98 – Two Geniuses with Strong Pride (15)
98 – Two Geniuses with Strong Pride (15)
“Was that his own original song?”
“Probably. That’s incredible.”
“Seriously. He sings that well, and he can even compose? How’s that fair?”
In the audience seats, people chatted about Choi Jinho’s stage they’d just watched. Most of it was praise.
Yoon Hajun and Kim Taeyoung had criticized him, but that was only because their standards were absurdly high. From an average student’s perspective, Choi Jinho’s stage was more than worthy of rave reviews.
“Ha… can’t we just end it here?”
“Yeah. I don’t even want to hear one more.”
Hearing the crowd’s chatter, Choi Jinho smiled.
See? That brother and sister just can’t admit it because of their pride. My stage was good.
The audience’s mood was flowing exactly the way Choi Jinho wanted. It wasn’t just that they were praising his stage—they were satisfied with the stage itself, satisfied enough that the mood was drifting toward Let’s just get up and leave.
And that was exactly why Choi Jinho had swapped the running order with Yoon Suyeon.
Normally, the last stage of the freshman concert should have been Choi Jinho’s. But he asked Yoon Suyeon and the teachers to switch it for one reason only: he wanted to present an overwhelming stage, satisfy the audience, and erase Yoon Suyeon’s presence.
And the plan landed perfectly.
Right now, the audience’s mood was overwhelmingly on Choi Jinho’s side, and that mood wouldn’t change easily—unless Yoon Suyeon pulled off some miracle-level stage, which wouldn’t happen.
“Hey… if it’s like this, Yoon Suyeon’s going to have it rough.”
“Seriously. Poor Yoon Suyeon.”
“Well, she’s still the runner-up, so who knows. Her brother might’ve made her song. I heard that brother’s no joke. Even the teachers keep saying he was legendary.”
“No way. That’s exaggerated. No matter what, he’s still a student. How does ‘on the level of a singer’s concert’ even make sense? They just overhyped it to compare and scare us.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it, right?”
“Just sing already and end it. I want to go home.”
Maybe because they’d listened to seventy-nine performances already, the students’ overall mood was scattered. You could even see plenty of students wearing bored expressions.
Idiots.
At those reactions, Im Yeonji made an exasperated face.
Bored? The outcome is obvious? Yoon Hajun is all hype? Are they seriously believing Choi Jinho’s bullshit?
Those arrogant Seolwon Arts High teachers had said with their own mouths that the second-years were a “golden class,” and that he was one of the standout students even among them. So how could anyone think that?
Anyway, Choi Jinho and the rest of them—none of them were likable.
Im Yeonji lifted her head and looked at the stage.
On the dark stage where the lights still weren’t on, black silhouettes were moving busily.
What is that? Are they installing something?
Come to think of it, she’d heard Yoon Hajun used various props when he did stage direction.
Soon, maybe the setup was finished, because the people moving around onstage climbed down.
Left alone on the stage, Yoon Suyeon let out a long breath.
The lights would come on soon, and the song would start.
Could she really do it?
With an uneasy expression, Yoon Suyeon looked toward the audience. Then she found the people she was looking for: Yoon Hajun—and Han Goyo.
They were watching her with similar expressions.
Since the lights weren’t on, they couldn’t see her clearly, but those two were watching her.
That thought made Yoon Suyeon’s fist tighten.
Yeah. I can do it.
This wasn’t about beating Choi Jinho, or anything like that. What Yoon Suyeon meant when she said she could do it was something more perfect—something that surpassed who she’d been until now.
Yoon Suyeon nodded.
At the same time, the lights came on and lit up the dark stage.
Doors?
Two doors installed onstage came into view.
What the hell—she was even using props like that?
The students made dumbfounded faces. In contrast, Kim Taeyoung wore a that’s more like it expression and lightly bumped Yoon Hajun’s shoulder.
“You said you couldn’t really focus on your sister’s stage and all that. When did you prepare something like that?”
“What did I do?”
“Who else directs a stage using props like that except you?”
At Kim Taeyoung’s words, Yoon Hajun cleared his throat.
Was it that obvious?
Well, it was true—he was basically the only one who used props to direct a stage at an event like this.
Singing and stage direction were totally different skill sets. There was a reason the stages Yoon Hajun had done were called legendary.
The teachers—and Kang Seonghun, who knew that fact very well—watched the stage with eager expressions.
To them, the freshmen’s stages had been, overall, too plain. No special stage direction, and no student with skill overwhelming enough to match Han Goyo.
But now, finally, a student had appeared with a stage direction worth watching.
And she was Yoon Hajun’s younger sister.
No way she’d put on a disappointing stage.
While the students and teachers’ reactions were splitting to extremes, the music started.
A bright melody flowed in slowly.
Yoon Suyeon lowered her head once.
Think. How can I sing this song more perfectly? Imagine it.
In the past, she would have thought about how Han Goyo would have sung this song. But not anymore.
What Yoon Suyeon was thinking now was how she could sing this song perfectly—not someone else, not imitating another person, but thinking about her own originality.
Yoon Suyeon lifted her head and began to sing.
“I’ve never doubted myself.”
Yoon Suyeon’s distinctive voice, mysterious like dawn mist, filled the small theater.
At the same time, the mood in the audience changed.
“Ah.”
Someone let a sound slip out, then hurriedly covered their mouth.
Faces shifted. The audience members who had looked bored just moments ago now wore expressions of shock and anticipation.
“I thought I was the same as them, too.”
A slow tempo.
A bright melody.
Depressing lyrics that didn’t match it.
All of it mixed together into a strange harmony.
Amazing.
Watching Yoon Suyeon, Im Yeonji smiled.
Of course. It’s Suyeon.
She flipped the entire audience’s mood with just one line.
People stared at Yoon Suyeon like they were bewitched.
Choi Jinho’s face turned shocked—then twisted viciously.
Whether she noticed or not, Yoon Suyeon started moving onstage as she sang.
“I thought I had overflowing talent, too.”
While singing, Yoon Suyeon opened the first door that had been installed. She carefully stepped forward and passed through it.
At the same moment, the lighting changed—from a warm, pleasant orange to a cold, sunken blue.
It wasn’t just the lights. The song began changing too. The tempo sped up, and the melody grew bleak, and the emotion became heavier.
“It was only a misunderstanding. There was nothing.”
So she wouldn’t be crushed by it, so she wouldn’t be pushed back by it, Yoon Suyeon sang with everything she had.
And as she did, she looked at Yoon Hajun in the audience.
Until right before she went on, Yoon Suyeon had agonized over it.
How can I sing this song more perfectly?
Even after she successfully finished recording and got praised by her brother for doing well, she couldn’t be satisfied.
This isn’t enough. I still haven’t brought this song fully to life. A little more. Just a little more, and I can bring it to life perfectly. What am I missing?
That was all she kept thinking about.
Was it not enough to think about what her brother was thinking when he sang this song? Did she have to empathize with his heart and accept it?
But—
I don’t want to.
How was she supposed to empathize with and accept it?
To Yoon Suyeon, Yoon Hajun was someone she admired. A genius.
How could she possibly empathize with a song where someone like that said he wasn’t a genius?
It might be selfish. It might be cruel to her brother.
But Yoon Suyeon didn’t want to see that version of him.
He called me a genius.
Yoon Hajun always told her that.
You’re a genius. You have talent. You’ll become an amazing singer in no time.
And Yoon Suyeon believed those words completely.
Yeah. I’m a genius. Because my incredible brother called me one, I’ll stay a genius. And the person who recognized that genius first, and raised that genius—Yoon Hajun—is even more incredible.
“And yet why are you living? Who do you even ask?”
You don’t have to ask anyone.
I’ll tell you.
From now on, I’ll sing your songs, and I’ll prove to everyone that you’re an incredible person.
Right now, on this stage, Yoon Suyeon was denying Yoon Hajun.
The worries he had, the thoughts he poured into song—she was denying all of it, without leaving a single thing out.
Yoon Suyeon looked at Yoon Hajun.
Yoon Hajun was looking at Yoon Suyeon too.
What is he thinking right now? Does he think I ruined his song? Does he think I’m arrogant?
But it couldn’t be helped.
To sing this song more perfectly, she had to be honest with her heart. She didn’t want to sing while lying even to herself.
Call it childish. Call it stupid.
In this moment, Yoon Suyeon was expressing her heart honestly through song.
The one who pulled her forward so she could become a singer was her brother. So when her brother stopped, the one who had to push him from behind was no one but her.
Yoon Suyeon stepped forward.
From the first door to the second.
She reached out, grabbed the doorknob, and twisted it hard as she opened the door.
The door swung open with a sharp sound, and a brief gust of wind blew. Yoon Suyeon’s hair fluttered.
The lights changed again—from a deep-sea blue to a warm sky-blue mixed with light.
“The world doesn’t change, but…”
Even if the scenery you see didn’t change, coming out through the second door, Yoon Suyeon sang with full force.
Now the audience was completely trapped in her song.
People’s expressions twisted.
Look, Oppa. People are shocked listening to our song. See? You really are incredible.
And Yoon Hajun’s expression changed—from a face you couldn’t read to a smile that looked like he was admitting defeat.
Seeing that, Yoon Suyeon smiled too.
The dark, gloomy melody brightened.
The tempo slowed again, but maybe because of the gloomy section that came before, it somehow felt even more buoyant.
And right after that, Yoon Suyeon’s voice began to shake, like she was choking up. If you listened a certain way, it almost sounded like a child whining.
With that voice, Yoon Suyeon spat out the final lyrics.
“It’s still raining, but…”
“Now I’ll look forward to tomorrow.”
The song ended with a last line that sounded less like singing and more like murmured speech.
The lights went out.
And with them, Yoon Suyeon disappeared from the stage.
At the same time, awe burst from the audience.
Im Yeonji shouted Yoon Suyeon’s name loudly in a fuss, and the audience applauded.
“What the hell, Yoon Suyeon. That was insane!”
“No, that song—Yoon Hajun made it, right?”
“Who said he was all hype? This is actually ridiculous.”
Like they’d never looked uninterested in Yoon Suyeon.
Like they’d never mocked Yoon Hajun.
The audience praised Yoon Suyeon and Yoon Hajun with stunned expressions.
And it was a stage that left them no choice.
The performance of opening the two doors, the lighting and melody shifting along with it—Yoon Suyeon’s mysterious voice—and the emotional delivery that made your chest surge when you listened—
It was different from Choi Jinho’s stage, where all you could do was admire.
Watching it made your stomach churn, in a way, like you might start crying.
A stage that left a heavy aftertaste.
The audience kept murmuring, like they’d never been satisfied with a stage, like they’d never lost interest.
The tired faces changed.
I want to see it one more time. I’m not satisfied. I want more. I’m exhausted, but if I can hear that song, I don’t care.
“Incredible.”
Han Goyo spoke her honest thought at the audience’s reaction.
The relief she’d felt when she helped Yoon Suyeon vanished, replaced by a sharp sense of danger.
But there was no disgust.
In Yoon Suyeon right now, she didn’t see herself.
Yoon Suyeon wasn’t using her anymore. She’d found her own originality.
She really was incredible.
Han Goyo had never seen someone grow that fast in her life.
But she couldn’t just sit there admiring.
At this rate, she’d get caught.
No—she couldn’t lose.
Not at this rate. She couldn’t lose to anyone.
To stay beside Yoon Hajun.
To sing his songs.
She couldn’t be defeated by anyone.
There were three months left until Singer Star.
A little more.
This was dangerous.
To avoid being devoured by that kid, she needed to complete something of her own.
“Yeah. She’s incredible. My sister.”
Beside her, Yoon Hajun answered Han Goyo. He watched the stage with a beaming expression.
The lights were out, so you couldn’t even see her silhouette, but it was as if Suyeon was still standing there.
To Yoon Hajun, Yoon Suyeon’s stage was completely beyond expectation.
Seriously—Suyeon always surprises me.
He’d already been shocked by her growth speed in the recording booth. But on stage, she showed something that surpassed even what she’d shown in that recording.
Before, she used to get dragged by the song.
Now she wasn’t getting dragged—she was pushing the song from behind.
Yoon Hajun let out a small sigh and shook his head.
He was proud of her growth, but at the same time he thought—
This can’t continue.
At this rate, he’d quickly hit the limit of what he could do to help her. He’d end up unable to keep up with her talent and just holding her back.
He knew that day would come eventually, but not yet.
It couldn’t be this soon.
At the very least, until Suyeon stood tall as a singer, until she was recognized by people, he had to help her.
Yoon Hajun stood up.
Han Goyo and Kim Taeyoung stood up with him.
The next stage was the festival.
And right after that came Singer Star.
There was no time to sit still.
“See you later.”
Staring at the empty stage, Han Goyo murmured that.
Then she left the small theater first with Kim Taeyoung and Yoon Hajun.
The other students followed after them. They forced their disappointed feet to move, talking about Yoon Suyeon’s stage as they left.
In the middle of all that murmuring—
Choi Jinho was still sitting in the audience.
“…That’s impossible.”
What did I just watch?
He couldn’t understand.
Choi Jinho had never considered emotional delivery important. He thought emotional delivery, immersion—anything like that only got in the way of singing.
Over-emotion, stages that made people cry—
He thought they only exhausted people, excuses used by those who were technically lacking, lacking in talent.
Then what was that stage just now?
Of course, if you judged by the most important basics—vocalization and all the rest—the winner was him.
Yeah. Technically, he won.
So why was everyone only talking about Yoon Suyeon?
Why did they look so regretful?
Why were they satisfied with his song, but now they looked like they wanted more?
And why—
why am I thinking I want to hear that song again?
Choi Jinho raised his fist with all his strength and slammed it down hard on the chair.
He couldn’t understand it.
His head insisted he’d won.
But his chest was filled with nothing but overwhelming defeat.
While Choi Jinho was being crushed under that incomprehensible sense of loss, Yoon Suyeon came down from the stage.
The audience was empty now.
Only Choi Jinho remained.
Looking at that, Yoon Suyeon made a regretful face.
She wanted to see the faces of the people who cheered for her onstage, praised her, liked her stage—just a little longer.
This isn’t the end.
But it was fine.
This stage wasn’t the end. It wasn’t even close.
It was only the beginning, because this was the first time she’d sung onstage with something that was fully her own—something no one else had copied.
So this was the start.
Yoon Suyeon looked at her hands. They were soaked with sweat.
But somehow, instead of feeling gross, the sweat felt precious.
She clenched her damp hand.
“You… what the hell are you?”
Just as she was trying to savor the afterglow, a familiar voice ruined it.
At that voice, Yoon Suyeon frowned and looked at the source—Choi Jinho.
“What.”
“That stage just now—what was that?”
At Choi Jinho’s out-of-nowhere words, Yoon Suyeon made an incredulous face.
What’s his problem now?
Ah, right. They had fought.
After getting help from Han Goyo and focusing on the song, she’d completely forgotten.
No—more than that, she’d been ignoring Choi Jinho’s existence entirely.
Yoon Suyeon thought about what to say.
Then she smiled.
She didn’t like that he’d insulted her brother, but she was in a good mood right now. She’d respond as nicely as possible.
“It’s a song my brother made—something you can’t even dream of.”
With a smile, she added that, then walked past Choi Jinho toward the small theater’s door.
She didn’t have time to stand around here.
To catch up to her brother—and Han Goyo—she had to keep moving.
Those people would never get complacent.
Yoon Suyeon left the small theater.
And Choi Jinho remained inside, alone.