15- It's Quiet (4)
15- It's Quiet (4)
15.
Why is Han Goyo called a genius?
There are many reasons.
First, her fundamentals are solid, and her tone is unique—once you hear it, you never forget it. Her emotional delivery is powerful, her diction precise, and even her vocal power is absurd.
How absurd?
She can fill the entire small concert hall with just her voice. No microphone.
At that point, “good” isn’t enough. It’s ridiculous.
She hits high notes with ease, too. It’s not that she excels in only one area—she’s a perfectly balanced, hexagon-type genius.
No weaknesses.
…Well, maybe one.
Communication.
I looked toward the stage.
Han Goyo finished setting up the camera and prepared to sing. The surrounding chatter died instantly. Everyone was waiting.
Then the song began.
—The day I was left alone,
that’s when I realized.
Her tone was special.
It sounded like she was on the verge of tears. You could hear the tremble in her voice—even without vibrato.
—As time passes,
someday I’ll be an adult.
Her usually indifferent expression shifted. Not dramatically—just a slight distortion.
But even that was enough.
—One day I’ll remember
that such a day existed for me too.
I glanced around.
There were only two kinds of reactions to her singing: awe or shock.
I remembered the first time I’d heard Han Goyo sing.
Back when I still believed I was a genius.
That was the moment I learned what a real genius looked like.
In front of that violent talent, I couldn’t comfort myself. I couldn’t escape. All I felt was crushing defeat.
And now, the vocal majors watching her were feeling the same thing I had felt back then.
To walk the same path as someone like her.
To compete forever.
“…What the hell.”
Someone muttered beside me.
Jin Sohyang.
Her expression was frozen in shock.
I gave a bitter smile.
Her group, Flowering Youth, is already a fairly successful idol group, and in the future, they’ll become the top group in Korea.
But that’s as a group.
As a solo singer… Jin Sohyang’s prospects are questionable.
She tried a few times. None of them really worked.
Before I realized it, Han Goyo finished and stepped off the stage, camera in hand.
The room stayed silent.
Everyone was overwhelmed by that level of talent.
“Wow, she’s really good.”
…Correction. Not everyone.
“There’s one thing for sure,” someone said cheerfully. “Her tone is insane. How does that voice even come out of a human?”
Kim Taeyoung.
He was grinning like an idiot.
Well, that tracks. He’s also a monster-level talent himself.
But why does he look excited?
“You look happy,” I said.
“Of course I am. I just found a rival!”
Ah.
Kim Taeyoung had apparently unilaterally decided that Han Goyo was his rival.
“Can’t waste time,” he muttered. “Gotta practice. Falling behind would suck.”
And then he ran onto the stage.
That guy is insane too.
I shook my head and scanned the room again.
It was time to choose a vocalist.
…And once again, I met Han Goyo’s eyes.
Why do we keep locking eyes today?
Before I could look away, she started walking toward me.
She stopped right in front of me and spoke in her usual flat tone.
“You heard my singing?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded.
She blinked once.
“How was it?”
“You’re a great singer.”
I answered simply.
…Why is she asking?
Does she actually care about feedback?
And why does she look dissatisfied?
Was that too lukewarm?
After a moment, I raised my thumb.
“…”
No. That wasn’t it either.
“Not like that,” she said. “As a composer. How was it?”
Her tone carried faint impatience.
As a composer, huh.
“Well,” I said, “it was good enough that I’d want to work with you.”
“I see.”
That, apparently, was the correct answer.
She nodded once, then looked straight into my eyes.
“Then do you want to work together?”
Same indifferent gaze as always—
but there was interest there.
“You serious?”
“Whether it’s my stage or yours doesn’t matter. There’s a song of yours I want.”
She nodded.
I frowned.
“You’ve heard my songs?”
“When I forgot my notebook last time, I came back to get it. I heard them by accident.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry. I listened without permission.”
So she went in thinking the room was empty.
And heard my music.
Han Goyo wants my song.
She wants to collaborate.
Han Goyo, who doesn’t even do ensemble.
That Han Goyo.
I didn’t think long.
This wasn’t something you hesitate over.
There isn’t a composer alive who wouldn’t want to work with her.
“Alright.”
“Okay.”
“But I have one condition.”
“Condition?”
“The event stage is mine,” I said. “You follow my direction completely.”
She stared at me for a moment.
Then nodded.
“Alright.”
§ § §
After classes ended, Han Goyo, Taeyoung, and I headed to the practice room.
Performance class alone wasn’t enough time—we needed extra practice.
Normally, securing a room would be a hassle.
But we had Han Goyo.
She ranked first and was on full scholarship. Scholarship students get free access to all practice rooms.
Unfair?
Sure.
But Seolwon Arts High is a pure meritocracy. They literally divide classes by rank.
What did you expect?
“This one,” Han Goyo said after listening to my tracks. “I like this.”
She skipped through the files quickly and stopped on one.
“Blame.”
I frowned.
That one?
“Blame” is… kind of pathetic.
It’s a song about questioning everything. Who’s wrong? What went wrong? Does everyone really have to succeed?
It had nothing to do with someone overflowing with talent like her.
“Do you have lyrics?” she asked.
“I do, but—”
“Let me see.”
I opened the file.
I had already arranged it for Suyeon, but the lyrics hadn’t been rewritten yet.
“Here.”
She read while humming softly.
Then nodded.
“The lyrics are good.”
“If there’s anything you want changed, tell me. It’s better if the song reflects your story.”
Singers perform best when it’s their own truth.
She thought briefly.
“Not really.”
“…Alright.”
So either she had nothing to change—
or she simply didn’t want to talk about herself.
I took the laptop back.
“Sing it once more,” I said.
“Why?”
“I need it for arranging.”
Right now, this song was still Suyeon’s. I needed to rebuild it entirely for Han Goyo.
She nodded, stood, and after a brief pause, began singing the same song she had performed earlier.
I listened carefully, typing notes as she sang.
…This needs more changes than I expected.
Suyeon’s voice is like a rainy dawn—soft and languid.
Han Goyo’s voice is different.
It’s filled with suppressed sobs.
To bring out that tone, I’d have to rework almost everything.
I kept adjusting.
“Enough?” she asked when she finished.
I nodded, then looked at her.
For the event, the song alone isn’t enough.
The stage matters just as much.
A stage needs a concept.
My thoughts accelerated.
Change the instruments?
How?
What direction should the song take?
What will she wear?
How does she enter?
How does she move?
How do I make Han Goyo shine the brightest?
My fingers flew as ideas crystallized.
This—turning ideas into reality—
this is the fun part.
I saved the file and looked up.
“Let’s blow the stage up.”
Han Goyo didn’t react.
She just stared at me with her usual blank expression.
…That’s kind of disappointing.
Tch.