CEO Kim Hyoseop showed up at the office before dawn and started cleaning.
“Man, this place just never looks clean, no matter how much I scrub. The building’s too old….”
The members who arrived later offered to help, yet nothing looked noticeably better.
While silently wiping a table, Ahn Jiho shot a half-sarcastic question with a displeased face.
“Do we really need to go this far just because that guy’s coming?”
“He’s an important guest. It wouldn’t hurt if the place looks neat.”
The youngest, Lee Chanyoung, added a sullen remark.
“It’s not like he said he’d give us a song if the place shines.”
CEO Kim pressed his lips together and stared at the floor, stained by years of footsteps.
Jiho knew he should read the CEO’s feelings and inject hope and energy into the team, but the words stuck in his throat.
After all…
HS had promised them a song, and the track he’d poured his heart into had been pushed aside for it.
Watching the office being turned upside down for a spring-clean felt downright irritating.
Of course, Jiho understood HS was the hottest composer around.
Everyone said so; even critics hailed him as a revolutionary out to reform the music scene.
Jiho himself had been moved more than once by HS’s songs.
Still, that was that, and this was different.
Why would someone like him suddenly…
Ever since he’d heard HS would give a song to “The Moon,” Jiho had kept chewing on the notion.
Why would a top composer bother writing for an idol group from another agency?
Suspicion set in.
Since entering the industry, Jiho had gained not only skill but also debt and distrust.
Smooth-talking scammers had once taken his money, promising stardom.
Even after debuting, investors had double-crossed the group more than once.
So the distrust never left him.
Was it really HS who’d contacted them? Maybe it was a prank.
Maybe they’d be handed a recycled track stitched together from old samples because they looked pathetic.
Chanyoung, the maknae, probably couldn’t trust the promise either.
Who am I to talk…
Lost in guilt-tinged thoughts, Jiho snapped back when the CEO called him.
“Jiho.”
“I’ll finish up here,” the boss said. “You go run through the songs with the guys.”
Sensing the mood, Choi Jeonghyuk hustled the members toward the practice room.
“Right, let’s go make the most of the time and rehearse!”
Joo Woomin locked arms with him, pulling Jiho and Chanyoung along.
“Hey, the composer always wears a helmet on TV. Think he’ll keep it on today?”
“Come on, who would wear that to a private meeting? I’d suffocate.”
As they walked, Jeonghyuk proposed a bet.
“Wanna wager on the helmet?”
“Loser treats at Kimbap Cheon-guk?”
They loved little bets. Jiho scolded them for being childish, but they ignored him.
“Deal! I bet he’ll wear it.”
“I bet he won’t.”
Even Jiho and Chanyoung were curious who would win, though they hid it.
Inside the cramped, shabby practice studio, the members lined up automatically.
A flickering yellow, fluorescent bulb hung overhead.
Jiho thought, All right, let’s impress him properly.
“If we start a cappella, we can tighten the blend first.”
If HS acknowledged their own song and skills, who knew?
Maybe they could keep Jiho’s track as the title and have HS produce it.
With HS’s name, marketing would be a breeze.
The members clasped their hands, found each other’s eyes, and focused on breathing.
Tap, tap, tap—their feet set the count, and each part flowed in.
“Because you’re here, I exist. Without you, I lose my outline.”
Chanyoung’s warm tone opened, passing smoothly to Woomin’s calm baritone.
“I’ll stay here guarding you. Any time, come find me.”
The chorus core alternated Choi Jeonghyuk’s light tenor and Jiho’s husky voice.
“When you want to cry, or laugh, will you tell me anytime?”
Singing, Jiho glimpsed his reflection and thought he looked truly happy.
He was happy. Even without an instrumental, their voices were melody itself.
The song was “Sanctuary.”
It had taken a full year to craft, written with the fans in mind—especially precious to Jiho.
He believed in it.
Honestly, he didn’t want to give up the title slot to anyone else’s composition.
“To the one whose mere existence lets me live, I want to give everything.”
Just as the last line finished—
Knock, knock, knock.
All heads turned toward the door.
“Guys, the composer’s here.”
A tall man leaned casually against the frame, helmet and all.
“Hi.”
The bet’s winner was Choi Jeonghyuk.
Hyunseung had been watching them sing from the hall.
He’d also watched the fan-cams their fandom had sent him.
Just as Manager Kim said, their skill wasn’t bad.
No outstanding “instrument,” but with tuning and ensemble work, they could sound respectable.
His own ears had just confirmed it.
“Better than I expected.”
After a long silence, he spoke calmly.
Kim Hyoseop glanced at him; the helmet hid any facial expression.
The members stared at one another in a daze.
He said if we were decent, he’d give us a song…
Chanyoung fixed his gaze on Hyunseung, waiting for the next words.
“You’re CEO Kim Hyo-seop, right?”
“Y-yes!”
Hyunseung turned, flipped up the front visor and continued,
“As promised, I’ll give you the track.”
For an instant, Kim Hyoseop felt his heart stop.
He was happy—but also struck by another thought: Wow… even his eyes are handsome.
If he’d met such a face on the street, he would have tried to cast him on the spot.
“Th-thank you!”
Before the offer could change, the CEO bowed deeply. Pride could wait.
To Kim, HS’s promise sounded like a pledge to make “The Moon” succeed.
He would grovel if that’s what it took; success was vital— for his own survival and for the kids he’d dragged through hardship without proper support.
Hyunseung let his gaze sweep the shabby office.
“Do you have a control room or any proper gear here?”
“Well, actually…”
Seeing the CEO’s awkward face, he nodded as if he’d guessed.
“You don’t. Understood.”
“S-sorry. We usually rent an outside studio….”
“Then at least a Bluetooth speaker we can pair to?”
“Oh, sure! I’ll set it up right away!”
Reading the signal, Jeonghyuk rushed up.
“I’ll connect it quick!”
“Go ahead.”
Watching the scene, Jiho felt a surge of resentment.
The composer’s curt tone and slouch looked like open condescension.
“So we’ll listen here, then handle the rest at my studio—sound good?”
“Does that mean you’ll run their vocals yourself?”
“Yeah. I oversee everything as producer. Or did you book someone else?”
The CEO shook his head wildly, hands waving.
“Of course not! We’d be honored if you’d do it—”
Polished at business, CEO Hyoseop smiled politely, then slipped in the real issue.
“Well, about your fee…”
“Forget it.”
“But surely we can’t accept it for free—”
Hyunseung glanced at Jiho, the one who’d glared at him backstage.
A flicker of dangerous fire still swirled in the guy’s eyes.
Would that fire break or blow up? He was curious.
“I’m doing this for fun. Royalties alone are enough.”
The CEO gaped.
Fun?
Nothing’s free in this field; if no cash changes hands, it’s because both sides profit somehow.
Yet here HS was, offering a song and personal direction “just for fun.”
It made no sense—especially from LS Entertainment’s star composer, a proven hit-maker with no shortages.
TM Entertainment was a tiny firm; “The Moon” were nobodies to other composers.
Big names had either snubbed them or asked ridiculous prices.
Not charity, then why…?
“Let’s play it, then.”
Hyunseung waved his phone. Tap, tap.
A lonely whistle opened the track.
The beat kicked in, and the members flinched at the unexpected development.
Jiho focused every sense.
Electro?
No. Just a foundation—sleeker, more modern.
Each verse morphed, switching moods like separate songs seamlessly spliced.
A mash-up of pre-owned samples? No matter; the structure was flawless, like a musical unfolding before his eyes.
“Wow….” He whispered without thinking—like gasping at a breathtaking landscape.
“Didn’t you feel it the instant it started? It’s a hit, right?”
“Totally—this’ll blow up!”
“Are you really giving us a song like this? Crazy—”
Even skeptic Chanyoung bounced excitedly. Only Jiho stayed apart.
“The song is amazing,” he admitted, but it clashed with the color the group had built.
Yes, the track would likely succeed, riding HS’s brand— but did that mean scrapping “The Moon’s” own sound?
“It doesn’t fit our group,” he said quietly.
Silence fell thick and cold.
After a stretch, Hyunseung asked in a flat tone,
“Why’d you think something so stupid?”
“Stupid?”
“Yeah, stupid.”
Jiho bristled at the composer’s condescending stance—now even using casual language.
“We’re an urban-R&B vocal group. The song you played is a totally different color.”
He kept his temper, pressing on.
“Jiho…” the CEO murmured, trying to stop him, but Jiho spoke on.
“We’ve always sung tracks I wrote, and our fans love that sound. We can’t just change our identity now.”
Hyunseung chuckled. Color, huh…
Helmet still on, no one else could see his expression. A chilly hush settled.
“Um—excuse me!”
It was Jeonghyuk who broke it.
Woomin tried to pull him back, but he stepped forward.
“Our leader writes music. Every release so far was his, and we planned to use his song this time too.”
“So?”
“Could you maybe listen and judge it? Tell us if our color is really lacking or just unseen?”
The kid had the vibe of the group’s visual center.
Hyunseung wasn’t annoyed; he actually wondered what Jiho’s song sounded like.
“If I say it’s no good, what then?”
Jeong-hyuk glanced at Jiho, stuck.
“Uh, that…”
At that moment, Jiho’s eyes flashed with resolve.
“If you decide my song’s bad, I’ll toss it and follow your track without complaint.”
“Ho,” Hyun-seung breathed, intrigued, and nodded.
“I’ll listen with the same focus you gave me.”
He raised his visor and locked eyes with Jiho; the fire still burned deep.
It’s oddly fun watching him.
He gestured. “Go on, play it.”
Hands barely trembling, Jiho hit play.
A gentle ripple of sound flowed.
On the cheap speakers, faint static fuzzed the edges; Jiho bit his lip.
“Stop.”
Hyunseung lifted a hand just as the bridge began.
Gulp—the only sound that can be heard.
“How… how is it?” Jeonghyuk bravely asked.
“How?”
Unable to hold back, Hyunseung yanked off the helmet, ruffling messy hair.
“Sounds like you quit halfway.”
A heavy, multifaceted silence dropped over the room.
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