The Zoom call connected one by one.
Small rectangles filled the screen, each carrying a familiar face—people who had spent years navigating the upper layers of the entertainnt industry. These were not minor agents or middlen. They were the heads of the top agencies, the kind of people who rarely spoke unless there was a reason.
The Virex agency boss joined last.
He adjusted his cara slightly, settled into his chair, and gave a brief nod. No greetings were exchanged beyond that. Everyone on the call already understood the tone of the eting.
It was not casual.
One of the agency heads cleared his throat before speaking.
"I don’t know if this sounds strange," he began, choosing his words carefully, "but I feel like soone is deliberately attacking that Director Dayo."
The mont the sentence landed, the atmosphere shifted.
No one spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. Faces on the screen remained still, eyes flicking subtly from one fra to another, each person trying to read reactions without appearing to do so. It was a Zoom call, yet it felt like a room filled with people holding their breath.
Finally, the Virex boss leaned forward slightly.
"Why do you think so?" he asked calmly.
The man who raised the issue exhaled. "Look at the pattern. The video resurfaces every ti his image begins to stabilize. It doesn’t feel random. It’s too... precise."
Another agency boss nodded slowly. "I noticed the sa thing. I tried testing it monitoring engagent spikes, tracing accounts pushing the narrative. Everything leads back to the sa cluster."
"Did you identify the person behind it?" soone asked.
"I got close," the man replied. "But whoever it is knows how to cover their tracks."
As the discussion continued, the Virex boss remained quiet. He listened, hands folded, expression neutral. On the surface, he appeared unconcerned, almost detached.
But internally, he was fully alert.
He knew exactly what they were circling around.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. Here they were, suspecting an unseen attacker, unaware that the very person listening calmly among them was the one who had been nudging things from the shadows. He didn’t react, didn’t defend, didn’t accuse. He understood better than anyone that silence was safer than overconfidence.
Eventually, another voice broke in.
"Regardless," the speaker said, "we already agreed not to interfere. None of us is officially attacking Dayo. That was the agreent."
"Yes," soone else added. "We removed our hands. Whatever happens now should be left to the flow of things."
The Virex boss nodded slightly. "Exactly. Whether soone is stirring things up or not, it doesn’t concern us anymore. We watch and move accordingly."
The tension eased just enough for the eting to continue without confrontation. No accusations were made. No decisions were taken. Everyone understood that this conversation would end the sa way it began—without resolution.
A few minutes later, the call ended.
****
The screens went dark one by one.
Later that night, Dayo returned ho.
The day had been long. His body felt heavy, but his mind was oddly calm. He took a shower, changed into sothing comfortable, and sat on the edge of his bed for a mont, letting out a slow breath.
Tomorrow would be another full day on set.
Without overthinking it, he lay down and fell asleep.
Morning arrived early.
By the ti Dayo reached the set, the place was already alive with activity. Crew mbers moved with purpose, adjusting equipnt, reviewing shot lists, preparing for the day. There was a different energy in the air—focused, anticipatory.
Everyone knew they were nearing the end.
Dayo stepped forward and called the team together. Gradually, conversations died down as cast and crew gathered around him.
He looked at their faces—actors, assistants, technicians, extras—people who had shown up every day, endured long hours, retakes, pressure, and uncertainty.
"I’m sure all of you already know this," Dayo began, his voice steady, "but we’re approaching the end of this production."
There were murmurs of acknowledgnt.
"We have only a few things left to cover," he continued. "And before we move forward today, I want to say sothing clearly."
He paused, letting the silence work in his favor.
"Thank you."
The words were simple, but sincere.
"Thank you for your patience. For your willingness to retake scenes when needed. For your persistence, even when things were exhausting. Every single person here played a role in keeping this project alive."
A few crew mbers exchanged glances. So smiled.
One of the actors spoke up. "Honestly, Director Dayo, this has been one of the most disciplined sets I’ve worked on."
Another added, "You didn’t cut corners. That made all of us step up."
Soone from the crew nodded. "You pushed us, but you also trusted us. That’s rare."
Dayo listened without interrupting. These weren’t exaggerated complints or empty praise. They were asured, real—spoken by people who had been through the process together.
When they finished, he nodded.
"I appreciate that," he said. "And I believe you when you say it, because I’ve seen your effort."
He straightened slightly.
"Today, we’re going to cover a lot. The goal is to finish as much as possible so we can bring this to a proper close."
A ripple of agreent passed through the group.
"Get yourselves ready," Dayo concluded. "We’re moving on to the next scene."
The day progressed quickly.
Scenes were shot, reviewed, adjusted. The crew moved efficiently, almost instinctively, as if everyone was aligned toward the sa objective. By the ti the final scene of the day wrapped, the fatigue was evident—but so was the satisfaction.
Dayo clapped his hands together once.
"That’s all for today."
A few relieved laughs broke out.
Just as Dayo was going ho he saw soone waiting beside his car.
To his suprise it was.
Min-Jae.
Dayo smiled. "Yoo brother what’s up you didn’t tell you were coming."
"Hehe then that would spoil the whole reason for coming here." Min-Jae smiled.
Dayo asked. " And what would that be ?."
"Well I want to ask Yeobo to marry ."
"Huh ?. " Dayo looked suprised
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