Chapter 1: Ding-Ding-Dang
I lived my first life as a failed idol. For my second, I wanted to live as the most successful composer out there. But I'm way too busy carving out my own path to raise someone up to S-class... You out of your mind? System.
◈ Chapter 1
Ding-ding-dang—ding-dan!
I stomped my foot in time with the looping beat spilling from the speakers, swinging my arms every which way while holding sharp angles in perfect sync with the splintering rhythm, nailing the group choreography.
Ah, not me. On the monitor screen, it was my idol group that I'd produced—Black Label.
A gasp of admiration escaped me unbidden. Unlike the powerful instrumental, their choreography was endlessly fluid and soft.
This was footage from a pre-interview ahead of Red Dice's third full album showcase. With the performance stage video playing, leader Baekho fielded questions.
Was the reporter here to interview or just ogle? She stared endlessly at Baekho's visuals, licking her lips. She skimmed the script, racking her brain for a killer question, but no dice.
She lobbed one straight out of some other outlet's playbook.
"Baekho-ssi, it's true you wrote and composed every track on this third full album?"
"Ah! Hehe."
It was a question he'd fielded a million times, but he played it shy every time, covering his mouth with those slender, unworked hands.
"Yes. That's right."
"Whoa. Incredible. Insane."
Fourth time hearing that exact reaction. Did entertainment reporters share a reaction manual or something? How were they all so cookie-cutter?
I just stared at her blankly. Ah, this one's different. The way she looked at Baekho wasn't interviewer-to-interviewee. Pure fan gaze.
"Seriously... you're so handsome, you dance like a pro... that killer rapping, and now songwriting and composing too..."
Tsk. No good. She wouldn't last long in this industry either.
Reading the mood from the accompanying cameraman, she pressed on. "Um... among them, the title track 'Wildfire' is getting massive heat from not just Board fans but the general public too..."
Countless times. Stretching it a bit, I'd seen this material thousands of times. She pulled up a tablet, unlocked.
Scraped images from various outlets popped up. Domestic platform #1 was a given. Billboard Weekly #1. YouTube views, album sales—all laid out in a neat row.
"Right after release, it topped domestic charts and blew up overseas too. Especially in the States. I hear it's the first K-pop act ever invited to perform at the Super Bowl..."
"Ah, that was... planned long ago..."
The reporter swiped through slides on the tablet. More on "Wildfire."
"How'd you compose this title track? I'm dying to know."
"Ah. Well..."
Baekho hesitated, glancing my way. My cue.
I crooked two fingers casually. Everyone—including this reporter I was meeting for the first time—turned to me. That familiar glint in their eyes, even on first meet.
Manager? Nah.
"Hello."
I bowed my head in greeting. "I'm composer Seo Hyun-woo, who wrote the title track 'Wildfire.'"
"Uh... but I thought the composer was..."
Her youthful face up close screamed rookie—pen still fresh off the wrapper. Baek Shil-jang jumped in to clear the air.
"Co-composed. You didn't know, reporter-nim? Groups like Red Dice, targeting not just Korea but the whole world these days—no one person does both lyrics and music anymore."
He tapped his temple. "You pool a bunch of heads. That's how hits get made."
Right. Pool heads, he says. Outwardly.
That's why a non-manager like me had been hanging around this interview for three hours already.
"The title track 'Wildfire' falls under retro pop, but more precisely, it's piano-infused."
"Ah! No wonder... the orchestra vibe hit me right from the first listen."
"Exactly. Black Label title intros have leaned on synths, heavy on electronic tones... but..."
The explanation dragged on. Co-composition, my ass. Under that banner, this bastard Baekho had never even touched a note.
Notes? Hell, if he'd even stacked a single one, it'd be a miracle. Never even gripped a mouse.
Red Dice. Just a concept: self-producing, lyrics-and-music whiz. They'd pushed that image nonstop since debut.
To prop up that bullshit facade, they dragged me everywhere during promos. Because he couldn't memorize this short seven-line spiel.
"Lyrics-wise, it matches the theme: vowing to forget an ex cleanly, while yearning for the love we shared..."
"...A song about forgetting. Yeah. In a word, like a tribute to an ex-lover?"
This guy. Always stealing the mic on my lines.
The reporter furiously transcribed our back-and-forth, not missing a beat. Then hit enter, looked up.
Baek Shil-jang raised his palm familiarly, waving me off. My part done.
"Fuck."
Pathetic. Treat a guy like a dog, but there's limits.
Three hours waiting for five minutes of work, shuttling back and forth to Ilsan Studio. My situation was miserable.
"Haa."
I exhaled the inhaled smoke hard. Even a single cig after finishing the job didn't feel like much of a win.
A few who knew my deal said it outright: Are you stupid? Shove your face in Ghost Songwriter already.
I knew. Like I didn't know that.
But life ain't that mechanical. If it were, how nice.
I flicked ash from my cig and crushed it underfoot. A local bus rolled by; on its ad panel, Red Dice fans' crowdfunded promo for the new album.
I'd dreamed of the stage once too. Wasn't for lack of effort like other idol groups. I did debut.
Back when terrestrial broadcasters chased ratings with ads, I hitched onto one of those overmilked debut audition shows.
Luck pulled me into the debut lineup on the so-called national vote. End of my idol dream.
Idol group managed by a ratings-hungry station, not a major agency. I'd ask them: how long you think that lasts?
Two years in, no call-backs. Members scattered.
The visuals and talkers at least hit variety. Losers like me? Vanished.
One place still dug up a has-been like me: "Whatever Happened to Those Flop Idols? TOP 10"—gossip fodder rankings.
What kept my foot in the door? Rayworks. Black Label's label, rising globally.
Jung Pil-woon, the chairman, summoned me. No denying it: I owed him for scraping by.
Worked like a slave, shut up and took it. Exclusive composer contract: seven years. Almost up.
With half of Red Dice nearing enlistment, time to scout my next nest.
I rummaged my pockets. "Was that last one extra long?"
Damn. Licked my lips in regret, hailed a cab to the studio.
No more dog treatment soon. My secret tracks, done behind Jung Pil-woon's back. The "Red Dice full-album composer" title.
Bait those two elsewhere, rake in signing bonuses. Blissful days ahead.
Rare text from the chairman. I scratched my cheek. Ominous. His timing felt off today.
Why do bad feelings never miss?
My rosy future never came.
"Wh-what the hell?"
Words failed. My studio, trashed. Burly guys who weren't company, and Jung Pil-woon waddling behind.
"Oh! Hyun-woo. No, our Black Label exclusive composer! Falcon's here?"
Penguin-like, he shook my precious SSD. "Why so late? I even texted."
I lunged for the chairman, hand outstretched—but no dice. One brute punted my gut before I got close.
"Thought I wouldn't know?"
He gestured at the studio CCTV. "Who hooked you up with this room?"
Smacked my head with the SSD, he closed in. Couldn't move. Hurt like hell. Fuck. Fucking hurts.
He turned, crooked a finger at the brute. Laptop handed over. SSD plugged in. Password screen up.
"Clever, huh? Locked it tight. Real desperate to ditch Rayworks."
"I... cough."
First, escape this. Then plan B.
"Wh-when did I say I was leaving, Chairman?"
"Nah. Already met K-Media's Park exec, I hear."
Loose-lipped bastard.
"Ditching Rayworks where? I paid song fees, took good care of you, Seo Hyun-woo."
"Ah... peanuts compared to top-tier composer pay?"
"That's 'cause Falcon's exclusive. Gotta take my cut."
"...That what 'commission' meant?"
He clicked his tongue. "Can't air your old flop idol dirt with people around. Too messy."
Tapped the laptop. "Input it."
"Or what?"
He lifted my index finger, placed it on the keys. "We'll keep at it till you do. No going home till unlocked, Mr. Composer."
Think, Hyun-woo. Guy's ex-gangster vibes—no empty threats. But no way I'm re-signing that fluttering contract. Never. Not seven more years of hell.
What now?
"I've been mulling it over."
While this psycho penguin rambled his woes, I fretted mine.
"Should've prepped another group while Red Dice geared up for military. Slipped my mind, busy as I was. But thinking more... to raise another smash like Red Dice, you need killer tracks, right?"
I slowly punched in the SSD code. Penguin yapped away, eyes on my fingers—not the screen.
"Group's easy—train newbies. But a guaranteed-hit composer? Rare. Then it hit me."
"What?"
"Duh. We got our Falcon."
Seeing my busy fingers, he grinned, patted my cheek. "Good boy, Falcon. Smart. Anywhere else, same shit."
"For real?"
"Yup."
I hit enter. He snatched the laptop, checked the screen. Face twitched.
"What the fuck, you psycho."
"What? Wrong password. Three times."
I brushed off my clothes, gestured at the SSD. "Three strikes, auto-format. Figured even if I died, no seven more years in this shithole agency."
"You... crazy bastard."
Work's on cloud server anyway. He chucked the SSD. Half-smashed—pity, but whatever. Buy new memory.
I waved. "So, we're done here."
Now what'll you do?
"Yeah. Wrap it up. Gimme that."
I turned to leave. Rage boiling, the chairman charged.
Crack.
My body crumpled. Splat—hot blood pooled around me.
Ah, that's mine. So this is dying.
Thought it'd end like that. Sleepy. Eyes drooping.
Then an inexplicable system window popped up.
Regression conditions activated!
Regressing!