Tie-up

“...I’d like to release this song as a B-side single. What do you think?”

Suyun twirled a strand of her hair. A B-side. From the sound of it, Araki Ryosuke meant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a track that wouldn't be featured in the anime itself, but released casually on official channels, YouTube, or as a physical album bonus.

“Hmm... normally, I'd say yes. It's a great opportunity. But...”

“But?”

“This whole situation has made me a bit angry. I have absolutely no problem with you, Mr. Araki, but I don't want to do any more business with them,” Suyun said flatly.

Breach of contract penalties could run into tens of thousands of dollars, or even hundreds of thousands... plus, getting tangled up in lawsuits and media drama could cause losses far exceeding any penalty fee. It was incredibly common for rising singers or bands to crash and burn after getting trapped in contractual disputes and legal battles. So, if things could be resolved normally, fulfilling the contract was always the right move. Emotions are fleeting, but the consequences endure.

But taking on an additional project was a completely different story. Why go out of her way to do them any favors? For whose benefit? Whether it was a B-side, C-side, or D-side, those people would ultimately profit from it.

“Ah... I know exactly what you mean. I went through so much of that when I was a rookie. Those Japanese corporate suits are all out of their minds. They think they can just push artists around however they please.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

The voice coming through the receiver overflowed with genuine sincerity. He even sounded like he was grinding his teeth a little, perhaps recalling his own past. After venting a bit more about his own experiences, Araki Ryosuke spoke up again.

“Well, you won't have to deal with this kind of stuff for long. Your music is incredible, so you'll hit the big time in no time. For now, I'll do whatever I can to help. I've got a decent amount of pull these days, so... haha.”

“Thank you. If anything comes up, or if I think of a good idea, I'll contact you.”

“You're not just saying that, right? I'll be waiting.”

“Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

Suyun hung up. As if she had been listening in from above, Hyun-ah spoke up.

“How did it go...?”

“We'll have to talk to Studio Red Rock first, but apparently, the other band's vocalist refused to go along with it and backed out. He just called me and told us to do it on our own.”

“Oh... so is that a good thing?”

“I don't know if I'd call it 'good,' but at least we can proceed normally now...”

Suyun twirled her hair again. If Araki Ryosuke was telling the truth, things had worked out well. They could just go back to their original plan, the schedule wouldn't be messed up, and they could proceed exactly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as they had been. It was a satisfactory conclusion.

“It's still pretty shitty, though. In the end, this wouldn't have been resolved if Araki hadn't stepped in.”

“That's true...”

But human emotions don't work that logically. Humans are creatures who kick their blankets in embarrassment or anger in the middle of the night over things that happened years ago. It wasn't easy to just brush off a recent insult with a breezy, 'Well, it all worked out in the end, so let's let bygones be bygones!'

“By the way, do you have any records of your business calls with Studio Red Rock? Like call recordings?”

“Uh... yes, actually... I have a Galaxy, so it records calls automatically...”

“Send them to me. I can't just let this slide.”

Suyun searched through her own iPhone. Fortunately, thanks to a recent update, her conversations with Studio Red Rock had been recorded and saved. After setting up her Apple Watch to activate voice recording with a single button press, Suyun muttered,

“Seeing how they treat us just because we're foreigners, we definitely aren't the only ones they've done this to. Let's start gathering evidence. This kind of behavior is practically unimaginable in Korea these days, but they're still pulling this crap in Japan...”

She had no intention of neglecting the task at hand. Not just because of the contract, but because she refused to let a single blemish mar their otherwise perfect career. But conversely, that meant once this job was done, all bets were off.

“Y-yes, exactly. They're really awful people... I'm sure there are other victims too...”

“Right?”

As Suyun brushed back her hair with a smirk, she had no idea that this grudge would be repaid far sooner than she expected.

“Anyway, let's talk to Studio Red Rock, get the final recording done, and wrap this up quickly. I don't want to look at their faces ever again.”

But that was a story for the near future. Finishing the track and delivering an absolute masterpiece—that was Suyun's immediate priority.

The day of the final recording.

“It'll go well, right?”

In the smoking area near the Zenith Music Entertainment building, Studio Red Rock's animation director muttered, having arrived a bit early at the recording studio. His voice carried a hint of anxiety.

“Of course it will. All the drafts turned out great. Why wouldn't it go well?”

“I just have a bad feeling.”

“Come on, Director Ishibashi. You always worry too much about these superstitions. A feeling is just a feeling, right?”

“I suppose so.”

Replying, the producer took a long drag of his cigarette. Meanwhile, Director Mishima spoke up.

“But it's true that things have been a bit rocky with this anime. It feels like we're constantly putting out fires. Even that band situation...”

“Ah, that.”

“I mean, before that whole mess blew up, they were super polite, and that guy who said he was a fan kept sending us messages. But since then, it's been radio silence.”

“Well, isn't that only natural?”

“Come on, Ishibashi. Did we do anything wrong? The publisher demanded it, so what were we supposed to do?”

The director grumbled, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. His irritation was palpable in both his speed and tone.

“We wanted to protect them too. We really did, but what choice do we have when the client demands it? Besides, everything worked out in the end because that vocalist covered for them. Yet they're still acting all cold. They barely nod when they greet us, and their emails are incredibly brief.”

“What can you do? Once they get some real-world experience, they'll understand our position. It's not like we have any power.”

The producer muttered, tapping his cigarette ash into the tray. It was about time to head up. As he went to pocket his phone, something crossed his mind, and he unlocked it again.

“Ah, looks like this guy really isn't coming.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Ito. Sigh... It's the opening theme recording, you'd think he'd show up. It looks so much better for the promotion if the original author makes an appearance.”

“He posted something on Twitter this morning too. Looks like he's still deeply unhappy.”

Despite receiving an invitation, Ito Kazuyuki, the creator of Train Trail, was a no-show. The producer scratched his head, thinking of him. It was his own work; if the anime succeeded, he would profit too. Why was he being so stubborn?

“Why is the original author trying to interfere with the voice casting anyway? Isn't that overstepping his bounds?”

“I suppose so.”

“And it's not like we cast some nobody. We went out of our way to hire a veteran, even though we had to pay a massive fee. But he keeps making these absurd demands... We're the ones making the anime, not him.”

The conflict had started with the voice casting. After careful consideration, they had assigned one of the main characters to a highly popular, veteran voice actor, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but the author had demanded a replacement, citing rather unconvincing reasons.

“Is that old guy's reputation really that bad?”

“I've heard some rumors too... but what does that matter? As long as he hasn't committed a crime, who cares? He's an old man anyway, what could possibly happen? It's probably just the author being fussy.”

The author had argued that a certain voice suited the character better, while also pointing out the veteran voice actor's poor reputation. It was ridiculous. If they filtered out actors based on rumors and reputation, who would be left? All that mattered was picking a popular voice actor to boost the show's success.

“Well, we've stood around talking for too long. Let's head inside. It's about time.”

The producer said, quickly pocketing his phone. It was time to get to the recording booth.

“Hello.”

“...Hello.”

The greeting was directed at Ha Suyun, the leader of Group Sound. The response was purely perfunctory. The producer clicked his tongue inwardly and took a seat in the corner of the studio. Just as Director Mishima had said, she seemed to have completely turned her back on them after that incident.

Well, I suppose we should be glad she didn't pull out of the project entirely.

With that thought, he sat down on the sofa in the waiting area. Ha Suyun, after speaking with the engineer for a while, walked over.

“If there are any final revisions to the storyboard, please give them to me.”

“None.”

“Understood. We will proceed with the previous arrangement.”

Was it because of her youth, or was it just the typical temperament of an artist? Seeing Ha Suyun make absolutely no effort to hide her deep dissatisfaction, the producer let out a quiet sigh.

Looking at the music they make, I'd love to hire them again for Season 2... but given the circumstances, that's probably out of the question.

What if they had taken the band's side and rejected the publisher's demands? They might have secured them for Season 2. But doing so would have soured their relationship with the publisher. They might not have even been able to make a second season, even if the first was a hit. No matter how good the song was, an opening was just an opening. They couldn't afford to cross the publisher who held the rights to the original IP.

It can't be helped. The choice has already been made.

“We'll begin recording now.”

He rationalized his decision as he watched the recording booth, where the instruments began to resonate. A powerful bass slap. A palpable sense of dynamics. Listening to their performance, a sudden wave of doubt washed over him—had he made the right choice? If Season 1 became a hit anyway, the publisher wouldn't have complained about replacements. Wouldn't it have been better to hold onto a guaranteed hitmaker, a sure-fire way to capture the public's attention? You never know what might happen. Having even one reliable weapon... No, shouldn't he have made the morally right choice in the first place? The thought crossed his mind, but he shook his head to clear it. There was no point in dwelling on choices that couldn't be undone.

Time passed... The day of the opening theme's release, 7:45 PM.

Ugh, time is seriously dragging.

As one of Train Trail's diehard fans, she stared at her monitor, anxiously fidgeting with her fingers. The clock seemed frozen at 7:45 PM. How long would it take for 45 to turn to 46, and finally reach 8:00 PM?

Maybe watching the PV again will help?

Feeling every agonizing second, she replayed the PV she had already watched dozens of times. It was only a minute long. The stunning character designs. The meticulous direction. The flashy action sequences. Even if someone wasn't a fan of Train Trail, anyone could tell this anime was destined for success.

After posting her tweet, she searched the hashtag #toretore. Everyone seemed to be in the same boat, complaining about how slow time was moving and wishing they could fast-forward the clock.

But they haven't revealed who performed the song yet...

What if some weird, obscure artist performed it and ruined the quality? The thought crossed her mind, but she quickly shook her head. Unless Studio Red Rock had completely lost their minds, there was no way. And even if they had, they wouldn't have set up a YouTube countdown to hype everyone up like this.

There are rumors that it's a band song...

One of the cast voice actors had tweeted something about the song having an "impressive bassline." Considering the recent trend of top-tier bands participating in anime soundtracks, there was a high chance that a very prominent band was behind the opening theme releasing in just a few minutes.

And that band is going to deliver an absolute banger. Who could it be? For example...

Maybe Cake Keychain. Or Sagashiteiru. Or some other band... like Group Sound, who had been blowing up recently.

But Group Sound's musical style might not fit the show. Maybe Cake Keychain is a safer bet...

Her overactive imagination, spinning so fast it was practically smoking, threatened to burn out when she realized how painful the disappointment would be if her high expectations weren't met... but instead, it flared up even hotter. She decided that even if she was destined to be disappointed, she wanted to enjoy the anticipation right now.

And then, only a few seconds remained. Along with thousands—no, the viewer count was skyrocketing... 10,000, 15,000, 17,000... she clasped her hands together and prayed in front of her screen alongside countless other viewers.

19:59:57, 19:59:58, 19:59:59, 20:00:00…

The standby screen went black. A heavy, echoing thud reverberated.

The sound effects built up tension. A faint drumbeat began to creep in. Static hissed. A high-pitched ringing, like tinnitus, echoed. A complex, unidentifiable collage of sounds played for a brief moment.

And then, the signature sound of Train Trail—the clattering of a train on the tracks—echoed from a distance. She nearly gasped, covering her mouth. It was a sound she heard every single day on her commute, but it had never felt this thrilling.

The sound of the train grew louder, closer, and closer, until it felt like it would run her over if she closed her eyes—and then, a sudden, absolute silence fell over her ears.

Filling that void, bursting upward from the deepest depths in an instant, came a raw, powerful, yet incredibly crisp bass slap.

Holy crap...!

She instinctively reached for her keyboard to type, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stopped herself. She didn't want to waste even a fraction of a second typing.

And everyone else seemed to feel the exact same way. The live chat of the YouTube premiere, watched by tens of thousands of people, was moving incredibly, agonizingly slow—as if only a few hundred people were watching.