Yes, I'm All In

A chief manager typically oversees two artists.

Rise to team leader and you supervise several chiefs; a division head, in turn, gathers all the teams under one roof.

Which is to say, even with one rung added to the ladder, the mountain of things left to learn had not shrunk by a single stone.

"As a road manager, your job was driving. As a chief, your job is judgment."

My training supervisor was, once again, the former team leader.

We were walking the corridor as he talked.

"Open the settlement sheets early, before the end of the month. And when you read an advertising contract, start with the breach-of-terms clause."

As a roadie, the body did the work. Now it's the brain.

So that was why my salary had doubled overnight. The price of responsibility.

"Oh, and don't go swiping the company card just because the limit went up. You'll have to account for every last won of it later."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"...Why are you staring at me like that?"

"......"

I had simply been looking at him the way I always did.

Apparently there was something about it that made people's skin prickle.

I decided to probe a little.

"I believe you should be careful going forward."

"...! I'll keep that in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mind."

"......"

The former team leader cleared his throat for no reason and changed the subject.

"Anyway, it's absurd, honestly. It took me three years to make chief. Youngest in the department at the time — we even had a team dinner over it."

"Impressive."

"Right? I thought so too, and I lived accordingly. People called me a rising elite."

He smacked his lips, a sour taste in his mouth.

"And then this place turned out to have a monster in it. Five months to chief. Five."

"I was fortunate."

"Oh, so now it's modesty. Hmm, that reminds me — can a shaman see their own future? Have you seen yours, by any chance?"

"Yes. I have."

The future in which I became CEO of this company.

The future in which I became AG, the composer.

"Can I ask which?"

"No."

"......"

One way or another, neither was something I could share at the moment.

"In any case, back to what I was saying..."

We came down the stairs to basement level one.

We had just turned into the practice-room corridor when it happened.

What is this?

It was strangely quiet for a hallway lined with practice rooms.

Soundproofing or not, hearing absolutely nothing at all was another matter entirely.

I looked through the glass of the nearest room.

Every instrument was there. Not a single person was playing one.

They all looked drained of the will to move.

"Who are they?"

"Huh? Oh — Cheongchun Sonyeo."

The former team leader's voice dropped.

"Our company's band-idol group."

"Ah..."

I'd heard the name in passing when I joined, but this was the first time I'd seen their faces. Hence the question.

"They haven't debuted yet, I take it?"

"They have."

"......"

"That right there is their current situation."

He tipped his chin toward the other side of the glass.

"A team the company put together as an experiment. I sat in on a few of the planning meetings myself."

"...And the result?"

"What you see."

There was a great deal packed into that answer.

At some point, one member had sprawled out flat on her back on the floor beneath the microphone stand, arms flung wide.

"......"

Somehow, it brought back flickers of my own three years in that rooftop room. The desperate wish to make it, colliding with a world that refused to notice — until I simply gave up on everything.

I used to lie in exactly that same position, cursing the world.

"It's not that the company never tried to raise them. But you can't win every single time, can you? That's just how this industry is. Nine out of ten end up exactly like that."

In plain terms: a dead project.

The former team leader scratched the back of his neck.

"Upstairs, the talk is that the ledgers have already been run. Come next month, they'll be disbanded. The team assigned to them has effectively washed their hands already."

"......"

Truth be told, all four of them had genuinely beautiful faces.

The kind that would make anyone — man or woman — do a double take on the street.

But the listlessness draped over them buried every last bit of it.

Well. Look at the era we live in.

The days when a pretty face alone could carry you to the top were gone. Gorgeous rookies poured into the market by the month, and surviving among them demanded something — a hook, a color, a distinction. Cheongchun Sonyeo had staked that distinction on being a live band, and the market had not answered.

Behind the glass, the four of them, oblivious to my watching, were each killing time in their own way.

"You have to feel for them, though. They don't rely on any of that lip-sync nonsense — they genuinely play everything themselves. And still... what can you do? Somebody has to be listening for any of it to matter."

Then it happened.

Ding—

Vision spread across my sight like paint bleeding through water.

The same practice room. Except the amp in the corner still had its protective plastic film on it.

...So this is the past, then.

Just like the casino vision of Park Songhwa.

The four of them were gathered around the whiteboard.

The exact same faces I'd just seen through the glass.

Only their expressions were the complete opposite. Life radiated off every one of them.

"Um... hello, everyone! I'll be playing drums! Looking forward to working with you all!"

She bowed with such vigor that a drumstick flew out of her hand. It cracked off a cymbal and rattled across the floor — and the room erupted in laughter.

"Never seen a drummer whose opening move is throwing her sticks."

"Haha, our youngest is adorable!"

On the board, the team-name candidates were written out. More than half of them were crossed through with lines, and one entry at the very bottom had a circle drawn around it.

"So, what do you think of Cheongchun Sonyeo?"

"Eek, it's so old-fashioned!"

"I-I think... it's kind of nice, actually."

"At this rate, we'll disband before debut just from arguing over the name."

"Well then — stage names are settled!"

"Since when did you get to decide that!"

"Next up, our goals!"

The member who seemed to be the leader scrawled across the whiteboard in huge, confident letters.

It was a passion impossible to reconcile with the woman lying sprawled on the floor in the present day.

Four hands stacked together in the middle.

"One, two, three!"

"Cheongchun Sonyeo, fighting!!"

Tick.

The vision receded, and my sight returned.

Behind the glass, the four of them were still lying there like discarded laundry.

"......"

In the corner, that whiteboard still hung.

The writing had been wiped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠away; only a faint circle around 1. Debut remained, like a ghost of a mark.

Everything else was gone without a trace.

I shouldn't have looked.

So even those four had once had a practice room this loud. Had I not seen it, I'd have simply walked on by.

But still — this was where it ended for me.

Self-assessment was one thing I'd always been good at. Every result I'd racked up so far, I owed entirely to this streaming ability. The Producer Choi affair, the Park Songhwa affair, the Jeong Dusik affair — all of it was a student sneaking peeks at the answer sheet and getting called the top of her class.

And what I had just seen was the past. The past is no answer sheet.

Had the vision shown me something about Cheongchun Sonyeo's future, that would be another matter. Right now, there was nothing in my hands at all.

Judging purely on native skill as a manager, I was still a five-month rookie barely weaned off handover briefings. Even if they handed me Cheongchun Sonyeo, there was nothing I could actually do for them.

...That leaves a bitter taste.

I was staring through the glass, caught up in something like kinship, when the leader — the one sprawled flat on her back — suddenly lifted her head.

"......"

"......"

Our eyes met.

Then the member glued to her phone looked up. Then the one staring at the ceiling. Then the one slumped glumly in front of the drum kit. One after another, they all turned to look at me.

Silence.

And then—

KA-BOOM!!!

The timid-looking member's drums exploded.

Without warning, she was whipping her sticks around like a woman possessed.

"......?"

The one with the phone hurled it onto the sofa and started plucking out basslines, and the leader launched off the floor like a coiled spring and began belting out high notes out of nowhere.

"You don't know my heart at aaaall—!"

Doom-doom-doom-doom! Bom-bom-bom-bom! Ziiiing!

"......"

"......"

Side by side with the former team leader, I contemplated the scene.

"What is wrong with them all of a sudden? They were half-dead thirty seconds ago..."

"......"

"...Don't tell me they're scared of you because you're a shaman."

It was handover day for Park Songhwa's new road manager.

"Yoo Seongjae of Management Division Two! Looking forward to working with you!"

A crisp, measured bow and a voice that boomed to the back row. Somehow, I had him pegged as a PE major before he'd finished the sentence.

"...Were you, by any chance, a physical education student?"

"Ah — yes, sir!"

Yoo Seongjae laughed sheepishly.

"Just like the rumors say... you saw right through me."

"......"

It wasn't deduction. He just plain looked the part.

According to the record, he was one of the applicants who'd sent in a resume the instant the vacancy on Park Songhwa's road team was posted.

For reference: there had been sixteen applicants. The former team leader had told me that much.

I was still turning that over in my head when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Yoo Seongjae produced a notebook and a three-color pen from his jacket. He was ready to take dictation before I'd said a word.

"Right, then..."

With every item I passed along, the pen changed color, and the notebook filled up in seconds. There was even something already written on the page — I stole a glance at it.

"That one's no longer true."

"Sir? Ah — is that incorrect information...?"

"...It's less that it's wrong, and more that she quit."

That was the day, wasn't it.

Since that day, Park Songhwa hadn't let mint chocolate anywhere near her mouth.

I really would have to correct that for her someday. It had been a joke.

...Actually, no. For her health's sake, maybe I should just leave it.

And so, one more heretical member of the Mint Chocolate faction was cleansed from the earth.

A short while later, we set off for the commercial shoot with Park Songhwa in tow.

Yoo Seongjae at the wheel, me in the passenger seat, Park Songhwa in the back. Of the two ad contracts that had come back, this was the first shoot — a meaningful schedule for the company as well.

The van glided into the studio parking garage.

Yoo Seongjae was out in a flash, opening her door before anyone else could move.

...He's fast. Right, he did say he was a career road manager.

Thank goodness, truly. The man who'd be looking after Park Songhwa after me was this sharp.

Lately I'd been feeling a quiet guilt that our roles had drifted — the celebrity managing the manager, not the other way around.

"Excuse me, Manager."

Just then, Park Songhwa spoke up.

"Excuse me, Manager."

Two heads turned at once. Faced with the chief and the road manager pivoting in perfect sync, Park Songhwa swallowed a laugh and pointed at one of us.

"Manager Seongjae."

"Yes, ma'am! Go ahead!"

"I'm a little thirsty... would it be all right if you grabbed me a coffee before the shoot?"

"Iced Americano. No extra shot, no syrup — is that correct?"

"...Huh? Uh, yes. That's right."

"On it right away!"

The answer was out of his mouth before he'd even finished unbuckling his seatbelt.

"And for the chief manager—"

His words cut off mid-sentence.

A man who checks before asking. That's a veteran.

The reconnaissance was already complete. Chief Manager Lee Mishin's favorites: ssanghwa tea, then balloon flower root tea, jujube tea, and the like. The offerings that piled up on my desk every day were evidence enough.

You don't ask — you just have it ready. That's what separates a good road manager from the rest.

Whether a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠café even sold ssanghwa tea was an open question. But a chance to score points on day one had rolled right up to his feet; no way was one cup of tea going to stop him.

"Back in a flash!"

"Oh, I'll take iced—"

"Yes, sir! One iced ssanghwa tea, coming up!"

"......"

With that resounding declaration, Yoo Seongjae broke into a full sprint. If no café had it, the man looked ready to raid an herbal medicine clinic.

And so only the two of us were left in the van.

Park Songhwa leaned forward from the back seat and flashed a grin.

"The road manager's always glued to us, you know. Otherwise I'd have brought this up ages ago."

Ah. So that's what this was.

No wonder it felt off. Park Songhwa is not someone who drinks anything before a shoot.

"And so? And so?"

She leaned in even further.

"How far along is All In?"

"Nearly finished. What's left is the lyrics and the fine details."

"...! Really?"

Excitement bloomed across her face like ink in water.

"Then could I help with the lyrics?"

"......"

Lee Mishin marveled inwardly.

She'd wailed at the title, clutched the back of her neck at the genre, and stumbled into this project as if shoved from behind. And somewhere along the way, she'd started meaning it.

So this is the face singer Park Songhwa makes when she works.

As it happened, the lyrics had been straining the limits of what I could carry alone.

"Go ahead."

"Haha, then you're in for a treat. Lyrics are one thing I'm genuinely brilliant at."

"That said, I have the hook already worked out."

More precisely: I had already seen it.

The future stage of All In — and its hook. All eight bars of it, still ringing in my memory.

Park Songhwa clapped her hands together, beaming.

"Then sing me the lyrics along with the track. I want to know exactly what it feels like."

I nodded and paired my phone to the van's Bluetooth. Checked the speaker volume. Pressed play.

A bouncing synth riff spilled out — a mischievous intro, deliberately cranked up past polite levels.

...Hm?

The crinkle of Park Songhwa's smiling eyes slowly came undone.

What... is this?

Bright but needling, refreshing yet with a thick streak of pure nerve running through the middle. The pre-chorus stacked those sounds one on top of another, step by careful step—

"!"

—and then it detonated.

Gooseflesh raced up my arms in an instant. It was a melody so addictive it felt destined to be banned from every exam hall in the country.

...He made this? Alone? And mostly while sitting around waiting in parking garages?

Long after the track ended, Park Songhwa just kept blinking.

"...Mishin, I'm not just saying this — the hook on this song is insane. Why has the world slept on this genius until now?"

Then her head snapped up.

"Oh — wait, then what about the lyrics?"

Lee Mishin replayed the hook, and hummed over the top of that melody.

"Yo."

"......"