CHAPTER 210: CHAPTER 210: NEW DAWN

Flashes from camera phones ricocheted off polished glass, painting fractured rainbows across the conference hall’s sleek white walls. Banners lined the stage—LUNE’s constellation logo shining beside the words: "New Dawn: LUNE IP Universe." The seats were packed, journalists and influencers shoulder to shoulder, their anticipation an electric buzz even before the house lights dropped.

Harin stepped onto the stage first, all poise and sharp lines in a dove-grey suit. She stood at the podium, gaze steady as she scanned the crowd. A hush fell, the city’s hungry eyes fixed on her, waiting to see if LUNE would soar after the storm—or shatter under the weight of so much attention.

"Thank you for joining us," she began, voice smooth and clear. "Today marks a new era—not just for LUNE, but for creative talent in Korea and beyond. LUNE IP Universe is more than an expansion—it’s an ecosystem for art, music, film, and fashion to collide. We’re forging collaborations across every medium, with global brands and the next generation of talent. Our goal is simple: to be the launchpad where dreams become culture."

Applause rippled through the crowd. She outlined the vision, hinting at exclusive partnerships with streaming giants, new movie scripts in pre-production, a pan-Asian talent hunt, and LUNE’s first cross-industry fashion collab rolling out in weeks. She didn’t miss a beat as she laid out the numbers: new office floors, upgraded studios, investor confidence "at an all-time high." If she was anxious, she hid it behind the polish of a practiced CEO.

When she gestured for Joon-ho, a new wave of camera flashes erupted. He strode out, all casual confidence—tailored shirt, sleeves rolled, a warm grin. He fielded technical questions with disarming candor."Every project will leverage talents from various disciplines. From concerts to fashion lines, we’re pushing boundaries. Artists will own more of their work, and we’re transparent at every stage."

The press warmed to him—he was the creative heart, the builder, but never outshone Harin’s command. Together, they looked unbreakable.

Then Mirae walked on, stealing the spotlight as if she were born for it. Cameras popped and people murmured—her reputation had soared since LUNE’s rebirth, and now she was the face of a brand with momentum. She wore a white dress, simple but striking, her poise blending idol polish with the sincerity of someone who’d survived the meat grinder and come out stronger.

"It’s an honor to represent LUNE," she said, eyes sparkling as she scanned the crowd. "This new universe isn’t just a platform for me—it’s for every artist who’s ever been told ’no’ or forced to choose between their dream and their freedom. I can’t wait for you to see what we’re creating together."

The Q&A started, as everyone knew it would, with softballs—future plans, favorite designers, which platform would get the first LUNE Original. But the room’s energy shifted the moment a wire-haired reporter from the business desk stood.

"Ms. Kang, Mr. Kim—can you address the timing of this project launch? Hanzenith’s collapse and the official investigation—some say it overlaps with LUNE’s funding rounds. How can you reassure investors, given such a high-profile scandal?"

Harin’s jaw tensed for half a second. Joon-ho cut in, voice cool and measured. "That’s a fair question. LUNE’s finances and IP have always been above board, with independent audits. The Hanzenith situation is unrelated to our core operations—there’s no shared ownership, no crossover. Our growth is built on real work, not financial games."

The reporter pressed. "Still, some are asking—did LUNE benefit from Hanzenith’s fall?"

Joon-ho met her gaze, unflinching. "If anything, we’re proof you can survive when the old system fails. Our only job is to build something worth believing in."

Mirae, standing beside him, took the next volley with a deft pivot. "My focus is on what we’re making, not on what anyone else has lost. LUNE is about artists, stories, and risk. And every risk we’ve taken, we’ve done in the open. I’m proud to be here."

Other reporters shifted gears:

"Is LUNE pursuing international distribution?"

"Will your artists maintain creative control?"

"Is it true you’re recruiting top digital creators from the US and Japan?"

"Are there plans for a LUNE-run festival or expo?"

Harin and Joon-ho traded answers with the practiced ease of two people who’d rehearsed every possible angle. Harin announced a pan-Asian festival, Joon-ho described new digital rights management that would let artists hold the keys, and Mirae teased an upcoming single tied to LUNE’s new series, "Star Crossed."

Through it all, Harin’s gaze kept drifting to her phone, a small knot of tension building in her chest. But in front of the crowd, she was all assurance. The launch concluded with more applause, the press ushered to a media lounge lined with preview art and glossy lookbooks.

Backstage, the adrenaline bled away into exhaustion and nerves. Mirae was the first to break the silence, flopping onto a sofa, shoes kicked off.

"That was wild. I almost forgot what it’s like, being the one they all want to talk to. You two looked like you were born for this."

Joon-ho grinned. "You carried half the Q&A."

Harin paced, her smile a little too fixed. "You were great. But don’t let your guard down. That warning email—"

She pulled up her phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Mirae’s playful glow dimmed when she saw the message.

THE GAME ISN’T OVER. YOU THINK YOU WON. WATCH THE DOOR. THE NEXT MOVE IS MINE.

Joon-ho read it, face shuttering. "That came last night?"

Harin nodded. "Anonymous. I’ve got IT tracing the origin, but it’s probably a burner. Just... be careful. We made a lot of enemies when Hanzenith fell. Not all of them are out of the picture."

Mirae straightened, the old idol steel back in her voice. "We’ll be careful. But I’m not hiding. LUNE’s got momentum. We need to run with it."

Harin’s expression softened, pride and worry tangled. "Promise me. Don’t do anything reckless."

"Promise," Mirae said, though her eyes glinted with challenge. "I know where the lines are. And I know how to push them when I have to."

Joon-ho moved between them, diffusing the charge. "Let’s focus on the rollout. The world’s watching, but so are our rivals. If we look scared, they’ll go after us even harder."

They made plans for the next week—coordinating with LUNE’s marketing team, prepping teasers for social media, mapping out which artists would headline the festival announcement. Mirae bubbled with ideas, unafraid to offer big, risky pitches. Harin was meticulous, balancing excitement with contingency plans for every scenario.

The easy camaraderie backstage hid a fault line. Mirae relished the attention and creative freedom; Harin wanted to savor the victory but couldn’t shake the chill of that warning. Every now and then, Mirae would toss out a comment that was just a shade too bold—"Let’s livestream rehearsals," or "Why not announce an open casting call?"—and Harin would gently but firmly steer the ship back to safety.

It was a dance of ambition and caution, neither quite yielding, both too proud to admit how much they depended on each other’s strengths.

All the while, Harin’s assistant hovered just outside the green room curtain, tablet in hand, eyes sharp and posture attentive. She "helpfully" offered to manage post-conference press requests, jotting down names and numbers, lingering near Harin’s phone when she set it down. She kept her gaze fixed on Mirae and Joon-ho’s animated exchange, listening a little too closely whenever the topic drifted toward future projects or security protocols.

Later, as the press filed out and the LUNE team scattered to debrief, Harin’s assistant lingered, volunteering to tidy up stray press passes and empty water bottles. She bent over Harin’s open laptop just long enough to note the subject lines of unread emails and paused at the trash can, thumbs dancing quickly on her own phone as she waited for the room to clear.

Outside, fans and bloggers gathered by the exit, snapping photos of Mirae and Joon-ho as they ducked into a waiting van. Harin stayed behind, exchanging a quick, whispered conversation with Su-bin.

"Anything on the email trace?"

"Still bouncing through proxies. But whoever sent it knew exactly when we’d be vulnerable—right before the announcement."

Harin’s jaw clenched. "Keep digging. And tell security to double-check the backstage exits tonight."

Su-bin nodded, eyes narrowing. "Already on it. We’re locked down. Anyone tries to pull something, we’ll know."

Harin stepped into the cool air, the rush of traffic and city noise a temporary relief. She watched Mirae’s van disappear into the early evening, then glanced back at the glowing tower—her company, her responsibility. Victory was never as simple as it looked from the outside. She sent one last text to the group chat: Great work today. Stay sharp. Drinks on me when the festival’s done.

Upstairs, in a quiet corner, her assistant sat hunched over her phone, tapping out a message to a contact labeled only with an emoji.Stage 1: Complete. She got the warning. Waiting for next instructions.

The future stretched wide and bright, but shadows moved just outside the spotlight—watching, waiting, and ready to strike.