91 – Two Geniuses with Strong Pride (8)
91 – Two Geniuses with Strong Pride (8)
“…There’s nothing at all…”
“Again.”
“…There’s nothing—”
“Again.”
“…There’s nothing…”
“From the top again.”
Again, again, again, again.
Hearing Yoon Hajun’s voice repeat the same words over and over like a broken radio, Kim Hanol felt dizzy and clenched his teeth. Just how many retakes was this now?
It had been about two hours since the first take, when he entered the booth and sang the song from start to finish. For those two hours, Kim Hanol recorded nonstop without a break.
And yet, he still hadn’t gotten past the very first line. Damn it. Kim Hanol bit down on his lower lip. At this rate, he might actually end up late for his date later today.
That can’t happen.
But Yoon Hajun didn’t look like he had any intention of giving an easy okay. Was he trying to assert discipline, or show off a producer’s authority?
Seeing him do exactly what he’d seen in the video CEO Seohoon had sent before the session really rubbed him the wrong way.
Should I just swallow my pride and lower myself a bit?
Would that satisfy him?
“So you need to sing it emptier. Like there’s really nothing there. That’s what I’m saying.”
But looking at the smug way he spoke, Kim Hanol couldn’t bring himself to feel that way at all. In the end, he snapped back sharply.
“I am singing it that way.”
“Where?”
Yoon Hajun asked incredulously at Kim Hanol’s reply.
Empty?
To anyone listening, it sounded like someone brimming with excitement, like he was about to go have fun.
“You feel empty and hollow like that? Full of anticipation? Like, ‘Ah, how should I fill this emptiness?’ Is that how you do it?”
“…No, that’s not it.”
“Then listen to what you just recorded. Oh, right—you can’t. There’s nothing recorded to listen to.”
At Yoon Hajun’s mocking remark, Kim Hanol shut his mouth. He’d given him some consideration because he was a high school student, because CEO Seohoon had asked him to, because he was still a producer.
But he was starting to get annoyed.
The same was true for Yoon Hajun. Two hours had passed since they started recording, and they still hadn’t managed to record even a single line. Did that make any sense?
Spending two straight hours shouting “again” and “empty” and “hollow” was exhausting.
From the start, Yoon Hajun wasn’t demanding endless retakes to assert dominance or establish discipline the way Kim Hanol seemed to think.
He asked for retakes because he genuinely didn’t like it—because nothing was improving.
But Kim Hanol was singing without thinking at all, just mindlessly following instructions.
Of course there was no progress.
“Then what exactly is that emptiness, that hollowness, supposed to feel like?”
In the end, unable to hold it in, Kim Hanol demanded an answer. It wasn’t just to pick a fight—he genuinely didn’t understand.
To Kim Hanol, emptiness and hollowness were extremely unfamiliar emotions.
He always tried to live joyfully. Sure, it was painful when a song wouldn’t come out right.
But even then, he tried to wrap that pain in enjoyment. Enjoyment was the most important thing to him.
That was why emptiness and hollowness were emotions he simply couldn’t grasp.
At that question, Yoon Hajun furrowed his brow. He’d spent two hours explaining emptiness and hollowness, even giving examples, and Kim Hanol still didn’t get it at all.
“Have you never felt empty before? Not even once?”
“No. So why don’t you show me, then.”
At Kim Hanol’s words, Yoon Hajun fell silent.
Show him?
Seeing Yoon Hajun hesitate instead of answering right away, Kim Hanol sneered.
See? All talk. When asked to demonstrate, he can’t say a thing.
So stop with the discipline nonsense—
“Fine. I’ll show you.”
“…What?”
“I said I’ll show you. Come out of the booth.”
As he said that, Yoon Hajun stood up from his seat. Seeing this, Kim Hanol looked flustered.
Wait—he’s really going to show me?
Half-doubtful, Kim Hanol stepped out of the booth. At the same time, Yoon Hajun passed him and went inside.
Entering the booth after a long time, Yoon Hajun let out a quiet sigh.
No matter where you go, booths always have that distinctive smell—the smell of a sealed space, maybe.
Unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting. Smiling faintly at that scent, Yoon Hajun spoke toward Kim Hanol.
“Please play the track.”
“…Okay.”
Nodding, Kim Hanol played the song. He’d said it to nitpick, but Yoon Hajun was really about to sing.
What is he thinking?
Does he think singing is a joke?
Because he made the song himself, he thinks he can sing it best?
If that’s the case, he should’ve been a singer-songwriter, not a producer.
With those thoughts, Kim Hanol played the song.
Hearing the song he’d made himself through the headset, Yoon Hajun swallowed.
How long had it been since he’d sung inside a professional booth like this? He’d done guide recordings alone a few times, but singing in front of someone else—it had been a very long time.
Before starting in earnest, Yoon Hajun steadied his emotions and recalled his memories.
Empty. Hollow. Nothing at all.
A time when he couldn’t even feel inferiority.
The final memory of his past life.
“…Every day with nothing in it.”
Once again.
“Ah.”
The moment Yoon Hajun began singing, Kim Hanol stared blankly, his mouth slightly open.
What the hell… he’s better than I thought.
In his previous life, Yoon Hajun had been a failed singer.
There were many reasons for that. He lacked a unique charm. His tone was unremarkable. After repeated failures, he kept making the same kinds of songs.
But that didn’t mean his singing ability itself was lacking.
His technique, diction, theory, stage skills—those, and many other fundamentals.
Because he had nothing special, no unique weapon of his own—
He’d built those basics meticulously.
With a low voice, completely relaxed, Yoon Hajun sang.
Listening to that voice, Kim Hanol kept biting his lower lip.
As the recording continued, he felt like he finally understood what Yoon Hajun meant by emptiness and hollowness.
At the same time, he understood why Yoon Hajun had kept demanding retakes.
He had no choice but to admit it.
Yoon Hajun hadn’t been asking for retakes just to assert discipline.
He asked because he was lacking—because he wasn’t satisfied with his own song.
While spacing out and listening to Yoon Hajun sing, Kim Hanol picked up his phone and sent a message to his date.
Saying he wanted to cancel today.
While Yoon Hajun was working with Kim Hanol, Seo Chaerim waited for him at the company.
She had clearly told him to avoid working with Kim Hanol if possible.
“Seriously…”
But since the work had already started, what could she do?
She could only hope it ended smoothly.
With that thought, Seo Chaerim opened the cloud app on her phone.
At the same time, a very familiar nickname greeted her.
『Drop pop』.
A channel where Yoon Hajun composed and Yoon Suyeon sang.
That channel was currently featured on the main page.
More specifically, Catch’s 『I AM BAD』 as sung by 『Drop pop』.
“At this rate, it’ll pass a million views.”
For an amateur to pull in this many views on a cloud platform was no easy feat.
That alone meant that 『I AM BAD』, sung by Yoon Hajun’s younger sister Yoon Suyeon, was being recognized.
And not in Korea—but overseas.
Seo Chaerim clicked into the song and checked the comments.
English comments, not familiar Korean, filled the screen.
An unprecedented number of them.
There was even a comment from a singer currently active in the United States—not hugely famous, but still a professional.
Makes sense.
From the arrangement to Yoon Suyeon’s voice, everything fit 『I AM BAD』 perfectly.
And what was even scarier was that this song wasn’t gaining popularity through promotion, but purely through word of mouth.
As a result, the song was gaining fame in multiple ways.
And yet, neither Yoon Hajun nor Yoon Suyeon knew that the song they uploaded had blown up like this.
After uploading 『I AM BAD』, they completely stopped paying attention to the cloud channel.
If their schedules were even a little lighter, they might have checked.
But both of them were too busy to even think straight.
“Tsk… what a waste.”
What Seo Chaerim regretted wasn’t that Yoon Hajun or Yoon Suyeon didn’t know their song had become a hit.
She didn’t even know that they didn’t know.
What she regretted was the reality that they were too busy to take advantage of it.
If either of them had even a little free time, she could’ve leveraged this properly.
Still, once July came, Yoon Suyeon would sign a contract with MM Entertainment.
So she would just have to endure until then.
Letting out a small hum, Seo Chaerim ran through various plans in her head.
She had no intention of keeping MM Entertainment at the level of a small or mid-sized company.
She planned to turn it into an entertainment company recognized worldwide.
Of course, in their current state, that sounded more like a delusion than ambition.
But Seo Chaerim’s grand plan was already in motion.
She’d secured Yoon Hajun, and Han Goyo would be signing soon.
And before long, Yoon Suyeon would sign as well.
Yoon Hajun, Han Goyo, and Yoon Suyeon.
If she signed them along with the others she had in mind, it would be more than enough groundwork for the future.
“What are you doing?”
As Seo Chaerim was thinking about the future, the door to the recording studio opened and Yoon Hajun came out.
Seeing him, she asked with a slightly worried expression.
“How’s the recording going?”
At Seo Chaerim asking a question instead of answering his, Yoon Hajun let out a small laugh.
She must have been pretty worried about him.
Well, considering Kim Hanol’s reputation, it was only natural.
“Yeah. It’s going okay.”
Nothing as bad as she’d feared had happened.
If anything, the work was going fairly smoothly.
The first two hours had been a bit prickly, but after Yoon Hajun went into the booth himself and demonstrated, Kim Hanol had been listening obediently.
And whatever he’d felt from that demonstration, the recording actually progressed.
“Then are you done for today?”
“No, there’s still a long way to go. We’ll keep going another three or four hours today and do the rest tomorrow.”
“And Kim Hanol agreed to that?”
“Yeah. He wants to continue tomorrow too. I guess he wants to finish quickly and go have fun.”
At that, Seo Chaerim made a small sound of understanding.
He was probably the type to finish his work first, then play.
“Maybe he’s not as bad as you thought.”
“Yeah.”
Of course, he was a bit arrogant—that came with being a genius.
And there were other issues too.
But as long as he didn’t show them while working, that alone was enough.
“So what were you doing, senior?”
“Oh, just for a bit. There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Is it about Singer Star?”
At Yoon Hajun’s words, Seo Chaerim nodded.
Seeing that, Yoon Hajun lightly furrowed his brow.
From the company’s perspective, pushing Han Goyo made sense.
It was a bit disappointing, but he knew it couldn’t be helped.
Suyeon hadn’t even signed a contract yet, and openly pushing two people would draw unwanted attention.
“It’s fine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve got Suyeon.”
So somehow, won’t it work out?
Smiling as he said that, Yoon Hajun made Seo Chaerim look at him in surprise.
Was he always this confident? No—definitely not.
He was scary when working, but at his core, Yoon Hajun was very timid.
He worried about whether the songs he made were good, felt anxious, lacked confidence.
“Did something happen?”
“No. Not really.”
Saying that, Yoon Hajun drank a beverage from the lounge and closed his eyes.
It was a shame not to get a full company push, but it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Even without it, Suyeon’s talent was more than enough to achieve good results.
And more importantly, Yoon Hajun knew everything about Singer Star.
What songs they’d prepare.
What songs they’d sing on stage.
He knew all of it.
Normally, that knowledge wouldn’t be very useful.
But Singer Star was both an audition program and a competition.
If you knew what kind of stage your opponents would bring, you could use that.
Sure, it was a bit underhanded.
“So that’s all?”
“No, there’s one more thing.”
At Yoon Hajun’s words, Seo Chaerim picked up her phone.
She closed the internet window she’d been looking at and opened her gallery, searching for a particular photo.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
Finding the photo she wanted, Seo Chaerim held her phone screen out toward Yoon Hajun.