“Welcome to your personal studio. Do you like it?”
Hyun‑seung murmured as he carefully surveyed the room.
“Uh, I guess… it’s alright.”
The studio looked to be roughly 7 pyeong in size at a glance. Moreover, it was fully equipped—not only with proper soundproofing but also with all the essential gear. Just the sight of that high‑priced 88‑key master keyboard screamed “premium,” and judging by the arrangement of the speakers and walls, a great deal of effort had clearly gone into it.
What really caught his eye was the sofa placed right in the center; it was long and its cushions were surprisingly comfortable. After all, isn’t a good sofa a necessity for someone who regularly pulls all‑nighters?
Even though it paled in comparison to the personal studio he used before his regression…
“At least, they tried hard to deck it out.”
It was the best treatment he could expect after traveling back 12 years.
Mr. Kim squinted as he looked at Hyun‑seung.
“What’s up?” he wondered. Even if he wasn’t cheering, he should at least show some sign of satisfaction, right?
The calm, composed reaction—so measured that it seemed almost as if he didn’t care about the effort that went into the equipment—was a bit disappointing.
Shouldn’t a guy in his early twenties be thrilled to have his own space?
Somehow, it just felt a bit deflating…
Phew…
For some reason, Hyun‑seung even annoyed him a little.
Mr. Kim clenched his fist. Stealthily, he edged closer and mimed slapping Hyun‑seung lightly on the back of the head by tapping his hand against the back of the monitor on the desk.
“Manager!”
Startled, Manager Kim asked, “Huh? What’s wrong? Is something the matter?”
“Everything’s visible on the monitor,” Hyun‑seung replied.
Mr. Kim scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Ha-ha, because the monitor’s so big and clear, you can see everything, right?”
Hyun‑seung simply shook his head from side to side.
Over the past few days, their relationship had subtly changed—they’d started speaking on a first‑name basis.
To be honest, the first impressions weren’t great.
With his broad build and that fierce glare under thick eyebrows, he had an aura that overwhelmingly dominated anyone who met him.
Thanks to that presence, it’s no wonder he ended up as the head of a major entertainment management department.
But after several meetings, Mr. Kim began to think that—despite his initial impression—Hyun-seung might actually be a good guy.
After all…
Just imagine someone like him speaking up on your behalf; it’d certainly be reassuring.
“Ah, right.”
Then Mr. Kim suddenly recalled something and broke the silence. “If I call you later, could you swing by the office for a minute?”
“Excuse me? Why?”
“Just spare a moment—I’ve got your employee ID and business cards ready.”
Hyun‑seung narrowed his eyes. “Already?”
He couldn’t believe that it had only been a few days since the contract was stamped and now his employee ID and business cards were out already.
At least my dad will be thrilled when I show him…
Reluctantly, Hyun‑seung nodded. “Yeah, just let me know.”
For now, though, all he really wanted was to take another look around the studio.
I mean…
It finally felt like he was about to embark on a fresh start as a composer in this past life.
––––––––––––––––––
Later, Hyun‑seung stepped into the LS Entertainment headquarters, right in the heart of Seoul’s elite area. The imposing building could easily make anyone feel intimidated just by entering.
Clomp, clomp—
Yet as Hyun‑seung walked across the central lobby, there was not an ounce of intimidation on his face.
Of course not; before his regression, his agency was one of the top three he’d always dreamed of. They not only held substantial shares but even gave him the embarrassing title of “honorary director.”
In the end, when things take off, no one cares about the rest…
It was still the chilly late winter. With his hoodie pulled over his head and wearing a black jumper, Hyun‑seung, sporting his headset, strode purposefully toward the elevator.
Though he noticed some glances, the people at the agency were all busy with their own tasks—nobody had time to strike up small talk.
—or so he thought—until…
“Hey!”
A sharp voice came through his headset. Following the sound, Hyun‑seung turned his head. Standing there, chin held high, was a woman. Even though she wore sunglasses, he recognized her immediately.
Seojini?
She had debuted at the tender age of 16 in a four-member girl group called “Street Girls.”
Although the group folded before even a year was up, Seojini managed to survive on her own. In fact, when she later began a solo career, she broke sensational records and sparked huge buzz—her heyday had started.
But that glory was fleeting.
Her once-fiery popularity gradually faded day by day.
Even her arrogant demeanor and blunt language eventually led to repeated controversies.
At some point, every new song she released failed to cross even the modest streaming numbers threshold.
By the time Hyun‑seung was active as a composer in his past life, Seojini had already vanished from the entertainment scene.
“Hello there!”
While Hyun‑seung was lost in thought, passing employees recognized Seojini and greeted her.
“Uh…”
She only nodded stiffly, without offering a friendly smile.
“Are you an employee or a trainee?”
As she asked, Hyun‑seung scanned the area, but the employees had already dispersed.
“I’m talking to you,” Seojini said as she stepped closer to Hyun‑seung, clearly frustrated.
“Employee,” Hyun‑seung replied shortly.
Ding!
Just then, the elevator doors opened. Hyun‑seung squeezed into the elevator, passing by Seojini.
“Your greeting’s kind of short, isn’t it?”
She trailed after him into the elevator, teasing.
“Same goes for you,” he shot back.
Hyun‑seung felt this banter was turning childish, so he quickly pressed the button for the fourth floor and started heading off.
“Even if I know you, why wouldn’t you say hello?” she persisted.
He let out a small, annoyed sigh and shrugged.
“Come on, don’t you think there’s always some nonsense like this?”
Frankly, he hadn’t been that interested in Seojini before, so he wasn’t sure why her reputation had sunk so low.
Still, he was sure that behavior like hers would only hurt her reputation in this concrete jungle of the entertainment industry, where endless deals and profits mix.
I hope plenty of people pray you never turn out like that…
Though her face was covered in heavy makeup, she still looked very young—barely 23—and seemed like she should have a fresher, more open expression than those sour, sharp eyes.
Hyun‑seung bit his lip in thought for a moment.
“Hey!”
Her voice rang out.
Ding!
At that moment, the elevator doors on the 4th floor opened wide.
“Then that’s all.”
Just as Hyun‑seung was about to step out, she gave his shoulder a quick tap and started walking ahead.
Click, click—
The sound of high-heeled shoes echoed down the corridor.
Then, Seojini stopped in front of him, tilting her head slightly. Their eyes met in a tangled moment in mid-air, but Hyun‑seung simply stared silently.
“Consider this a warning—next time, you’d better greet me first.”
Sensing that continuing the childish exchange would only make things worse, Hyun‑seung swiftly turned and walked in the opposite direction.
“Damn, who does he think he is?”
Seojini stomped her heels on the floor to express her frustration.
But Hyun‑seung had already rounded the corner and disappeared. He wanted to chase after her and grab her by the collar, but he knew better than to cause more trouble at work, so he just bit his lip to keep his cool.
It’s typical for singers to get overly sensitive when preparing an album, but the reason Seojini was so on edge went deeper than that.
Click, click—
Seojini headed toward the recording studio at the end of the corridor.
If this album flops, I’m screwed…
To hide her overwhelming anxiety, she quickly put her sunglasses back on.
She recalled the recording session from yesterday—more than that, she remembered being blasted with harsh words and then being told to come back tomorrow.
Knock, knock—
Seojini pressed her dry lips together, took a deep breath, then steadied her voice with a soft
“Hmm, hmm!”
“Mr. Jooji‑tae, this is Jinie. I’m stepping in now.”
As if opening the gates of hell, she grabbed the door handle with trembling hands.
––––––––––––––––––
“Alright, here.”
Mr. Kim handed Hyun‑seung a fresh stack of newly issued employee IDs and business cards.
“You are now officially the exclusive composer for LS Entertainment.”
Mr. Kim patted Hyun‑seung’s shoulder and added, “I look forward to working with you.”
“Of course—I look forward to it as well,” replied Hyun‑seung.
Then Mr. Kim took him on a tour around the office—showing him the layout of each floor, from the various departments to the rooftop terrace and the in-house café…
Finally, they arrived at the main facility.
“This, right here, is our core employee welfare center!”
“You mean the cafeteria?”
“Other entertainment companies envy our cafeteria.”
“Then I guess there’s not much to be envious about.”
“Hey, why do you always see the world so pessimistically?”
Hyun‑seung shook his head and said, “I’d prefer to check out the recording studio.”
“Recording studio? Sure, I’ll show you around right now.”
Hyun‑seung nodded softly. “Our recording studio is the envy of every other company…”
Before Mr. Kim could continue, he noticed Hyun‑seung had moved ahead and yelled, “Hey! Hey! Not that way!”
––––––––––––––––––
“Alright, this is our smallest recording studio…”
Mr. Kim began explaining various features while fiddling with the door handle—then suddenly the thick, soundproof door swung open, blasting loud music out.
Caught off guard, Mr. Kim blurted, “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were recording.”
“Mr. Kim, it’s been a while. What brings you here?” asked a man, whose frown quickly turned into a broad smile when he recognized Mr. Kim, prompting him to stand up.
“We’re here to showcase our new rookie composer, and I ended up unintentionally intruding.”
“Ah, well, I was planning to take a break from recording anyway. Please, feel free to look around.”
With a swift tap, the loud background music was silenced. It turned out to be Mr. Jooji‑tae.
“Thank you for your consideration.”
After a slight bow, Mr. Kim said to Hyun‑seung, “Hyun‑seung, please greet him. He’s one of the top composers here at LS.”
Hyun‑seung bowed in return.
(I nearly didn’t recognize him because he still looks so young.)
Though Hyun‑seung hadn’t been very close with Mr. Jooji‑tae in his previous life, he recalled a few brief meetings.
Mr. Jooji‑tae was known for his affable personality, stellar reputation, and knack for producing hits.
“Hello. I’m Min Hyun‑seung. I look forward to working with you.”
“If I were to be involved, I’d probably come off as the old man—so, feel free to be casual.”
“Sure, be as casual as you like.”
“Then I, too, look forward to working with you.”
Their first meeting with Mr. Jooji‑tae was upbeat—at least until Seojini emerged from the recording booth looking completely exhausted.
(What the heck? Why is that psycho here again?)
Seojini’s eyes widened in shock as she saw Hyun‑seung chatting with Mr. Kim and Mr. Jooji‑tae laughing together—it was an undeniably startling sight.
“Nice to see you again,” Hyun‑seung teased as he greeted her.
Weren’t they the ones who had a pretty rocky first meeting just 30 minutes ago?
“Ah, Seojini, were you recording?”
“Yeah, as you can see.”
“By the way, you two seem pretty close.”
“Uh, it was just a coincidence…”
Seojini then pressed her lips together, hoping silently that Hyun‑seung would let bygones be bygones.
“Would it be alright if I quietly observed the recording session?”
Her sudden request startled Hyun‑seung.
(Why is this guy acting like that?)
Was he trying to say, “Let me show you how good I really am by watching me record”?
“Um, well… I guess that’s fine,” Mr. Jooji‑tae readily agreed.
Hyun‑seung maintained a deadpan expression as he gazed into the recording booth. Fortunately, nothing he feared happened—no one ended up tattling to Mr. Kim or Mr. Jooji‑tae.
“Seojini, please step back into the booth.”
Seojini promptly reentered.
“Let’s start with the chorus,” she suggested softly as she, wearing her headset, nodded weakly.
The backing track began to play over the studio speakers—a pop tune built around a catchy “money code.”
Not exactly average, Hyun‑seung thought.
In short, the song was acceptable.
Glancing around, he noticed Mr. Kim nodding along with the rhythm, clearly engrossed.
Then came the problem:
“Again! Again! Again!”
The backing track abruptly cut out.
“Sing with more power!”
Mr. Jooji‑tae bellowed, stopping the recording.
“I told you not to sing like that!”
Instantly, it became clear why Mr. Jooji‑tae had looked so grim the first time he stepped into the studio.
(He’s really losing his cool.)
If he could let loose and scold properly, even the most hot‑tempered composer might succeed—but his approach is all wrong.
Trying to force the singer to match the song instead of adjusting the song to suit the artist is like dressing someone in ill-fitting clothes—it’s bound to end badly.
“Hmm.”
Hyun‑seung turned to look at Seojini. He noticed that occasionally her voice trembled too much—her shoulders were hunched, and her neck was tense, clear signs that she was scared.
She was truly terrified of this high‑stakes recording session.
“Is there nothing else to see here?”
“Should we head out?”
“Yeah, the vibe is just all over the place.”
Even though they knew the outcome, that didn’t give them a reason to argue.
After briefly bowing to Mr. Jooji‑tae, both he and Mr. Kim left the recording studio.
“Mr. Jooji‑tae tends to be a bit touchy when he produces, huh?”
“Strict, sure—but I wouldn’t say he gets this emotional…”
Hyun‑seung tilted his head. “So, are you saying he’s the only one who’s cranky?”
Realizing that Hyun‑seung’s “that person” referred to Seojini, Mr. Kim quickly replied, “Actually, Seojini’s last album was produced entirely by Mr. Jooji‑tae. But that one failed. If things don’t go well this time, her career will suffer, so she’s understandably on edge.”
Mr. Kim then loosened his tie and added, “Since he’s so talented and ended up being stuck with Seojini, I bet he’s the one who’s really hurting.”
Hyun‑seung simply muttered, “Hmm.”
He understood Mr. Jooji‑tae’s state of mind, though he couldn’t agree with his methods. For instance, if the performance isn’t coming together, you can’t just hurl insults at your instrument or toss it around and expect a better result.
“Anyway, this is a real headache. If Seojini messes up this album again, the contract renewal will be off the table…”
Meanwhile, Hyun‑seung was lost in thought.
“Honestly, the overall sound was pretty good.”
In his opinion, her voice had definite potential—even if the tuning was off, the basic melody was solid. In short, to him, Seojini was like a decent instrument—one that could deliver a great performance.
“Then, why don’t I give it a try?”
There was only one option.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re such a pain already.”
“Well, let me try performing.”
If I start over and re-tune everything, maybe it’ll work out.
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