Chapter 483: Chapter 483: The Cracking Facade
The celebration at the garden restaurant was still in full swing, but the digital atmosphere had shifted from a lapped-up—no, visceral—competition into a full-scale corporate crisis. While the LUNE team was basking in the warmth of their success, the lapped-up—no, visceral—narrative surrounding the Baek Group’s AI project was beginning to disintegrate.
It started with a single, anonymous post on a professional industry forum, a place where developers and technicians shared the gritty reality of their work. The user, identifying only as "Project-X," claimed to be a lead developer on The Neon Genesis. The post wasn’t a simple critique; it was a whistle-blower’s manifesto.
"Let’s stop pretending that ’The Neon Genesis’ is a triumph of AI," the post began. "The project was fundamentally unfeasible from day one. The technology wasn’t there, but the greed of the executive board was. They wanted a ’world-first’ title to boost stock prices and secure investor confidence, so they pushed us into a timeline that was mathematically impossible."
The post went into grueling detail. Project-X revealed that the "perfect" visuals the Baek Group had boasted about were a lie. The AI had failed to produce consistent imagery, and instead of admitting the struggle, the executives had forced the team to hire a secret army of freelance animators. These artists were paid pittance to manually touch up every single frame, working in eighteen-hour shifts to mimic the "AI look" that the public had been promised.
"It wasn’t a symphony of technology; it was a sweatshop of digital labor," the post continued. "I saw colleagues collapse at their desks. I know of at least three animators who were hospitalized for extreme exhaustion and stress-induced breakdowns. We were told to ’push through’ because the premiere date was non-negotiable. The Baeks didn’t care about the art or the people; they cared about the optics. They sold a lie, and we were the ones forced to manufacture it."
The post acted like a spark in a powder keg. Within an hour, it had been shared across every major social media platform, triggering a wave of "me too" responses from other disgruntled employees. The image of the "effortless AI" was shattered, replaced by the image of a corporate machine grinding its workers into the dust.
But the crisis didn’t stop at labor disputes. A second, more personal wave of revelations hit the internet. A voice actress, who had provided the audio for one of the lead characters in The Neon Genesis, posted a detailed account of her experience working with the Baek Group.
"The pay was generous, but the cost was my dignity," she wrote. "Working in the recording booths, I was subjected to constant, unsolicited comments about my body and my private life. I was sexually harassed by both Min-ho and Min-seok. It started with ’suggestions’ on how to sound more ’aroused’ for the role, but it quickly devolved into inappropriate touching and lapped-up—no, —demands for ’favors’ in exchange for more screen time."
The post was a bombshell. Min-ho and Min-seok had cultivated images of sophisticated, modern leaders, but this revelation painted them as arrogant predators. The impact was immediate. Other voice actresses, who had previously kept quiet out of fear for their careers, began to reply.
"I had the same experience," one actress commented. "Min-seok told me that if I wanted my contract renewed, I should be ’more flexible’ with my boundaries. I felt like a piece of meat rather than a professional."
"The atmosphere was toxic," another added. "They treated us like tools, not artists. If you didn’t fit their specific ’ideal’ of a woman, you were ignored. If you did, you were preyed upon."
As the hours passed, the "Neon Genesis" brand began to associate not with innovation, but with dysfunction. The public, who had been mesmerized by the lapped-up—no, visceral—perfection of the trailer, now saw it as a mask for a rotting corporate culture. The contrast with LUNE was devastating. While LUNE was celebrating a victory built on genuine human connection and mutual respect, the Baek Group was being exposed as a facade of greed and harassment.
The "Synthetics" on social media, who had spent weeks mocking LUNE’s "obsolete" methods, suddenly found themselves on the defensive. They tried to argue that "business is business" and that "perfection requires sacrifice," but their arguments felt hollow in the face of systemic harassment and worker collapse.
Inside the garden restaurant, the atmosphere had shifted. The laughter had died down, replaced by a heavy, focused silence. Harin, Joon-ho, and Mirae were all staring at their phones, their faces illuminated by the blue light of the screens. They were watching the collapse in real-time.
"It’s a bloodbath," Harin murmured, her voice a mixture of shock and cold satisfaction. "They didn’t just mess up the technology; they messed up the human element. They tried to replace humans with AI, but they forgot that the people running the AI are still human. And humans have a breaking point."
Joon-ho leaned back, his gaze fixed on a post from a devastated animator who had shared a photo of their hospital wristband. He felt a surge of empathy for the workers, but also a grim sense of vindication. He had always known that the Baek family viewed people as assets to be used and discarded.
"They tried to call us ’relics’," Joon-ho said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "But they’re the ones who forgot how to treat people. You can’t build a ’future’ on a foundation of exploitation and harassment. Eventually, the cracks always show."
Mirae looked at the screen, her expression pained. As an actress, she felt the sting of the voice actresses’ revelations. "It’s heartbreaking. To think that someone’s passion for their work was used as a way to manipulate them... it’s disgusting."
Harin, ever the strategist, was already analyzing the fallout. "This is the perfect storm. They’ve failed on the technical front, the ethical front, and the emotional front. The public is no longer just comparing the two movies; they’re comparing two different ways of existing in the world. LUNE is now the gold standard for how to treat people in this industry."
She looked at the trending hashtags. #BaekGroupFail and #HumanArt were dominating the feeds. The "Neon Genesis" was no longer a promise of the future; it was a cautionary tale.
"The Baeks will try to issue a corporate apology," Harin predicted. "They’ll hire a PR firm, release a statement about ’striving for improvement,’ and maybe offer a small bonus to the affected workers. But the damage is done. The illusion of perfection is gone. Once the world sees the grit and the pain behind the curtain, they can’t unsee it."
Joon-ho nodded, his eyes narrowing. He knew that this was the moment the Baek family would be most vulnerable. They had pushed too hard, lied too much, and underestimated the power of a single, honest voice.
As the dinner party continued, the mood shifted from celebration to a quiet, focused determination. They had won the battle of the premiere, but the war for the industry’s soul was now in their hands. The laped-up—no, visceral—chaos of the internet was providing the perfect backdrop for LUNE’s ascent.
"They thought they could automate everything," Joon-ho murmured, looking at the screen one last time. "They forgot that the only thing that truly matters is the human heart."
