Early in the morning, Taichi retrieved the suit he had sent out for cleaning and put it on. He also fastened the tie clip he only wore on important occasions, then checked his reflection in the mirror.
He lightly straightened his coat and grabbed his daily morning vegetable juice. Taking a large gulp, he opened a book titled Basic Beginner’s Korean with his free hand.
“An… annyeonghaseyo?”
He circled around his suite muttering “annyeonghaseyo” over and over, until he finished the entire can of juice. This was a phrase Korean people used so naturally, but for Taichi, who’d never studied the language, it wasn’t easy to pronounce fluently right away.
Ring, ring, ring—!
He tossed the empty juice can into the trash and was about to leave his room when his phone screen lit up, revealing a call from one of his company’s executives.
—President, you’re still in Korea, right?
The moment he answered, a tense voice came through.
“Yes, that’s correct. Is something wrong?”
—Well, I’d say there is a problem. Paperwork is piling up on your desk.
“Oh dear, that certainly is problematic. But wouldn’t it be fine if Director Kinjirou—my predecessor—handled the approvals on my behalf? What do you think?”
Taichi answered with faux innocence, stole a glance at his wristwatch, and stepped out into the hallway.
—Stop with the nonsense, please. Hasn’t the contract with HS already been finalized?
“Yes, that’s true.”
—Then rather than staying in Korea, wouldn’t it be better to dispatch a representative and have you return to Japan?
“Hm, sorry, I can’t hear well because I’m in the elevator.”
—You’re lying. South Korea is an IT powerhouse; even in the middle of nowhere, phone signals are strong.
Taichi mumbled under his breath, “He’s not buying it,” and let out a quiet chuckle.
Kinjirou, who had to act in the president’s stead during Taichi’s absence, was on the verge of losing his mind. The backlog of paperwork and delicate agendas piling up was becoming unmanageable.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to return to Japan for a while.”
—Don’t joke like that.
“While I’m gone, I’m counting on you to do well as my stand-in for Man Records.”
—Don’t tell me you plan to participate in the project yourself?
“I’m just an old relic, so I doubt I can be of much use. But I could at least help with prepping the ingredients, right?”
Silence fell on the other end of the line. Kinjirou couldn’t find any words to reply. To him, Taichi wasn’t just the company president but also a longtime colleague—someone with whom he’d done music for over 30 years, someone who had helped build Man Records from the ground up.
They were close enough to joke around and had shared work and personal lives, trusting each other deeply. Kinjirou was the one person Taichi could count on to run things in his absence.
Yet from Kinjirou’s perspective, Taichi’s behavior made no sense. HS’s music? Sure, Kinjirou himself agreed it was practically perfect and that HS was a talent worth coveting—someone Man Records would gladly welcome with open arms if he wanted to collaborate.
However—
For the representative, the face of Man Records, to not only travel abroad to see some young composer in person, but also propose working directly on the project together—this was beyond normal procedure.
“Kinjirou, as a friend, I’m asking you. I won’t return until HS’s work is finished.”
It wasn’t often that Taichi dropped formal language, but here he was speaking casually, indicating just how serious he was. He had no intention of backing down.
—How long do you think that might take?
“Until a perfect piece that satisfies me is completed. Didn’t Man Records originally pride itself on not setting deadlines for creative work?”
Once again, Kinjirou’s lips clamped shut. Sakamoto Taichi was someone who would never compromise or back down when it came to music. People called him a genius, but that was a label used by those who didn’t really know him. Natural talent was just his foundation.
On top of that foundation was his relentless pursuit of perfection, his obsessive passion, and a near-manic compulsiveness that allowed him to be called a “musical maestro.” He was the quintessential “hardworking genius” everyone dreamed of becoming but almost no one ever could.
Now that this man had declared he wouldn’t come back until a “perfect piece” was complete, it effectively meant he could go on for months—or years—until he could listen to the final result and hear not a single flaw. That’s how he’d end a project.
Who knew what kind of colossal masterpiece he intended to create?
But they couldn’t just let him idly tinker on piano keys indefinitely. Taichi was, after all, a CEO with responsibilities. Man Records needed him.
—Are you going through a second adolescence? At least consider some alternative arrangement…
“Ah, looks like I’ll be late. I’ve got to get to work. Let’s wrap this up.”
Click—
He ended the call abruptly, ignoring Kinjirou’s imploring tone. Though he felt guilty dumping everything on him, he had no intention of changing his mind.
And Kinjirou, once he heard HS’s new work, would likely understand why Taichi insisted on being right there to see it unfold. He might even complain, “Why didn’t you bring me along?”
Tap, tap, tap…
Taichi was heading outside to the waiting limousine when he seemed to remember something. “Ah,” he muttered, turning around.
“Annyeonghaseyo?”
That was what he said to the front desk. Admittedly, he followed it with words in English:
“I’m staying in Suite 2907, but it seems I’ll be lodging here longer than planned. Could I extend the reservation by about three weeks?”
Then he pulled out a black card—an emblem of wealth—from his wallet.
“No matter the cost, I’d like to pay in full.”
“Annyeonghaseyo?”
“Yes?”
“Oraenmanni-desu?”
“Pardon?”
These were the first words Taichi and Hyunseung exchanged when they met that day. Due to Taichi’s awkward Korean accent, an uneasy tension briefly filled the air.
“You’ve been studying Korean, I see.”
“Yes, but so far I’ve only learned two phrases.”
“We can speak in Japanese if it’s easier for you.”
“I believe it’s important for me to speak some Korean if we’re to communicate more smoothly. I want us to have a strong rapport.”
“I can handle Japanese, English, and Korean just fine, so please feel free to speak however you like. Anyway, shall we head to my studio first?”
Hyunseung led the way through the LS Entertainment building. The spacious lobby was bustling with employees moving briskly, lending the interior a lively atmosphere.
At least, that was the case until the two of them walked in together.
The moment Taichi and Hyunseung entered the lobby, it was as if time froze. Everyone fell silent and stopped in their tracks. Someone could be heard gasping, “Huh?”
Hyunseung, having become popular enough within the company that some female employees had joined his fan café, already drew plenty of attention on his own. But seeing the CEO of Man Records, Taichi, gliding through LS Entertainment’s main hall at his side was something else entirely—a sight that made just about anyone pause.
“Let’s go.”
Hyunseung, uncomfortable with all the stares, hurried them into the elevator.
Ding—!
The doors opened, and with a few quick strides, they were already in front of Hyunseung’s studio.
“We’re here.”
Taichi took in the exterior from a step behind him. A thick, soundproof door was set into the wall, and next to it was a small sign:
songwriter. HS
Silently, Taichi read those words. “Songwriter?” In his mind, HS seemed more profound—a musician with inborn talent. Maybe it should say “musician. HS” or “artist. HS.”
“It’s a bit cramped, but please come in.”
Caught up in those idle musings, Taichi followed Hyunseung inside.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“That’d be nice.”
“Please, make yourself at home on the couch.”
While Hyunseung prepared the coffee, Taichi looked around. Compared to the studios at Man Records, this room was small and spartan, but he appreciated that it housed more real instruments than electronic gear.
He spotted not just acoustic and electric guitars, but a bass, drum kit, violin, viola, contrabass, haegeum, djembe, marimba… Could he play all these himself?
“Do you play all these instruments personally, or are they for session musicians?”
“They’re all instruments I intend to play myself.”
“Did you major in instrument performance?”
“The principles are similar across most instruments. Once you figure out how to hold them and produce sound, you can play. I hear you can play almost any instrument as well, Taichi, right? You understand where I’m coming from.”
Taichi blinked, speechless. That might be true for people with extraordinary musical gifts like Taichi, but it wasn’t something just anyone could do.
Regular folks shed blood and tears to barely play decently. By now, any serious instrumentalist who heard Hyunseung’s nonchalant words would be tearing their hair out. Then again, for someone who once “tuned a contrabass by ear for fun,” maybe it made sense.
“Oh, by the way, would you like a quick listen to the intro for the Animal Island OST I’ve been thinking of?”
Taichi smiled.
“Sure.”
Hyunseung sat at his console.
“Just a moment. It’s all in my head still.”
“Take your time.”
Taichi looked on. “An intro that’s just in his head, but you only need to wait a second?” he marveled silently. And sure enough, as if to prove the possibility, Hyunseung’s hands soon came to a stop.
“Want to hear it?”
Before Taichi could answer, there was a “click,” and gentle piano notes played through the studio speakers. The melody warmed the air, and in just over a minute, it ended all too soon.
“May I add a bit to that?”
“By all means, it’d be an honor.”
If it felt lacking, Taichi would just add a little seasoning. He set his hands on the master keyboard. Though he’d never abandoned music, he’d been stuck doing paperwork so often that his fingertips felt a little rusty.
Tup, tup, tup…
After a few taps, his sense of instinct reawakened. Carefully, he keyed in some chords on the master keyboard, aiming to keep the piano’s warm ambiance intact.
“Shall we try blending our sections?”
Once again, Hyunseung didn’t respond verbally—he just hit the space bar to play the track. The melody became richer, forming a decent intro.
“Ah!”
While Taichi, eyes closed, was savoring that added warmth, Hyunseung suddenly reacted. An idea seemed to have struck him, and he began rummaging through virtual instrument plugins with the mouse.
He threw on a headset as if to get serious, his fingers dancing across the master keyboard. He was brimming with energy.
“Hmm, that doesn’t quite fit. I’ll remove it.”
“Feels out of sync with the rest.”
“I think a lower register would blend better.”
He was muttering as though collaborating with someone, sometimes scrapping entire sections or replacing them with more appropriate instruments—whatever it took to capture the right sound with virtual instruments.
How many bits had been scrapped by now?
As Taichi watched, he felt mounting awe. The melody gradually took shape, and it was excellent. But more than that, every segment Hyunseung tossed aside alone could probably be re-sampled, turned into a masterpiece, and generate a fortune. It was like child’s play to him.
“Goodness…”
Taichi ran a hand over his face in something between a sigh and a smile. His expectations of Hyunseung suddenly felt laughably small. I thought I’d already grown accustomed to surprises, but watching him at work feels almost scary.
“How about this overall vibe? It’s not done, needs more tweaking.”
“So this track—I mean, you created it now, just from the bits we jammed out?”
Hyunseung nodded, his expression as guileless as ever, as if wondering why Taichi was making such a big deal about it.
“Even though it’s incomplete, if it’s already this good, there’s nothing else to check.”
“So, does that mean I’ve passed your test?”
“You had a free pass ever since you introduced the harpsichord.”
“I just did that because it seemed fun, but thanks for thinking it was good.”
With a quick dip of his head, Hyunseung continued,
“By the way, there are so many instruments that it’d be tough to record everything myself. The piece really depends on how the instruments breathe together.”
“Then there’s no need to worry. I’ll bring in the best orchestra for the recording so you can capture the finest performance.”
For this bright young genius, the only support Taichi could offer was money.
“I’ll provide perfect support until your new work is complete.”
Because anything more than that would just get in the way of genius.
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