216 - Agitato
“How did you know I was here and come find me, Nami?” Danielle asked slyly, stirring the red soup with her spoon in a figure-eight pattern.
“You just bolted out without thinking. If you keep going straight along the road, there's only one park that comes up—and it's this one.”
“If I'd gone somewhere else, you would've been wandering around forever. Lucky we ran into each other like this.”
“Even then, you wouldn't have gotten lost.”
“Huh? Why's that?”
I took her left hand and spread her palm wide open. I traced her palm lines with my fingertip, tickling her gently.
“Eek, that tickles, Nami!”
“Just bear with it a sec. I'll get this out for you.”
Like spinning sugar into cotton candy, I twirled my index finger in a circle, drawing out a thin golden thread.
“What is this?”
“My aura.”
The moment I clenched my fist, the yellow thread dissolved cleanly into the air like cotton candy in water.
“Why was it coming out of my hand?”
“I planted it earlier. That's how I knew where you went, sis.”
“Hey, that's straight-up location tracking...! Why didn't you just say so... Do they teach all this stuff at the academy?”
“Eh, something like that.”
If I say it's from the academy, it becomes an ironclad excuse. Gotta remember to use that later.
To help digest dinner, we left the park and wandered aimlessly through the heart of downtown.
“The group leader sis must be pretty pissed at me...”
“If you know that, send her a text right now.”
“No matter what I say, she'll still be mad, right?”
“You can't think like that. It's not about expecting things to change—it's about apologizing because you know you messed up.”
“Yeah, got it. Sending it now.”
“Smart thinking.”
From our talks, Danielle struck me as seriously avoidant when it came to relationships. The second things got a little rocky, she'd cut ties herself. Someone who needed a psychology of human relations class more than anyone was dozing off during lectures and skipping group meetings for tutoring gigs.
“I didn't skip every time. The prof's voice is just kinda sleepy.”
“Fine, whatever—but why schedule tutoring that overlaps with class?”
“It used to be right after class. Group meetings always ended early, so it fit perfectly. But the mom kept asking to move it up 30 minutes or an hour, so...”
“You should've shut that down right away.”
“Ugh, yeah... If it was just gonna fizzle out like this anyway...”
She rubbed her throbbing forehead.
Livelihood issues were always hard to compromise on. But the real problem—putting everything else aside—was that Danielle hadn't explained her situation to the group at all. No wonder they grumbled when she kept missing meetings without a word.
“No thought to asking for understanding?”
“Nah... Who's gonna cut me slack? Plus, explaining means spilling my whole family drama.”
“I don't know your family situation, sis, but if sharing it helps, you should.”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds like kid talk, huh? Doesn't hit home?”
“Huh? No, no! I didn't think that at all, Nami.”
Right. Her face said otherwise.
Stubborn types need their egos crushed upfront. Only then does advice stick—gotta reset them to a blank slate.
The western sky was shifting from red to deep indigo.
“Let's make a bet then. If you win, I'll go to Da-yeon sis myself and explain why you had to skip group meetings. She won't stay mad if I say it. Then next meeting won't feel so awkward for you, right?”
I stopped walking and made the offer.
Neon lights reflected in Danielle's eyes, sparkling in every color.
“But if I win, you apologize directly to the whole group at the next meeting.”
“Do we have to bet on that...?”
I nodded.
She had no choice but to take it. This wasn't baiting her with the prize—it was using the bet itself as the hook.
“You said you talked a lot at the first meeting, right? I heard you have claustrophobia and can't use capsules.”
“Yeah. Trauma from when I was little.”
“Too bad. Prof Pi and Maestro sounded fun. Wanna duel me sometime?”
I pointed to the building next door.
“Offline's fine, yeah?”
Maestro came out in the early capsule days, so to boost promo and draw players, they stocked arcades with real instruments linked to the game. No different from other offline rhythm games.
Except the tool was a violin.
I planned to shatter her pride here.
“The prof said I play better than you.”
“...!”
“What do you think?”
If she backed down, she wasn't a Korea University music major.
“This is my life.”
Danielle's eyes blazed. For the first time, her voice carried real gravity.
The accent on “life” hit like a heavy downbeat.
Difficulty: ★
Adagio cantabile: Slowly, in a singing style
Life is a blessing.
Danielle was born blessed, to a fifth-generation ginseng farmer father and violin academy mother. On days when her mom's beautiful violin melodies mingled with dad's baritone voice in their yard-front country home, the infant with her parents' sharp features giggled wildly, while the golden retriever barked along, completing a perfect chorus.
“If only our lives had been this easy.”
I upped the difficulty.
Difficulty: ★★
Allegro amabile: Fast and lovingly
A piano academy echoed with the clumsy violin attempts of immature kids. A three-year-old toddled in, clutching grandma's hand. Watching mom's passionate lesson from the back, the girl yawned hugely.
Grandma handed her a kid-sized violin to kill time till class ended. Plucking a string, grandma hit a clear “Do” by chance. The child mimicked with tiny fingers, plucking dozens of times, isolating “Do,” “Sol,” “La”—then sang the lullaby mom whispered nightly.
Twinkle twinkle little star!
Do-do-sol-sol la-la-sol.
Just like that, the child fell head over heels for the violin. Mom's face lit with shock at witnessing genius.
“I don't remember any of that. Mom nagged like a cuckoo clock every day.”
I upped the difficulty.
Difficulty: ★★★★☆
Presto agitato: Very fast and restless
After seven years, mom confirmed her daughter's talent was real. The issue? Practice endurance. Danielle's arms and hands were frail; she couldn't hold the violin long.
Around then, Yamaha's “Maestro” game buzzed the industry. Instructors feared losing gigs and opposed domestic rollout—but for her daughter, mom turned a blind eye.
Target: Top arts middle school, Yeil. VR meant no injuries, less stamina drain. Mom tested it herself—effects nearly identical to real.
Talent already unmatched among peers. Mom aimed higher: adult repertoires young meant maestro status inevitable. Plus, pro violin tones for pocket change? No brainer.
“Mom, what is this... I failed... I failed!”
Impossible. The elite path—Yeil, Korea Arts High, Korea U Music—crumbled from the start.
News hit on VR early ed risks, but mom tuned it out. Brainwave-only vs. full neural learning showed kid differences? Hot air.
Ditched middles besides Yeil—only Korea Arts High mattered. Mom was right; girl had to be wrong. “Sight-reading genius” entered Korea Arts High.
“Sight-reading perfectly means nothing. Everyone practices hundreds, thousands of times. What matters is whose teacher and how long. Genius sight-reader? So what. Precise play? Big deal. They all say my playing's soulless.”
Dues kicked in—difficulty ramped auto. Unavoidable, system of fate.
Difficulty: ★★★★★★★★☆
Poco a poco piu agitato: Little by little, more agitated
The mystery heavy-player “Jūdex” who rocked Maestro vanished one day. Danielle felt more joy escaping the hated capsule than entering arts high.
Pitch and rhythm? Top-tier. But infusing emotion? Never got it. Still, talent + lessons got her into Korea Arts High. Past six years: mom's near-abusive practice demands, dad's apathetic enabling—pure hell, she claimed.
Bigger hell awaited.
Finances tanked. Violins guzzle maintenance: 5 mil won/month rental, car-price purchase. Bow min 5 mil, case separate. Non-school lessons: up to 300-500k/day. Yearly tab: 20 mil low-end, 100 mil+ common.
Even middle-class buckled under music admissions.
Already borrowing heavy. Mom cut contact cold.
High 1: Dad scammed 300 mil on “smart farm” pitch. Farm foreclosed—bank collateral.
High 2: Mom shuttered academy, sold building dirt-cheap. Danielle shouldered mom's dreams too.
High 3: Sold cherished country home—moved to grandma's. Danielle abroad for concurso, learned of grandma's death (who intro'd violin) late.
Dad regretted missing concurso but bit investment bait. Mom, obsessed with daughter's success, sacrificed all—now neurotic, sobbing endlessly, waking screaming “Korea U Music!”
Danielle hung up, groaning at the dark phone.
High school: zero friends. Better than having them.
“My desk again...”
She scraped eraser crumbs off desk graffiti, then chucked it at the blackboard in rage.
I can't speak for others, but my sheet-music reading's unique. I 3D-model it mentally, add volume axis for dynamics. Recall left/right hand moves from prior players. Boom—replicate their interpretation effortlessly.
That's why Prof Pi called my Caprice 24 “maestro-level.” But Kariri's cover—first-time play—got harsh notes.
“Yeah!”
“Thought she was one-of-a-kind...”
Saying I outplay her? Bald-faced lie. Can't top a decade-plus of 10-hour days.
Didn't expect her to buy it hook, line, sinker. Whatever.
But I wasn't losing this bet easy.
Gap widening. Maestro's online play assists, but judges brutal. Remaining notes? She'd need 3+ misses for me to catch up barely.
Screen showed Danielle's eyes locked on sheet—no blinks. Monster.
No shot? Endgame hit.
Ding! Eerie twang from her violin. String snapped limp.
“You win, NoName.”
Danielle conceded instantly.
Did she snap it on purpose? Gear fail? She never spilled the truth.