88 – Two Geniuses with Strong Pride (5)
88 – Two Geniuses with Strong Pride (5)
“How is it?” Yoon Hajun asked Kim Hanol.
He looked no different from usual—drowsy eyes, brows faintly knit as if in thought, and a very slight smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.
At the sight of Yoon Hajun, Kim Hanol opened his mouth, then closed it again. How is it? Was he asking because he genuinely didn’t know?
Instead of answering, Kim Hanol replayed the song Yoon Hajun had just played for him.
The basic framework wasn’t much different from the sketch version he had heard before. At most, some minor details had been adjusted and the rest filled out.
So why did it feel so different?
The first sketch Yoon Hajun played him had only been okay. Nothing particularly bad, but nothing particularly good either.
To be honest, it had been a little disappointing.
Of course, considering his age, it was impressive—but a song didn’t come stamped with the composer or producer’s age.
What the public wanted wasn’t an ordinary song from a rookie producer who might make good songs in the future. They wanted something that sounded good right now.
And since CEO Seohoon had proudly called him a genius producer, Kim Hanol had expected more.
Still, it had been listenable in a mainstream way, and the structure was solid, so he’d said it was fine.
But the song he had just heard?
There was a strong sense of speed—exhilarating, like you needed to get in a car and floor it immediately.
You can transform that song this much?
He was impressed. And at the same time, he wanted it—so badly he felt like starting work on it right away.
Kim Hanol swallowed once, then said, “It’s good.”
At those words, Yoon Hajun gave a small grin and nodded.
“Good thing it’s not just ‘okay.’”
“Then can we start working on it right away?”
“No. Not yet. There are still parts I want to revise. There’s something that doesn’t sit right with me.”
There were still revisions to be made.
“Are you revising it now?”
“Yeah.”
“Is it okay if I watch?”
“I don’t really care.”
With Yoon Hajun’s permission, Kim Hanol nodded and sat on the studio couch. For the sake of working, Yoon Hajun operated the computer and played the makjang drama he’d been watching lately.
…Is he going to mess around before getting to work?
That kind of thing wasn’t uncommon among people who worked on computers—some web surfing, scrolling through social media, poking around on ITube before starting in earnest.
Kim Hanol himself was the type to do that too.
The problem was that his messing around tended to last forever.
He’s got good focus.
Yoon Hajun stared at the monitor like it was his mortal enemy. But the video playing on screen was strange—the same scenes looping again and again.
A scene of driving at high speed.
A scene of drinking with a woman tucked under his arm.
A scene of causing a loud mess.
After watching those scenes for a long while, Yoon Hajun nodded as if he’d gotten what he needed and stopped the drama. He launched his composing program and started working.
His eyes sharpened. His hands moved quickly, and every movement applied changes to the music.
Kim Hanol noticed something and widened his eyes.
No way… is he making the song while watching those scenes right now?
The idea itself wasn’t impossible. In films, composers often watched scenes and created music to fit them.
But Yoon Hajun wasn’t making background music.
He was making a song.
Kim Hanol swallowed hard.
Only now did he feel like he understood why CEO Seohoon had praised Yoon Hajun as a genius.
§ § §
“I’m tired.”
When I got home, I muttered that and threw myself onto the living-room couch. As expected, this place was the most comfortable. It felt like it wrapped around my body—more comfortable than the bed in my room.
“Oppa, you’re back?”
Maybe she heard me. Suyeon opened her bedroom door and came out into the living room. Wasn’t she asleep? I pulled out my phone and checked the time.
1:30 a.m.
I had school tomorrow. I should have already been asleep.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Huh? Ah—I practiced a bit.”
“But I didn’t hear any sound.”
“It was more like image training than actually singing. More importantly, isn’t it too late for you to be coming home?”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
I said that and stretched wide. Sleeping late and waking up early was familiar. For someone who wasn’t a genius to stay a genius, he had to work several times harder than everyone else.
“Anyway, go to sleep. You’re tired.”
“Mmm. I want to talk with you a little first.”
“About what?”
“Nothing big. Just… chatting? You’ve been busy lately, so we haven’t even talked.”
Suyeon said that, then sat down on the floor by the couch and leaned back against it—right where I usually sat. Settling in comfortably, she stretched and asked, “How’s the song work going?”
“Almost done. I just need to finish it up and record.”
“Mhm.”
“And you? Is practice going well?”
There was only about a month left until the event. Soon I’d have to make the event song too. I was going to get busy again—though it wasn’t like I’d been relaxed up until now.
“Yeah. It’s going well. Teacher says I’m doing well too. You can look forward to it, oppa. You’ll be shocked when we work this time.”
She grinned as she said it.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Suyeon.”
I called her while watching her like that. She looked up at me. I hesitated, wondering whether to tell her or not, then shook my head as if it were nothing.
“Don’t overdo it.”
“You too, oppa.”
I’d tell her later that Goyo was going on the audition program in August. Right now, it was time to worry about Jeong Jinhoo, not Han Goyo.
§ § §
“This is more fun than I thought.”
I wasn’t talking about the makjang drama itself. Turning scenes into music—that was what I meant.
After Teacher Ha Hyoju’s advice, I tried it again, thinking back to how I’d once looked at a painting and gotten inspiration. It was more enjoyable than I expected. If I could, I wanted to try drama or film OST work someday.
That sounded genuinely fun.
With that thought, I finished the song in the studio. The MR work was done. All that was left was recording, mixing, and mastering.
I would handle the recording as the producer, and for mixing and mastering, I planned to get engineers introduced through Won Seongmin.
“Hoo…”
I sighed and scratched my head.
I can record this properly, right?
If it really didn’t work, I could call it off—but the best outcome was Kim Hanol faithfully following the conditions I’d laid out.
I started coordinating schedules for recording. Since it would take time, I planned to skip school, which meant submitting an on-site learning plan.
I was messaging my manager, Jeong Jaeho, on KakaoTalk when an alert went off. Thinking it was his reply, I checked—
[The music video is out.]
“Oh.”
At Won Seongmin’s short message, I let out a small exclamation and quickly opened the link.
I played the roughly six-minute music video.
The opening shot was Blue Aka in black and white. Then the camera was pulled into the adjacent room, and Kim Taeyoung appeared.
Mm. I’d seen it before, but the visuals were seriously good—refined, too. Won Seongmin had said most of the ideas for Blue Aka’s music video were his.
There was a separate director, of course, but even so, it was obvious how capable he was.
As I kept watching, the first five minutes were mostly the same as the edited version I’d already seen—just cleaner visuals.
Then came the last minute.
My and Goyo’s segment.
A dark, cluttered room. A broken chair in the center. Goyo sat on it, and I sat on a torn couch facing her.
Then Goyo started singing.
Even though it was her first time doing melodic rap, it fit her unbelievably well. What followed was a wail—resentment, bitterness, suffocation aimed at someone you couldn’t quite identify.
She poured it all out with a twisted expression.
Just watching it was overwhelming.
Seriously.
Absurd talent.
And unlike my previous life, that talent wouldn’t disappear. She would sign with mm Entertainment and reveal it to the world through Singer Star.
I rubbed my chin.
Goyo and Suyeon—both of them. In my previous life, they never debuted. Never even left songs behind. Kids with incredible talent who never made it.
If kids like that debuted, what would happen?
The industry would be shaken.
As I watched, the music video rushed toward the end. Goyo’s singing stopped—no, her movement stopped, like someone hit pause.
I stood up from the couch, a remote control in my hand.
The blue lighting turned red. I moved. My footsteps grew louder as Blue Aka’s performance sound faded.
I left the room, approached Blue Aka, and pressed the remote again. They froze. After confirming it, I turned to face the camera and pressed it once more.
The screen went dark.
“They really pushed me too hard.”
I muttered while staring at the screen. My screen time was the shortest, but the impact was the strongest—like I was controlling everything.
They said it represented my role as the producer, but still… ending on me felt like too much.
Won Seongmin said they wrapped it that way to ride the Star Kingdom spillover effect, but—
I didn’t know. How much influence could a one-percent program really have?
No—wait. It did have influence.
That was why Suyeon and Jinhoo started fighting.
Jinhoo—Jeong Jinhoo.
I rubbed my chin. I’d called him a discount Kim Taeyoung, but that didn’t mean I underestimated him.
Kim Taeyoung was a singer loved worldwide. In South Korea, there wasn’t another singer who’d broken into the U.S. as successfully.
So being a “discount” version of Kim Taeyoung was impressive in its own way.
But Jinhoo had a complex about it and struggled desperately to break free—and failed every time.
I frowned slightly.
Suyeon’s talent wasn’t inferior. But right now, she was behind.
That couldn’t be helped. She’d only been learning to sing for about a year, while Jeong Jinhoo had trained since childhood.
Closing that gap was my job.
I had to make an overwhelmingly powerful song—one that could draw admiration, one that could fully bring Suyeon’s talent to life.
“It won’t be easy.”
I opened my composing program and started moving my hands without thinking.
The work with Kim Hanol was done.
Now it was time to make Suyeon’s song—the one that would crush Jeong Jinhoo.