Manager Kim arrived at the café well before the appointed time.
He’d already decided exactly what he would say—no more, no less.
All he had to do was recite those lines.
“Woohyun, you got here early.”
He looked up and saw Kim Wooseok smiling down at him.
“Ah—Manager, you’re here.”
After the perfunctory apology for being late, Wooseok pulled out his wallet, insisting the coffee was on him.
“I’ll get it this time, sir.”
“Really? Then one hot Americano for me.”
Manager Kim stopped him, went to the counter, and ordered two large Americanos—still wintery enough to want something warm—then returned.
Wooseok leaned back, shoulders practically swaggering.
“I was surprised you called so quickly. So—you’ve made up your mind?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked to meet.”
“Of course you have. There’s no future for you if you stay at LS Entertainment.”
The certainty in Wooseok’s voice was barely concealed triumph.
Why wouldn’t Kim accept? The contract he’d offered was flawless—an opportunity of a lifetime.
If, by chance, Kim refused, he planned to coach him until he said yes.
“First, thank you again for valuing me enough to make the offer.”
“Oh, come on! It’s because you’re talented, that’s all.”
Just then the coaster‑buzzer on the table rattled.
Kim excused himself, went to fetch the drinks.
Wooseok watched his back and tilted his head.
He’d been so sure of a yes… yet Kim’s face had been ice‑flat, his voice business‑like, posture rigid—every cue screaming no.
Impossible.
He told himself it was just nerves.
Kim set the tray down, took his seat.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he began, meeting Wooseok’s eyes.
“I appreciate the offer—but I’m going to decline.”
“…W‑wait. What?”
He’d imagined the possibility abstractly, but never dreamed it would be spoken aloud. The line he’d prepared—“Great, we’re on the same ship now”—evaporated.
For a heartbeat his thoughts stalled.
Then he loosened his tie and forced a smile.
“Woohyun, there’s no need to rush. Why not think it over a bit longer?”
“No matter how long I think, my answer won’t change. And I don’t want to waste your time.”
It stung, but Kim was worth chasing.
From the day Wooseok first met him, Kim’s eyes had burned with hunger. Sure enough, he’d clawed his way up to senior manager, spotting and grooming stars with uncanny instinct.
The contract’s salary—one‑and‑a‑half times his current pay—massive bonuses, no poison‑pill clauses, a starting title of Division Head… perfect on paper.
And yet that perfect paper had just become scrap.
“Is this because you can’t turn your back on Director Choi?”
Fine—if persuasion didn’t work, he’d needle Kim’s logic.
LS would never match these terms; surely cold reason would prevail.
“I know you’re loyal, but loyalty alone won’t keep you alive in this business.”
“I know very well how unforgiving it is,” Kim answered calmly.
“Exactly. You’re not a kid anymore. Don’t pick the path you’ll regret when you’re older.”
He slid the contract across the table again.
“Think only about your future right now.”
Kim stared at the pages.
He knew it was flawless—knew how bright a future it promised.
But—
On that brutal concrete battlefield, someone had once shared their rice bowl with him and offered shelter. He wasn’t the sort who could walk away from that, contract or no.
Call him naïve if they wished.
“Manager Kim, I chose this because I refuse to create regrets when I look back.”
“Then you should accept my offer. You know there’s no hope left for you over there.”
Kim pushed the contract back toward him.
“No. My hope is still there.”
He stood and gave a small bow.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you. I have another appointment. Goodbye.”
He walked out.
Behind him, Wooseok’s voice rose: “Hey! Woohyun!”
Kim did not turn.
Outside, he pressed speed‑dial 1—Gold Nugget lit up the screen.
“Hyunseung? The cafeteria’s serving something amazing today—want to grab lunch?”
Hiyori, a popular Japanese game streamer, was enjoying her pre‑broadcast ritual.
“Ah, this is so good…”
Hands cupping her cheeks, she fidgeted like a girl in love.
The reason? The song pouring through her headset—“Dear my Beethoven.”
At first she’d thought it was a new single by Japanese singer Shinnosuke.
Only after seeing Seo Jini’s cover did she learn it was the title track of a Korean composer’s solo album—by someone called HS.
Since then she’d been obsessed: listening to every track, tweeting daily recommendations, bringing it up on stream.
Originals are always best.
Asked to choose between the Japanese localized version and the Korean original, she’d pick Korean without hesitation. National borders meant nothing in the face of good music.
“His voice is insane…”
The song’s calm weight, the way Moon Beom‑jae’s vocal lifted it—it swallowed time itself.
Ping!
A forum post caught her eye:
“Everyone, at least listen to the new Animal Island season main OST!”
Right—Animal Island had just overhauled its soundtrack. The series was famous for good BGM; she herself had once lost days to it.
Now curiosity gnawed. She still had fifteen minutes before going live.
She searched “Animal Island OST” on NewTube.
A cutesy in‑game video played; music drifted out—spring, petals swirling.
“Oh…”
Now she understood the praise. As the track modulated from spring to summer, autumn, winter, it was Animal Island.
When the lush orchestra finally faded into distance, hollowness rushed in.
Back when she’d hidden on that island—escaping human contact—she’d felt a nameless chill after long play sessions.
This music gave that feeling a word: Void.
Reality must be lived; abandoning your worth to a virtual refuge breeds emptiness. She’d postponed that reckoning—run, hidden, pretended not to see.
Yet eventually she’d returned, endured, carried on.
Still, on hard days she longed to go back—to her warm, cozy island.
Happiness and emptiness: oil and water, yet inseparable. The brighter the joy, the sharper the void.
Meanwhile her stream had auto‑started, camera live.
↪Hiyori, do you know you’re on? you’ve been staring off forever…
↪ Is she crying? ;_;
↪ Maybe that song’s making her cry—new Animal Island OST
↪ Really? a grown‑up crying over BGM?
↪ No, I get it, it hits you somewhere…
Chat exploded, guessing at her tears, then pivoted to the composer.
↪ Who wrote this? let me bow in that direction…
↪ Face Korea and bow—composer is Korean, goes by HS!
Searches for “Composer HS” spiked across Japan, pushing the name into the top‑ten trends.
Unexpectedly, the name HS had begun spreading through Japan as well.
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