Chapter 32
Chapter 32
Nova’s second take, incorporating the feedback, began.
The moment the first verse started, DJ Cabin’s back straightened.
...What the hell?
Was this really the same rapper as before?
His breathing timing had been corrected perfectly.
He held back for one beat.
That single beat he held back transferred its full weight into the first syllable of the next line, completely changing its impact.
One piece of feedback that sounds like a goddamn pasta recipe can change someone this much in a single take?
(Translator’s Note:One Piece — A Japanese manga series created by Eiichiro Oda. It debuted in Weekly Shōnen Jump on July 22, 1997. The chapter’s references to Luffy, Gear 5, the Nika awakening, Wano Country, and Gum-Gum Gatling all come from the series.)
The transition into the bridge approached.
The beat dropped out, leaving a two-bar gap.
Earlier, Nova had filled that space with sound.
Habitually, by drawing out the melody.
But this time—
!
He cut it off.
He chopped the note cleanly.
The empty space remained untouched, and a beat’s worth of tension accumulated over the silence.
Then—
Tak—!
The next syllable dropped.
Staccato.
It drove itself straight in.
Damn...!
What the hell was that feedback?
A habit was something ingrained in a rapper’s body.
Muscle memory built through countless repetitions.
And he had overturned it between one take and the next?
“...Haha. Shit.”
The words slipped out before DJ Cabin realized it.
It was a hollow laugh tinged with self-deprecation.
I think I’ve gotten complacent, relying too much on my name and reputation.
This opportunity had made him realize it clearly.
He had grown careless because he trusted in his career. He had become intoxicated with his past glory and stopped improving.
Yeah. I was away for a long time. That’s why I got old-fashioned. I need to get my instincts back. Just look at this. Everyone except me understands the feedback. Fuck, this is embarrassing.
The take ended.
The studio fell silent.
The composers watching from the back began talking among themselves with stunned expressions.
“D-Did you hear that just now?”
“Nah, he’s a completely different person from before.”
“...Do geniuses speak a different language?”
“How many rappers can change that much after hearing feedback once? Nova’s just a genius.”
“More than that, Shotgun is the craziest one here! That whole change started with his feedback!”
To be honest, they had not understood what the hell Shotgun meant either.
They had merely been certain that, because the feedback had come from Shotgun, there had to be something behind it this time as well.
Then—
Shhk—
Shotgun’s thumb shot up.
“OH SHIT! YEEEES!”
At that moment, Nova erupted in joy.
He had been freed from the fear that he might get dissed.
Last time, all he did was nod, but this time he even gave me a thumbs-up!
On top of his relief, an indescribable sense of accomplishment began surging through him.
...Nova? What are you doing?
His manager, watching from behind, blinked.
Nova was already a proven rapper in the Chicago scene.
Although he had never won, he had been nominated for a Grammy and had also entered the Billboard chart.
He was not the type to become that emotionally shaken in front of an ordinary producer.
But right now, he’s almost like...
A student.
A student delighted to receive praise from his teacher.
But forget being your teacher—Shotgun has a much shorter career than you...
The manager looked at the Asian man sitting completely motionless and expressionless in front of the monitor.
...He definitely does have a presence, though. Still, making Nova jump around that happily with a single thumbs-up...
Anyone watching would think he was a legendary elder on DJ Cabin’s level.
The remote sessions with Delivery Man through the ASD account continued every night.
Whenever I sent feedback, a revised version came back within an hour or two.
At first, I had my doubts.
He had said he was a delivery guy, after all.
But—
This guy really understands what I’m saying.
There was actually someone like this in the world?
His rapping skill might be far below Lil D’s, but when it came to understanding feedback, Delivery Man was far better.
There was just one problem...
Where is he this time?
A file arrived that had obviously been recorded in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant.
I could hear people placing drive-through orders in the background.
He can produce this quality in that environment?
While listening to the third revision, I unconsciously leaned forward in my chair.
The fourth revision.
Near the end of the verse, the way he deliberately shortened his breaths to build tension stood out.
Wow. What the hell did he find in my feedback?
I was embarrassed to admit it, but honestly—
Even while giving feedback, there were many times when I had no idea what the hell I was talking about.
I was just spouting whatever expressions came to mind to describe the FEEL in my head.
But Delivery Man interpreted my feedback like some piece of modern art, wrapping it up beautifully, and somehow the results were incredibly good.
He really lives up to his name.
The fifth revision.
This time, the sound of a washing machine was running in the background.
The white noise actually worked like ASMR, making the texture of his voice feel even clearer.
Not that he had intended it.
Wow.
Compared to the demo I had received at the beginning, he was practically a different person.
The raw gem was visibly being polished with every round of feedback.
His sense for reading the structure of the beat had sharpened, and more importantly, the awkward forced emphasis in his lyrics had disappeared.
And with the fifth revision, I became certain.
Delivery Man is the one I want featuring on Lil D’s fourth song.
If Lil D was water, Delivery Man was ice.
The same material, but in completely different forms.
If the two met on the same track, there was no way they would not create a chemical reaction.
“?”
I had no idea.
What I was talking about, that is.
But there was one problem.
To make a proper recording, we would have to meet at a studio in person.
I could not put something recorded beside a washing machine with a smartphone’s built-in microphone onto an official album.
That means we have to meet...
He might only be a low-ranking member who did deliveries, but a Blood was still a Blood.
He might be Korean like me, but a Blood was still a Blood.
Of course, I had already asked Lil D.
His answer had been short.
Do whatever you want.
I trust you.
Thanks, but that’s kind of a scary thing to say.
It felt like a prison guard opening the door to solitary confinement and saying, “I trust you.”
“?”
Hold on.
This was not something I could decide on my own.
I felt like I needed to tell Big Joe as well.
It would be different if the other person were ordinary, but he was affiliated with the Bloods.
In the end, I met Big Joe the next day.
“You found someone for the feature?”
Big Joe exhaled a long stream of smoke before continuing.
“If your ears say he’s right, then he’s right.”
“...”
That was a lot of pressure.
“So who’s the rapper?”
“...He’s not a rapper.”
Big Joe raised an eyebrow.
“He’s a delivery guy.”
“...What?”
“From the Bloods’ side.”
Silence descended.
Marijuana smoke twisted and spread through the air.
Fuck, what do I do? Did I make a mistake telling him? No, but I couldn’t exactly move forward without telling Big Joe...
“Hahahaha!”
Big Joe burst into loud laughter.
“Shotgun...”
Then he shook his head as though there was no helping me.
“That’s just like you.”
“...?”
“For the sake of music, you don’t care about boundaries between gangs or anything else. When it comes to art, you really don’t give a damn what someone is.”
“...”
“I’ve honestly never met anyone like you. But.”
His laughter suddenly disappeared.
A chill ran down my spine.
“Even if he’s just a delivery guy, even if we didn’t know he rapped, and even if he’s a low-ranking nobody the Bloods don’t care about, we still need to handle whatever needs handling cleanly so there’s no trouble afterward.”
Big Joe took another drag before continuing.
“Tell that kid, Delivery Man or whatever his name is. If he wants to participate in Lil D’s album...”
He ground the marijuana joint into the ashtray and delivered his final words.
“Tell him to leave the Bloods.”
Marcus sighed.
The eight beats he had bought from ASD.
When he first heard them, he had been certain.
The problem was handling them properly.
Of the eight beats, he had given two to Blood-affiliated rappers, and the tracks had already been released.
The response had been disastrous.
The streaming numbers crawled along the bottom, and the comments mocked the rappers, saying the beats were eating them alive.
Still, if you only consider the beats themselves, ASD really does seem like a genius...
It was true that the rhythm stumbled and the melodies went wherever they pleased, but there was definitely something inside them.
Would the results be different if ASD produced the tracks himself? But he’s anonymous.
Marcus was still convinced they could become huge if someone could only handle them properly.
Every time he listened to the beats, his instincts reacted.
The problem was that he did not have a rapper capable of turning that instinct into reality.
While he was thinking about that, voices drifted up from downstairs.
“Ah, come to think of it, where’s Jay been lately?”
“Jay? The delivery kid?”
“Yeah. Haven’t seen him for days.”
“No idea. Maybe he ran away.”
“Just make someone else do it.”
“Or maybe he’s trying to become a rapper. Remember? I suggested the rap name Delivery Man for him before.”
Snickering spread through the room.
“He was pretty quick with deliveries, though. At least he was good at unloading packages cleanly.”
“Then that’s enough. Tell him to stop hanging around the Bloods and go work for Uber Eats or something.”
Marcus also let the conversation pass in one ear and out the other.
Then he casually turned his attention back to the monitor.
So what if one delivery guy was gone?
It was not even worth reporting to Leonard.
Jay stared blankly at his phone screen.
There were no notifications.
No texts, no calls, no messages.
I haven’t shown up for days... and nobody’s contacted me?
They simply did not care.
The moment he realized that, emotion surged through him.
Anger?
No.
Sadness?
Not that either.
“...”
Emptiness.
Maybe I was never actually part of the Bloods to begin with.
There had never been any initiation ceremony.
He had liked rap, so he had started hanging around the older guys on the street. Before he knew it, he was running errands, those errands turned into deliveries, and deliveries became his daily life.
Maybe he had merely been hanging around them without ever truly belonging.
Still, just in case.
He sent a text.
To one of the Bloods’ officers.
[I won’t be working there anymore.]
After sending it, his heart pounded.
One hour.
No reply.
It was not even that the message had been read and ignored.
They had not read it at all.
Jay placed his phone facedown and stared at the ceiling.
A deep sigh escaped him.
Until a moment ago, his heart had felt ready to explode.
He had thought leaving a gang would bring bloody retaliation, but apparently, in his case, he was not even worth that much.
Enough. It’s really over.
He got out of bed.
He filled the sink with cold water and washed his face.
Today was the day.
The day he had agreed to meet the anonymous ASD.
ASD had asked him to feature on something and said he would explain the details when they met.
There had been just one condition.
Leave the Bloods.
Jay had spent several days skipping work while agonizing over that decision...
Stop thinking about it.
He went outside and boarded a bus.
As he watched the scenery change beyond the window, he wondered,
What kind of person is ASD?
There was no profile picture, so he had absolutely no idea what ASD looked like.
Maybe he’s Black?
Judging by the texture of the beats, there was a high possibility that ASD was a Black producer.
The way he used 808s and programmed his hi-hat patterns had the instincts of someone who had grown up in the hood.
Maybe he was an unknown producer making beats in a garage somewhere in South Central Los Angeles.
Or maybe he’s white?
There were plenty of white producers making experimental beats these days.
There were certainly enough white nerds self-promoting their beat tapes on subreddits.
Meanwhile, he reached the park where they had agreed to meet.
An elderly white woman was feeding pigeons.
“Excuse me... Are you Delivery Man?”
Jay instinctively turned his head.
He saw a man with pale skin, neat, delicate features, and a prominent nose.
Something about his face reminded Jay of tofu.
Handsome in a gentle, harmless way.
That was his first impression.
This guy is ASD?
He was even Asian, just like Jay.
Apparently, Jay had been easy to identify because he was the only Asian person nearby.
“...”
“...”
Their awkward eye contact continued.
And Park Geon thought,
Uh, what?
He had come here extremely tense after hearing that Jay was affiliated with the Bloods, but the person standing in front of him...
...I think he’s kind of the same type as me.
In other words, he looked like a nerd.
“ASD?”
“Delivery Man?”
An awkward silence might have followed, but it did not.
That was because Jay’s phone case naturally became a topic of conversation.
“Is that... Luffy?”
When Park Geon pointed at the case, Jay flinched.
“Oh, this? Uh... I kind of like One Piece.”
“Didn’t you lose interest a little after Gear 5 came out?”
“What?!”
Jay’s eyes widened.
“Why would Gear 5 make me lose interest? It’s the awakening of the Nika Fruit!”
“It came out of nowhere. And the story itself has gotten dragged out and boring.”
“That’s because Wano Country was a little long. The quality of the main story hasn’t dropped.”
Park Geon shook his head.
“I’d rather reread Naruto.”
(Translator’s Note:Naruto — A Japanese manga series created by Masashi Kishimoto. It began serialization in 1999 and concluded in 2014 after 700 chapters. Park Geon and Jay’s One Piece versus Naruto argument reflects a long-running fandom comparison between two major internationally popular shōnen manga series.)
“...? Absolutely not. I refuse to accept that.”
That was only the beginning.
“But honestly.”
Inside the café, Jay glanced around and lowered his voice.
At some point, Park Geon had also leaned forward.
“What do you think of Playboi Carti?”
(Translator’s Note:Playboi Carti — An Atlanta-born American rapper known for unconventional vocal delivery and an approach emphasizing atmosphere, vocal texture, repetition, and mood.)
“Honestly, the first time I heard him, I was like, what the hell is this?”
“Me too. But then I listened again three days later.”
“You got addicted?”
“Like crazy.”
“You can’t judge Carti based on your first listen. His music needs time for your brain to adapt.”
“Wow. Seriously, exactly.”
Jay held out his fist.
Without hesitation, Park Geon bumped it with his own.
They both grinned.
What is with this guy? Why is he so easy to talk to?
Park Geon suddenly thought,
J-Rackz, Jay... I guess I get along well with guys who have Jay in their names.
The conversation showed no signs of stopping.
“Have you seen this? It was popular on Reddit.”
It was an infographic comparing rappers’ annual incomes, and someone had left a comment at the bottom.
[Why MF DOOM isn’t on this chart: wears a mask and doesn’t file taxes.]
(Translator’s Note:MF DOOM — Stage name of Daniel Dumile, a British-born rapper and producer raised in New York. After beginning his career with KMD in the late 1980s, he later developed the masked MF DOOM supervillain persona. He became highly influential for his complex rhyming, eccentric humor, production, and deliberately mysterious public image.)
Park Geon burst out laughing.
“Hahahahaha! That’s fucking hilarious!”
“Right? Hahaha! And that Shotgun bastard who’s been blowing up lately definitely doesn’t file taxes either.”
“...?”
“Oh, are you a Shotgun fan? Sorry.”
After chatting for quite a while, Jay suddenly asked,
“But why did you upload your beats anonymously?”
“Just because. I wanted to make the music I wanted without being chased by anything.”
“Who’s chasing you?”
“...Ah, just. You know. Just because.”
“Right, you mentioned the feature to me. You said you’d explain the details when we met.”
“Ah... that?”
Park Geon wet his lower lip.
“Then let’s get going. I’ll explain it inside.”
“Inside? Where?”
Park Geon pointed through the window at the building across the way.
“...?”
HOOVER SOUND.
The studio operated by a Crips OG.
“H-Huh? Th-That place is...”
The color began draining from Jay’s face.
Flustered, he looked to the side.
ASD, the guy who had been laughing with him over an MF DOOM meme just moments earlier.
His face seemed to transform slowly, almost in slow motion.
“...?”
He took a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.
The corners of his mouth gradually flattened into a straight line.
Even the way he walked changed.
The nerd vibe from moments ago evaporated, and in an instant, he became a completely different person.
The moment they entered the building—
“Ayyyyy! Shotgun!”
“Yo! Shotgun! Let’s make another killer track today!”
“Shotgun in the building! Let’s gooooo!”
“Wassup, my homie! Good to see you!”
Jay’s mouth fell open.
...This guy is Shotgun?