Unknown
14 – Main. (1)
53.
Lunch break.
I headed to the practice room to meet the student Jin Sohyang and Han Goyo had scouted—someone Goyo acknowledged, and someone Kang Seonghun wanted to work with too.
Is there really someone like that? I searched my memory, but no one came to mind. If they were that good, there was no way I wouldn’t remember them.
I arrived at the practice room, opened the door, and walked in.
The student wasn’t there yet. The room—our meeting spot—was empty. Since I had time, I sat down and opened my laptop.
Originally, the three of us were supposed to meet her together. But Goyo had been suddenly called in by a teacher, and Sohyang said she could only come to school in the afternoon because of her schedule. That left me meeting the student one-on-one.
It didn’t really matter.
I kept working, and I must have gotten too focused, because by the time I looked up, lunch break was nearly over.
Still not here?
As the thought crossed my mind, I lifted my head—and spotted someone sitting in the corner of the room.
Startled, I stood.
“Finished working?”
The girl asked as she looked at me.
I frowned slightly at the sound of her voice, then nodded. I had been so focused I hadn’t even noticed her come in.
“I mean, you mi—… No, sorry.”
I was about to speak casually, but the moment I saw the color of her name tag, I switched to polite speech. Her tag was green, unlike my blue one.
A second-year.
Sure, the Winter Festival class was a joint project between first-years and second-years, so it was allowed, but I hadn’t expected the person they scouted to be a sunbae.
“You’re Yoon Hajun, right?”
“Yes. And, uh… your name is…?”
I looked down at her name tag.
Seo Chaerim.
It didn’t ring any bells.
“Chaerim sunbae, right?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded with an easy, cool smile.
I’d thought it the moment I heard her, but her voice was ridiculously husky. Not the typical huskiness you’d associate with a woman’s voice, yet not manly either. If I had to put it into words, it was androgynous—slightly higher than a normal male tone, but lower than a typical female tone. Just from her voice alone, you’d hesitate to guess her gender.
“I heard from Sohyang that you want to work with me?”
Straight to the point. I nodded.
I liked that.
At my answer, Chaerim crossed her arms and lightly tapped her forearm as she thought. Then she asked, “That song you were working on just now—was that the song?”
“No. That’s a separate project I’m working on.”
“Ah, good. If that was the song, I was going to say no. Not that it was bad. It just didn’t suit me.”
“I agree.”
The song I’d been working on was for my major exam submission. I wasn’t writing it for anyone in particular—just something I wanted to make.
“Then can I hear the song you do want to work on with me?”
“Of course.”
I hit play on my laptop.
Chaerim listened with a serious expression.
Three minutes and fifty-one seconds. A little longer than average.
When it ended, she spoke again. “I heard this is supposed to be a three-person project?”
“Yes. That’s the plan.”
“With that kid Sohyang, that kid named Goyo, and me? Those three?”
“Yes.”
“Can I just hear the part I’d sing?”
I nodded and played the second section.
Chaerim listened again, eyes steady.
When it ended, she lifted her hand slightly. “Again.”
“Yes.”
“One more time.”
Then again. And again.
I replayed it six, seven times before she finally nodded.
“So it’s divided into three parts, and each person takes one.”
“That’s right. The first part will be Sohyang, the third part will be Goyo.”
“The pitch rises step by step with each part, and the tempo picks up.” She tilted her head slightly. “Then the second part is crucial. It has to bridge the first and third.”
“Exactly.”
“Good. I like it.”
I’d thought it earlier, but her personality really was refreshing—very much her own pace. I wasn’t sure if that was all it was, or if she was just a little self-centered.
“Can I hear you sing too, sunbae?”
“Sure.”
She nodded, then started singing right away.
Without an instrumental. Just like that.
It caught me off guard, but I listened closely.
The song was a well-known pop track called “LOCK.” She delivered the English lyrics fluently, her husky tone cutting cleanly through the air.
Now I understood why Sohyang and Goyo acknowledged her.
Even in casual speech, her voice was unique, but when she sang, that tone turned into a distinct musical color.
At the same time, her tone was so strong it could fatigue the ear quickly. In other words, it could get tiring fast.
Put nicely, she used her unique tone well.
Put bluntly, she relied on it completely.
Without that tone, her singing was surprisingly plain. She was the type who shone more as a featured vocalist than as a main.
Which was exactly why she fit my song perfectly.
Her section was about a minute. Before her tone could wear on a listener, her part would be over.
When she finished, she looked at me. “How is it?”
“It’s good.”
“That’s what everyone says at first.”
She seemed fully aware of her own weaknesses. It didn’t sound like self-deprecation—just a statement of fact.
“So are we working together?”
“Yes. I’d like that.”
Chaerim nodded decisively.
“Practice after class today?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you after class.”
With that, she left.
It happened so fast I almost felt dazed.
Can an audition really end this easily?
I scratched my head. Well, we agreed to work together, so that was good.
Then another question surfaced.
What kind of song is Kang Seonghun preparing? What kind of song made him want to work with someone like her? With that tone, his style felt like it would clash completely.
“Well, I’ll find out at the Winter Festival.”
Muttering to myself, I packed up my laptop.
By the time I stepped out, lunch break was already over.
§ § §
After class, our first practice session began.
Normally, I would have gone with Kim Taeyoung to record, but since it was Chaerim’s first day joining us, I decided to focus on practice today and join the recording tomorrow instead.
When I entered the practice room, I looked at Sohyang, Goyo, and Chaerim with anticipation.
It was Chaerim’s first day, but the other two had already spent two days working diligently on the homework I’d given them. How well had they synced? I was looking forward to seeing the chemistry between Sohyang and Goyo.
…But for some reason, Sohyang looked gloomy. And Goyo—unlike usual—kept glancing at me nervously.
I blinked.
What’s with them?
Don’t tell me they didn’t practice.
No. That couldn’t be it. In the photo Sohyang had sent me on KakaoTalk, Goyo was clearly in the practice room. They definitely practiced together.
“Since it’s sunbae’s first day, we’ll observe her later,” I said. “First, let’s see the stage you two practiced.”
“I’m excited,” Chaerim muttered.
Even as a second-year, she obviously knew both of them. Sohyang was a current idol, so she was famous. Goyo had earned her reputation through skill alone.
A song featuring those two would naturally interest her.
Sohyang and Goyo both nodded.
I played the MR, and they began singing.
It started with Sohyang. She sang in a lower voice than usual, almost like a whisper, and I nodded along.
When people said Sohyang’s singing was lacking, it was only compared to students at our school. Among idols, she was average, maybe slightly above. And the first part didn’t require heavy technique. In fact, its charm appeared when it was sung plainly.
That was why I chose her for the first section.
When her part ended, I transitioned into Goyo’s section.
And then—Goyo was Goyo.
As if she had never once delivered a disappointing performance, she moved through the song effortlessly, like she was playing with it.
Sohyang and Chaerim both looked stunned.
Rightfully so.
Goyo was Goyo.
Then came the duet section. They entered together.
I frowned slightly.
Technically, it was a duet, yes, but the lead was Goyo. Sohyang’s role was to support—like a chorus or doubling.
Supporting sounded easy, but it absolutely wasn’t. You had to enter at the exact timing, sense what was lacking, and layer it properly. Breathing and synergy mattered.
That was why I had specifically told them to focus on this part in practice.
But what they were showing me now was…
“Haa…”
A deep sigh slipped out before I could stop it.
“Well… yeah,” Chaerim muttered beside me. “Everyone’s doing their own thing.”
She wasn’t wrong.
They were completely out of sync. It didn’t sound bad only because Goyo’s skill was carrying it. There was no chemistry. They were just… singing at the same time.
At my sigh, Sohyang stopped and looked at me nervously.
To be honest, she felt wronged.
She practiced even with her busy idol schedule, especially the homework—matching her breathing with Goyo’s. She kept trying to talk to Goyo and build rapport, but the problem was Goyo.
Goyo didn’t communicate.
It wasn’t a conversation. It was just Sohyang talking into empty air.
I knew Goyo lacked social skills, but because she talked fine with Hajun, I had assumed she had improved.
I was wrong.
If it wasn’t Hajun, Goyo was still Goyo—indifferent to others, uninterested.
Even if the other person was a current idol like Jin Sohyang, it didn’t change anything. You could say she treated everyone equally. If it wasn’t Hajun, then everyone was equal in her eyes.
“There are quite a few problems,” Chaerim murmured after watching them.
She understood her own level very well. Her tone was unique, but aside from that, she was fairly ordinary.
Of course, “ordinary” was still high compared to the general public—Seolwon Arts High didn’t accept you just because you had an unusual voice—but could she make it as a professional singer?
Chaerim didn’t think so.
She could debut, sure. Releasing a song wasn’t that hard, especially for someone like her. But debuting and actually living off singing were two completely different things, and she didn’t believe she had what it took to make it her career.
She wasn’t as charismatic as Jin Sohyang, and she wasn’t as skilled as Han Goyo.
So she had defined her role clearly.
Music only until high school. After graduation, she would help her parents.
That attitude showed in how she lived at school.
At events, festivals, and exams, she performed more than anyone. Her unique voice made her perfect for features, and she accepted almost every request. Singing was fun, and she wanted to perform as much as possible before she graduated—both because she enjoyed it, and because it prepared her for what came after.
Through those experiences, she had solidified her place.
She was a featuring vocalist. A supporting role on stage.
The main character was someone else. Her job was to support the main act, and she gave it everything she had.
That was why she understood this song immediately.
At a glance, it looked fair—three people, about a minute each. But the structure, and especially the duet section, made it obvious who the real center was.
The main of this song was Han Goyo.
Jin Sohyang and Seo Chaerim were there to support Goyo, the song’s owner.
And Chaerim didn’t think that was unfair or cruel. Featuring was important work.
“Alright,” Chaerim said, looking at me. “Got it. Leave it to me.”
Then she stood.
To perform on stage, they needed to synchronize. To do that, the atmosphere had to loosen up first.
I—the one who wrote the song and planned the stage—didn’t seem to notice it, but Chaerim, who was good at reading the room, saw it clearly.
The subtle tug-of-war between Sohyang and Goyo.
So she made a decision.
First, she would resolve that tension.
“Alright, juniors,” she said, voice calm and firm. “Let’s have a talk with your sunbae.”
Then she added, without even looking back, “Hajun, you stay out of this.”