Rock Bottom Prodigy
There was this orphan kid. No parents, even less money. No one to love, no clue how to be loved. And yet, despite starving because he couldn't even beg, some random ajusshi suddenly plops him down at a piano. So he plays. Turns out he's pretty damn good, so he keeps at it. Gets so fucking good he figures he can make a living. Starts stacking contests from the local hood, climbs the ladder until no one in classical doesn't know his name. One embroidered key, and his talent blooms; one soaring note, and cheers rain down. By then, he's earning his keep with music. Cocky as hell, world looks easy. Wants to flex that musical flair elsewhere, so he dives into composing. Listens to the tunes from those airheaded pop tards everyone mocks, tailors shit to the dumbass masses' tastes with a sneer. Attitude like the industry's dogshit. But it works—starts blowing up for real.
Then eyes lock on this rising kid genius. Broadcasting stations eyeing a variety show cash cow to pump national pride. Agency too cheap to school him proper, parading him for kid-study ad bucks. Their unholy alliance births a shiny new Anglo-Korean producer: HOSHIKIRA.
Looking back, that's where it all went to shit.
"Yeah. Right from there."
Music prodigy Seonggwang—personality and mouth like a vulgar beekeeper's worst nightmare—was blessed with fine looks and that cute kid charm. Agency and broadcasters milk it: drill orphan manners into the parentless brat. Broadcast manners, precisely. Teach a middle-schooler not respect, but how to look respectful. Humble without faking it, cute without cringing. Sprinkle keywords like orphan, abuse, abandoned—boom, pity party and sympathy vote. Rides the rising star wave. Albums sell smooth, trajectory up... until.
"Caught dick-deep in a middle-aged actress's crib, total wipeout."
"…."
A quip from the guy packing beside me shatters the orphan's grand dream spectacularly.
"Nah, more like you wrecked my life. Told you a million times to behave…."
Stuffing worn clothes into a bursting suitcase. His muttering curses at me swirl with hate and resentment in his eyes. I gauge the vibe, clear my throat, pivot back.
"Jonghun hyung. I'm telling you, I'm innocent! This scandal's mostly fabricated!"
Kim Jonghun. My brotherly manager through agency grind to TV debut. Now he just tsks at me.
Honestly, wasn't it his fault for listening to senior managers and dumping into company stock? Sure, my scandal tanked it like a rollercoaster, but why blame me? Musician fling blows up, that's the company's problem, not mine.
His breath sinks like his stock line.
"…Gwang-ah. Seonggwang."
"Yeah."
Grabs my shoulder, weary. "When that actress calls you to her house, you didn't think?"
"…."
"'Come over' screams it. And you just go?"
"……."
"You pitched it first, remember? 'Make her an idol.'"
Did I? Something about a kid from genius musician and actress turning idol. Sounded good drunk on lust and booze—memory fuzzy. Knew she had a hidden hubby and kid? No way I'd touch it.
"You really had no clue?"
"…Kinda caught on midway."
"Then why the fuck didn't you bail—!!!"
Shakes my shoulders, spewing rage. Tears and spit splatter my face. Dude, that vibe? Bailing on a "single" actress with "You're married, right?" is ballsy. I walked in rock-hard anyway. Whatever happens, happens. Puberty punk versus mature allure? No contest. And she flashed glow condoms—had to see.
"No! Didn't even fuck, celeb affairs blow up all the time! How's the agency drop the ball?"
Clutch head, dizzy, spit it out. 17-year-old railed by 30s woman—how do they fumble? My gender's curse?
Keep this up, I snap. "…They sued."
Jonghun hyung stiffens, averts eyes at my whine.
I probe. "The actress?"
No way. Even if I didn't say no, she lured first. What yardstick sues me?
"Nah… not you."
"Then what."
"Divorce suit."
"Ah."
Story ends there. "Single" actress's divorce blows up, tangled with some boy. No need spelling my pure image's fate. I zip it, help pack his suitcase and backpack, see him off.
Everyone remember Icarus? The man who flew for the sky. Aimed for the sun, crashed into its blaze, melted by heat. Myth says: climb high, fall harder.
"Me on the subway…."
Same here. Once classical wunderkind, rising superstar—now subway serf, taxi fare too steep. Unthinkable before. Manager always chauffed.
Jonghun hyung… miss ya.
His absence chills tonight's grind-to-shelter trek. Subway drops me in Euljiro's grub alley. Dim bar, sparse crowd. Hunting her: hat low, mask up. Long-haired hag in her 30s, bleached white.
"Ah."
"Ah."
Eyes lock, she waves. I slide into seat quiet.
"…Been a while."
"Yeah. Ajumma."
"…."
What? 13-year gap. 30s craving "noona" from 17? Where's her shame sold?
"Anyway, why here? Feed your crashed junior something pricey."
Euljiro dive? Her taste reeks boomer.
"Broke?"
"Not exactly. Don't wanna drag you."
Orders soju, beer. That attitude? Explains single. Vow: don't become her. Shake head.
"So… why'd you call?"
Moon Juhee. Famous Korean rock band's chick vocalist. Peaked once, now retired, slinging shit at walls.
"Hey, watch mouth."
Correction: no shit-slinging. Worlds apart—classical vs. rock—but I'm junior here, she's senior. Plenty history, but not tonight's tale. Booze hits, she'll bawl solo drama.
"Just… heard your mess from a pal. Wanted face time."
Soju, beer land. Masters somac, chugs. Booze hates her—winces, I smirk.
"Ha… your scene ever not exploding? Only unexploded or uncaught."
"Not all musicians are trash like you."
"Pfft, bullshit…."
Dump water, eye soju. She slaps hand ghost-quick, glares.
"Hands off."
"…."
"Brat's cocky…."
Doomsday eyes, pours me soju. "Spill. How'd you tank?"
"Order first. You solo chugging? Nah."
Tosses menu. "Tsk, 30k limit."
Grumpy. Scan: bar crap, overpriced. "Auntie~!"
Fishcake stew, 15k. Order, eye her. Lips pursed, lashes flutter, stares.
Nothing much anyway. "Y'know… scandal, lawsuit. Booted from shows. Agency cuts contract, bleeds penalty."
Attitude nuked late, blacklisted. "Heard agency plotting replacement anyway."
My albums tanked 'cause I ignored their scripts.
"Tsk… ditch piano, go idol."
"…."
Not proud, but spills like sob story. Why'd it crater? Not that wrong. Orphan starved for love, that's all.
Where'd it twist? Regret hits, recall webnovel: fallen celeb regresses, grinds steady. Wish that. I'd hustle. No pianist trash. Gigolo seed cash, coin study.
"…."
She grimaces through my dirge, chin-props. "Stashed cash, right?"
Snort-laugh. "What? Album sales zilch."
Not huge anyway. Agency viraling early.
"Not that, dummy… classical earnings. What happened?"
"Oh… that."
Had some. 800-1000 mil.
"Busted."
"Huh?"
"Coins… y'know."
Trash stare, frowns. "Fishcakes~!"
Stew arrives. Reach—slapped cold again. Lips part, scorns.
"Retard…."
Steals my stew, slurps bowl. Hot-sour broth down, "Krrgh—" somac chaser.
"So, plans?"
Softens buzzed. "…Huh?"
"Future? Manual labor with ex-manager?"
Planned to. Tough now. Studio cash cow to grunt? Frail bod can't.
Wish I'd gym'd. "Dunno… suggestions?"
Leans back, sky-gaze. No savings, no home. Calluses, wasted talent.
"Copyrights snatched, bad contract—my music's theirs."
Should've lawyered fine print. Last identity stripped. 17 musician years? Wasted wind.
So flimsy, it flies off.
"Child welfare called. 'Facility time.'"
Ridiculous. Peak earning? "Age money." Now slumps, suddenly abuse gripes. Orphanage was abuse. High-school age, who dumps kid there?
"What now…."
No other path. Gigolo/coin talk, but born musician. No gear cash, lease up. Classical? Nah.
I, genius Seonggwang, can soar again. Real talent. Sky-dweller born. But ground-smash freezes cliff-edge steps.
"Ha, thought music skill = auto eats."
Chugs water bitter, she taps crown listening blank. Glance up—smirks.
"…Funny?"
Grudge-ask, shrugs. "Gwang-ah. Forgot my school's principal?"
Her pop-culture grant school. Music, pop focus. Networked staff, cartel.
"Seoul Practical Music High, right?"
"Yep. Know it?"
"Yeah. Total nutjob joint."
"…."
Skills-only entry. Portfolio: sales, credits. Grades? Elite sci/art high strict. Real talk: skills or bust.
"Why there? Recruiting?"
Joke, but her face serious. Wipe grin, urge answer.
"…No way?"
No reply. Stares, clasps hands. Quick math—bolt. Grabs wrist.
"…Don't, ajumma…! 30s hitting on 17?"
"Think. Not bad deal. Welfare dodge, dorms, chow."
"Jail/army too. School at my age?"
"Peers go. Healing vacay. Wrinkle hags out, pure high-school girls in."
"……."
"School gigs: albums, tracks. Gear, producing covered. Celebs boost promo. Profits yours."
Decent. Tempting hard-sell. She grins sly, I wrestle devil-whisper, close eyes. Quit struggle, reseat.
"…Why me sudden?"
"Student tracks? School skims 70%. Need your hits."
Tilts head. "Seen tons in the game. Gut says."
Winners, losers. Spoonfed flops, casual smashes. Steady grinders, wildcards, one-hits wonders. Fail flavors galore.
"You? Gut screams winner."
Pinches cheeks, face-near. Murky eyes inches off. Cougar kink? Calculated—her looks weaponized. Terrifying! Moon Juhee! Rock legend seduces pro.
Short breath, pulls back. Nose tingles: scent, fake perfume, booze reek. Blush, she smirks curl.
"So. You're here—join our school."
Tucks hair, flashes white fangs laugh. Gets why men's first love back then.
But nah. "Won't work… what's school got?"
Teens scary. Bullied elementary, skipped middle bar graduation. One hook, lifetime tease. Sandbag bait. Youth my ass.
"No. Pass. Shop elsewhere."
"Aw. Hoped for your tracks."
Drifts wistful, eye her flushed face. Decadent, bottled youth glow. Quick glance, coughs, asks.
"So… where's this school?"