Selling Emotion Isn't Bad
Selling emotion isn't bad. In fact, from some point on, I'd been trying not to use popular songs from my past life—songs I hadn't written myself—if at all possible.
Ultimately, to survive long-term in this industry, I had to prove myself with my own skills, not borrowed talent. It was the pride of a composer speaking.
So far, I'd been lucky—synergy between the songs in my memory and my singing voice had propelled me into the top contender spot. But I couldn't keep draping myself in someone else's glory forever.
This time, though, the situation was different.
…Hip-hop is a bit much.
No matter how far back I dug into my past life, I had no memory of composing or producing hip-hop tracks with any real success.
I could handle short rap parts for idol songs or layering melodies over trendy beats.
But building a pure hip-hop track from the ground up? That was a whole different level.
It wasn't just about being good at music—you had to fully grasp the genre's unique vibe and essence.
"Haa, do I really have to do this again?"
I sat in front of the mirror in the empty practice room at the corner of the nursery, rubbing my dry face.
It bruised my pride a little, but creating a convincing hip-hop song in a nine-year-old body within a week was physically near impossible.
And there was a more fundamental problem: I couldn't rap.
Even if I pulled a song from my past life, picking a straight-up hip-hop track would be pointless—my skills couldn't pull it off.
Singing rap it is, then.
It had sparked endless debates in the hip-hop scene, but plenty of examples proved singing rap worked with the public.
A bunch of singing rap hits flashed through my mind.
Truth be told, there were countless songs worth copying. If we limited it to the domestic market, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say there were more hits in singing rap than pure rap.
But difficulty varied wildly even among singing rap tracks. They sounded easy when you listened casually, but try singing them at karaoke and your pronunciation tangled up nine times out of ten.
Especially with a kid's mouth, where the teeth weren't fully developed yet—nailing high-level rapping was damn near impossible.
Is this rigged or what?
Of all the draws, why this? But since I'd picked the stick myself, all I could do was grumble alone.
"For my current state… that one's probably the best fit."
After agonizing, I settled on a song whose difficulty I could handle with my physical limits.
A track that had climbed to the top of the charts in the past.
It was a solid song, but it got overshadowed by the title track from the same rapper's album, which was just too good.
Its lyrical melody and punchy rap delivery seemed like a good match for my nine-year-old voice.
I holed up in the studio right away and started laying down the beat.
Producing the beat itself was easy.
Since the song was already fully formed in my head, it was just a matter of copying it.
The topline over the beat came together just as fast.
From finishing touches onward, I built the song's skeleton in two days total.
Now for the lyrics… but using the original ones was problematic.
The theme was love, packed with talk of cigarettes, girls, and even profanity.
Not exactly suitable for a nine-year-old to sing.
So I'd have to write my own lyrics…
"I've never done that before?"
I'd written lyrics for regular songs plenty of times. But hip-hop lyrics? No clue where to start.
I couldn't even pin down a theme.
I played the track for the camera guy from the filming crew first.
"What do you think?"
"…Ahwoo. It's too good."
"Hm."
As expected, no specific feedback.
Next stop: Park Hansu, tinkering with instruments in the basement.
He blasted the beat I'd made through the speakers, rested his chin on his hand, and listened intently.
"This beat… it's weird. Hip-hop, sure, but it hits you right in the chest, makes it ache."
"Like autumn night air. Not too heavy, but with some breathing room."
A gentle guitar riff laid the foundation, topped with sleek 808 bass.
It perfectly captured the emotional hip-hop formula that had swept the charts in my past life.
Singing a love song was out—my shell was too young. Forced social critique felt contrived.
"Lyrics? I don't do that. I'm just the vocalist. Want me to hook you up with our lyricist?"
"No, not that far…"
Park Hansu waved off my awkward refusal and dropped a heavy line.
"If it were me, I'd write my own story."
"I used that last time."
"That wasn't your story, was it? A kid abandoned at birth—where's your family photo?"
Chills ran down my spine as I turned to stare at him.
Right—family photos weren't Seo Siyeon's story. They were my past life's.
But figuring that out was near impossible.
Who'd think lyrics about an orphan missing their mom weren't personal? I even cried after that performance.
Hold on, isn't that a bit harsh?
I couldn't tell if this guy had good character or not.
Maybe he knew I wouldn't get hurt by it, but saying that to an elementary school orphan…
"No comeback means I hit the mark. In Korea, hip-hop's all about writing your own story in the lyrics."
"…Auditions probably lean that way."
Why had I joined Singer Star in the first place?
To escape this nursery and this rundown neighborhood. Then make bank to do whatever I wanted.
Those goals hadn't changed.
Evergreen Sky Nursery was still a foreign place to me, somewhere I had to leave eventually.
It had never felt like home.
But pre-possession Seo Siyeon was different.
For a girl who was an outcast among peers and friendless at school, her nursery siblings were her only sanctuary.
And after possession, even I couldn't help growing a bit attached to the people here.
The whole nursery was cheering me on full throttle, and plenty pitched in with real help.
Kids lending clothes, older ones sharing snacks.
And folks like Seoi-na who gave major support.
Plus, living together as fellow orphans naturally bred a sense of camaraderie.
"Yeah, it's about time I thought about this seriously."
Even after leaving Park Hansu's studio and returning to the nursery, I kept mulling it over.
I'd written and composed glassy sky, the chart-smasher. No split credits, so the streaming royalties were mostly mine.
The production team said they'd settle everything post-audition, so in a few months, a fat check would hit my account.
I'd already earned enough to leave the nursery.
Even accounting for past-life standards, the sum for a nine-year-old was unreal.
But with escape in sight, a heavy lump settled in my chest like indigestion.
Maybe 'cause I've been cooped up in my room.
I grabbed my laptop and headed to the nursery living room.
Elementary kids had seized the TV area, while high schoolers sprawled with homework. They swarmed me the second I showed.
"Unnie Siyeon!"
"What song this time, sis?"
The ones calling me unnie were the new elementary kids or toddlers not even near school yet.
The middle schoolers bluntly bugging me about money were a different story.
"Siyeon, go out there and really shout out the nursery."
"For real. Pull in some sweet donations this time."
"Haha… I'll do my best."
Most of these kids were destined to become local punks—or already had.
But rubbing elbows here showed me it wasn't temperament; it was survival in this environment.
Not that made the punks saints.
"Got a question—can you all help me out?"
Hearing their money talk sparked an idea. Why not weave the nursery's story into this song?
Save my personal story for the finals or late game.
That way, the narrative arc falls perfectly into place.
And this new angle would leave a great impression too.
The humble wishes of orphanage kids.
Putting that in the lyrics could really bring it to life.