Quitting the Band, Trashing the Studio (3)
Stepping out of the police station, I sat down under the convenience store's parasol. Yu Jeuni, who'd dashed inside in the meantime, cracked open a bottle of honey water and chugged it down with gusto. Gulp, gulp.
"Ahh!" She looked utterly satisfied.
"Yuan Shu?"
"What're you on about."
The self-proclaimed emperor of Zhong from Romance of the Three Kingdoms met his miserable end because he couldn't get his hands on honey water. But this is the convenient modern world—we've got convenience stores where you can buy it anytime. Leaving Yu Jeuni like this meant she wasn't about to drop dead anytime soon. She'd sobered up a bit after crashing for a few hours at the station, too. And turns out, this girl's loaded.
"She never said it outright, but she's not broke. Her dad's the director of a big dermatology clinic in Gangnam."
"Whoa." Made sense why she had that pricey place in Apgujeong. The studio here with its top-notch soundproofing? Same reason.
"But why're you sticking to me like glue?"
"'Cause I think there's a lot I can learn from you."
"What, like how to get wasted and cause a scene?"
"......"
The ultimate bestseller and bible of human relationships that I revered: Approach Human Relations Proactively First. I rummaged through my mental Mundane data, but no fitting response came up.
Q. How do I handle a menhera addict who's a total gold digger but has killer musical talent? I want her in my network, and I don't want her quitting music.
A. Hell if I know. Mundane's strategies assume normal human interactions.
So I decided to just be straight-up. Time to drop the cautious act and show my true colors—the somewhat cold, kinda dickish ones. No other way around it.
"That's pathetic, so I don't wanna learn that. I wanna pick up stuff on running a band or composing."
"I quit music."
"And you're sober now, but if I leave you alone, I feel like you're really gonna off yourself, sis."
"Ha."
Yu Jeuni, who'd been staring at the night sky, turned to me with a look of utter disbelief. Her twin tails swayed under the convenience store parasol.
"When'd you see me to start calling me sis?"
"Senior then? Jeuni-noona?"
"I'm seven years older than you."
"Got it, auntie."
"I'm dead."
"Anyway, I wanna build connections, learn from you, and I think you'll cause a huge mess if left alone. That's why I'm keeping at you."
"Why think that?"
I silently scanned her outfit with my eyes. But the nonverbal cue didn't land.
"I'm sober now. What's the problem?"
"You're screaming everywhere that you're gonna lose your mind and die. That's childish."
"I didn't scream it."
"Dressing like that at twenty-four and pushing a menhera concept? Same thing, right?"
"......"
Stung by the jab from someone seven years younger (mentally about the same age thanks to my regression), Yu Jeuni was at a loss for words. Her gaping mouth was kinda hilarious. I pressed on, feigning nonchalance.
"And it might sound cliché, but honestly? It's a waste."
"What is?"
"Your talent, teacher."
I'd dug into info on Yu Jeuni and mulled it over. Guitarist and composer, rich kid, indie scene success story. Minus the menhera vibes, perfect specs.
Lots to learn from her.
Given the new genres I was tackling, her sound had massive potential. Beyond music, she was valuable—planning a one-man label down the line, and she'd led an indie band with gig and collab experience. Sure, the creepy previous-life déjà vu factored in too.
"When I was working on Bless, I checked out recent rock sounds in the scene. Listened to Neon Blue tracks and loved 'em. Didn't fit Bless's direction, but that dreamy sound and song structures? Killer."
"Ha......"
Yu Jeuni let out a deep sigh. Lingering booze made her slur a bit on longer words.
"Neon Blue blew up, I quit music, and you're saying you like the old songs. What reaction you expecting?"
"Why'd it blow up in the first place? You guys were killing it."
"Listen up."
Gotcha. This was what I was gunning for. Booze buff. Some folks spill their backstory smooth once the liquor hits. Most tales would bore, but this was Yu Jeuni—indie genius composer, Neon Blue leader.
"I'm rich."
"Yeah, yeah."
"I bankrolled the whole band. Gear rentals! Rehearsal rooms! Recording, distribution, venues, even meals—I covered it all!"
"Not leader, sugar mama."
"Yup."
She saw it as leader duty, pouring in cash and effort. But goodwill turns to entitlement, they say. The members turned into total leeches.
"I tried my absolute best with all my drive.... Sniff. Hic...."
Yu Jeuni started tearing up again.
"Later on, the others.... wouldn't do jack.... Or they'd just bitch and bail...."
"Oof."
"Sniff. Heh heh."
Then she started giggling to herself. Scary. Total nutcase.
"Expecting me to do everything? Makes sense?"
"Nah, doesn't."
Per Mundane: Empathize first.
- Shouldn't you have cut 'em off financially and whipped 'em into shape? Hold that question.
Listen to the end first.
"And.... And...."
Musical differences were excuses—really money and ego. Dragging the band limply along, then the bombshell hit.
"Main vocal bailed."
"That was real?"
"Yeah! Got a solo offer from another label!"
"Penalty fees?"
"You think we had contracts like that in our casual setup?"
Her rage fizzled into gloom.
"I was the idiot...."
She downed the bottle like booze, but it was just honey water. Cough, cough!
And so Neon Blue imploded. Beat down by people and sick of music, Yu Jeuni rage-canceled the studio lease, tried dumping her gear (failed), drowned in booze, and ended up back at the old spot out of habit.
"Sorry for the scene."
Head bowed, her black-and-white twin tails drooped limply. Kinda VTuber-ish, but I regressed, so she predates that trend.
"Heading home now, won't happen again."
"Last night, rushing to the studio and getting nabbed by cops? Thought I was done for, but... yeah."
"Thanks for looking out. Bye."
She staggered up, slinging her guitar case. Her head seemed clearer, but sending her off felt iffy.
"Hold up."
"What."
"Could you help with one collab? As an apology?"
She eyed me warily.
"What collab?"
"Got a project brewing. Totally new genre, different from what I'm doing."
I paused, then dropped the hook.
"Need to build some vibe, but solo's tough. As Neon Blue leader, your skills are legit."
"Ha."
She let out a disbelieving scoff.
"I quit music."
"Then why tote the guitar?"
"This is...."
"If you're dumping it, gimme. Pricey model, premium from a famous band guitarist."
She clutched the strap reflexively, like hell no. Then, sudden change of heart—she shoved it at me.
"Here. Use it pretty."
"Huh?"
"Apology gift. Treat it well."
Strategy fail. Pointed out she couldn't let go, meant to reignite her passion. World ain't a sports manga. Before I could grab it back, she bolted.
"......"
Instead of home, I headed to the studio, stashed the guitar carefully, then cracked the case with even more care. Shimmering shell pink body. Relic weathering, fretboard wear. Crisp serial on the headstock. I'm no guitar expert as a beat-focused composer, but this thing screamed legendary.
Crazy. She serious about quitting? Unease hit, but next morning, my phone blew up with texts.
Film break or what? Fingers flew.
Tap.
Tap tap.
Tap tap tap tap tap.
Composers, producers—what's the top virtue? Like Khalid Ham did, maybe networking.
Networking's a grind.