One day in autumn.
Unable to stand his curiosity, Manager Kim went to Hyunseung’s studio.
“Hyunseung, about those gifts you’re preparing…”
But Hyunseung was stuffing a few things into a bag, as if about to head out.
“Where are you going?”
Kim’s heart gave a thud of anxiety.
It felt like watching a child leave home. He had wanted the boy to open the door of his heart and step into a wider world, but he hadn’t meant “leave the company right this second.”
“Me? I’m off to Jayble’s studio to work on the songs.”
Kim nodded then asked:
“If it’s just songwriting, couldn’t you stay here? Why bother moving?”
Hyunseung shrugged.
“He lured me with a guitar, and I fell for it.”
“You’re that easy, a guy who can be won with a single guitar?”
“Not just any guitar. A ’68 model from a famous brand, one that the legendary guitarist played.”
“So basically, a rare, expensive guitar?”
Hyunseung shook his head, exasperated.
“Not basically. It’s literally the only one in the world. No amount of money can get it; Jayble already owns it.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder.
“What can I do? The one who wants it has to travel.”
Kim gave a small, wordless nod. For someone who looks like a “talented kid playing around with music,” the guy sure is knowledgeable and serious when it comes to instruments.
“Be careful.”
Like a parent sending a child on a field trip, Kim straightened the younger man’s collar.
“You won’t be back in a single day, will you?”
Hyunseung thought for a moment.
“Not sure.”
He chuckled, pulled his helmet on, switched off the lights, and stepped out with Kim.
In the corridor Kim stopped him.
“Before you go, answer one thing. What are those fan-meeting gifts?”
“Don’t worry about it. The vendor’s shipping them all in one batch.”
With that, Hyunseung gave a casual wave and disappeared down the opposite hall.
“…Ah.”
Kim felt a stab of hurt that even he was being kept in the dark.
“Is he going through puberty or what?”
But worry about the future quickly replaced the sting.
The word first, a mere two syllables, held tremendous power.
For Jayble, HS was the very first rival he’d ever acknowledged, and that presence was overwhelming.
1 p.m. The meeting time with HS drew nearer. Sweat formed in Jayble’s palms.
This was no ordinary meet-up or drinking session but a genuine collaboration.
“Hoo…”
Even the great Jayble couldn’t help but feel nervous.
A light knock sounded beyond his studio door.
He cleared his throat and, trying to look calm, called, “Come in.”
Creak…
The heavy soundproof door opened.
“Good to see you again, Maestro Salieri.”
Standing there was a young man he’d never met.
“Uh…”
Jayble stared, lips parted like an idiot. It was the first time he’d seen HS’s bare face.
“Your stare is going to burn a hole in me.”
“I expected you to show up with the helmet. Seeing you without it surprised me.”
A small face with sharp, well-set features… it was enough to grab anyone’s attention.
“I was wearing it. Took it off out front.”
HS shook the helmet in his hand, stepped into the room, and with those long legs reached the center in one stride. He swept the studio with his eyes, then spoke gravely:
“First of all… may I try the guitar you mentioned?”
Jayble cocked his head then:
“J-just a moment.”
He carefully removed a guitar from a deluxe display case. He’d won it at auction for a fortune and had only dared touch it once.
When HS had first suggested working together,
“Let’s use my studio,” Jayble had said, not wanting to concede everything.
HS’s single provocative text—Salieri, you scared?—had made him agree without thinking, but at least he wanted his studio.
So he’d pulled out his trump card:
“Don’t you want to play the guitar we talked about?”
And HS had bitten instantly. Now, seeing the man ask for it before any greetings, it was obvious he’d really come for that guitar.
Jayble handed it over, though his voice creaked:
“Just… be careful…”
“Pardon? Didn’t catch that.”
HS’s eyes gleamed as he cradled the instrument.
Jayble sighed.
“Let’s hear that playing you claim beats most guitarists.”
“Gladly.”
After Jayble hooked it to an amp, HS took flight.
♬ ♬ ♬
Loose, effortless fingers. He wasn’t exaggerating. Jayble relaxed and listened.
♬ ♬ ♬
It wasn’t a standard piece, yet there wasn’t a single awkward spot. He shifted picking positions, changing the mood again and again.
♬ ♬ ♬
But suddenly—ting!—a deliberately wrong note, and the performance ended.
“That’s it?”
“Hm?”
A smile spread across HS’s face.
“This is it.”
“This is what?”
“This.”
“Stop copying my line. What do you mean?”
Without answering, HS rushed to the console, launched his DAW, and let his fingers dance over the master keyboard. Strange friction-sounds filled the room.
Jayble watched the back of this man and thought: Maybe he’s even stranger than the rumors.
Hours later both men lay sprawled on the couch.
“Ah…”
Jayble glanced at the wall clock and stifled a laugh. The second hand had just passed 11 p.m. They’d worked ten hours straight.
HS had shouted “This is it,” dumped out chords into the DAW, and with Jayble adding and subtracting they’d birthed three songs.
The results were excellent.
Jayble peeked sideways at HS.
Not strange but relentless. Ten hours and the guy was still humming melodies, fingers air-picking riffs.
Ah, to be young.
Jayble burrowed deeper into the sofa, half-closing his eyes—until:
“Not everyone has to like me, and that goes for you too…”
HS murmured a lyric. It pierced Jayble’s ears.
He sprang up.
“That!”
“What?”
“That’s the title track.”
“Took you long enough to say it.”
“My gut says that’s the one.”
“Fine by me.”
And Jayble added, meaningfully:
“One more proposal: let’s sing it ourselves.”
“Come again?”
“You want that guitar, right?”
HS’s gaze fixed on the 1968 trophy.
Gulp.
Those eyes were like a beast staring at prey.
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