It was 3:00 AM.

The practice room was so quiet that I could hear the second hand on the clock ticking.

I was scoring out the arrangement on manuscript paper: listening through my headphones, writing notes by hand.

What instrument next—guitar? Keyboard? Saying I could arrange wasn’t just talk. Aside from my studies, when I was at TJ Entertainment I’d learned the fundamentals from multiple producers.

I took a sip of chocolate drink.

This was enough to sketch the framework.

Around me lay dozens of sheets of A4 paper, scattered but arranged with intention—a kind of mind map.

I stared at the array as though downloading it into my mind, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.

First, build the stage.

The venue for our performance was the high school auditorium—an empty expanse. In my mind’s eye, the school’s auditorium I’d found online rose up like a miniature model.

Still plunged in darkness, the stage awaited. I placed instruments: guitar, bass, keyboard, drums, saxophone, cello.

Now bring on the people.

Lights came up on the empty stage.

#1 Kim Bi-ju. #2 Kim Jung-hyun. #3 Seo Ri-hyuk. #4 Wang Ji-ho. #5 Sun Woo-joo.

One by one, the trainees took their places and began to sing—first a cappella, voice only.

What was this?

When I mentally blended their five voices into one, I gasped. The harmony the five created was beautiful—different registers coming together in perfect unity.

So this was why Director Jo picked me.

One of my lingering mysteries was solved. Director Jo must have heard my voice on a TV interview and envisioned just this harmony: perfect.

But my admiration didn’t last long. There was new work to do.

I moved the instruments in my mind—no, they moved themselves, naturally. I iterated, improvising midstream, refining the arrangement.

Whenever I felt I’d made progress, I opened my eyes to check the time.

3:30 AM. I closed my eyes and dove back in.

4:00 AM. I repeated until it was perfect.

5:00 AM. When I finally completed the final arrangement, I transferred it onto a single page, as if in a trance. Creating the final version had taken ages; transferring it was quick.

“It’s done.”

Before me lay only the paper version. To produce the finished track, I’d need to climb to the studio and power on a computer. But nobody else was at the company at this hour, and I wasn’t in any condition for that work.

I was exhausted. Sleepiness rushed over me like a waterfall. Tempted by the Sandman, I drifted off.

5:30 AM.

Jo Gyu-hwan, Lemon Entertainment’s Production Director, stepped out of his car and downed an Americano—his own max-caffeine concoction. One sip jolted him awake.

“My back is killing me.”

He’d totaled ten hours of sleep over the past week. A brutal schedule. Though he’d managed a few hours at home, his nerves were begging for mercy.

‘Once Chan-hyuk’s album is done, I’ll sleep like a log.’

He paused at the stairwell leading from the underground parking lot.

What was that?

Light spilled from the hallway leading to the practice rooms.

‘Someone pulled an all-nighter?’

Curious, he walked toward it. Only five trainees remained after Scarlet’s debut—of those, only two were likely to stay up all night.

‘Bi-ju? Or Ri-hyuk?’

The carefree maknae and the laid-back Jung-hyun were out. Expecting them, he instead saw an unexpected face beneath the practice-room window:

‘Sun Woo-joo? The new trainee I scouted.’

Why was he still here instead of home?

Shaking his head, Jo stepped inside. Papers were strewn everywhere—scraps covered with tiny musical notes. He immediately guessed the cause.

‘Must be the year-end evaluation assignment.’

Frowning, he examined the setup. It didn’t take him long to discern the rule by which the papers were arranged.

‘Wait a second.’

He felt fully awake now.

‘Where’s the final version?’

He found it instantly: Woo-joo, clutching the completed sheet like a baby. Worrying he’d rouse him, Jo nevertheless took the paper from his hand—his curiosity as a musician had the upper hand.

Page by page, over Woo-joo’s steady breathing, Jo scanned the notes until the ice in his coffee fully melted. Then he smiled.

‘Unbelievable.’

Gleeful light filled Jo’s eyes as he looked at the sleeping youth.

I dreamed.

I was on a tour bus to Pyongyang for a pork belly party with pigs—and the driver suddenly let go of the wheel. In my dream, I pointed, startled.

“Hey, driver! The wheel—”

“From now on, I will drive you all safely to our destination.”

Then EDM blared. The driver and the pigs cheered and danced as the bus lurched as if about to tip. I screamed.

“Heeeey—!”

Cold sweat, and I awoke in the practice room.

“Hah—”

What a ridiculous dream. The stress from yesterday must have been greater than I’d thought.

I wrestled with the aftereffects until I noticed something missing—my sheet music. When I sat up, something draped over me slid off.

A cashmere coat. It looked like it cost hundreds of dollars.

‘What the...?’

No wonder I’d been hot in my sleep. While I puzzled over the mysterious coat and the missing papers, my phone buzzed.

From Director Jo:

– Come up to the 2nd-floor recording studio when you wake up.

– PS: Bring my coat too.

“He took it.”

I mumbled as if half-asleep, brushing my disheveled hair back, then carefully took the expensive coat. I imagined how Shin Sook-joo must have felt when King Sejong draped him in royal robes.

But why was he calling me?

Lemon Entertainment’s second floor was packed with recording booths and complicated gear—this was the production workspace. Finding the studio Director Jo mentioned was easy: the “On Air” sign above the door glowed brightly.

Knock knock—

“Come in.”

I opened the door to a familiar sight: a recording booth straight out of my TJ Entertainment days. At the console, Jo clicked his pen and studied papers, while inside the booth a man sang passionately.

Oh? That was Yoon Chan-hyuk—the K-Net audition champion turned singer, a top-class vocalist dominating the digital charts. It was surreal to see him in person.

Jo glanced at me then hit TALK BACK.

“Chan-hyuk, let’s take ten.”

“Why?”

“You rest when I tell you to, you brat.”

Jo’s playful scolding made Chan-hyuk reluctantly exit the booth. He looked exactly like on TV—a friendly, big-brother face, and he eyed me curiously.

“Hyung, who’s this?”

“He’s our new trainee. Say hello.”

I bowed politely.

“Hello, sunbaenim. I’m the new trainee, Sun Woo-joo.”

“Aww, don’t pressure me. Just call me hyung.”

Chan-hyuk laughed, then glanced at Jo.

“Hey, why did you call him up?”

“I have something personal to discuss. Sorry, mind giving us the room?”

“How long?”

“Go get a coffee.”

“Ten minutes?”

“A bit more.”

“No way, hyung.”

Chan-hyuk shook his head.

“I’ve got to record when I’m in the zone. You know that. I’ll be back in ten.”

“Hey.”

“Hmm-hmm.”

“Hey, Yoon Chan-hyuk!”

“I’m singing in the rain~ I’m singing in the rain~”

He waved teasingly, humming his own tune. Jo clicked his tongue, the camaraderie of a big brother and little brother rather than producer and artist.

“You two seem close.”

“Close, yeah.”

Jo shook his head. “I went through hell getting him to make records.”

That image made me quietly chuckle, imagining a grandmother boasting, “I raised him, you know.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Yes, thanks to your coat I slept well.”

“Good, good.”

I sat on the sofa as Jo dug a folded score out of his desk drawer.

“This yours?”

“Yes.” 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

“Let me ask you a few things.”

“Sure.”

What now?

“Have you ever formally studied music?”

“In what sense?”

“I mean professionally—harmony theory, music theory?”

“Oh, yes.”

I dug back into memory. “I learned some at my last company.”

“TJ Entertainment?”

“Yes. The producers there taught me things—MIDI, beat programming, that sort of ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) thing.”

“No wonder your fundamentals are solid.”

Jo stroked his chin. “You also seem to know multiple instruments.”

“That’s right.”

“Piano?”

“Yes. I practiced a lot for competitions in elementary school.”

“Others?”

“A little guitar.”

He stroked his chin again. “So you did this arrangement in one day? At this level?”

“Yes, but as you can see it’s a mock-up.”

“No, no. It’s great. If I were a university professor I’d give it an A.”

Really?

“You’ve been told you have talent for composition, right?”

“I heard it a bit at my last company.”

“With this, it’s more than a bit. You’re humble.”

While I flushed at praise from a famous composer, he said something I never expected:

“Woo-joo.”

“Yes?”

“Want to learn composition from me?”

“Um... yes?”

My eyes blinked in shock. Did he really just ask that?

“Surprised?”

“.......”

“It’s just that I see potential in your arrangement. It’s still a raw gem, but with polishing I think it could be beautiful.”

He asked in a low voice:

“What do you think? If you learned from me, you could debut someday as a ‘composition idol,’ help promote your work.”

“I’d love to.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll learn composition.”

What a gift. An industry legend offering to teach me top-tier craft—who would refuse? Before doubt could creep in, I accepted.

Jo paused, perhaps expecting more deliberation.

“Good. Here.”

He handed me a USB drive.

“What’s this?”

“I transferred your arrangement to computer, tweaked it a bit.”

“Wow, thank you.”

I bowed deeply without thinking. If I’d done it alone, it might’ve taken until tonight—but now it was done in an instant.

“Well, let’s see...” He pulled out a heavily-annotated calendar to schedule lessons. Exactly ten minutes later, our discussion was cut off by the burst of a fired-up ballad singer:

“Come on! Where’s the end? I need to record, record, record!”

Laughing, Jo and I rose to let Chan-hyuk back in.

“I love you, but will it become my scar?”

In the booth, Chan-hyuk poured emotion into the lyric. Jo nodded and offered direction.

“Chan-hyuk, this is a stylish track—sing it with nuance.”

“Got it.”

At once, his delivery shifted—true professionalism. But Jo’s real focus wasn’t on Chan-hyuk. He recalled his conversation with Director Yoon earlier that morning.

‘Woo-joo?’

In the lounge, Yoon Seok-hwan had asked, ‘Why suddenly talk about Woo-joo?’

‘Because I saw this at dawn.’

‘The score?’

‘He must have thought he’d done a good job on the evaluation song. Look at this.’

Jo tapped the staff paper. ‘I’ve seen idol compositions, but never an arrangement like this. As you know, arranging is harder—you need real musical knowledge.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Yoon.

‘This kid always had that spark. TJ Entertainment recognized it and gave him special support—put a top producer on him.’

‘He must’ve been a prospect.’

‘How would a kid who couldn’t dance have lasted there otherwise?’

‘He dances well, though.’

‘That’s why Director Jo noticed him. He was unbelievable back then—like a log trying to pound rice.’

A strange image indeed.

‘So when he left, the company regretted it. They even thought about moving him to A&R. He handles instruments and has so much talent.’

‘But...?’

‘He refused. He says he only wants to be an idol.’

‘What a unique kid.’

Jo, silently amused, caught something in that phrase.

‘Wait—he knows instruments?’

‘It’s all inheritance,’ said Yoon.

‘Inheritance?’

‘Oh, you don’t know who Woo-joo’s father is.’

When Yoon revealed the name, Jo’s eyes went wide—it was a name he knew.