Chapter 77: NEXUM Agency
The conference room at NEXUM Agency in Seoul was a masterpiece of modern corporate minimalism—all glass, white marble, and oppressive silence. Around the long, oval table sat the directors and managers, a phalanx of women in sharp power suits, their faces as cold and calculated as the data projected on the screens before them.
The monthly performance review had begun with the “cull.”
“These twelve are out,” the director stated, her voice flat as she swiped a screen to the left. A list of female streamers appeared, their faces blinking red. “They failed to hit their growth targets for three consecutive months. They’re dead weight. Cut their contracts by Friday.”
The managers nodded in unison, not a single one of them showing a shred of empathy. In the world of NEXUM, a talent was only as valuable as her latest metric.
As the meeting progressed, the conversation shifted to the current lineup. The mood grew tense as they discussed the operational budget. “The CEO is breathing down my neck about a ten percent increase in overhead costs,” one manager grumbled, rubbing her temples. “She’s furious about the expenditure on the new studio lighting and makeup artists.”
“It’s absurd,” another added, her voice laced with annoyance. “Our net profit has increased by over fifty percent this quarter. A ten percent cost hike is a rounding error in the grand scheme of things.”
“Regardless, the order is to squeeze,” the director replied. “Maximize the output with bare-minimum support. I want more livestream events, more subathons, and more ‘fan-service’ content. If they can’t handle the schedule, they can join the list of the cut.”
The director stood up, pacing the length of the marble table, her heels clicking with a predatory rhythm. “Starting next week, we are implementing the ‘High-Yield’ schedule. We’re cutting the support staff in half. No more dedicated stylists for every shoot, and no more personal assistants to handle the logistics. The girls can manage their own scheduling and wardrobe. If they can’t handle a simple calendar, they aren’t ‘elite’ enough for NEXUM.”
“But ma’am,” one manager ventured, “some of the girls are already complaining about burnout. If we push them into daily subathons—where they’re live for twenty-four hours or more—we risk a drop in quality. Or worse, another health crisis.”
“Then let them burn,” the director snapped. “That’s the beauty of the subathon. The more exhausted they look, the more ‘authentic’ the experience feels to the viewers. The fans love seeing their idols struggle; it makes them feel like they’re the only ones providing the emotional support the girl needs. It drives donations through the roof. We don’t need ‘quality’—we need engagement. And nothing drives engagement like a girl on the verge of a breakdown.”
She stopped, leaning over the table, her eyes cold. “I want a mandatory minimum of twelve hours of live-streaming per day. Any ‘off-time’ is to be spent recording pre-produced content for the VOD archives. We’re eliminating the ‘rest days’ from the contracts. From now on, a ‘rest day’ is simply a day where they aren’t live, but are still required to be available for sponsor meetings and PR appearances.”
“And the fan-service,” the director continued, her voice becoming more calculated. “I want a shift toward more ‘intimate’ content. Less polished studio shoots, more ‘candid’ bedroom streams. We want them to sell the illusion of accessibility. The more they feel like they’re in a private space with the talent, the more they’ll pay to keep that feeling alive. If the girls are too tired to be ‘bubbly,’ it doesn’t matter. The raw, exhausted vulnerability is a brand in itself.”
The managers scribbled notes frantically, the cold logic of the plan sinking in. It was a strategy of attrition. By stripping away the support and increasing the pressure, NEXUM ensured that the talents remained in a state of perpetual instability. It made them easier to manipulate, more dependent on the agency’s approval, and more likely to sign whatever extension was put in front of them just to get a few hours of sleep.
The discussion then turned to “damage control.” A talent had recently been hospitalized from sheer overwork, and the social media narrative was starting to turn. A few leaked photos of the girl in a hospital gown, looking skeletal and exhausted, had gone viral, sparking a wave of criticism about NEXUM’s “sweatshop” approach to idol management.
“The PR team is on it,” the director noted, her voice devoid of concern. “We’re framing the hospitalization as a ‘temporary health retreat’—a proactive decision by the agency to ensure the talent’s long-term wellness. We’re scrubbing the ‘exhaustion’ narrative and replacing it with a story of ‘wellness and rejuvenation.’ We’ve already paid a few key influencers to post about how ‘refreshing’ it is that NEXUM cares so much about their girls’ mental health."
She leaned back, a smirk touching her lips. “And to seal the deal, we’re launching the ‘Creators’ Sanctuary’ charity event. We’ll position it as a fund to ‘support struggling creators’ across the industry. We’ll run a series of emotional videos showing the ‘hardships’ of the industry, with NEXUM stepping up as the benevolent savior.”
“And the funding?” a manager asked.
“Standard operational diversion,” the director replied. “We’ll keep eighty percent of the donations for ‘administrative costs’ and ‘infrastructure development.’ Essentially, the fans are paying for our new office upgrades. The remaining twenty percent will be distributed as small, highly publicized grants to a few hand-picked creators who are willing to publicly praise the agency. It’ll look like we’re the benevolent protectors of our talent, while we’re actually using the fans’ money to fund our own growth.”
She paused, her eyes narrowing. “I want the narrative to be absolute. If any ‘leaks’ surface about the actual conditions in the dorms or the mandatory hours, I want the PR team to label them as ‘disgruntled former employees’ or ‘jealous rivals.’ We don’t defend our record; we attack the source of the criticism. By the time the next quarterly report comes out, the public will believe that NEXUM is the gold standard for talent care.”
The managers nodded, impressed by the cold efficiency. It was a masterclass in corporate gaslighting. They weren’t just managing a crisis; they were building a facade of kindness to mask a machine of exploitation.
A server entered the room, quietly placing cups of coffee and tea in front of the women. As they sipped their drinks, the conversation finally arrived at the “Gold Mine.”
“The Top Ten are performing flawlessly,” the director remarked, a glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes. “Subscription growth is vertical, and donation revenue is hitting record highs. Ensure the PR team prioritizes them for next month’s campaigns.”
She scrolled through the list, stopping at the top three. “Aura’s influence is negligible here, but our internal stars are soaring. Min-ji and Mi-na have already signed their monthly extensions. They know where the money is.”
Then, the screen landed on Hana.
“And then there’s our Sweetheart,” a manager mocked, a smug smile on her lips. “Still playing the ‘reluctant’ game. She signs her monthly deal at the absolute last second every time, as if she’s doing us a favor.”
“She’s arrogant,” another manager added. “But we can’t deny the numbers. Her status as an Academy student—and the fact that she was selected by the Korean Prime, Jun—has sent her popularity into the stratosphere. The ‘forbidden love’ narrative is selling itself.”
The manager who had spoken before let out a sharp laugh. “Speaking of Jun… did you see the request for the commenter data? He was practically threatening us. Heavy-handed, arrogant… he thinks he’s the one in control.”
“Which is exactly why we need to milk them both dry,” the director replied, her eyes gleaming with greed. “If we can push Hana’s ‘Academy life’ content into the mainstream, we’re not just looking at a revenue increase. We’re looking at a hundred-fold return. If we can package her and Jun as the ultimate power couple, we could sell the broadcasting licenses to overseas networks for millions.”
The director leaned forward, her voice becoming a low, conspiratorial whisper. “Here is the play. We stop treating Hana as just a streamer and start treating her as the ‘Academy’s Muse.’ We’ll leak carefully curated ‘paparazzi’ shots of her and Jun—nothing too explicit, just enough to fuel the rumors of a passionate, secret romance. We’ll create a narrative of a high-stakes struggle between the ‘Pure’ Academy world and the ‘Common’ world Hana comes from. We’ll turn her into a symbol of desire for every girl in the East, and Jun into the ultimate prize.”
“But what about Jun’s attitude?” the manager asked. “He doesn’t seem like the type to follow a script.”
“He doesn’t have to,” the director countered with a dismissive wave. “He can be as arrogant as he wants. In fact, his ‘dominance’ is exactly what we’ll sell. We’ll frame his heavy-handedness as ‘alpha’ energy. We’ll make the public believe that he’s the only man capable of taming the Nation’s Sweetheart. The more he tries to control us, the more we’ll use that image to sell the fantasy. He thinks he’s the one pulling the strings, but he’s just providing the raw material for our marketing.”
She chuckled, a cold, clinical sound. “He can imagine himself as the king of the Academy, but in the eyes of the public, he’s just the face of a brand we own. We’ll let him believe he’s the one in control—it keeps him interested. Meanwhile, we’ll tighten the leash on Hana. We’ll make her feel that her only way to maintain this ‘power couple’ image is through our management. We’ll make her believe that without NEXUM, she’s just another girl who got lucky.”
“And once the global licenses are sold,” the manager added, “we can charge a premium for ‘exclusive’ behind-the-scenes access. We’ll sell the illusion of intimacy to millions of people who will pay just to feel like they’re part of their inner circle.”
The director nodded, her gaze fixed on the image of Hana on the screen. “Exactly. Jun thinks he’s the one making the moves, but he’s just a piece on our board. We’ll let him play his games, as long as we’re the ones collecting the winnings.”
The room erupted in a low hum of agreement. The managers began sketching out projections, estimating the windfall of a global “Jun and Hana” campaign.
“We need to lock her in,” the director decided. “Push her hard this month. Make her feel the pressure. If she’s desperate enough, we can move her to a two-month contract—if we’re feeling generous. That gives us more time to extract every single drop of profit before the next cycle.”
They cheered and laughed, clinking their coffee cups together, already imagining the massive quarterly bonuses that would follow. To them, Hana wasn’t a person; she was a high-yield asset, and they were the ones holding the ledger.