Traces
“……The company? You mean the recording studio at Muse Family?”
“Yes. He rented it because he wanted to do some mixing.”
Yu Nari listened as if it were nothing at all.
The motion-capture studio was only about a thirty-minute drive from the company. Curiosity tugged at her, but she forced herself to hold it down. If she forced an unplanned meeting, Do-yoon might flinch or try to avoid her. She pressed her lips together in firm resolve—then So-yeong continued.
“Anyone else and I wouldn’t worry, but Producer Yeong-il is so painfully shy that it does make me a little nervous. It’s not a place with celebrities, so we don’t have security staff. There’s one building manager, but he’s not a guard.”
“……”
So-yeong gave a smile laced with a sigh.
“Work keeps piling up. I’m starting to think we need to hire actual security and more staff. It’s nice that the company’s growing, but these corners are still a mess.”
Nari nodded quietly, yet something entirely different was spinning through her head.
No security?
Do-yoon’s alone?
What if some weird person walks in?
Excuses began to sprout and sprawl.
She didn’t want a face-to-face meeting. Absolutely not. But… shouldn’t she at least check that he was safe? Purely as a coworker from the same company, with zero selfish motives. Just a quick peek from outside the door. That level of worry was allowed, right? His back might happen to come into view, but that would just be an accident. As long as she never said a word, he’d never know.
A glint sparked in Yu Nari’s eyes.
At the motion-capture set, final checks before filming were in full swing—whether the sensors were reading properly, how everything looked on the monitor. And the test subject was Park Gi-dong.
“Ugh, it’s hot. Why am I even doing this…”
“Manager, try jumping next.”
“I’m not a manager…. Fine, okay.”
The junior composer who had been demoted to pack mule and general laborer for mouthing off at Kurogami Yui bounced pitifully in place. While Park Gi-dong was mid-jump sequence—
“Hello!”
“Looking forward to working with you.”
Three members of Prism Tree walked into the studio. Flanked by their coordinator and manager, they looked every bit the idols they were.
Sponsored outfits? They look expensive.
Wearing clothes that screamed money, they greeted everyone as they drifted closer to Park Gi-dong. Facing those dazzling figures while stuck in a black bodysuit made the urge to bolt grow by the second. But Gi-dong couldn’t escape the camera test, and soon he became their personal spectacle.
“Whoa, that’s intense.”
“Hyung, do we have to wear that too?”
“No choice. Sigh. Where’s that streamer—Lunari, right? We should say hi.”
Watching the male idols chatter among themselves, a thought slipped out unbidden.
Our composer guy’s better-looking than them, though? I heard idols these days don’t even care about faces anymore.
The only handsome male face he had seen recently was that one, so the comparison formed automatically in his brain.
“Okay! Manager-nim! Please tell them filming prep is complete!”
“Y-yes, sir.”
The moment the staff announced they were ready, Gi-dong tried to flee the spot—
“Thanks for your hard work.”
“……Thank you.”
He managed a bitter smile at the idol who had greeted him, then comforted himself with a small thought.
Once they put this thing on too…
Park Gi-dong trudged off toward the staff waiting room.
Today’s shoot had Prism Tree members personally trying out the VTuber experience—a deliberate show that, unlike the antics of certain toxic fans, they respected many cultures and forms of diversity. Having Lunari, the actual target of the earlier harassment, help them would also signal that the artists themselves had no issues, hopefully killing any further noise. The schedule had been added at the last minute, so only three of Prism Tree’s five members could make it.
They were stuffed into black bodysuits they would never wear even for a variety show, then hit with a string of missions that bordered on punishment, courtesy of their agency’s production team. Professionals to the core, they never let any complaints show, but they were still human, and one particular gaze made them extremely uncomfortable.
“Is she mad?”
“Did you ask for her number or something?”
“Are you insane? We’re here to get help.”
VTuber Lunari was staring holes through the Prism Tree team as they began filming. On the way over they had all assumed that people who hid their faces as VTubers must be unattractive.
She’s ridiculously pretty, though?
No matter how seasoned the pros, they were still young men. Having a beautiful woman watch them in their pathetic bodysuit state was pure mortification.
We never even talked, but… maybe she fell for me when I apologized earlier?
Each of the three fell into the classic male delusion—until Lunari appeared as a guest and their thoughts flipped completely.
Around the halfway point of the missions, the host introduced her.
“All right! This next mission is ‘Beat the Guest—VTuber Lunari’! Give us a quick self-intro!”
The pink cat on the screen smiled and greeted them. Unlike the idols seeing a virtual avatar for the first time, she was smooth and lightning-fast.
“Round one: random pose mimic!”
Whoever copied the on-screen pose the fastest and closest won. Since only the virtual avatars were broadcast, most of the poses were comically humiliating. The moment a pose appeared—
“Lunari success!!”
While the Prism Tree members hesitated, conscious of her, Lunari snapped into every pose and racked up points without mercy.
“Round two! Eat a lemon—whoever shows the least change in expression gets the point!”
After crushing round one, Lunari did the same here.
Chomp chomp chomp.
Does that woman even have taste buds? Bleh—
While the men’s faces twisted, Lunari polished off the lemon with zero expression and claimed another win.
“……R-round three is random genre! Sing Graduation Ceremony…!”
They had to perform Prism Tree’s “Graduation Ceremony” in whatever genre the roulette landed on—trot, hip-hop, opera, metal, children’s-song style, and so on. Once again Lunari zeroed in without a shred of shame, belting the entire song in full trot mode. The moment the contracted runtime was filled, she stood up, bowed politely to the Prism Tree members she had just filmed with, then darted around thanking every staff member with perfect manners. Without a single glance elsewhere, she swept out of the studio like the wind and headed straight for the waiting room.
Han So-yeong was startled by how early Yu Nari reappeared.
“You’re done already?”
“Yep! Are we heading back to the company?”
“Ah, I need to stay and check that everything wraps up cleanly. I’ll call Gi-dong to drive you. Where are you going?”
“……Ah, uh.”
Han So-yeong pulled out her phone to call the Park Gi-dong who was probably sprawled somewhere, waiting for Nari’s answer.
“Um. Would it be okay if I went to the company?”
“The company?”
What for? There’s nothing there…
Wait a second.
Han So-yeong’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“I’ve got plans nearby, hehe.”
“Hmmm? Is that so? I’ll let Gi-dong know.”
“Thanks!”
The excuse was clumsy, but Han So-yeong chose not to dig deeper. Yu Nari changed clothes at lightning speed and practically flew down to the underground parking garage. Swept along by that momentum, Park Gi-dong floored it and they reached the Muse Family office in twenty minutes.
She got out of the car and stepped into the company lobby—
Uh… now what?
She hadn’t planned the next move. She had simply followed her heart. If she went downstairs and ran into Do-yoon… that would be bad. She didn’t want to startle him. Instinctively, Yu Nari ducked behind the lobby sofa.
If I stay here, I can at least see him leave, right? Just confirm he gets out safely.
“……What are you doing?”
Park Gi-dong, finished parking, walked into the lobby and discovered Yu Nari’s pathetic attempt at stealth.
“Shh.”
“……”
Still suspicious of whatever was going on between the two of them, Park Gi-dong checked the entrance log and came back.
“Composer Yeong-il left twenty minutes ago.”
“What?!”
Yu Nari sprang up from the sofa like a coiled spring.
“It all shows on the door records. He was the only one who came in today who might have been him.”
Even though she had told herself she didn’t want to meet him, an oddly unsatisfying aftertaste lingered.
I was too late.
Yu Nari rose with a little wriggle and headed downstairs. When she opened the door to the recording studio, it was empty just as expected. The equipment was powered down; only a chair sat pulled out at an angle.
Do-yoon was here until twenty minutes ago?
The thought made the space suddenly feel unfamiliar. Her face heated; she rubbed her fingertips together for no reason. Then her gaze settled on the chair jutting out.
“Ahem.”
She cleared her throat needlessly and slipped into the seat. She couldn’t keep standing forever—her legs hurt, that was all.
……Is there still some warmth left in the backrest?
About ten minutes later, just as she started wondering what on earth she was doing, her eyes fell on a few crumpled sheets of paper in the trash can right below.
Who still used paper in this day and age…
Yet a story she had once heard from Do-yoon floated vaguely back to her.
“I still find it more comfortable to take notes by hand.”
Even so.
……This is a little creepy, isn’t it?
Up to now she had at least had some kind of excuse. Digging through a trash can, though, felt a bit much for a human being. She deliberately looked away—
“Ugh.”
—and lasted less than five seconds before her hand snatched the paper.
The handwriting wasn’t bad; it was actually kind of cute and rounded.
What is this? It’s adorable.
She chuckled at the slightly crooked little letters as she read through the memos one by one. Chord progressions, instrument arrangements, BPM this-and-that. And then the word that confirmed these were definitely Do-yoon’s notes.
Yu Nari.
Her own name was written there. A strange satisfaction bloomed at the knowledge that Do-yoon had written her name. Heat rose to her face—then she noticed the mysterious words next to it.
Yu Nari, snoring, mmph, Vocaloid.
Why is ‘snoring’ next to my name?
Without context the pieces of the puzzle felt scattered. She had no idea what it meant, but—
Rustle.
Yu Nari slipped the paper into her pocket and left the studio.
Mapo-gu, Seoul. A shared office space.
Jeong Min-ji, CEO of the 300,000-subscriber web-drama channel Story Lab, opened the file that had arrived from Muse Family.
Spotlight (Feat. A-il) - Kurogami Yui.wav
“It’s here!”
The music director beside her dragged his chair over.
“I’ve been waiting. Hit play.”
The track, fully mastered and ready for distribution, packed serious power. Even the earlier guide version A-il had recorded alone had been excellent, but—
“Listening to the composer was the right call. Having the female part makes the featuring shine more, and everything feels more harmonious.”
Even after the song ended, Jeong Min-ji’s smile wouldn’t leave her face.
“When I close my eyes and picture the drama scenes, the emotion just bubbles up. It feels like the voice is carrying real sincerity, you know?”
A complete success. The web drama’s final results weren’t out yet, but they had managed to insert a song that exceeded everything they had imagined for the highlight sequence. They had done everything possible.
“We should invite Composer Yeong-il, Yui-nim who sang, and A-il-nim out for a meal to thank them.”
“Sounds good. Filming’s wrapped—let’s call them to the wrap party.”
Strike while the iron’s hot, Jeong Min-ji thought, and immediately called Han So-yeong to pass along the invitation. An hour later she slumped in rejection.
“All three of them said no.”
The music director offered something he had heard around the industry.
“Apparently Composer Yeong-il turns down every contact and private meeting. Not sure if he’s just introverted or going for the mystery-man image, but a lot of people in the business are curious about him and almost nothing’s known.”
“Guess we got lucky.”
“Yeah. I’ve been asked more than once how we even managed to book him.”
The composer was one thing, but both singers had also declined. Maybe the song really had found its rightful owners. They couldn’t repay the gift of such a good track with a meal, yet the three of them felt like the veiled figures of a drama themselves—which was somehow even better.
“The track’s perfect, so we’re moving straight into release.”
“Got it.”
“Simultaneous drop with the drama upload—that’s locked. Before that, let’s make a teaser.”
“A teaser?”
Jeong Min-ji nodded.
“They’re riding high right now. We might as well ride that wave a little! Let’s make something short, like a mini music video.”