Chapter 30
Chapter 30
At the exact moment he turned around to put on the blazer jacket—
Ahhh.
Park Geon felt a thrill run through him.
How long had he waited for this moment ever since he was little?
I already feel like I’ve become a lawyer.
Even if he was only a legal apprentice.
Even if the actual bar exam still remained.
Even if it was, of all things, a label affiliated with the Crips gang...
This feels fucking amazing.
At this moment, it felt as if he had achieved his dream.
“I’m the legal counsel.”
“...”
“We can continue.”
“...!”
The conference room froze.
The hip-hop producer who, just moments ago, had been sitting there in a boxy T-shirt with a Cuban link chain around his neck was now saying he was the legal counsel.
...What?
David, Epic’s legal counsel—a practicing attorney and a graduate of NYU Law—stared with his eyes wide open.
Shotgun... is a lawyer?
That made no sense.
Naturally, just putting on a jacket did not magically make someone a lawyer.
One scenario immediately sprang to mind.
“By legal counsel, do you mean you’re representing outside counsel?”
“No, I’ll be reviewing it directly.”
“...! Then you mean that you, Shotgun, are LK Records’ official legal counsel?”
“That’s right.”
Anderson pushed his glasses up and pulled the atmosphere back together.
They could not stay like this forever.
“Th-then let’s move on to reviewing the contract details first.”
He slid the stack of documents to the middle of the table.
It was the draft distribution agreement Epic’s side had already reviewed.
Big Joe glanced sideways.
Shotgun had picked up the papers.
He was turning the pages quickly—so quickly that it was hard to tell whether he was actually reading through the sunglasses or just flipping them for show.
A legal apprentice is reviewing a contract from a major distributor?
Honestly, it would have been a lie to say he was not uneasy.
The other side was one of the top five distributors in the industry.
The kind of place with a dedicated legal team and fingerprints from the legal department all over every page of a contract.
Of course, he had seen with his own two eyes how Shotgun had cut through that police stop after the listening party using the Constitution.
But this was a completely different kind of matter.
Well, I did make a promise.
He decided to watch, only half-convinced.
Though, of course...
...Big Joe is watching. If I miss even one thing, I’m fucked!
Feeling that gaze, Park Geon was once again in a state where the switch had been flipped.
“Article 7, Section 2.”
His low voice rang through the conference room.
“The basis for calculating the distribution fee is written as ‘total revenue,’ but it doesn’t specify whether that means gross revenue or net revenue.”
Epic’s counsel, David, immediately shot back.
“When we say total revenue, industry custom means gross.”
Because this was standard wording in the industry.
There shouldn’t have been a probl—
“No.”
Shotgun refuted him immediately.
“In digital distribution, the platform fee is deducted first, and then the settlement goes to the label. The amount after that deduction is net revenue. If the distribution fee is then calculated from gross revenue, the structure results in both the platform fee and the distribution fee being deducted.”
“...”
The trace of a smile disappeared from David’s face in an instant.
“That’s an issue of settlement practice, not necessarily something that makes the wording of the contract itself ambigu—”
“In 2019, in the dispute between the independent label Naked Music and the distributor Steady, the ambiguity of this exact ‘total revenue’ language was the key issue, and the court rejected the distributor’s interpretation.”
“...”
“Custom is only custom. If the wording of the contract is ambiguous, then in a dispute the rule of construction against the drafter applies.”
“...”
David’s fingers slowly lifted off the document.
When custom and case law collided, case law won every time.
“This was... not intentional. The wording was just imprecise.”
David hurried to recover.
“If there was room for misunderstanding, we’ll revise it.”
Shotgun nodded and turned to the next page.
Seriously. This is ridiculous. A legal apprentice is flustering a practicing attorney.
The corner of Big Joe’s mouth lifted.
Because of that single point just now, Epic’s people had changed their posture.
David in particular now looked visibly rattled.
As proof, tension had entered the hand with which he was turning the pages.
Yeah. That’s right. This is what I was expecting.
The way Shotgun looked when making music.
That same thing was carrying over even now.
That heavy low voice.
That completely unmoving expressionless face.
It made every single clause he read sound heavier.
Shotgun’s finger stopped again at another line.
“Article 12. The clause on the treatment of unreleased works upon termination. It says that after termination, the distributor retains distribution rights over already released music for six months.”
“That’s the industry standard. It’s to prevent a sudden distribution gap caused by abrupt termination.”
“I understand six months.”
Shotgun tapped another line with his finger.
“But the latter half of the same clause says, ‘subject to extension at the distributor’s discretion,’ and it doesn’t define the scope of that discretion. If the distributor keeps extending it at its own discretion, then in practice the music remains tied up even after termination.”
David’s eyes shifted to that passage.
It was wording he had personally reviewed.
He had seen it.
He had seen it and let it pass because it was standard practice.
This too was something I let go because it was industry custom?
“You need a cap on both the number of discretionary extensions and the total period. Otherwise it could become grounds for a dispute later if the label changes distributors or shifts to independent distribution.”
David parted his lips, but there was no logic left with which to rebut.
“...We’ll insert a cap.”
Shotgun turned the page.
“Article 15, Section 3. The clause on sharing marketing costs.”
Again?
“It says the label and distributor split marketing costs fifty-fifty, but there’s no prior approval procedure for campaigns. That creates a structure where the distributor can unilaterally run a campaign and then bill half the cost to the label.”
David’s face flushed red.
“That would obviously go through prior consultation—”
“Custom not expressly stated in the contract has no evidentiary value in a dispute.”
Shotgun’s low voice cut him off.
“The approval deadline, the conditions under which a right of refusal can be exercised, and who bears the costs if something is executed without approval. Both sides are only safe if all of that is explicitly written in.”
David could not answer.
After a long moment—
“...No objection.”
He put down his pen.
It was a gesture of acknowledgment.
This is cool as hell.
Lil D was in a state of constant admiration.
Shotgun, who in the studio just sat there expressionless and only nodded.
Even when laying beats down or writing diss tracks, he had worn exactly that same expression.
Shotgun closed the last page.
“There are no major issues overall. If those three clauses are supplemented, it can proceed.”
David, still dazed, asked,
“If it’s not too rude to ask... which firm are you with?”
“Morrison & Reed. I’m in the middle of my apprenticeship.”
“?!”
Shock spread across Epic’s side.
“A legal apprentice?”
“Good lord...”
“No, what kind of case is this?”
Big Joe stood up.
“It looks like we’ll need another meeting.”
“...”
“After your side revises the points our lawyer just raised.”
Then he placed a hand on Shotgun’s shoulder.
At that moment, Park Geon flinched and blurted out,
“Please make sure to revise them.”
“...”
The conference room door closed.
Epic’s people just sat there blinking for a while.
“Hey, David. Is this even possible?”
As he loosened his tie, David stared blankly at the closed door.
“...What exactly is that guy? That jacket isn’t some kind of superhero suit...”
A black SUV was climbing upward between rows of tall palm trees.
“Ayyyy, look at that house. A pool! That one too has a pool! Thaaaat one too has a pool! Damn, every house in this neighborhood has a pool.”
Dustin, seated in the passenger seat, pressed his face against the window in amazement.
“It’s a rich neighborhood.”
Jamal replied flatly.
“Today, thanks to Shotgun, we even got to check out Cabin’s house! Hollywood Hills! Pools! I want to get inside one of these places just once.”
“You’re a bodyguard, not here to go swimming.”
“Then what are you?”
“I’m Shotgun’s manager.”
“Shiiit, just what you’d expect from an elite.”
Park Geon, seated in the back, was looking out the window.
...To think my longtime role model personally invited me.
It felt like only yesterday that he had been replaying Cabin’s remixes again and again on SoundCloud.
I’m a little nervous.
It was a different kind of nervousness from what he felt around the Crips.
A little later.
The SUV stopped in front of a mansion.
“Get out here. We’ll wait outside.”
“Yo, Shotgun! Do well in there, ma homie!”
They bumped fists, and Park Geon stepped out of the car.
Naturally, he was wearing sunglasses again today.
When he pressed the intercom, the iron gate opened.
Meanwhile—
“John, look over there.”
Behind the brush below a slope in the Hollywood Hills, two paparazzi lifted their telephoto lenses.
There had been a rumor going around the industry lately.
That DJ Cabin might return after twenty years and complete an unfinished track.
So for the past two days, they had been circling around the mansion.
“A car just stopped in front of Cabin’s house. One East Asian guy got out by himself.”
“East Asian?”
“Wait. He’s wearing sunglasses.”
They zoomed in all the way.
“Wait, wait...”
Beside him, Ricky pulled out his phone and swiped the screen.
A silhouette photo taken through the smoke at The Vault club.
It was a picture where you could not see anything except that the person was East Asian and wearing sunglasses.
They looked between the image on the screen and the figure in the lens.
Then both of them widened their eyes at the same time.
“N-no way! Shotgun?!”
Click! Click-click-click!
“Shoot! Hurry up! If we get the reveal photo of Shotgun’s identity, it’s an exclusive! If we nail even just this one shot, we can live off it for months!”
“Shut up, you’re making my hands shake!”
“That’s why I’m telling you to get the full front of his face!”
Just as they kept hammering the shutter in a feverish fantasy—
a large shadow fell over them from behind.
At the same time, a heavy voice sounded.
“Yo, you white bastards.”
John’s finger froze on the shutter button.
He slowly turned his head.
A huge man, 192 centimeters tall, stood there with his arms crossed.
A blue bandana was tied around his forehead.
And next to him—
a thin frame,
a teardrop tattoo beneath the eye,
a gaze with not a shred of emotion in it.
“C-Crips?!”
Ricky hugged the camera to his chest.
The giant took a step forward.
“You were just taking pictures of Shotgun, huh?”
“...!”
“I’ll give you a chance. Delete them right now. There won’t be a second chance.”
The two paparazzi started scrambling frantically.
Since the other side was the Crips, the thought of arguing back did not even enter their minds...
“Give it here.”
Dustin snatched the camera away and threw it straight to the ground.
No, you said you’d give us a chance!
“Dustin, didn’t you just say you’d give them a chance?”
“Me? Did I?”
“Definitely.”
“Ah, maybe I did.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Jamal stepped on the camera.
Crunch—
Glass shattered.
“Th-that camera cost three thousand dolla—”
“Nah, that’s cheap considering the price of secretly shooting my homie.”
“No matter what, you didn’t have to smash it—!”
Dustin growled out a warning.
“Yo, if you keep moving your mouth one more time, I might slap it for you.”
“...”
Smack—!
“...?”
I didn’t even say anything?
Just as Ricky stood there dazed, clutching his cheek, Jamal crooked his fingers.
“The SD card. Hand it over.”
(Translator’s Note: SD card — Short for Secure Digital card, a removable flash-memory format introduced in 1999, widely used in cameras and portable recording devices.)
With trembling hands, he pulled out the card and held it out.
Crack!
It snapped in two in Jamal’s hand.
Then, lightly revealing the grip of the gun in his back pocket, he said,
“If we see you here again next time, it won’t just be the camera breaking.”
The two gangsters strolled back to the SUV.
Only the two paparazzi remained, collapsed beside the broken wreckage.
“I wanted to talk specifically about the release of [WHEN I WAKE UP].”
Cabin turned on the monitor.
“Ah, and you know this too, but it’s chaos outside right now. People saying I’m making a comeback, saying I’m finishing an unfinished track.”
“...”
“I’m not putting out any statement on purpose.”
“...Why?”
“Because I want the moment this song goes out into the world to hit as hard as possible.”
Cabin gave a hearty laugh.
“People think DJ Cabin is coming back, right? But then when the lid comes off, it turns out it’s you, Shotgun. Damn! Doesn’t that twist sound fun?”
It was a kind of strategy.
Using the rumor created by the weight of Cabin’s name and detonating it all at once at the moment of release.
“So the fact that you’re the one handling this song stays secret until release.”
“...Aight.”
“Yo, you know that? I’m kinda fucking excited right now.”
Cabin looked at Little K’s photograph.
“K would probably hear this and go, ‘This old man finally got off his ass.’”
It was a genuinely delighted smile.
Before long, the conversation shifted toward the music itself.
“This song was originally supposed to have vocals. The casting had already been finished twenty years ago, but it fell through. And that vocalist retired a long time ago.”
“...”
“But this time it’s your song, so I intend to actively reflect your opinion. So, got anyone in mind for the feature?”
“...Nova. And Aella.”
Nova was the Chicago rapper he had met at the barbecue truck.
Aella was the singer he had met at the listening party.
“Damn! That really feels like a generational handoff. Fresh blood. Nova’s got emotional storytelling, and Aella’s vocal tone itself is distinctive.”
Cabin gave a meaningful grin and continued.
“But from what I hear, Nova’s currently rejecting every feature request. You know that, right?”
It was already well known in the industry that Nova’s label had recently adopted a “full feature rejection” policy.
Nova was currently preparing his full-length album.
The reason was that they did not want his focus being split.
So they had drawn a hard line.
No features at all until the solo album was complete.
“So what now? I heard even a Grammy-winning producer got turned down!”
Cabin spun his chair around.
There was ease in his gaze.
He clearly believed that if he personally stepped in, the outcome would be different.
The weight of his own name as a West Coast legend.
A wall that even a Grammy-winning producer could not break through would be broken by the name DJ Cabin.
In other words, he was just about to show some veteran prestige when—
Shotgun pulled out his phone.
Brrr, brrr—
“H-h-hello?!”
A hurried voice came through.
“I can’t tell you what song it is because of embargo, but would a feature be possible?”
(Translator’s Note: Embargo — A confidentiality restriction preventing the disclosure of certain information until a specified date or event. The term has long been used in journalism, publishing, and entertainment publicity.)
Over the phone, there was the sound of someone hurriedly turning off some device.
“O-of course!”
“I’ll contact you once the schedule is set.”
The call ended.
“He just confirmed that he can do it.”
“...?”
Even a Grammy-winning producer got turned down, and this guy gets a yes from one phone call? Without even saying what song it is? They haven’t even heard the track?
Cabin, now awkward beyond awkward, cleared his throat.
“...Well, even adjusting the schedule will probably take about a month. He has to come from Chicago to LA, and there’s label coordination too.”
Shotgun pressed call again.
It connected before it even rang once.
“He says he already booked the flight.”
“...”
“He says he’ll arrive tomorrow.”
Cabin had gone beyond awkwardness and into outright disbelief.
“...Fine. Nova’s solved. Then next is Aella...”
Shotgun scrolled through his contacts.
Cabin’s eyes followed his finger.
The name where it stopped read:
[AELA]
Directly?!
He had no idea how Shotgun even had her contact information.
Aella was a Billboard pop star.
Her scale was even bigger than Nova’s.
No way... not Aella too... right?