“Gift?”

What gift is he talking about?

I looked around for a present box, but there was nothing. The managers were empty-handed, and so were the rest of our members.

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s not here. We have to go somewhere else.”

Their eyes were gleaming with mischief. And in our rapper’s hand was an eye mask. When I stared, he grinned and held it out.

“...You want me to wear a blindfold too?”

“It’s a surprise gift, hyung.”

“You sure know how to surprise me.”

I answered halfheartedly—and put on the mask.

Everything went pitch-black. The only things I could sense were the cool air of the studio and the murmur of voices around me.

“Alright, let’s go, hyung.”

Bi-ju’s calm voice guided me to my feet. Someone took my arm—solid and reassuring; it felt like Jung-hyun. I heard Ji-ho’s laugh.

“Wearing that makes you look just like Lee Shin, hyung.”

“What’s that?”

“A character from a game—an older guy like you... ahah!”

Though blindfolded, I guessed where the flick was coming from and delivered a light rap to his head. Lee Hyuk squealed in delight.

Maknae groaned, “Not a bat, man—how do you hit someone you can’t see?”

“You really expect me to explain the logic of this? Last time he knocked out the CEO and the manager.”

“Knocked them out?”

I frowned. “Like I’m some kind of villain.”

Then Manager Seok-hwan’s distant voice drifted in: “I went to the hospital the next day, Woo-joo.”

“...I’m sorry.”

Soft laughter followed—memories of “That was no joke.” Recalling that incident, I realized something: ever since I gained my mimic ability, my balance and spatial awareness had improved. Even blindfolded, I walked steadily.

“Why am I walking so well? The blindfold’s on right, Jung-hyun hyung?”

A large hand felt around my face. “It’s on properly.”

“Really? I’m walking totally fine...”

“Wanna test?”

“No thanks. Last time you put your hand on my shoulder, you got wrecked.”

“Lee Hyuk hyung, Manager’s looking really sad right now.”

I laughed, imagining the expression.

Blindfolded, we headed for the lobby. I heard a click—someone pressed the elevator button.

“How’s that, Woo-joo hyung? Can you walk with your eyes closed?”

“Not bad.”

“How not bad? Could you still walk if we let go?”

I grinned. ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) “I’m more confident than Bi-ju.”

“Hyung.”

At Bi-ju’s sad call, everyone burst out laughing. On our first music show, Bi-ju famously got lost in the TV station.

The elevator arrived, and as we moved on, I voiced a question I’d been holding onto.

“If we’re returning to the second floor, why did we take the elevator?”

“......”

Silence.

“See? I said I’d know.”

At Lee Hyuk’s remark, everyone murmured. The maknae tried to smooth it over.

“This isn’t the second floor, hyung. Right, guys?”

“That’s right. We’re on the third.”

“Exactly. No need to assume second.”

I stifled a laugh at the nonsense.

I removed the blindfold in a hallway—and realized I’d passed through the previous studio into a new room. On the second floor, I’d only been in two rooms: the main studio with Director Jo, and Scarlet’s Daisy’s workspace. This was neither.

I uncovered my eyes.

“Tada! We’ve arrived!”

After a moment adjusting to the light, I saw the unfamiliar scene: a small room with a recording booth, about the size of our dorm living room. A sofa, a desk laden with audio gear, speakers, and a laptop.

“...What is this?”

Director Jo said, “With Something being such a hit, the company debated what to give you. A meal felt trivial, money felt impersonal...”

“So this is...”

“Yes. Your very own personal studio.”

My jaw dropped. I looked around at the sound-proofing, the equipment—it all felt surreal.

“...This is my studio?”

Director Jo smiled. “You don’t believe it?”

“It’s too big for a surprise gift. Is this hidden camera? There’s another gift, right?”

Bi-ju chimed in, “We didn’t believe it either at first, but it’s real, hyung.”

“Really?”

“Really. I stake Lee Hyuk hyung on it.”

“Why stake him?”

Lee Hyuk, mouth full of pizza, grumbled, “Trust me. It’s your studio.”

“But I haven’t even done anything yet...”

Director Jo waved his hand. “Don’t feel pressured. This isn’t a handout, it’s an investment in your potential. The CEO and everyone agreed unanimously.”

That explained it. I felt a pleasant daze as I examined the gear: the synthesizer I’d drooled over online, the top-brand speakers, the fortress-like sound-proof glass.

“This can’t be a dream.”

I asked Manager Seok-hwan, “Hyung, say anything to wake me.”

He said, “I still haven’t gotten back to that military show offer.”

“Not a dream, then.”

I heard laughter and took in the room. It wasn’t large—maybe small—but to me it felt more spacious and beautiful than any I’d known. My chest tightened.

“So this really is my studio.”

“More accurately, it’s yours and everyone’s. Like it?”

I nodded. Min-gi, Seok-hwan hyung, and the members were all smiling at the cameras.

“How do you feel, hyung?”

At Bi-ju’s question, I could only smile—because there was no way to express this feeling in words.

Some might say, “What’s so special about getting a small room?” But to us it meant everything: recognition. Proof that the company saw us not as underground trainees but as artists worth investing in. We were all moved.

“Let’s eat!”

As Director Jo left, we gathered around the pizza he’d bought, chatting happily.

“A studio of our own... I still can’t believe it.”

Bi-ju said, and the maknae, face smeared with tomato sauce, nodded.

“Right. Now we have our own space. To be honest, I wasn’t jealous when Scarlet debuted, but when they said we’d get a studio, I was so envious.”

“Wipe your mouth, Ji-ho. You said you weren’t jealous at Scarlet’s debut?”

Lee Hyuk teased, and Jung Hyun nodded. Ji-ho looked to Bi-ju for help, but our main dancer just laughed and brushed the crumbs from Ji-ho’s face.

“Well, the important thing is: we have a studio now.”

“Feels amazing.”

“Like we’ve been recognized.”

“Not bad at all.”

As the younger members agreed, I remembered the keyword “work” and realized what I’d forgotten.

“Speaking of which, about the album...”

I recapped Director Jo’s advice: prioritize making good songs, and that one track on the debut would be my own.

“So I need your help.”

I said, “I can’t compose alone. Like Jang So-won senior got help, I want to compose together with you. What do you think?”

“Sounds great, hyung.”

Jung Hyun raised his fist. “I’ll handle the rap part for sure.”

I smiled, and the others nodded their support.

“Especially you, Lee Hyuk and Jung Hyun.”

“Me? Why me?”

Lee Hyuk looked surprised.

“You both know how to arrange.”

“Jung Hyun hyung’s great at it. I’m just basic level.”

“You and he did the arrangements for the Year-End Evaluation before I joined.”

I remembered him saying: “It’s too hard—it’d take two weeks. Only Jung Hyun hyung and I know arrangement.”

Hearing that, Lee Hyuk blinked. “How do you remember that? Why such a good memory?”

“It’s in the blood.”

Ji-ho giggled: “That was just bravado. He really only knows basics.”

“Hey, Ji-ho!”

“Why? I’m stating facts.”

“Can’t you help at all? Geez.”

I realized Lee Hyuk had skirted the topic because he wasn’t confident. I turned to Jung Hyun: “It’s up to you now.”

“Yes, trust me.”

Though laid-back, Jung Hyun was a capable rapper—rappers write lyrics, so they understand music deeply. That’s why many composing idols are rappers.

While eating pizza, Jung Hyun and I discussed our debut track.

“Our debut’s in June. How about a seasonal summer song? Something cool and refreshing.”

“Sounds good. Maybe tropical house.”

“But tropical feels girl-groupy. Deep house could suit us.”

“Really? I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I think a hooky, addictive melody—something people hum all day.”

“Like Something?”

“Exactly, like Jang So-won senior’s melody.”

An addictive melody—possible only thanks to Jang So-won senior. Could I create that? Honestly, I was doubtful. I could adapt, but not originate. So I’d need to build on someone else’s work.

“Is there some base source we can use?”

“In the shared folder, there are tons—A&R started many then abandoned them.”

At Lee Hyuk’s remark, Jung Hyun lit up. “Oh! There’s a remarkable source in the shared folder—company legend, actually.”

Everyone murmured, “That one!”

“What is it?”

“It’s... you’ll know when you hear it. It’s so odd: you tweak one part and another spikes, and vice versa. It’s insanely complex.”

Lee Hyuk added, “A&R composers tried but all gave up, calling it trash.”

“So hard?”

Jung Hyun said, “At first it sounds easy. But once you start, you realize it’s a nightmare. I tried and quit.”

I thought: let’s hear it. I opened the laptop, navigated to the shared folder, and played “Untitled_(1).”

I clicked, heart pounding. A melody drifted from the speakers. At first its simplicity made me frown.

Huh?

What is this? It really is strange. But there was something captivating—something you want to hear again. Suddenly I understood why composers coveted it. I wanted to dive in immediately.

But the strangest part was the feeling it gave me. When had I felt this before? Then I knew—it was the same sensation I felt when I first heard Jang So-won senior’s melody on my first day at Hi Entertainment. Goosebumps, a theme blossoming in my mind.

Could it be the same now? I closed my eyes, but no melody auto-generated. Still, the more I listened, the more certain I became: if I’m making an album track, this is the one.

I replayed it dozens of times. Then I made my decision.

“Guys.”

Staring at the file named “Untitled,” I said,

“Let’s give this a title.”