12. Inside Access
INSIDE ACCESS
AIDAN — PARIS
I found Sunny in the hotel’s business center at eleven PM, working through what looked like spreadsheets and scheduling documents on her laptop. She had reading glasses perched on her nose and a cold cup of tea beside her elbow.
“You should be sleeping,” I said.
She looked up, not startled. “So should you.”
“Fair point.” I pulled out a chair and showed her the message I’d gotten from Richard about Park Min-woo.
“Can I ask you something? About company politics?”
She closed her laptop and gave me her full attention, the kind of focused presence that probably made her excellent at her job. “Of course.”
“How many groups does Starhouse manage?”
“Currently active? Five idol groups, three solo artists, and two actors who came up through our training system.” She ticked them off on her fingers.
“Pryzm is our biggest international earner, but we have two girl groups—AURORA and Vanta—that do extremely well domestically. Then there’s Zenith, a senior boy group that’s been around for eight years.
And NOVA, who just debuted six months ago. ”
“And how’s the competition between groups?”
Her face shifted. Not quite a smile, more like acknowledgment of a complicated truth. “Officially? Everyone supports each other. We’re one big Starhouse family.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, it’s a bloodbath.” She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Resources are finite. Promotion budgets, comeback schedules, variety show appearances, endorsement deals. It all gets allocated based on who’s performing well and who the company thinks will be the next big thing. ”
“So if Pryzm is getting the majority of international resources...”
“Other groups get less,” she finished. “Their managers get frustrated. Their fans get angry on social media. And the groups themselves, well, the members are just kids, mostly. They see their peers getting opportunities they’re not getting, and it hurts.
Kang Hyun-woo, our physical therapist, and Choi Min-jae, tech engineer, both came to us from Zenith, because that group wasn’t going on tour.
But they both seem grateful to have the work. ”
I leaned forward. “Could that resentment turn into something more? Something dangerous?”
Sunny was quiet for a long moment, considering. “You’re asking if someone from another Starhouse group might be behind the threats.”
“I’m asking if it’s possible.”
“Possible? Yes.” She picked up her tea, realized it was cold, set it back down. “Likely? I don’t know. We had a restructuring a few months ago and there were some bad feelings, but for management, this is just a job.”
“What kind of restructuring?”
“Three managers were let go. Park Min-woo, who managed AURORA, is the one who your contact found making those online threats. Also two from our solo artist division. But there were also demotions and reassignments. People who’d been promised advancement didn’t get it because the budget went to Pryzm’s international tour instead. ”
“Do any of those people have the access necessary to do the things we’ve seen?”
“The managers have the most access to internal systems, tour schedules, security protocols. They’d know how to position people strategically.”
“And Park Min-woo? Would he still have access to information?”
“He’s not supposed to. But he could have downloaded a lot of information from the servers before leaving Starhouse, and he might have someone in the company who’s working with him.”
“Can you send me the names of everyone affected by the restructuring?”
She pulled her laptop back open, and started typing. “I’ll send you the full list. I understand why Min-woo is upset, but personally, I think he’s just blowing off steam.”
“Where is he now?”
“Doing some consulting work for other companies, as far as I know. Living in Seoul, posting bitter things on industry forums about how Starhouse betrayed him.” She met my eyes.
“But Min-woo loved Pryzm. He was part of the team that selected them from trainees. I can’t imagine him wanting to hurt Jin. ”
“People get strange when they feel betrayed,” I said. “Especially if they think the company chose the talent over them.”
Sunny looked up. “The one who concerns me most is Choi Ji-won. She was the manager of NOVA, the group that just debuted. She was counting on them being Starhouse’s next big thing.”
“And then?”
“And then NOVA’s debut was... modest. Good, but not spectacular.
Meanwhile, Pryzm performed the theme song for My Lover from the North, and the movie was selected for an international showcase in Cannes.
We were already scheduled for a concert in S?o Paulo, because of the big Korean population there.
But with the movie’s success, the producers invited Pryzm to perform the day after the showing in Cannes. That led to this European tour.”
Sunny met my eyes. “Ji-won was furious when the company allocated extra resources to extend Pryzm’s tour instead of funding more promotion for NOVA. She said some things in meetings that got her reassigned to a junior role.”
“What kind of things?”
“That Pryzm was being overpromoted at the expense of other talent. That Jin specifically was replaceable, that his vocals weren’t strong enough to justify his center position. That if the company wasn’t so invested in protecting him, they’d see he was the weak link.”
My stomach tightened. “When was this?”
“Four months ago. Right around the time someone would have started planning an operation like this.”
I pulled out my phone, started typing notes. “Where is she now?”
“Still with the company. Managing one of our actors, desk work mostly. She has access to the corporate network, tour schedules, personnel files.” Sunny’s voice was careful, controlled.
“But Aidan, I’ve worked with Ji-won for three years.
She’s ambitious and bitter, yes. But threatening? Violent? I can’t see it.”
“People surprise us when they’re desperate.”
“That’s what worries me.” She looked down at her hands. “These are my colleagues. People I’ve had lunch with, celebrated with, complained about the job with. The idea that one of them wants to hurt Jin...”
“I need you to think about the other managers too,” I said gently. “Anyone who’s shown unusual interest in Pryzm’s schedule. Anyone who’s asked questions they shouldn’t have access to. Anyone whose behavior changed around the time the threats started.”
She nodded slowly. “There’s one other person. Lee Sang-min. He manages Zenith, the senior boy group. They’ve been declining in popularity while Pryzm rises. Sang-min has been... let’s say ‘vocal’ about how the company is abandoning their veteran artists in favor of newer groups.”
“Does he have access to tour details?”
“He’s senior management. He has access to almost everything.” Her eyes widened. “And he was in Cannes, with another manager, Sara Yoon. They said they were there to help but I think they just wanted to go to the festival.”
“And the girl group managers? AURORA and Vanta?”
“AURORA’s new manager, Kim Hae-won, is professional but cold.
She doesn’t hide the fact that she thinks boy groups get unfair advantages in international markets.
Vanta’s manager, Sara Yoon, is newer. She’s only been with the company eighteen months.
She’s eager, maybe too eager. Asks a lot of questions about how other groups operate. ”
“Sara Yoon came up and introduced herself to me outside the floating stage in Cannes.”
I was typing as fast as she talked, building a list of names to cross-reference with Richard’s data.
“Here’s what I need from you,” I said. “I need to know if any of these managers, beyond Sara Yoon and Lee Sang-min, have been in Cannes, or Paris, or any of the other upcoming stops, in the past month. Business trips, personal travel, anything. And I need to know who has VPN access to the Starhouse network.”
“All senior managers have VPN access,” Sunny said. “It’s how we work remotely. The technical staff traveling with us do, too, and so does Han Ji-ho; it’s how he posts his social media content. I can pull travel records and expense reports. Give me until morning.”
“Thank you.” I stood to leave, then paused. “One more thing. How do the members of the other groups feel about Pryzm?”
Sunny smiled, and this time it was genuine.
“The idols themselves? They’re friends, mostly.
They came up through the training system together, shared rooms, practiced together.
Haneul and one of the AURORA members are from the same hometown.
They’re close. Tae mentors two of the NOVA kids on dance.
Min-kyu goes out drinking with the Zenith members when they’re all in Seoul. ”
“So the rivalry is management level, not talent level.”
“Exactly. The kids just want to perform and succeed. It’s the adults around them, the ones with careers and egos and financial stakes, who make it complicated.”
In my experience, the most dangerous threats rarely came from the obvious enemies. They came from the people close enough to know your vulnerabilities, patient enough to wait for the perfect moment, and desperate enough to risk everything.
Someone at Starhouse fit that profile.
Liam and I just had to figure out who before they made their next move.
When I got back to the room, Liam was already in bed, reading something on his tablet. “Learn anything useful?” he asked.
“Maybe.” I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off my shoes. “There are at least four people at Starhouse HQ with motive, means, and access. I’m curious about the technical director, the tech engineer, and the social content guy. Sunny’s pulling travel records.”
“That’s a lot of suspects,” Liam corrected. “Could be more we haven’t identified yet.”
“Cheerful thought.”
He set down his tablet, pulled me back against his chest. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
I leaned into his warmth, feeling the day’s tension start to drain away. “What if we don’t? What if we miss something and Jin gets hurt?”
“Then it won’t be because we didn’t try hard enough.” His arms tightened around me. “We’re doing everything right, Aidan. Building the profile, eliminating possibilities, protecting the principal. The rest is just patience and luck.”
“I hate relying on luck.”
“I know. But all we can do is try to eliminate every variable you can control.” He kissed the top of my head. “But some things you can’t control. You just have to trust your instincts and react fast when it matters.”
Then he grabbed my dick and squeezed. My mouth dropped open and he laughed. “See? Like that?”
I went for his right nipple then, through his shirt. I could be just as fast as he was. His body shivered and he leaned his head back. “Oh, baby. You know what that does to me.”
“I do,” I said. “Shirt off. Now.”
“Pushy bottom,” he said, but he complied. I applied myself to licking and kissing and twisting his nipples, one by one. I was so busy I didn’t notice that he’d dropped his pants to the floor. His dick was stiff and pressing against the white fabric of his jockstrap.
I dropped to the carpet and began licking through the fabric, slow and steady, as his dick leaked and he ran his fingers through my hair. “Why am I nearly naked and you’re still wearing clothes?” he asked.
“Because you’re an exhibitionist,” I said.
“I have a great body,” he said. “It deserves to be shared.”
“Only with me,” I said. I stood up and we kissed, and then I quickly shed my clothes and we tumbled into bed.
Quickly I was on my knees and he was at my hole, licking and probing with his tongue.
He must have grabbed the lube while I was stripping because I felt the squirt, and his fingers opening me up.
Then he pulled me back toward him by my waist, and with one fast push he was inside me. I couldn’t think anymore, just feel him rocking back and forth, pressing my prostate, filling me up in a way only he could.
He reached around and grabbed my dick and stroked me in rhythm with his pushes, and we alternated between fast and slow, trying to prolong the pleasure. But there was more between us than raw sexual attraction, and love made the difference.
When we were both spent and breathing deeply, he pulled me up from the bed and pressed our groins together. “Big mess,” he said.
“And you love it.”
We took a quick shower together, and when we were drying off my phone buzzed. Email from Sunny, sent to me, Liam, and Jason.
Preliminary travel records attached. Choi Ji-won was in Nice two weeks before Cannes—logged as personal vacation. Lee Sang-min was in Paris for a music industry conference and he came to Cannes with Sara Yoon.
All three have VPN access. All three have been asking questions about Pryzm’s tour schedule.
I don’t want to believe any of them would do this. But I can’t ignore the patterns.
I showed it to Liam.
“Three suspects,” he said. “All with opportunity and access.”
“And all still working at Starhouse, with continued access to everything we’re doing.” I felt a chill run down my spine. “They could be watching our communications right now.”
“Then we cut them out of the loop,” he said. “From now on, all tour communications go through encrypted channels only. Eun-ji, Sunny, and Jason get access. Nobody else.”
“Eun-ji won’t like cutting out the rest of the managers.”
“Eun-ji will understand when we explain that one of them might be trying to kill her biggest asset.” Liam was already typing on his tablet, a towel around his waist. “I’ll set up a secure server tonight. We’ll brief the team in the morning.”
I watched him work. He was efficient, methodical, making the digital world safer one encryption key at a time. “What would I do without you?” I said quietly.
He looked up, smiled. “Probably figure it out eventually. But it would take you longer and you’d be crankier about it.”
“Accurate.”
He closed his tablet and pulled me down beside him. “Now sleep. Tomorrow we hunt for a traitor, and you’ll need to be sharp.”
I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come easily.
Somewhere out there, someone who worked for the same company as Jin, someone who sat in the same meetings, walked the same halls, maybe even smiled at him in passing, was planning to hurt him.