The scent of cheap, too-strong coffee clung to every fiber of the EON Entertainment executive suite. CEO Choi Sung-woo stood at the window, jaw tight, one hand gripping the frame so hard the tips of his fingers blanched.

The morning skyline of Seoul glared at him, uncaring and brilliant, while inside his office chaos brewed. A stack of files lay scattered across his desk, the topmost creased and stained where he'd thrown his mug in a rare lapse of composure.

The news had broken early. Park Jae-hyun was back and not empty-handed this time.

Five billion won—real, verified, with no NDA attached.

Choi's secretary hovered by the door, voice brittle. "Sir, what are your instructions? Lawyer Park has arrived for the signing. He says the funds will clear by midday, but—"

Choi turned, voice a low growl. "What do you think? We sign. What choice is there? We're not walking away from five billion won, even if it means letting that ungrateful brat slip free without a muzzle." His glare could have cracked granite. "But stall them. Make it drag. Big transfers take time. A few hours of chaos buys us options."

"Yes, sir." She ducked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

Choi dropped into his chair, tapping the desk with the edge of his wedding ring, gaze unfocused. Mirae. The golden girl, the investment, the legend in the making who'd started as just another pretty face—now a potential PR disaster. The contract buyout was bad enough, but what burned was Park's demand for a non-disclosure waiver. Choi wanted nothing more than to blacklist her, ruin her name, bury her under the weight of EON's silent threat. But the money—hell, five billion won. He pinched the bridge of his nose and swore under his breath.

A few floors down, Park Jae-hyun waited in the glass-and-steel isolation of EON's main meeting room. The view was nice—Independence Gate in miniature, ant-like traffic, a summer haze—but Park's mind was elsewhere, fingers drumming lightly on his briefcase. He had the look of a man who belonged in court: tailored navy suit, silver tie pin, an expression equal parts calm and unassailable.

EON's legal director swept in first, a phalanx of associates behind her—well-dressed, brittle, all business. Park stood, offered a neutral bow, and sat as they settled. Documents exchanged hands, signatures and seals already prepared. Everyone pretended this was routine.

The EON lawyer, a woman with steel-gray hair and sharper eyes, spoke first. "The sum you're offering is—impressive. Naturally, the termination agreement will only take effect once the funds are fully received and cleared. Given the compliance and fraud checks, I'm afraid it may not be finalized until after three p.m."

Park smiled, the corners of his eyes barely creasing. "That won't be necessary. My client prefers efficiency. I expect confirmation much sooner."

The director arched an eyebrow, lips thinning. "Well, we'll see what the banks have to say about that."

The group worked through the motions—paper rustled, signatures flowed, the agreement read aloud for the record. The room was all cool protocol, but tension simmered beneath the civility.

The EON lawyer's phone vibrated. She checked the screen, then answered. The conversation that followed was brief, tense, and—at its end—surprisingly deferential.

She covered the receiver and addressed the room. "Excuse me. The bank's head of corporate services is on the line. He says the funds have not only arrived, but have already cleared. Apparently, the Ministry of Finance personally expedited all security checks."

The director frowned. "That isn't possible. Transfers over a billion always flag for six-hour holding and government compliance."

On speaker, the bank official replied, voice respectful and urgent. "Ma'am, the funds have been cleared at the highest level. Both our compliance department and the Ministry have verified the origin. The money is in EON's account, available for use."

Silence held for a moment, fragile as blown glass. The EON team exchanged glances. No one dared challenge the facts. The director's mouth worked, then set in a tight, hard line. "Very well. Please proceed with the termination confirmation."

Park's smile broadened, almost wolfish. "Thank you for your cooperation." He signed the final page, then rose, gathering his documents with easy precision. "I'll see myself out. I'll inform my client and Miss Mirae that the process is now complete."

No one offered a parting handshake. As Park strode from the room, the EON director glared daggers at his retreating back, already drafting damage control memos in her mind.

Down in the polished marble lobby, Park let the cool air settle his nerves, then pulled out his phone. A few quick swipes and he was calling Joon-ho.

The line picked up after two rings. Joon-ho sounded tense but hopeful. "Hyung?"

"It's done," Park replied, voice low but pleased. "Mirae's contract is officially broken. All funds cleared, papers signed. I'll be heading to the registry office next for your agency documents. After that, I'll swing by to finalize the rest. Congratulations—to both of you."

Joon-ho exhaled, a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Hyung… Thank you. Really. I owe you more than I can say. We'll celebrate soon—together."

"I'll hold you to that. This is just the beginning, Joon-ho. Let Mirae know she's truly free."

"I will. Let's build something better."

They hung up, and Park allowed himself a rare, quiet smile as he left EON's walls behind.

As the clock struck noon, the ripple effect began. Screens at newsrooms across Seoul lit up with rumors.

The first Twitter post—anonymous but well-placed—hinted at a massive buyout at EON, Mirae's name attached, but no official statement. Within minutes, K-entertainment forums caught the scent: "Mirae leaves EON?!" "Contract war—who paid five billion?" "Scandal or savior?"

By early afternoon, SNS platforms were a frenzy. Fancams of Mirae trended anew, old performance clips and tearful acceptance speeches reposted. Analysts on YouTube and TikTok speculated: Would she retire? Would she join a new label? Had she been forced out, or was this a power move? The press reached out to EON and Mirae's reps, but both issued only the blandest "no comment."

Inside a quiet café across town, Mirae sat alone, phone buzzing so much she silenced it. She scrolled through her messages—notes from old friends, calls from reporters, fans' DMs full of heartbreak and support. For the first time since her debut, no contract bound her to anyone. The weight of possibility pressed down, both liberating and terrifying.

A news alert blinked on her lockscreen: "Mirae Free Agent—Will the Phoenix Rise Again?" She shut her eyes, let the words soak in, and smiled, uncertain but somehow lighter than she'd felt in years.

Park, meanwhile, navigated the halls of the government registry, submitting paperwork for a new agency. His mind was already churning with strategy—building a structure that would protect Mirae, shield others like her, maybe even challenge EON at their own game.

Back at EON, CEO Choi seethed. The money was real, but the cost stung. He watched SNS blow up from behind his desk, fingers drumming, mind already working over ways to spin the loss, assign blame, or sabotage Mirae's next move. "No one leaves clean," he muttered. "Not in this business."

Elsewhere, Joon-ho stood on his apartment balcony, phone still in his hand, the city sprawling beneath him.

He could almost taste the future—uncertain, unwritten, but finally theirs to claim. He messaged Mirae just once: "It's over. You're free. Let's write our own story now."

Mirae read the text, sunlight warming her face. She typed back, simple, but everything that needed saying: "Thank you. Let's begin."

Outside, the world kept turning, headlines cycling, rumors building. But for the first time in years, Mirae's story was hers to shape—no more chains, no more cages. Just the unknown, and the promise of something wild and new.

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