The atmosphere in Baek Ji-hwan's office was cold, sterile, and heavy with an oppressive silence. The room was a monument to corporate power—expansive glass walls overlooking the Seoul skyline, minimalist furniture that cost more than most people's homes, and an air of calculated precision. But today, the precision was gone, replaced by a simmering, volatile rage.

Baek Ji-hwan sat behind his desk, his eyes fixed on a tablet screen. He wasn't looking at financial reports or logistics; he was looking at the trending tags on social media. The "Fox Priestess" announcement had hit the internet like a tidal wave, and the reaction was a disaster for the Baek family's narrative. The "global premiere" on Netflux had effectively neutralized the local distribution leverage they had spent millions to secure.

He didn't just feel annoyed; he felt insulted. To a man like Ji-hwan, the world was a series of assets to be controlled. The fact that LUNE had bypassed his gatekeepers and secured a global stage was a direct blow to his ego.

With a sharp, impatient motion, he pressed the intercom. "Get Min-seok in here. Now."

A few minutes later, Baek Min-seok entered. He didn't walk so much as drift, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. He was still wearing the remnants of last night's celebration—a wrinkled designer shirt and a look of profound disorientation. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin had a sallow, hungover pallor. He looked less like a high-flying executive and and more like a man who had spent the last twelve hours in a blur of expensive champagne and poor decisions.

Ji-hwan didn't even look up from his tablet. "Do you have any idea what happened this morning?"

Min-seok blinked, his brain struggling to catch up. "The… the announcement? I saw it. It's just a few posts, Uncle. We can easily drown it out with—"

"A few posts?" Ji-hwan roared, slamming his hand onto the mahogany desk. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the sterile room. Min-seok jumped, nearly losing his balance. "It's a global partnership! They've secured Netflux! While you've been playing house and partying like a spoiled brat, LUNE has just leapfrogged over every obstacle we put in their way. They aren't fighting for slots in our theaters anymore; they're ignoring our theaters entirely!"

Min-seok winced, the loud volume of the shout piercing through his hangover. "The AI project is on track, Uncle. The technology is—"

"The technology is slow!" Ji-hwan interrupted, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. "I've poured billions into this venture. I've promised investors a revolution. I've told the distributors that the AI movie will be the new gold standard. And yet, here we are, a month away from the 'premiere' date we set, and I haven't seen a single finished scene that doesn't look like a glitchy beta test!"

Ji-hwan didn't wait for an answer. He reached for the phone and dialed the direct line to the project's lead directors and managers. He didn't ask them to join a meeting; he commanded them.

Within minutes, the lead managers and technical directors were gathered in the office, their faces tight with anxiety. They stood in a semi-circle, their posture defensive. They knew the stakes, but they also knew the reality of the technology they were wrestling with.

"Explain it to me," Ji-hwan commanded, his gaze sweeping over them like a scythe. "Why is the output still so inconsistent? Why am I hearing about 'rendering issues' and 'algorithmic drifts' when I'm paying you enough to buy a small island?"

The lead manager, a man in his late forties with deep bags under his eyes, stepped forward. "Sir, we are pushing the boundaries of generative AI. This isn't just about animating a character; we're attempting to synthesize human emotion and nuance in a way that's never been done. The 'technical difficulties' are a result of the complexity. The AI is struggling to maintain consistent facial expressions across different lighting environments. We're essentially building the plane while we're flying it."

"I don't pay you to build planes," Ji-hwan snapped. "I pay you to deliver a product. I don't care if the AI is 'struggling.' I care that the public is seeing LUNE's raw, human chemistry and comparing it to our 'perfect' synthetic images. The comparison is making us look fake. It's making us look sterile."

"But the process takes time, Sir," the manager replied, his voice trembling slightly. "To get the level of realism you're demanding, we need more training data and more compute time. If we rush the render, the 'uncanny valley' effect becomes more pronounced. The audience will sense it immediately."

Ji-hwan let out a sharp, dismissive huff. He didn't care about the "uncanny valley." He cared about the perception of power. He was a man who believed that if you couldn't find a solution, you manufactured one.

"I'm tired of hearing about the process," Ji-hwan declared. "The premiere is a month away. I cannot have the public thinking we're lagging behind. I cannot have investors questioning the viability of the AI project because the visuals aren't 'ready' yet."

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Here is what we're going to do. Stop relying solely on the AI for the promotional material. Hire the best animators in the country. Use traditional CGI, use manual touch-ups—I don't care what you use. Produce a high-quality, polished trailer. Make it look flawless. Make it look like the AI has already achieved the impossible. We'll sell the idea of the perfection, and you can use the next month to fix the actual footage."

The managers exchanged glances. They knew exactly what this meant. They were being asked to "fake" the AI's progress. Instead of a true demonstration of the technology, they were being told to create a digital facade. It was a dangerous game; if the final movie didn't match the polished trailer, the backlash would be severe.

"But Sir," the manager hesitated. "If we use manual animation for the trailer, we're essentially lying about the AI's capabilities. If the final product doesn't match the trailer's quality, the critics will—"

"The critics don't pay the bills," Ji-hwan interrupted, his voice cold and final. "I do. And I'm telling you to make it look perfect. I want the world to see a trailer that makes The Fox Priestess look like a low-budget indie film. I want the visuals to be so sharp, so flawless, that the audience forgets what a human actor even looks like."

The managers bowed their heads. "We understand, Sir. We'll start the manual rendering immediately."

"Good," Ji-hwan said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. "Now get out. And Min-seok—get some coffee and wake up. If I see you looking like a zombie in my office again, I'll find someone who can actually handle the pressure of this project."

As the staff filed out, Min-seok let out a long, exhausted sigh. He felt the weight of the expectation pressing down on him, a crushing burden of perfection that felt entirely unrealistic. He knew the managers were right—the target was an illusion. But in the world of the Baek family, the illusion was often more important than the truth.

Joon-ho had the raw, pulsing energy of human emotion on his side. The Baeks had the budget, the power, and a desperate need to look superior. As the door closed, Ji-hwan stared back at the screen, the image of the "Fox Priestess" poster still burned into his mind. He didn't want a movie; he wanted a victory. And he was prepared to manufacture it, regardless of the cost.