39 – 『Rough』(5)
39 – 『Rough』(5)
39.
The full-scale recording for ‘Rough’ began.
It took place in the studio inside ROC Entertainment. Despite the building’s shabby exterior, the equipment was top-tier.
“You handle producing and engineering yourself, right?” Kwon Suyoung asked.
“I always have.”
“Then, just like we agreed in the contract, you’ll work on it directly. I’ll step in and help when necessary.”
At Sohyang’s offer—basically saying she’d intervene if needed—Yoon Hajun simply nodded.
Another composer might have taken offense, but Hajun didn’t care. In Sohyang’s eyes, he was just a high school freshman. Letting someone that young handle a track destined for an album was already a huge favor.
Besides, Hajun wanted her to step in. If Sohyang interfered, she’d probably teach him something. If he was going to do this, he planned to squeeze every bit of value out of it.
“Are you ready?”
Next to him, Jin Sohyang—who would be recording today—asked, her expression noticeably tense.
She was extremely nervous. Not as bad as when she’d been on stage, but still.
She’d recorded with Hajun before, for the AR used in her performance, so she knew exactly how picky and perfectionistic he was.
…Will this really be done within a week?
That was exactly why she never once considered finishing in a single day. The AR recording alone took them two full days, and that was with them recording all day long and Hajun compromising because they ran out of time.
But this time, they weren’t recording a disposable stage version. This was the official album track. Knowing his personality, there was no way he’d compromise.
That was what scared her. How hard was he going to push her?
Still… maybe he’d go easier on her in front of the company president?
Yeah, right.
Yoon Hajun wasn’t that kind of person.
Knowing that, Sohyang let out a sigh.
Unaware of what she was thinking—or perhaps fully aware—Hajun continued preparing for the session. He opened the programs he always used, checked the equipment, and adjusted everything to his liking.
Finally, he piled a mountain of energy drinks beside him. He didn’t like them, but he needed them. He also stacked a bunch of candies he hated but forced himself to eat during work.
When he finished prepping, he said, “Alright. Let’s start.”
“Yes.”
Sohyang nodded, stood, and entered the recording booth.
Meanwhile, Kwon Suyoung silently observed.
She was curious.
How would this kid work?
Sohyang had said he was extremely strict.
“You ready?” Hajun asked.
[Yeah.]
“Good.”
Hajun spoke into the mic, then cut the channel and played the melody of ‘Rough.’
Listening through her headphones, Sohyang closed her eyes. She’d sung this song thousands of times while preparing for the stage. She knew exactly when to come in.
—I don’t know…
Me…
These feelings…
“Hold on.”
The track stopped. Hajun’s voice came through.
Startled, Sohyang opened her eyes and looked at him through the glass.
He wasn’t looking at her with his usual sleepy eyes. His gaze was sharp and focused. The intensity made her hiccup before she could stop herself.
It reminded her of how he’d stared at her whenever she made a mistake during practice.
Is this what PTSD feels like?
Not that he was all pressure. He wasn’t mindlessly aggressive.
“When you start, don’t sound obsessed yet,” Hajun said. “Be confused. You know?”
[Yes, yes.]
“And when does the obsession begin?”
[From when the piano smashes in.]
“Right. You know it well. Let’s go again.”
Then he smiled.
That clear, boyish smile of his.
“Oh.”
Watching from behind, Kwon Suyoung let out a quiet sound of admiration.
He wasn’t just pushing her. He knew when to ease tension and when to encourage.
—I’m not a kid anymore…
Something’s wrong with me.
“Let’s do that again,” Hajun said. “The ‘I’m not a kid’ part was good, but ‘something’s wrong with me’ feels a little weak. Go for that space between confusion and obsession. You know?”
[Yes!]
—I love you, but it’s hard to express…
“Wait, again. You don’t have to transition so naturally there,” Hajun said. “The piano already breaks the flow and changes the atmosphere. Plus, I’ll add more in the mix later. So just snap right into it.”
[Got it!]
And yes—he was extremely strict.
If anything felt off, he asked for a retake without hesitation. But he never asked for pointless retakes.
“Hey, can you redo that part? Scream it a bit more. Like—agh!—let it out. Yeah, like that. Let’s record two versions just in case.”
Every time, he explained exactly what he wanted.
…Do I even need to step in?
Sohyang was genuinely surprised.
She’d come ready to jump in if needed, but there was no need. No—if she interfered, she might actually ruin the style.
Realizing that, she simply observed.
And the longer she watched, the more she wanted this kid.
This is… terrifying.
He was only a high school freshman, but nothing about the way he worked felt like one.
What impressed Sohyang most was how thoroughly the track was constructed. Most kids his age relied on raw talent and built songs around flashy parts, resulting in weak overall structure.
But Hajun’s track had no weak spots. From start to finish, it was airtight.
He even recorded multiple versions of sections just in case something better could be done later. He was willing to scrap his own ideas for improvement.
Damn. I want him so badly.
For the first time in a long while, Sohyang regretted her company’s lack of budget. If she had the money, she would’ve offered an exclusive contract on the spot.
“Let’s take a short break,” Hajun said.
[…Okay.]
Four hours had passed already, and they were still only at the very beginning.
Exhausted, Sohyang stumbled out of the booth and collapsed onto the sofa.
“I’m dying.”
“You knew this would happen.”
Hajun drank an energy drink as he spoke. Hearing that made something snap in her.
Sure, she’d expected it—but this was even worse than expected.
Then again, he was always like this. When she first asked him to help with the stage. When she heard his arrangement. When he comforted her. He always exceeded expectations.
“Do you think we’ll finish by tomorrow at this rate?” she asked.
“Nope. Probably four days.”
Sohyang was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to punch his mouth. Just one good flick to the lips would feel so satisfying.
“There’s no rush,” Hajun said. “We’ll take our time.”
“What about school?”
“They’re counting it as fieldwork, so it’s fine. Besides, I don’t go to class anyway.”
“…That’s something to brag about?”
“It’s called prioritizing.”
Hajun finished the last of his energy drink, crushed the can, and tossed it in the trash. Then he turned to her.
“Rest for ten minutes, then we start again.”
“…Yes.”
Jin Sohyang wanted to cry.
Even though he said it would probably take four days, Hajun didn’t intend to record nonstop the entire time.
He was only brutal with retakes in the beginning. Once the obsessive part of the song kicked in, the number of retakes dropped significantly.
Experience didn’t lie.
“This is the last take, right?” Sohyang asked.
“Yeah.”
And so, on the second evening, Sohyang finished recording—just as Hajun predicted.
But recording wasn’t the end.
In a way, this was where the real work began.
Now came mixing and mastering, the most crucial part of music production. Even if the vocals were flawless, bad mixing or mastering could ruin the entire song.
“In this part, raise the piano melody a bit…”
Hajun and Sohyang stayed in the studio, working seriously.
Watching him, Sohyang couldn’t help admiring him again. Even in post-production, Hajun was meticulous. He tweaked every detail and never compromised with himself.
The more she saw, the more she wanted to keep him. She couldn’t offer an exclusive contract, but maybe she could secure future projects. Maybe… mark him as “ours” somehow.
Damn. He’s too good.
While Hajun worked, he suddenly let out a sigh. He grabbed three or four candies, stuffed them into his mouth, then grimaced.
Disgustingly sweet.
He hated sugary stuff, but when he worked, he needed glucose. So he kept glucose candy on hand and forced himself to eat it.
He swallowed and reached back toward the computer.
“Hajun.”
“Yes?”
“Take a break. You’ll collapse at this rate.”
“Oh.”
“And cut back on the energy drinks.”
Sohyang glanced around. Energy drink cans were scattered everywhere. He’d gone through a shocking amount in just two days.
“I probably should.”
“No need to rush so much.”
Sohyang had already figured it out.
Hajun was working like he was being chased.
For the past two days, he’d practically lived in the studio. He hadn’t even gone home. He used the company bathroom to wash and slept sitting in the studio chair.
When Sohyang came in the morning and saw him still there, she’d been shocked.
“How much did you sleep last night?”
“Hmm… about three hours.”
“You’re going to collapse.”
“It’s fine. I usually sleep like this. Lately I’ve even been sleeping five hours sometimes.”
“What do you even do instead of sleep?”
“Compose.”
“…Good lord.”
Sohyang was speechless.
Even top celebrities only lived like this when they were on tour, and even then, they napped in cars or motels in between.
But Hajun didn’t even have that.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” she asked.
She couldn’t understand.
At that age, with that much talent, most people got cocky. They played around. They relaxed.
But Hajun showed none of that. If anything, he kept belittling himself. While working, he often stopped and questioned himself.
At first, Sohyang thought it was because this was his first official album work, so maybe he was just nervous.
But no.
She realized Hajun didn’t trust his own ability.
He listened to finished sections dozens, even hundreds of times, not because he was a perfectionist, but because he didn’t believe in himself.
This is the only way I can keep up with everyone around me.
Everyone around Hajun was a genius.
Han Goyo, often called the most talented student in Seolwon Arts history.
Kim Taeyoung, who would become a world star in the future.
Jin Sohyang, who would eventually become a top idol.
On top of that, for some reason, Kang Seonghun—who would become a massively popular songwriter—was already watching him.
And above all, his own sister, Yoon Suyeon.
After seeing her at Lee Ji-yoon’s academy, Hajun was certain. Suyeon had the talent to surpass even Han Goyo.
To support someone like that, he had to work even harder.
Sure, for now he was ahead. By a lot.
But that was only because he’d lived twelve extra years by returning to the past. Thanks to that, he could stand among geniuses as a “genius.”
But that illusion wouldn’t last.
Soon, the real geniuses would awaken their potential and sprint past him. And one day, the positions would reverse.
That outcome was inevitable. Talent couldn’t be beaten through effort forever.
So he wanted to delay that moment, even if only a little. He wanted to work with them as long as possible. He wanted to remain someone they needed.
That was his honest truth—something he’d never told anyone.
It was the reason he constantly told himself, It’s okay. You’re doing well. The reason he stayed awake and worked nonstop.
All of it was for that.
“If you keep pushing yourself like this, you’ll break,” Sohyang said, her expression pained. “Maybe not right away, but soon.”
She wasn’t saying it to look good. She was genuinely worried for him. She didn’t want to see that shining talent crush itself.
Hajun hesitated, then sighed.
“I know… but it’s hard.”
“Do you have any commitments after this project?”
“Not really.”
The only things left were Suyeon’s song and Taeyoung’s song for the Winter Festival, but both still had plenty of time. Especially Suyeon’s—more than half of it was already complete.
“Then why not take a break?” Sohyang asked. “Sure, you still have school, so you can’t go on vacation, but you could at least hang out with friends or something.”
“…I’ll try.”
Hajun answered, but deep down, he already knew. Even if he said that, he wouldn’t actually do it.
And Sohyang realized it too.
Hajun wasn’t the type to listen to advice like that.
She paused, thinking, then an idea came to her.
“If that’s too hard, how about getting a different hobby? Like watching movies… going to exhibitions… things like that. You could get new inspiration, and it might clear your head.”
Use “work” as an excuse to take a break.
A perfect suggestion.
This time, Hajun’s expression shifted. He looked thoughtful.
Movies or exhibits…
True, some composers found inspiration that way. He didn’t really have time for a full hobby, but going to an exhibit alone on the weekend didn’t sound so bad.
“I’ll try it.”
This time, his answer was noticeably more positive.
Sohyang let out a quiet breath of relief.
“Thanks for worrying about me.”
“I just want to keep listening to your music for a long time.”
“I want that too.”
Hajun answered sincerely, because more than anyone else, that was what he truly wanted.