The sound of a human eardrum rupturing was rarely caught on a live studio microphone.
Subject 735 collapsed to his knees, his agonizing scream entirely drowned out by the weaponized audio feedback. The clone clamped his hands over his bleeding ears, his perfect face twisting into an ugly mask of raw panic. He had the physical strength of a supersoldier, but he had zero tolerance for bad acoustics.
Yoo-jin watched him writhe with cold, objective detachment. He reached over the console and slid the master fader back down to zero.
The deafening screech died instantly. It left behind a heavy, ringing silence that felt thicker than the smoke pouring through the broken doorway.
Subject 735 gasped for air, his equilibrium completely shattered. Before the clone could recover his blocking, Yoo-jin stepped out from behind the glow of the monitors. He moved with the quiet efficiency of a stagehand navigating a dark set.
Yoo-jin kicked the dropped assault rifle across the floor, sliding it safely out of frame.
The understudy growled and lunged forward blindly, his hands grasping for Yoo-jin's throat. It was a sloppy, unchoreographed attack fueled entirely by bruised ego. Yoo-jin didn't even try to match the clone's superior muscle mass.
He simply sidestepped, grabbing a thick coil of heavy-duty XLR microphone cable from a nearby equipment rack.
As 735 stumbled past him, Yoo-jin whipped the thick rubber cord around the clone's neck. He crossed his wrists and pulled sharply, using the clone's own forward momentum to drag him backward. 735 choked, his hands clawing uselessly at the unbreakable audio cable.
"You rely entirely on your physical specs," Yoo-jin whispered directly into the clone's ear. "But this industry isn't about raw power. It's about knowing how to use the equipment."
With a swift kick to the back of 735's knees, Yoo-jin forced the clone down onto the concrete floor. He rapidly looped the XLR cable around 735's wrists, hogtying the rogue asset with practiced, ruthless speed.
Subject 735 thrashed like a wild animal, but the stage knots held tight. He was officially trapped on Yoo-jin's set.
Yoo-jin stepped back, his breathing perfectly even despite the searing pain radiating from his shot shoulder. He wiped a smear of his own blood off his pale cheek. He walked back to the master console and sank into the leather executive chair.
"You're a glitch," 735 spat from the floor, coughing violently. "Dr. Oh is going to format you. You're obsolete."
"Let's check the ratings on that," Yoo-jin murmured, turning his attention to the wall of monitors.
He glanced at the peripheral screen displaying the hacked external network. The real world above the bunker was burning down. The YouTube live chat was scrolling so fast it was just a blur of panicked red text and crying emojis.
A news ticker at the bottom of a major broadcast network caught his eye: MARTIAL LAW DEBATED IN SEOUL FOLLOWING CLONE BROADCAST. ZENITH AGENCY CEO MASON GOLD REMAINS UNREACHABLE.
The macro-audience was fully engaged. The societal backdrop was perfectly set to shield his cast once they reached the surface. He minimized the window, dismissing the geopolitical fallout as mere background noise.
"Where are the others?" Yoo-jin asked coldly, looking down at the bound clone.
735 let out a wet, mocking laugh. "You mean the rest of the catalog? Subjects 736 through 744?"
"Give me the production schedule," Yoo-jin demanded, his voice flat. "What are their designated roles?"
"You really don't remember anything, do you?" 735 sneered, his eyes filled with venomous glee. "They aren't producers, 734. You were a prototype. The rest of the batch are specialized performers. They are the ultimate idol group, and their debut is already locked in."
Yoo-jin's eyes narrowed slightly. Nine optimized clones, programmed for absolute perfection, waiting to flood the market. It was a terrifying business model.
Before he could interrogate the clone further, a red warning light flashed violently on Camera Feed 4-Sub.
Yoo-jin instantly leaned closer to the glass. The camera showed a narrow, dust-filled ventilation shaft beneath Sector 4. Kai and Min-ji were crawling through the cramped space, their flashlights cutting through the gloom.
Suddenly, the heavy metal louvers at the end of the shaft slammed shut, locking mathematically.
"Did you really think you had exclusive directing rights in my bunker?" Dr. Oh's voice hissed over the broadcast room's internal comms.
Yoo-jin's hands flew to the keyboard. He tried to override the ventilation locks, but a secondary analog firewall had been engaged. Dr. Oh was manually cutting off his digital access from a secondary control room.
"I can't authorize lethal force against you," Dr. Oh admitted, his voice dripping with spite. "But I don't need your supporting cast alive to maintain the database."
On the monitor, thick, yellow-tinted gas began pouring into the ventilation shaft from hidden ceiling vents.
Min-ji immediately dropped her flashlight and clamped her hands over her mouth. Kai scrambled backward, trying to cover her face with his jacket, but the confined space was filling up too fast. The audio feed picked up their harsh, agonizing coughs.
Yoo-jin stared at the screen. A massive, phantom spike of adrenaline hit his system. His chest tightened so painfully he almost gasped.
He didn't know these two extras. His wiped memory files insisted they were strangers. Yet, seeing them suffocate felt like someone was tearing out his own lungs. The contradiction was maddening, but the producer's instinct overrode the amnesia.
He could not let his cast be cancelled.
"David," Yoo-jin barked into his earpiece, ignoring Dr. Oh completely. "I need you to bypass the analog lock on the Sector 4 exhaust fans. Now."
"Hyung, I'm trying!" David's panicked voice crackled back through the encrypted line. "The ICE is too thick! I need you to manually trip the breaker on your end to reset the network routing!"
Yoo-jin scanned the dark broadcast room. The manual breaker box was bolted to the far wall, nearly twenty feet away from his console.
"Hold the line," Yoo-jin commanded.
He stood up from the console, clutching his bleeding shoulder. He had to turn his back on Subject 735 to reach the breaker panel. It was a terrible tactical error, but the script gave him no other choice.
He ran across the room, his boots slipping slightly on the blood-slicked concrete. He reached the heavy metal breaker box and yanked the cover open, exposing a mess of high-voltage wiring.
Behind him, a horrific tearing sound echoed through the booth.
Subject 735 hadn't untied the XLR cables. He had simply flexed his bio-engineered muscles until the thick rubber and copper wire violently snapped.
Yoo-jin didn't even have time to turn around.
The clone tackled him from behind like a freight train. The sheer physical force slammed Yoo-jin face-first into the metal breaker box. The impact sent a blinding flash of white light through his skull.
His gunshot wound tore completely open. Hot, fresh blood cascaded down his arm, soaking his shirt instantly.
"You care too much about the extras!" 735 screamed, wrapping his massive hands around the back of Yoo-jin's neck. "That's why you're a failed prototype!"
Yoo-jin gritted his teeth, tasting copper. He didn't waste oxygen on a witty retort. He reached blindly into the open breaker box, his fingers desperately searching for the main exhaust relay switch.
735 slammed Yoo-jin's head into the metal casing again. The edge of the steel box sliced open Yoo-jin's eyebrow. Warm blood poured into his left eye, half-blinding him.
His vision was fading, but his fingers finally brushed against the heavy plastic switch.
"Cue the fans," Yoo-jin choked out.
He yanked the breaker switch downward with all his remaining strength.
Across the room, the wall of monitors flickered. On Camera 4-Sub, the massive industrial exhaust fans at the end of the ventilation shaft roared to life. The deadly yellow gas was violently sucked out of the cramped space. Kai and Min-ji collapsed against the metal grating, gasping for clean air.
They were safe. The scene was salvaged.
But Yoo-jin had no time to celebrate. Subject 735 roared in frustration, spinning Yoo-jin around and driving a brutal fist directly into his wounded shoulder.
Yoo-jin's legs gave out. The pain was absolute, shutting down his nervous system. He collapsed onto his back, his breath leaving him in a ragged, bloody hiss.
The clone straddled him, pressing both hands down hard on Yoo-jin's throat.
"Let's see if the database really deletes," 735 snarled, his eyes wide with murderous, unscripted frenzy.
The bunker's automated medical sirens suddenly began to wail. The biometric sensors on the console were flashing a critical, terrifying red. The DRM Master Key was flatlining.
The broadcast was rapidly cutting to black, and Yoo-jin had no script left to read.