Viral Echoes and Solo Dreams

There were comments that meant absolutely nothing. Utterly baffling stuff that made you wonder why it had racked up a thousand replies. But overall, the bulk of them boiled down to things like, "These girls are cute, they sing well, play music great—who are they? Japanese?"

'Why the hell is this leaking into Korea?' She'd heard they'd shot the video for promo purposes. Views were over 10,000, too. But honestly, 10k views couldn't breach national borders, let alone the fence around your own house. How did this happen? Nursing that curiosity, Myeongjeon poked around the communities and soon figured it out.

It was that damn Twitter.

Back when they'd first played Roundabout, some Twitter user—probably a customer in the music shop at the time—had posted it. That short one-minute clip got over 5,000 retweets and spread far and wide. Of course, that alone wouldn't have blown up like this. But someone on Twitter clipped a specific part of the Roundabout video, turned it into the kind of "meme video" everyone shares, and the internet caught fire... eventually spilling over into Korean web spaces.

A tapestry of reactions flooding the Korean internet. Mostly positive, with the rest neutral at worst. Even the negatives were just "stop with the virals" vibes—no "these bitches suck" rants.

'Not the most welcome path, huh.'

But Myeongjeon thought that as she propped her chin on her hand, staring at the monitor. Her sense of identity had gotten a bit fuzzy lately... but at her core, she was a musician. Someone who craved recognition through music, fame through music. In that sense, she didn't want this weird, twisted kind of notoriety.

'Wait, no, that's not quite right.'

Any fame was better than none. Back when media wasn't as advanced, "mysterious aura" concepts worked wonders, and artists pulling that off thrived. But try that now? You'd starve. Say "I don't want to show my face to the public. Judge me on skill alone," and the 21st-century media would just go, "Cool, stay buried then~" and ignore you. Attention-seekers were a dime a dozen.

With that in mind, Myeongjeon bought and downloaded the Roundabout sheet music from a score site. Meme or not, best to hop on the wave. Time to post a survival signal on her own channel, [White Room], and film a tutorial video.

Lying down, Myeongjeon gazed at her hands. Calluses now thick and tough. Hard to believe these were the same soft, grip-less hands she'd first seen. Staring at those calluses, she recalled recent events.

The last night of the trip. And what Hyein had said upon their return.

'Career path.'

Myeongjeon had never really pondered her future career. Not like Iseo's "no particular plans" vibe. If anything, her path was set so firmly she had no reason to doubt it. Why overthink something already decided? Just idle thoughts.

But while "what to do for a living" was set, "how to do it" wasn't. That was her recent dilemma.

How to live? She had long-term life goals, sure. "A life in music." "Let's make the music I love." The ideal she'd embraced since waking in "Ha Suyeon's" body—and stuck to ever since.

But you couldn't live on that alone. Vaguely "doing music" until you end up homeless—what then? Busk on the street and claim, "Hey, I'm still making music, so life's good!"? Hell no.

'Succeeding in music is too vague.'

The issue was how. Myeongjeon glanced at the ceiling. Unless she hit the lottery, everything needed steps. You can't do calculus without basic addition. Buildings start from the ground floor.

Music success was the same. To make only the music she wanted, she'd need big money—which meant success first. But you can't succeed without even touching success's edge.

So where was the path to success?

'Gotta set stepwise goals.'

Myeongjeon pulled out a notepad and brainstormed. Scribble everything that came to mind for "succeed in music": Album chart #1. 24-hour chart #1. Concert tour. Rock Hall of Fame. Fender endorsement. Million seller. Billboard #1...

She jotted a few, then stopped. What made a good goal? Realistic, achievable with effort, rewarding upon completion, growth-inducing. Otherwise, it's just wasted time on pipe dreams.

What she'd written fit perfectly: realistic, doable with work, not too easy. Ideal short-term target.

'Hold a solo concert.'

Solo concert. Generally means a standalone show. Technically, even 10 people makes it "solo," or 100. But convention demands 1,000-2,000 seats for legitimacy.

Myeongjeon wasn't aiming that low. A 1-2k venue? Hardly success.

'Realistically, 10k seats... Jamsil level would seal it.'

In Japan, one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠benchmark for "successful musician" is playing Nippon Budokan. Budokan capability separates majors from minors. Jamsil wasn't quite that prestigious, but its 11k capacity matched—and with Korea's weaker draw, nailing a Jamsil solo would scream "successful rock band."

Myeongjeon tilted her head, eyed the note: Solo Concert. She tore out the page, taped it by the bed. Make ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that day come fast—that was her new goal.

After picking, Myeongjeon stared at the guitar strings, trembling faintly from strain. Letting them ring out naturally felt more organic—no muting.

"Great work!"

As the sound faded, she looked up. Through the studio window, the PD was clapping.

Praise poured out the moment she stepped out.

"Thank you."

"Guitar recording's done—nailed it! Whoa, I seriously doubted at first. Thought Junho had lost his mind."

"I get that a lot."

Myeongjeon cocked her head with a smile. The PD laughed heartily, clapping. The faces for upcoming sessions looked bright too—guitar wrapped quick.

"I'll wire the pay. Thanks for today~"

After minutes of compliments and business cards, she finally left the studio. Outside was already dim. Sun was up when she arrived, but even quick sessions took hours.

"Yeah, Mom. Heading home now. Want me to grab anything? ...You don't wanna eat home-cooked? No, I just thought you must get tired cooking every day... That's not it. I love your food."

Trading pointless banter with Hyein, Myeongjeon boarded the bus—30 minutes to home.

After setting "solo concert" as her goal, she'd decided to save money first. Long road ahead. Sure, she could beg Hyein: "Mom, fund my concert?" and get "Aigoo, my baby girl~!" with cash. But that's no way to live.

So she'd swallowed some pride, asked Junho for intros. Result: decent session gigs rolling in. Not a flood, but helpful.

'At this rate, album production costs by year-end.'

Hyeona's return meant debut full album. Sell it, leverage for fests or promo, build fame and cash. Repeat till solo concert day.

lost in those thoughts, Myeongjeon looked ahead. The bus wound corners, straightened out. Her phone rang—unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Uh... is this Ha Suyeon?"

"Yes, it is. Who's this..."

"Don't recognize my voice?"

"...Why would I know your voice?"

Some nut calling out of the blue demanding voice recognition. Myeongjeon shot back incredulously.

The guy burst out laughing. Right as irritation peaked, he revealed himself.

"This is Taylor'd's Kim Cheol-yeon. How've you been, Suyeon?"

"...Ah! Yes, doing great, thanks to you. Appreciate you looking out last time."

A big shot calling. Myeongjeon regretted her snippiness, softened up.

Nothing major—just check-ins.

"Watched the audition show. What happened there?"

"Been quiet lately—what've you been up to?"

And at the end of those questions, one proposal.

"Summer break for students now, right? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ever thought about sessioning with us?"

"I do sessions... but why? Need album recording?"

"Nah, not that. Live session."

"Live?"

Myeongjeon perked up. Why live sessions from this guy?

"Dropping a new album soon, so music shows and nationwide tour. Wanna join as main guitar for our tour?"