The First Performance
When an acquaintance mentioned he had just opened a new shop, Lee Hae-jin went gladly. It was the kind of relationship worth keeping warm, and he had also heard the place would be hosting an event called Open Mic.
A modest affair: a stage in the center of the shop where guests or invited singers could get up and perform. For a musician, seeing a new stage was something to welcome. For the head of a label, it was also a fine chance to stumble across a gifted newcomer.
The shop itself was fine. Good atmosphere, good food, a decent pour. Nothing to complain about.
Except the event.
Had he come expecting too much? Not a single singer quite satisfied him. They weren't bad — they were competent, even. A few looked as if they could have been signed as trainees, as though the bookings had been arranged in advance. There were even a couple of indie bands whose names he had heard before.
But that was as far as it went.
Same vocal styles. Same lovesick ballads. I'm sick of it. Completely sick of it.
Eat one dish over and over and you get tired of it. Music was no different. Watching them all present the same faceless act left a thick residue of disappointment. The talent Lee Hae-jin wanted was someone who sang their own song. Finding that kind of person tonight looked unlikely.
Time to head out.
He pushed the regret aside, drained what was left of his beer in one swallow, and started to stand — when a man stepped up onto the stage.
An ordinary face. An expression so subtle it was impossible to tell whether he was nervous or excited. Nothing about his style particularly stood out. One thing, though, snagged the eye.
The large instrument he carried with him.
A gayageum...?
A gayageum, in a noisy bar. Strangely, it suited the place. Hadn't the entertainment houses of the Joseon era entertained their guests with the gayageum?
Intrigued, Lee Hae-jin raised a hand and ordered another beer.
What kind of performance is he going to give?
An unfamiliar instrument, and yet a familiar one. How many people born in Korea had never heard a gayageum even once? Lee Hae-jin rubbed his hands together and waited for the stage.
As Kim Se-jun climbed onto the stage, he felt the audience's stares land on him with almost embarrassing frankness. More precisely, they landed on the instrument in his hands.
"Is this the first time I've ever seen a real gayageum?"
"Same. It looks so strange."
"I've heard one live before. The sound is incredibly clean."
A few people spoke up, making no secret of their curiosity. And there was Lee Hae-jin, saying nothing at all, just sipping his beer — though the look in his eyes was nothing like it had been a moment ago.
It was a little unfair to the singers who had already performed, but Lee Hae-jin had barely given them a thought. He had watched those stages with a thoroughly bored expression, and the instant the previous act finished he had been ready to walk out. The moment Kim Se-jun stepped up, though, curiosity flooded his face and he sat back down.
Kim Se-jun saw every bit of it.
Well. I've got his attention, at least.
The interest of Lee Hae-jin, a label CEO. For most amateurs who dreamed of becoming singers, that alone would have been no small joy. Kim Se-jun was different. A flicker of interest was not nearly enough.
I don't just want his attention. I want him completely hooked.
Kim Se-jun set the gayageum on its stand and connected it to the shop's amplifier. The audience watched every movement of his hands with bright, expectant eyes. He gave them a small, crooked smile, then plucked a single simple chord.
A clear, ringing gayageum tone filled the shop. For most of them, it was the first time they had ever heard one played live. That crystalline brightness drew a sudden murmur of wonder from the people who had already been watching him so closely.
"Hello. My name is Kim Se-jun. I'm glad I get to take part in an event like this."
He had given them nothing but a single sound, and already their faces were full of anticipation — of whatever he was about to play. Lee Hae-jin was no exception. He finished the beer he had just ordered in a single breath and flagged down another.
"The instrument I'll be playing tonight is the gayageum, and the song is called With Alcohol."
The audience answered with applause, settling in to watch. Kim Se-jun smiled back at them, drew a deep breath, and began to move his fingers.
Fast, at first.
The thought and the motion arrived together. The nails of his right index and middle fingers flicked across the strings — a technique known in gayageum playing as gyeop-twingigi. Played quickly and smoothly, over and over, it produced a softer timbre than a melody picked in single notes. It could also drive a piece forward with real urgency, winding the current of the melody tighter and tighter.
That soft tone, climbing into a fierce, taut line, sent a rush of excitement across every face in the room. They had all carried a kind of prejudice about the gayageum — that it was a quiet instrument, a gentle one. Kim Se-jun's song shattered that assumption from the very first bar. It was intense from the opening note.
That's not all the gayageum can do.
The audience sat there looking as if they had just taken a punch. Kim Se-jun smiled inwardly at their dazed faces, then brought his mouth to the microphone.
The liquor only sinks in deeper...
Lee Hae-jin had already been deeply moved by the gayageum alone. The moment he heard Kim Se-jun's voice, his pupils blew wide. It was a thoroughly distinctive tone — not clear and crystalline, but husky, lively, and strangely magnetic.
It suits him perfectly.
It was the thought that crossed every mind in the room, not just Lee Hae-jin's. The gayageum's rushing line and Kim Se-jun's slightly rough voice filled the bar from wall to wall.
And here — Con Sordino.
Even as he sang, his hand was a blur from thumb to ring finger. Then Kim Se-jun laid the palm of that same right hand across the hyunchim, the instrument's bridge. Damping the resonance by roughly half, he played on, and the fast, glittering performance began to turn mysterious, almost atmospheric.
This is an amateur's skill?
Lee Hae-jin, who by now was watching in a complete daze, shook his head as if he could not believe it. The gayageum was not an instrument of vast harmonic range. But that fluent, powerful playing was nowhere near a beginner's. Add to it a unique, magnetic tone and a vocal style to match, and Lee Hae-jin's expression began to change — shifting, little by little, into the particular look he wore when he had found someone he wanted.
In his previous life, Kim Se-jun had been called a gayageum master, a legend. A few of the guests watching him now propped their chins in their hands and spoke in low voices.
"He's good."
"Yeah. The song's great."
They sat with their eyes closed, tapping their feet, their faces full of quiet satisfaction. The gayageum that had torn out of the gate with such force had now turned mysterious and soft. Watching Kim Se-jun toy with the instrument at will while he sang was enough to steal the soul right out of them.
And the man shaking those hearts was, inwardly, losing his mind. It was only a small event. But this was the first time in his life he had ever performed a popular song in front of an audience, and it was wildly, dizzyingly fun — watching people fall into his playing and his voice.
Even the alley cats laugh as they pass me by...
The song kept climbing. The end was drawing near, and Kim Se-jun flicked a glance at Lee Hae-jin's face.
Got him!
He shouted it inwardly. The man who had watched every other act with such indifference had changed. It was the expression that had turned Lee Hae-jin — once called a musical genius — into the man people called a music pervert. The face he used to make, without even knowing it, whenever he sat as a judge on an audition show and found a contestant he liked. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open, neck craned unconsciously forward, staring with a look of pure greed.
Ah — damn—
Caught up in that expression, Kim Se-jun nearly tangled his fingers. He recovered just in time. He had come within a breath of ruining a meal that was already cooked. Steadying his racing heart, he settled himself and played on.
"Ah. This is going to drive me insane."
Lee Hae-jin's eyes, fixed on Kim Se-jun's stage, were full of hunger. He wanted him. Desperately. How was a singer like that still unknown?
He could debut tomorrow and it wouldn't be enough.
The quality of the song. The singing. The individuality. There was not a single thing missing. Performing without any other session players left a slight sense of space, yes — but that was nothing another session couldn't fill. The tone was distinctive. And the fact that he played the gayageum as a signature instrument was something Lee Hae-jin liked a great deal.
No reason to hesitate.
Before the song had even finished, Lee Hae-jin stood up. The moment Kim Se-jun came off the stage, he meant to put a casting offer in front of him. He rose, and out of habit checked his phone.
What is this?
Ten missed calls and dozens of messages.
"...!"
He scanned the messages at once, and his brow furrowed.
Ha... why now, of all times?
An assault controversy involving Baek Hyun-ah, a singer under the company. He had thought the matter was settled. Now it had seized the public's attention all over again. It was sitting on the real-time search rankings, dozens of articles had dropped, and the messages were all the same: get back to the office. Now.
"How much time do I have?"
He looked up at the stage. Kim Se-jun's song seemed nearly over. But talking to him, persuading him — that would take time, and time had to be counted too. Lee Hae-jin shook his head. In a situation where every second mattered, there was nowhere near enough of it to lay out a proper offer.
"Tsk. Damn it."
He clicked his tongue, swore under his breath, and lifted his head, scanning the room in frustration, hunting for some way to salvage this. And then one person caught his eye.
Off to the side of the stage, watching Kim Se-jun with a thoroughly pleased expression. The face looked faintly similar — like family.
Maybe?
Clutching at the last available straw, he hurried over and spoke.
"Excuse me. Do you happen to know the man on stage right now?"
"Huh? L-Lee Hae-jin?"
"Yes. Lee Hae-jin, CEO of Ares Music."
"Aigoo! I'm a real fan, I swear! And that guy up there is my cousin."
At Kim Se-hoon's words, Lee Hae-jin smiled inwardly and pulled out a business card at once.
"That's perfect. When he comes offstage, would you pass something along? Tell him Ares Music is interested, and to please get in touch. I'd rather deliver it myself and sit down with him, but something urgent has come up and I have to leave right now."
"... A-Ares Mu... Music?"
Watching Lee Hae-jin hold out the card, Kim Se-hoon sucked in a huge, stunned breath.
Ares Music. Smaller than the so-called Big Three agencies, but hardly a nameless shop. It did not chase variety shows or constant broadcast appearances, so its public profile was modest — but the company itself was rock-solid. The man standing in front of him, Lee Hae-jin, was only the start of it. Kwon Jin-soo, Jang Jae-hee, Fatia — the roster was packed with singers anyone would recognize by name.
And a place like that wanted Kim Se-jun?
Lee Hae-jin's words made Kim Se-hoon's head spin. In some far corner of his mind he had entertained the fantasy that something like this might, just maybe, happen. But unlike Kim Se-jun, who had walked in with real confidence, Kim Se-hoon had only wanted to give his struggling cousin a little lift. Watching a thing he had only imagined actually unfold in front of him was enough to knock the wind out of him.
They've been calling him a genius since we were kids...
Kim Se-hoon had always thought of his cousin as someone special. Lee Hae-jin held out his hand.
"I'd really appreciate it. Tell him I'll be waiting for his call."
There was a business card in Lee Hae-jin's hand, and the quiet, pointed smile that came with it. Kim Se-hoon nodded hard. A moment later Lee Hae-jin turned, already punching a number into his phone as he hurried away.
Kim Se-hoon watched that retreating back in silence, then turned toward the stage, toward Kim Se-jun, and muttered to himself.
"Se-jun. I think you might be even more of a genius than I thought..."