Mine to Break Chapter 3.1 - Sponsors

It was supposed to be a meeting with an investor. The old man, said to be the chairman of a regional construction company, was seated in a hotel room with a large entourage. Except for the old man, all the attendants, regardless of gender, were uniformly scantily clad. It was Park Changseong, who had followed closely behind, who tore off Yoonjo’s clothes as if ripping them apart, leaving Yoonjo frozen in shock.

It was Song Yoonjo’s first time being “entertained,” just past the age of twenty.

“The debt from the restaurant that went to my cousin is one billion won. They begged so desperately to put out the immediate fire that I lent one hundred million under the company’s name. The debut contract fell through due to subpar quality, leaving three billion won in debt.”

After spending a week with the construction company chairman and being hospitalized for three days before discharge, what awaited Yoonjo was Park Changseong, stationed in the president’s office of Lucid Entertainment.

“Yoonjo, the people who invested in you, believing in your potential, are about to be buried under a mountain of debt. I’m in the same boat, having scraped together money from here and there, banking on your potential alone!”

The face of Park Changseong, shouting in anger, no longer held any trace of the kindness or cheerfulness of the Lucid Entertainment president that Yoonjo had known.

“I’ll… pay it back another way.”

“What way? Yoonjo, the days of strutting around with just a pretty face are long gone. Do you know how much money you earned rolling around for a whole week? A measly hundred million. Not even enough to cover a month’s interest. And you’re talking about another way? Ha, just like a kid who doesn’t know the first thing about how the world works.”

Though he usually spoke in a rough tone, Park Changseong wasn’t the type to spew vulgarities at just anyone, anywhere. In that moment, Yoonjo realized he was “just anyone.”

“You’re still standing there so arrogantly? Sit over there and greet him. I personally brought your lawyer.”

Only then did Yoonjo turn and notice a man in his forties sitting on the sofa.

“Hello. You’re Song Yoonjo, right? Lucid Entertainment’s ace. Call me Lawyer Choi. From now on, I’ll be representing your interests.”

“…My interests?”

“Oh, you don’t trust me because President Park appointed me? Well, what can you do, Song Yoonjo? You don’t have the money or connections to hire a lawyer. Even if you did, unless it’s a top-tier one, there’s no way you’d win a legal battle, so you’d better give up that dream early. Why waste time and money? Surely you don’t think you’re unaware that you’re a hopeless debtor, do you?”

“This guy’s a damn money-eating ghost.”

Park Changseong, who had strode from the desk to the sofa in a few steps, lit a cigarette as he sat at the head of the table.

“A quick glance shows he’s been squandering every bit of investment. Maybe the kid’s got no talent?”

“We picked him for his looks, but what a fucking failure. You little punk, are you defying me? Huh? Don’t you hear me telling you to sit?”

Park Changseong, puffing heavily on his cigarette, threw the shortened butt as he bellowed. Yoonjo, narrowly avoiding the cigarette butt, barely managed to sit at the edge of the sofa.

“So, what’s it gonna be?”

“…What do you mean?”

“Are you going to sue for fraud or unfair dealings?”

Lawyer Choi, deliberately adjusting his glasses, asked the question while Park Changseong, sitting behind him, didn’t bother hiding a vile smirk. Before Yoonjo’s gaze could reach him, Lawyer Choi subtly shifted to block his view and continued.

“Going to court isn’t a problem. But, Song Yoonjo.”

Lawyer Choi’s use of “Mr.” for the barely twenty-year-old Yoonjo wasn’t out of respect. It was to press the fact that he was now an adult who had to bear legal responsibility alone.

“Let’s say you really push for a lawsuit. Now, don’t misunderstand; what I’m about to say is just a hypothetical to help you understand.”

His usual pompous demeanor oozed as he began the long explanation.

“‘Male idol trainee, shocking confession just before debut’ ‘Agency accused of forcing entertainment, rookie group’s debut in jeopardy’ ‘Was it consensual, not coerced?’ ‘Is the current debut team member involved?’”

Yoonjo’s condition, having been brutally used by the old man in an expensive hotel room, was far from normal. His body, inside and out, was wrecked, and his mind was no longer intact. Three days of hospital treatment weren’t nearly enough to heal his wounds.

“Those are the headlines that’ll go out under Song Yoonjo’s name. And these are the tame versions. How’s that? Your future’s looking bright, isn’t it? The names of members who haven’t even debuted will climb the search rankings, and the staff who supported you heart and soul from casting to debut selection will be branded as shameless crooks. Let’s say President Park over there is a bastard. But what sin did the company staff, who worked day and night to make you shine, commit? And what about your family?”

Yoonjo, who had been listening silently, unconsciously clasped his trembling hands tightly. His broken and shattered nails dug into his scarred skin.

“What are you going to say to your family, who know nothing and are eagerly waiting for their proud son, brother, or big brother to succeed? Can you even bring yourself to mention it? Whether forced or not, the fact that Song Yoonjo offered his backside to an old man doesn’t change. And what about your family’s debt? Don’t you feel sorry for your parents, who are working themselves to the bone, doing manual labor and washing dishes at restaurants so you can all survive? Don’t you pity your younger siblings, who’ll grow up eating scraps at someone else’s house? And on top of that, you’re going to pile your debts onto them?”

“I… don’t plan to sue or anything like that.”

“That’s right. They said you were smart, and you catch on quick. It’s wise not to start something that’ll just exhaust and hurt us both, right?”

“All I want… is to stop doing this kind of thing.”

“Pfft!”

Unable to hold back, Park Changseong burst out laughing. Lawyer Choi, clicking his tongue, leaned back in his chair, frowning. A fleeting, half-hearted thought of how to persuade this dimwit crossed his cloudy eyes.

“Such a kid, no brains at all.”

“That one’s especially bad. But thanks to him, we handled one deal as easy as blowing our noses.”

Listening to Park Changseong’s self-congratulation about how Yoonjo’s naive innocence made him easy to sell, Lawyer Choi smirked and half-sat up again. Cold sweat beaded on Yoonjo’s skin, who had kept his back ramrod straight the entire time. After enduring so much, even sitting must have been torture. At barely twenty, a kid broken mentally and physically was no challenge for Lawyer Choi to chew up and spit out.

“Song Yoonjo. Let me be blunt. I’m saying this because I see you like a nephew, so listen carefully.”

Does this guy even have a nephew?

A trivial question flickered through Yoonjo’s mind as he endured the throbbing headache pressing on his temples.

“In this state, you can’t debut. The old man who ‘broke you in’ threatened to release the video unless you’re delivered to him regularly until he’s bored of you.”

“…A video?”

“Song Yoonjo. The video is the least of your problems right now.”

“Ah…!”

A hand suddenly reached out, plucked a few strands of Yoonjo’s hair, and placed them on the sleek table.

“What do you think will come up if we send this to the National Forensic Service?”

Lawyer Choi’s wrinkled eyes glinted as they met Yoonjo’s confused gaze.

“Your first ‘opening’ was quite a spectacle, wasn’t it? Your mouth got raw from servicing an impotent old man, and you Spouse, you took five in the rear instead of him, bleeding in the process. I’m not unaware of that, having done it for a whole week. Even a young, sturdy guy would struggle to endure that.”

Sensing what Lawyer Choi was about to say, Yoonjo’s lips parted weakly. Before he could speak, Choi nodded with a knowing look and cut him off.

“No one’s going to blame you for relying on drugs to get through it. Don’t you know why people who sell their bodies often turn to drugs or drink like it’s poison? It’s all to survive. How many people in the same situation would judge you for it?”

“I… was on drugs?”

“Your memory’s spotty, isn’t it? You probably gobbled up those ‘painkillers’ they gave you.”

It was true. The pain had been so intense that Yoonjo had taken countless painkillers they offered. Later, he even begged for more. He thought the relentless nausea was from the relentless pounding, and the gaps in his memory were from passing out.

“Of course, you probably fainted from the strain. But do blackouts last that long or happen that often? It was the drugs hitting you hard. Oh, don’t worry, Chairman Han doesn’t use cheap drugs on a valuable asset. Did you know you were begging for drugs worth hundreds of millions during that week?”

“…”

“If the bill for those drugs comes, you think bankruptcy’s the only thing you’ll face? Forget President Park; you think that old man will let you go for free? Sue? Report it? You’d be lucky to avoid being locked up in some backroom as a meat toilet before you even start.”

The casual tone of Choi’s terrifying words felt jarring.

“There’s no other way. Keep it quiet. What evidence do you have? Hospital records? You think that bastard Park would’ve put you in just any hospital? CCTV? There isn’t any, and even if there were, if it got out, a single flick of a rookie cop’s finger would spread that video in an instant. Bam—a new porn star is born.”

With an exaggerated gesture, Choi spread his arms wide at “bam,” his wrinkled eyes narrowing as he stared Yoonjo down.

“Wouldn’t it be better to live quietly under the radar as a sponsor’s lover, partner, or muse, rather than being exposed as a whore to the world? Huh, Song Yoonjo? Whether by choice or not, once you’re in, there’s no getting out. It’s permanent. Sponsorship? Take it. What’s there to lose? Nobody goes their whole life without sex. If one round of sex can knock off hundreds or thousands of your debt, where’s a better deal than that?”

“What about my debut?”

A mocking laugh erupted from Park Changseong behind Choi. Ignoring the useless Park entirely, Choi clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“You know it’s off the table. Besides, until Chairman Han is done with you, there’s no debut or anything else. We launched with investor money, and if Han gets pissed and releases the video, how do we cover that loss?”

“Can’t I debut and pay it off?”

“I’m telling you, you can’t debut. And even if you did, you think you’d automatically make it big? You confident about that? Didn’t you start this idol thing because you had nothing else going for you? I heard you only joined a street casting because you had no other skills. What, you suddenly found some passion along the way?”

“What about the other members?”

“Don’t worry, we found them better companies to go to.”

“Did the debut… get canceled because of me?”

“I didn’t want to say this, but…”

Choi shrugged with a theatrical air of inevitability, his acting skills laughably poor.

“The investor said to drop you. Said there’s nothing to you but your face. The company was in chaos, trying to appease the investor, when that idiot Park screwed things up. He threw you right into Han’s mouth. That’s what he did. So impatient.”

Unaware that the investor and Chairman Han were the same person, Yoonjo clutched his aching lower abdomen.

“What? You in pain?”

Choi’s half-hearted question didn’t reach Yoonjo’s ears.

“A kid who’s not even a pro, worked to the bone like that—your body’s bound to break down. Wanna go to the hospital? Need some painkillers?”

Yoonjo, hunched over and sweating coldly, shook his head.

“I’m fine. It’ll pass.”

Five grown men’s members had been in and out of that hole for a week straight. If there weren’t any aftereffects, they’d question if he was even human.

“So what do I do now?”

“Keep being a trainee.”

Yoonjo didn’t understand.

“We’ll keep finding sponsors to cover your costs, so stay a trainee. The ‘idol trainee’ label at least gives you some leverage for negotiating your worth.”

Back then, Song Yoonjo had no idea. He didn’t know he’d been set up as a lobbying commodity from the start, registered as an investment borrower on a private platform, or that “good enough to debut” was just a phrase used to inflate his price.

“Took forty minutes to convince our Song Yoonjo.”

That was no persuasion, by anyone’s standards.

“My rates are pretty steep. Ten per minute. But since you’re in a tough spot, I’ll cut you a break.”

“Perverted bastard, always so eager.”

Once again, Park Changseong tossed a jab from behind Choi. But Yoonjo, staring up at Choi unzipping his pants, didn’t hear a thing.

“Open your mouth, Song Yoonjo. I heard you’re damn good at sucking. Make me finish in five minutes, and I’ll waive the consultation fee. Let me go deep, and I’ll even throw in some pocket money.”

Yoonjo didn’t hear what would happen if he failed to do either, but he soon found out. Choi grabbed his hair and pounded relentlessly until Yoonjo passed out from the pain. His barely healed lips tore and bled, his throat ravaged.

That hellish week had been bad enough, but as Yoonjo serviced Choi, he realized hell hadn’t even begun.

ᢉ𐭩

Two in the afternoon. The dorm was empty. Yoonjo, who had fallen into a dead sleep, dragged his heavy body upright. His gaze fell to the back of his hand, where the bandage from yesterday was peeling. He removed the loose bandage, revealing the cigarette burn, still oozing around the edges with lingering heat.

“It hurts.”

Muttering to himself, Yoonjo threw off the blanket and got out of bed. The closed door kept the silence intact. Outside, noise seeped through a half-open window, left ajar by someone’s carelessness. Staring blankly at the window, Yoonjo saw the asphalt road beyond the security bars.

A twenty-pyeong basement dorm. Compared to his parents and twin siblings living in a tiny room attached to a restaurant, a cramped goshiwon, or a storage closet, Yoonjo’s situation was far better.

The weather was beautiful. Sunlight filtered through the bars, touching the tips of Yoonjo’s toes. Slowly shaking off fatigue and sleep, he began to move.

His limping steps led to the living room cabinet, where he pulled out a first-aid kit. Yoonjo treated the burn on his hand with practiced ease. Eight guys living together meant they kept a decent stock of medical supplies. He applied ointment to his neck, armpits, and other places ravaged by rough handling. After treating his visible wounds and tidying up, he headed to the kitchen sink.

He was hungry. His stomach growled right on cue. Yoonjo, who had developed a habit of moving silently like a mouse, glanced into the master bedroom’s open door. By this time, the manager who used that room would’ve long left for work.

It was a relief not to face the manager, who saw him as less than a filthy whore. If they had to sit and eat together, Yoonjo would’ve chosen to starve. The manager would likely flip the table before sharing a meal with him.

“Uh…”

A tablecloth covered the dining table. Not expecting anything for himself, Yoonjo started toward the fridge but stopped.

Yoonjo hyung, eat up.

– Yujeong –

Unaware that Yujeong had gone through ten sheets of notepaper to sound casual yet sincere, Yoonjo stared at the note. Then he lifted the tablecloth.

The spread was simple: three or four side dishes from a member’s parents, two fried eggs, cold seaweed soup, and a bowl of rice.

Oh.

His eyes drifted to the calendar on the wall. April 19th. His birthday. He’d forgotten, but the so-called leader hadn’t.

A simple “happy birthday” could’ve been added, but maybe Yujeong felt shy. Or perhaps, as the leader, he felt obligated to do it.

Trying not to get too emotional, Yoonjo sat at the table. The side dishes, rice, and soup were cold, no need to cool them further. If they’d been hot, he’d have spent ages waiting.

He stirred the seaweed soup out of habit and paused. Since starting these “entertainments,” Yoonjo had avoided hot or spicy food. His mouth was always raw.

Would a member of just four months notice that? Normally, when setting out a meal, people wouldn’t leave rice and soup out to cool. They’d write a note to reheat it.

“…”

Pushing away the complicated thoughts, Yoonjo took a spoonful of the cold soup. It stung his mouth, but the chilled broth slid down smoothly.

“Tastes good.”

He couldn’t tell if Yujeong made it himself, but the seaweed soup was delicious. After a moment of staring, Yoonjo dug in eagerly.

“Entertaining” wasn’t something he could choose to do or skip. He never knew if it’d last hours, a day, or days. So he had to store energy and treat his wounds when he could.

After eating, Yoonjo picked up the note while clearing the table. The handwriting was as pretty as Yujeong’s face. He’d heard Yujeong was a good student too. Though he tried not to care or get attached, knowing it was a dead-end relationship, bits of information reached his ears anyway.

Mostly from the chatter of the younger, lively members, whose loud voices and curiosity carried through the dorm’s walls while he rested. He knew they were fond of him and curious about him.

That would fade soon enough.

Stuffing the note into his pocket, Yoonjo finished the dishes and changed clothes. Wearing a mask and cap, he headed to the proctology clinic in the next building.

It was his third visit to the small, tucked-away clinic on the second floor. Knowing he’d never debut, Yoonjo had spent the past five years hopping from hospital to hospital like a fugitive celebrity, despite being nothing.

At the clinic, they didn’t bother checking his face under the mask and cap. An older male doctor cleaned Yoonjo’s anus with antiseptic, inserted medical tools, prodded briefly, and removed them. That was it.

The doctor didn’t ask about causes or consequences, focusing only on the symptoms. Yoonjo appreciated that. He wanted to stick with one clinic, but Director Kim’s place was out of the question.

Director Kim would assault him before and after treatment, mocking and harassing him with vile words. Yoonjo wanted to avoid him at all costs.

Prescribed antibiotics, painkillers, and ointment, Yoonjo sat at the bus stop bench. The cool spring day buzzed with leisurely energy, but Yoonjo couldn’t blend in. Eyes shut, he leaned his head against the wall.

No part of him didn’t ache. He wanted to jog to build stamina, but could barely walk. His back was damp with cold sweat. Breathing quietly until the pain subsided, he flinched as his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.

“…”

Sitting upright, Yoonjo swallowed dryly. It wasn’t a missed call but a message, likely a schedule. It had only been two days since Ha Sangmin. Feeling the phone like a shackle, he hesitated before tapping the screen.

00 Club, 9 p.m. tonight.

Casual attire.

His gaze lingered on “casual attire.”

It meant they’d strip him anyway, a sign of a rough night. His freshly examined anus throbbed. The doctor mentioned anal tears, rectal inflammation, and swelling.

Sighing, he glanced at the burn on his hand. At a club, it wouldn’t be one-on-one. At least one of them would take interest in the cigarette burn, a clear trigger for their sadistic tendencies.

If this keeps up, I’ll be ruined…

Shaking off the thought, Yoonjo pocketed his phone and looked out. The bus he was waiting for was stuck at a traffic light. Wiping his sweaty palms, he stood. He had to get back to the dorm before the manager returned.

ᢉ𐭩

“Policy research at a club? What a circus.”

Sneering, Sahyeok climbed nudo the backseat.

Geum Sahyeok, in charge of money laundering for the organization, was the only dominant alpha since his grandfather and the young heir to lead Dowon Group. On the surface, a polished financial industry leader, but beneath, a gangster who hadn’t shed his brutal, blade-wielding roots. Or rather, he chose not to. For the cold, ruthless Sahyeok, being a gangster was practically a calling.

Policy research support, like the Economic Reform Institute or Korea Fair Society Forum, was part of the money laundering scheme. Funds funneled through nonprofit foundations were distributed without favoritism, judged solely on “usefulness.” The curated list was just numbers to him.

The club, rented out under the guise of a policy forum afterparty, was a den of debauchery despite its members-only status.

“Welcome, sir!”

Crossing the main hall, packed with nightly crowds, Sahyeok entered the restricted area. Two burly men guarding the elevator bowed respectfully upon seeing him.

“New faces?”

“They came from Yongwon last month,” Jaewook, standing a step behind, explained.

“Oh, Yongwon.”

Yongwon’s private nursing hospital had shut down temporarily due to a prosecutorial raid. The hospital business, with government subsidies and high patient turnover, was a goldmine for profit and laundering. They recovered funds through insurance-linked debtors, often elderly, and handled them via the in-house funeral parlor. Not all targets were elderly debtors. The operation was run by the organization but registered under a legitimate Dowon Group subsidiary.