From A Producer To A Global Superstar-Chapter 312: Scandal out

The Virex assistant stood in front of the cameras like a man who didn’t sleep and he didn’t really sleep. He had dressed shabby, hair scattered, face controlled, but his eyes kept moving too much, the kind of movement that made people feel something was wrong even before he spoke.

He bowed.

Not the casual type. A deep one.

Then he raised his head and tried to keep his voice steady. "I’m here to apologize for my actions. I made a mistake. I got involved in something I shouldn’t have. I take full responsibility."

It sounded like a prepared statement, and the reporters didn’t let it breathe.

One mic pushed closer. "Where did you get the clip from."

Another voice came immediately. "Who gave it to you."

"Who told you to push it."

"Why did it keep resurfacing every time Dayo trended."

The assistant swallowed and tried to stay inside the apology. "I’m not here to talk about details. I’m here to apologize for doing all thats accused of the V-Rex Lable it was my personal doing."

That answer didn’t help him. It made it worse, because the internet had already watched the livestream. People had watched the leak chain. People had watched the AI tools get run in real time. Nobody wanted a soft apology anymore, they wanted a straight explanation.

A reporter stepped in harder. "You said nobody else was involved, but people are saying during the video that you made a call suspected to be your boss. Are you denying that."

The assistant’s face twitched. It was small, but the camera caught it. He tried to fix it fast, tried to smile like it was a stupid question, but his body language betrayed him.

"I can’t speak on... any spectaculation," he said, and immediately the reporters reacted.

"So you can apologize but you can’t explain."

"Are you protecting someone."

"Are you protecting your CEO."

"No," he blurted too quickly, and that "no" sounded like panic, not confidence.

They kept pressing, not letting him reset.

"How did you get access."

"Who paid for it."

"Who benefited."

"Why was the timing always perfect whenever Dayo’s name started moving."

The assistant tried to hold the line, but the line was slipping. He bowed again, deeper this time, like humility could replace facts.

"I apologize," he repeated. "That’s all I can say."

He turned to leave.

The cameras followed.

The questions followed.

Even when security tried to open space, the crowd still shoved microphones forward like knives.

The apology didn’t clear anything.

It made him look guiltier.

Online, people clipped the exact moments his voice shook, the exact moments he avoided the key questions, and the comment sections started writing their own conclusion.

He went back inside Virex with his head low, and the CEO watched the whole thing on his screen without blinking. He didn’t look shocked. He looked irritated, like someone watching a tool break in his hand.

He called the same outsourcer he always used when he wanted the internet dirty.

The call connected quickly. The man’s voice came casual, almost cheerful, like chaos was his normal job. "You saw it, right. The apology didn’t land."

The CEO didn’t waste time. "Release the scandals."

There was a pause. "You want full flood."

"Yes," the CEO said, tone hard. "Drop enough to split the timeline. I don’t want one big story. I want five different fires."

"Do it," the CEO replied, then ended the call.

By midday, the internet started choking on new headlines.

A director exposed.

An actress dragged into a sponsor rumor.

An idol’s chat logs revived like ghosts.

A cheating scandal, a contract scandal, a leaked hotel clip, a staff assault accusation.

It was messy, heavy, distracting enough that regular people started clicking out of curiosity even if they didn’t care.

For a few hours, the flood worked the way floods always worked. People jumped from story to story, reacting fast, sharing, arguing, forgetting what they were arguing about five minutes ago.

But then the other side of the internet woke up.

The timing was too clean.

The drop rate was too aggressive.

Under the scandals, new comments started appearing, and they weren’t even about the scandals anymore.

"This is distraction."

"Address the AI proof."

"Nice try. We didn’t forget."

"So you think we’re stupid."

Even people who enjoyed gossip started noticing the coordination, because it wasn’t just one scandal trending, it was too many at once, like somebody was paying for noise to block something.

And once the public starts calling a distraction a distraction, the distraction loses half its power.

Inside JD Label, Dayo didn’t look angry. He didn’t look excited either. He watched it like someone watching a predictable move.

Min-Jae walked into Dayo’s office with his phone already open, and he didn’t sit down first because the energy in him was restless.

"Bro," Min-Jae said, voice tight, "are you seeing what they’re doing."

Dayo glanced at the phone and nodded once. "I’m seeing it."

"They’re flooding everywhere," Min-Jae said, scrolling fast. "It’s like they opened a tap. Scandals on scandals. They want people to forget the livestream."

Dayo stayed calm. "Let them try."

Min-Jae’s brows pulled together. "That’s your answer again. Let them try."

Dayo leaned back slightly. "Because the moment they start flooding, they expose themselves."

Min-Jae scoffed. "Expose themselves how."

Dayo tapped his desk lightly. "People are already saying it looks coordinated. People are already saying it’s distraction. That’s not good for them."

Min-Jae stared at him like he wanted to argue, but he couldn’t, because the comments were right there. Even under the scandal posts, people kept dragging the conversation back to the AI proof.

Min-Jae exhaled. "So what now. We just watch."

Dayo looked at him properly this time. "We keep the plan."

Min-Jae hesitated. "And if the noise starts winning."

"It won’t," Dayo said, simple. "Not with what I have."

Min-Jae’s eyes narrowed. "What do you have."

Dayo didn’t say mich he just said it like it was another file on his laptop. "New evidence. Concrete."

Min-Jae paused. "New evidence that ends this."

Dayo nodded. "Yes."

Min-Jae leaned forward, voice lower. "So why are you holding it."

Dayo answered in the same flat tone that always made Min-Jae uncomfortable when things got serious. "Because if I drop it now, they’ll absorb it. They’ll reframe it. They’ll create new noise immediately."

Min-Jae blinked. "So you want to time it."

"Yes," Dayo said. "Let them waste money. Let them flood. Let the public notice the desperation. Then when the movie is close, we drop the bigger proof and it sticks."

Min-Jae’s mouth opened slightly, then closed again, like he didn’t know whether to be impressed or scared.

"You’re ruthless," he said finally.

Dayo’s face didn’t change. "They pushed the fake clip every time something good happened. They wanted to poison every win. If they didn’t touch me, they wouldn’t be in this position."

Min-Jae shook his head slowly. "You’re actually waiting for the perfect moment to spike their heart again."

Dayo nodded once. "Exactly."

Min-Jae leaned back, staring at the screen again. "And right now we keep pushing the movie."

"Yes," Dayo said. "PR stays on movie. We don’t chase scandals. We don’t argue with distractions. We let the timeline tire itself out, then we hit."

Min-Jae was quiet for a moment, then he muttered, half to himself, "They think they’re escaping."

Dayo replied, calm. "They’re walking deeper."

Min-Jae stood up, still shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the level of calculation. "Alright. I’ll tell PR to stay locked and not panic."

Dayo nodded. "Good."

Min-Jae paused at the door and looked back. "And when you drop that evidence..."

Dayo’s eyes stayed steady. "They’ll understand this wasn’t a fight. It was cleanup."