“Ah.”

My lips itched.

I could hear singing all around me, and yet I couldn’t talk about it.

[knock knock]

I tapped cheerfully on the partition fence where PD Saltman and the external composers were working.

[knock knock] “NewBlack production team.”

“...Why, Uju?”

“I just happened to hear a song as I was passing by. I wanted to chat a bit about the track you’re working on, PD.”

I opened my eyes wide and tried to look cute, but...

PD Saltman smiled.

“I’m going to have to refuse.”

“...”

“When we announced the workshop, didn’t our Uju-ship composers promise independent, interference-free work?”

That was true.

That’s why I’d been fluttering around with wide, hopeful eyes all this time.

“Phew...”

After being curtly turned away by Pd Saltman, I peeked into the other composers’ studios. One of our company’s PDs saw me from afar and waved an A4 sheet.

At first I thought it was a welcome flag, but then it stuck to the partition, and I realized it wasn’t.

[No Song-Ghosts Allowed]

An X was drawn over a six-limbed, three-headed monster breathing fire.

“Ri Hyuk, I think that sign’s about you.”

“Can I give it a little smack on the snout?”

“No.”

I dragged the trembling main vocalist along to the next studio, but everyone refused my offer.

Then they laughed happily, “Independent work without any backseat drivers...! You wouldn’t know how rare that is.”

“It feels refreshing.”

“So this is what independent work is like! Is this freedom? Is this happiness?”

Their delighted laughter grated on my nerves.

“An artist’s studio should have screams, agony, battle cries...”

“Shut up and let’s go back.”

Ri Hyuk pulled me away by the arm.

“No, Ri Hyuk. Can’t you see the sound? That beautiful sound?”

Whenever I saw something beautiful, I couldn’t hold back.

Like a kid coveting toys in a supermarket, I gazed pitifully at every other studio.

Ri Hyuk said, “You’ve got to respect other people’s space.”

“Why?”

“Composing is a process of finding your own answer... If you barged in and said, ‘This is how the song should go,’ wouldn’t they feel bothered? It’s like Buddha dropping by a temple and saying, ‘You should tweak this bit of scripture.’”

“...”

“You have to find the answer yourself.”

Ri Hyuk, preaching his philosophy, looked back at me as we walked in silence. “Why are you like this?”

“Because it makes me feel like trash.”

“...Are you even listening to me?”

Back in our studio, I spoke to the assistants taking a break.

“Ri Hyuk called me trash.”

“Whoa...”

“Ri Hyuk, I knew you’d do that. Telling someone recovering from gastritis they’re trash.”

“Ri Hyuk, why’d you do that?”

Ri Hyuk’s ears reddened as he gave me a playful smack on the back, and we both burst out laughing.

While the chaos of teasing our main vocalist raged on, Assistant Manager Seo Pilgeun—who’d been tweaking part of the track for me—asked, “Why did you come back so early?”

“Everyone hated even me peeking in.”

“Hmm, that figures.”

Assistant Manager Seo smiled quietly, then hurriedly changed the subject. “Wow... What a bunch of meanies.”

“Right?”

I stretched and sat down.

We couldn’t touch the newly born track “Metro” anymore. We had to pause and have the meeting in this state—play it for the TF team and Director Cho Gyu-hwan for feedback, decide on the concept, confer with engineers on mixing and mastering.

All our early objectives had been met.

“Hmm...”

What to do with the leftover time?

“Should I teach Jiho some composing? Didn’t he say he’s interested lately?”

“Huh? Me? That’s news to me.”

“Junghyun’s working on a mixtape, right?”

“Sorry, hyung. I didn’t bring the USB.”

I turned to Biju.

“Biju...”

VRRRRRRR!

The mixer Biju brought to apologize roared like an engine. I waited a beat before speaking.

“Bi—”

VRRRRRRRR!

“Biju!”

VRRRRR!

I gave up.

“What about me?”

I brightened at Ri Hyuk’s sarcastic question.

“Want to collaborate on a track?”

“No thanks.”

“....”

He spun and wiggled like Shin-chan grinning in a comic.

Biju laughed and offered apple juice. “We came all the way to vacation, hyung. We finished early—why not call it a day and rest?”

“Umm...”

“Tour’s coming up in a few days. Rest, hyung.”

Junghyun and Jiho massaged my limbs while Ri Hyuk sang songs of his choice.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet rest, lost in thought.

My brothers were right. I actually had a plan for the composers I’d been considering.

“All right, I’ll rest and do light work.”

My brothers beamed as if I’d spoken the secret password.

That night, it was finally review time.

“Phew...”

“We’re done...”

“Great job, everyone!”

The composers applauded each other and sat in a circle in the auditorium.

Sitting in the center, I smiled. “Okay, everyone, great work. How was today’s session? Fun?”

“Yes!”

The staff from Lemon Entertainment laughed happily—no song-ghosts haunting them today.

The external composers were satisfied too.

“These people are amazing.”

I’d been wrong to judge them as “just company composers.” Today they showed exceptional skill.

Their team leader, PD Na Sang-yoon, was almost peerless. No wonder he was Uju-ship’s top pick.

“Lemon Entertainment... you’ve got serious talent.”

I’d worked with top in-house composers from KM and TJ before, but never anyone this outstanding.

The more I worked with them, the more my admiration grew—and my awe of Uju-ship.

“Me? Good? What a joke...”

“Hey, don’t praise me in front of Uju and the others—they’ll tease.”

“Aren’t these standards normal for everyone?”

As I watched the Lemon Entertainment team, I opened my mouth.

“We’ll have review sessions like this for the next two nights. We’ll each produce one song per day, vote on the best one, and award a prize.”

“The prize is a premium Korean beef rib set!”

The maknae, smiling wide, showed the rib box—external composers drooled.

“Wow.”

“If I take this home, I can brag for five minutes.”

“I’ll bring home beef for my mom.”

Then we played each team’s submission in turn.

They all smiled at their own team’s track, but serious expressions crossed the others’ faces.

“This isn’t easy.”

“Every team worked hard.”

By the second track, even the first team looked solemn—because the teams weren’t the only top talents assembled.

As each song played, exclamations of awe rose.

But the winner was clear.

“Team PD Na Sang-yoon will win, I bet...”

His synth-pop, futuristic vibe track seemed unbeatable. Everyone sensed the ranking—even before voting.

They used Junghyun as their barometer—like a plant that wriggles more to better music. When the chorus hit, he writhed excitedly.

They all nodded.

“Today’s number one is here.”

PD Na Sang-yoon agreed. “It’s not easy, after all. So many amazing people.”

My almost-arrogant confidence settled into healthy humility. I’d gained confidence in my skills, but also become more humble.

PD Na Sang-yoon rose, brimming with pride.

—Uju said this camp would boost confidence. And it did.

Meeting world-famous American composers had dented Lemon Entertainment’s confidence—but today they regained it perfectly.

“Maybe we can create something that appeals to the U.S. market.”

Just then, as he reached for the rib box—

“Huh?”

“Seems there’s one more song.”

Ri Hyuk clicked on his laptop and the composers looked up.

I wondered, “Who submitted two songs?”

No limit on submissions, but it was unusual. As we listened—

“...Huh?”

Everyone’s eyes went wide.

From the intro alone, it was insane. A ticking time-bomb clock, then a clever blend of electronic sounds in a moombahton track that practically choreographed itself in your head.

“Wow.”

“This is great.”

Its only flaw was being more suited to a girl group—but that could be fixed.

By the chorus the composers were nodding and smiling at the explosive drop.

“Yeah. This is it.”

Junghyun writhed again in delight. Everyone agreed.

“Today’s number one.”

PD Na Sang-yoon nodded, humbled. “So many incredible people.”

He scanned the room. “So who made this track?”

“But first...”

I smiled. “We need to vote anonymously.”

We did—each composer picked the best track excluding their own. Then the results were in.

“Well, it wasn’t unanimous.”

Eyes widened.

“Not unanimous?”

“No. Three teams tied, each got one vote.”

“....”

The three teams waved their hands. “We can’t vote for our own tracks.”

“Oh.”

“Then who?”

“Which team got first place?”

Under pressure, I spoke slowly.

“Wait—Jiho.”

“Yes!”

Jiho ran and hefted the rib box. It was packed with meat heavy enough to sway his tall frame.

Everyone wondered who would claim the ribs.

“Huh?”

Junghyun ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ grabbed the box.

“...?”

I smiled. “These ribs are mine now.”

Silence fell as I laughed, surrounded by assistants and the “song-ghost” I’d earned the prize fair and square. But it looked like I’d embezzled company funds for a meat feast.

A composer asked, “So you made both tracks?”

“Yes. I couldn’t just rest while you all worked hard. We worked too.”

“...”

“Thanks for choosing us. Enjoy your ribs~!”

With that, NewBlack announced the end of the camp. We packed up and grabbed the ribs—composers sat in silence.

“What is this?”

“So mean.”

“Truly mean...”

But beneath their resentment was defeat.

While they’d labored all day, Uju-ship had clicked a mouse and won the prize.

“Phew...”

“But it’s not illegal—there’s no rule saying you can only submit one song.”

“It’s a great track.”

The composers breathed deeply and—

“Ribs! Ribs!”

“Ha ha ha! That was hilarious. These ribs are mine now.”

“Let’s coat them in NewBlack sauce. They looked amazing on that show.”

The composers’ calm dissolved. Their defeat turned to fury and passion.

“Tomorrow, I’ll win for sure.”

“I’ll flatten Uju-ship’s arrogance by even 1mm.”

As NewBlack left the auditorium, composers rushed back to their studios.

“You’re not leaving?”

“No... I’m going to finish up some work.”

“I’m pulling an all-nighter from midnight—so unfair I need the highest quality.”

Fueled by rage at Uju-ship, they locked themselves in to work.

“See that?”

The leader peeked through the door at us, telling his assistants, “Novices wear others down; masters make themselves work without being told.”

“Ooooo.”

Biju eagerly took notes, and I draped my arm around him. “Come on, let’s eat ribs!”

“Waaaa!”

“Let’s send rib pics to the company chat.”

“Waaaa!”

That night, every composer went berserk at the rib photos.

The real two-night, three-day song camp was pure fun.

“Ha ha ha!”

“...”

“Ha ha ha ha!”

“...”

We were having fun, but the composers seemed to feel otherwise—droopy-eyed and dozing.

“Alright!”

I grabbed the mic. “Did you enjoy the past five days?”

“Yes...”

“I’m glad—you made it a great time, and we even brought home premium beef.”

Their stares turned feral.

“Ahem.”

I shifted topics. “Before we head back to Seoul, we’ll have one final review—this is a satisfaction survey for the camp. We’ll send you a link online—anonymous, so no name needed.”

Soon the composers filled out tablets and phones. When they finished, we displayed the results.

“Ooo!”

“Satisfied” and “Very Satisfied” were at 100 percent.

“I’m relieved you’re all satisfied.”

“Amazing! Can we expect a second camp?”

The question “Would you attend a second camp?” appeared.

[Attend: 0%]

[Decline: 100%]

The composers burst out laughing as we asked, “But you were so satisfied...”

“Tap here for details.”

The first reason: [I can’t do this twice.]

Laughter filled the auditorium, and we laughed too.

from Sun Wooju’s Rest Diary

Amid the roaring laughter, a classical-drama narrator intoned:

[Thus.]

[It was NewBlack’s fourth year.]

[The legendary, unanimously enjoyed song camp ended with its first—and only—edition, fading into history.]

The Sun Wooju’s Rest Diary logo appeared as the ending credits rolled.