T1 Stars felt unsettled.
Having broken away from its parent company, T1 Ent, this company was no longer just another branch of a sprawling conglomerate. That sounded good at first, but in reality it carried tremendous uncertainty. The higher-ups who used to meddle and pull strings were gone—and so was anyone to take responsibility.
“–What do you think?”
“–Assistant Manager... hehe, should we look into it together?”
Among the staff, tentative jokes about future treatment and possible job changes circulated. There was equal concern about their superiors. After the board members evaporated amid political indictments, all that remained were an externally hired CEO and various department heads and team leaders. Everyone watched their moves closely—if those people made a run for it, they’d have to act fast too!
“–The CEO will probably head to another company, right? lol”
“–Maybe they won’t?”
Yet there was still reason for hope.
“–We still have a solid artist lineup.”
Indeed. They had several groups with dedicated fanbases bringing in steady income through tours. And among them, one group stood out most of all.
“–Testa is renewing their contract, right?”
Testa! Three years running, recipient of the Grand Prize—undeniably a top idol group. They even produced their own music, so losing the overlords wouldn’t be a huge issue. The staff—unclear on exactly how T1 and its subsidiary had fallen out—were certain that just securing Testa would keep the company afloat.
“–Ah, even if this place falls, the label will survive, right?”
“–Staff might get absorbed into the label, or the label might swallow the company entirely.”
They indulged in wildly optimistic fantasies. Publicly, the mood was:
――――――――――――
[T1 Ent subsidiary seniors?]
Curious how things are going. Is everyone happy about independence?
――――――――――――
“lol”
“Mysterious vibes.”
“I’m still just coming to work—no real issues so far.”
Instead of airing petty grievances, they deflected. Their reaction came from genuine concern. Yet amid that strange mix of worry and hope...
[Testa Park Mundae: Then I’ll see you tomorrow.]
“...!”
The CEO sat in his office, jaw dropping at the text he’d just received.
Park Mundae was insane. At least, that was the CEO’s firm conclusion. He’d once thought the boy brash but harmless—until Testa had reluctantly signed a label contract under thinly veiled threats. Since then, his opinion was set. The timing of every move and every word was cunningly precise.
‘I should’ve caught on as soon as I learned his background.’
An orphan who’d taken first place on a survival show at that age—how hardened must he be? The CEO had underestimated him and paid the price.
‘Who’d expect that from a kid?’
After the label incident, time passed quietly. Testa kept busy without further outbursts, ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) and Park Mundae hadn’t reached out again. Then came...
“Please read these.”
“.......”
With trembling fingers, the CEO picked up the stack of papers Park Mundae had left. Key sections were redacted in black—just like during the label threat.
They were lawsuit documents. And not just about Testa.
“Ah, starting on page 7, it covers other groups.”
Mirinae and Spacer. Next in profit behind Testa, their materials were neatly organized. All about unfair treatment by the agency—less severe but still troubling. Mirinae’s centered on unapproved tours and U.S. activities; Spacer’s on member neglect.
Still, there was only one motive for compiling this:
“Next month... no later than the following month, we’ll file a class-action suit.”
“...!”
It hit like a thunderclap. And it was utterly ruthless—especially toward Testa.
The CEO forced down his rising panic and shook his head.
“No... even showing me this.”
He tapped the papers with a forced laugh, trying to mask his anger.
“Testa—you already tacked on a label contract over this, and if you do it again, it’ll put us in a bind. Who’d want to work with Testa if you pull this stunt without cause?”
Truth be told, filing suit would let them drag in the label issue too, making a bigger mess.
“And as for the other groups—honestly, these aren’t real grounds for suit. They’re everyday mistakes anyone could make. Judges aren’t fools.”
Half-true. But Park Mundae remained calm.
“Winning isn’t what matters.”
“Huh?”
“What matters is what happens to this company when all three groups stop working.”
“......!!”
“There won’t be any funding.”
That was the core. The moment they filed suit... activities would halt. Album and merch sales would plummet—fans wouldn’t buy. The CEO pictured it instantly:
‘A small agency, cut off from its lifeblood... it’s over.’
The longer the suit dragged on, the more losses piled up, while fixed costs marched on. T1 had already washed its hands of this subsidiary—no more funding. Other investors wouldn’t touch a company about to be sued by its three top acts. Then...
“Shortly thereafter, bankruptcy.”
Park Mundae delivered the verdict.
“Once the company goes under, we’re automatically free.”
“.......”
A chill gripped the CEO’s spine. A premonition so accurate it felt like fate.
‘We’re screwed.’
Simply by filing suit, they could ruin the company. He clenched his teeth, mixing English curses and Korean in his mind, then forced a casual tone.
“That’s a wild idea. Haha. Testa could just not renew and leave, couldn’t they? I don’t know why you’d choose the harder path.”
Park Mundae nodded, having cleverly baited that exact response.
“I’m doing it for the other groups. As their senior.”
These mad bastards! After making so much money, why this grudge?
‘The moment you say no renewal, your reputation’s toast.’
Determined to rally public opinion against them, the CEO steeled himself to warn them. But just then...
“That’s why I’m telling you first.”
Park Mundae hesitated, then added softly, “You treated us well back at the label.”
There was genuine warmth in that voice.
“I’m telling you to escape... before we file suit.”
“.......”
“Before we make our move.”
The CEO froze. Park Mundae showed no contempt—he’d clearly agonized over whether to tell him, knowing the risk. If he was willing to share, maybe it was out of real goodwill.
Despite Park Mundae’s age, he empathized. The CEO pictured a young rookie feeling indebted after duping an adult once—maybe even feeling sorry.
Of course, none of that was true.
‘He’s playing me.’
Park Mundae had never intended to sue. File suit and ruin the company? That would destroy their image—every agency would blacklist them. But the CEO, not an entertainment veteran, didn’t pick up on that nuance. He only noticed one signal:
– “I don’t want to hurt people I know.”
So he assumed... if Testa stood to gain little from suit, they must’ve been coaxed by the other groups into taking the fall for everyone.
That belief gave him the opening he needed.
“Look, changing jobs isn’t child’s play. Do you really think you can leave an agency overnight?”
He meant to pressure Testa into dropping the suit. Park Mundae blinked.
“Are you having trouble?”
“Filing suit is impossible—when exactly do you plan to do it?”
“Hm.”
Park Mundae paused agonizingly, then spoke—offering a lifeline.
“What if we didn’t file suit?”
“...!”
“How about this.”
He frowned thoughtfully, then laid out a few words like a case theory. In that moment, the CEO snapped awake.
If they did it this way...
“...This gives you time, and preserves your portfolio when you move.”
Finishing his pitch, Park Mundae stared the CEO down.
“You know there’s no vision for this company anymore.”
T1 had let them go. The CEO knew it too. He’d been hoping to squeeze more out of Testa, but now...
‘Timing is everything in business.’
Whoever makes the first move loses the least and gains the most. He made up his mind and spoke.
Park Mundae’s lips curved into a faint smile.
The next evening.
“Hyung—what’s the news?”
Ryu Geon woo hung up a call from head office, grinning with surprise and relief.
“They want to discuss the group name. I think they’ll sell the trademark.”
“...!”
“Really...?”
“Yeah.”
“WOW!!”
The living room erupted. Bae Sejin slapped the air in excitement.
“It worked?”
“It did.”
See? I’d told you. I smirked, recalling the CEO’s pleas.
‘That selfish bastard.’
It wasn’t genius. Just this:
‘Sell us the trademark before the company goes under.’
Once the company collapses, the trademark goes to auction—and you could buy it then. But this way, he gave the CEO a chance to cash out early, book a short-term profit, and preserve the agency’s image by making a generous deal. Then he’d deliver the final blow and walk away.
And us? We justified it thus:
– “The other groups will stay on the roster, so they’ll feel safe. Even if the company collapses, they keep the name for their future.”
– “Instead of dragging it out to bankruptcy, we’ll just buy it now.”
A win–win for everyone.
“—So?”
“Yes.”
I grinned.
“No need for a suit.”
“...!”
“Oh!”
“Then we can leave peacefully without renewing!”
“Awesome—best idea ever!”
High-fives flew around, context be damned. Seon Ah hyun raised a hand quietly.
“Um, but then... the other groups stay here? If we don’t sue?”
“...!”
I chuckled, remembering Gold 2 biting his nails in anxiety after boldly demanding, “You’ll save us too, right? You wouldn’t just bail on Testa?? ㅠㅠ”
“No.”
I’d promised to help them escape too—it would be fraud otherwise.
“They’ll be next.”
The great agency jailbreak. Now all that remained was to wait.
