After our wild night on Kangaroo Island—

we spent the next two days doing a youth backpacking tour.

"Ah. My legs hurt."

"Ri Hyuk hyung, your legs hurt? Should we grab a taxi?"

"If we’re doing it, make it an expensive taxi."

"Yup."

We moved anything over three steps by taxi while happily taking in the sights.

"Steak restaurant or lobster restaurant—where to?"

"Both."

When the menu was hard to choose, we just ate both.

We wrapped our South Australia leg and lived it up all the way to Brisbane, experiencing youth in luxury.

"Guys."

The PD spoke gravely.

"This isn’t what a youth trip is."

"It isn’t?"

"A youth trip is, you know... Actually, forget it. I don’t even know how to explain this."

"Is there such a thing as a special ‘youth trip’? If youth do it, it’s a youth trip."

At Junhyun’s line we clapped in agreement.

Ri Hyuk added:

"We earned our travel money. Not spending it would be weird."

"Right."

"What was that village earlier? When we won the singing contest there, we stayed up the night before practicing SpongeBob a cappella."

"Junhyun worked hard doing Patrick’s voice."

The staff were floored by our logic: since we worked our butts off, it’s only fair to spend big.

In the middle of that, the PD smiled brightly and muttered:

"Maybe next time we should go somewhere with no currency at all..."

"No."

The camera director waved his hands.

"These kids would survive in a place that barters with shell necklaces. They’d build a tower out of shells."

"That’s true, too."

We all burst out laughing at the writers and PD, gloomy that they’d barely used half their prepared games.

Soon the PD nodded, smiling.

"Nothing goes as planned. In Season 1 you caught seagulls and met ghosts... In Season 2 you busked and brought back money."

"Isn’t that our charm point?"

"True."

We all laughed at the maknae’s cutesy eyes.

Right then the assistant director clapped.

"Okay! Let’s start filming the ending!"

"Yes!"

Time to shoot our travel-ending lines.

We mentioned the places we’d visited, what we loved about Australia, thanked the staff, and sent greetings to Souffle who’d be watching this reality.

"By the time this airs, we’ll be back with our second full album. Our new title track, ‘Coin’! Please look forward to it."

"Thank you~!"

"Wooooo!"

And that wrapped the ending shoot.

Of course, it wasn’t the end of all filming.

"PD-nim, we’re shooting more when we get back to Seoul, right?"

"Yeah. After the first edit’s done."

We planned a watch-through for what we’d filmed—reacting as we viewed, that kind of thing.

Apparently this reflected how variety trends have shifted from pure reality to observation shows.

One of HBS’s new variety shows with that concept had just blown up.

"Really, you worked so hard for four nights and five days."

"You were the ones who worked hard. Meals were..."

The PD started in on the clichéd "even meals were inconvenient," and we looked away, off into the distance.

"We ate great."

"Luxury travel reality..."

The PD chuckled.

"You worked so hard. And your drunken antics last night were adorable."

"Is there really no way to cut that?"

"Absolutely not."

We figured as much.

Variety folks love these candid, heartfelt moments most.

"Anyway, I don’t know if we’ll get a Season 3, but I hope we do."

"Us too."

When we handed over the gifts we’d picked up during the trip, the writers and directors lit up.

The audio director—whose eardrums we’d trained for four nights and five days—took off his headphones with a bright smile.

"So you’re flying out tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Packed schedule."

The Australian trip reality was planned as four nights, five days, and we’d finished on schedule—but we still had extra things to do.

We had interviews lined up with Australian media about the busking.

And we had someone we’d promised to meet.

"Heh heh heh heh..."

"Stop that weird laugh. It’s embarrassing."

"Uhehehehe!"

I couldn’t help laughing at the thought of meeting the world’s greatest guitarist.

"Uhehehehe!"

"..."

"Ahem-heh-hemmmm..."

"..."

Our new managers froze when we made eye contact.

While Minsu, Jongwan, and Jiwun swallowed hard, Hyung Wonseok asked solemnly:

"They’re exactly like on TV, right?"

"Yes."

"These are our boys."

At Manager Do Wonseok’s face, shining with a strange pride, the crew and we burst out laughing.

The next day.

We’d just finished our morning interviews with Australian media when an invitation arrived.

[thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum-thrum—]

"..."

"..."

A machine whose rotors never seemed to stop, blasting a massive roar.

A helicopter.

"..."

"..."

Life sure is colorful.

Last time a famous musician sent us a private jet; this time a guitarist-slash-entrepreneur sent us a helicopter.

"Wuaargh—!"

Belts clicked, we lifted off, and at the sensation of floating, Ri Hyuk screamed.

Biju squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back.

I closed my eyes, too, headset on to block the noise. After a few dozen minutes—

"We’ve arrived!"

The pilot’s shout came through our headsets.

"Oh?"

"Already?"

As the rotors slowed, the younger ones’ voices reached my ringing ears.

"Already here? Us?"

"This far?"

A drive would take about two hours. We covered it in minutes.

It was dizzying and cool.

No wonder foreign stars and execs commute by helicopter, I thought.

"Hyung."

The maknae pressed up to me and whispered:

"Put this in the shopping cart too."

"Confirmed."

"Private jet next, then a private helicopter."

We exchanged an OK and grinned.

Then we looked out at a pasture where sheep were bounding and, behind it, a modest residence.

They said it was one of Mr. Glenn Davis’s villas.

"Welcome!"

Glenn Davis, playing with a border collie alongside the ranch operator, waved at us.

He looked much the same as before.

A long white, shaggy beard like a magic school headmaster.

Short sleeves and shorts.

"Good to see you again."

We held out the gifts we’d brought.

"Thank you for inviting us."

"It’s always a joy to feed poor musicians. Haw haw haw."

"...There was a small communication mishap last time."

"Easy to misunderstand."

The old man winked and beckoned us in.

Inside the villa’s dining room, a barbecue party was already set. At the fragrant smell of meat, Junhyun nearly burst into tears.

Davis tilted his head.

"Did that friend not get to eat meat on the trip?"

"It’s crocodile tears, Mr. Davis."

We said it was pre-secreted to aid digestion, and he nodded, convinced.

With small talk about whether crocodiles live in Korea, the barbecue party began. Davis held out beer cans.

"Fancy a drink?"

"No. We recently declared a ban on booze."

"That’s a shame. Some alcohol issue?"

"Not that, but there was a bit of an incident."

Glenn Davis nodded.

"Overdrinking leads to incidents. Barroom brawl, black-eye, torching a perfectly fine car. Once I came to and I’d been left in the Texas desert. Hahaha!"

"R-right."

"So you lot are little rascals, eh? Hahaha."

We laughed at the rock legend who’d lived full-throttle.

His bright eyes were clearly reading, You lads caused a huge blowup! But we couldn’t exactly say, "We got drunk and our love exploded."

We chatted happily over barbecue.

Nothing particularly special to say—it felt like an afterparty for that impromptu performance.

"At first I was shocked. Thought tourists recognized me. Then this lad asks me to play together."

"Your guitar carried really well across the park."

"Funny that. Most folks don’t notice."

He laughed, saying it had been a fun jam for the first time in a while.

He said he’s the type who can’t stand boredom—can’t sit still for even a minute.

With that fiery yet cheerful personality, Davis did most of the talking and we volleyed back.

"So my secretary’s research says you’re rising online stars these days."

"Us?"

"That’s what he says. He’s very good, so he’s probably right."

Something about how "Dokkaebi," which had been #88 last week, dropped to #99 on the Billboard Hot 100 today or yesterday.

He probably meant things like NewBlack TV subscriber numbers more than that.

Talking about the U.S. market, Davis offered senior-musician advice.

"Got an English song ready?"

"No. Not yet."

"If you want to play in a big pond, have at least one in English. We suffered a lot because of that."

He said that when Devil Grills first started, they sang in German with a German vocalist.

The old man smiled, recalling the past.

"It bombed."

"Pff—!"

"German sounds cool, so we sang in German, but the Yanks wouldn’t listen, so we made no money."

It lined up with what Director Cho Kyuhwan had told us.

He’d said, seeing the overseas interest:

—If overseas heat looks real, you should be thinking ahead about that.

It’s a common strategy for Latin pop stars in ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) South America, he said.

Drop one English single in the U.S., hit the jackpot, then act with that "global artist" image.

Smiling, I said:

"Well... you need popularity there for that to work at all."

It was good advice, but it felt a bit premature somehow.

And—

"We’re already doing a bit too well."

"True enough. My secretary says you’ve got Asia locked down. That’s excellent too. Take my talk as just advice."

Glenn Davis winked.

"When you get old, you start sticking your nose in. When I see young folks, my mouth itches to tell ’em things. Especially junior musicians—sometimes I want to point out roads that can go wrong."

He was honestly a great person.

Watching us with a warm smile, the guitarist asked:

"But I do want to ask one thing."

"Yes."

"You’re all not doing drugs, right?"

"[cough—!]"

We nearly sprayed our drinks.

When we swore we’d never even look that way, his warm smile returned.

"Marijuana’s out too."

"Marijuana’s illegal in Korea."

"Good. The light stuff’s scarier. You start with weed, then slide to cocaine, heroin, and wreck yourself."

"Ah..."

When he said the secret to a long-lived band was not doing drugs, our pupils had nowhere to go.

Hearing that friends who used back in the ’70s–’80s were now stars in the night sky, we stared into space.

"What kind of lives do foreign musicians even live."

"I can’t process this. I can’t..."

For us, who’d lived like scallions in a greenhouse, it was a lawless tale we couldn’t process.

Laughing at our reactions, Davis said:

"Oh, right. I prepared a gift too."

"A gift?"

"My guitar."

He brought out an electric guitar bearing his signature and gave it to us.

"This...?"

Holding the guitar, I asked:

"You’re giving this to me?"

"Don’t feel burdened. I’ve got about a hundred signed guitars in my storage. Gave you one, so I’ll sign another."

"I’m honored..."

A precious thing.

If we hang this in the studio, the producing team will go nuts. It’ll set the vibe, too.

—Everyone sleepy? Don’t you dare doze. Remember: the legend of guitar is watching us.

—Mr. Davis’s soul is with us.

Cool lines streamed into my head automatically.

Swallowing tears that wanted to flow, we took a certification shot with Davis and the guitar. I signed my ukulele and handed it to him.

We were about to wrap the meeting in a warm mood when—

"Ah."

Davis changed the subject.

He rose from the sofa, went to the living room, and took something from atop the mantel.

A worn little jewelry box.

"I forgot this."

"Sir?"

"I hear you’re Myungju Seon’s son?"

The younger ones and I traded baffled looks.

"You knew my father?"

"Not exactly a friend. More like a friend of a friend. We knew some of the same people."

Wow. Dad’s network really was huge.

In France it was a pianist who knew him; in Australia a guitarist recognized him.

Next time maybe a flutist will show up, trill-lil-li.

"And this thing you’re giving us...?"

"Oh. Was it a party in Venice? I forget if it was ’90-something. I met Myungju and your mother there."

"Ah..."

Hearing "Myungju" with a foreign lilt sounded odd and fascinating.

We listened, focused.

"Back then I was crazy into treasure hunting. Treasure hidden in forests, sunken pirate ships."

"Pirate ships...!"

"Most of it was a bust, of course."

Junhyun and Jiho’s eyes sparkled.

"At the time I was trying to find treasure hidden in a forest, and I happened to talk with your father—where would be safest to hide treasure if you were hiding it?"

While Ri Hyuk’s eyes narrowed, I asked:

"What did you talk about?"

"I don’t remember the details. It’s been nearly twenty years. We quickly veered back to treasure talk, anyway."

He clapped once.

"Your parents gave me a lead while I was struggling. They asked to see my map for a moment."

Mom and Dad, heads together, whispered, then marked a point on the map, it seems.

He spun the yarn so vividly I felt like I was on a nostalgia trip I’d never lived.

A glamorous Italian ballroom,

jazz music drifting,

Mom and Dad in dress and suit under a chandelier, heads together, deducing.

"It was a brilliant deduction. So I promised your parents: if I found it, I’d give a modest reward."

"Did you find it?"

"There was some error, but it was exactly as they deduced."

Davis held out the small jewelry box with a smile.

"Late as it is, this is a gift for your parents."

"..."

"Or you could say it’s a gift from your parents to you."

The worn box settled into my hand.

[clink]

[clink]

Something inside slid and shifted. It sounded metallic.

I asked:

"May I ask what’s inside?"

"Well."

Mischief glinted in the old man’s eye as he scratched his beard.

"Better you open it yourself."

"...?"

All eyes fixed on the box I was holding. I looked around; they all nodded.

"Then I’ll open it."

[screeech]

As the rusty hinge squealed and the box opened—

"Huh?"

"Huh?"

The younger ones and I screamed in unison.

Twenty hours later.

Incheon International Airport.

"..."

"..."

The NewBlack members’ eyes sparkled as we stood before customs officers.

The officer read the paperwork and asked:

"So you’re returning after filming a reality show, correct?"

"Yes!"

"And the production staff came back ahead of you?"

"Yes."

Everyone in the country knew NewBlack went to Australia to film a reality show, so this was routine verification.

The customs officers scratched their heads.

They’d been notified in advance, but seeing it in person was startling.

"S-so you received this as a gift."

"Yes."

As the members beamed, the main vocalist replied coolly:

"We were told there are no legal issues. No problems under cultural property export laws, etc."

"Yes, that’s what we heard too, but..."

The officer looked again at the item before him and asked once more:

"You received this as a gift?"

"Yes."

"According to the item description... it’s 19th-century. And... it should originally have gone to Mr. Wooju’s father."

"That’s right."

The paperwork was flawless.

Even so, the officer was being meticulous because this was a first in his life.

[glint]

[glimmer-glimmer]

[glint]

"..."

From the box, Australian gold coins peeked out, shyly sparkling a hello.

Gold coins from the 19th century.

They fit in a small jewelry box, but who could guess their value.

Looking at NewBlack’s warm smiles, the customs officer asked:

"I—I do have one question."

"Yes."

"I saw on the news your next title track is, what was it, ‘Co...’"

"‘Coin’?"

"Yes, Coin... Forgive me, but is that title because of this?"

"No. Absolutely not."

The NewBlack members waved their hands while the customs officers narrowed their eyes.

"It’s not!"

"..."

"It really isn’t!"

"..."

And thus the rumor sprinted on little feet.

Before long, all sorts of wild stories were swirling about NewBlack’s next title track, Coin.