From A Producer To A Global Superstar-Chapter 239: VIREX decision

VIREX.

VIREX was not just another agency.

In the Korean entertainment industry — especially the K-drama sector — VIREX stood firmly among the top five powerhouses. Their name carried weight. Their influence ran deep. Their presence alone was enough to tilt casting decisions, investment flows, and even broadcasting schedules.

They were good at what they did.

Very good.

VIREX had an almost frightening ability to spot talent. They could look at an unknown face, hear a single line of dialogue, watch one awkward audition — and know whether that person would shine on screen years later. Many of the industry’s most successful actors and actresses had passed through VIREX’s hands at one point or another.

They produced stars.

They shaped careers.

They understood the market.

But VIREX also had another reputation.

A darker one.

They were known for their vicious tactics.

If you offended VIREX, truly offended them, you didn’t just lose opportunities — you disappeared. Calls stopped coming. Scripts vanished. Directors suddenly "changed direction." Producers who once praised you no longer remembered your name.

People didn’t say VIREX destroyed careers.

They said VIREX cut people off.

Cleanly. Completely. Ruthlessly.

And once you were cut off, there was almost no way back.

They had connections with other agency and they wouldn’t interfere once you have been marked.

This was one of the hidden rules of the industry.

That was the level of power they operated on.

Which was why, on this particular morning, the atmosphere inside the VIREX headquarters felt unusually tense.

The executive meeting room was full.

Too full.

Men and women in tailored suits sat around the long polished table, faces sharp, eyes cold, voices raised. These were not middle managers or assistants. These were decision-makers — executives, department heads, senior strategists.

At the head of the table sat the chairman.

He hadn’t spoken yet.

But the argument had already begun.

"This is an insult," one man said sharply, slamming his palm lightly on the table this was Sang-Min the man that ParkHyun-Seo offended. "An outright insult to VIREX."

When he heard the news of the fact that the person he block had been given a new role he was beyond pissed he could still remember the reporters surrounding his house when the incident happened.

Several people nodded.

"If we let this go," another added, "we’re sending a message. That anyone can cross us and walk away untouched."

Across the table, a woman scoffed. "You’re exaggerating. We’ve already done enough."

"Enough?" Sang-Min snapped. "Someone openly defied us."

"And?" she shot back. "This situation isn’t worth escalating. Some of our investors are involved in that movie. Why are we burning our own bridges?"

Murmurs spread across the room.

Another executive leaned forward. "We can resolve this without going all out. Find another project. Offer compensation. Let the actor who lost the role take something else. End it cleanly."

"No," someone else argued. "Compromise makes us look weak."

"Yes and we are not weak we are VIREX."

Voices overlapped. The argument intensified.

Some believed VIREX needed to respond aggressively, to make an example.

Others believed the matter was too small to justify a full-scale retaliation.

At the far end of the table, the chairman finally moved.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

His fingers tapped lightly against the wood.

The room fell silent.

He lifted his gaze slowly, eyes sweeping across every face.

"First," he said calmly, "I want to remind all of you that this man you’re discussing... is not simple."

A few brows furrowed.

"What do you mean?" Sang-Min asked. "He’s just a producer testing his luck."

The chairman’s lips curved faintly.

"Do you all know Min-Jae?"

A few executives exchanged looks.

"Of course," one replied. "Everyone knows Min-Jae."

The chairman nodded. "Good. Then do you know JD?"

Confusion rippled through the room.

"J-D?"

"The production company?"

"The music label?"

"Yes," the chairman said. "That J-D."

A sharp intake of breath followed.

"What about it?"

The chairman tapped a tablet, projecting information onto the screen behind him.

"J-D’s full name is Jason Dayo."

Silence.

"That company?" someone muttered. "That J-D?"

"Yes," the chairman confirmed. "And Jason Dayo owns more than half of it."

Murmurs erupted instantly.

"How did we not know this?"

"He hid it?"

"That well?"

"He did," the chairman said calmly. "Very well."

The room quieted again.

"Now," he continued, "let me remind you of something else. For the past two years, Min-Jae has been preparing to enter the entertainment industry."

Several executives stiffened.

"He has built studios. Purchased shares in theaters. Invested quietly — not just in Korea, but across Asia."

A pause.

"He is moving slowly. Carefully. Strategically."

A man clenched his jaw. "So he’s finally reaching for movies."

"Yes," the chairman replied. "And that is exactly the problem."

The air grew heavier.

"We already dominate this space," another executive said. "Why fear him?"

"We don’t fear him," the chairman said. "But we don’t want another competitor either. Especially not one with resources, connections, and ambition."

A few nods followed.

"We’ve blocked him before," someone said quietly.

"Yes," the chairman replied. "And we cannot use those same tactics now."

"Why not?"

"Because eyes from above are watching," he said coldly. "One wrong step, and we give them the excuse they’ve been waiting for to dismantle us."

"And mind you he has peole above to like us so we can’t use our usual method we need something else."

Silence returned.

"We handle this internally," he continued. "Within industry boundaries. No illegal moves. No reckless plays."

The executives absorbed his words.

"So what do we do?" someone asked.

The chairman leaned back. "I want your opinions."

Suggestions followed.

"We pressure him quietly."

"We slow his casting process."

"We isolate him."

Then Sang-Min spoke.

"What if we pull our actors?"

Several heads turned.

"Remove all our actors and actresses from his casting pool," the man continued. "Let’s see how he moves without industry support."

The chairman’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"That’s... an idea."

Slow nods followed.

"Fine," the chairman said after a moment. "You’re dismissed. I’ll speak with the other levels."

The executives rose and exited.

But the day wasn’t over.

Later that evening, another meeting took place.

This time, it wasn’t just VIREX.

Representatives from the top five high-end agencies sat together in a private room, the mood tense but unified.

"So," one of them said, "your thoughts on Min-Jae?"

A man scoffed. "He’s reaching beyond his limits."

"Music wasn’t enough," another added. "Now he wants movies too?"

"We shouldn’t allow it," a third said coldly.

Heads nodded in agreement.

"If we let him step in," someone else said, "he becomes a problem later."

"So what’s the plan?" one asked.

A brief silence.

Then a simple answer.

"We withdraw."

"Completely?"

"Yes. All actors. All actresses. No collaboration."

Someone hesitated. "What if he apologizes?"

"Then we negotiate," came the reply. "Shares. Control. Concessions."

"And if he doesn’t?"

"Then he works alone."

"Also warn other agencies not to work with them else they would face th anger of the big five."

The decision settled.

Since no contracts had been signed yet, it was clean.

Legal.

Silent.

Deadly.

The meeting ended with a single understanding —

Dayo and Min-Jae could enter the movie industry.

But he would do it without them.

And whether he survived that...

Remained to be seen.