Chapter 27
Chapter 27
Big Joe’s jaw dropped.
“...”
J-Rackz’s low voice came crashing down over Cabin’s piano as if trampling across it.
The moment Little K’s playful intro ended and that one beat of empty space opened up, a whole new world poured in through the gap.
Huh.
A soundscape that had not existed in the original demo.
The D minor piano skeleton Cabin had laid down remained intact, but every layer placed over it belonged to Shotgun.
A synth pad spread like fog, wrapping around the piano melody, while reverb-soaked hi-hats dripped over it like raindrops.
Big Joe closed his eyes.
It had been a long time since he had felt this way.
More precisely, it was the first time he had felt this way since DJ Cabin retired.
This way of building a beat.
The entire song was connected in a single breath.
It was far too similar to DJ Cabin’s method.
...!
Then the hook came in, all at once.
J-Rackz’s voice rose by an octave, while underneath it the 808 sank deep.
Big Joe ran a hand over his dry lips.
Shotgun made this?
A song originally composed by Cabin, a legendary producer.
Anyone who tried to add flesh to it would inevitably end up trapped under Cabin’s shadow.
Shotgun had not been trapped.
He had neither broken Cabin’s framework nor ignored it.
He had built on top of that framework in a direction Cabin himself had never taken.
If the original piano had been the stillness of four in the morning, then the layers Shotgun added were the sound of something knocking against the window in that predawn darkness.
It’s my brother’s song, and yet it isn’t my brother’s song.
That boundary.
The structure in which the time of the dead and the time of the living coexisted on a single timeline.
Even the song’s theme itself had melted into that structure.
The kind of downer weed.
Big Joe reached into his pocket, intending to calm himself a little.
“...”
But in the end, he did not put the cigar in his mouth.
He did not even want the brief sound of a lighter flicking open to disturb this.
The bridge.
J-Rackz’s voice disappeared.
Only the beat remained.
Cabin’s piano returned, and then—
“Ain’t that some shit? Dreaming about waking up.”
Ain’t that some shit? Dreaming about waking up.
Little K’s voice appeared again over it.
The sentence that had first appeared in the intro now landed in an entirely different context in the bridge.
At first it had been a joke, but here it became a soliloquy.
In the space left behind after the laughter of the living had vanished, those same words settled with completely different weight.
At that moment, one of the composers standing in the back of the studio covered his face with his palm.
“...This makes no sense.”
That was all he could manage to say.
The beatmaker standing beside him tilted his head back and grabbed the back of his neck.
“Damn...”
The reactions started bursting out before the song had even ended.
“How do you even make something like this? How?”
“He kept Cabin’s original alive and then laid a whole new song over it. This isn’t a remix, and it isn’t a cover either, so what the hell do you even call it?”
“...Resurrection.”
The outro.
The final measure.
All the layers fell away at once, leaving only Cabin’s piano behind.
The sound from the original demo, exactly as it had been.
It was the same piano melody at the beginning and the end, but after passing through J-Rackz’s verse and Shotgun’s layers, that melody hit differently now.
It sounded a little more sorrowful, a little more wrenching, a little more—
“...”
Enough to draw Big Joe’s silence out long.
The last note faded.
The studio went quiet.
A silence so complete that not even breathing could be heard.
“...WHAT THE FUCK!”
An exclamation slipped from someone’s mouth, tearing the silence apart.
“SHEEEESH!”
“On my mama, this is the song of the year!”
“This is insane! Shotgun! That crazy bastard actually did it!”
The composers grabbed each other by the shoulders and shook one another.
“This is a guide rap?! This is supposed to be guide-rap quality?!”
“Yo, Shotgun is literally just a god!”
Big Joe still did not move.
Separated from all the uproar around him, he remained alone in his own time.
His brother’s voice was still lingering in his ears.
The last joke his brother had left behind while he was alive.
That joke had become a song.
Ah. So that was it.
The reason this song had been titled [WHEN I WAKE UP].
Only now, after hearing the entire track, did Big Joe fully understand.
Then he looked at Shotgun.
An East Asian man in sunglasses, staring only at the monitor.
A blank face without a trace of expression.
Even while the room exploded around him, he did not budge.
“If Cabin hears this...”
Only then did Big Joe finally take out the cigar and put it in his mouth.
As he lit it, he muttered quietly,
“...He’ll be so shocked he’ll flip.”
Shotgun had said he had something to say after the recording.
“Alright.”
Shotgun sat down across from him.
But for some reason, that blank expression felt even thicker than usual, as if an extra layer had been added to it.
“Do you know the name ASD?”
“ASD... ah.”
It came back to him.
What Leonard had said at Aella’s listening party.
He had called him some rough gemstone they had discovered on SoundCloud, had he not?
“...That’s me.”
“What?”
Big Joe’s eyes widened.
“So you’re saying that ASD—the one who sold songs to the Bloods—was you?”
“Yes.”
Even now, at this very moment, Shotgun’s face remained expressionless.
As if he were brazenly, completely unashamed.
“All of them were tracks I made before the contract. I only sold those tracks.”
It was a lawyer-like answer, carefully drawing the line between before and after the contract.
“So legally there’s no issue.”
“Yes. But separate from the legal issue, I judged that I needed to tell you.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything at the listening party?”
“...Because that was when I first found out myself. That the people I sold them to were on the Bloods’ side. So I judged that it was right to speak to you separately like this, once I was sober and clearheaded.”
“...”
Ordinarily, this would have been the sort of situation where anger rose first.
Especially in matters related to betrayal, the hood was extremely sensitive.
But...
Big Joe narrowed his eyes and looked at that bastard’s face.
He had survived for more than a decade in this world.
The angle of a person’s mouth, the timing of a hand heading toward a pocket, the direction of a gaze trying to avoid eye contact.
There had been years in which he had decided whether to draw a gun first or offer a handshake based on differences that small.
And now he read Shotgun’s face through the sunglasses across from him.
Though of course, in truth, Park Geon had his eyes squeezed shut behind them.
Expressionless.
A flat mouth without the slightest twitch.
Most of all, there were no excuses.
No I didn’t know, no the circumstances forced me, no it was my fault, no I’m sorry.
He looked like the kind of man who might say all that, yet he said none of it.
He had simply stated the facts.
That ASD was him.
That he had sold tracks to the Bloods.
Ah.
At that moment, one word surfaced in Big Joe’s mind.
ART.
That single word he had spat out in front of Leonard.
That declaration that gang colors meant nothing in music.
So this... was what he meant.
In the face of music, Crips and Bloods did not matter. Boundaries like that meant nothing.
“So in the end, selling tracks to the Bloods under the anonymous name ASD was also because of art, right? When it comes to music, you don’t care which side it is.”
“...Yes.”
And the reason he came and revealed it directly now...
Because after signing the exclusive contract, he had not wanted it to become the kind of thing that felt like a stab in the back.
The corner of Big Joe’s mouth lifted.
If he had been the kind of guy to betray him, he would never have been sitting here in the first place.
“Were those eight tracks all you sold?”
But separate from that, the feeling of regret still came rushing in.
After hearing [WHEN I WAKE UP] today, Big Joe had once again been struck by Shotgun’s genius, so if it was eight tracks made by Shotgun, just how—
“...There’s one more.”
“Shit.”
Big Joe scowled as if his stomach hurt.
If it had been anywhere else, maybe. But of all places, the Bloods’ side.
“Can I hear it?”
“...”
Without a word, Shotgun opened his laptop.
Then he pressed play.
Boom... boom-boom...
After hearing the first four bars, Big Joe frowned.
After eight bars, the lines between his brows deepened.
And once it passed sixteen—
“Kahahaha!”
Big Joe laughed heartily, a rare sound from him.
Even his shoulders shook.
“What the hell is this? The rhythm does whatever it wants, and the melody sounds insane.”
The kicks hit, but their placement was awkward.
There was no room for a rapper to climb on top.
The beat swallowed everything whole.
It was the exact opposite of [WHEN I WAKE UP], which he had just heard today.
“You’re telling me Blood rappers rapped over this?”
Shotgun nodded.
Big Joe slapped his knee.
“Huh, now I get it.”
“...?”
“You gave us the good stuff, and dumped these unusable experimental tracks on the Bloods.”
“...!”
“And Leonard, not even realizing it, was sitting there all pleased with himself. It’s a damned spectacle, that’s what it is.”
Any lingering doubt that this guy might one day try something behind his back became even more solidly resolved through this.
“Fine. Go ahead and keep doing whatever you want with ASD from now on.”
“...”
Park Geon was currently dumbfounded.
No, I mean, I’m relieved it all worked out, but...
Those tracks had been made while he was not being chased by anything at all, while pursuing the music he sincerely wanted to make.
Of course, even he knew they had no commercial appeal.
Still.
From his point of view, they had been made with genuine sincerity.
This kind of hurts my pride a little...
When he worked with the Crips, adrenaline released the limiter in his brain.
That had led to [DRIVE], to a flood of diss tracks, and to [WHEN I WAKE UP].
But right now, when he was ASD, none of that existed.
Nothing anywhere was chasing him.
He only had to hide behind the monitor and tap at the keyboard, and the threat to his life was zero.
The result?
He got lazy.
He opened the files intending to write feedback for the Bloods, then wound up opening YouTube instead.
After that he got hungry and ordered hamburgers.
Once he ate, he got sleepy.
He lay down, telling himself he would sleep for only thirty minutes, and ended up sleeping for two hours.
The switch had been completely off.
The switch called fear of death.
He finally completed the feedback he had been putting off one day after playing the ASD beat file in front of Big Joe.
Because when Big Joe had said, Now I get it, something about the slight sting to his pride had turned into motivation.
It’s nice because it’s comfortable, but a person really does become endlessly lazy like this.
Letting out a self-mocking sigh, he sent the feedback file.
At that same time—
Blood hideout.
The file arrived.
B.I.G read it first.
[Feedback on B.I.G’s demo]
Overall it’s good. But the middle part is kind of that. It feels like there’s something there, but also not there? There’s something that shouldn’t be there, and something that should be missing. And that hook part, you know? That part is kind of round. Round isn’t bad, but I think it’d be better if it were less round here. Oh, and I think it’d be good if the last part emphasized things one more time.
B.I.G’s face twisted hard.
“...What the fuck is this supposed to mean?”
Next, Slipknot opened his own file.
[Feedback on Slipknot’s demo]
Overall it’s okay, but the back part isn’t, so that’s a bit disappointing. And you know that place where it goes up and then comes down? I think it’d be better if it were more like that there. If I had to put it in color, right now it’s kind of a dark color, but I think a different dark color would be better. But if you change it then something else might change too, so I think moderation matters.
Slipknot’s expression hardened.
“What the hell is this bastard ASD even saying? Huh?!”
Then he shoved his chair back hard.
“An amateur who spits out bullshit beats is giving me feedback? And this kind of feedback at that?”
Slipknot’s pride was boiling.
His pride had already hit rock bottom after being buried under the flasher scandal in the diss war, and now, on top of that, he had to hear this kind of feedback from some nameless amateur.
It instantly lit him on fire.
B.I.G was no different.
He read the feedback one more time, then let out a scoffing laugh.
“Round? What exactly is round? Is he explaining a recipe to me right now?”
B.I.G and Slipknot’s eyes met.
When they had first received the beat, they had snarled at each other, but in this moment their opinion aligned perfectly.
“Rather than rapping over an amateur beat while following an amateur’s feedback, I’d rather just work with another producer.”
“For real. I have no idea what Marcus saw on SoundCloud.”
The gang members around them started throwing in remarks of their own.
“That’s what I said the first time I heard this beat. Don’t get stubborn over nothing.”
“Exactly. This beat just sucks.”
“Yeh, an amateur’s an amateur for a reason.”
That was when it happened.
“...Um.”
One cautious voice cut in.
“I... don’t think that’s what he meant.”
All eyes turned to one spot.
The corner of the hideout.
An East Asian guy sitting on a folding chair.
His name was Jay.
Korean American.
The lowest-rank member of the Blood gang.
He handled loading things into car trunks and delivering them.
“Yo, Jay. What’d you just say?”
Jay’s shoulders drew in.
But he had already spoken, and he could not take it back now.
“I mean... when he says round, I think he means the hook melody is a little too smooth. The beat is aggressive, but the hook line rises kind of fluidly, right? I think he means that gap is too big...”
His voice kept getting smaller.
The eyes of the gang members around him were too frightening.
“And when he says the middle part is kind of that, I think he means the midrange section between the verses feels kind of empty. And saying the color is dark probably means the tone itself is good, but maybe he wants you to change the saturation within the same darkness...”
Slipknot made a fluttering sound with his lips and cut him off.
“So what, you’re saying you understood all that? You? A guy who isn’t even a rapper?”
“Not exactly understood, but... the feeling.”
“The feeling?”
The gang members laughed.
“Ayyy, birds of a feather after all.”
“Yeah, a beat like this would go perfectly with some Baby G who just hauls deliveries around.”
Baby G.
A slang term for a low-ranking gang member.
“...But honestly, I don’t think the beat itself is bad. The beat itself is—”
“Yo, then why don’t you send in a demo?”
The Blood gang members snickered.
“Jay, what’s your rap name gonna be?”
“Trunkman?”
“Delivery Boy!”
In the framed photograph hanging on the wall, Little K was smiling.
“...”
DJ Cabin stood in front of it, staring at the picture.
“I wonder if this is really right, K.”
His low murmur drifted through the empty room.
The last file containing Little K’s voice.
The moment it was completed, that would be the end.
Once the lid was closed on it, it would truly be over.
It would never be opened again.
That was why he had left it open for twenty years.
“Yo, K. What do you think?”
The Little K in the frame answered with a smile instead.
Just as he always had.
Bzzzz—
His phone vibrated.
Big Joe.
There was one file attached.
[WHEN I WAKE UP]
“...Damn! Already?”
He tapped the file.
It took a moment for the speaker to connect through Bluetooth.
A loading bar slowly began to fill.
During that time, Cabin turned back again and looked at the framed photo.
“They called it WHEN I WAKE UP, K.”
The loading bar reached about halfway.
“Hell, they even changed the title however they wanted. Well, the original title was... Fuck. I don’t even remember what it was anymore.”
It had already been twenty years.
Cabin scratched the back of his head.
“Anyway, this guy Shotgun says he’s gonna finish our song.”
The loading bar reached the end.
“I still don’t know whether this is really the right thing to do. If it’s only going to get finished halfway and badly, then maybe it’d be better not to finish it at—”
At that moment.
As if speaking to him.
From behind him—
“Yo C, we doin’ this?”
Cabin, we doing this?
Little K’s voice came through.
“!”
Cabin broke out in goosebumps.