Found the Culprit Ruining the Song
I found the culprit who's been wrecking Your Voice. Of course, this isn't some detective manga, so there's no dramatic reveal. Point triumphantly and yell "The culprit is you!" and all you'll get is a cold autopsy staring back. The culprit was Lara, which means the victim is Lara too. Seonggwang next to her takes a bit of splash damage... but whatever. He's getting beaten anyway, so tossing him in with the dead body will just thrill the antis.
"Lara..."
"M-Me, tone-deaf...?"
I grab Lara's shoulders as she reels from the shock of her own tone-deafness.
"Don't worry, Lara."
All of this was within expectations. There are no bad singers in this world. Just clients who can't pick the right ones.
"Your singing can still be saved!"
I declare it confidently, staring into her trembling eyes. Yeah, Lara's voice isn't nuclear waste level. No way it's that bad. Generously, it's just recyclables.
"At least it means it can be saved, so feel free to be happy."
"So it is trash in the end..."
"Then you saying it's not trash?"
People need to be shameless in moderation. It is trash. She heard it herself—why deny it?
I sigh and shake my head. Lara scowls, pissed at my reaction.
"Hey, watch your mouth."
I shoot back, "If the singing isn't pretty, then what..."
"..."
"Got it. I'll watch it from now on."
I lower my eyes, sensing real mortal danger. Never provoke a high school girl. They're a high-risk group. Basic knowledge: it takes a military tank to handle three of them.
"Ahem, anyway, Lara. Your singing isn't unsalvageable. It's a raw gem—just needs polishing."
"You're not gonna tweak my voice with Vocaloid or whatever again, right?"
"Of course not."
Tch, sharp as ever. The Lara-loid project is scrapped, just like that.
I clear my throat and continue. "Listen, Lara. There's one reason your singing sucks: you add all these techniques, but your pitch sense is wrecked, so the song wrecks too."
"...Word choice is iffy, but yeah. So? How do we fix it?"
"Simple. Techniques are the problem, so ditch 'em."
"...And that'll fix it?"
"Yeah. Strip out the useless flair, and it'll sound way better than before."
Words are slower than showing. I close the recording program and open a search portal.
Lara crouches and tilts her head at what I pull up.
"Gonna sing again?"
"Sorta, but different this time."
I search, pull up the screen, and show her.
"...What's this?"
"Sheet music. Vocal-only melody sheets. You've seen 'em before."
"I know, but... I don't know this song."
"Exactly. That's why I picked it."
She looks puzzled. I send her the file and stand.
"I'll play it once. Get the vibe and sing along. The sheet has the melody anyway."
Flute major at a music high school—she can handle that much.
"Doesn't have to be perfect. Off notes are fine. Just sing."
"But... will it even sound like a song?"
"What's so special about singing? Play your voice like an instrument—that's a song."
No need for million-won gear or custom overseas builds. It's just music. The classical world's the weird one, burning cash before anything's even viable.
Voice alone makes you a vocalist. Easy entry, no escape. In this no-bait rice cake tub, getting called "singer" is a breeze.
That's why there are so many half-baked vocalists out there.
No long explanations. She'll get it doing it herself.
"Okay, listen. Then open the sheet right away."
I restart the recorder. I hand her the mic as she hums, getting it into her body.
"Ready? Let's go, Lara. Worry a little."
I'm expecting something this time.
Long story short: Seonggwang's music experiment is a massive success.
"...This the recording from earlier?"
"Yeah. Better than before, right?"
Recording done. Unknown lyrics, unfamiliar melody. First time hearing the original. Lyrics chopped, big empty sections mid-song, plenty of flubs.
Still better than before.
"...Kinda plain, though."
"Plain is good. Should the song explode because it's boring?"
Comedians singing great goes viral, sure, but vocalists don't need comedy. Her skill wouldn't even get laughs anyway.
"Hmm..."
Lara tilts her head, looping the file. I smirk, listening with her.
"...Great voice really is a cheat code."
Just singing, laying lyrics on pitch—sounds decent. Restraining emotion actually gives it feel.
Lara's a solid raw gem, not top-tier but good. If she'd gone serious on vocals, she'd make noise.
Plus, she's pretty.
Vocalists are face merchants. Broadcasts rank charmers over singers. Good.
Confirmed: strip techniques, she sings okay. Actually good. Light mixing/tweaks, it'll shine.
Got a vibe for the track. Before full composing, one question.
"Lara."
"Yeah?"
She peeks from the laptop screen.
"Got a question."
"What?"
"Why vocals?"
She frowns. Thinks I'm teasing like before.
I'm not. No mockery, no downplay. Pure curiosity for what's ahead.
Why pick this path—a flute major dreaming of woodwinds?
She mumbles, then whispers, " ...Wanna be popular."
"Popular?"
"Flute seems... plain."
"So just popularity? Nothing else?"
"Why, problem?"
"Nah, none."
Popularity's fine. Guys chasing girlfriends or fame fill the ranks. Most band vocalists too.
If skill's average, pick the popular one. Musicians are all affection-starved. Worst cases cluster in vocals—maybe that's the essence.
"Cool, direction set. Let's wrap. I'll head home and work."
"Then... what do I do?"
"Nothing."
"...Huh?"
"Not a vocal major—no practice needed. Don't ruin your throat messing around. Sing as-is. Bored? Pronunciation drills or harmony theory."
"That enough? For real?"
"You want popularity, not some vocal destiny. You can get plenty like this."
Truth: a little polish would help, but I'm Seonggwang. No forcing my greed.
Freshman instrumentalist anyway. Busy with friends.
"Too busy playing to waste time on this, right?"
"...Yeah."
"Oh, avoid karaoke with friends. If you go, don't belt till your throat's wrecked."
She laughs awkwardly. Not thrilled with "do nothing," but it's best.
"And our sessions on hold till I contact you."
"Huh?... Why?"
"Not going to school."
School doesn't block composing, but inconvenient.
Direction set, image sketched. For my waiting vocalist, time to fulfill composer duties.
The flower of composing, its core. A composer's must-pass responsibility.
Scoliosis, herniated discs, carpal tunnel—endure stiffening body.
My fate.
"So you're holing up 'composing'?"
"..."
She counters coldly. Spot on.
Seoul Jongno-gu. A one-room in Jongno, slightly from Seoul Practical Music High School.
Someone's sweet home, studio, sanctuary.
A young guy hammers his laptop. Rage or tears infuse emotion.
Mouse births joy and sorrow; keys strike grief and rock.
Seonggwang, built from his pile, yells at the glowing screen.
"What the hell's our jungler doing!"
Seonggwang, 17 this year. Still prime gaming age.
Not slacking—waiting on render, killing time.
Canyon stroll, mid-lane roam, promo game.
I'm Seonggwang. Not pro, but Diamond. At least Mineral.
"That pathing... what! No mom? Oh, it's me."
Self-pad hurts as I solo. Knock at the door.
—knock knock
"...Who?"
Glance, but soul-fight imminent—back to screen.
Door silent. No more knocks, no bell.
—beep beep beeeep beep
Doorlock buttons. Can't ignore—freak's knocking then punching code.
Normally, wrong dial beeps warning. They'd flee, I'd call cops.
But nope.
—beep! Doot-doo-ri~!
Correct code—door chirps happily, swings wide.
Her silhouette beyond.
"Who the hell knows my dial...!"
"House owner, you fuck."
Moon Juhee storms in, pissed. Kicks off boots, strides home.
"Hey, didn't call a hooker."
"Scram."
I stand mid-soulfight, block her—swept aside like paper.
"This little shit gaming midday..."
Eyes grayed game, reaches for laptop power.
Too late block—lights out, cold shutdown.
I clutch dead laptop, wail emptily.
"Ugh... 13-loss Master promo..."
"Noon already, and 13 games?"
Ditch corpse account, glare.
"What're you staring at."
"...Why're you here."
"House call for truant."
"Principals do that?"
"Principal's a teacher. Send someone else, you'd barricade. Master key me came."
Damn, should've rented myself—Seoul prices insane.
Inflation kills plebs. She tsks pitifully.
"Think I waived rent for gaming? Close for easy school..."
"You lured me here sans dorms."
"Who builds dorms for this dump? Waste."
True. Dorms here? Embezzle instead.
She nudges trash/blankets, looms.
"So? Week no contact, absent. Bullying?"
"Stretch: public perception."
"Can't fix that. Why skip? Not sick."
Staring, excuses fail. Didn't do wrong.
Producer skips for composing—scold-worthy? Nah, praise.
I stand tall, meet her smoke-gray eyes.
"Oho? Glaring?"
"Truth: composing, skipped."
"Composing?"
Her eyes flick laptop—recently gaming.
"Compo-toy?"
"...Real."
Sees gaming, trust drops—fair, but true. Composed non-stop sans eat/sleep.
"Doubt? Show progress/logs."
She calms, pops gum. Chews, squats, flicks my forehead.
"You shit. Told you school, peers, fun youth—holed up fiddling laptop."
"Ow!"
"Then tell homeroom—whoever. Could overlook."
"Composing needs impulse. Permissions kill creativity."
"Bullshit."
More head thwacks, pulls papers from bag.
"What's that?"
"Absence form... stuff you sign. School bureaucracy."
Schools tire more than shows. Scribble details/sig, she watches chin-on-hand.
"Any daily life impairments?"
"Heart."
"Recent depression/suicide?"
"Searching my name online."
"Family issues?"
"Nah. They ditched me."
Final sig, hand over. She files neatly, bags.
"Done basics..."
"Leaving now?"
"Nah, eat first."
She tosses bag, invades. Legal threats fail—veteran delinquent eats none.
Rifles fridge, munches cola/snacks, gripes.
"Fuck, no food."
"Ramen. Eat that."
"Hand guests like this?"
"Dressed like bar auntie, senior treatment. Hooker? Dog-day beatdown."
Which scratched—hooker or auntie? Furious, flying kick.
We crash floor. I clutch hip; aging Juhee grabs back, groans.
Age matters. Still thinks teen, hopping. Tats, bleached—pathetic.
Pretty face saves her.
"Haa... no grub? Order? What?"
"You buying?"
"Eat off you? Pick, I'll order."
Angel descended? White hair divine.
Trendy career woman, not 30s hag.
Glow inspires awe.
"Juhee sis..."
"Wanna beat you. No food? Pizza?"
"Sweet potato crust, please."
"Take what I give."
Two pies ordered. Delivery arrives—but minimalist me: no table/desk.
"Fucking disgrace..."
She curses, grabs box, stacks pizza, chows.
Instant ramen life—greasy bliss. Almost call her sis. Chicken? Dongsaeng.
"Good eats."
"More?"
"Light eater."
She polishes remnants. Set box, laptop atop—not Master dreams, belly full, resume work.
Scan progress.
"...Tch, drums iffy."
"Lemme see."
Satisfied, licks grease, sidles, eyes track.
"Hmm... You compose like this? Weird. Pre-chorus early—tails later."
"Wait... no greasy hands on laptop..."
"Whatever. Play. Feel it."
"Playing! Don't touch!"
Cat to fish? Why sudden interest.
Cave, play. She nods intrigued.
"...Ballad? Pop ballad. Thought you hated acoustics."
"Not my fave. For someone else—fits her, easy."
"Huh. Surprising."
"What? Me doing ballads?"
"No, tailoring to others. You do yours, get flak at confirm. Collabs trash-talk you to me."
News to me. List collab artists—Juhee-peers first.
"Frame's good... more?"
"Nah. Tweak light, upload. Minimal, vocal-focus."
"...Weird. You never bent that much."
Can't help it. Past collabs: "pros" clinging to crowds, ego-art ruining via extras.
Ranting "dumb masses" while broke? Infuriating.
Lara's student. Hobby, popularity-craving teen—not pro, no cash.
Forcing my taste? Guilty. Plus, my color muddies her shine.
"Label ate my name already. Light comeback."
Neither serious. Unwanted zeal misaligns gears.
Loosen up. Temper passion slight.
"...If you say."
She chin-hands, bittersweet. Replays.
Moon Juhee's ambush house call. Few days later, Friday.
"Done, fuck yeah!"
Seonggwang finishes track. Fatigue seals eyes; joints scream SOS.
Loosened, but not easier—more focus to not overshadow vocal.
Precise footing beneath her.
"Need Lara tweaks... but good now."
Looping her voice endlessly. Dozens short; hundreds etched.
Hell week. Ear-severing pain. Dreams still echo it.
Ghost/devil better. Eyes shut, infinite loop in head.
"Ugh."
Chills. But for this? Forgivable. Won't sue.
"Tell Lara quick...!"
No time waste. Message ahead, dash to A-class.
My song completes truly. Her voice sings it.
Simulated endlessly—now real.
Check chat for reply.
"...No reply."
Last at 33—no more. Read, but readceipt? Sucks experiencing it.
Five minutes pass. Phone buzzes.
"Oof, what's up."
Lara usually delays slight—now spam-speed, screaming not in class, stay away.
But Lara...
"...I'm already here?"
Door open no hesitation, scan usual spot.
"...What, Lara's here?"
Shouldn't be—yet is.
Why lie? Circumstances? Whatever.
Girls sensitive—drama normal. As long as that voice, that timbre fine.
"Lara! Track done! Booked studio—record today!"
"..."
"Huge pain booking? Gone in seconds..."
"......"
"Lara?"
I'm hyped explaining—she ducks head, avoids eyes. Frowns, eyes quiver guilty.
Like a criminal.
"Why silent."
Approach—she's mute; friend covers desperately.
"Sorry, Seonggwang~ Lara's throat wrecked bad... can't talk."
"..."
"Practiced, but clueless on vocals—just belted."
"What the..."
"Skip class today. She tried hard. Okay?"
Cover futile—deaf to it. Not method/breath/mind. Effort meaningless.
I said nothing.
Voice I memorized, composed to—that timbre.
Looped, simulated endless.
That song.
"...Shin Lara."
"......"
"What the hell?"
Disappointment chills voice. Friends panic at tone.
Only she—voiceless here—bows endlessly, eyes sin-stained.