The transit van smelled like stale coffee and cancelled contracts.
The handcuffs bit into his wrists like a poorly tailored costume. Yoo-jin didn't pull against the metal. Stuntmen wasted energy on physical struggles; producers analyzed the set design.
He sat in the dark, counting the rhythmic bumps of the road to measure their pacing. Two guards sat across from him in the gloom. They were non-speaking extras. Their breathing matched a sluggish, uninspired tempo.
The van braked abruptly, missing its mark by a foot. The rear doors swung open to reveal harsh, ungelled fluorescent lighting.
"End of the line, talent," a guard barked.
Yoo-jin stepped out onto the concrete soundstage. It was an underground military bunker, but it felt exactly like a sterile green room. Security cameras tracked him from the ceiling like spotlights following a lead actor.
Dr. Oh stood waiting, clutching a clipboard like an arrogant network executive. The scientist wore a white coat that looked far too clean for the dirty work he produced.
"Welcome to the cutting room floor, Subject 734," Dr. Oh smiled. "Or do you still prefer 'Producer Han'?"
"I prefer knowing my call time," Yoo-jin said softly. He kept his expression blank, giving the camera zero usable footage.
Dr. Oh chuckled, waving a hand to signal the extras. "Take our star to the rehearsal studio."
They marched him down a long, white hallway. The acoustics were dead, padded with soundproofing foam to kill any unwanted noise. Every steel door they passed had a red 'ON AIR' light mounted above it.
The guards shoved him into a windowless room and locked the heavy door. A single metal table and two chairs sat in the center. It was a minimalist set, designed specifically to make the actor feel small.
Yoo-jin sat down. He didn't panic. He read the room's layout instantly, finding the hidden microphone slotted behind the air vent.
The door opened. Someone walked in.
Yoo-jin looked up and froze. He was staring at his own face.
It was Subject 735. The stand-in.
The clone wore the exact same ruined suit as Yoo-jin. His hair was styled identically. He even mirrored the fake pink scar on his shoulder.
"Hello, prototype," 735 said. His voice was a perfect audio match, but the EQ was slightly off. It lacked bass.
"You're the understudy," Yoo-jin leaned back, evaluating the product. "You look expensive."
"I'm the upgrade," 735 sneered, slamming his hands on the metal table. "I don't have your corrupted memory files. I am fully optimized for the role."
Yoo-jin didn't flinch at the loud noise. Cheap jump scares didn't work on seasoned showrunners.
He looked closely at 735's eyes. They were wide. Too intense.
"You're overacting," Yoo-jin said quietly. "You're pushing the emotion because you don't actually feel it."
735's jaw tightened. A micro-expression of insecurity leaked through his perfect, manufactured facade.
"I feel everything," 735 hissed. "I watched the dailies of your pathetic life. I know exactly how you failed your idols."
"If you watched my footage, you'd know I never break character," Yoo-jin tapped a slow rhythm on the table. "You're breathing too fast. Your heart rate is spiking. You have stage fright."
"Shut up!" 735 grabbed Yoo-jin's collar.
Physical violence. The lowest form of entertainment.
Yoo-jin didn't fight back. He just stared into his own furious, trembling eyes.
"You're terrified," Yoo-jin whispered, diagnosing the psychological flaw. "You know you're just a cover band. If I'm still alive, you never get to debut."
735 trembled. The clone's grip loosened. The psychological puzzle was cracking open.
"You need me to validate you," Yoo-jin smiled thinly. "But I don't give good reviews to lip-syncers."
The heavy steel door swung open before 735 could throw a punch. Dr. Oh strolled in, clapping his hands in a slow, mocking rhythm.
"Cut, cut, cut," Dr. Oh sighed. "Subject 735, your cue was just to intimidate him. You're letting him rewrite your entire scene."
735 backed away, looking at the floor like a reprimanded rookie.
Dr. Oh tossed a thick stack of paper onto the metal table. It landed with a heavy, dramatic thud.
"This is your script, Yoo-jin," Dr. Oh pointed at the title page. "The Ministry is hosting a live press conference at nine o'clock tonight."
Yoo-jin looked at the bold text. CONFESSION AND APOLOGY OF HAN YOO-JIN.
"You want me to do a live apology tour," Yoo-jin traced the edge of the paper. "A hostage video."
"We want you to read the teleprompter," Dr. Oh corrected. "You will confess to creating the Apex virus. You will take full responsibility for the Dome riot."
"And if I refuse the casting call?"
Dr. Oh patted 735 on the shoulder. The clone straightened up, forcing a fake, camera-ready smile.
"If you refuse, we cancel your contract permanently," Dr. Oh said coldly. "Then 735 puts on your jacket and reads the lines instead. The audience won't know the difference."
Yoo-jin looked at the script. He didn't read the dialogue. He analyzed the production schedule.
Live television. No safety net. No pre-recorded edits.
It was a massive risk for the Ministry. It meant they were desperate for high ratings to legitimize their false narrative.
He looked at 735 again. The clone's hand was twitching against his thigh. A nervous tic.
"He's not ready for live TV," Yoo-jin pointed at the stand-in. "He'll freeze under the studio lights. The fans will spot the recasting in five seconds."
Dr. Oh's smile slipped just a fraction. The executive knew it was true. The understudy wasn't polished enough for prime time.
"I'll do it," Yoo-jin said, leaning forward.
735 shot him a look of pure hatred. The understudy had just lost the lead role.
"Excellent," Dr. Oh pulled a pristine silver pen from his coat. "Sign the release forms. Hair and makeup will be here in an hour."
Yoo-jin picked up the pen. His memory was a blank screen, but his instincts were screaming at him to seize the microphone.
He wasn't going to read their lines. He was going to use their multi-million dollar broadcast to hijack the entire industry.
"One condition," Yoo-jin said, tossing the pen back onto the table. "I don't do cold reads. I need an earpiece."
Dr. Oh frowned. "Why?"
"To hear the director's cues," Yoo-jin lied flawlessly. "If you want a convincing performance, I need to know exactly when to cry."
Dr. Oh studied him carefully. The scientist saw a broken, amnesiac producer trying desperately to cling to his old studio habits.
"Fine," Dr. Oh agreed. "You get an earpiece. But if you step out of frame, the snipers in the rafters will cancel your show permanently."
Dr. Oh left the room, pulling a furious 735 out into the hallway with him.
The heavy locks clicked shut. Yoo-jin was alone again.
He grabbed the script. He didn't bother reading the dialogue. He tore the pages in half.
He didn't know his own past, but he knew one absolute truth about live broadcasting.
Once the red light goes on, the producer owns the stage.