These days Ahn Jiho’s life has turned one-hundred-eighty degrees.
No— it would be more accurate to say that the life of The Moon has changed.
The biggest difference is that they now have a manager to look after them.
Granted, TM Entertainment’s office still has not moved above ground and plenty of debt remains to be paid, yet The Moon is so busy covering their growing schedule that they barely sleep.
And that is not all.
More and more people recognize them, each member has a personal fan base, and new nicknames have appeared.
First, Ahn Jiho—because of the “Eung-heon” video he is teased every day with “Hey, crying again?”
Lee Chan-young, thanks to his prim face, is called “Desert-young” and grumbles that a guy should not be compared to a desert fox.
Choi Jeong-hyuk—once people learned he had been a high-rank gamer, his handle “Hyeoggyu” became his nickname.
Among The Moon members, the one who received the coolest nickname is Joo Woomin.
Right,mbecause people say noblesse oozes from him and call him “Noble-min.”
“Someone keeps asking if I am crying, I am jealous …”
In truth, whatever the nickname, they were thankful for all of them.
Having people who listened to their music, receiving attention, and seeing The Moon on the chart felt like a dream.
Even now they wondered if it might still be a dream.
“What in the world …”
Ahn Jiho swept his dazed eyes around.
“Excuse us a moment.”
While the interview was under way, people had crowded around the private room.
“I am sorry, we are in the middle of an interview, could you please step back a bit.”
The manager begged for understanding and struggled to control the crowd.
“Goodness, they say The Moon’s popularity is skyrocketing and it really shows.”
The reporter laughed but surprised by the turn, wiped the cold sweat at his nape with a handkerchief.
He still had many prepared questions; if the crowd kept growing the interview would obviously stall.
He had known The Moon were rising, but never expected popularity like this. Renting the whole café had seemed unnecessary—his mistake, now a mishap.
If The Moon decided it was impossible to continue and left, he would have nothing to say.
“Ah…”
The reporter stood blankly, unable to go on.
“Sir.”
As if deciding, Ahn Jiho spoke.
“At this rate we will disturb the café. If you do not mind, shall we finish the interview in the park nearby?”
Doing the interview out on the street was fine.
Now that it had ended, though, people who followed from the café, those who came late to see The Moon, and passers-by who stumbled into them all converged, pinning their feet to the spot.
“May I have your name?”
The members took photos and signed autographs one by one without pause.
“It is dangerous, please do not push, move slowly.”
The manager shouted until his voice cracked, running alone to prevent accidents.
Because of a single small ball someone had tossed, an impromptu guerrilla fan meeting had begun.
“We have to go to the next schedule now.”
Only when the next appointment loomed were they able to break free.
Thud.
In the van, Choi Jeong-hyuk spoke in an excited voice.
“Wow, I never thought that many people would come. We always shoot on set, so we never meet fans face to face.”
The others nodded in agreement.
It had been surprising, overwhelming, and grateful all at once.
“Amazing, heavy, but something to be thankful for.”
From the front seat Ahn Jiho added evenly.
“And it is something we must get used to.”
That offhand remark made their hearts pound. As they grew, bigger scenes would await, privacy would vanish, but they had resolved when they first received a song from HS. This was nowhere near enough; like their sleepless-night vow, they had to become even bigger and repay him.
Today they held microphones instead of part-time jobs all thanks to HS.
Rustle.
Ahn Jiho took a sheet of paper from his wallet.
It had become a talisman—HS’s letter containing “Eung-heon.”
Because of his solo album, Hyunseung was holed up in his studio.
“I will set this aside for now.”
Except for one track that needed the homeless-band session, everything was in its final phase.
“I should start choosing instruments.”
No longer a rookie, now called a hit-maker, Hyunseung had more candidates than he could count—some he had used before, others sending love calls asking to be played.
Facing the massive list, he decided to listen again and choose carefully, playing each track.
“Hmm…”
To pick the most suitable instrument.
The first track captured happy moments with his family; it needed to restrain overwhelming feelings while still releasing them, and the right instrument came at once.
“Lee Yeong-ah.”
Her delicate control and wide range fit best.
The second track had come while watching his sister call for their mother in her sleep. If their father left, she would be the one blood relative he must protect. He wrote it as a gentle lullaby wishing she would live with little pain and much laughter.
“Hmm … Kang Hajun.”
He disliked assigning Hajun to his sister’s song, yet in a calm piece a clear voice stands out, and no instrument matched him.
The third track was born of hope that his father’s hearing might be healed, depicting a flower that forces itself through concrete; he had marked the instrument while writing.
“Teacher Moon Beom-jae.”
No one else could express it.
The problem was the fourth and last track.
“Suitable …”
No instrument on the list fit; he ruffled his hair in frustration.
“Sigh…”
He had written it after watching elderly Swiss men clumsily play traditional instruments. The song expressed their longing for youth and their effort to bury those feelings; someone of similar age had to sing to carry that emotion intact.
“Ah.”
Insight struck. He jumped up and grabbed his phone.
Ring-ring-ring…
He dialed.
“Teacher, it has been a while. Have you been well?”
Before flying back to Japan, Kang Hajun headed to Hyunseung’s studio with Manager Kim.
“The Moon’s number one on the chart again today.”
“That is worth celebrating.”
“You and Jaeyi got pushed down. Celebrate what?”
Manager Kim’s voice sagged.
“Boy groups are usually weak on digital charts, yet they do not budge.”
Kang Hajun sighed softly.
“There are always exceptions.”
With his warm smile he added,
“Because it is the composer’s song, The Moon are the exception.”
“True.”
Manager Kim laughed and nodded.
If it was a Hyunseung song, even a washed-up singer or rejected trainee could hit number one, so why not a boy group.
Though he hated losing to The Moon…
Shoulders slumped, Manager Kim knocked on the door.
Knock knock knock.
Three formal taps, counting three seconds, then he opened.
“Hyunseu—”
“Compo—”
Both stopped and froze.
♫ ♫ ♫
An enchanting melody poured out, freezing them in place.
“Wow …”
Covering his mouth, Kang Hajun could not even exclaim.
It felt like a live musical unfolding, melodies flowing along curves.
Warm emotion swelled; he closed his eyes.
“The composer is truly a god.”
Opening them, he saw Hyunseung’s back, shirt soaked with sweat, oblivious to them.
No. He retracted that thought. If he were a god, he would create with a flick of a finger. He was human, pouring time and strength into a single song, and that made him greater.
“I am glad I came …”
Just then, “Let us go.”
Thinking they must not disturb him, Manager Kim tiptoed out, pulling Hajun along.
“We will greet him next time he is in Korea.”
“We should.”
“Go before you miss your flight.”
On the way back, Manager Kim thought: what meaning is there in The Moon and Yoon Jaeyi fighting for first and second, why cling to ranks.
Anyway, when that kid’s second solo album drops, both will have to yield their places.
They say you meet your foe on a single-plank bridge.
Now The Moon and Yoon Jaeyi stood on stage among other singers.
They had even met as the day’s first-place nominees, and tension hung in the air.
“Meeting like this as nominees feels different.”
Eyes fixed ahead, Ahn Jiho offered polite words.
“Yes, it does …”
Looking uneasy at the camera, Yoon Jaeyi added,
“You topped the chart today; it would be nice if you yielded the trophy.”
“Come on, you have been number one all along. How can we lose when it is the composer’s song?”
Yoon Jaeyi jerked her head and protested, “That goes for me too.”
“Junior, better keep your eyes forward.”
“Ah…”
Realizing the camera was on her, she faced front again.
“I finished my take in one go, but I hear The Moon spent a week recording.”
“The longer it took, the more carefully the composer guided us. Is that not proof?”
Knowing she could not win verbally, Yoon Jaeyi pressed her lips shut.
“Here are the broadcast points.”
Scores for both flashed on the board.
“Here are the streaming points.”
Ahn Jiho kept a calm smile, but sweat pooled even on his knees. It was their first nomination in three years since debut; he could not help the nerves. A glance showed the members felt the same.
“First I want to thank the CEO, the composer, and our All-Night fans …”
He kept rehearsing a speech just in case.
“Who will be week-four winner, The Moon or Yoon Jaeyi?”
Numbers filled the total score column.
“Congratulations, this week’s number one on Music Core is …”
Pop.
A balloon overhead burst and strength drained from Ahn Jiho’s legs.
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