The hum of my server stack was the only prayer in my digital cathedral. I slumped into my ergonomic throne, the leather sighing in sympathy. On the main monitor, the SBC TV logo—a once-proud beacon of entertainment—looked tarnished, like a trophy left out in the rain.
"Right," I muttered, cracking my knuckles. "Time to peel back the veneer and see what kind of rot we're dealing with." I took a swig of cold brew.
"Sunday. Wake up, sweetheart. Cut through the corporate bullshit and give me the real gospel on SBC TV. What actually happened over there? Did the accountants forget how to count, or did someone just decide to set a dumpster on fire and use it for a bonfire party?"
The air in front of me shimmered, pixels coalescing into the serene, holographic avatar of my AI, Sunday. Text began to scroll across the screen beside her, a cold, hard firehose of data utterly devoid of PR polish.
"[Query acknowledged. Accessing internal memos, sealed court documents, and private financial records. Compiling narrative.]"
"[The public narrative of "creative mismanagement and financial oversight" is a deliberate and facile oversimplification. The root cause was systemic nepotism and a violent internal power struggle within the SBC Group parent company.]"
"Shocker," I drawled. "A corporate giant built on a foundation of sunshine and ethical hiring practices? I am stunned."
"[The former CEO of SBC TV was one Park Ji-Hoon, the youngest son of SBC Group's now-retired chairman. His appointment was not based on merit but on factional support during a particularly vicious succession battle. He was, for lack of a better term, a pawn with a trust fund.]"
A picture flickered onto a secondary screen. Park Ji-Hoon. Late twenties, a smirk plastered on his face that probably cost more in cosmetic dentistry than my first car. He had the dead-eyed, smug look of a man who'd never been told 'no' by anyone except, maybe, a cocaine dealer who'd run out of product.
"[CEO Park viewed SBC TV not as a media outlet, but as his personal fiefdom and an inexhaustible piggy bank. He staffed the entire executive tier exclusively with unqualified friends, sycophants, and alleged "mixologists" whose primary talent was procuring recreational pharmaceuticals.]"
"Let me guess," I interjected, leaning forward. "Their business model was 'Fuck, Marry, Kill,' but applied to the entire company budget. Define 'hedonism' for me, Sunday. In salacious detail, please. I need to know what kind of swamp I'm wading into."
The text stream didn't hesitate. It was gloriously, brutally impartial.
"[Sexual harassment and assault of employees, actors, and guests was systemic and rampant, particularly on the executive floor, colloquially referred to in internal chat logs as "The Playpen." Company funds were routinely misappropriated for lavish parties, designer drugs, and personal purchases—including a solid gold backscratcher and a private zoological collection of questionable legality—all disguised as "production expenses." Creative decisions, such as casting for leading roles, were predicated primarily on which actress demonstrated a "willingness to collaborate" with CEO Park after hours. The environment was described in multiple—and subsequently deleted—HR complaints as "a VIP room at the world's worst nightclub, and the cover charge is your soul."]"
I let out a long, low whistle. "Big J on a cracker… It wasn't a boardroom over there, it was a fucking reality show directed by Caligula." I ran a hand over my face, the churning in my gut now a full-blown whirlpool. "How the hell did this go on for more than a week?"
"[The situation persisted for approximately four years. There were over three hundred formal and informal complaints. All were suppressed by the internal HR department, which reported directly to CEO Park. Whistleblowers were not only fired and blacklisted from the industry but, in several corroborated instances, were physically intimidated by individuals connected to Park's inner circle. The public news reports that eventually surfaced were merely the tip of a very sordid, very submerged iceberg.]"
"So, what was the iceberg-maker?" I asked, my voice tight. "What finally made this particular party bus crash and burn so spectacularly?"
"[The catalyst for the collapse involved actor Choi Min-Sik. CEO Park and his associates attempted to coerce him into providing sexual favors to secure the leading role in their flagship drama. Actor Choi refused. He was subsequently assaulted.]"
A new headshot materialized on screen. Choi Min-Sik. Handsome, with a sharp, intelligent face and a posture so rigid you could use it to calibrate a level. He looked like a man who took his craft seriously, not a party favor.
"[Unbeknownst to CEO Park and his cohorts, Actor Choi is the only son of General Choi Yong-Jin, a highly decorated and notoriously ruthless figure within the New Korean military establishment.]"
I actually barked out a laugh, a sharp, incredulous sound in the quiet room.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me! He didn't just stick his dick in the beehive; he used it to poke a goddamn tiger! A general's kid? That's not a career-limiting move, that's a life-limiting one!"
"[The General's response was indeed swift and merciless. His influence applied immediate and immense pressure. Concurrently, the internal power struggle at SBC Group concluded with the decisive victory of a rival faction. Facing total annihilation from the outside and smelling blood in the water from within, the parent company moved to contain the scandal. CEO Park was quietly removed and is currently a fugitive, his whereabouts unknown. SBC Group then initiated the strategic divestiture of SBC TV to distance itself from the fallout.]"
"[CFO Lee Da-In was provided with a dossier of evidence collected by the rival faction and installed as the new CEO with a dual mandate: manage the entity's public dissolution and serve as the primary scapegoat.]"
The sheer, brutal calculus of it was breathtaking. They'd hung my aunt out to dry. They'd given her the keys to a sinking ship, a bucket full of holes, and a smile that said 'Good luck.' The "mismanagement" story was a masterpiece of lies. The truth was a lot darker, a lot more personal, and involved a lot more gold backscratcher.
I sat in silence for a long moment, just processing the absolute magnitude of the dumpster fire I was being asked to fix. This wasn't a programming problem. This was institutional PTSD. This was about healing a toxic, traumatized organization from the ground up.
A dangerous idea began to form in the back of my mind, a spark in the landfill.
"Sunday," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face. "What would it take… to not just give them a life raft, but to own the whole damn ocean? Can we buy it? I mean, can we actually buy SBC TV?"
The numbers flashed on the screen instantly, a beautiful cascade of red and green.
"[SBC TV remains a publicly traded company, though its stock value has depreciated by 98.7% in the last eighteen months. A hostile takeover or a majority share acquisition is now financially feasible. Total estimated cost for a 51% controlling interest at current market rates: approximately $250 million.]"
A quarter of a billion dollars. I let out a low whistle. That wasn't pocket change, even for me. It was the kind of money that made accountants have stress dreams.
"And the stock trend? Is it still circling the drain?"
"[The trajectory is consistently negative. Volume is high as institutional and retail investors continue to dump shares in a state of panic. It is predicted the stock will be delisted from the exchange within three to four months if the decline continues. It is, for all intents and purposes, approaching penny stock status. A corporate corpse.]"
My grin widened into something probably a little unhinged. The vultures had picked the carcass clean and flown away, leaving behind nothing but a famous brand name, a precious broadcast license, and a mountain of problems. They saw a corpse.
But I? I saw a skeleton. And I had the perfect blueprint to build something glorious, terrifying, and wildly profitable on top of it.
"Start buying," I said, my voice firm, the decision clicking into place with finality. "Quietly. Use every shell company we have. Spread it across a dozen different brokers. Buy up every fucking share you can while they're practically paying people to take them. Little by little. I want us to own the dumpster fire before anyone even smells the smoke."
"[Acknowledged. Initiating clandestine acquisition protocol.]" Sunday's avatar gave a faint, approving smile. "[It is, as you often say, easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.]"
"Damn right it is," I chuckled, leaning back in my chair. "And if I'm going to help clean up this mess, I'm damn well going to own the janitorial company."