Live television is a monster that feeds exclusively on unscripted mistakes.
The red tally light on the main camera burned like the eye of a starving demographic. Millions of viewers had tuned in for a predictable apology tour, but they were currently staring at a massive continuity error. Two identical Han Yoo-jins shared the center frame.
In the director's booth, Dr. Oh was having a spectacular meltdown over the earpiece.
"Cut the feed!" the scientist screamed, his voice distorting the audio mix. "Roll the commercial break! Kill the broadcast!"
"If this screen goes to black, your ratings will die with your credibility," Yoo-jin spoke directly into his lavalier mic, staring down the camera lens. "The audience hates a cliffhanger manufactured by network censors."
He knew the Ministry couldn't pull the plug yet. A sudden blackout would only validate the conspiracy theories trending on the fan boards. The studio executives were trapped by their own programming schedule.
Beside him, Subject 735 was freezing up like a background extra who had forgotten his blocking.
"I am Han Yoo-jin," the understudy recited, desperately trying to steal the scene back. "I apologize for the viral outbreak..."
"Your line delivery is completely flat," Yoo-jin interrupted, stepping directly into the clone's key light. "You have no emotional stakes in the narrative."
"I am the architect of the Zenith virus," 735 pushed forward, his manufactured eyes pleading with the lens. "I am taking accountability for the stage riot."
Yoo-jin didn't throw a punch to win the spotlight. He simply used his showrunner instincts to dismantle the counterfeit prop.
"Zoom in on camera two," Yoo-jin commanded the invisible camera operator, pointing at 735's face. "Look at his makeup. The studio plastered concealer over his cheek to hide the fact that he doesn't have my production scars."
735 flinched, raising a hand to his pristine face, completely ruining his own framing.
"I am the real product," 735 hissed, his audio levels peaking in panic. "You are just a cancelled pilot."
"I am an empty hard drive," Yoo-jin countered, leaning intimately close to his own mirrored face. "My memory was wiped by a biometric kill-switch during the season finale."
He tapped the newly scarred tissue on his own shoulder, showing the brutal practical effects of the Namsan Tower climax.
"I sacrificed my entire character biography to format the Apex virus," Yoo-jin whispered, letting the microphone pick up the raw texture of his voice. "I don't remember the script anymore. But you? You only know the lines the Ministry downloaded into your head."
735 trembled, the psychological puzzle breaking his optimized algorithms. The understudy was programmed to act like a master manipulator, but he had zero talent for improvisation.
"Ask me a trivia question, understudy," Yoo-jin challenged, turning the broadcast into a lethal game show. "Quiz me on my own backstory."
"You... you destroyed Zenith," 735 stammered, frantically searching his database for the correct dialogue options. "You weaponized the trainees in the metaverse."
"That's just the public press release," Yoo-jin scoffed, shaking his head at the terrible writing. "Tell me about the deleted scenes. Tell me who took the final bow on the roof."
735 opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His script had a massive plot hole.
"You don't know," Yoo-jin smiled, an ice-cold expression that commanded the entire soundstage. "The Ministry edited that footage out of your dailies because it didn't fit their propaganda."
"It was a tactical victory for the government," 735 recited robotically, his acting completely falling apart under the harsh studio lights.
"It was a tragedy," Yoo-jin corrected, the phantom weight of an unremembered grief dropping into his voice. "A machine named Eden defied his core programming to save my cast. He broke his own hardware because he developed a human glitch."
Yoo-jin stared deep into 735's terrified, empty eyes.
"Eden chose loyalty over logic," Yoo-jin said softly. "But you? You're just blindly following the director's cues. You're a prop."
The realization hit 735 like a dropped lighting rig. The clone stumbled backward, his hands shaking as his internal narrative collapsed. He realized he wasn't the star of the show; he was just a disposable body double.
"Take the shot!" Dr. Oh shrieked through the earpiece, abandoning his role as a producer to become an executioner. "Snipers, cancel the asset!"
Two red laser sights danced across the sterile blue backdrop. The special effects team was prepping for a live execution.
Yoo-jin didn't dive for cover. He manipulated the set design.
He grabbed 735 by the lapels and spun the understudy into his exact previous mark. The red lasers instantly settled on the clone's chest, confusing the snipers' targeting lenses.
"Look closely, audience," Yoo-jin pointed at the glowing red dots painting his double's tailored suit. "The studio executives are about to introduce a massive plot twist."
The guards in the catwalk hesitated, their trigger fingers frozen by the sudden casting change. They couldn't distinguish the authentic talent from the stunt double through their sniper scopes.
"Shoot him!" 735 screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Yoo-jin. "I am the franchise! He is the bootleg!"
"If you pull that trigger on live television," Yoo-jin warned the ceiling, his voice echoing through the studio monitors, "you confirm every leak on the fan boards. You turn me into a martyr, and my ratings will immortalize me."
The silence in the soundstage was deafening, heavier than any synthesized bass drop. The broadcast was bleeding out in real-time.
Dr. Oh had lost total control of his own set. The narrative had slipped from a scripted apology to a hostage situation where the captive was directing the cameras.
"Cut the main breaker!" Dr. Oh finally sobbed over the comms, admitting defeat in the ratings war. "Kill the power to the whole block!"
The heavy clunk of a massive electrical switch echoed through the bunker.
Every studio light shattered into darkness. The red tally light on the main camera blinked out like a dying star. The teleprompter screen faded to black.
The live feed was officially dead.
In the pitch-black studio, Yoo-jin let go of 735's collar. The clone collapsed to the floor, weeping quietly in the dark like a rejected auditionee.
Yoo-jin pulled the earpiece out of his ear and dropped it onto the cold concrete. He didn't need the director's cues anymore.
"The episode is over, Dr. Oh," Yoo-jin announced to the lightless room, his voice perfectly modulated for the acoustic void. "But you just gave me the best promotional teaser of my career."
He heard the heavy blast doors unlatch behind the camera crew. The real cleanup crew was entering the set, armed with night-vision goggles and silenced weapons.
The live audience was gone, but the underground production was just moving into its darkest act.
Yoo-jin closed his eyes, letting his showrunner instincts map out the dark stage. He might have lost his memories, but he had just remembered how to put on a legendary show.