When I suggested working with a source everyone else had abandoned, my brothers’ reactions were split.

“Can you really do it? Don’t bail on us later. Let’s be realistic and start with something easy.”

Our main vocalist, the voice of reason, was skeptical.

“I’m definitely worried, but if you want to do it, I’m on board.”

Our main dancer smiled supportively, though still concerned.

Jung-hyun shrugged as if to say, do as you wish.

The maknae, munching on pickles, proudly displayed his fat wallet.

“Do whatever you want. Your wish matters most. I don’t know a thing about composing, so I’ll just shower you guys with snacks.”

The vote was three in favor, one abstention, one opposed. Thus we settled on the plan to work on our debut song.

Lee Hyuk, still unconvinced, said, “I’ll go along with the majority, but can you really do it? The difficulty is off the charts.”

“Hyung, didn’t you say exactly the same thing at the year-end evaluation?”

The maknae piped up. “When Woo-joo hyung pitched an idea, you said it was unrealistic and too time-consuming.”

“Can you ever be helpful? Whose side are you on?”

“I’m on the composer’s side—whoever’s giving me good parts.”

He fed me a pickle with a playful wink. Lee Hyuk clicked his tongue in disbelief.

Then Bi-ju spoke as if recalling something. “I was curious back then too—when you compose or arrange, how do you actually work?”

“Yeah, I wondered that too.”

“Back then it was weird. You suddenly said, ‘I’ll finish by tomorrow,’ and the next morning you showed up with the completed arrangement.”

I dipped a slice of pizza in sauce and answered, “It was Director Jo’s help that let me finish early. If I’d done it alone, the computer work would have taken forever.”

“So how did you arrange if not on a machine?”

“I did it by hand. I sketched it out on staff paper.”

My brothers stared at me in astonishment.

“By hand?”

“Yep.”

“Where did you live—nineteenth-century Europe?”

“In the military, that’s what you do. You can’t install Logic or Pro Tools on the base computers. In the end you only have your hands.”

Mentioning the military seemed to satisfy them. It was an unknown world to them; they’d likely believe I’d been a boar-herder in the barracks.

“So how do you work, hyung?”

Jung-hyun asked. “If we know your method, we can figure out how to help.”

“Oh, right. My method.” I thought of how I usually work: I build the stage in my mind and work from there. But if I said that, they’d think I was even weirder.

“Don’t look at me funny after I say this. I know I’m a bit odd.”

“Just say it. What’s «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» so surprising now?”

“Mm... okay.” I set down my pizza. “Everyone, close your eyes.”

They obeyed—though the maknae, half-closing his eyes, stole a slice of pizza arranged by Lee Hyuk. Suppressing laughter, I continued.

“Close your eyes. Now picture a space you know well—ideally a wide one. Your school auditorium or the music-show stage where we performed.”

Their eyes rolled under closed lids.

“Good. In that space, set up a session of instruments: guitar, bass, keys, saxophone, cello. Drums by themselves—leave other percussion out for now.” 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

“Hyung, I think I’ve already forgotten from halfway through.”

“I didn’t even remember. What about you, Ji-ho? Remember?”

“I... sort of.”

Ji-ho was too busy eating pizza to answer properly. Only Jung-hyun seemed to follow my directions.

“If you’re still with me, you’re nearly there. Next is easy: imagine placing each of us—five members—on that stage, and think of us all singing. Try to create melodies, add instruments.”

“......”

“Repeat that until it works. That’s how I built the year-end evaluation arrangement in my head.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

One by one they opened their eyes, blinking at the light, then looking at me oddly.

“I told you it’d sound weird.”

“......You really think that works, hyung? Imagining instruments in our minds?”

“If it didn’t, how would I have finished the arrangement in one day?”

They looked half-convinced. Back at TJ Entertainment, TNT would have reacted the same way—“Does that even make sense?”—staring as if I were alien.

They seemed amazed, or maybe a bit repulsed.

“......”

They all gazed at me blankly. After a moment, Lee Hyuk broke the silence.

“Hey, where’s my pizza?”

After our first day in the studio, we returned to our routines: events, practice, lessons—and now music work. After traveling the provinces performing Something with Jang So-won senior, we’d come back to company PT, vocal and dance training, language lessons. Then Jung-hyun and I, unlike the others, headed to the studio at night.

Mostly technical work: debating how to sculpt the melody. The concept was set: a summer season song—cool, refreshing, announcing our debut in summer after Something’s spring flourish.

Of course, that was just for Director Jo; among ourselves, it was simply “summer song, yes?” A secret we kept. A cool, clear summer track.

Jung-hyun and I kept tweaking the ‘Untitled’ melody. It was simple work: after initial struggles, mentally reshaping it became surprisingly easy—not because I’m talented, but because I didn’t need to preserve its every nuance. When I tried, I failed. So, accepting some loss of subtlety, we rebuilt the beat from scratch.

We leaned on connections: asking Jang So-won senior’s advice at events, querying Director Jo during lessons, chatting with A&R and affiliated composers whenever possible. Thanks to their help, the work progressed smoothly.

“What should we reference for the instruments? Want that polished sound.”

“Let’s skim the Billboard Hot 100.”

We looked to US trends for the backing sounds.

“Jung-hyun, want to handle the intro this time?”

“Me?”

“You’ve got a good sense of rhythm—your bending and attack points would bring impact. And for the B part, Bi-ju’s tone is smooth, so that fits.”

“I think you’d do better, hyung.”

While discussing parts, we also talked about each member’s strengths.

“How about you, Lee Hyuk?”

“He’s good at vocal balance—he could fit anywhere.”

“True. We’ll see when the choreography’s set—probably give him fewer moves.”

If Lee Hyuk had heard us, his ears would have gone red. At that pace, we were deciding even who’d get which part—fast progress.

Then the problem struck.

“Hey, Jung-hyun.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you even picture this on stage?”

“...You mean that weird method only hyung can do?”

“No, not that.”

I asked, “Can you see us performing it in your head?”

He closed his eyes, thought for ten seconds, then opened them.

“Nope.”

“Right, it’s impossible.”

The problem was our song’s identity. Though the work was smooth, it never felt like our song. No matter what title we gave ‘Untitled,’ it didn’t scream New Black. We’d succeeded in polishing a gem but didn’t know what jewelry to make—necklace or ring?

“What do you think is wrong?”

“I think we’ve ignored our identity. Something was senior So-won’s song; this is ours. It needs to feel ‘New Black,’ but it’s too bland.”

The issue I hadn’t seen: New Black’s identity. What music do we want? What emotions or codes do we convey? We’d only researched sound quality, not who we are or how to express ourselves in this song.

“Hmm...”

Silently, Jung-hyun and I brooded. The clank of his hand gripper and my keystrokes clashed dissonantly—my mimicry ability had taught my fingers, but my brain lagged, making even Rachmaninoff a tangle, like my mind.

Time passed. Jung-hyun dropped the gripper and did push-ups on the studio floor, then offered an idea.

“Hyung, what if we focus on what we like?”

“What we like? Sounds promising.”

“What do you like, hyung?”

“Me? First is Grandma, second is money.”

“Uh... neither seems to fit our song. Rap could work though.”

“Yo, the two things I love: halMoney and Money.”

His absurd rap made our rapper burst out laughing. But focusing on what we like was solid logic—our tastes reflect who we are.

“So we have to think who we are as artists. And to do that, we need to know who we are.”

“I honestly don’t know. Do we even have a team color?”

“We’ll find it now.”

The push-up man scratched his sideburns, bit his lip, stopped doing push-ups, and stood.

“I think we need to talk with the others about this—it’s about our team color.”

“Good idea. After the broadcast, let’s discuss it. They said they’d come up later?”

“Should be a bit longer. Bi-ju said the drills didn’t match, so they’ll practice more here first.”

The clock on the wall read ten o’clock. Friday night. Finally, the late-night music show ‘Ha Seung-ju’s Music Café’ would air.

Eleven p.m.

Thirty minutes before Music Café aired, the studio bustled with all five of us together again. A laptop showing PBS sat on the table, snacks piled high around it.

“Hyung, can I have just one sip?”

The maknae eyed the beer, but Jung-hyun shook his head.

“No.”

“I’m the only one who hasn’t tried alcohol at school. Other groups give a sip to the juniors—even Gil Chae-kyung tried it.”

“You’re underage, you know.”

Lee Hyuk, perched on the edge of the sofa, munched dried sweet potatoes. “And stop dropping chips on the floor.”

“Okay.”

The maknae intentionally rubbed his crumb-covered hands, smiling.

“......”

Suddenly a chip hit me square in the face. I must’ve been so deep in thought I was unconsciously crafting a beat from their squabble.

“Here, hyung.”

A neatly cut slice of apple was offered. On another tray full of peelings stood Bi-ju.

“Thanks.”

“My mom says apples are best when you’re tired. You must be worn out from composing—thanks for your hard work.”

“I knew you were the one, Bi-ju.”

As I ate the apple, Jung-hyun set aside dried squid and offered his big hand.

“Me too, I worked hard on composing.”

“Uh, not that brown one. Don’t you have a fresh slice like Woo-joo hyung’s?”

Bi-ju laughed, but only his mouth—his eyes flicked between the knife in Jung-hyun’s hand and his earnest face. He cleared his throat.

“Wow, that apple looks delicious.”

Bi-ju turned to me. “Have you contacted Grandma?”

“She’s probably in front of the TV by now. Shall we all say hello?”

I pressed speed-dial 1 and switched to video call. My brothers, gauging the size of their heads on screen, edged behind me. Then Grandma Kim Deok-soon appeared.

“Oh, you scared me. Dang it, what’s this? Why am I seeing your face?”

Everyone burst into laughter; I felt embarrassed.

“I wanted to call after a long time.”

“You should say something before you call!”

“Yes, sorry, Kim Deok-soon.”

I introduced my brothers with a smile. “Grandma, you remember them from last December, right? They’ve come to watch Music Café’s live broadcast.”

“Oh, yes. Seeing all your faces warms my heart.”

Her wrinkled face, once hesitant seeing only me, lit up into a radiant smile as she gazed at my brothers. What the—why were they cuter than me?

“Hello!”

Their greeting made her face shine even brighter.

“Oh my, so pretty.”

“Grandma. I’m your grandson. Pay attention to me.”

“You see his face every day at home, why look again? You men are so petty—someone smiles and you go, ‘Grandma, I’m hurt!’”

“...Grandma, they’re laughing at me.”

Lee Hyuk and Ji-ho clenched their lips to hold back laughter. Despite being the butt of the joke, I didn’t feel bad. Grandma’s salty language felt comforting.

We chatted until the broadcast started. I couldn’t help boasting about how I’d secured the studio, but she never praised me—just told me not to be a nuisance.

Finally, when the PBS logo and ‘Ha Seung-ju’s Music Café’ appeared in the top right of the TV feed...

...everyone swallowed hard and stared at the screen.