“Let me double-check everything and get back to you.”
With that calm remark, Jeon Nam-il ended the phone call, then fixed his gaze on Hyunseung. Meanwhile, the cause of this entire fuss—Hyunseung—looked cool as ever.
“You must have a lot on your mind.”
Hyunseung’s observation made the CEO let out a quiet laugh.
“Worries?”
He trailed off vaguely. Who could deny he looked concerned? Even if you couldn’t make out the exact words, the heated tone on the other side of the line made it clear that call had been anything but pleasant. Something had undoubtedly gone wrong.
“In any case…”
Jeon Nam-il signaled that the conversation was over.
“I’ve decided to support your personal album production, after all.”
“You’ve changed your mind rather quickly?”
“We can’t have the golden-egg-laying goose getting curious about the outside world.”
The CEO simply stated his intention to allow Hyunseung to proceed with his personal album. And though his phrasing was blunt, you couldn’t say he was being closed-minded.
“I’ll do my best so you won’t regret it.”
With that, Hyunseung left the CEO’s office.
Thump—
After a while, the CEO stared at the door through which Hyunseung had exited. Finally, he picked up the phone again.
“Secretary Kim?”
He spoke in a dry tone:
“Have Management Team 1 bring me the original notice from Man Records. Right this instant.”
He ended the terse call and began drumming his fingertips on the arm of his chair, carefully piecing together the situation in his head.
Man Records was no small, obscure company – it was a massive label, ranking in the top ten worldwide. And its CEO had personally singled out Hyunseung for a collaboration.
“Why…?”
How had they so quickly recognized Hyunseung’s shining talent? Indeed, he had plenty of potential, but it was still extraordinary—and made little sense— that such a big label’s CEO would specifically chase him. But logic aside, it had happened.
“Golden-egg-laying goose…”
The puzzle in his mind began coming together. Yes—Hyunseung was that golden goose. The context, experience, and sixth sense that made Jeon Nam-il a top-tier leader all pointed to that.
But how do you handle a goose that lays golden eggs?
For now, indulging Hyunseung’s proposed project was the only logical course—making sure he didn’t wander off to somewhere new. Ensuring he believed LS Entertainment’s “coop” was best.
One day, if that goose showed signs of leaving?
“I wouldn’t let it happen.”
Better to wring its neck than to let another farm steal it. LS Entertainment had built itself on precisely that level of ruthlessness.
Lately, his carefully structured plans had been thrown off by a series of unpredictable developments, all revolving around Hyunseung. It was disturbing but also fascinating. He reclined on the sofa, a faint smile on his lips, gazing at the ceiling.
“HS, HS, HS…”
He repeated Hyunseung’s name like an incantation.
“HS…”
Moon Beom-jae straightened the collar of his leather jacket, filled with resolve. At last, he was about to meet the composer behind the song that had captivated him.
When did the K-Pop scene become all about commercial success? So many songs used the same beats and half-familiar melodies, mashed together. It had been a long time since Moon Beom-jae felt truly exhilarated by a new piece of music.
He’d scoured the industry for years, searching for that elusive “masterpiece.” At his age, many tried to dissuade him—saying if he didn’t lower his standards, he might never enter a recording booth again. But then he’d found this track.
It was the work of a so-called “genius composer” that even the notoriously picky A&R staff at LS praised. The moment he heard it, he’d wanted to shout “Eureka!” and run through the halls. Before receiving any formal response from the composer, Moon Beom-jae found himself repeatedly listening to all of HS’s songs, from Seojiny to Gong Hyo-joo to Jung Arin.
He discovered that though HS’s overall discography wasn’t huge yet, they were all at least moderate hits—some even massive. Each track offered no easy points to criticize. The chord progressions were slightly “money-code” based, but each also carried an actual message, peppered with subtle metaphors.
“Have I been ensnared…?”
What particularly drew him was that the composer’s personal album track was far from a mere “commercial formula.” It tackled a dark theme—clearly not just to chase money or fame—yet he still found it enthralling.
In short, it was a great song. That’s how timeless hits usually felt.
Tap, tap—
The closer he got to their agreed meeting place, the more excitement he felt. Walking faster—tap, tap, tap—he was eager to meet “HS.”
Knock, knock—
He arrived at the recording studio door, knocked politely, and entered.
“Oh! You’re early, sir.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“We’re just here to watch you record—is that okay?”
A handful of men huddled around a large console all greeted him. Moon recognized them as the A&R staff he was already acquainted with, but his gaze roved around, searching.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Min Hyunseung. I look forward to working with you.”
So this was the composer who had kept him waiting in anticipation. The man rose from his seat and offered a handshake.
He’s… younger than I expected, Moon thought, startled. The song he’d heard contained deep sorrow, regret, and despair—emotions that seemed beyond someone so young.
“Yes, I look forward to it as well.”
A composer’s age hardly mattered, but he still found it surprising.
“We never got to have a proper meeting before now, so it’d feel cold to jump straight into recording. How about we chat a bit first?” Hyunseung offered him a cup of tea.
“Yes, that sounds good. It’s easier if we talk a bit first.”
“Relax and sip some tea to warm up your voice. Have a seat.”
He was so poised for someone so young. Usually, people decades older than Hyunseung still froze up around “legendary” artists like Moon Beom-jae. Yet Hyunseung looked calm and self-assured.
“I do have one small request.”
“What is it?”
“Could you speak more casually with me? I basically grew up listening to your music, but having you so formal… it feels awkward.”
He was, after all, old enough to be Hyunseung’s father.
“Hmm, if you insist…”
With a little cough, Moon Beom-jae shifted to informal speech.
“All right, I’ll be comfortable then.”
“Great.” Hyunseung nodded. “I’ve listened to all your past songs. I was wondering—how wide is your current vocal range?”
“In the last track I recorded, I went up to a high C in the 3rd octave. My lower range can go down to a low F in the negative 1 octave.”
“Amazing. Sounds like I can add a bit more flair in the arrangement then.”
Hyunseung nodded in satisfaction. He seemed positively excited that he was about to record with such a supremely flexible vocalist.
“Oh, right…”
Hyunseung frowned slightly, remembering a question that had been nagging him:
“May I ask why you chose my song?”
After a moment, Moon Beom-jae replied:
“Hard to say exactly.”
He rubbed his chin.
“One time in Abu Dhabi, at the Guggenheim Museum, I saw this enormous glass sculpture late in the afternoon—nearly sunset. It had countless curved surfaces, and light just poured through it, scattering brilliantly. That fleeting scene was breathtaking.”
“So…?”
“When I first heard your song, that moment came back to me.”
That was perhaps the highest praise a composer could get.
“Well, I’m honored.”
Hyunseung was still mystified how in his past life, all his attempts to collaborate had been rejected, yet now Moon Beom-jae had accepted. Possibly the difference lay in this track’s heartfelt “message.”
“I guess you only choose songs with real artistry to them?”
“Art is a broad concept,” Moon said. “Let me ask you: Are typical hook-songs not art?”
“Most consider them mainstream, commercial pop, right?”
Moon shook his head.
“I see it differently.”
A quiet pause.
“If it can steal a significant chunk of someone’s time, I’d call it art.”
He grinned.
“Like how I stood staring at that piece in Abu Dhabi until a guard told me they were closing. Or how, after hearing your track, I replayed it so many times and found myself lost in thought. If a piece does that, it’s art.”
“That’s… surprisingly refreshing.”
“But for me personally, I have a certain standard: The piece has to communicate something—whether the approach is direct or not. Even with no words, you can hear a composer’s story in the melody alone. I only want to be remembered as a singer who performed songs like that.”
He gave a self-deprecating chuckle:
“Call it old-man vanity.”
He was open-minded, flexible, and modest. Hyunseung felt he deserved genuine respect.
“You truly deserve admiration as an instrument.”
“…Instrument?”
“I mean to say… an artist. Sorry, slip of the tongue.”
Such a humble vibe exuded a sense of mastery. Hyunseung was impressed.
“Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’d like to adjust the arrangement slightly before we record.”
“Here? Now?” Moon looked surprised.
“Yes. Now that I know your exact range, I’d like to add a few details. That is, if it’s okay.”
The surprise wasn’t just Moon’s alone.
“Wait, you’re making changes right now?”
“The vocalist’s sitting right here—he’s going to wait?”
“Unreal. Min Hyunseung sure does do things his own way.”
“I’m about to faint.”
“He’s literally got Mr. Moon sitting there waiting.”
“If Mr. Moon took offense, no one would blame him….”
But Moon remained perfectly calm.
“Does it help the piece?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I’ll wait as long as you like.”
Everyone was dumbfounded. But Hyunseung dove right in.
The session was one shock after another.
“You’re done already?”
He’d finished reworking the arrangement in a mere 20 minutes.
“L–let’s hear it?”
Moon and the entire A&R staff listened to Hyunseung’s updated track, then found themselves speechless.
“So… I guess it’s un-singable now?”
Moon pointed out what they were all thinking.
The newly revised arrangement was extraordinarily difficult—something you’d never do if you cared about mainstream success.
“I don’t mind. I deliberately made it that not just anyone can hum along.”
This piece was his personal story for the world. Moon Beom-jae was simply the ideal “instrument” to deliver it. The audience’s job was to stay quiet and listen. Hyunseung believed that was enough.
“I see. You must have a plan.”
“Sure do. Should we start recording now? Time is tight.”
And so began the actual recording.
As mentioned, the session was filled with twists.
“Again?”
“Okay, again.”
“That’s not quite it.”
Time after time, they restarted. Normally, Moon Beom-jae—famed for finishing in one take—was on his umpteenth attempt hours later.
“Let’s try again, nice and slow.”
A rational person might be annoyed, but he complied without complaint. The staff was stunned.
“How long has it been?”
“Going on fourteen hours.”
“Shouldn’t they take a proper break?”
Sure, they paused occasionally, but it was still a ridiculous marathon. One might think they’d both collapse. At last:
“That’s good,”
Hyunseung finally said. The A&R staff, also worn out from spectating, brightened, assuming they could go home. But then the biggest shock came:
“No, one more time,” said Moon Beom-jae. The staff gaped.
“Hell…”
“He was the one who said it’s good…”
“What do we do now?”
Hyunseung, however, just flashed a cheerful smile.
It seemed neither man was satisfied yet. So they kept going, while the rest looked pale and exhausted. Among them was a team lead who had worked there since the company’s founding. He alone seemed uncharacteristically worried.
“We’ve got a real problem here.”
“Huh? How so?”
He sighed.
“Accidents don’t just happen; they need two crazy people to collide.”
“So what’s this about?”
“I’ve seen this scenario once or twice before.”
“Which scenario?”
“Two perfectionists with a fanatical drive for flawlessness meet.”
“And that means…?”
He gave a wry laugh.
“As I said, it’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“A big one?” he was asked.
He nodded grimly.
“A major one.”
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