In the end, Hyunseung went with Taichi to a nearby Korean restaurant.
“This is why I love Korean cuisine. The dishes are laid out so beautifully and neatly, almost like a painting.”
Taichi looked at the food before him with an expression of pure excitement.
“I hope it suits your taste.”
Hyunseung’s reply was concise. After that, only the clattering of utensils and the occasional sound of sipping tea filled the room.
He’s really enjoying the food…
When Taichi first suggested they go eat, Hyunseung had assumed Taichi would try to talk more about their potential collaboration. But completely absorbed in the meal, Taichi only let out little murmurs of appreciation like “Mmm” as he devoured every bite.
Clack—
Only after finishing even the ice cream dessert did Taichi finally set down his utensils. He raised his head, looking truly satisfied.
“It seems the food really agreed with you.”
“Yes, it was the most delicious meal I’ve had in Korea.”
“That’s good to hear.”
After dabbing his lips with a napkin, Hyunseung added,
“Well then, may I ask you something?”
“Yes, anything.”
“Why did you make me such an extraordinary proposal for collaboration?”
Hyunseung was confident in his own ability, but the contract he’d skimmed earlier contained a generosity so blatant that even a layperson could see it was unusually favorable. Initially, he figured that since Seojini was all the rage in Japan, the people at Man Records had naturally come across Hyunseung’s music and taken a liking to it.
Yet somehow…
That alone didn’t seem sufficient to explain the situation—like a family movie missing a major plot point, or a mystery novel that ends without clarifying the culprit’s motive. He was curious about the real reason the head of a company as large as Man Records had become so fixated on him.
“It’s hard to believe you’d give me such an offer just because you found my music interesting. The contract was full of obvious goodwill.”
“Even so, you didn’t accept it on the spot. If you wish, I can show you even greater goodwill.”
“That wasn’t my goal. I’ve learned to be cautious of kindness when I can’t quite figure out the motive behind it.”
Their gazes met in midair. In the sudden silence, Taichi recalled the first moment he learned about a composer named “HS.”
“Just recently, a young man gave me a clue.”
It was the day he went to fix the “contrabass” that had been troubling an old friend. As soon as his friend mentioned that some young man had perfectly tuned the instrument by ear, a series of questions started linking up in Taichi’s mind.
He mulled over the name “HS,” which the young man had supposedly left with his friend. A music major, no doubt—someone with the skill to perform flawless “by-ear” tuning, a feat few would ever attempt. It might even be someone Taichi already knew in passing, he thought.
And then, all those thoughts vanished the moment he heard Seojini’s song playing in a bar.
Madman.
Suddenly, Taichi thought of the word madman. Even just the enchanting melody—painstakingly carved and sculpted to fit the singer’s voice—was enough to confirm that whoever wrote it was indeed a madman.
And—
Taichi himself had once been a madman. That was in his relatively younger days. He had zero interest in how the world worked, what gossip circulated, or how much money sat in his bank account.
His life revolved solely around instruments and composition. Even in his sleep, his hands would move as if gripping a bow or playing the keyboard; upon waking, all he did was capture the musical ideas that sprang to mind.
By nature, so-called “mad geniuses” pay no attention to trivial matters outside their work.
Also—
At some point, mad geniuses inevitably reap the reward of their devotion. It’s like the decay of a cavity in the workshop of time—only with plenty of interest added on top.
Taichi was no exception.
He had already amassed considerable returns. He became the owner of a company valued at hundreds of billions of won, occupied an entire building for its headquarters, owned a Rolls-Royce sedan, pricey watches, and equipment worth tens of millions of won.
He truly loved others who were like himself—mad geniuses. He believed that they deserved to be rewarded. If God truly existed, that was only right. After all, it’s mad geniuses who push the world forward.
“When I happened to hear one of your songs, this is what I thought.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought you were a madman—completely obsessed with music.”
The word madman was a bit blunt, but it wasn’t exactly wrong.
“Then I thought this,”
he said, folding his arms and hesitating before he finally spoke:
“Among the young composers of our time, someone is bound to achieve great success. I can’t pinpoint who exactly, but someone will eventually earn massive glory—like topping Oricon, winning a Grammy, or conquering Billboard.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure.”
“When I listened to your madman-like track, I told myself: If any up-and-coming composer of this generation is going to succeed, it absolutely has to be you. It can’t be anyone else—no, it has to be you.”
Hyunseung sympathized with the sentiment, though he didn’t fully understand. He was determined to rewrite history all over again—this time, in a good way, not a bad one.
“Why do you think that?”
Taichi just gave a faint smile instead of answering. Why indeed? Even he didn’t truly know. Particularly when he heard HS’s latest title track, everything in his mind just froze in awe.
It was the song he’d been waiting for all this time—listening to countless songs day after day, desperately hunting for it, like searching for an oasis in a vast desert.
A song as mesmerizing as “Dear my Beethoven,” one capable of upending the entire landscape of music! And the one who wrote it would be a dogged, obsessive, single-minded fool who creates nothing but such songs—like a captain who could lead a ship through the rocky reefs just when the music market seemed on the verge of collapse.
“I’m one of those who actually witnessed Michael Jackson’s rise in the ‘80s with my own eyes.”
“If only I’d been born in that era and could’ve seen that for myself.”
“I felt that same rush of excitement when I heard the title track you composed.”
And he became certain that the young composer sitting across from him was exactly the person he’d been seeking. He coveted him—but not in a way that involved grabbing and forcing him into submission.
A genius, by nature, must be free. Rather than be shackled like a machine, they should be allowed to choose projects that truly intrigue and excite them, for only then do they produce their best work.
“If waiting is necessary, I’ll wait.”
“As long as needed?”
“Yes, as long as it takes.”
A moment of silence.
“Would it be presumptuous if I offered one piece of advice?”
Hyunseung nodded. Ordinarily, now was the time for the usual sweet talk or coercive threats disguised as advice, phrases like, “This could change your life—if you let it slip away, you’ll regret it,” or something even more ominous.
“In the end, I’m just looking to lay my spoon lightly atop the success you’ll inevitably attain. I guarantee that even if you don’t collaborate with Man Records, good opportunities will come your way.”
But Taichi’s words were the opposite of what a typical businessman might say.
“This isn’t a business for you. It’s a business purely for my own sake. If at some point someone in this industry comes along with a ‘business proposal for your sake’…”
Another silence.
“Please stay away from them. Based on my experience, it’s typically the greed-filled hypocrisy of those types that ends up holding a genius back.”
It was certainly not what you’d expect from a businessman. If he were truly driven by confidence and profit, he wouldn’t be speaking in such a mild tone. He’d be whipping out lines like a home-shopping host—“This deal won’t last forever!”—to make Hyunseung anxious.
However—
Paradoxically, it was also very much the savvy approach of a businessman. Those heartfelt words, that sincerity, gave Taichi a human warmth. Of course, no contract is signed based on sentiment or goodwill alone.
“I’ll heed your advice, senior.”
But then—
“I hope we can meet again from time to time.”
He felt there might be more intersections between them. In the industry, intersections mean possibility—as long as there’s the slightest point of contact, you can always say collaboration remains possible.
Moreover, the terms proposed by Man Records were immensely satisfying. Saying he’d “review it positively” was simply a hold, not a rejection. It was a great opportunity—he just wanted to be careful in his approach.
“Thank you for saying that.”
Taichi’s first impression was wonderful. Hyunseung had been deceived by first impressions multiple times over his two lifetimes, but this time, he thought, Well, I’ve been duped so often that being fooled one more time doesn’t really matter.
A silence ensued.
As he sipped the still-steaming tea, one thought came to mind:
A truly satisfying meal.
“Hyunseung!”
After finishing his meal with Taichi and returning, Hyunseung was immediately summoned to Director Choi’s private office.
“Why so many texts? I haven’t even had my post-lunch coffee yet.”
“Come in, say hello, and have a seat. I’ll buy you coffee on the way out.”
Hyunseung scratched the back of his head and greeted Director Choi, who was already seated.
“We meet again today. Have you had lunch, Director?”
“Yes, I did. You too, I take it?”
“Yes, I had a good meal. Taichi did as well.”
“I’ve got a lot of questions, so why don’t you come in and sit?”
Following his words, Hyunseung promptly claimed a spot on the sofa.
“I imagine you two talked more about the collaboration over lunch?”
Director Choi couldn’t hide his curiosity.
“No, we just chatted about random things.”
“Only small talk?”
“There’s plenty of time to discuss business.”
Director Choi and Manager Kim simultaneously had the same question on their minds: So, does that mean he’s considering it positively? After briefly exchanging glances, Director Choi cleared his throat and asked carefully,
“Any idea when you’ll make a decision?”
It was clearly a proposal big enough to shape his entire career as a composer. The company as well—LS Entertainment, along with Director Choi and Manager Kim—stood to gain quite a bit if Hyunseung accepted.
“Not sure.”
After pondering for a moment, Hyunseung replied,
“I plan to think it over once this album issue is behind me.”
By “this album issue,” it was obvious he meant his wager with Jayble. Much as Director Choi wanted to blurt out, Just sign the contract already, he showed superhuman restraint and bit his tongue.
People in their twenties are notoriously unpredictable. You never know when he might suddenly decide to put pen to paper, and pressuring him might only spark defiance. Besides, Min Hyunseung wasn’t a typical twenty-something.
“A twenty-something who achieved massive success thanks to his genius…”
He decided to proceed more cautiously.
“Right—better to clear out the thorn in your side first.”
He couldn’t hide his regret. After Director Choi spoke and clicked his tongue in contemplation, Hyunseung, as if he’d read the man’s mind, casually added a few more words.
“I still have to look over the contract details and the work specifics, but if it even seems the least bit interesting, I’ll probably do it.”
Yes, Hyunseung always pursued what was fun. “Because it seems fun,” “Isn’t it fun?”—fun, fun, fun. No matter how favorable the terms or how certain the success, if he didn’t genuinely want to do it out of interest, he would never do it.
That was simply how Hyunseung was.
But Director Choi didn’t mind that aspect. He knew Hyunseung’s choice was based on fun, yet his performance was never flippant or careless. And the results of those projects chosen based on fun had always been spectacular.
However—
The only real question was what “fun” meant to him. To someone else, “fun” might be a promise of big money. For others, it might be the security of guaranteed success. But what did he mean by fun?
“I can’t exactly open up his head to find out.”
Just then, Manager Kim interjected unexpectedly.
“Hyunseung, have you considered taking a more strategic approach?”
Hyunseung’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Strategic?”
After a nod and a quick “Yeah,” Mv Kim revealed his thoughts.
“If just a few articles came out saying that collaboration with Man Records was confirmed, wouldn’t that give us the upper hand? It’s something that’s never happened before, and LS has plenty of marketing channels we can leverage…”
Looking at his own nails, Hyunseung answered,
“No.”
Then, sounding somewhat exasperated, he went on,
“We’re going to win anyway—why bother?”
“But it would still—”
“It’s petty and tacky.”
At that, Director Choi broke into a smile.
“Alright, I respect that.”
Manager Kim protested, “Director!” He’d been hoping for Director Choi to back him up, but Choi made no attempt to persuade Hyunseung and simply took the composer’s side. That felt like betrayal.
“Fine, we’ll let the results speak for themselves.”
“Yes, now off you go.”
“Have a good one.”
With a slight bow, Hyunseung left the office at once. Manager Kim loosened the tie that was choking his neck and asked,
“Director Choi! If we don’t even try to convince him, why…?”
Director Choi shook his head.
“Manager Kim, have you learned nothing after working beside Min Hyunseung for so long?”
“I… guess not?”
“You really think that ‘loose cannon’ would just say, ‘Yes, sir. I’ll do that,’ after a few words from us?”
Then, gazing at the door Hyunseung had just exited, Director Choi said,
“If I were to describe that kid, I’d say he’s like Sun Wukong—”
“The Monkey King?”
“Exactly. A bolt of thunder, impossible to control.”
Director Choi inhaled the aroma of his coffee before continuing leisurely.
“And unfortunately for us, we’re not Buddhas.”
Manager Kim let out a small sigh. It was true. Handling a runaway car from Seoul to Busan might be simpler than dealing with Hyunseung.
“Director, just please—don’t end up hating Hyunseung.”
“Hating him? Why would I? If anything, I admire him.”
They fell silent for a moment.
“I’m envious of him—his fickleness, his stubbornness, that unpredictability. All of it’s part of being young, isn’t it? It makes me a bit wistful. Why couldn’t I live like him back when I was that age…?”
Director Choi trailed off with a hearty laugh. He already knew the answer. In his youth, he simply didn’t have the brilliant, envy-inspiring talent that Min Hyunseung possessed.
Knock, knock, knock—
A steady knock came from beyond the office door.
“I have something urgent to report…”
It was Team Leader Gwak from PR. Whatever the urgency, he’d rushed all the way to the director’s office, sweating profusely.
“It looks like things are unfolding in a strange way…”
“What do you mean?” Director Choi asked, face filled with surprise.
“Take a look.”
Team Leader Gwak thrust the tablet he’d been carrying at him. Director Choi donned the silver half-rimmed glasses from his pocket and looked at the screen.
[Exclusive! Man Records CEO Taichi Sakamoto’s First Official Interview in Korea]
He narrowed his eyes at the bold headline bearing Taichi’s name.
– Taichi expressed his regret, saying, “The music market these days is going backward…”
– Asked if there were any up-and-coming composers on his radar, he named “HS,” adding, “I believe HS will breathe new life into this declining music market…”
– He even stated that he’d come to Korea specifically to discuss a business arrangement with “HS.”
After a brief snort, Director Choi let out a low, astonished laugh.
“Wow, this….”
He hesitated for a second before elaborating,
“Min Hyunseung does it again.”
Manager Kim nodded in agreement.
“Yes, indeed…”
Everything was happening exactly as Director Choi had put it:
“Hyunseung is being Hyunseung, yet again…”
And the tide was beginning to turn in his favor.
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