“I’m afraid I must refuse.”
Cho Jin-hyeok’s firm answer made Dean Lee Seong-cheol and Shin Yu-jeong stare wide-eyed.
“Why? Have you any idea how powerful a solid patron can be for a musician?”
Chairman Jin Bong-gu asked again, incredulous.
“Well, first of all I have my own music I’d like to pursue.”
“Then pursue it with my support.”
Jin-hyeok smiled. “The kind of music I want to make doesn’t suit financial sponsorship.”
“Very well. What about a piano recital? Any format you like.”
“I studied piano for barely a year. I’m really not that impressive.”
Dean Lee’s glasses slid down his nose, Chairman Jin’s jaw dropped, and Yu-jeong choked on the water she had just sipped.
“The real pianist here is Miss Yu-jeong,” Jin-hyeok added cheerfully.
Chairman Jin swallowed. The man clearly wasn’t lying, yet only one year?
“Did you say one year?”
“Yes. I began in primary school. A year later I discovered the guitar and have expressed myself mainly through it ever since.”
“Ah…”
“Beside a few études there aren’t many piano pieces I can finish.”
Seeing that Jin was simply confirming facts, not testing him, Jin-hyeok inclined his head.
“You dislike the idea of patronage. I won’t press further.”
“Thank you.”
“Still, with your ability you could quit your company and live by music alone…”
The offer tempted him, yet he closed his eyes and shook his head.
It would, of course, help enormously. Had he never worked a day in an office he might have accepted at once.
But the single day he had now lived in that world was special: memories and feelings of forty-three-year-old Cho Jin-hyeok had melted into each moment, revealing hidden meanings.
Among all the hardships and bad ties were small achievements and small relationships that had let him endure.
One day he would devote himself entirely to music, but not yet.
There were still things to learn there and, above all, he would never trade music itself. Once payment entered the equation, his feelings could no longer remain pure.
“I’ll keep working a little longer,” he said with a bright smile.
“If that is truly your wish…” Chairman Jin trailed off, obviously disappointed.
He felt he might never again meet this man privately. The first button had been fastened wrong. He had been rebuked and would not dare force another meeting.
Somehow, he wanted at least a thread of connection.
Jin-hyeok seemed to sense the thought and nodded slowly. It would be rude to refuse everything and claiming a small trophy might be fair.
“If your help does not hinge on my performing, there are indeed a few favors I could ask.”
Chairman Jin’s eyes lit up.
“Honey, can you run an errand?”
“Huh?” Sang-jeong had just poured fresh oil into the fryer and straightened his back. Rush hour would start soon; an errand now?
“I bought something from Deulbit Complex, Building 5. Could you pick it up?”
“Take the car?”
“It’s heavy.”
He guessed she had scored another bargain on “Talk-Feed Market.”
“Do we have the cash?”
“Call me when you’ve checked the condition—I’ll transfer right away.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
He grabbed the keys, puzzled. “Building 508, unit 203?”
“Right!”
She had been muttering about gaining weight—something heavy probably meant exercise equipment.
I need to stop poking my belly, he thought.
“Uh…”
“You can test the keys before it gets dark. I’ve hooked up an amp.”
Mini-KORG OASYS.
The very synthesizer he had browsed on his phone all day yesterday was sitting before him.
She saw the screenshots in my gallery…
Trying to calm a pounding heart, he powered it up; the central touch-screen lit.
The seller kept talking, but nothing reached his ears. How long since he had touched a synth?
“It’s in great condition. Okay. Got it.”
Ending the call, Sang-jeong told the seller, “She’ll transfer the money right now.”
“Thank you. Does your child play music?”
“Ah, actually I—”
“Oh…”
Conversation stalled. While the seller searched for words, Sang-jeong glanced at a mirror on the wall.
Reality slapped him: grease-stained vest, the logo Angane Chicken on his chest.
“Tough hobby,” the seller tried. “You must have played seriously.”
“Yes, when I was young.”
“Wow. I’m quitting now that I’ve landed a job. Half-baked talent isn’t enough. Music is for the truly gifted.”
Half-baked talent.
Sang-jeong clenched his teeth.
“Some people work their fingers bloody because they don’t even have that half-baked talent,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“They love music, want to stand on stage…”
“Uh… sir…”
“Without talent, they practice till they bleed to stand beside geniuses.”
“Well, they still can’t beat the gifted.”
“So that’s how you justify quitting?”
His stare made the seller drop his gaze.
“D-did I say something wrong?”
“No, I did. I shouldn’t lecture someone who’s quitting. I quit once myself.”
“Oh… so you just play for fun?”
A smile tugged at his lips. “No. I’m releasing an album.”
“What…?”
“And soon we’ll be performing.”
The seller’s phone pinged. The transfer was confirmed. He looked from the message to the Angane Chicken vest.
“This synth isn’t common, so you’ll recognize it. I’ll leave my decal on.”
Sang-jeong opened the driver’s door. “When you see it on stage, remember this. I’ve never possessed ‘talent.’”
A genius leader, a human metronome on bass, and a drummer who joined after only a month…
“I’ll show you how far a man with zero talent can go.”
He drove off, leaving the young man staring after the little van, Angane Chicken plastered across the rear window.
“Nutcase,” the seller muttered. “I’m never ordering from that place.”
At a red light, Sang-jeong clutched his reddened face. “Ah, idiot!”
Why had he gotten so fired up? He slapped his cheeks.
No deliveries to that neighborhood for a while.
“It’s about time…”
Hong Seon-ha waited outside the shop, already picturing her husband’s delighted face.
Yesterday she had watched him gaze at photos of that very synth; she’d set a keyword alert and found one second-hand. Pricey even used, but he needed it.
She knew him better than anyone. Excitement was always laced with anxiety—especially with such brilliant bandmates.
A rattling minivan drew up; his face was crimson.
“You’re that happy? Your cheeks are glowing.”
She jabbed his ribs, unaware the flush came from mortification, not joy.
“Ah—uh—thanks, hon!”
His responses were a beat slow, but she felt warm pride anyway.
“Thank you for today,” Yu-jeong said.
“I enjoyed it too.”
“I’m sorry for dragging you into such a meeting.”
“You didn’t plan it. It’s fine.”
“About the YouTube video…”
“It’s all right. The professor will appear in the explanation clip, and I posted it without asking you, so the blame’s mine.”
When Cho declined to appear in the video, her face fell, but he had reasons. Revealing himself widely now was risky, considering Jang-ha’s circumstances.
“Let’s play together again sometime. It was truly fun.”
“Thank you.”
“And…”
He stopped and met her eyes. “Piano is an easy instrument.”
“Pardon?”
“Intuitive, accessible. Practice a little and anyone can sound decent.”
Easy? She stared blankly.
“Because it’s so familiar, unless you pour genuine feeling into it, the result is bland, something anyone can copy.”
Realization dawned.
“Before thinking of the audience, understand your own feelings first.”
She nodded. Two duets had changed her entire outlook.
“Don’t fear expressing emotion. Technique isn’t what I call talent.”
Her cheeks burned. Every performance she had ever polished to perfection suddenly felt hollow.
She would record, delete, record again until the take was spotless. Yet was it alive?
“Mistakes create their own stage. If precision were everything, we’d let computers play.”
Her mind cleared. She recalled street musicians abroad, far from flawless, yet irresistibly joyful.
If she slipped, she would have panicked. They merely smiled broader and played on.
“Music is emotion,” he finished, smiling. “And it is meant to be delivered.”
“Gangnam? Got it.”
Riding in the company car, Cho ended the call and smiled.
“Driver, could you drop me in Gangnam?”
“Certainly, sir. The president instructed me to take you wherever you wish.”
He considered phoning the office to keep proprieties. He tapped Deputy Section Chief Gwak’s number.
“Chief? I’ll head home from here… Pardon? Shall I ask the president? …Hello?”
The line went dead. Cho chuckled. “No manners.”
Outside, crimson dusk glowed between cold towers—perfect color for revolution.
Front of the hottest club in Gangnam, Kingdom of Star.
Jang-ha eyed the long queue of stylish youth.
“Okay, that’s the plan.”
He checked the CCTV angle above the entrance, ended the call, and slipped his phone away.
Tonight’s deed would be dangerous.
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