3 - My Younger Sibling Was a Genius (3)
3 - My Younger Sibling Was a Genius (3)
3.
In any field, talent is crucial—and music is no exception.
I used to believe, without a shred of doubt, that I was a genius. And to be fair, I did have some talent. Back in middle school, I was the best singer around.
That illusion shattered the moment I met real geniuses.
Seolwon Arts High—where only the most talented students from all over the country gather. That was where I first saw what true genius looked like.
Talent is cruel. No matter how hard an ordinary person works, they can never surpass a genius. Innate talent is an unscalable wall.
I learned that harsh truth at seventeen, at Seolwon Arts High.
But back then, I wasn’t wise enough to accept my lack of talent.
So I struggled.
I believed that if I worked just a little harder, I could catch up. I believed the world was fair. I blindly trusted that someone who enjoys something can surpass a genius.
What a joke.
The world isn’t fair, and talent is merciless.
When I learned one thing, they mastered five. When I barely managed to reach five, they were already at a hundred.
I wanted to succeed as a singer. I wanted to shine on stage like them. That was why I couldn’t give up.
And the result was miserable.
I resented the world for it. But what I hated most was myself—for refusing to accept reality.
I despised geniuses.
And at the same time, I wanted to be one.
“Oppa?”
Suyeon’s voice pulled me back to reality.
The song she had just sung echoed endlessly in my head. I never imagined she’d possess that kind of overwhelming talent.
“Suyeon.”
“Yeah?”
“Have you ever learned how to sing before?”
“I have.”
“You have?”
When?
As far as I knew, Suyeon had never taken formal lessons. Did she secretly go to an academy? No—impossible. Vocal lessons aren’t cheap, and just covering my own tuition was already a burden on the family.
Seeing my shock, Suyeon looked a little hurt.
“You don’t remember? When I was in elementary school, you taught me yourself.”
“Oh.”
Right. That did happen.
A long time ago, Suyeon had to sing for a school event. She lacked confidence and felt embarrassed, so she asked me to teach her. I gave her an hour or two of guidance back then.
…And she got this good from just that?
“After you taught me, I kept practicing,” she said carefully. “Was it okay?”
“You’re incredible.”
“Really?”
I nodded.
Suyeon smiled.
Seeing her so happy over such a small compliment filled me with guilt.
“Suyeon.”
“Yeah?”
“You said you wanted to become a singer, right?”
“I just thought it’d be nice,” she said lightly.
She was brushing it off—probably out of consideration for Mom and me.
Suyeon had always been that kind of kid. Anyone else would’ve openly shown their desires, but not her. Even when she wanted something, she never said it out loud.
Was it kindness?
Or simply a lack of greed?
“Alright then,” I said. “Let’s do it. Become a singer.”
That was the moment my purpose became clear.
§ § §
Won Seongmin, the owner of Haul Studio, had a peculiar hobby.
People-watching.
More precisely, observing the customers who came into his studio.
There were all kinds—people recording for fun, couples on dates, and those seriously chasing their dream of becoming singers.
And recently, there was one particularly interesting visitor.
“Hello.”
A boy named Yoon Hajun, who showed up once every two weeks—the youngest customer Seongmin had ever had. At most, a middle schooler. Maybe a first-year high school student.
He looked too clean-cut for a place like this, yet every time he came, he worked straight through his two-hour session.
“Two hours again today?” Seongmin asked.
“Yes.”
Hajun nodded and walked into the recording booth as if he owned the place.
Soon, music flowed from behind the heavy metal door.
Listening to it, Seongmin closed his eyes.
Every time the boy came, he brought a different song—and each one was remarkably well made.
Two hours passed in a blink.
Hajun stepped out, his expression tinged with frustration. He looked dissatisfied.
Seongmin found that expression deeply pleasing.
At that age, most kids with that level of skill would already be full of themselves. But Hajun was never satisfied.
“Want a drink?”
The question slipped out before Seongmin could stop himself.
Hajun nodded. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
Polite, too.
Seongmin took a sports drink from the mini-fridge and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” Hajun said, bowing slightly before taking a sip.
Watching him, Seongmin asked, “Are you a trainee somewhere?”
“No.”
“Then… planning to be one?”
“…Something like that.”
A vague answer.
Still, Seongmin liked it—more precisely, he liked how carefully Hajun chose his words.
“You look like a student. How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“I’ll be entering Seolwon Arts High this year.”
That explained everything.
Of course.
“Practical Music Department?”
“Yes.”
“Vocal major?”
Hajun shook his head. “Composition major.”
“Oh.”
Seongmin let out a short sound and scratched his beard.
“Then you’re my junior.”
“…You graduated from Seolwon?”
“Yeah. Come to think of it, it’s been almost ten years.”
“Hm.”
Hajun hummed quietly, clearly intrigued.
“I’ve noticed you handle composition and producing yourself,” Seongmin said. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“What do you use? An electronic keyboard?”
“No. Logic.”
“All virtual instruments, then?”
Hajun nodded.
The more they talked, the more Seongmin liked the kid. Maybe it was pride. Maybe curiosity.
“Ever think about recording with real instruments?” Seongmin asked. “No matter how advanced virtual sounds get, they can’t beat the real thing.”
“I want to,” Hajun admitted. “But circumstances make it difficult.”
“But you do want to.”
“Yes.”
“Then how about I lend you some?”
Hajun blinked.
Finally—an expression appropriate for his age.
Seongmin smiled.
“I don’t have a piano, but there’s a keyboard, drums, and a few guitars.”
“…Really?”
“Yeah. But there’s one condition.”
“A condition?”
“If you make a song, let me hear it.”
“Deal.”
Hajun nodded without hesitation.
Seongmin stood and led him into another studio. It was neat and well kept, filled with instruments.
Hajun’s eyes widened.
The quality was exceptional. Several guitars stood against the wall—some of them easily worth a fortune.
“Can you play any instruments?” Seongmin asked.
“Not well. But I can play a bit of piano and guitar.”
In his past life, Hajun had relied heavily on piano and guitar for composing—especially guitar. No matter how advanced digital plugins became, they never quite matched the real thing.
“They’re all tuned,” Seongmin said. “But retune them if you want.”
Hajun scanned the instruments, then stopped.
One guitar caught his eye.
The model itself was unremarkable, but the deep scratch across its body looked strangely familiar.
…Where have I seen this before?
“If you need help, just say the word,” Seongmin said. “I’m not amazing, but I can teach you a bit.”
Hajun didn’t answer.
He was staring at the guitar, digging through his memories.
A guitar he’d seen before.
A Seolwon graduate running the studio.
Wait.
What was his name again?
Seongmin.
Won Seongmin.
…Hold on.
Won Seongmin.
Of Blue Aka?