“Manager Oh, what in the world is going on here?”
Executive Director Park strode straight to Manager Oh and pressed him for an answer. His eyes swept the area and he added, half-scoffing:
“There’s no one here who’d greet them, so why are Team 2’s Manager and composer standing in our territory?”
“W-well, they suddenly barged in from Team 2 and started spouting nonsense, so…”
Manager Oh trailed off, lips clamped shut.
Yet Director Park hadn’t asked because he wanted a reply; from the snatches of talk he’d caught and the charged air in the room, he already had the gist.
He might not know every detail, but one thing was clear: something had happened that required checking the facts.
However—
Team 2, their rival, had marched into the very office he oversaw and was grilling them one-sidedly. If he kept quiet, it would end with Team 1 branded the guilty party.
That could not be.
“Manager Kim, you of all people—what are you doing trespassing on someone else’s turf?”
Touch his cubs and you touched him.
“And you, little fledgling composer over there.”
Director Park stepped toward Hyunseung, baring his teeth.
“Because everyone’s coddling you these days, did you think this company is a place anyone can just waltz in and stir up?”
“Executive Director, we meet quite often lately.”
“Let’s not muddy the point. This is hardly the time for cheery greetings.”
“Is that so? Since you’re here, I’ll stick to the point.”
Hyunseung spoke, the light in his eyes unwavering.
“I put the song I’d made for the spring season on a USB and gave it to Manager Kim to listen to. Whether by accident or design, the USB went missing.”
“And?”
“After that, when we’d finished recording and tried to pass it to the distributor, we heard Team 1 had sent in a track almost identical to mine just a few days earlier.”
“Kid, have you any proof our people took that USB?”
“No proof. But isn’t the timing a bit too—shall we say—fateful to be coincidence?”
His tone stayed flat.
“And the key issue here is plagiarism.”
Director Park’s brow twitched. Plagiarism was a sensitive matter; if Team 1 really had done it, the repercussions could be huge.
“You toss the word plagiarism far too lightly. With hundreds of songs released daily, a few similar bars don’t make a theft. By that measure all art is imitation.”
“True. But a man of your standing could judge the moment he hears it. Care to compare the two right now?”
Suddenly Director Park barked, half a shout:
“No—the comparison’s unnecessary! For all we know your side copied ours.”
“Indeed. From the perspective of Team 1’s head, that makes perfect sense.”
Eyes closed, Hyunseung nodded, even adding an “Mm” as though sincerely empathizing.
“I don’t think it wrong that you protect your own bowl and care for your team. At times I find it impressive.”
Then his gaze flashed, cold and sharp.
“But I won’t just watch while someone eyes my bowl. That’s why I came.”
It wasn’t mere copyright or money that made Hyunseung react so emotionally. Losing one track wouldn’t wreck his life or cause a scandal.
However, it was the piece Jung Arin had bled to record, desperate to earn his approval. The instrument that had grown so much in a year deserved protection.
This song, once registered at the Copyright Association, had to bear “Jung Arin” as vocalist.
Hyunseung relaxed his stare and spread a palm.
“Can you hide the sky with your hand? I hope you judge wisely and settle this soon.”
And the added:
“You told me family should help each other, didn’t you, Director? I’d hate to see kin who share the same cafeteria end up in court.”
Leaving only those playful yet barbed words, he exited.
A chill wind whipped through Team 1’s office after Hyunseung swept out.
“Hah… that rude little brat.”
Director Park loosened his tie with a deep sigh.
“So the song Team 2 claims we plagiarized—that’s ‘spring ending’, right?”
Team 1’s in-house composer, Hyun Tae-u—author of “spring ending”—answered in a voice that shrank to nothing.
“Y-yes, sir…”
Watching him, Director Park’s feelings tangled. The way Tae-u kept his head ducked and shoulders drawn screamed guilt.
Above all, Min Hyunseung might always look insolent, yet he had never once issued a direct threat. Even when Park had interfered with Jung Arin or Man Records, the man had stayed cool, indifferent.
For such a person to storm into Team 1 and bare his fangs…
It might be Min Hyunseung’s final warning.
Yes.
In Park’s view, Hyunseung was sharp and composed—never someone to act on a whim. He must have certainty.
Certainty of plagiarism.
Lost in thought, Director Park forced his lips open.
“Tae-u, let me ask straight.”
He set heavy hands on the composer’s shoulders, almost patting.
“‘spring ending’—did you write it entirely on your own?”
“Well, I…”
“A man of your caliber has no reason to plagiarize.”
Tae-u’s lips stayed clamped. The longer the silence, the fiercer the tide of unease.
“Why no answer? Surely you wouldn’t steal a song from some upstart who’s only just getting buzz? Right?”
His grip made Tae-u’s body sway like paper.
“Say one word that you didn’t plagiarize and I’ll overturn every accusation.”
At last Tae-u dropped his head.
“Really…”
Mouth trembling, he whispered,
“I’m sorry…”
So faint as to be an ant’s murmur, yet everyone heard. Because it must never be uttered, the shock doubled.
“Really, I’m so sorry…”
It was the only thing he could say.
“You little—!”
Manager Oh lunged, grabbed Tae-u by the collar.
“How could you even think of plagiarizing— and from an in-house composer!”
Shaking him, he snarled,
“Still call yourself a staff writer? Do you know how sensitive LS is about copyright?”
“I swear I didn’t know it was his! I found a USB in the restroom, checked it out of curiosity—the files were untitled, only a humming guide, so I thought it was a demo. I never meant to plagiarize…”
Hearing that, Manager Oh’s face darkened crimson.
“That’s your excuse? Demos are free game? From someone who makes music?”
“You know my slump—haven’t produced a solid track in a year. With Team 1’s numbers down, I just wanted to help… I guess I lost my head…”
Thwack—
Manager Oh slapped the table, advanced in two strides, fist quivering.
“Don’t blame the team! You just wanted a comeback!”
His fist hovered—
“Manager Oh, enough.”
Director Park stepped between.
“Sir? We can’t let this go. He must pay—”
“Yelling won’t undo what’s done. Call the distributor and cancel the release date.”
Director Oh’s lingering fury ebbed into confusion at Director Park’s strangely calm face. This man protected his own fiercely, yet now sounded almost easygoing.
LS Entertainment handled copyright with surgical care—even canceled contracts and froze royalties when plagiarism arose.
Plagiarizing a fellow in-house composer’s song? Like theft inside police HQ.
“You know how sensitive LS is. If this reaches upstairs, everyone on the project could be liable.”
“It will reach them anyway, now that Manager Kim knows. I’ll take care of that. You handle the cancellation.”
Manager Oh’s turmoil ended with that brief order. Was it really enough? But confronted with Park’s steely yet hollow eyes, he could ask no more.
Clomp, clomp—
Director Park turned without farewell, headed for the door.
At the threshold he halted.
“Team 1.”
Without turning back, without moving.
“Please… let’s compete on skill.”
He spoke to the door.
“I’m not just disappointed—I’m hurt.”
Leaving those last words, he stepped out.
“Those kids…”
Standing in the empty hallway, Director Park gave a bitter smile.
“Compete on skill? Coming from Park?”
“Everyone knows he swiped the document meant for HS…”
“He should try competing fair himself.”
“Bet he’s not upset, just ashamed.”
The words that had leaked from Team 1’s office echoed in his ears.
Not some rival team—his own people’s naked hearts.
Of course subordinates seldom adore a boss; yet facing their true feelings was far from pleasant.
Even so, Park did not grab the doorknob, did not turn back.
Clomp, clomp—
He walked alone down the bare corridor.
With a heavy heart, Director Park escaped to a bar he frequented in Cheongdam-dong.
“Your usual VIP room is ready.”
The maître d’ rushed out to greet him. Following in, Park found the discreet VIP lounge.
A table large enough for five grown men stretched at the center, laden with expensive liquor and fruit platters—perfect for greedy deals and favors.
Yes.
It had taken thirty years to sit in the prime seat of such a room. He had clawed his way here.
Born into poverty, that poverty kept trying to rule his life—from making simple friends to studying freely.
It cornered the prideful, competitive young man into a corner called “inferiority complex.” Yet he would not let it devour him.
Instead he fed on it, growing with dogged tenacity.
He quit school and dove into entertainment just to earn money—it looked flashy at least. Inside, it was a jungle.
No predecessor taught him; every face was a competitor. He had to sniff out work alone.
In midsize agencies, departments weren’t even separate; one handled everything by brute force.
Saying “I’m tired” was itself too exhausting.
Watching colleagues moan they’d die from fatigue, he vowed he never would. He believed the moment he uttered those words, he’d lose.
People asked why he pushed so hard, scolding under the guise of concern. As he rose, even that fake concern vanished—only fingers pointing: an arrogant brute driven by pride, stealing any bowl he could.
So what?
To escape poverty, to fill his own bowl, he worked like a dog—what was wrong with that? Their scorn sprang from their own inferiority.
Unlike them, he conquered his complex, rose up, and now could sip costly liquor alone in this grand room—because he had worked like hell.
Yes, like hell.
“Phew…”
The drink tasted especially bitter. Or was it? Rolling it on his tongue, he sensed a faint sweetness.
At fifty, he wondered: is this the flavor of life?
Bitter, yet with a vanishing hint of sweet.
People suffer the long bitterness for that fleeting taste of sweet—wasn’t that life?
“So what flavor is my life now?”
He felt himself walking through a long, lonely, bitter tunnel.
“Those bastards…”
He had been there from LS Entertainment’s start, had built Team 1 with his own hands.
Yet perhaps the construction was shoddy; a pebble had struck, cracks were spreading.
“Compete on skill? From Park? Please.”
He’d tried to be the leader who, if not warm, at least filled his people’s bowls—because he himself had never had such a boss.
He had used any means so Team 1’s rice wouldn’t be stolen; even stole others’ bowls to feed his own.
He believed his team understood; was that too much to expect?
An immense, nameless disappointment welled up—yet felt like his destined retribution.
“Hyun Tae-u, picking up only the bad habits…”
With a wry smile he lifted the glass.
The words of his staff and Tae-u whirled in his head. Was he truly a good manager? Where had it gone wrong? He knew the answer.
Last year—when Team 2’s numbers first surpassed Team 1’s.
It wasn’t that Team 1 lacked; Team 2 had excelled. Yet he told himself it was because his side lacked HS.
From that instant, everything warped.
Clink—
Ice dropped into the glass with a clear note.
“Hm.”
He filled it, swirled; a small vortex spun.
Room, glass, expensive liquor—yet no one’s glass to clink.
“Heh, my life…”
It was a night that felt painfully empty.
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