Yoko's Secret Longing and the Epic Recruitment Fail
The foolishly beautiful sky was the reason Minami Yoko abandoned her hometown and transferred to some random school in a foreign land. It was tied up in the messy knots of her life and backstory, but that wasn't the only reason. She had a connection—a deep bond with someone from the same industry, close enough to feel like blood sisters. Hell, you could even say they'd played the role of parents. That person had simply pointed the blocked-up Yoko toward this school as her path forward.
Conveniently, Yoko had money, and nothing holding her back. So she rushed straight to where her connection was: a jazz player straddling the line between Japan and Korea, straight out of the American South.
"Siwoo-chan!"
In joyful reunion, Yoko charged at her, burying her face in that petite frame and those perky peaks.
"Long time no see!"
"...Yoko."
Not a cat, but rubbing her face all over anyway with a goofy grin. Im Siwoo started to scold the childish display, but seeing her long-lost connection so thrilled lifted the corners of her mouth despite herself.
Looking at Yoko, Siwoo spoke in Japanese she hadn't used in ages to chide her gently.
"Stop with the -chan. You're not a kid anymore. And think about how I feel getting called Siwoo-chan at 25."
"Eh? But Siwoo-chan's 23, right? Why'd she suddenly age two years?"
"Korean age makes it 25. The way we count here is a bit tricky."
"25? Then you're an ajumma. Siwoo ajumma. You're old."
"......"
Siwoo didn't bother denying it. From Yoko's perspective, 25 probably felt ancient. Jazz players her age had skewed the sense of it. She didn't contradict her, but Siwoo—firm believer in keeping work and personal life separate—coldly pushed away the girl in her arms.
Emphasizing: it absolutely wasn't because she got scratched.
"More importantly, Yoko. Can you speak any Korean? It's a Korean school, so you'll need to get proficient. I can converse in Japanese, but..."
"Don't worry! I studied hard watching Korean dramas! I'm super good at Korean now! Take that, Siwoo-chan! I'm the most Korean person here!"
"Zaijū doesn't mean... Sigh, whatever. So, how's school life treating you?"
"Yeah! It's awesome. Coming here feels like I turned into a total munchkin. I'm the hidden powerhouse holding back my strength. Time to start my bloody revenge on those bullies."
Siwoo gazed at this pitifully changed Yoko—far from the pure, quiet girl she remembered—and sighed with guilt. What the hell had happened to twist her like this? If only she'd watched over her more...
Feeling responsible for failing to protect her childhood little sister, Siwoo couldn't bring herself to shove Yoko off her lap. She let the spoiled behavior slide.
"Good. As long as you're enjoying it. Still, you should graduate high school."
"Don't need it... Even if I just post crap without new tracks, my online stalkers shower me with love."
"Keep that up, and even those few fans will bail. You transferred to learn music properly, right? I'll help with Korean in your free time."
"Siwoo-chan hasn't changed... Still so stuffy... No wonder a face like that has no boyfriend."
"It's not that I don't have one—I just don't have time between practice, and no interest... Anyway, drop it!"
"Ooh, hit a nerve."
Re-emphasizing: she did not get scratched.
Siwoo decided to think logically. She had a perfectly rational explanation for her lack of dating history and could convince Yoko with it—but what would she gain besides a petty win over the scratches? Better to let it slide and teach this neighborly big-sis treatment girl some manners.
"...Stop being so rude. I'm a teacher here. Use honorifics from now on."
"Yessir~"
Of course, she wouldn't actually punish her. Even the cold, unflappable Siwoo had her soft spots. She couldn't beat her forever, and was grateful Yoko had come somewhere she could keep an eye on her. This school's environment would grow her as a person and a musician.
"That person is here too. You'll learn plenty just watching."
"That person... Your fave you mentioned? They're at this school? And calling a first-year 'that person'..."
"Age doesn't matter. It's pure respect for their musical achievements. You'll pick up things too."
Just being in the same space would hint at solutions to Yoko's troubles. Seonggwang might not grasp them all, but he'd walked similar paths. At least more than Siwoo could. ...Though personality's another matter.
Siwoo chewed her lip oddly, puzzled by Yoko's displeased reaction.
"He's 17, same age as me. What's to learn?"
"Age again..."
"Not about age. I know he's musically amazing from your drunk calls. But does he have the maturity to guide me?"
She'd met countless superior musicians in her career—respected them, absorbed their techniques. But that was separate from someone showing her the way. Yoko wanted a finished product to carve her path. Maturity wasn't strictly age-bound, but expecting that level from a peer felt off.
Unconvinced, she dusted off her old idol instead.
"Sigh... Wonder if Seyroku-ssi is at this school."
"No way. And even if you met, could you recognize him? What if he's a weirdo?"
"Duh! I'd know instantly. And weirdo or not, doesn't matter. What matters is he made those songs."
Yeah, looks, gender, age—irrelevant. Just the creator of those tracks. She wanted to hear their stories straight from the source.
"Though if he's a mid-30s salaryman type—sharp face dulled by society, patchy stubble, acting like girls like me are a hassle..."
"...You still into that ojikon crap?"
"It's fine. Better than shotacon. Society's trash, pedo Siwoo."
"Don't say that anywhere else. I said it's not romantic."
"Excuses."
"This...!"
Yoko snickered at Siwoo pressing her temples, the sight oddly nostalgic. Cherished. Grateful. She always felt it but was too young—or too shy, too habitual in hiding her heart—to say it outright.
Leaning on Siwoo, yet she couldn't ask her this one thing. It was for the person themselves only. A message she'd bottled up since then.
...Wonder what they're up to now.
Alone with her forgotten idol, Yoko tucked the words deeper and resolved to tough out school in this foreign place. Fate like in dramas was unlikely. Such coincidences weren't for people like them.
Her being my fave artist? That's lottery-level.
Brushing it off with grim humor, Yoko shelved it to adapt to school life.
"Middle ear infection maybe."
"Why? Ears still itchy? You had that last time too. Go to the doc."
"Nah, not that bad. Probably just imagination."
Plus, no cash for a clinic. Moon Juhee might front it, but dragging himself there for tests sounded like a hassle.
Seonggwang's scatterbrained school life rolled on unchanged. Today, he lounged in the third-floor studio with his blonde buddy.
Normally it'd be chit-chat or board games, but they had a clear reason to gather with Lara.
"...How do we drag the transfer student into the club?"
Yeah, all for the club. They had to seize this once-in-a-lifetime chance together.
"Seriously wild though. A foreign transfer student shows up right when we need one."
"Not impossible. Seonggwang has fans in Japan too."
"Cut the bullshit. You didn't mess around with girls there too, did you? She here to stab you?"
"What kinda talk is that, Lara? Sounds like I hit on everyone."
"You do."
"I don't?"
He got flak for womanizing rumors and cozying up to girls, but he wasn't into just anyone. Strictly older women. No younger or same-age, nothing under a three-year gap. Why paint him as a indiscriminate playboy? He only got cute under strict rules. Seonggwang, lover of older ladies.
"Gross..."
"......"
Whatever, Lara didn't care either way.
"Anyway, not the point. Lara, we gotta recruit her. Need a strategy."
"Strategy? Just ask if she wants to join band club."
"She's from Japan. Plain invite won't cut it. This fateful event demands a dramatic join!"
Or so Juhee said. He'd grilled her on it—something about destined bonds... She was the type for childhood-friend slow-burns, not blind dates. Ignore the mush.
Yeah, coldly rational: getting swayed by a dropout like Juhee on school life was dumb.
"Just invite her straight. She joins, great. No? Whatever."
"Yeah. Keep it simple."
Simple is best. Always works, so straight attack. They chucked Juhee's cringy recruitment scenarios in the trash and brainstormed invites.
"Wait, we don't even know her instrument. Lara, anything on the transfer student?"
"Nah, not really... Too many kids swarming her to chat. Just overheard stuff."
Lara was sociable, but not the type to fake familiarity with strangers. The transfer student was hot topic lately—crowds buzzing to talk, thanks to her Japanese looks and VOCALOID producer fame. Judging looks would just depress his school life.
Eh, if I transferred from abroad, I'd wanna chat too.
Mid-rambling thoughts, he clocked a major fact.
Why hadn't he noticed sooner? Transfer student hype blinded him to the obvious.
"Lara."
"...What?"
Curse of knowledge. Realizing it, his face darkened. Lara hesitated at the vibe, unaware herself—but he knew.
Foreign transfer student. Perfect on surface, but underneath: a killer flaw.
"...Does the transfer student even speak Korean?"
"...Huh?"
Yeah. Invites, band—needs communication. Not just cluelessness; she had to talk to them.
Lara paled late to the party, flailing hopefully.
"She came to Korea... Probably knows some?"
"Dunno. Kids say she ain't fluent. Japanese-speakers trailing her."
"Use a translator app!"
"Not for every chat."
"...True."
Beyond mindset: language wall. Seemed minor, but that giant barrier left them stumped, heads in hands.
"Lara, didn't you pick Japanese as second language?"
"Chinese, dummy! Show some interest!"
Right. Whatever, electives slip. Calling that lack of interest? He cared tons about Lara—just music-heavy.
"Anyway, no Japanese? Figures."
"...What can you do?"
Butt-hurt Lara blamed him, but he exceeded expectations: worldly experience galore. Seonggwang's global influence. Fans worldwide, so Global Seonggwang scattered talent everywhere. English basic, practical chats in most languages.
"Nakamura desu, Seonggwang. Oresama, Nihongo dekimasu."
"O? For real?"
"Yes I am."
"That's English... Anyway, perfect! You translate what I say!"
His skills solved it easy. Lara beamed; he matched her grin. Problem fixed—now just nerves and jitters. Conquer with action. They set off to confess their band love, braced for rejection, and found her quick: heading to the annex alone, guards in class.
"H-Hey!"
Prime chance. Lara hailed her; Yoko peeked, then strode over.
"Calling m... You called me?"
"Y-Yeah, yes!"
Local Japanese accent froze Korean Lara solid. She eyed her savior: him.
Why pawn off what she started? But he'd claimed Japanese, so duty fell to him.
Baton-passed, he stepped up as Yoko blinked confused.
"Eh, again..."
Clearing his throat, he struck first.
"Konnichiwa. Watashi wa Kankoku kara kimashita."
"Ah, hai. Shitte imasu."
"Moshikashite toire wa doko desu ka?"
"Ni-kai no kyōshitsu no tonari..."
"Arigatō!"
Perfect Q&A. Slick hair-toss, turn—unlike suspicious Yoko, Lara sparkled expectant.
"What'd she say? Joining band?"
"Bathroom's next to second-floor classroom."
"...The hell? Wasn't that club stuff?"
"Asked for the bathroom."
"...?"
Lara's eyes matched Yoko's doubt. Frowning, but trusting his antics had purpose, she probed.
"Why ask that?"
"Practical Japanese. Useful in Japan. They get 'toire' best."
"......"
Only after confirmation and hearing it did Lara get it, smiling relieved, teasing wide.
"What the fuck are you? What kinda guy are you?"
Reading her probe, he answered true.
"I play piano!"
"Show credentials before bragging next time. 10,000 won per expose."
"Kashikoma!"
"Shut up."
Lara shin-kicked him; fake-Japanese Nakamura Seonggwang crumpled aside.
She tried salvaging, but Yoko's trust was dust—staring warily at the sudden comedy duo.
Made sense: random Koreans asking bathroom in her tongue? Sketchy. He'd call cops first.
But minors meant light punishment, and Yoko wasn't heartless enough to rat classmates on suspicion. They could still talk.
"...Nani ka yōji ga arimasu ka."
Guard up higher, though.
"Nah, we just... We're here to ask! Wanna do band together?"
"...You know me?"
"Not exactly, but gut feeling? You look perfect... Like, let's try? Together party?"
Lara's non-fluent Japanese plus awkward English sharpened Yoko's glare, slicing them.
"Teasing me?"
"No way!"
"Then what? Spit it out."
"Well..."
"Sigh, yōji... None? I'm going."
"Wait! Hold up!"
"Ittai nan na no, anata-tachi?"
Neither fluent, but that tone screamed negative. She stuck to Japanese—no chat intent, even if she knew Korean.
Should've used the app. Both floundered; her patience snapped.
"Gonna go."
Disappointed glance, she brushed past toward her goal.
And.
"Matte!"
"Uwā."
His shout halted her. Yoko whipped back annoyed; Lara hovered bracing yet hopeful.
Yoko's brows dipped questioning; he breathed deep to convey sincerity.
"I have something to say."
Yeah, his slip-up tangled it. Better vocab from Lara might've helped, but his mess to fix.
"Figures, can't even speak Korean but tries English..."
"Hey."
"Ahem."
Anyway, shared fate on this ship. Needed one more for club founding. Yoko only non-avoider. Miss this, plant bad vibes—his screw-up to mend. Seonggwang, responsible man.
Lara's worry secondary; unleash all to persuade.
"Um..."
Language leads talk, but not only way. Beasts communicate sans words via intent. Thoughts and will matter. If meaning lands, misunderstanding clears.
Replaying Lara's words, cobbling every known term, he addressed her. Intent and keywords key.
"Transfer student."
"Yes."
"You, join club. No refuse. Like you."
Image-training sign from volunteer work, half-remembered keywords, shaky Japanese-English mashup.
Yoko's face iced over; Lara gawked beside but didn't stop—probably fine.
"Come our club. No reject. Want you."
Pouring body language and scraps mid-try, a word blanked him.
Japanese for invite? Shitemorai... Shire masen... Something.
Memory fuzzy, he grabbed a recent similar sound and spat it.
"Shiremono ga."
"......"
Eh, close enough? Pronunciation matched, meaning probably too. Done, panting, awaiting reply. Praying sincerity reached.
And she spoke softly.
"I didn't come to this school thinking I'd make friends with everyone."
"Huh?"
"But yeah, even here. Scum like you are everywhere."
Her words froze cold. Eyes stabbed sharp yet distant, not at him. Bangs swayed with tiny moves. Shadows under eyes, lips precise conveying meaning.
"Of course. Never thought it'd be totally different from there."
Words spat because they wouldn't land—or precisely because.
Her head tilted up. Short, she looked up to meet eyes. But that contemptuous glare lorded over him; somehow, he couldn't look down at her below.
"Not here to make friends now. My connection told me, and I came with purpose."
Finally, rotten expression bloomed a sneer.
"Make noise all you want—just don't block my path."
Casual annoyance, like routine, she tacked on one last barb.
"Chō... Chōsenjin..."
Hesitant yet loaded with hate, she spat it at them. Frowning, done talking, she strode off—not proudly, quick lest they grab her.
Seeming resolute, but glancing back fearing pursuit—pitiable, yet jealous. He should've bounced too, judged like her.
"Seonggwang."
He should've fucked off too.
Since ancient times, ways to convey purpose abounded—but most traditional, enduring: fear.
"No excuses, right? Guard up."
People heed violence forever. That day, behind school echoed cries and flesh-mangling thuds. After, no one saw Seonggwang or Shin Lara.
Hope not...