Gye Jin-seong wore a thoroughly displeased expression as he glared at the clock on the conference-room wall. The agreed-upon interview time was noon.
He’d awakened around five in the morning, arrived at the office earlier than usual, but couldn’t focus on any of his smaller tasks at all. Yet now, two hours after the scheduled start, the interview hadn’t even begun.
Why?
It boiled down to one sentence:
- HS hadn’t shown up.
The rookie composer HS had stood him up for two hours past the promised time. Gye Jin-seong had bombarded Manager Kim with around eight texts urging him, even placed a call raging at him, but the answer remained the same every time:
“He’ll be here soon.”
“Soooon,” “soon,” “very soon.” If “soon” had a physical form, he would’ve choked it by now.
In all his years as a reporter, he’d never suffered such a humiliation.
He’d dealt with top actors, top models, top singers before, but a brand-new composer with a debut album was making him wait two whole hours? That was a declaration of war.
He wasn’t sure whether the composer himself was behind it or if Manager Kim was calling the shots—didn’t matter. Right now, the only thing he was mulling over was how to repay this affront.
“Hmph.”
As it stood, the scandal he’d been holding onto—where an LS idol group’s leader tried to buy marijuana—he was now that much closer to exposing it to the world.
Well, to be honest, he’d planned to report it eventually no matter what. Letting a scoop of that magnitude go to waste would go against his journalistic instincts. But he’d considered going about it more discreetly, out of a sense of “collegial courtesy,” maybe by using a pen name in an indirect piece. Now? He’d changed his mind.
He wanted to make them feel exactly how ticked-off he was. Publishing it himself, directly, sounded better.
He could already see how Manager Kim would react a few days from now when a story about an LS idol leader being investigated for attempted drug purchase soared to number one in the entertainment news ranking. Manager Kim would probably read it while cursing and scrolling down in a rage, only to see Gye Jin-seong’s byline at the bottom and clutch at his nape in despair.
Screeeech…
Right then, the conference-room door swung open.
“Is this Reporter Gye Jin-seong?”
In walked a man whose face was completely unknown, wearing a sturdy-looking helmet.
“Yes, that’s me. And you are…?”
The “Helmet Man” bowed lightly.
“Apologies for being late. I’m HS, the composer.”
Struck dumb, Gye Jin-seong found himself shaking the outstretched hand.
“I—I’m Gye Jin-seong from NBS Entertainment.”
He’d told himself he’d tear into HS with scathing remarks the minute he showed up. Yet the moment he saw the man appear—wearing a helmet, no less—his mind went blank.
“Did you come by motorbike?”
HS replied, “No, I just got this for the interview.”
“Just got it for the interview?”
A helmet instead of a mask or hat? Gye Jin-seong struggled to hide his bewilderment. Then he reminded himself: Never try to understand these so-called “artists.”
He forced himself to stay calm. He’d seen the likes of that famous producer who wore a cardboard box on his head—he’d gone on music shows, variety programs, always with that box. Or in the U.S., you had Marshmello wearing a marshmallow helmet, Deadmau5 wearing a mouse head—none of it was all that strange in the music world.
But something was off.
HS’s helmet wasn’t any sort of “designed for show” item. It just looked like a regular old helmet you might see a courier wearing. And it was clearly used, with scuffs and wear all over. So he truly must have picked it up last-minute, maybe from a secondhand seller?
“Anyway, shall we get started?”
Moments earlier, Gye Jin-seong had prepared a barrage of harsh words, but the newcomer’s bizarre choice of helmet had completely thrown him off. The momentum was gone.
“Y-yes, let’s…start.”
He sized up the composer: tall, broad-shouldered, a nice voice, and behind the helmet’s tinted visor, a faint view of the man’s eyes. Even that small glimpse suggested he was quite good-looking. Why hide it? Did he have a hunched nose or some other facial quirk? Perhaps pitted skin? Or a long jawline he disliked?
“I won’t bother taking photos, but it might be hot. Wouldn’t you rather just remove the helmet?”
“I’m comfortable this way.” HS answered firmly.
So it was true. He was determined not to reveal himself.
“Alright, then, let’s begin the interview.”
As usual, they started with mundane “warm-up” questions: age, hobbies, how he got into music, etc. The real meat came once Gye Jin-seong asked how he’d signed with LS. That’s when things got truly interesting.
“So you landed a deal at LS after sending in a few demo tracks to their general email?”
“Yes. I had some pieces I’d put together at home on MIDI. I thought they were good, so I told them: ‘If you want to buy these on a flat-fee basis, call me.’”
“And that led to a contract?”
“Correct. Initially, I sold three tracks on a buyout. Right after that, we started negotiating contract terms and signed after multiple revisions.”
Gye Jin-seong was intrigued.
“Revisions?”
The composer—Hyunseung—nodded.
“They weren’t exactly malicious clauses, but there were points that could be interpreted against me legally. I’m pretty sensitive about that, so I requested we fix them. The company agreed, which I appreciated.”
Gye Jin-seong couldn’t stop himself from exclaiming quietly. Usually, a young hopeful who gets an offer from a giant agency like LS would be so starstruck they’d sign anything right away, worried about losing their big chance. But not HS—he’d systematically demanded changes.
Damn, he’s thorough.
And how he’d gotten in was impressive: emailing demo tracks, letting them see their commercial value. That was cunning. After all, not everyone becomes a star by street casting or big auditions. If you want to prove your worth, you have to think outside the box, keep knocking. This young composer’s method was quite savvy. Also dramatic—if the public found out, they’d go wild.
“Your real breakthrough in the industry was with Seo Jini, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Why’d you give your first track to her?”
Hyunseung answered casually:
“I just thought she was a good instrument.”
“…An instrument?”
“Yes. I tend to call artists ‘instruments.’”
He elaborated:
“Anyone can draw sound from a violin by dragging a bow across the strings, but performing music—that’s another matter. For Seo Jini, her slump was basically caused by sub-par production. The ‘performer’—the songwriter/producer—didn’t do a proper job.”
It was a brash statement, effectively calling all prior producers incompetent. Yet no one could deny the result: once Seo Jini got HS’s track, she soared again, shedding labels like “has-been” or “washed-up.” She found stardom anew, even conquering Japan. The producers who had worked on her tracks previously might bristle, but from a journalist’s view, that was an attention-grabbing quote: Thanks, Gye Jin-seong thought.
“What about Jung Arin, then?”
“Same logic.”
“She was a good ‘instrument’ too?”
Hyunseung nodded.
“When I first met her, she was on the verge of being cut. Just another trainee in the basement, giving her youth away for a dream. She’d failed the monthly evaluations and was about to be dropped.”
“Interesting.”
“But I overheard her singing and recognized a good instrument. The company was wary, but I believed in it. I think the results speak for themselves.”
Again, Gye Jin-seong found himself mentally exclaiming. Indeed, Seo Jini and Jung Arin had frequently mentioned HS on music shows or variety programs, showering him with gratitude. So these behind-the-scenes stories were a gold mine. The more he listened, the more excited he got. Well done, Gye Jin-seong—this was worth the wait, he thought.
“So, at last: it’s said you postponed your personal album specifically to challenge Jayble’s release. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“But the album is currently losing out to Jayble in the charts. Any thoughts? Feelings about that?”
He stared at the tinted visor, expecting some flicker of tension. But no, the young composer answered without hesitation.
“For now, I don’t have much to say.”
For now? Gye Jin-seong thought, Is he implying something’s going to change?
He pressed further, “Do you think it’s possible the chart positions could reverse?”
Hyunseung replied, “There’s no law saying it can’t.”
Gye Jin-seong silently cheered: Nice…
“Can you share some words of resolve you feel about going against Jayble?”
Hyunseung tilted his head.
“Is it really a ‘battle’ if it’s a guaranteed victory?”
Gye Jin-seong gaped at him. What does this guy eat to be so confident, so high-handed, so fearless? The man’s posture, tone, unwavering replies—even his eyes behind the visor—radiated confidence. Strangely enough, Gye Jin-seong liked it. Indeed, that brazen front was oddly compelling. After a moment, Gye Jin-seong composed himself.
“Finally, if you have anything to say to Jayble, I can pass that on…?”
“Not really.”
“Ah… Just speak freely, and I’ll tidy it up for the article.”
Behind the helmet, Hyunseung’s lips curved in a faint smile. A typical trap, asking for a provocative statement. But a clever fish can nibble the bait and slip off. Maybe he’d do that.
“You just need some kind of ‘trash talk,’ yes?”
Gye Jin-seong said, “No, not exactly…” but of course, yes. They wanted something fiery, arrogant, sensational.
“Okay. Then how about: ‘I’d even do a ‘character-deletion showdown’ if needed—I’m that confident.’”
Character-deletion? Gye Jin-seong squinted.
Hyunseung explained: “In gaming, it means the loser has to delete their character. A do-or-die match. We call it a ‘캐삭빵.’”
He paused.
“Meaning the loser basically retires, right? Holy…”
Gye Jin-seong couldn’t help blurting a swear word before clamping a hand over his mouth. At any rate, if he wrote that quote, it was sure to blow up in the news. Two hours of waiting was nothing compared to that scoop. He’d gladly have waited ten hours or twenty for something this juicy.
“If you could phrase it for me, it might go like this,” Hyunseung said.
“I’m more than confident. So, hey—Jayble—want to retire if you lose? Are you scared?”
“Are you scared?” Gye Jin-seong was convinced.
Behind that helmet lurked a face reminiscent of a movie villain, a cunning but mesmerizing antagonist. Not some silly Team Rocket–style villain, but a Smith from The Matrix, an elegant villain you can’t defeat. And Gye Jin-seong was partial to that brand of antagonist. Not just because they gave him sensational quotes, but because they had a seductive magnetism.
Everything about HS screamed:
- I’m a star-quality genius! I deserve to be so arrogant and confident!
Though the actual chart outcome with Jayble was still in doubt—most predicted a comfortable victory for Jayble. That’s how it looked now. But Gye Jin-seong found himself wishing for HS to win, sincerely.
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