The Second Outing
A message came recommending Kurogami Yui.
I was a little surprised.
What made it even more surprising was who had made the recommendation—Yu Nari, the same person who always radiated a subtle wariness whenever Yui’s name came up.
But once I read her reasoning, it made sense. Yui’s rock vocals poured into the song’s ultra-high register would fit perfectly. It was a picture that had already flickered through my own mind, so personally, I was fully on board.
And according to the TMI Nari had passed along, Yui had once wanted to become a singer, failed, and now lived as a streamer with her face hidden—yet she still held onto that dream. Perfect. This song looked beautiful when it was sung with raw, aching emotion poured into every line.
I sent Nari a thank-you reply, then, since I had business with her anyway, called Han So-yeong. I needed to let her know I was accepting the featuring, that I’d been recommended Kurogami Yui for the female vocals, and that I’d be using a disposable stage name—so if she had any suggestions, I wanted them.
That’s a great decision! I’ll pass it on to the production company right away. I’ll also get in touch about Yui.
I could hear the happiness in her voice the moment she picked up.
Have you decided on a stage name?
“Not yet. Still thinking.”
I had no confidence. Nari had already torn apart every nickname I’d ever come up with. One was “repairman uncle,” another “sounds like a beer,” and she’d even accused me of just smashing the keyboard at random—pure insult to my naming skills.
She even said Yeong-il, the composer name I’m using right now, sounded like a beach and called it uncle-coded.
Fine—asdf1234 was a slapdash throwaway, I’ll give her that a hundred times over. But the others had been born after real deliberation… Not that it mattered. Total wipeout. Not a single one had passed.
Lunari wasn’t that great a name either, if you asked me… I’d suggested just switching cleanly to “Nari,” and she’d frothed at the mouth in protest, so I hadn’t touched it—but I still stood by the thought.
If anyone could recommend something special, though, maybe it was Han So-yeong.
“So-yeong-nim, I’m not great at naming things… Could I get your opinion?”
The manager went quiet for a beat.
Huh? I actually think Yeong-il is a really good name.
…Wait.
“…Really?”
Yeah. It feels like a number and like a person’s name at the same time—simple, but with this mysterious air. How do I put it… like there’s philosophy in it.
“……”
I liked Yeong-il. You’ve got naming sense. It looks cool.
…Did I actually have talent?
Right—other than Nari, nobody had ever given me grief over a name. Maybe Nari was the one with the underdeveloped sense of style. Ordinary people just couldn’t grasp a genius’s instincts.
The praise filled my self-esteem a little, but deciding alone still made me deeply uneasy.
“What do you think would be good, So-yeong-nim? Could you recommend something?”
Hmm, since it’s disposable, something more mysterious would be better. Hold on.
I heard her humming thoughtfully.
Voice of Shadow… ah, a little long.
“……”
You work hidden like a shadow, so something with that nuance?
“That’s way too grand.”
Ah, then uuum… Mister X?
“That’s also a bit…”
D-Dark Voice?
Was this person serious?
“So-yeong-nim, I’ll just decide on my own.”
Aw, why? One more. Unknown Sound—
“Thank you. I’ll decide by myself.”
A disappointed sound came through the receiver. I was certain now. I wasn’t the weird one. The entire industry had zero talent for naming. At the very least, I was better than these people.
I dredged up the names Nari had once rejected—the ones pulled from asdf1234. AS. A-il. AS felt a little stiff. A-il, said quickly, sounded like “ale.” I remembered Nari teasing me that it was a beer.
Beer. Beer, huh. The beer I hadn’t been able to buy at the convenience store floated through my mind. It was a name I’d use once and throw away anyway.
“I’ll go with A-il.”
A-il? That works. Simple.
“It’s disposable, so that should be fine.”
Alright. Then we’ll say the singer A-il is a former trainee from our company.
So-yeong said she’d pass it along and smoothly moved on to the next topic.
Next we need to lock in a recording schedule for the male part. The studio is on our end, so we can use that—just come when the time works for you. We’ll make everything as convenient as possible that day.
“I’ve never recorded in a proper studio before. Would it be alright if I took my time?”
I was looking forward to the good gear and facilities, but the worry came first. The software would be the same, but the equipment would differ in small ways—I’d need time to get used to it.
Of course. We’ll clear the whole day for recording, so use as much time as you want. There barely anyone in the building anyway—the place collects dust.
“That’s a relief. I’ve always recorded alone, so I was a little worried.”
Hmm. This is just a personal recommendation of mine.
The manager explained calmly. Recording alone wasn’t impossible, but efficiency dropped hard. Mic setup and level checks meant going back and forth between the booth and control room, and sorting takes went much faster with someone monitoring—solo, it could take two or three times as long.
So I was thinking—what if our junior composer, Park Gi-dong, came along?
Park Gi-dong. The person I periodically sent composition feedback to.
He’s the best in the company with the studio gear—learned directly from Representative Hye-min. He’s also the one who was there as the avatar whenever you recorded before. Bright personality, but he’s got good instincts—he won’t make things uncomfortable. More than anything, he’s a good kid. Having him around won’t be bad.
I listened quietly to the string of positive evaluations about the junior composer. Han So-yeong didn’t seem to know that Gi-dong and I already had a faint connection. If someone had to be attached to the session, Park Gi-dong would probably be the most comfortable option. Knowing what kind of sound he liked, what habits he had when he worked—it sparked a strange sense of familiarity. And if it was a guy, it would be less awkward.
“Alright. I’ll take Gi-dong-nim’s help.”
Great! I’ll set the date and let Gi-dong know. We’ll send a car right to your door, so you just need to come out. Gi-dong will drive, so you won’t have to worry about a thing.
Recording day arrived.
At the sound of a car waiting out front, I headed for the front door. My second outing. Today I would meet someone outside my family. I’d been so tense for days that I was a wreck—so busy preparing for every possible contingency that I hadn’t even been able to call Nari.
“Hoo. Let’s go.”
I passed the apartment entrance and looked toward the main gate. Just as described, a black van was waiting. I approached carefully, sizing it up out of the corner of my eye—
Whiiir—!
The rear door opened automatically, and a voice came from inside.
“Hello. I’m Park Gi-dong, composer at Muse Family. Please get in.”
“Ah, hello.”
I sat and looked forward. From the driver’s seat, Park Gi-dong turned to look back at me. His mouth was pressed shut, like there was something he wanted to say, but all we exchanged was another light greeting. Every so often he stole glances at me through the rearview mirror, but he never opened his mouth. The impression of careful caution came through loud and clear. Had So-yeong asked him to behave? Or was this just his personality?
Manager Han So-yeong might have the worst naming sense on earth, but she seemed to have a good eye for people.
The car ran for a long time under a blanket of silence. Being inside made it stuffy, so I lowered my mask to reset. The heater was blasting too hard. Looking at the luxurious escort van, I wondered if it was company talent transport.
I was fanning myself with my hand when—
Screeeech—!!
“Uwaaagh—!”
The car stopped dead.
“S-sorry! I—I mean, I got startled. No, that—! No. That was my mistake…”
Nearly gave me a heart attack. Thanks to the seatbelt, I hadn’t hit anything. Front seat or back, wearing the belt was always the right call.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes! Totally f-fine! We’re leaving!”
Gi-dong’s voice cracked and jumped a full octave. Was his driving shaky? Instinctively I clung to the ceiling handle until we arrived. Fortunately we got there within five minutes, so my arm didn’t suffer too much.
“This way, please.”
Whoa. It was big.
The Muse Family building was large for the size of the company. That meant a lot of leftover rooms—wasn’t that wasteful? I set the useless corporate fretting aside and followed Park Gi-dong toward the studio.
Creak—
The door opened, and the air was different. Soundproofed walls. Dim lighting. The glow of equipment. And the control room. Monitor speakers. Console. Outboard gear. Multiple mics. High-end equipment on a completely different level from what I used at home stood in rows before my eyes.
Whoa.
Working up the courage had been worth it. I wandered around looking at everything before belatedly remembering Gi-dong’s presence and forcing myself to settle down.
“Want to step into the recording booth?”
“Yes.”
Park Gi-dong went first and opened the booth door for me. I stepped inside. This mic was ridiculously expensive too. Nari must have recorded here as well. Completely wild. Expectation kept climbing; I wanted to start working already.
“Shall we begin right away?”
“Yes, let’s.”
I took off my mask and moved toward the mic under the bright light.
“Aa, mm-mm, brrrrrr.”
I was diligently warming up my throat when my eyes met Park Gi-dong’s through the control-room glass. Just like in the car, he was frozen in awkward stiffness.
What’s with him?
I spent another ten careful minutes on my voice and set the mic. Fortunately, once work started he seemed to pull himself together; Gi-dong moved with appropriate precision.
First take.
The track spilled through the headphones. I drew a breath and opened my mouth. Even after all the practice, I was shaking like crazy. The sensation was nothing like the mic in my room at home. It felt like the sound wasn’t bouncing off the walls at all—just getting sucked straight in. The raw, unfiltered sense of my own voice being recorded.
I finished one take.
“Good!”
Park Gi-dong gave a thumbs-up. I wasn’t satisfied.
“One more. I’ll do it again.”
“Yes!”
After that I pulled a few more takes, and eventually one I liked came out. Because it was my own song, the recording itself finished earlier than expected.
Time to leave, then.
…What a waste.
The speakers I’d seen when I first entered the control room kept snagging my attention.
“…Can I listen on these?”
“Of course.”
Soon my track bloomed through the expensive speakers. Completely different resolution from listening on headphones at home. Buried sounds came through clearer. The faint mechanical noise of my crude virtual instruments was almost irritating.
If I mixed while listening here, it would be perfect…
Since I was already here, maybe just a taste of how it would sound?
The female vocal hadn’t been recorded yet, but I only needed the feel.
“…Would it be alright if I worked on the mix a little before I left?”
“Uh… yeah, that’s fine. It’s not like there’s a schedule. But we don’t have the female part yet?”
“I want to do a rough mix on the inst.”
“Huh? Wasn’t this already mixed? It’s clean.”
“I did it at home, so I think it’ll be better if I do it here.”
“Ah, yeah. Go ahead.”
With permission granted, I sat down. The moment I settled in front of the mixing board, stray thoughts vanished completely. The fact that someone was beside me. The fact that I had come outside. Only sound remained.
At Han So-yeong’s request, Park Gi-dong had become the day’s temporary manager, and now he sat blankly watching Kim Do-yoon.
Holy crap, he’s handsome. Is he an idol?
If he hadn’t seen the music work with his own eyes, he would have believed Han So-yeong was pranking him. Do-yoon was so focused he had fallen into a world of his own. Gi-dong decided not to interfere and, while waiting, got started on his own work.
Time passed in the studio as each of them shaped their own sound. How long had it been? The first to move was Do-yoon, who had finished.
“…The mid frequencies are clumping a bit here.”
“Huh? Oh, for real?”
“If you shave the EQ a little on this part, I think it’ll be better.”
Gi-dong’s eyes went round.
“Whoa, you’re right… Thank you. What about this?”
When Kim Do-yoon had first joined the label with the main producer title, Park Gi-dong hadn’t hidden his lukewarm reaction from Han So-yeong. But after hearing Yeong-il’s songs and seeing the results, he had come around to a certain level of respect.
“The track’s good. But try this section like—”
“Teacher Hye-min also pinpoints things exactly like this. You’re incredible.”
It was natural that Gi-dong would overlay Hye-min and Do-yoon in his mind. The person who had been sending him feedback online was Do-yoon, after all.
Before long Do-yoon had his hands on Gi-dong’s track, and Gi-dong sat beside him nodding constantly, taking notes. When music was involved, Do-yoon’s emotional walls loosened quickly—by the time he came back to himself, evening had fallen.
Park Gi-dong drove Do-yoon all the way home, then returned to the company.
“Noonaaaa—!! Ahhh—!!”
He tore into the office like a madman. The moment Han So-yeong saw Gi-dong come barreling in, her mouth opened.
“You didn’t bother the composer, did you?!”
“I didn’t! You threatened to starve me to death for three straight days if I didn’t watch my mouth—what’s with you?!”
So-yeong narrowed her eyes and glared at him.
“Really?”
“I’m telling you, really!”
Gi-dong finally snapped.
“No, that’s not the important part—noona!”
“That is the important part.”
“No no no! Listen! From the voice I roughly figured he was young, and they said he had something like social anxiety, right? I was all tensed up thinking some fat orc was going to come out?!”
“The social-anxiety vibe should be right…? Why?”
“Did we kidnap a male idol, or an actor, instead of a composer?”
So-yeong stared at him with an expression that asked if he was high.
“He took off his mask in the car and he was ridiculously handsome—I almost crashed from the shock!! I thought I saw wrong, so I checked again at the studio when he took off the hat and mask, and he was just stupidly good-looking! Why is a face like that locked up in a room? He should be doing entertainment.”
Gi-dong waved both hands, heaping fuss on top of fuss. So-yeong found it hard to take him at face value—he was always this theatrical.
“You always exaggerate.”
“When have I ever! I’m not lying! I’ve been in and out of IG Entertainment enough times to see celebrities. My eyes aren’t broken, okay? Even average idols couldn’t hand over their business cards next to him. It’s not easy for a guy to call another guy handsome, you know.”
So-yeong leaned back against her chair. Half belief, half doubt. It was true Gi-dong exaggerated. But how many times was he going to say “handsome”?
So-yeong had never seen Kim Do-yoon’s face. She could have gone and sneaked a look this time if she’d wanted, but there had been no particular reason or need, so she had stayed in the office.
If Park Gi-dong’s words were true…
Sings well, looks like a celebrity, and composes too? …Does that even make sense?
Why was talent like that hanging around with a VTuber?
A giant question mark bloomed in Han So-yeong’s mind.