Jiho felt as though someone had smashed the back of his head; the room reeled.
What had HS said a moment ago?
If he had heard right, HS had called it a song abandoned halfway.
“Just now …”
Better check again.
“What did you say?”
He asked because he could not believe what he had heard.
“I said it sounds as if you stopped writing in the middle.”
HS repeated in a flat voice, then scratched his nape as if the whole thing bored him.
“If you release that track, you’ll flop again.”
He tossed out the cruelty as though it were nothing, looking down at Jiho with a crooked tilt.
That angle itself bruised Jiho’s pride.
What kind of composer looked like an actor with a model’s height?
Surely the others and the CEO were thinking the same; no one could take their eyes off HS’s face.
For someone who looked that young …
His aura kept them all from stepping close.
“Then,” Jiho moved a step nearer and shot back a provocation. “Why don’t you finish it yourself?”
“Me?”
“Yes. That’s the only way I can accept and acknowledge.”
Even at the taunt HS just murmured “Hm,” utterly calm.
Then—
He spotted the keyboard in the corner and strode toward it.
“There’s no MIDI rig, so mind if I rough in an arrangement right here?”
Flustered, Jiho still nodded as if it were nothing. He had spoken on impulse; he never thought HS would do it.
Hadn’t the man heard the song only once?
But the relaxed face looked nothing like a bluff.
HS tapped a few keys, placed both hands on the board, and when his fingers swept down, a familiar melody rose.
Yes, the intro he had written.
However, the tempo was slightly faster; Jiho at first dismissed it with a “figures,” then halted.
Wait, wait …
He had slipped in major‐key substitutions to spin the whole mood from minor; even the tempo had been minutely reset.
With the tiniest tweaks, the piece was reborn.
Huh?
Playing on like the song’s own accompanist, HS let the rearrangement flow, then suddenly lifted his head and met each member’s eyes in turn.
You sing here. You take this line. This spot will suit you.
That was what the glances said.
More than that, he altered his touch to fit each voice’s color.
This can’t be real …
Jiho had to look away—he even stepped back—because the much-rumored skill was now seen, heard, felt before his eyes, and awe swept over him like a tidal wave.
Even seasoned musicians find it hard to play by ear after one listen; yet this man had rearranged the song in seconds and parceled out the parts.
Worse, the keyboard now sounded better than the original—far better.
If they sang to this arrangement, to those parts, the result would be perfect.
Thrum—
The last chord rang out; the members burst into applause as if they had watched a famous pianist.
Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap!
Anyone, even without musical training, could hear how much sweeter the song had become.
Jiho, its writer, could not deny it.
A promise is a promise …
Yet the sting inside would not fade. A song he had spent a year shaping was about to be scrapped; how could that not hurt?
Bang!
He bit his trembling lip and left the studio altogether.
Inside, everyone watched HS for a sign.
Suppose he took offense and withdrew the offer—
HS rose from the keyboard, cut straight through the room toward the door.
“Uh, wait—!”
Jeonghyuk hurried after him.
“You’re not leaving for good, are you?”
Realizing they were all gauging him, HS waved his phone.
“Got a call, that’s all.”
Hyunseung had, in fact, stepped out to answer his sister’s call.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Oppa, busy?”
“What’s up?”
“I chose our vacation spot!”
He ran a hand through his bangs, wincing—between Yoon Jaeyi’s project and The Moon’s, he had forgotten to tell her a trip might have to wait.
“Where is it?”
“I want to go to Europe!”
“Eu-Europe?”
“Yep, a Europe tour!”
Flustered, he tried to end the call quickly.
“I’m swamped right now—let’s talk in person soon.”
“Are you sure you’ll have time to go?”
Her voice drooped, and he could not say no.
“Sure, we can go.”
“Really? Awesome! I’ll start checking tickets!”
He muttered okay and hung up. He would just have to finish The Moon’s schedule fast and keep the promise.
It would be brutal for the kids, but he would compress everything, get it done, and then travel.
“Hey.”
On a higher flight of the emergency stairs, he spotted Jiho sitting dazed and called to him.
But Jiho heard nothing; after slamming into the wall called talent, despair had deafened him.
I’m not even a composer, he thought.
Alongside self-reproach, he had to admit the gap.
Still, he was the leader; he had to save the group.
I need to go back, apologize, beg him.
He started to rise, then slumped down again.
“Ugh—!”
He had seen Hyunseung right below and the shock knocked the strength from his legs.
“Did you follow me out here?”
“Walked out and there you were.”
“Then just go back inside.”
Without meaning to, Jiho’s tone came out curt.
That’s not what I meant …
He had resolved to swallow his pride, yet he snapped anyway.
Compared with protecting the group, losing his song was nothing—so why act like this?
I’m not fit to be leader.
Tears welled at his own pettiness; if he cried here …
That would be the worst.
He buried his face between his knees and muttered,
“I’ll be in soon, just pretend you didn’t see.”
Hyunseung looked down, unsettled.
“Hey.”
Jiho’s shoulders were trembling.
“You’re not crying, are you?”
“I’m not.”
“Looks like tears to me.”
“I said no.”
Hyunseung scratched his head, unsure what to say—like a kid who had made his desk-mate cry.
The guy must be crushed about scrapping the song.
It doesn’t need to be trashed, really …
It bothered him that it looked as though he had ordered the discard; the track wasn’t that bad. He had planned to stop them if they tried.
“Your song does feel half-finished, but …”
Jiho snapped his head up.
“I know, okay!”
Unmoved, Hyunseung went on firmly.
“At least listen to me through before you blow up.”
“…”
“Lose your temper and only you get hurt.”
Jiho dropped his eyes, lips tight.
He might value the members’ efforts, but The Moon was still an unknown group no one wanted.
They had to knock on every door, beg to be noticed or disappear.
The pride he’d shown today had to be paid for; he must salvage this and secure the song somehow, for the weary CEO, for the hungry members.
“I’m sorry. As promised, we’ll scrap my track and do whatever you say.”
“Forget it.”
Hyunseung brushed off the awkward apology in one word, then added,
“Your piece isn’t garbage that needs the dump.”
“It isn’t?”
“Call it clean recyclables.”
“Recycled?”
“Sure. I recycled it for you today.”
And in the same calm tone:
“You’re better than those so-called composer-idols who show off these days.”
“That’s praise, right?”
“Yeah. So keep working.”
He paused, then repeated,
“You could end up better than most ordinary composers.”
Just then the stairwell light snapped off.
“Uh …”
Jiho stared up; until his eyes adjusted he could see only Hyunseung’s outline, but he stared anyway.
A composer whose skill everyone acknowledged.
The hottest name in the field right now.
The man who had filled him with awe— had recognized the talent no one else would see. That alone felt like payment for the years of struggle.
“All cried out now?”
At Hyunseung’s question the light blinked on again.
“Urk.”
Jiho winced at the sudden glare.
“Let’s go back.”
Seeing Hyunseung’s crooked grin, he grinned in return.
“Right!”
Together they left the cold stairwell for the office.
With Jiho and HS gone, the practice room lay in uneasy silence.
“Why aren’t they back …?”
As minutes passed, the faces around the room grew anxious.
Sure didn’t match the color we’ve kept, Chanyoung thought, yet it might suit us better.
He replayed HS’s track in his mind, picturing himself onstage—spotlights pouring down, fans screaming—and couldn’t help smiling.
He had often whimpered he would quit, but he was that desperate.
Youngest though he was, he had coveted the stage since childhood, trained for years, burned for success more than anyone.
Now a step toward that hope lay before them.
Others fretted HS might withdraw, but Chanyoung trusted differently.
“Hyung isn’t the type to waste a chance.”
He knew Jiho best—they bickered most, after all—and trusted the leader who always steadied him. Jiho would choose for the group even at the cost of pride.
Creak.
At last the door opened slowly.
“Jiho.”
He walked in wearing a sheepish smile and behind him HS entered with an unreadable expression.
Gulp.
CEO Kim swallowed; everyone else just watched, taking cues.
HS fiddled with his phone, then spoke.
“Well, I’ll head out.”
“Already?” CEO Kim blurted.
“Done what I came for.”
Faces paled, especially Jiho’s.
Was it my fault…?
He thought they had smoothed things over; maybe not. If HS pulled out now…
“Composer-nim, please wait!”
He hurried toward HS.
“Clear your schedules for a while.”
HS swept his gaze over the members, then said casually,
“Starting tomorrow, come to my studio and rehearse.”
Jiho nearly slammed his forehead to the floor in a bow, mumbling,
“Thank you, thank you so much …”
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