Yumi and Jin-ah washed off at the dorm and dressed up in their best clothes. They were tense as they made their way to Hae-yeol’s company, thinking of how they might see their seniors and knowing they would meet Hae-yeol Yoo.

Meanwhile, Hee-yeon (who had been working on the project for days) dressed casually.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Hee-yeon said.

“I’m not nervous…”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Despite having seen many celebrity seniors at HS Entertainment, the idea of meeting their seniors was always intimidating. For better or for worse, we didn’t run into the other artists on our way to the studio. That was, except for Hae-yeol.

“Hello! I’m Yumi Cho from Blue Sherbet!”

“Hello! I’m Jin-ah Choi from Blue Sherbet!”

They bowed with all their might. Hae-yeol only smiled weakly, looking quite fragile. How hard must the work have been for him to look like that? It looked like he was on his last straw. In fact, his complexion was so pale that it looked like he needed immediate IV treatment.

“President Hae-yeol, are things not going well?” I asked.

He looked at me, and I could see the emotions flashing through his eyes in a single moment – resentment, tiredness, expectation, excitement, irritation.

“Rock is as familiar to me as ballads, but trying to match Hee-yeon, LOAN, the trends, and also maintaining quality was a bit…” he trailed off. As he spoke, it seemed like emotions welled up and left only resentment in his eyes.

Pretending not to notice, I mentioned that I really appreciated his hard work and quickly escaped into the studio. His gaze followed me and only disappeared when the studio door closed shut.

“That was ten years of my life, right there.”

Yumi looked delighted and played with the various equipment while Jin-ah flopped onto the sofa, looking indifferent. Jin-ah’s indifference was attributed to her feeling that today’s recording session wasn’t even for a proper vocal part. Her thoughts would change once the work was done.

Yumi felt unbothered and began her work right away with the help of the company’s sound engineer. She opened up her project file and started the recording.

“It’s your turn now, Jin-ah.”

Jin-ah got up from the sofa and walked into the recording booth. Then, on cue, she began to sing.

– I don’t love anything.

Her soulless voice was closer to a narration than singing. Jin-ah raised an eyebrow, as if to ask if she was really supposed to do it like this and looked outside the booth.

“Perfect!”

“…”

The recording ended in one take without ever needing a vocal warm-up. Couldn’t this be listed in the Guinness Book of World Records?

Despite finishing the recording in one go, Jin-ah showed an obvious look of dissatisfaction. Only the sound engineer looked expectant, perhaps because he had a sense of how things would turn out.

“President, this could have a strong Daft Punk feel. Right?”

“Does it seem that way to you?”

“Yes, it does. But kids nowadays probably won’t like it. And it won’t gain much popularity in Korea either. Oh, it’s not that the music is bad, but it’s just inevitable given the nature of the music.”

“Yes, we think so, too.”

I fully agreed with his opinion, and I didn’t expect this song to be a hit. I wanted to use this to help her build experience and explore her potential. 

Considering we haven’t even delved into Daft Punk for long, I wondered what kind of music she could produce. If it exceeded expectations, we could push more into EDM. I knew that something new could result from delving into more trendy EDM as opposed to the older songs.

“It’s not even finished yet…” Yumi pouted, having listened to our conversation. Instead of putting too much expectation on her, I decided to instill realistic ones.

“But if you make it well, people will recognize your skill and talent. If you build your reputation bit by bit, you’ll get strong support even when you create popular songs. It’ll be much more advantageous to you. See what I mean? You can think of it as building your image as a skilled artist,” I explained.

“Ah, so that’s what you meant?” Yumi said and smiled innocuously. There was definitely more to her than meets the eye. She resumed her work excitedly with the sound engineer’s help, and the song gradually took shape.

– I don’t love. I don’t love. I don’t love. I don’t love anything.

– I don’t love. I don’t love. I don’t love. I don’t love.

Jin-ah, who had been fiddling with her phone on the sofa, found herself standing behind Yumi with a blank face. The sound engineer tilted his head slightly in concentration, gulping as the song took shape.

And me?

“…”

I was thrilled. 

Chills ran through my entire body, from the tip of my head to the ends of my feet. It was that same feeling I felt when I heard Daft Punk’s ‘Human After All’ by chance for the first time in high school. That was what I was feeling right now.

My intuition had never been wrong, and it was telling me that this wasn’t just a moderately good song. Of course, opinions would differ based on the current trends and the time period. 

However, things would turn out differently than people would expect. There would be especially strong support from enthusiasts in niche genres rather than people who followed trends.  

“How could that… change into this…?”

“Jin-ah, this is my talent. How is it? Isn’t it amazing?”

“…”

“Cat got your tongue? Is it so amazing you’re lost for words?”

“…”

“Jin-ah, I’m bringing out the best in your singing, but you don’t have anything to say? Buy me a snack, okay? It’s a promise.” Yumi asked several more questions, but Jin-ah’s lips stayed closed. 

In the meantime, I looked for an animation director. Releasing a single and making a music video was a no-brainer. This had to be done. Even if it wasn’t mainstream, this was an opportunity to create devoted fans who loved her.

***

Animated music videos were easily accessible overseas. Furthermore, animation was perfect for us since we had to keep our identities hidden.

Why did we need to hide our identities? Because revealing our identities would cause more harm than good. There was little to no gain. 

Why, you ask? Because from the perspective of foreigners, they would obviously ignore or belittle the song rather than think it was amazing if they knew an Asian girl who looks like a middle schooler made this song. 

EDM is more popular in Europe and North America than in Asia, so we needed to cater to that audience. In other words, using animated music videos was the natural strategy based on market principles – supply meeting demand.

Of course, many EDM tracks didn’t have music videos, but having one certainly didn’t hurt. Plus, since it didn’t need to be super high-quality, the production costs wouldn’t be that high.

Things proceeded smoothly. After playing the demo for an animation director, we shared ideas and planned the music video. 

Yumi also completed the final version of the song after wrestling with mixing and mastering the song for a while. Now, we just had to wait for the animation to be completed. 

What was surprising was that Hee-yeon’s song wasn’t finished yet. Even when I asked her, all she said was that she was working hard on it. 

But then…

– President Kang, can I get your help with something?

One day, Hae-yeol called for help. I rushed to Hae-yeol’s office and found them sitting in the break room outside the studio with a heavy atmosphere.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked.

Hae-yeol nodded wearily.

“The song is finished. The melody is as good as it can get, and I also think it suits Hee-yeon perfectly. LOAN also has no objections.”

My gaze naturally turned to Hee-yeon. Her determined eyes met mine confidently.

“Don’t tell me, Hee-yeon isn’t satisfied?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, what?!”

“It’s not the song. It’s her singing that she’s not satisfied with. She says she needs to be better. But from our perspective, it’s already more than enough. I mean no disrespect to LOAN, but I’ve worked with many singers and have seen this often. Perfectionists who can’t be satisfied and put up a wall. They tend to not listen no matter how much others praise their work.”

I knew a few such cases myself. Perfectionists. Many projects could have been successful if released but were never shared and eventually discarded.

My expression hardened. Hee-yeon had never shown such negative perfectionism before. I recalled what I had said to her.

‘If you do well, there’ll be no problems. If you make it so well that there’s no room for criticism, everything will be fine.’

Maybe my words were the problem and made her strive for perfection. I sighed deeply, feeling responsible. Just then, Hee-yeon’s calm voice pierced my thoughts.

“I understand what you’re worried about. But that’s not the issue. I really can do better,” she said.

“Of course, you’ll need vocal training to match the song before recording.”

“No. I think I can do it on my own. If I practice a little more, I feel I can sing the way I want to.”

In HS Entertainment, if an idol showed artistic stubbornness, they were harshly disciplined and forced to follow instructions. They were told to do what they were told, and to stop doing unnecessary things. To save it for when they had more experience.

This often applied not only to modern idols but also to young singers. They were accused of having an “artist syndrome.” While I didn’t agree with everything, I did see the point in some cases.

There were indeed people who had artist syndrome and wasted time on unnecessary things, unable to face reality. However, this was different and I couldn’t have been more happy to hear her say those words.

“President Kang?”

“Yes?”

“Why do you look so… happy?” Hae-yeol asked.

My eyes were curved into a crescent shape and my lips were stretched into a wide smile. Why was I happy, he asked.

‘Because Hee-yeon’s words are true.’

Hee-yeon was facing reality as it was. Given a little more time, she would show a more incredible talent. She had the talent to back it up, and I had seen it in full bloom.

“President Hae-yeol, LOAN. I apologize for the delay, but can I ask you to wait a little longer before recording? It seems that Hee-yeon needs more time.”

Hee-yeon’s eyes widened as she continued to look at me.

“You can do it, right?”

“…Yes.”

Hae-yeol shook his head slowly.

“President Kang, you’ll change your mind once you hear her once. You know how much I admire Hee-yeon’s voice. She nailed the rock vocals to a level anyone would say was good.”

“He’s right, President Kang. Please listen to it. She’s amazing!” LOAN followed.

Hae-yeol and LOAN led me to the studio, insisting my opinion would change once I heard the rough recording. The song played through the speakers.

“!!!”

They were right. They weren’t wrong about a single thing. Not only was it beyond reproach, but even hardcore rock fans would applaud it. Seeing my surprised expression, Hae-yeol and LOAN shrugged with ‘We told you so’ looks.

“I’m really looking forward to this!” I exclaimed, as soon as the song ended.

“Right? When it hits the market—”

“No, what I mean is, if we give Hee-yeon a bit more time, she’ll show us something even more amazing than this!”

“…Sorry?” LOAN couldn’t believe his ears.

“Hee-yeon said she could do better, right? So, let’s wait a bit longer,” I said and smiled.

Now, I would be the one with the ‘I told you so’ look. Geniuses were called geniuses because if you gave them your trust, they would reach beyond your expectations.

—

<< Previous Chapter | Index | Next Chapter >>