Chapter 479: Chapter 479: SNS War
The internet had devolved into a full-scale ideological battlefield. The simultaneous existence of The Fox Priestess and The Neon Genesis trailer had created a binary split in the digital landscape. On one side were the "Humanists," loyal LUNE fans and art purists who championed raw emotion and authentic performance. On the other side were the "Synthetics," tech-enthusiasts and Baek Group supporters who viewed AI as the inevitable evolution of art.
The social media feeds were a chaotic storm of arguments. Every post about LUNE was met with a counter-argument about the "obsolescence" of human acting. Every praise for the AI trailer was countered by a critique of its "sterile" and "soulless" perfection. The "ship wars" had morphed into something larger—a war for the very definition of creativity.
Amidst this noise, Joon-ho’s personal fan page had become a fortress. While other LUNE-related tags were being overrun by Baek Group trolls—users who flooded comments with "relic" memes and "AI is superior" hashtags—Joon-ho’s page remained a sanctuary of absolute order.
@unholynuna was holding the fort with a ruthless efficiency. She didn’t just moderate; she curated. She had implemented a strict filtration system, banning trolls within milliseconds of their first post. She didn’t engage in arguments; she simply erased the noise. To maintain the momentum, she began dropping a series of strategic teasers—short, high-impact clips and candid photos from the set that Harin had carefully curated.
These weren’t the "perfect" images the Baeks were pushing. They were visceral. A shot of Joon-ho’s gaze, heavy with unspoken longing; a clip of Mirae’s voice breaking in a moment of raw vulnerability; a photograph of the cast laughing between takes. These snippets acted as a counter-strike, reminding the public that the "human element" wasn’t just a nostalgic preference—it was a pulsing, living energy.
Inside the quiet luxury of the apartment, Harin sat on the sofa, her eyes scanning the latest metrics on her tablet. She watched as the engagement on @unholynuna’s page skyrocketed, the "human" narrative gaining ground despite the aggressive push from the Baek Group.
"You’re incredibly lucky to have her," Harin said, her voice breaking the silence. She looked over at Joon-ho, who was lounging beside her, his expression calm and unbothered. "I’ve looked at the data. My entire PR team, with all their experience and budget, is barely able to contain the trolls on the main LUNE and Mirae pages. They’re playing a game of whack-a-mole, and they’re losing. But @unholynuna... she’s a surgical strike. I couldn’t find a better admin for your page if I paid a million dollars."
Joon-ho let out a small, amused huff. "She’s dedicated. I’ll give her that."
"Dedicated is an understatement," Harin replied, a flicker of genuine admiration in her eyes. "She doesn’t just manage a page; she manages a mood. She knows exactly when to drop a photo and when to stay silent. She’s turned your fan page into a psychological weapon. The Baeks think they’re fighting a company, but they’re actually fighting a cult of personality that she’s helping to cultivate. While the lapped-up—no, visceral—energy of the fans is peaking, she’s the one directing the flow. She’s not just blocking trolls; she’s making the trolls look desperate by simply ignoring them."
Harin set the tablet aside, her expression shifting into professional mode. She leaned toward Joon-ho, her voice becoming a low, serious rumble.
"We’re less than a week away from the premiere," she noted. "Is everything on your end ready? I don’t want any last-minute hiccups. I’ve already sent out the invitations to the critics and the power-players in the industry. The ’who’s who’ of Seoul’s elite will be in that room. If we nail this, the Baek family’s AI hype will be exposed as a facade. But if we slip up even once, they’ll pounce."
Joon-ho nodded, his gaze steady. "The footage is locked. The final edits are done. We’re ready."
"Good," Harin replied. She made a note on her digital planner, her fingers moving quickly. "I’ve arranged the seating and the VIP protocols. It’s going to be a pressure cooker. The critics are already primed to compare the two projects. They’re looking for a reason to call us ’obsolete,’ but they’re also desperate for a reason to believe in human art again. We just have to give them the latter."
"And the guests?" she added. "I’ve received confirmation from most of the VIPs. I assume Dong Min-jae is still attending?"
"He is," Joon-ho replied. "But he’ll be coming separately from Chae-won. He doesn’t want the optics of arriving together given the current climate."
Harin nodded, her mind already adjusting the logistics. "Understood. I’ll make the arrangements. Separate entrances, separate escorts. We’ll keep the movements discreet to avoid any unnecessary press chaos before the curtains open. The last thing we need is a paparazzi frenzy that distracts from the film itself."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the window. "The Baek family is betting everything on the ’perfection’ of their AI. They’ve convinced the distributors that human art is a gamble. But that’s their mistake. Perfection is predictable. Perfection is boring. What people actually crave is the feeling of being moved—the kind of emotion that only comes from the imperfections of a human performance."
"They’re trying to sell a mirror," Joon-ho added, his voice a low rumble. "Something that reflects what the audience wants to see. But we’re selling a window. Something that lets them see something they’ve never experienced before."
Harin smiled, the predatory glint returning to her eyes. "Exactly. The ’Neon Genesis’ is a product; The Fox Priestess is an experience. That’s the distinction we need to hammer home. I’ve already briefed the critics who are in our pocket. They won’t be praising the movie; they’ll be praising the soul of the movie. We’re going to make the AI project look like a high-end appliance—functional, expensive, but ultimately cold."
She looked back at the tablet, scrolling through the lapped-up—no, visceral—reactions to the latest teaser. "The public is already starting to tire of the ’perfection.’ The AI trailer was a shock, but the novelty is wearing off. Now, they’re starting to miss the grit. They’re starting to miss the chemistry. We’ve waited until the last possible second to drop the final teasers, and the result is that the hunger has become an obsession."
Joon-ho shifted, pulling Harin closer. "The Baeks think they’ve won because they have the faster processor. But they’ve forgotten that the audience doesn’t watch movies with their processors. They watch with their hearts."
"They’ve declared war," Harin murmured, her voice filled with a cold, triumphant confidence. "And they’ve spent their energy building a digital mirage. We’ve spent ours building a masterpiece. I can’t wait to see the look on Min-seok’s face when he realizes that all his ’perfection’ can’t compete with one single, honest tear on a screen."
As the evening deepened, the quiet of the apartment returned, but the tension remained—a coiled spring ready to release. The "Neon Genesis" was a threat, but The Fox Priestess was a promise. And as the final countdown began, the world was about to find out that LUNE wasn’t just playing a game; they were redefining the rules.
