Chapter 66: Sweating Bullets
Sweat was pouring off her in buckets.
“Uh……”
“Oppa…… huff, huff, hello.”
“Uh…… yeah, hello.”
He'd texted Where are you right now? and she'd replied with the studio address.
Won Ji-min wiped the sweat from her forehead. She was leaning against the studio door, panting hard. How far did she run? Her face was flushed red like a marathon runner's.
“Uh……”
I'd just cracked open a fresh energy drink and handed it over.
“Looks like you need this more than me.”
“Whoa…… thank you.”
Won Ji-min took the can and chugged it straight down. It went down smooth—no sputtering from the carbonation, even though most people would. She drained the whole thing without a hitch.
Staring at the empty can, she checked the brand. Shooting an ad? Even just glancing at the can, her visuals were on another level.
“Wow, this is seriously refreshing.”
“Just opened it.”
She crumpled the can and tossed it into the trash bin at the studio entrance. Then she charged right at me.
“Oppa, I'm alive again now!”
Less “alive” and more “struck gold.” Her flushed face lit up like she'd struck a vein of pure treasure.
“You said the work was urgent. Let's get going. Go, go! Oppa, where's the studio? Where?”
Like any typical studio setup, it was a big basement chopped up into tiny plywood cubicles—worse than a studio apartment, really. Kids dreaming of becoming the next Kim Min-hyuk poured their youth into these spaces.
Those flashy personal studios you see on variety shows? Only a lucky few get those. The rest is broadcast illusion, the manufactured average.
Plywood walls with cheap soundproofing slapped on, and they charge 800k a month calling it a “studio.”
Of course, I couldn't afford that.
Kim Min-hyuk, now successful, had rented a spot for his crew's juniors to use freely. I'd come here in a pinch.
I shot Won Ji-min a side-eye. Compared to G&X's setups, this was like grime under a thumbnail.
She gawked like it was some exotic wonder, mouth still hanging open. They call this a studio too? Probably marveling at it.
It was making me self-conscious for no reason.
Should've rented a proper studio when I called her. I'd been so focused on the track, I messed up.
Like slaves locked in solitary, each door lacked even a tiny window. Maybe that's why a weird smell wafted from the halls—lingering night-bloom flowers mixed with sweat, even though spring was long gone.
Kids, take a damn shower.
Won Ji-min looked up at me. “Oppa, where's your spot?”
“Down there. The end.”
At the hall's end, she gingerly gripped the doorknob—just her index and thumb, like she felt bad for it.
“Mine's clean.”
“Pardon?”
She shook her head. “No, I mean…… here.”
The knob rattled. Loose screw or broken part—the bit you twist felt precarious.
This sucks. Next time, definitely rent a studio.
“Worried you'll break it on my account?”
“Ah, yeah. Thanks. Gotta fix it.”
She eased the door open like she'd entered, shut it carefully, and sat down. She scanned the hall intently before, now she eyed the room just as closely.
Then, like she'd expected more, she deflated a bit. “There's…… nothing here.”
“Yeah? Oh, it's not my personal studio.”
“Huh? This isn't your studio, oppa?”
“Rented in a rush. I don't have my own.”
“Ah, you don't.”
Her lips pursed tight as she clutched her tote bag shut, set it down, and shoved it into an unseen corner.
“Guess I'll hold onto it for now!”
Huh? My head turned toward the bag, but she swiftly changed the subject.
“I skimmed it over text, but what kind of song are we making? How can I help?”
We settled across the monitor. I laid it all out—from Oh Seo-young's story to the radio letter. Then I briefly explained how I'd sketched the melody and what it should evoke.
Won Ji-min's reactions were all over: wide-eyed shock, sniffles, head tilts.
Listening to the track, she said, “Again.”
“Can I hear it once more?”
“One last time.”
“Oppa, you got time? Just once more!”
“Last one!”
The 3:14 track looped for over an hour.
She even apologized for the “again”s, grabbing the mouse and keyboard herself.
What does she think of this untitled song? Felt like Jang-geum serving food to a royal taste-tester. Every glance, gesture—my mouth went dry, throat tight, reaching for water.
Finally, she pulled her hands away. And added, “It's good.”
“Huh?”
The track was obviously good. I made it. That all?
She shot her hand up. “But I have a question.”
She killed the loop and asked, “Why doesn't the song end?”
What?
“It already does?”
The timeline had reset to the intro melody loop. Cut off clean.
She shook her head. “No, no. The song hasn't ended.”
Won Ji-min sprang up, arms wide like airplane wings, pacing the tiny room as if soaring.
A couple steps, but she gushed like drifting through vast space. “Not sure if I should say this…… but it felt like flying through the night sky in secret. Like Wendy following Peter Pan, or Harry on his broom. Like a fairy soaring unseen at night.”
It was that good. She repeated it.
“I get what you're trying to convey to that bedridden listener—your intent came through crystal clear.”
Yeah, she nailed it chillingly accurate.
“But…… I felt the freedom of soaring through the sky, savoring it. This track doesn't end her story.”
She blinked. “That's why it's unsatisfying. There's so much more to show, so much more to say. Ending it all in one song……”
Felt like a sledgehammer to the back of my skull. Then another shock hit from the front.
On Air. The broadcast light flicked on.
The PD cued Hwang Sun-young's breathing. Writers posted announcements on the shared notepad.
Oh Seo-young stared blankly at it too.
No, not even a reply. Sunday today—time's running out. This was a bust for sure.
She wanted to ask a hundred times about his schedule, but she didn't have Seo Hyun-woo's number.
Shouldn't have given him my card. Should've snagged his digits.
Everyone—writers, PD—saw the shared notepad. Main writer enlarged the font, hammering the question.
Oh Seo-young's eyes stayed glued to her innocent phone.
A senior writer jabbed her elbow with a pen. “Ow.”
The pen dent pointed to the monitor. Guest queries copied and pasted hundreds of times.
In the studio, main writer glared daggers at her.
Oh Seo-young typed fast: Still reaching out. Sorry. T_T, haha.
No consonants for her real feelings. Not the vibe. She focused every nerve on no typos.
“Yes, hoping your afternoons stay bright—back after ads!”
Hwang Sun-young's line ended; main writer burst in, fuming. “Hey, Oh Seo-young! How do you not have a guest yet? What'd Seo Hyun-woo say?”
“He…… said he'd think about it, but no firm reply yet.”
Main writer thumped her chest. “Frustrating. Just contact him first!”
“Uh……”
Rookie writer mistake. Couldn't blurt it: I don't have his number.
Her hands flew. DM him. Say she was DMing, pulling every connection.
Classic Oh Seo-young. Nailing this crisis.
But Seo Hyun-woo—no SNS. Falcon independent, no agency.
PD, watching like it was someone else's fire, told main writer, “Ads ending in 10. Seo-young, hurry.”
Main writer warned her. “You. Have a solid answer by next ad break. Got it? If no contact, drag him here. Days left, no pre-meet? You……”
“Hey, Seo-young. Broadcast starting. Tone it down.”
“Ugh, seriously……”
Main writer slammed the booth door.
Tactless Hwang Sun-young, seeing her turn, asked, “What? Why? What's going on……?”
Booth door shut slow; convo cut. Senior writer advised her. “What now? Piss off main, atmosphere……”
She knew. Play dead till Wednesday? Not enough. Even dead mice get pecked.
Maybe public shaming. Next ad: 10 minutes tops. No sign of contact.
What to do? Oh Seo-young gnawed her thumbnail.
Call backup comedian Hwang Hong-seok now? Dilemma.
Didn't dwell—10 minutes flew.
Door flew open. Loud voice. “Hey! Oh Seo-young! Still no guest?”
“Huh? Writer Oh?”
Someone entered behind the booth. Wait, Seo Hyun-woo.
Oh Seo-young blinked hard. Why him? Suddenly?
“Why no reply to my texts?”
“Pardon? Oh. Yes.”
“Waited down here forever.”
Seo Hyun-woo greeted around. “Hello. Falcon, Seo Hyun-woo.”
To the yelling main writer: “Guest's here. And……”
“Ta-da!”
Won Ji-min popped from behind the door. “Hello! Black Label's Won Ji-min!”