Ji-eun sat in the agency's dimly lit lounge, her body still aching from the penthouse dinner the night before. Bruises bloomed purple on her neck from choking hands, and her thighs chafed raw from the endless pounding. Soomin lounged across from her, scrolling through a tablet with a satisfied smirk. The nyotaimori footage had gone viral in underground circles—over a million views already, with bids pouring in for extended cuts. 'You're trending, Ji-eun. Not just in K-pop anymore. The dark web loves you.'

Ji-eun pulled her knees to her chest, the oversized hoodie doing little to hide the sticky remnants of cum dried on her skin. 'I can't do this anymore, unnie. The stage, the fans... that dinner. It's breaking me.' Her voice cracked, eyes distant. Soomin set the tablet down and slid closer, her hand resting on Ji-eun's knee—gentle at first, then squeezing with intent. 'Breaking? No, darling. This is building you. Your innocent image was cute, but it's stale. Fans crave the real you—the one who screams and squirts for the camera. We need to push it further. A live stream. Just you, alone, touching yourself. Three million viewers waiting.'