Debut or a Masterpiece
When a sweet melody filled the studio, Kim Se-jun felt as if he'd been struck over the head with a hammer. He never would have imagined that Song Dae-jun had written this song. It had been a nationwide hit, of course — and hadn't Kim Se-jun himself spent quite some time completely absorbed in it?
This feels strange.
The sensation of being treated with hostility by someone whose face he'd never even known, yet whom he'd admired and praised as a genius. A bitter taste filled his mouth.
But why isn't Lee Jin-ah singing this? Why is she composing her own?
The quality of this track was extraordinary enough that even a singer-songwriter would set aside her stubbornness. Proof of that: in the future, Lee Jin-ah had performed this very version that Song Dae-jun created.
Is there some kind of problem?
There were too many things that didn't add up to simply dismiss it as her pride. A moment later, Kim Se-jun's eyebrows twitched.
What is this?
The addictive chorus — the song's highlight — and the bridge. They were such a mess he wondered if this was even the song he knew. The chorus that had, in the future, lavished the ears with its sophisticated harmonic interplay was now flat and lifeless. The bridge that had lifted Lee Jin-ah's emotion from its very depths and moved countless hearts now felt bloated with forced sentiment.
It was going so well — why is it like this?
With the chorus and bridge dead on arrival, the song itself had gone limp. It was a little better than Lee Jin-ah's own composition, true, but it still felt lacking — incomplete in a way that nagged at him.
So the song isn't finished yet.
He glanced at Lee Jin-ah. Her expression was complicated, as if she thought the song was good, then immediately as if it wasn't. This version certainly wasn't the kind of track that would hook her.
But as time passes, the song will be completed, and Lee Jin-ah will lose her heart to it and go on to promote it.
The song that had filled the studio came to an end, and Lee Jin-ah asked for his impression in Song Dae-jun's place.
"What do you think of the producer's song?"
Song Dae-jun kept sneaking glances at Kim Se-jun, as if he too was quietly anxious about the evaluation.
"It's good. Though it's still unfinished, so it might be premature to pass judgment."
Song Dae-jun flinched for a moment, but seemed to concede that the assessment wasn't wrong, and nodded.
"Thanks."
Kim Se-jun looked at Song Dae-jun, who offered that brief word of gratitude, with a complicated gaze.
If Song Dae-jun finishes this song, what happens to my debut?
A situation where his own value would become unnecessary. There was no need to ask twice — his debut would vanish like a soap bubble.
Then what if I bring a remake first, before Song Dae-jun finishes it?
Then he would debut... but Song Dae-jun's song would disappear forever. That song that had moved so many people, including himself.
Would that be the right thing to do?
Kim Se-jun's face grew increasingly grim and serious, but Lee Jin-ah and Song Dae-jun, unaware of the change coming over him, were absorbed in their conversation.
"It's not that I think your song is bad, either. But something about it just doesn't click yet."
"That's because it's still unfinished. And it's better than yours, Jin-ah. Stop being so stubborn."
"It's not stubbornness. I genuinely don't like it yet. Honestly, you admit it yourself, don't you? That something's still lacking. And that you don't even have a sense of how to fix it right now."
Song Dae-jun's expression hardened at Lee Jin-ah's words. He couldn't argue with her — she'd struck the heart of the matter. He himself felt that his song was missing something. But he couldn't grasp where, or how.
"...I'll fix it soon enough."
Song Dae-jun said it through clenched teeth. Lee Jin-ah turned her gaze to Kim Se-jun.
"Se-jun, from where you're standing, how do you think we should proceed? With me? Or with the producer? Or do you have a song of your own in mind?"
Kim Se-jun, who hadn't been paying attention to their conversation, startled and fumbled for words.
"Ah — I think both of your songs seem fine? But let's talk about the rest later. The vice president is looking for me."
After showing them the vice president's message on his phone screen, Kim Se-jun hurriedly turned and left the studio.
Whew. This is complicated.
Ha Dong-jun's call had come at just the right moment, allowing him to escape. Kim Se-jun raked both hands through his hair, his mind a tangle. His debut, and Song Dae-jun's song. Not knowing which to put first, he went to find Ha Dong-jun.
Haa... what's the right thing to do?
Ha Dong-jun, whose work had finished earlier than expected, had called him over to introduce the company and its staff, but none of it was sinking into Kim Se-jun's head. Even as he unconsciously greeted the employees and nodded along soullessly to Ha Dong-jun's explanations, only one thing occupied his mind: Lotus.
Debut, or a masterpiece. The scales would not tip easily either way. A situation where he had to give up one of the two.
If I were being greedy, of course I'd want to put my debut first. But...
If Song Dae-jun's song had been an ordinary track, Kim Se-jun might well have prioritized his own debut. He could always release it later, after all. But the song Song Dae-jun was preparing now was a remake. If Kim Se-jun created a song and persuaded Lee Jin-ah before Song Dae-jun even finished his, Song Dae-jun's version would never see the light of day. That was why Kim Se-jun couldn't decide so easily.
I don't like Song Dae-jun much, but what did the song ever do wrong...
Kim Se-jun, lost in thought with vacant eyes, snapped back to reality when Ha Dong-jun called his name.
"Se-jun. Looks like we're roughly done here. How about dinner together?"
Ha Dong-jun glanced at his watch as he made the suggestion, but Kim Se-jun waved it off. Ordinarily he would have accepted Ha Dong-jun's invitation without hesitation, but not today.
"I'm sorry, Vice President. I arranged to discuss the remake further with Jin-ah and Dae-jun. I should head back right away."
"Huh? Jin-ah should've gone home by now."
"...Ah, I was supposed to talk with Dae-jun one-on-one. I must've gotten mixed up."
"Was it really a mix-up? If you don't want to eat, just say so honestly. Don't be so roundabout about it — you're a grown man. Go on, then."
With a hearty laugh, Ha Dong-jun clapped Kim Se-jun on the back with his thick, strong hand. He was trying to play it cool, but there was a hint of feeling in the gesture, and Kim Se-jun staggered for a moment.
Is he getting the wrong idea?
Even Kim Se-jun had to admit it was a situation ripe for misunderstanding. But explaining himself would have looked as pathetic as Ha Dong-jun said, so he bowed in greeting and headed back to the studio.
When he arrived, Song Dae-jun was there alone — so Ha Dong-jun hadn't been lying about Lee Jin-ah going home.
Should I even go in?
Without Lee Jin-ah there to mediate the atmosphere, he was reluctant to just walk in. He didn't even know what he'd say if they were alone. No — before that, Kim Se-jun didn't even know why he'd come here. He still hadn't decided what to do with his own heart.
Should I just go back?
Just as he was about to turn around, he caught sight of Song Dae-jun through the studio's glass window.
Kim Se-jun's pupils dilated at the sight of Song Dae-jun clutching his head with both hands, writhing in agony. He was frowning as if dissatisfied with his work, pounding his chest in frustration. Then he let out a raw, desperate shout — and through the soundproofing, only a faint fragment of it leaked out to reach Kim Se-jun's ears.
Haha... he's just like me.
Kindred spirits. In that figure, Kim Se-jun saw himself. The days he'd shut himself in a tiny rented room, trying to summon inspiration. The days he'd suffered against his own limits, eaten alive by stress. That was what it meant to make a song — to go through that kind of pain.
And you were going to erase a song like that, Se-jun...?
His conscience stabbed him mercilessly in the chest. The ache was so sharp he couldn't even lift his head for the shame. Kim Se-jun stood leaning against the studio hallway wall for a while. Then, with a look of resolve, he carefully opened the studio door.
When the door opened, Song Dae-jun turned at the sound of someone entering. His voice trembled at the unexpected visitor.
"Huh?"
Pupils shaking, Song Dae-jun asked,
"Why are you here?"
Kim Se-jun didn't meet his eyes as he spoke carefully.
"Whew. That song of yours, Dae-jun."
"Yeah. What about my song?"
At the mention of the song, Song Dae-jun shrank back, tense.
"That song. Try changing just the chorus and the bridge. Nothing else. Just the chorus and the bridge. They feel too bland right now. If you just change those, I won't have any reason to do a remake."
"What?"
Song Dae-jun echoed the sudden words, but Kim Se-jun didn't answer. He bowed deeply in greeting and slipped out of the studio.
With feedback like that, he'll figure out how to fix it on his own.
If he interfered any further, Song Dae-jun might lose his bearings entirely. He hoped his feedback would ease the man's torment, even a little. That was the best apology Kim Se-jun could offer Song Dae-jun now — for the ugly thoughts he'd harbored, however briefly.
"What the hell. All of a sudden."
Song Dae-jun muttered blankly after Kim Se-jun came in and left in less than a minute. Kim Se-jun, who'd walked in out of nowhere, said something out of nowhere, and vanished.
Song Dae-jun didn't particularly like Kim Se-jun. No — more precisely, not since the moment it was decided he'd join this remake. When he'd first heard Kim Se-jun's song, the thought that this guy was a genius had come naturally. When his boss, Lee Hae-jin, had praised him, Song Dae-jun had nodded along in agreement.
But when he heard that this genius was suddenly inserting himself into Song Dae-jun's own work, the emotion he'd felt was anxiety. This unfinished song he was making now. It was stalled with just one last step remaining, but he believed it would become a once-in-a-generation masterpiece. He just never imagined that last step would be so impossible to take.
And so, with each passing day, his heart burned away, and the restlessness only grew. The days of insomnia, of barely sleeping, of smoking three packs a day out of self-loathing. And then today, the day Kim Se-jun was set to join his project. He'd thought that if a genius like Kim Se-jun participated, his own song would be buried in an instant. He'd expected everything in his head to turn to foam...
"If I just change the bridge and the chorus, he won't have any reason to remake it?"
The words had come out of nowhere, but it was obvious they'd been said to help him.
"He said it was bland..."
Kim Se-jun's words nagged at him more than they should. He'd treated the guy curtly out of that petty fear that his song might disappear — but he knew perfectly well how talented Kim Se-jun was. He played the chorus and bridge sections Kim Se-jun had mentioned, and began to listen slowly.
"Bland?"
He'd heard the song dozens of times, but he'd never felt that way until now. So why, after Kim Se-jun said it, did it suddenly actually feel bland?
"Wait. Then if I add harmony here..."
Color returned to Song Dae-jun's face, as if he'd spotted light at the end of a long tunnel. Once the floodgates of inspiration opened, there was no stopping the current. Song Dae-jun's hands never paused as he revised the song, and his work didn't end even after hours had passed.
Long after everyone else had gone home, Song Dae-jun sat alone in the studio. He played the finished song, then closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The song filled the room. As he listened, Song Dae-jun murmured quietly to himself — thinking of Kim Se-jun, who'd identified in a single listen the problem he'd agonized over for days.