No, Amy doesn't speak Japanese, Mandarin, or Korean. When she speaks, it's either in numbers or the other party understands English. They are from high society, so you should expect them to at least understand basic English.
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*****
"I possess hundreds of millions of dollars in secured Korean credit facilities sitting in escrow right now," Marvin stated. His voice dropped to a low hum of power. "My sprawling Japanese entertainment operation already builds the anime and manga infrastructure. They will need Korean musical talent attached to their soundtracks within three years. I hold deep relationships with American and European High society with distribution partners that simply don't exist for YG yet. You keep making the music. I build the world it reaches."
Yang Hyun-suk leaned back in his chair again. He crossed his arms. He thought—the visible, transparent process of someone analyzing complex information honestly, rather than managing the deceptive appearance of processing.
"The thirty million dollar capital injection," Yang said. He probed the financial lifeline.
"Liquid cash, available immediately upon closing the deal," Marvin confirmed.
"Earmarked for studio infrastructure expansion, aggressive talent recruitment, or whatever the company needs to operate at the next tier."
"And if I don't like where you steer the company? If your American strategic direction fundamentally conflicts with my artistic vision?"
"Your contract includes an artistic integrity clause," Jay Kim interjected. He spoke from the corner of the room where he sat quietly. "If a corporate strategic decision requires YG to produce content or endorse products that you determine inconsistent with the company's artistic identity, you hold the unilateral right to escalate the issue to the board. The board legally cannot override your determination in matters of core artistic direction."
"The board," Yang said. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the boy. "That's you."
"Among others," Marvin nodded. "But yes. If you and I disagree about artistic direction, I lose. The contract dictates that."
Yang Hyun-suk looked at him for a long, calculating moment.
"You give me everything," the founder said. Natural suspicion laced his voice. "The capital, the global access, the creative control, the CEO position. What's the catch? There is always a catch in this industry."
"The catch? I expect you to build something historic," Marvin said. His eyes locked onto the man's soul. "Not just successful. I expect *extraordinary*. I want the kind of company that exists in fifteen years as a premier cultural institution in Asia." He held Yang's gaze. The magic flared slightly to underscore the truth of his words. "I believe you can do that. I wager twenty million dollars on it. The crushing weight of that expectation serves as the catch."
Yang Hyun-suk fell quiet for a long moment. He digested the gravity of the challenge.
"You built the music for *Titanic*," he said suddenly. He shifted the topic.
"Yes."
"I heard the song." He paused. He tilted his head. He evaluated the boy not as an executive, but as a peer. "It's a good song."
"Thank you."
"A *very* good song." Yang looked at him with newfound respect. "You understand music. You understand the structure of a hook."
"I understand what music *does* to people," Marvin corrected gently. "Which differs from merely understanding music technically. For our current purposes, understanding the emotional response proves a more relevant skill."
Yang nodded slowly. A small smile touched his lips. He looked down at the thick contract resting on the table. He picked it up and read it.
He didn't perform the act of reading for the lawyers; he actually dissected the text. He checked the vital provisions with sharp focus.
He signed it on September 19th.
---
The instructions Marvin handed down to his Korean executive team over the next forty-eight hours proved sweeping and detailed. He laid out the sprawling architecture of Meyers Korea Studios. He utilized a series of diagrams drawn on the conference room whiteboard, and he supplemented them with thick dossiers of financial projections.
Meyers Korea Studios would never act as a mere holding company for agency stakes. It would become the epicenter of another cultural monopoly.
They planned to create K-pop, fund K-dramas, produce feature films, and control the distribution pipelines, and later even get into webtoons once the internet got big.
They drafted plans for the acquisition and ground-up creation of new Idol Training & Management Companies. They established an in-house Music Production & Publishing arm to retain song rights. They hunted for vulnerable K-drama and Movie Production Studios to acquire for pennies on the dollar.
They negotiated Media & Distribution Partnerships with the major Korean broadcasting networks. They plotted Overseas Expansions into China and Southeast Asia.
They will launch dedicated Branding, Fashion & Endorsements divisions to monetize the idols beyond album sales. Underpinning it all, they acquired the real estate required for the Infrastructure & Facilities—training compounds, dormitories, and recording hubs that rivaled small college campuses.
They assembled the engine of the Korean Wave, piece by piece.
---
Park Jin-young was twenty-six years old. He possessed the rare, electrifying quality of someone whose artistic instincts remained completely inseparable from his commercial ones. He never cynically suppressed his art in favor of making money. He genuinely didn't experience the two drives as separate entities.
He wrote songs that proved simultaneously artistically fascinating and commercially inescapable. He didn't achieve this by calculating a cynical balance. His brain simply couldn't find a melody that wasn't both.
He founded JYP Entertainment the previous year. The conviction that Korean pop music could be produced, packaged, and delivered at a global quality level drove him. The existing, sloppy industry infrastructure simply couldn't support it.
He proved entirely right. The young company grew rapidly as a direct result of his vision. But, like YG, it operated under the suffocating capital constraints of a one-year-old startup. It struggled to survive in a ravaged, post-crisis market.
The JYP meeting became the most straightforward of the three major acquisitions. Park Jin-young never played the easy or naive negotiator—he proved brilliant and demanding.
Instead, Marvin intentionally structured the offer to align with Park's actual, immediate operational needs.
A ninety-five percent equity stake for Meyers Media. Thirty million dollars in liquid cash at signing. Another thirty million guaranteed in operational injections over the next two years. The CEO position was retained, carrying the exact same lucrative terms and creative independence clauses Yang Hyun-suk received.
Park Jin-young read the contract with the focused speed of a man who processed complex documents quickly. He smartly spent his time analyzing the substantive provisions rather than getting bogged down in the legal boilerplate.
"The global distribution access," Park said. He tapped a clause on page eight. "The logistical mechanism for this—how does that actually work in practice?"
"It utilizes the Meyers Media global network," Marvin explained. He leaned forward. "We are building distribution partnerships in North America, Europe, and Latin America right now for the Korean content these agencies produce. When YG or JYP develops a polished, ready-to-export act, we already have the relationship infrastructure in place to move that content into international markets. The agency doesn't need to waste years and millions of dollars trying to construct those foreign relationships independently."
"And the international markets," Park pressed. His brow furrowed with skepticism. "Are they actually ready for Korean pop music? The language barrier stands high."
"Not yet," Marvin answered honestly. "In 1998? No. The West isn't ready. By 2003, yes, the door cracks open. By 2007, it opens wider. By 2012, the floodgates shatter."
Marvin paused, letting the timeline sink in. "The strategic question is whether you want to be positioned and armed for that moment when it arrives, or whether you want to start building toward it from scratch in 2007, when the window of opportunity is closing."
Park searched the boy's face for any sign of doubt. "You are confident about that timeline."
"I am confident about the *direction* of the global culture," Marvin corrected smoothly.
"The timeline always has variables. The direction is not a variable. It is a certainty."
"And if the direction is wrong? If the West rejects us?"
"Then I have personally made an expensive mistake," Marvin shrugged. "Which is my financial risk, not yours. Your only real risk in this deal is whether your creative vision survives the corporate partnership. The contract is designed by my lawyers to protect your creative vision from my interference. The financial ruin is my problem."
Park Jin-young looked down at the contract for another quiet minute. His mind mapped the future of his company with thirty million dollars in the bank.
He signed the document on September 22nd.
---
Daniel Han Laurent arrived in Seoul on September 24th.
It was the exact same day that Marvin officially turned thirteen years old.
He celebrated his birthday with the exhausting routine of a man locked in continuous, high-stakes business meetings for two solid weeks. The morning blurred into a chaotic series of transatlantic phone calls.
He received warm, loving calls from his parents. They wished him a happy birthday and reminded him of his promise to return for Thanksgiving. His grandparents called, followed by a surprisingly emotional call from his uncle, his soon-to-be aunt, and the extended family.
And, of course, the romantic, lingering calls from his girls poured in.
Lindsay started it early. Her voice sounded bright and energetic as she demanded to know what presents he had received. Jessica called next, offering a sassy, fiery birthday wish that masked her genuine affection. Dorothy called during a break in her training; her tone remained practical but warm. Beyoncé called from a Houston studio, singing a brief, sweet a cappella rendition of 'Happy Birthday' that made the hair on his arms stand up. Miranda called, her sophisticated voice a reminder of the field was walking into. Scarlett called from New York, bubbling with news about an audition. Diana called, her aristocratic tone soft and affectionate.
He even received frantic, business-laced calls from Jeff, his Hollywood agent, and a few former co-stars. Even Harvey Weinstein called. His grating voice boomed through the receiver.
He acted as if he missed the boy dearly—though Marvin knew the studio boss just needed his golden goose happy before *The Sixth Sense* promotion tour kicked off.
His mobile phone never left his hand. It rang the entire morning.
He managed a brief afternoon celebration. Amy provided a small, elegant cake in the Gangnam office breakroom. He blew out the candles with a dry smile. Just like they had done for Amy's birthday in August, he returned directly to work by evening. Empires waited.
Daniel Han Laurent possessed a quality that made him invaluable to the operation. He operated flawlessly at the volatile intersection of human beauty and cold commercial strategy, completely distinct from the financial and legal teams.
He understood that the way a person *looked* was not a fixed biological attribute. It served as a highly managed system engineered toward lucrative outcomes.
At thirty-four years old, half Korean and half French, he had spent his life oscillating between Seoul and Paris. He possessed the rare bicultural fluency that came from genuine lived immersion rather than academic exposure. He had spent a grueling decade operating at a senior executive level in the European modeling industry—specifically with Elite Model Management.
He was not a public figure. He acted as the invisible infrastructure *behind* the public figures. He identified raw talent long before anyone else recognized it, and he positioned it for the exact moment the fashion world was ready to receive it.
He sat in the sleek eighth-floor conference room of the Meyers Korea headquarters. He carefully looked over the organizational structure Marvin had laid out. He studied the three newly acquired agency stakes, the integrated entertainment strategy, and the logistical connection to the Japanese manga and anime operations.
"You are building a system," Daniel observed. He spoke in the fluid, accented English that served as their common language.
"An integrated one," Marvin corrected.
"The Asian idol industry and the European modeling industry," Daniel mused, tapping the paper. "You described them in your brief as two sides of the same coin."
"Both systems produce human beings as commercial products," Marvin stated coldly. "Both systems historically extract life-altering value from those human beings, while returning only a fraction of it to the talent. Both systems organize around the financial needs of the corporate infrastructure, rather than the psychological or physical wellbeing of the talent generating the revenue."
"You're changing that age-old dynamic," Daniel said. European cynicism colored his voice.
"I'm changing the extraction model," Marvin clarified. "Not for altruistic or moral reasons—for pure efficiency. Talent that is healthy, financially secure, and creatively invested stays with the agency longer. They produce better art. Talent that is exhausted, financially precarious, and creatively constrained eventually leaves the label, or suffers a public breakdown that ruins the brand."
Marvin leaned forward. "The industry operates on the assumption that talent is replaceable. That might hold true in the lower tiers of catalog modeling. In the Idol market? It is false. You don't just need raw beauty. You need elite vocals, creative charisma, and synchronized dance skills. The assumption of replaceability becomes a fatal lie at the top of the market."
Daniel looked at him, his interest piqued. "The top of the market is what you're building toward."
*****
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