!]