The glass turnstiles of the JBC Broadcasting Center clicked behind us with a smooth swish.
"Step lively, Mountain," Min-ah instructed, her eyes darting across the vast, marble-floored atrium like a seasoned tactical commander. "If we fall behind, security will toss us straight onto the sidewalk."
We navigated through the buzzing main lobby toward a designated glass elevator bay, where a small group of about fifteen people was gathered. They were mostly young adults in crisp suits and polished shoes—the new batch of corporate practitioners, junior production assistants, and fresh broadcast hires.
A tall woman in a dark navy JBC blazer, holding a tablet and wearing a wireless headset, turned as our sneakers squeaked against the polished tile.
"Ah, you must be the final additions to the observation track," the guide said, checking her screen against the VIP guest passes Mrs. Lee had arranged for us. "Right on time. Welcome to JBC. I am Producer Park. Please keep your visitor badges visible at all times and stay behind the yellow safety lines."
Min-ah practically vibrated on the balls of her feet beside me, her pink Samsung phone tucked into her coat pocket, her eyes glowing with absolute, unadulterated archival joy. "Look at this architecture, San-ah," she whispered aggressively, nudging my ribs with her elbow. "The floor tiles alone probably cost more than Kirin's entire annual Applied Music budget."
"Keep your voice down," I warned quietly, towering over the group of junior employees. "I promised Eomeonim I wouldn't make any fuss."
Producer Park tapped her tablet, leading our group through a heavy, soundproof double door into the sprawling maze of the studio floors. The sheer scale of the interior was staggering. Endless corridors carved into concrete and steel were lined with glowing red "ON AIR" signs, thick cables snaking across the floor like industrial pythons.
"On our left," Producer Park announced, gesturing toward a set of glass-fronted offices, "is the executive writing room for our flagship romance department. Currently, the team is finalizing the script for our upcoming fantasy legal drama: 'Crash Landing into Your Corporate Merger', a touching story about an elite South Korean conglomerate heiress who accidentally paraglides directly into a board meeting in Pyongyang."
I blinked, my brain processing the plot.
Min-ah leaned in, her eyes sharp behind her frames.
"Classic," she murmured. "I bet the lead actor gets amnesia by episode twelve."
We continued down the corridor, passing a sprawling, highly detailed set that looked like an ancient Joseon Dynasty courtyard, complete with artificial cherry blossoms and painted mountain backdrop screens.
"And over here," Producer Park continued without missing a beat, "is Soundstage 4, currently holding the set for our record-breaking weekend historical thriller, 'The Goblin's Unpaid Student Loan'. It follows an immortal 900-year-old warrior who can only break his ancient curse once he finds his destined human bride—who happens to be a high school senior struggling to pay off her intensive private academy tuition fees."
A couple of the junior practitioners let out quiet chuckles, but Min-ah was practically taking mental notes of the lighting rigs, her Database Queen radar cataloging every single broadcast camera model mounted on the overhead rails.
"Look at those prime prime-lens setups!" she gushed in a hushed, frantic tone, grabbing my sleeve. "That's a full 8K broadcast camera array, San-ah! You could see the pores on a background extra from three blocks away!"
"Fascinating," I muttered, carefully stepping over a heavy power trunk. "Just don't trip over the production gear, or we'll be paying off JBC equipment until graduation... from university"
As we rode the express elevator up to the administrative floors, the view opened up over the skyline of Sangam-dong. We walked past open-plan office wings where dozens of editors, line producers, and managers were frantically typing, yelling into desk phones, and clutching paper cups of iced Americanos.
We passed a corner office with a glass door labeled Special Investigations & Archival Operations. Inside, a framed poster on the wall featured a dark, brooding silhouette holding a legal briefcase above the title: 'Vincenzo's Tax Audit'.
"This floor handles our current affairs and investigative journalism units," Producer Park explained, guiding us through a set of heavy, motorized security doors. "Every piece of news that airs across the nation passes through these editing bays first."
Min-ah's demeanor instantly shifted. The playful, media-obsessed teenager vanished, replaced by the calculating, razor-sharp Database Queen. Her eyes scanned the room numbers, tracking the security card readers and keypads mounted beside the doors.
She was mapping the terrain.
"We are now entering the main news wing," Producer Park announced, her voice dropping into a reverent, professional register as the ambient noise of the building faded into a quiet tense hum.
She held her access card against a heavy chrome sensor.
The lock clicked open with a deep, hydraulic seal breaking.
"Directly ahead is JBC's primary broadcasting pavilion," Producer Park said, stepping aside to let the group file through. "The main soundstage where the 8 o'clock National News is broadcast live every evening."
We stepped through the double doors and froze.
The studio before us was vast, colder than the rest of the building, and dominated by an enormous curved glass anchor desk sitting beneath a constellation of a hundred studio spotlights. And standing right in the center of the floor, reviewing a thick stack of blue broadcast papers under the blinding lights, was Mrs. Lee.