From A Producer To A Global Superstar-Chapter 315: Assistant crack

The assistant thought the worst had passed.

Not because the internet forgave him, but because the noise had finally thinned out. The first apology had been swallowed by other trending stories, the reporters stopped camping outside his building, and his phone only buzzed sometimes now instead of every five minutes. It felt like the kind of calm that comes after a storm, the kind that tricks you into believing the sky is safe again.

That morning, he told himself he would do something normal. Just once. He wore a cap low, pulled his hoodie on, checked through the peephole, saw nothing, and exhaled.

He opened the door.

He barely stepped out before the hallway filled.

Not one person. Not two.

Eight. Maybe ten.

Reporters surged forward like they had been waiting for that exact click of the lock. Cameras lifted. Microphones pushed into his space. Somebody called his name like they were calling a criminal to the stand.

"Sir!"

"Over here!"

"Have you seen the new clip?"

"Did you threaten Kang Min Ho?"

"Is it true you mentioned the Virex CEO?"

His body moved before his brain caught up. He flinched back, slammed the door, locked it once, then twice, and leaned against it like the metal could protect him from the noise. His chest rose and fell too fast. His palms were wet. His ears were ringing from the sudden burst of voices.

"What the hell..." he muttered, voice thin, almost cracking.

He stumbled toward his living room, grabbed his phone, and his feed was already full of it. Not the old edited bullying clip again. Not the livestream replay. Something worse. Something rawer.

A shaky video. A tight space. A door opening. His own voice, loud and angry, cutting through the room like a blade.

Kang Min Ho’s house.

That was the clip.

The one he had tried to forget and didn’t mention to his boss.

The one where he went to Kang’s place thinking he could scare him into silence, thinking he could talk like he had power, thinking the world would never see him lose control. In the clip, he was arguing with Kang, spitting threats through clenched teeth, then he noticed it. A phone. Somebody filming from the side.

His face in the clip changed instantly. The anger turned wild.

"Give me that!" he shouted in the video, lunging toward the camera.

He could hear himself, desperate, not calculated anymore. He could see it too. The moment his hand reached out. The moment he shoved. The moment the camera tilted hard like the person holding it nearly fell.

The internet didn’t need subtitles. The internet didn’t need explanation.

The internet smelled guilt.

He watched the video twice, then a third time, like replaying it would change the outcome. His stomach twisted harder with every second, because now he remembered the part he never told anyone.

He never told the CEO this existed.

Not the full version. Not the part where his voice slipped. Not the part where his mouth got reckless.

His throat went dry. He whispered it like a curse.

"I’m finished."

Then he scrolled again.

And something else hit him, quieter but sharper.

The comments.

They weren’t blaming him the way they used to. The tone had shifted. The internet was done treating him like the mastermind. People were saying it openly now, the same way they had started saying it during the livestream.

"He’s just an assistant. He didn’t invent this alone."

"He’s a pawn. Look how scared he is."

"Who sent him there?"

"He said the CEO’s name in that argument. Why is nobody talking about that?"

That was when his breathing slowed, not because he calmed down, but because a thought landed came into his head and refused to leave.

If the blame could move higher, then the weight could leave his neck.

He sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone like it was a weapon. His mind replayed the past weeks in quick flashes. The orders. The pressure. The way the CEO spoke to him like he was disposable. The way he was forced to bow and apologize while the CEO stayed hidden behind walls and lawyers.

He remembered one moment clearly, the one he had tried to bury.

He had tried to warn the CEO. Just once. Quietly. Carefully.

"Sir, we should stop. This is going too far."

And the CEO had looked at him like he was dirt.

"Stop?" the CEO had said. "You want to stop now that it’s working? Don’t be stupid. Do your job."

He swallowed.

He looked at the door again. The banging hadn’t stopped. Voices were still outside, louder now, energized because they knew he was inside and scared.

His fingers tightened around his phone.

He wasn’t suddenly brave. He wasn’t suddenly righteous.

He was cornered.

And cornered people either die quietly or bite back.

He stood up, walked to his room, dressed properly this time. Not to hide. To face it. If he was going to burn, he would push the fire somewhere else first. He adjusted his cap, stared at himself in the mirror, and his eyes looked haunted. Then he took one deep breath.

He opened the door again.

The hallway exploded.

They rushed him immediately, cameras close, microphones everywhere, questions overlapping so fast it sounded like one long shout.

"Have you seen the clip?"

"Is it true you tried to grab the phone?"

"Why did you go to Kang Min Ho’s house?"

"Did you threaten him?"

"Did Virex order you to do it?"

He lifted his hands slightly, not dramatic, just a gesture to slow the swarm.

"Calm down," he said, voice rough. "Let me speak."

They didn’t calm down, but they quieted enough to hear him.

He looked straight at the nearest camera first, then the next, like he wanted the message to land everywhere.

"Yes," he said. "I’ve seen the clip."

A reporter pushed forward. "So what do you have to say about it?"

He swallowed once.

Then he did it.

"First, I apologize to the public," he said, and his voice shook for half a second before it steadied. "I apologize because I lied before. I took blame that wasn’t only mine."

The reporters leaned in harder.

A woman’s voice cut through. "So you lied during your apology?"

"Yes," he answered. "I was told to."

A loud murmur ran through the group.

Another reporter shouted, "Told by who?"

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t try to protect anyone anymore.

"It wasn’t me leading this whole thing," he said. "I’m an assistant. I don’t have that kind of power. The instruction came from my CEO. The Virex CEO."

For a second, the world paused.

Then the reporters erupted like they smelled blood.

"Say that again!"

"You’re accusing the Virex CEO?"

"Are you claiming the CEO ordered the smear campaign against Dayo?"

"Do you have proof?"

He held his ground, because backing down now would kill him worse than the truth.

"Yes," he said again. "The CEO instructed it. The CEO pushed it. The CEO wanted it kept alive."

A reporter shoved a mic closer. "Then why did you do it?"

His laugh came out ugly, almost bitter.

"Because you people don’t understand what it means to work under someone like that," he snapped, then forced himself to breathe. "Because I was told if I didn’t cooperate, I would be finished. Because I thought it would end and it didn’t. Because I thought taking the blame would protect the company and protect me, and all it did was make me the face of it."

Another reporter asked, sharp, "So you’re saying you were forced to bow and apologize while the CEO stayed hidden?"

He nodded once. "Yes."

"Then why speak now?" someone asked. "Why flip now?"

He looked at them, eyes narrowed, voice flat.

"Because my life is already destroyed," he said. "And I’m not dying alone for someone who would throw me away without blinking."

That line landed.

You could see it in their faces. The hunger. The excitement. This wasn’t gossip anymore. This was premium news. This was the kind of confession that turned into headlines before the video even finished uploading.

They kept asking. He kept answering. Not perfectly. Not calmly. But honestly enough that it sounded real, and that was the most dangerous kind of truth.

When he finally stepped back, the reporters were already turning, already talking into their cameras, already sending clips to their editors. The swarm didn’t feel like a crowd anymore. It felt like a machine that had found new fuel.

He stood there in the hallway, staring at nothing, and the only thing he could think was this.

The CEO is going to kill me.

And he didn’t even care anymore.

Because at least now the blame had a direction.

At Virex, the CEO was in his office, trying to behave like the world wasn’t laughing at him behind his back.

The pressure had eased slightly these past days, enough for him to sit without feeling like the air was choking him. Enough for him to convince himself the scandal could be managed. His desk was still full of reports, calls, and numbers, but the ring of his phone wasn’t constant anymore.

He was reading something when the door opened too fast.

His new assistant rushed in, breath tight, eyes wide like someone who had just seen an accident.

The CEO’s head snapped up. "What is it?"

"Sir," the assistant said, voice shaking, "it’s happening again."

The CEO’s face hardened instantly. "What is happening again?"

The assistant stepped forward, held out the tablet, and the CEO saw it.

A clip of his former assistant in a press scrum, surrounded by microphones like knives.

The CEO watched, silent, as the man spoke.

He watched the moment the man said it.

"My CEO. The Virex CEO."

The CEO’s breathing changed.

Slow at first. Then heavier. Like his chest couldn’t decide whether to explode or collapse.

"What..." he said quietly.

Then his hand slammed the desk so hard the tablet jumped.

"What the hell is wrong with him?" the CEO snarled. "Is he insane?"

The new assistant flinched. "Sir, it’s already spreading. They’re posting it everywhere. Articles are coming out. They’re saying it’s a direct confession."

The CEO stood up so fast his chair scraped the floor.

"That idiot," he hissed, pacing once, then turning back, eyes burning. "That useless idiot. After everything. After I let him take the heat. After I let him live."

His voice rose. His control started cracking.

"He went to the media and said my name?" he barked. "My name?"

The assistant swallowed. "Yes, sir."

The CEO’s fist clenched. He looked like a man trying to swallow panic with anger and failing.

"Call PR," he snapped. "Now. Call legal. Now. I want every media partner we paid on standby. I want counter-statements drafted. I want his credibility destroyed before midnight."

The assistant nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

The CEO’s eyes narrowed into something colder.

"And find out where he is," he said. "If he thinks he can walk around freely after doing this, he’s stupid."

The assistant hesitated. "Sir... should we deny it?"

The CEO stared at him like he was slow.

"We don’t deny what’s already on camera," he said, voice low and sharp. "We change what people believe about the person saying it."

He turned back to the tablet, replayed the confession again, and his jaw tightened so hard it looked painful.

Then he spoke, almost to himself.

"Fine."

The word sounded like a decision.

"If he wants war, he’ll get it."

And in that moment, the office didn’t feel like an office anymore.

It felt like a man getting ready to burn a city just to save his own name.