Inside the sleek, glass-walled offices of the agency representing Min-ho, the atmosphere was far from celebratory. The air was thick with a mixture of confusion and mounting irritation. In a private lounge that looked more like a high-end art gallery than a place of business, Min-ho sat slumped in a designer chair, his eyes fixed on his smartphone.

He had been scrolling through the social media feeds for the last hour, and his mood had soured with every swipe. The "Fox Priestess" updates were everywhere. He had seen the photos of Mirae and Chae-won, and while he acknowledged their beauty, it was the images of Joon-ho that made his jaw tighten.

Min-ho had always been the gold standard of visuals. He was the "Face of the Generation," a man whose every expression was curated for maximum appeal. But as he looked at the photos of Joon-ho in the period costume, he felt a strange, unsettling sensation. For the first time in his life, he felt... ordinary. Joon-ho didn’t have the polished, boyish charm that Min-ho had spent years perfecting; he had something else. He had a raw, masculine gravity that made Min-ho look like a carefully painted doll in comparison.

"This is ridiculous," Min-ho muttered, tossing his phone onto the marble table with a sharp clack. "How is a CEO getting more traction than a professional lead? It’s a joke. He’s not even an actor."

Standing nearby, the agency’s PR head, a man whose entire career was built on managing perceptions, looked troubled. He had been monitoring the metrics, and the numbers were alarming. The engagement on LUNE’s posts wasn’t just high; it was explosive. More importantly, the sentiment had shifted. The public wasn’t just admiring Joon-ho; they were comparing him to Min-ho, and the comparisons were brutal.

"We’ve tried to push the narrative," the PR head explained, his voice cautious. "We’ve deployed the usual strategy—boosting posts that highlight Min-ho’s professional training and his ’global’ appeal. But it’s not sticking. The public is reacting to the raw energy of those photos. It’s an organic surge, and those are the hardest to fight. People are calling Joon-ho ’the real deal’ and labeling Min-ho as ’manufactured.’"

Min-ho stood up, his face flushing with anger. "Manufactured? I’ve spent my entire life perfecting my image! I’m the one who does the work! How can a guy who just happens to be rich and handsome suddenly steal my thunder?"

"It’s not just the looks, Min-ho," the PR head added gently. "It’s the mystery. The fact that he doesn’t try to be a star makes him more appealing. He’s the ’anti-idol.’ And the way @unholynuna is managing the page... it’s a fortress. Our troll army is hitting a wall. They can’t get a word in. Every time we try to seed a negative narrative, the accounts are wiped before they can even gain traction. It’s like fighting a ghost."

Min-ho let out a frustrated groan, pacing the length of the room. He felt as though the ground were shifting beneath his feet. He had expected the transition to the Baek Group’s AI project to be his coronation—a move that would elevate him above the "traditional" actors. Instead, he felt like he was becoming a footnote in someone else’s story.

Just then, a notification chimed on the PR head’s tablet. He glanced at the screen and sighed. "A message from the Baek family. They’ve seen the noise."

Min-ho stopped in his tracks, his eyes flashing. "What do they say? Are they going to help us push back? Are they going to launch a campaign to remind people that AI is the future?" 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

The PR head looked at the message, then back at Min-ho. "They’re telling us to relax. They said the ’noise’ is irrelevant and that we should focus on preparing for the next promotional cycle for the AI venture. They want us to emphasize the ’technological leap’ and the ’perfection’ of the digital experience. Essentially, they’re telling us not to sweat the small stuff."

Min-ho stared at the PR head, his expression shifting from anger to a deep, simmering resentment. "Small stuff?" he whispered. "My reputation is being eaten alive by a guy who doesn’t even have a portfolio, and they’re calling it ’small stuff’?"

The realization hit him with a cold, hard thud. To the Baek family, Min-ho wasn’t the star; he was a component. He was the "human face" used to sell a piece of software. The AI was the product; he was just the packaging. The fact that Joon-ho was gaining traction didn’t bother the Baeks because they didn’t value the "human" element of acting—they valued the efficiency of the machine.

He looked back at the image of Joon-ho on the screen—the strong jaw, the piercing gaze, the effortless command of the frame. Min-ho had the title, the fame, and the contract, but in that moment, he felt completely powerless. He was a puppet in a gold-plated theater, and for the first time, he realized that the strings were being pulled by people who didn’t care if he was happy, as long as he looked the part.

"They’re treating me like a supporting act," Min-ho muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. "I’m the lead, but I’m just the opening act for a computer program."

He sank back into his chair, the luxury of the room suddenly feeling oppressive. He had chased the "global" dream, thinking it would give him ultimate power. But as he watched the likes climb on Joon-ho’s page, he realized that he had traded his authenticity for a brand. He had become a product, and products are easily replaced.

He stared at his own reflection in the mirrored wall of the lounge. He saw the perfectly styled hair, the meticulously groomed skin, and the expensive clothes that draped over his slender frame. For years, this had been his armor. He had been told that this was what the public wanted—a polished, flawless version of masculinity that was approachable and sweet. But looking at Joon-ho’s image, Min-ho felt a sudden, sharp sense of inadequacy.

Joon-ho didn’t look "approachable." He looked dominant. He looked like a man who didn’t care if the audience liked him, and ironically, that was exactly why they were obsessed with him. Min-ho realized that he had spent his entire career trying to please the crowd, while Joon-ho simply existed, and the crowd chased after him. The contrast was bruising. It wasn’t just a battle of looks; it was a clash of energies. Min-ho was a curated experience; Joon-ho was a visceral reality.

The silence that followed was heavy. Min-ho stared at the screen, his mind racing. He wanted to fight, but he didn’t know how to fight someone like Joon-ho. You can’t out-maneuver a man who doesn’t play by the rules, and you can’t out-shine someone who is the source of the light.