The Clear-Eyed Madman

The rumor of IG Entertainment recruiting a VTuber didn't stay confined to streaming communities. It crept, little by little, onto celebrity-adjacent social media as well — and of course it reached the ears of IG Entertainment's CEO.

Nonhyeon-dong. The CEO's office at IG Entertainment.

Kang Seong-min was in a good mood.

It was a shame that the rumor had reached him before the official report, but what could he do? The newly signed VTuber had probably let something slip, and that was that.

I'll give them a warning later. Include a lesson on information leaks while I'm at it.

Kang Seong-min had no doubt whatsoever that the agency Lunari was joining was IG. Humming to himself, he picked up the phone.

"Yeah, have Manager Kim Hee-dong come up."

Beaming, he summoned A&R Manager Kim Hee-dong — the man who, if everything went to plan, would become the team lead of the new virtual business unit.

Moments later Kim Hee-dong opened the door and stepped inside. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Ah, Manager Kim — no, Team Lead now, right? Rumor's already circulating, so the atmosphere must be good. When's the contract coming up?"

"……Sir."

Why did he look like that? That was not the face of a man who had just scored a win.

"What is it."

"W-well…… the thing is."

Kang Seong-min's brow furrowed.

"Manager Kim?"

"That contract……"

"Yes."

"Didn't go through. ……Not yet."

The temperature in the CEO's office plummeted.

"What?"

"Lunari's side isn't taking our calls."

"Why?"

Kim Hee-dong's lips worked soundlessly. He tried to hedge, then caught the CEO's smoldering stare and gave up.

"At the meeting we tried to split Lunari's and Yeong-il's contracts, and I think that didn't sit well with them…… I was going to re-propose, but after that the contact just……"

"What kind of nonsense is that."

The voice was quiet, but Kim Hee-dong's shoulders flinched.

"I told you to treat Lunari carefully. Softly. She was clearly the key, anyone could see that. Why did you decide on your own."

Leaving Kim Hee-dong with his head bowed, Kang Seong-min turned away.

The rumor that Lunari was joining an agency started from her own stream… but if she didn't sign with us, that means she's going somewhere else? Then what about Yeong-il?

As Kang Seong-min stared at Kim Hee-dong, weighing whether to kill him or let him live—

Knock knock.

"S-sir, if you could just sign these—"

The door opened with the knock, and Kim Hye-min, a stack of documents in both hands, came face-to-face with Kim Hee-dong, who still had his head buried.

"Huh? Something going on?"

"Ha…… this idiot botched the contract. Looks like we lost both Lunari and Yeong-il."

Kang Seong-min took the documents from her as naturally as breathing and began reviewing them.

"Ah, y-yeah, I know."

"Haha, you knew before I did? Hye-min, your intel network must be pretty good."

He wasn't really listening. His head was in such a mess that reviewing paperwork was pure escapism.

"Well, more like I brought both of them into my label. Heheh."

Silence.

"……What?"

"……Pardon?"

Kang Seong-min's head turned with a mechanical creak, and Kim Hee-dong whipped around just as fast. Hye-min tilted her head, looking as if she had no idea why the two of them were reacting like that.

"After the meeting, Lunari was leaving the building, and it was obvious the talk hadn't gone well, so I went straight over and asked her. Want to work with me? Like that."

"Why would you…?"

"Because I liked them?"

Kang Seong-min's temple throbbed. There was a saying about getting to Seoul no matter which road you took, wasn't there? Fine. Better this way, honestly.

"Haa…… so either way, both Lunari and Yeong-il came to IG."

"They came to my label?"

"……Fine. Whatever it is, the recruitment is done. Let's get the new business team involved and start managing them."

"Hmm?"

Kim Hye-min cocked her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head again, and Kang Seong-min looked at her with growing unease.

"We need to manage the artists."

"They're not IG's. They're mine."

"Your label is under IG."

"I set it up as independent, so that doesn't really mean anything~"

"So you're saying you don't need management?"

Reading the look in Kim Hye-min's eyes — genuine incomprehension, the look of someone who intended to handle everything herself — Kang Seong-min swallowed his next words.

Ah, this insane woman.

"Then why did you take them? To do what?"

"Ah! Lunari has really good chemistry with Yeong-il, you know? And Yeong-il needs a singer who'll actually perform the songs he writes~ Plus Se-young seemed to like her, so I was curious, and her mid-to-low range harmonics are so rich I wanted to swap out her mic once. Also—"

"Aaaah, stop, stop. What about Yeong-il? How are you planning to use him."

What mattered to him was not Lunari. It was Yeong-il.

"Yeong-il! I talked with him. He reeks of genius, just like I thought. If I'm a scientist or a mathematician, Yeong-il is definitely more the artist type. There's something that comes from that freedom! Something ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠missing from my commercial tracks that I, I can feel, you know?"

Kim Hye-min did not stop talking.

"I want to watch him write songs with no restrictions at all. In my case, growing up at a company since I was little, I threw creativity to the dogs a long time ago, so it's hard for me now. I'm curious about that wingbeat? Sort of."

Kang Seong-min felt his chest tighten. In the end, wasn't she saying they should just leave those two to do whatever they wanted? Then how was he supposed to make money? Sit around indefinitely waiting for Yeong-il's next song to blow up?

But he could not speak carelessly to that madwoman. Partly because she would just answer every objection with "so what?", but more than that, her dazzling résumé was the problem.

Of the twelve albums Kim Hye-min had produced for IG artists, ten had cracked the top ten on the charts. She had co-produced every track on flagship singer-songwriter Shin Se-young's debut album and everything since, making them extremely close, with cumulative digital revenue alone in the tens of billions of won. Of the outside idol tracks she had worked on for other agencies, six had landed in the annual top 100. She had ranked in the upper tier of industry producer preference surveys for four consecutive years. She was the person who had essentially single-handedly defined IG's musical color — and she was young on top of it. Saying that half of IG's music would collapse if she left was not an exaggeration. That was why they had given her a label in the first place.

"Ahh, and one more thing, sir."

Hye-min raised her hand again.

"I need to develop Gi-dong too. He's the kid who followed me here, so I can't just keep leaving him hanging~"

"……Who is that?"

"Park Gi-dong, the junior composer at my label. Yeong-il agreed to give him feedback! I can approach things mechanically and commercially, but if Yeong-il's more intuitive advice goes into it, I think it'll be even better!"

What am I supposed to do with that, and why are you telling me this now — Kang Seong-min thought, then realized Kim Hye-min was still explaining why she had recruited Yeong-il to her label in the first place.

He concluded, once again, that the human being known as Kim Hye-min was not right in the head. He looked over at Kim Hee-dong, who had been erasing his own presence at the side of the room.

"Haa… fine. I understand. Hye-min, you can go. Manager Kim, stay behind."

The CEO's use of polite speech made Kim Hee-dong's body tremble in fine little shivers.

Calling it a contract made it sound grander than it was. Aside from a vague feeling that I had become something like an adult, I was still sitting in my room in front of a computer, same as always.

I did get a title of sorts, though. Whatever Nari had rambled about on the phone — main producer this and that — that was my position. All those impressive-sounding words strung together had made me panic at first, but according to Kim Hye-min, you needed a flashy title attached if you wanted your freedom protected. Something about a contractual partnership being more convenient? I didn't really get it, so I was on the fence, but Nari said it was fine, so I quietly slipped in.

The real problem was this.

Korea National University of Arts, Composition Department.

A student, she said. A student. A student. When she said student, I pictured a middle-schooler or high-schooler — I never imagined a Korea National University of Arts graduate would show up. As someone who got through with the GED, this was a deeply intimidating person. And if even I had heard of the university, that said everything.

And she wanted me to give this person feedback?

Kim Hye-min had gone "what's wrong with that?" as if it were nothing, but from where I stood it was very much not nothing. On top of that, she said that when I gave feedback she would pretend it was hers, so I should just relax. Hiding me was fine and all, but did she never consider the possibility that I would paint egg on her face?

"Haa."

Still, I had to do it. Kim Hye-min was releasing this track for me too, and she had said that whenever I wanted to put out a song going forward, she would release it without limit. Paying for my meal was only right.

I decided to drop the prejudice that an arts-college graduate would automatically make good music. The way Kim Hye-min talked, maybe this person really was in a state of needing help.

And before long, a file arrived from Kim Hye-min. A track the junior composer at the Muse Family label was working on for the indie scene.

I hit play.

"……"

Clean. The chord progressions were as precise as something copied out of a textbook, and the instrument placement was tidy. The rhythm was stable, easy on the ears.

But after two more listens…… there was no melody that stuck.

Nothing was wrong, was there? It was well-made, so why was it this boring?

I opened Cubase and loaded the project file. As Kim Hye-min had said, I decided to just do whatever I wanted for now.

I soloed the piano track. The notes were stuck to the grid with perfect timing.

Too honest. When a person plays, it doesn't lock on like that.

I nudged a few piano notes off the grid. About 0.02 seconds? Almost imperceptible. Then I hit play again.

Same chords — but thanks to that tiny misalignment, a breath had appeared. The mechanically precise sound now swayed the way a human hand would play it.

The bass was too well-behaved. I added a note an octave down and gave the attack more bite.

On the drums, the snare dynamics were too even. I raised the velocity on the second and fourth hits. Groove appeared, and my head started nodding along.

Before I knew it, I was deep in. Someone else's song, and I was tearing it apart and reshaping it piece by piece like it was mine.

The chorus. I dropped the accompaniment melody a third. Harmony bloomed, and the space suddenly felt wide open.

I played it back from the top.

"Nice."

I almost couldn't believe it was the same song. The skeleton was intact, but after stripping flesh and sticking new pieces on, the shape had changed.

I organized the revision notes into a text file, attached the modified demo I had made as an example, and sent the package to Kim Hye-min. From there it would probably go to that junior composer under her name.

Working on someone else's track was the first time since Lunari. The memory of that came back, and it wasn't bad. Simpler than I had worried — but was this the right way to do it? I had no idea. No take-backs now. From here on, it was Kim Hye-min's responsibility, right?

Beep-beep-beep-beep—!

"Whoa, scared me. Thought it was Kim Hye-min."

The Discord notification that suddenly blared made me think she had already looked at the file and was calling right away.

But it was Nari.

"What's up?"

"Ahh."

Our label head's work speed was terrifyingly fast. She had already booked studio time, and tomorrow Lunari was set to record the three songs she had performed in the tournament. An actual release. I still couldn't quite believe it.

"Ah, ten. Hye-min said let's start at ten."

"Yeah, I'll be set up before ten too."

Nari kept laughing and repeating how excited she was, how excited she was, as if she really couldn't wait for tomorrow. Thinking about it, the way the two of us had ended up here was a pretty mysterious kind of fate.

"Not sure. Delivery might be easier. We don't know how the recording will go, and there are a lot of companies around there, so it'll be crowded."

I should order delivery tomorrow too. Fitting, since one of the song titles was a delivery food.

"Me? I'll eat pretty much anything."

Why was her energy so high today? How much was she looking forward to the recording? Or maybe something else good had happened — Nari's voice was about a whole pitch higher than usual.

"Probably just dive straight into working on tracks?"

"For me, resting is messing with tracks…"

Those three songs had already been polished to the extreme by Nari, so the recording difficulty wouldn't be that high. I figured we might finish pretty quickly.

"Yeah. Fighting."

"Yeah. Talk later."

I hung up with Nari and shut down the computer. Recording tomorrow, so I should sleep early. Ten o'clock…… I needed to be up by 9:50 and sitting at the computer. And double-check the remote program while I was at it.