Chirp Chirp Little Chick

I pressed play.

"······?"

The first thing that caught my eye was something brightly colored.

······It was a children's toy drum set.

One small mercy was that Kim Bom's tiny frame meant she had no trouble actually sitting at it. Of course, that didn't make the picture any less ridiculous.

'······Bom-ah?'

Just as Jeong Hyunwoo was blinking at his screen—

Tick, tick, tick, tick—

Drumsticks clicked out a count.

Then, from somewhere off-screen, the song began.

"Chirp chirp, little chick—♪"

"Pfft!"

The banana milk he'd been sipping nearly shot up his nose. It was a children's song, but she was singing it with utterly frantic sincerity. Like someone being chased for her life.

'That voice is······.'

Main vocalist Nam Green. If he couldn't recognize it, he'd have to hand in his fan credentials.

'Wait, but why is Green singing a nursery rhyme······ and why is she so good at it?'

On screen, Kim Bom's gaze drifted toward somewhere beyond the camera.

And then.

"!"

Her eyes rolled back.

Focus—gone. Utterly vanished.

Ta-da-da-da-da-da!

'Wh-what the?!'

Fills came pouring down onto the toy drum with outright violence. The power she was generating from that tiny body was almost a philosophical question.

'Th-that sound is coming from a toy drum?'

"Moo moo, little cow—♪"

At the cow verse, one of the sticks spun in a flash between her fingers—then landed precisely back where it belonged. A high-difficulty flourish that drummers deploy mid-performance. Her face didn't even register that she'd done it.

"Bang bang, hunter—♪"

At the hunter verse, the yellow plastic drum turned into rapid gunfire.

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta! Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!

With every drumbeat, the character stickers stuck to the toy flapped as if about to peel off. Like the little characters were screaming to be spared.

'Bom-ah······ what's wrong with you? Did you get possessed or something?'

While Jeong Hyunwoo sat gaping at a side of Kim Bom he had never seen, the song rolled into its second verse. And the symptoms were getting worse.

Ta-ta-tum! Tak! Ta-ta-ta-tum! Chaang!

Sweat-damp bangs clung to her forehead. Her swinging arms left afterimages, and eventually the toy drum itself began to creak and groan in protest.

"Ra-ta-ta-taam, conch shell—!"

On the final bar, Kim Bom brought both hands down on the two cymbals.

Crash! Craaash!

Then her right hand slashed through empty air one more time.

Bwoong—

She finished by striking a crash cymbal that didn't exist.

"Haa······ haa······."

On screen, Kim Bom panted, still gripping her sticks. The eyes that had rolled back slid gently back down into place.

And there the video cut off.

Runtime: one minute forty-two seconds.

"······."

Jeong Hyunwoo stared at the dark screen for a long while.

'What did I just watch.'

Had the company lost its mind?

'Months of total silence, and this is what they put out? With our Bom, what on earth are they······.'

But the anger fizzled out quickly. Because he could see they were at least trying something. And······ honestly, he'd laughed at the start too.

'······That tiny frame, that adorable face, playing the drums like a woman possessed.'

Like always, he was the first to hit like.

Then he opened the comment section.

He finished typing. But when he glanced down, there were already three comments waiting!

It wasn't even payday, but the office air had a sweetness to it. Laughter poured out of the break room without pause, and Gu Daechu the Assistant Manager at the next desk was humming from the moment he walked in.

'······What's the occasion today?'

The question didn't last long. Before I'd even set down my bag, the sound of wheels came rolling in.

Squeeeak—

My old Team Lead gave a knowing chuckle.

"Mishin, my boy. Do you know what season it is when managers become their most devout, once a year?"

"The holidays?"

"Wrong. Semi-annual bonus season."

Ah, right. So that's why everyone's eyes were sparkling from the morning.

"First-half performance pay comes with next week's payroll. For management, bonus is the whole game—payroll's just pocket change."

He wagged his index finger.

"If your artist does well, incentive stacks on top. Land an ad, you get a cut of the contract. Book an event, you get a cut of the booking."

His eyes went misty with nostalgia.

"Back in my day, when my actor's drama properly exploded, the incentive from that half paid the down payment on the car I'm driving right now."

"Ooh······."

"Those were the glory days of my bank account."

He clicked his tongue, then swiveled toward me.

"But honestly, I'm curious what your pay stub's going to look like this time."

His fingers began folding down one by one.

"Park Songhwa's ad comeback, two deals. The Countryside Mouse settlement. Running the comeback project. Cheongchun Sonyeo······ well, nothing there yet. Anyway, that's what's on the sheet."

The folding fingers creaked.

"Then there's your songwriting royalties on top—those are separate. And the nightclub gig······ ah, damn it, that one counts as Division 1's performance."

He fumed as if it were his own money being stolen.

"Who saved the company that night? And Division 1 gets to swallow all the revenue?"

That was when Director Noh Beomsu cut in with a lowered voice.

"There's a rumor going around. Admin says they're bundling up everything that didn't make the performance sheet and reviewing it as a special bonus."

"······."

Gu Daechu, the Assistant Manager beside me, poured whatever he'd been drinking straight out of his paper cup. That······ looked like a scene from a drama.

"Wow······ if that goes through, do you have any idea how much performance pay you're walking away with? Kind of scary, honestly."

"What's scary about it?"

"Some kid not even a year into the company is about to eyeball my annual salary with a bonus. You're telling me that's not scary?"

Truthfully, I'd been hearts-pounding since earlier myself.

'I wonder how much it'll be.'

A spending plan naturally took shape in my head. First, my parents. I had to go down to Gimcheon and do something for them. Getting a piece of farm equipment for the apple ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠orchard would be nice. Next, the car. I'd already been combing through used car listings, and the price ceiling on my search filter was about to be set by whatever number appeared on my pay stub.

'Can't keep freeloading rides in other people's sports cars forever.'

Then, housing. If the number was big enough, escaping the rooftop room would be worth considering.

At some point, heads had started popping up over the partitions here and there. The entire meerkat colony's ears were pointed my way.

"Um······ Mishin, sir? Can I ask you one thing?"

"Of course."

"Is my performance pay going to be good this time?"

"You'd have to ask Admin about that."

"Admin told me to ask you, sir."

"······Then surely that's their roundabout way of saying don't ask."

Something was deeply wrong with this company's workflow.

Director Noh Beomsu clapped his hands loudly.

"Alright, disperse! What's so fun about other people's bank accounts!"

"Yeah, you scamps, back to work."

"That goes for you too, Team Lead. Enough already."

"······."

The old Team Lead shuffled sheepishly back to his seat. I stared at my face reflected in the monitor and sank into thought.

'But honestly, the real jackpot is something else entirely.'

The royalties for All In, composed by AG.

Performance pay was money the company gave you. Royalties were money the Republic of Korea gave you. Once All In released, a new resident would start moving into my bank account.

The catch was that music streaming settlements arrived three months later—but to someone who'd waited three years, that much was nothing.

'How will All In do? It's Park Songhwa singing, so it shouldn't flop. And above all, the article I saw in the vision said the head-on breakthrough succeeded.'

I set the worry aside and, out of habit, opened YouTube. Lately I found myself checking it several times a day.

Day three since upload. The view count was 1,962. On paper, still modest.

'When is this one going to pop, I wonder.'

So many things to worry about, on every front. I wanted to trust the vision I'd seen, but the crucial problem was that I didn't know the timing.

'What if it blows up like, ten years from now?'

No. That couldn't happen. I had to produce results within a year.

'Ah, it won't come to that.'

In the vision's interview scene, the members of Cheongchun Sonyeo looked no different than they did now. And at that point, Kim Bom's drum video had been spoken of like ancient history—so it couldn't be too far in the future.

'Let's believe that.'

From here on out, the fanning of flames was the Algorithm God's jurisdiction. I'd developed some expertise in flame-fanning myself lately, but unfortunately it didn't apply in this world.

"Mishin."

This time Director Noh Beomsu approached me. The drop in speech formality was a recent development.

"Heard anything about the Cheongchun Sonyeo side?"

"About what, sir?"

"The General Director. There was someone who planned that team from the very beginning. Director Kim Jibeom."

He was the director who'd handled Cheongchun Sonyeo from the planning stage, and with the one-year extension decided, he'd apparently received a new assignment.

"I've crossed paths with him a few times in meetings. He's got real skill. Knows his references inside and out. But······."

"······?"

"He cannot stand anyone else touching his plans. This is a man who once went a full week without speaking to anyone after a single storyboard line of his got revised in a meeting."

"······."

'In other words, he's completely inflexible, isn't he?'

An ominous premonition crept over me. He and I were going to be a terrible match.

With Cheongchun Sonyeo's lifespan extended, the dedicated team officially began taking shape. General Director Kim Jibeom, road manager Oh Jaeung, and me as the manager.

'That's it. That's the whole team.'

A&R and PR would be handled by existing staff pulling double duty. That was the company saying this was exactly how many people a one-year grace-period project deserved.

'What a bare-bones lineup.'

The rest of the procedure moved quickly. Budget restored, schedule sheet created, vehicles reassigned. Though one line of the budget revealed the company's true heart.

Translated: figure it out yourselves. 'Well······ the company isn't a charity case, after all.'

Still—a team whose dissolution papers had all but been signed in ink was back on the org chart. Not a bad starting point.

For the record, I hadn't yet met Director Kim Jibeom face to face.

My first meeting with the road manager took place one afternoon, in the underground parking garage, after I'd returned from the casino location scout. In front of a van still showing the fresh traces of a recent wash, a waiting man barked out cheerfully:

"Oh Jaeung, Management Division 2! Looking forward to working with you, Chief!"

"Likewise."

From what I'd heard, he'd been Cheongchun Sonyeo's road manager since the very beginning.

"The second the reorganization notice went up, I ran straight to the Director's office.······Those kids are a team I've got real feelings for, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠seeing as I was with them from day one."

"Congratulations on your reinstatement."

"All thanks to you, Chief. The story of you convincing Cheongchun Sonyeo in the rain—ha······ it's already legend among the road managers."

"······Don't spread things like that."

It had been cold that day. Partly to change the subject, I eased into the question I'd been meaning to ask anyway.

"Have you worked with Director Kim Jibeom?"

"······I have. Three years straight."

"What's he like?"

"······."

That silence said everything.

'Ominous premonition, confirmed.'

"The biggest mystery is his calendar."

"What do you mean?"

"The Director insists on setting important dates himself. Nobody knows his criteria."

So he's just a one-man army, then.

Just then, Oh Jaeung lowered his voice.

"And······ there's something I really need to tell you."

"Go on."

"The Director visited Division 2 this morning."

That would have been while I was away on the casino location scout.

"Was he looking for me?"

"Can't say for sure. Apparently he waited so long—drinking water from the water purifier over and over—that he eventually just left."

"······."

"According to the assistant manager who saw him, his, um, expression wasn't great······."

Oh Jaeung swallowed dryly.

"Chief······ could it be because of the chick video?"

'Probably.'

Cheongchun Sonyeo had come out of that man's planning from the very start. He'd surely designed their worldview and concept at that stage. And then I'd gone and planned, filmed, and uploaded a video of a girl hammering out nursery rhymes on a toy drum without consulting anyone. No wonder he was furious. I'd seen the vision, sure, but from his perspective, it must have looked like I was messing around.

'······If I were him, my throat would be parched too. I'd be drinking water by the gallon.'

Suddenly, my father's voice drifted back to me.

"Whatever your bosses say, you just say 'yes, understood' and stay quiet. That's what working life is."

'······Let's give working life a try, then.'

"Is Director Kim Jibeom gone for the day yet?"

"I heard him say earlier he's staying late to work alone today."

Perfect timing, then. Since it had come up, I'd go see him right now.

I stopped by my desk first and picked out the most presentable offering from among the gifts piled on it: a bellflower root extract gift set. It didn't feel great, regifting someone else's kindness to another person—but whatever. Better to show some form of sincerity than none at all.

The Content Planning office, well past quitting time, was deserted. Exactly one workstation had monitor light leaking out between the partitions.

I clutched the bellflower root box to my chest and walked over, rehearsing my greeting.

'I apologize for not consulting you first. No—should I introduce myself first?'

My mental rehearsal wasn't even finished when I heard it.

A sound, drawing steadily closer.

"Grant me, oh grant me······."

"?"

My steps slowed on their own.

Pat, pat. Pat, pat.

Accompanied by the unmistakable sound of palms rubbing together—a textbook-perfect supplication, delivered in flawless form.

I peeked past the partition.

On the monitor: the chick video.

In front of it, a single paper cup sat reverently placed.

'······Don't tell me that's water from the Division 2 purifier. And that's why he was hovering around the water purifier?'

There was, admittedly, a rumor circulating in the building. Something about the Division 2 water purifier's water being spiritually potent.

And water drawn from there was now serving as sacred offering water.

On his desk calendar, a date was circled. Thanks to the shamanic knowledge I'd accumulated maintaining my mystic persona, I spotted a common thread immediately.

'That date······ that's a demon-free day.'

The mystery of the schedule criteria nobody could crack had just been solved. This man—his belief in shamanism was sincere.

"Grant me, oh grant me······."

"······Director?"

"!"

The chair spun around with a whirl.

"Ah—ahem."

Kim Jibeom picked up the paper cup and downed the sacred water in great gulps.

"My throat was dry."

"······."

"I was looking at the data. The data."

As if to prove it, his mouse clicked, and the channel management page came up on screen.

A real-time view graph.

And then—

"······Huh?"

The tail end of the line was bending upward.

Kim Jibeom hit refresh. The number jumped. He hit it again. It jumped again.

"······."

"······."

And precisely on cue with my arrival here, the real-time graph began to skyrocket.