“One hour earlier.”

“Alright! Meeting’s over, let’s dive in for real.”

“Sounds good!”

Maybe because they’d been banned from any thought or act involving music for days.

In a warm mood after wrapping the meeting, the composers began setting up their rigs and were about to start when—

“Hm?”

A murmur rose somewhere.

When they turned their heads, a few composers had gathered at one of the partitioned workspaces.

“What’s going on there?”

“Not sure, something fun? Their eyes are all sparkling.”

Then another composer, who’d been setting up his laptop, spoke.

“That spot should be Wooju’s studio. Looks like they’re watching him compose.”

“Oh!”

Curiosity lit their eyes too.

“Come to think of it, we’ve never watched Starship Wooju compose.”

Most of the composers present had worked with NewBlack before.

But they’d never seen Starship Wooju composing directly.

They’d tweaked already finished songs together, or brought their tracks to him for a check.

“More people are crowding in. Shall we go look too?”

“Let’s. When else will we see this.”

How does Korea’s top composer, circa 2017, build a track?

They strode over and claimed a sliver of space along the empty partition fence.

“Hm?”

But the vibe was odd.

The minions sat chuckling, while only Wooju clicked his mouse like a man possessed.

“If we can steal any know-how, we should.”

“How does he think and work?”

What unfolded before the bright-eyed composers was this:

Wooju, arms folded, silently staring at the monitor.

After about three minutes, he murmured to himself.

“Let’s change the drums.”

A few clicks later, a perfect drum loop was done.

Not a hint of hesitation or debate.

He seemed to be dumping what popped up in his head straight into the computer, and there was nothing to nitpick. Like feeding a finished picture through a printer.

“Something like this...”

Click.

The chorus melody was complete.

“The chorus will hit like this...”

Click, click.

He then ran down the verses leading into the chorus and hit play.

It was so good you’d think he had the final master in his head.

The watching composers whispered.

“Composer Yoo, can you do that?”

“No. If I could, I’d have steamrolled the whole industry...”

“That’s a level where the final’s in his head. How does he place notes with that much certainty?”

“Not so much certainty as total immersion. He doesn’t seem to hear people around him.”

Quietly seated, Junghyeon waved the single long king-earthworm gummy from his mixed pack in front of Wooju’s eyes, ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ but he didn’t react.

His gaze was fixed somewhere.

But not at the monitor—somewhere far beyond.

“What on earth is in that head.”

Just for a day, they wanted to experience the same musical world the genius saw.

NewBlack’s leader traced the air with his fingers and muttered,

“And in the bridge, upgrade the chorus twice... to the climax...”

His fingers moved fast.

Every composer watching held their breath.

“Wow...”

At this rate, a masterpiece might be born.

Like staying quiet while a master paints a mural, they watched the rest in reverent silence.

“Is he finishing everything right here? Alone? That’s a pipeline for at least four people in division-of-labor...”

“Shh.”

“Ah...”

As creators, they all united in quiet to witness a song’s birth.

And then—

When everything was done and Wooju lifted Ri Hyuk’s water bottle for a sip—

“Hm?”

He seemed to come back to himself, glanced around, saw the crowd at the partition, and started.

Then he looked at the members and asked if they had thoughts.

The maknae gave a small grin.

“I don’t know about thoughts, but I do know you’re a genius.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you realize you just finished the title in an hour?”

“Finished?”

Bewildered, Wooju played the project.

As the full version of what he’d just completed flowed out, the composers let out satisfied “kya” sounds.

“No joke, that could go out as-is.”

“Just mix and master and you’re done.”

From their point of view, it was astounding.

Modern composing paradigms are built on the collaboration of countless people. Track guide, top-liner, and so on—roles are sliced up; that’s the recent trend.

And here was someone beating the drum and the gong all by himself.

And the result was perfect.

“Hm?”

But he looked thrown.

“A final? This...?”

At the implication that this couldn’t be called a final, the composers’ hearts lurched.

It felt like being toyed with.

Not polite humility—he genuinely seemed to believe it, which made it worse.

“If it were me, I’d write that and brag to everyone in town.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“Even back in school, kids like that were the worst...”

Sensing the hostile wriggle behind the partition fence, Wooju went “oh, right” and explained.

“No, I mean the quality isn’t there to call it final. From here I’ll add and subtract and revise a ton.”

“...”

“It’s really not a final...”

As Wooju muttered and glanced around, the composers asked the Lemon Entertainment staff,

“Is he always like this?”

“Yeah, that’s... daily life.”

The producers answered with fond smiles.

“He invites us to work together, then finishes everything alone and asks our thoughts. Later he goes, ‘Oh, you were here?’ and buys dinner, apologizing.”

“When we do blind tests and he says, ‘I think I made a title this time~,’ only his gets picked.”

“I used to live my whole life on confidence alone. Since joining here, my self-esteem’s dipped.”

A staffer said glumly; the composers asked,

“Then why stay?”

“They pay a lot.”

“Ah... respect...”

A fair point.

Meanwhile, the composers who’d just witnessed genius chuckled hollowly and were about to head back when—

Someone posed an important question.

“Excuse me, but...”

As eyes turned, a composer said,

“Isn’t the game already over...?”

“Huh...?”

“No matter how hard we try now, I don’t think anything will beat that. Honestly, even if we do make something, we’ll only make songs in reaction to that one.”

“...”

He wasn’t wrong.

They’d just heard what could be called the definitive powerful K-pop dance track rooted in future bass.

They’d only heard it a couple of times, yet the chorus wouldn’t leave their heads.

Like after walking through a park dense with cicadas in summer and being haunted a long while by that mem-mem-mem-mem—

It was like starting a writing contest after showing the first-place piece, and thinking of it constantly.

“...What do we do.”

Soon the gathered composers convened and reached a conclusion.

“The title’s out of reach.”

Since they couldn’t beat that... the next choice was obvious.

“Let’s write album tracks for the next full album.”

They shifted their goal to songs that could be included on NewBlack’s full album next year.

Team Leader Na Sangyun, deftly chairing the meeting, patted the external composers.

“Don’t be too sad. We go through this all the time.”

“Haa...”

The composers who’d pictured winning with a title let out hollow smiles.

But they weren’t exactly sad.

The instant they heard Wooju’s track, they unconsciously thought it had to be number one.

The quality was so high, the desire for first evaporated.

“First is gone; we’ll at least take second.”

They nodded firmly and returned to their rooms.

But there was one more thing they didn’t know yet.

PD Saltman sidled up to Team Leader Na Sangyun, who had been quietly watching them.

“They still don’t know, huh?”

“Yeah. Looks like they don’t.”

The secret they didn’t know.

It was right there in the tracks they’d just chosen to work on.

“From ‘Sun Wooju’s Rest Diary’”

Over footage of the composers dispersing after the meeting, a quest window pops up.

[ding!]

[To Become an Album Track]

Fallen into the plot of the wicked composer-ogre Starship Wooju, the composers now embark on the challenge of making album tracks.

Make splendid album tracks!

Difficulty: A

The scattered composers chuckle.

Composer 1: “Let’s just take it easy. If we aim for first, honestly we won’t survive it.”

Composer 2: “Let’s show the power of ordinary people.”

Below their faces, captions pop up with their names and a quick arrow tag of what hits they’ve made.

They were top-tier domestic composers behind hit songs for girl groups and ballad singers.

Then each picked, from what they’d heard on day one, the instrumental that stuck with them and began in earnest.

Cut to interview.

Famous composer Yoo Woong sits in frame.

Yoo Woong: “That’s how I felt then. Wooju showed overwhelming ability, but we couldn’t lose. We wanted to show how splendid a song we could make... to show what we can really do.”

He lets out an embarrassed laugh.

Yoo Woong: “And I learned later—about the instrumental we chose from what he played on day one. There was one where I thought, ‘If we build on this, it’ll be incredible...’”

Producer: “Yes.”

Yoo Woong: “That... turned out to be Wooju’s.”

The crew laughs.

The interview cuts to a wide of the auditorium with everyone engrossed in work.

In each partitioned bay, an instrumental is playing, and labels pop up over them one by one.

— Team 1 instrumental: #7 (by Starship Wooju)

— Team 2 instrumental: #4 (by Starship Wooju)

And so on—every team’s chosen instrumental had Wooju’s name on it.

As we see composers blazing with eyes that say “We won’t lose to Starship Wooju!”, the auditorium view pulls back and a caption fades in:

[Why every song born at the song camp ended up with “Starship Wooju” as co-composer.jpg]

With wistful BGM, semi-transparent faces of Wooju and his minions, laughing, overlay the screen.

“Alright, then let’s move into revisions.”

“Yaaay...”

At the word “revisions,” Assistant Manager Seo Pilgeun and Hyeongseop’s faces immediately darkened to ash.

Our kids were the exception, of course.

“I think something distinctive could go up front. Like how a whisper of gayageum wove through ‘Blue Moon.’”

At Ri Hyuk’s suggestion for a unique timbre, I mentally listed a few instruments.

“Strings feel off for future bass. Maybe a flute—some woodwind color?”

“Could work. How would you lay it in?”

“Our producing team will do it well.”

Working a distinctive instrument into a pop track is tricky.

You have to place its pitch and level just right—and we had the best specialists.

Assistant Manager Seo’s eyes grew dewy.

With that, we moved into fine-tuning the new track. At first it felt like there were a hundred things to tweak.

“Hmm...”

“Maybe it’s better not to touch more.”

I nodded at Biju’s line.

Unlike other songs, maybe because I’d made this in one sustained burst of immersion, some parts looked better left alone.

The moment you tweak one spot, the rest starts chattering like Jiho—“What about me then?!”—demanding fixes too.

So we went through fewer revision passes than usual.

“How is it, Hyeongseop. Feels a little different, right?”

“Mm... not sure.”

“No, listen. I flipped the melody a bit here. Changed a couple notes.”

“Mm...”

“Hyeongseop, do you want to compose?”

“Why is it always me.”

And then—

“Die, Starship Wooju!”

“Junghyeon.”

“Gyaaaah!”

Our two staffers and the kids cheered with passion.

“Anyone else with thoughts on revising like this?”

“...”

“Really? No one?”

And with due democratic process, we locked the structure perfectly.

From here, a few more passes, then mixing and mastering, and it would be complete.

At first I wondered if it was okay to finish this fast, but four years into the industry I’ve learned one thing.

In creation, more time does not guarantee better quality.

“Feels like a good song, right?”

“How many times are you going to ask. It’s perfect.”

“I’m just asking.”

As I kept asking out of creeping nerves, Ri Hyuk declared,

“It came out absolutely perfect, so don’t worry. In my opinion, this is impossible to flop.”

“Ri Hyuk...”

“What.”

“Don’t say jinx-y words like ‘flop’...”

“Oh, come on. I’m complimenting you nicely...! That’s how good it is! Kyah!”

“Bear with him, hyung. Let it go. Wooju hyung’s a bit childish.”

While the maknae peekabooed an irate Ri Hyuk back to calm, I saved the now-solid project and asked,

“So what do we call it?”

“Since it’s built on the subway, let’s go with that. In English...”

Junghyeon said,

“What was it in English again. Seoul Metro... Metro.”

“Metro. Nice.”

And so the song got the title “Metro.”

The prefix “metro” carries metropolis—loneliness in a crowd.

And it also means subway, so it fit.

The detailed meaning would be crafted by our capable TF team, like with “Hello, WOrLD.”

“Alright, let’s take a break here.”

Hyeongseop and Assistant Manager Seo flopped over in relief on cue.

With nothing to do for the moment, I glanced around. Music spilled from every corner of the hall.

I smiled at the place brimming with sounds of every color.

“Oho...”

I was feeling a bit bored anyway.

So I decided to wander toward whatever sound piqued my interest.

Same time.

External composers working in teams with Lemon’s composers blinked in surprise.

“The level’s no joke.”

Successful freelancers tend to carry a bias against in-house composers.

“If you’re truly top-tier, you set up your own studio.”

Salary and job stability are great, but honestly, if you’re hot, freelancing pays more.

People come waving cash for songs. And you’re freer in your activities.

So they’d been slightly looking down on Lemon Entertainment’s composers.

“Let’s pull one tempo off here. Even just reining the timing a bit will tighten the sound.”

They were impressed by Lemon producers’ sharp analysis and insight in the details.

They seemed to know how to compose neither too much nor too little.

They acted like it was nothing, but they looked fully capable of thriving independently anywhere.

“Then why be on staff...?”

A few top composers, wondering that, casually asked about pay.

“Pay is honestly top of the industry, but not, like, obscene. The big thing is this.”

“What thing?”

“You get to work with NewBlack and Scarlet... the royalties from that are pretty big.”

The Lemon staff pointed to Team Leader Na Sangyun.

“In his case, ‘Blue Moon’ blew up this time, right? We joke he works here as a hobby.”

“Wow...”

No wonder the watch on his wrist wasn’t your average luxury piece. Hearing that backstory, the outsiders’ eyes sparkled.

“Not Lemon Entertainment—God Entertainment...”

“Handled right, it’s a job of the gods.”

As the insiders smirked “heh heh heh” under those outside gazes—

“Hm?”

With a soft whirr, a mini drone flew in.

From the speaker hanging under it, Wooju’s voice drifted out gently.

[PD Son Gyuseon.]

“What is it, Wooju.”

[I happened to pass by and hear what you’re working on.]

“Mm.”

[May I share my thoughts? It sounds so good I’d love to talk together.]

“I’ll handle it.”

PD Son’s hasty refusal drew empathy from the other composers.

“You have to refuse that.”

“If you listen to Wooju, you really get swayed.”

The hottest composer in the country right now.

He himself, full of goodwill and love of music, goes “Let’s talk together!”, but they all knew—

If Wooju spoke about the direction of a track, they’d unconsciously drift that way.

Or overcorrect the other way to avoid him and crash.

[Just a brief chat...]

“...”

[I found a really good song and want to talk it through.]

“...”

With the drone buzzing circles, PD Son flicked it aside with a finger like a gnat.

The outsiders laughed; an insider said,

“As you see, it’s a great workplace... with one drawback named that kid. But if you repel him like this...”

Whoosh! A paper airplane sailed in and landed on PD Son Gyuseon’s knee.

“Yes, he comes like this too.”

On the note—“Still, please hear me out till the end...”—the composers burst into laughter.

And they soberly reconsidered the job hop that had just looked tempting.

“It’s a workplace of extreme pros and cons. There’s no middle...”

They smiled warmly at the sight of staff suffering a certain genius’s well-meaning backseat driving.