“Hmm?”

It was right when I was having a great time working on Scarlet’s track with Executive Director Jo Gyuhwan.

I felt a tickle at the back of my head, so I turned—and through the window I saw a group of unfamiliar faces gathering.

“Oh!”

The youngest shouted.

“It’s Composer Yuung! And over there is the Sand Girl composer, too!”

“What are they doing here?”

I was puzzled by the appearance of the outside composers we’d worked with at Song Camp, but then I remembered something I’d forgotten.

Ri Hyuk said, “They said they’re joining us this time.”

“Oh!”

My heart raced at the news that fresh recruits—raw newbies—had arrived in the producing team. Comrades who would help me build a brilliant world of composition had arrived.

But...

“Why are you hiding?”

“Yeah.”

I found it odd that, the moment our eyes met, they’d shrunk back in surprise. Junhyun strode over and opened the door—and countless people who’d been hiding behind it appeared.

The crouching producing team and the new composers locked eyes with us.

“...”

Team Leader Na Sangyun, who’d been sitting awkwardly, laughed.

“I was just showing the new arrivals around the company. Especially the second floor—that’s our main workspace.”

“But why are you squatting...?”

“Oh dear. My legs started hurting all of a sudden...”

I narrowed my eyes at the sight of those laughing uncles. They must’ve thought, “What a composition monster!” and sounded the alarm to pounce or run away.

I laughed and said, “You’ll give the new composers the wrong idea. They might think I’m running some kind of draft board and hauling people off like Grandpa Mangtae.”

The new composers laughed—haha!—but none of our company’s producers did.

Seeing the rookies awkwardly glance around like, “Is this not right?” the composers said:

“I’m not kidding.”

“If Director Jo wasn’t here, you’d be drafted away this instant.”

Director Jo, sitting inside, gave a weak wave. As if he were a prince captured by a dragon, they suggested he come forward.

“Welcome. I’m Jo Gyuhwan, Executive Director of Lemon Entertainment.”

“Hello.”

At the appearance of our director—renowned throughout the composing world—the composers bowed and shook his hand. Their eyes shone as they gazed at an industry legend.

Though now busy as Scarlet’s exclusive producer and managing Lemon Entertainment, back when he was actively composing he swept the composer awards at music ceremonies. So it was natural their looks were like those given to a retired soccer legend.

But...

“Good day, Wooju!”

Why were they greeting me with such booming voices? Their expressions were completely different from how they looked at Director Jo.

Their smiles were so big their lips quivered. Their eyes lifted slightly, glittering desperately as if begging for favor.

“That face looks familiar...where have I seen it?”

“It’s an expression from a historical drama,” Junhyun whispered, tilting his head at my eyes.

“Oh.”

Now I recognized it in the composers’ faces...

“Hey—that’s the look of schemers.”

“They’re nodding, too.”

They weren’t rubbing their palms together, but their expressions matched the flatterers currying favor with a tyrant.

The new composers began speaking.

“Hehe, you’re handsome today, Wooju. Your visage—I mean, your face—is positively radiant.”

“I’ll be a great composer walking a hundred years forward with you, Wooju.”

“Wow! Having two K-pop legends in one studio—Wooju and Director Jo!”

Sugary flattery. The rookies’ expert social maneuvering made my expression harden.

A good leader should ignore the schemers’ words and listen to the loyal. So I held back a laugh and forced out:

“Uh... uh-heh heh...”

“Look at him. Doesn’t he look like Shin-chan when he smiles like that?”

I glanced at Junhyun, and like a true loyalist who cherishes honesty, he was dragged away with a cry of, “Nooooo!”

I’d always wondered why kings favor flatterers—but now I understood. If people like Ri Hyuk penned petitions praising the tyrant, anyone would want to summon the royal secret police.

“Ai-yoh.”

I beamed warmly and welcomed the new composers.

“Working with such talented composers already makes me feel like I’ve gained ten thousand troops. Ha ha ha!”

“Ten thousand troops! We’ll work like our very lives depend on it! Ha ha ha!”

“U-heh heh heh heh!”

“Heh heh heh!”

And in the middle, our producing-team composers joined in, laughing like court sycophants.

Amid the cheerful atmosphere, I heard Director Jo muttering with a look of enlightenment:

“Maybe we should change our name to NewBlack Entertainment...”

Thanks to the director’s collaboration, the Scarlet single progressed swiftly. Revising to fit the concept and mood of the song wasn’t difficult, but we were struggling with part distribution.

For our own songs I can decide “Ri Hyuk should take this part,” but I didn’t know Scarlet’s songs that well.

“How about having Sister Bom sing this part, and Sister Ara do a subtle doubling here?” I suggested.

“Not bad. You’ve got a good ear.”

“Honestly, it’s not ear so much as memory—I remembered something I saw. In ‘Bad Girl,’ they sing together and that part is really great.”

“I see.”

Since I couldn’t grasp the part distribution, I rewatched Scarlet’s performances on MTube dozens of times. At first I only knew the songs, but after seeing the stages repeatedly I felt I’d gained some understanding.

“Mm.”

The director smiled as he reviewed my proposed distribution.

“I wouldn’t have been needed. If I were you, I’d have done it exactly like this.”

“Really?”

When he asked if he could leave early, I told him no. And so the joint work between Go Gil-dong and Dooly concluded smoothly. I even covered Director Jo with five blankets when he fell asleep at dawn.

“Hee-hee-hee. Director, I hope you have sweet dreams.”

“I will.”

The next day, I heard he’d had nightmares. He dreamed we five were pressing down on him, probably stress from Scarlet’s new song.

“There’s no way that was because of us.”

“Right? We’re so adorable...!”

After finishing Scarlet’s project, we moved straight into recording METRO. Under our main vocalist’s exacting—and infuriating—direction, the recording took nearly 20 hours: twice our usual time.

“Singing this in English is really hard.”

The youngest rubbed his throat. “The difficulty feels tripled—distinguishing R and L, and F and P...”

“I think the rhythmic flow of the words is a bit different, too.”

“If only we could sing it in Korean...”

Changing language definitely shifts how you sing. At first it was tough, but thanks to our main vocalist’s precise coaching, we managed to handle it comfortably.

Every time I hesitated in the booth, Ri Hyuk’s voice came through the headphones:

“Try the feeling of pushing your tongue slightly inward. It’s harder for us because our Korean pronunciation is usually so precise.”

“Pronunciation?”

“Korean pronunciation. The more precise the pronunciation, the sharper the sound can be, which might not suit English. Think of it as resonating more softly, giving a sense of space as you sing.”

“Okay, got it.”

But it wasn’t all drawbacks. Strangely, when I sang in Korean, hitting high notes felt easier. That was a plus.

“Wow...”

And our main vocalist, through thorough analysis and practice, had truly made the song his own. The clear, pure voice K-pop strives for tickled my ears.

When Ri Hyuk sings, it reminds me of a calm, clear lake—refreshing, serene, unshakeable, and infinitely deep.

Biju smiled contentedly. “Ri Hyuk really turns anything into his own genre.”

“He’s broad-spectrum, if only his personality wasn’t so rough.”

The youngest nodded. “When I first joined Lemon, I saw Ri Hyuk-hyung singing from afar and thought, ‘I want to get close to him.’ He has such a sharp look but sounds so good singing.”

“So that’s how you made friends.”

“I regretted it within a day...”

We burst out laughing at his years-long regret. Ri Hyuk, hearing us insult him in his own booth, narrowed his eyes.

“You were talking behind my back?”

“Yeah.”

We laughed warmly, trading looks of mock insult. Thanks to Ri Hyuk’s vocal coaching, we finished recording safely—and then it was Biju’s turn.

“Hyung, look.”

“Hm?”

“I’m analyzing the choreography drafts that came in. Let’s check them out together~”

Our main dancer showed us videos of choreography drafts commissioned from domestic choreographers, clearly delighted.

“Which one do you like out of the three?”

“I’m for number three.”

“Isn’t number three a bit too easy? Shouldn’t we show Sbo some powerful moves...?”

“Number one?”

“Hmm... number one is just a bit too—”

“Let’s go with what Youngae likes if she’s okay with it.”

We decided to support Youngae’s choice like attentive attendants. Biju, as if choosing a ball gown for a grand gala, danced each draft, sat down to analyze, then danced again—finally picking the hardest choreography.

“This one.”

“...”

He chose something like Exercise Routine #8—twisting every muscle. The moment I saw it I thought, “Wow, you’re going to use every muscle you’ve never used before~.” At the same time, I understood why he picked it.

It’s a compositionally brilliant choreography: if you slip up, your weaknesses show, but it’s clean and flows seamlessly.

Ri Hyuk, looking pale, nodded. “Regardless of difficulty, it fits the song—considering it’s an English track.”

Unlike metaphorical or poetic Korean lyrics, pop lyrics often tell a story: “I met you at a party last night, but you were with another woman, so I’ll throw a grenade at you,” and so on. Considering that, it was great choreography.

“Rehearsing this will make everyone happy, right?”

“Yes...”

“Let’s all clap and cheer.”

“Waaaah!”

We smiled happily at the ever-increasing challenge of the choreography. Truly, the happiest moment is when you’re only creating the song.

After finishing the Future Bass English title METRO recording and choreography practice, we tackled our busy schedule.

First, for our August VMA stage, we decided to invite a famous overseas choreographer to help craft the performance.

“He’s a good friend—I introduced you.”

Thanks to Hailey’s introduction. “Take it easy. After you hire them, I’ll be next in line, so save a spot for me.”

“Say that and we’ll sound like villains, Hailey.”

We exchanged warm thanks and moved on. To prepare for the VMA stage, we brainstormed countless ideas with the TF team. As our first solo performance at one of the Big Four U.S. music awards, it was our most important project right alongside METRO.

Next in priority was attending the Teen Choice Awards without a performance, and then Fashion Week at the end of September.

“I’d love to score your songs for Fashion Week.”

Jimmy Robbins, chief designer at LeBlanc, wanted to use our songs as the show’s entire BGM—and we’d also need to rearrange tracks for him.

“Wooju! Leave it to us! We’ll work until we’re skeletons...!”

“Excellent, our new composers.”

We handed the passionate newbies those tasks and focused on our own schedules. The VMA variable tightened our rehearsal timeline, but individual schedules remained on track.

The busiest was Ri Hyuk—he’d been assigned OSTs for dramas airing in Q3 and Q4. Considering their back-to-back schedules, Ri Hyuk’s OSTs would play on TV almost every week for the rest of the year.

“I want to appear on an educational program.”

“Excellent choice.”

Biju decided to be a panelist on “Even Mount Geumgang Must Wait for Food,” uninterested in OSTs.

And...

“Uuuugh.”

“Junghyun, want some help?”

“Uuuugh!”

“Just say you don’t want it...”

Our rapper was buried in his own mixtape, so featured requests from some rappers fell through. They whispered that hip-hop artists call him stingy, but it didn’t bother him.

The busiest of all was...

“Waaaaaaah!”

“Jiho, you’re twenty now. Cry like an adult.”

“Sob sob!”

Our maknae, in tears every night, complained about the drama filming schedule. Yet at meetings he behaved maturely, earning praise for his professionalism on set.

When he’s alone on survival shows, he does well, too. Hearing on-set updates, there was nothing to worry about.

“All right. I’ll get back to work.”

While the others handled personal schedules, I joined the TF team as producer on the Scarlet project. We held daily meetings.

That is...

“I have an opinion on the outfits.”

“Rejected.”

“How harsh. Am I not a producer? I should get a say on fashion.”

“Place your hand on your heart, ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) Wooju.”

Sadly, I couldn’t offer any fashion opinions, so I focused on other areas, giving input and coordinating with staff.

“How about hiring a choreographer? Since this genre is unfamiliar domestically, maybe we should hire an overseas dancer.”

The TF team nodded at my suggestion. “Makes sense. Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yes.”

Scarlet’s concept is elegance and sophistication. Though this song is upbeat, we must keep that core concept. I knew someone skilled in refined choreography—who’d created the elegant Masquerade in 2014.

“I have one person in mind.” 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

I’m glad I didn’t choose a stage name like Spaceship Wooju, but stuck with Kim Deokchun.

A little later at Incheon Airport:

A man wheeling his carry-on emerged from arrivals, took in the fresh air alongside his daughter, and smiled.

“Korea again.”

World-renowned choreographer Clay Tyler removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket.

The invitation came recently:

“We’d like to invite Mr. Clay Tyler to choreograph Scarlet’s new single.”

It was an enticing offer from Lemon Entertainment, with a generous fee. And Clay had long admired Scarlet as a well-known dance-powerhouse K-pop group.

“But...”

What weighed on his mind was that this was NewBlack’s agency. He worried about encountering dance or composition monsters—but...

“This time it’ll be fine, right, Dad?”

His daughter Joy Tyler asked. He nodded.

“It’ll be fine. We haven’t signed any contract with them.”

“Phew...”

He looked at Scarlet’s manager holding a “Clay Tyler” sign and whispered to his daughter:

“NewBlack hired a different choreographer this time.”

“Really?”

At the news that NewBlack had chosen someone else, the Tyler duo giggled with delight.

“I have a good feeling.”

Under the clear sky, Clay Tyler and his daughter got into the vehicle prepared by Lemon Entertainment.

As the airport faded behind them, clouds drifted overhead—one shaped like a spaceship, as if whispering to Clay, “That’s me...”