In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

While the staff continued talking with NewBlack, more people entered the conference room.

They were the composers on the fourth album.

Yoo Chang-seok—who went by the stage name “Saltman”—rubbed his salt-panned face and sat down.

“I heard the news and rushed up here—so the title track is finished?”

“Not completely,” Uju smiled as he explained.

“Our concept is explosive fun. We got a feel for it and wrote the song.”

“Already?”

“Yes. Somehow we ended up recording it, and the quality turned out even better than expected. So we wanted to get everyone’s feedback.”

“I see....”

They all nodded, but the question still lingered in everyone’s minds.

‘Already finished...?’

It hadn’t been long since Uju said everyone would prepare title tracks, yet here it was. But curiosity outweighed doubt—everyone knew how high Uju’s musical standards were.

—“Uju, this is more than enough. Even big agencies rarely put out entire albums of this quality. It’s truly well-made.”

—“Really? I feel the sound is a bit hollow in places.”

—“Stop, please.... “

—“No, we have to fix this.”

Ordinary quality never satisfied him. He’d laugh and joke offstage, but as soon as music was mentioned, he turned into a different person. Like someone obsessed with perfection. He’d scrutinize details under a microscope—even the shape of elevator buttons when building a structure. Composers who joined the project eager to learn NewBlack’s secret to success quickly discovered it: sheer stubborn perseverance.

—“You’re not going home? It’s 1 a.m.”

—“Just a bit more. You go ahead and rest.”

Each morning they’d find him the same way—staring at the monitor and murmuring. Honestly, it was scary. Yet they’d think, ‘At that level of effort, success is inevitable,’ and find themselves convinced.

So when Uju said, “The quality came out great,” every composer pricked up their ears.

‘How good could it be?’

As Yoo Chang-seok eyed the triumphant juniors behind Uju, Na Sang-yun spoke up.

“Could we hear it?”

“Sure. Just a moment.”

Uju connected the laptop to the meeting-room speakers. Meanwhile, Junghyun strode over, pressed his ear to the wall, then gave a serious thumbs-up. Satisfied with the security, the members nodded solemnly.

“The title’s ‘Nine,’ meaning the number nine,” Uju reminded even the composers of the song’s meaning.

“Ooh....”

“Fits our explosive-fun concept.”

“What’s the genre?”

Clicking the mouse, Uju answered,

“We went trap.”

“Ah, trap.”

Not yet mainstream in Korea, trap was gaining ground overseas as dubstep’s successor. The composers exchanged glances.

‘That’s... a bit iffy.’

Trap wasn’t a major genre in domestic idol music. Yet NewBlack’s market position was “the only third-generation boy group with broad appeal.” Their past title tracks had consistently found mass acceptance, and they sought to continue that streak. The problem: the general public tends to shy away from unfamiliar genres.

“When you listen, you won’t easily define it as one genre. We also added futuristic sounds.”

“......”

“There’s that buzzing background feel.”

The more Uju described it, the more it sounded like everything thrown together. The composers couldn’t hide their skepticism.

“Well, here’s the first version of ‘Nine.’”

At last the song began.

“...Oh.”

A buzzing background sound filled the void, then an impactful intro. The main lyrics followed:

Meat, meat, meat

I can’t eat meat anymore

On a diet (so sad)

Ji-ho launched into the first line in a deep, cool tone. His vocal tone was impressive.

‘But the lyrics...?’

The composers and A&R team flinched as the maknae silently mouthed, “I just slapped on placeholder lyrics.” Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Next came Ri-hyuk’s part:

I can’t give up meat

You got meat? I’m right here

I dream of it (meat?)

We meat again (meat!)

Across from us someone clasped their face in both hands as if flames shot from their ears. The other members smiled proudly. The A&R team laughed warmly.

‘Never let them write lyrics again.’

‘If they do, we’re doomed.’

‘Thank goodness these are just guides....’

Then Uju’s part played—slick dance-leaning lines suited for choreography. You could picture him center stage, backed by the others, twisting with abandon:

9 AM right now

Morning samgyeopsal

Five servings on my own

Forget what other diners think

Don’t care (don’t care)

The owner’s happy

Next Viju’s part flowed in—soft at first, then a husky build into the pre-chorus:

Because meat’s what matters

You must remember

Meat

That’s all we’ve got

As the song played, Viju across the table broke into an impromptu upper-body dance. It was absurdly high-quality. Then in the chorus, Junghyun’s deep voice grounded the explosive hook.

‘Trap is all about tone, and they nailed it.’

Even as a first version, the division of parts perfectly matched each member’s vocal color and performance style. It was like seeing the ideal solution to the problem “who should sing which part?” that they’d faced on every B-side.

After the first verse ended, the A&R team and composers exchanged intense looks. One thing was certain:

‘They nailed it.’

No one disagreed. This was a high-quality test version that perfectionist Uju could proudly present. With lyrics revised, it could release tomorrow. As a draft, there were tweaks to note, but nothing that couldn’t be refined later.

“Wow....”

What truly impressed them was the song’s structure. The dynamics built perfectly, exploding at the chorus. Literally “explosive fun.” Listeners would feel an internal urge to dance. It also aligned with NewBlack’s musical identity. Even more so, it would appeal to general audiences.

“Meat, meat....”

Unconsciously humming “meat, meat,” the composers and A&R staff nodded at each other.

“This is huge.”

“Absolutely huge!”

They glanced toward the door, as if worried someone might nab the track before they could. As the composers congratulated themselves—“Glad I joined this album”—someone exclaimed,

“Oh...here comes the dance-break part.”

The third verse broke everything wide open. The progressive build from verses one and two erupted. The dance break. Even listening, you could imagine fireworks on stage and NewBlack going wild. The serious-faced composers lifted their heads with “Ah!” and NewBlack beamed—except one soulfully smiling member thinking of the intense choreography ahead.

After the song ended, everyone sat in awed silence. The composers and A&R staff exchanged sheepish grins and quietly clapped together.

Uju asked,

“So? How is it?”

“That....”

“That...?”

“From now on, let’s never let anyone but Ri-hyuk write lyrics again, guys.”

The A&R director’s comment set everyone laughing. The atmosphere relaxed as he smiled broadly.

“This is genuinely great. Where on earth did you pull this from?”

“We had help from some young friends.”

“True—Ji-ho’s so new-gen, he brings that vibe.”

“Ha-ha-ha....”

Uju blushed and the members avoided eye contact, embarrassed.

“In any case, worries about the title track are gone, right? Let’s move forward.”

“Really?”

“We’ll ask the composers for thoughts, but for us....”

Deputy Manager Seo and the others looked at each other, silently conveying “We don’t need to say more.”

“If not this, I can’t imagine any other title track.”

“Exactly. Meat, meat, meat.”

“How about you composers?”

They all replied in unison,

“We like it, too.”

“At first, I thought it was a mishmash, but hearing it... it’s really well produced.”

“What was it called again? I got so hyped I forgot—Oh, ‘Nine.’”

Then composer Na Sang-yun spoke in a faint voice,

“In the middle, there’s an EDM feel that elementary kids would love... I’m a bit concerned about that...”

NewBlack flinched, but he smiled and said,

“We can adjust the tone—no problem. Honestly, I love it. I’d jump at the chance to work on this track.”

All the composers laughed in agreement. The meeting’s energy soared. The A&R team exploded with ideas for album production and concept—and started unpacking their things in the conference room. The composers excitedly discussed refinements.

As the charged atmosphere gradually calmed, Uju asked,

“By the way, you said you’d review other songs, too?”

“That’s right. But you made the track so fast we haven’t had time to look at others.”

“I see....”

“With a title this strong, do we really need to? ”

Uju nodded at the composers, “How about you?” They shook their heads.

“We didn’t get a proper chance.”

“At this speed and quality, only Director Jo could top it....”

“Anyway, nothing could beat this. Ha-ha.”

Uju laughed self-consciously, and they prepared to leave the meeting room.

“We’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll fix the points you mentioned.”

“All right. Thanks.”

“Good work.”

The members bowed politely; the staff waved them off.

Moments after they stepped out in neat formation,

—“Kyaah!”

—“Junghyun hyung! Wangbong! Bring Wangbong! We must celebrate! Do the Firefly dance!”

—“I’m a firefly~ composing so well~”

They burst into laughter at the exuberant voices coming from outside. One staff member asked puzzled,

“Why can’t they manage their image for even three seconds?”

“That’s just them.”

As laughter inside and out slowly died down, the A&R team and composers opened their laptops with wry smiles.

“Actually, we did pick out a song...”

“We did prepare something ourselves...”

The two groups spoke in overlapping voices, then realized the situation and exchanged smiles of solidarity.

“We were about to say ‘Ta-da!’—we had a good song ready...”

“We too had a dream.”

“What dream?”

“A dream of it becoming NewBlack’s title track.”

“Oh....”

The A&R staff recalled,

“Back at debut, it was the same. We had everything ready, then Uju showed up...”

“Really?”

“We prepared a whole snack-party concept, then Uju came with a hotel-buffet-level track.”

Though they hadn’t experienced it, they understood the feeling: on the same side, yet feeling beaten. But oddly, it felt good—like boarding a ship bound for a new continent. The composers’ eyes gleamed with potential career impact.

‘Let’s do our best.’

While they basked in hope, the A&R team quickly dropped ice-cream–style tasks like toppings for more work.

“One, two! One, two!”

“Okay! Wow, that’s so cool! Yes!”

In a studio in Gangnam-gu, an excited photographer shot us.

“More elegance!”

Viju sat on a car hood prop, hand to his cheek, crossing one leg and smiling at the camera.

“Viju, you look like....”

“Yes?”

“An empress dowager from a historical drama.”

“Oh...”

Ji-ho added,

“You look a bit disdainful. Relax your mouth and eyes... oh, yes, like that.”

Viju adjusted his expression on our feedback and continued shooting. Today’s shoot was for concert posters and event concept photos. The studio was filled with props: red sports cars, bright-yellow and blue items—like a teen high-school movie. We posed, knowing the final images would be heavily composited into retro–movie-poster style. The theme for our first concert poster: an amusement park.

“Every set makes me want to visit an amusement park,” Junghyun said, and we all agreed. The set resembled an American theme park: dim, with twinkling lights. In a VCR shoot, we’d film Junghyun laughing with popcorn before a green popcorn cart, or Ji-ho strolling with a strawberry shake. The unfamiliar yet vibrant colors felt dreamlike—like forming memories on the spot.

“I wish this were a real amusement park.”

“Me too—would’ve been fun if we could all ride together...”

Viju said wistfully,

“We have to go someday, hyung.”

“Hm? You know I’m afraid of heights.”

“But the Mirror Maze is fine.”

“You can find the way out?”

“Oh, true...”

We laughed at our youngest, who always held teachers’ hands on school excursions. Ri-hyuk gazed at the sets and said,

“Well, maybe we could all go together later.”

“Yeah. If we have time, let’s go.”

As we warmed to the idea, imagining future park visits, suddenly:

—“Whoaaa!”

—“Hey! Hey! NewBlack’s here!”

—“Amazing! Did you take a photo?”

—“Let’s!”

Our idyllic vision shattered. It was like stepping off a carousel into a crowd like a sea of clouds.

“...We’ve succeeded too much.”

“I forgot that. We’re so big, it’s a curse...”

“We could go abroad—any foreign theme park?”

Hopefully foreign Souffles wouldn’t chase us for photos then. For now, the park remained a faint dream—we had no time to play. Then Ri-hyuk seemed to recall something.

“Remember when we shot our debut MV? We talked about going to Eulwangri beach.”

“We did?”

“Ji-ho, you were the most excited.”

“When I’m happy, I say anything. If hyungs heard it, it’s because I said it.”

“Don’t you remember what you said?”

“Nope.”

We looked at each other, /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ then immediately reached for Ji-ho.

“Ji-ho, where’s the ten billion you said you’d give me?”

“I said I’d give you gold bars.”

“Hm~ where are my car keys~?”

“Oh, really! I—no, did I actually?”

We burst out laughing at the maknae, who doubted his own memory. Realizing we were teasing him, he pouted. I threw an arm around my brothers.

“After this album cycle, when we have time, let’s go somewhere together.”

“Okay. We can grill clams.”

“We could all try mudflat experience.”

“Let’s do everything we want.”

“If we have time.”

“Hey, surely we have time to play.”

During the break, we chatted with the brothers about travel. No plan yet, but they were already bouncing with excitement. Ji-ho’s eyes glittered as he asked,

“How many days should we go? Four nights and five days?”

“Four nights five days—won’t we lose our practice rhythm? I always feel guilty when I skip rehearsal.”

“Then three nights four days—Viju hyung’s idea?”

Checking the schedule, Ri-hyuk said,

“There are no three consecutive free days until year-end.”

“Then two nights three days!”

“Yeah, that’s reasonable.”

While we laughed about it, Ri-hyuk’s expression turned hollow as he scrolled the calendar.

“None?”

“...”

He nodded.

“No block of three free days.”

“...”

“Let me check two nights one day.”

But each page flip made his face more desolate.

“...None?”

“There is one, but the days before and after have crucial schedules.”

We all checked. Plenty of single free days, but never two or more in a row. Either there was always some small commitment, or new events seemed poised to appear. With concert and Asia-tour planning, the schedule was effectively full through year-end—and peppered with mysterious minor tasks.

“Who said we’d judge that event?”

“That was me.”

“And the game event?”

“That was me....”

“The sweet-potato-eating–contest panel, Junghyun?”

“It’s sweet potatoes, hyung.”

“And meetings with foreign composers?”

“Also me.”

We remembered older siblings doubting us—“Are you sure you can handle that?”—as we’d boasted. As realization dawned that we were doomed, Viju asked,

“Hyung, can we ever play?”

“No.”

“We can’t?”

“Nope.”

We stared at each other. These schedules weren’t imposed by anyone else—they were the ones we’d gleefully piled on ourselves.

“I guess we’re meant to work.”

“Work is what we’re good at.”

“Right. Is it really our time to play?”

While the older brothers mulled over logic, our maknae laughed innocently and said,

“They say you’ll be bitten by the axe you trust; we’re busily chopping our own feet with our own axes.”

It was the perfect proverb for our fate.