In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

A sign reading “Producing Team” was hung on the once-empty office door.

“Wooo!”

“Welcome to Lemon Ent~!”

As we danced around singing “Congratulations~,” laughter erupted all around. The A&R staff clapped and giggled. The composers gazed at the “Producing Team” sign, smiles of deep emotion on their faces.

“Welcome to our company.”

CEO Park Gyu-ho greeted the composers with a kindly smile. As he shook each of their hands, we presented bouquets like flower girls. After making plans to share a meal soon, the CEO finished speaking with the composers and strode straight toward me.

“...!”

Oh—he startled me. He walked so quickly that, like a ghost in a horror movie, his face suddenly loomed inches from mine. The kindly smile on his lips shifted into a capitalist grin—pure delight at seeing my face.

“Uju!”

He grasped my hand firmly.

“...Yes?”

“You really worked hard on this album. Look at you—you’ve lost half your color. You need some health tonic.”

“I’m okay, sir. I’ve been taking red ginseng...”

“Ginseng isn’t enough. We just got some deer antler extract at home; I’ll have it brewed for you.”

Then he went from member to member, exclaiming “You’ve lost half your color too!” He pressed Jiho’s cheeks between his hands like little buns, marveling at how gaunt he’d become, before turning to Junghyeon.

“Yes. Junghyeon, you’ve lost—”

“...”

The moment he looked at Junghyeon’s robust face, the CEO’s pupils wavered.

“Your face is....”

“Y-yes?”

“About eighty-three percent of normal.”

“That’s right, sir.”

After a brief pause at our healthy appearances, he wiped away tears, grasping our hands.

“You all worked so hard preparing for the concert. Shooting the merch photos must have been tough....”

We exchanged glances. The concert had been a smash. The merch must’ve flown off the shelves. Wiping tears from his eyes and the top of his head, the CEO sniffled as Director Jo cleared his throat behind him; we desperately tried to think of anything else to occupy ourselves.

“I heard you all contributed to the production. You did great—quite a few self-composed tracks made the album, right?”

“Yes. Junghyeon and Biju each contributed an original song.”

“You all did so much work...”

Again, we exchanged looks. The album was selling incredibly well, and the digital streams were soaring.

Tears streamed down his face as he clasped my hand.

“I thought Uju was always working so hard composing... that’s why we created this Producing Team.”

“I know, sir.”

I replied with a smile. Though Scarlet also has Daisy, who can write and compose, her contributions were only a mixtape track or a handful of B-sides—manageable by A&R staff in their spare time. But I had composed so many songs, starting with the title track, that I needed a dedicated team. The main reason for establishing the Producing Team was to help with my song production.

“So, that brings me to my question...”

The CEO asked earnestly.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“Anything we need?”

“For practice or for production—if you have any issues, let me know. We can even remodel the practice room...”

His hand trembled slightly, as if he’d already decided how much money to spend. It looked like he was mentally dividing up billions.

“Hm, anything we need....”

We glanced at each other, and his hand shook again.

“At the moment, nothing.”

He immediately stopped trembling.

“Ha ha. I see.”

“Thank you for caring so much.”

He’d already poured huge budgets into the MV and the album—more than a Big Four agency. What more could we ask? The TNT guys were stunned at how well their payments came through. Yet here was the CEO asking if we needed anything else. We felt grateful.

“If you need anything, anytime, let me know.”

Then he disappeared toward the Executive Director and Director Jo, who were talking with the composers. Watching his retreating back, I murmured,

“...We really hit it big.”

“Not just big—we smashed it.”

I could feel how our standing in the company had shifted. The CEO was a good man, but first and foremost he was a businessman who prioritized profits. Establishing a whole Producing Team for one member and spending billions on an MV meant we were generating enough revenue to justify it. If we hadn’t been doing well, none of this would have happened.

“Well, then we just have to work even harder.”

“Right.”

Though it felt strange for a moment, I chose to think positively. If they’d decided to back us this much, we owed them our best efforts. Smiling with my brothers, I turned back to the composers.

“We look forward to working with you. PDs.”

“You too!”

The composers smiled in return. We’d decided to call Producing Team staff “PDs,” short for Producer.

“I’m happy but it’s kind of awkward.”

PD Na Sang-yun scratched the back of his head.

“We have this position now, but no new work yet, so it’s a bit embarrassing.”

“Right? I thought we’d jump right into something.”

“No chance to prove ourselves yet.”

Both Scarlet’s PDs and ours had no new album to work on, so they felt shy. Of course they’d take on external projects, but within the company there wasn’t much to do until Senior Yoon Chan-hyuk’s solo album in winter. We laughed and reassured them,

“You haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over a month. You deserve a bit of downtime.”

“True.”

“Of course.”

Na Sang-yun PD smiled.

“But if you need anything, just ask.”

“Thank you.”

I beamed.

“But nothing’s coming up right now.”

“Ha ha, really?”

“Yes—because you finished all the needs we had. Unless there’s new work....”

At my words, the composers-turned-PDs chuckled happily. Though they’d said there was nothing to do, the prospect of some breathing room delighted them.

“Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!”

We all laughed together.

Hollywood, Los Angeles.

In a studio filled with massive mixing consoles and recording gear, a few people sat around.

“Hmm...”

John Edwards, director of the musical film Nostalgia, tapped his chin while listening to a song.

“Stop.”

When the audio engineer hit pause, Edwards turned to the person next to him.

“Sarah, what do you think of this track?”

“It’s not bad, but it’s not right for the global version.”

“I agree.”

At Music Director Sarah Bloom’s words, Edwards crossed out pianist Hashimoto Genji’s name on the list twice.

“Rupert, you too?”

“Yes.”

The brown-haired, blue-eyed leading man, Rupert Dean, replied.

“The intro is unnecessarily grand. There’s no substance under the hype.”

“Okay.”

All three agreed to remove the song from the list.

“For the theatrical version in Japan, we’ll include it... then let’s move on to the rest.”

Seated together—director, music director, and lead actor—they were selecting songs for insertion into the film. They sought a track for a scene where books, brought to life by magic, riot through the library’s foreign-language section, singing in tongues. In major markets each country would get a localized song as fan service. Meanwhile, an International Version would play in the U.S. and other regions. They were choosing that International track now.

“Hmm...”

But their expressions were grim. They wanted a song with broad international appeal, and none fit. Most sounded too strongly tied to their country’s flavor. You might say a single scene doesn’t need such scrutiny, but as a musical film, Nostalgia’s production team labored over every sound.

“What do we do....”

With the remaining list dwindling and no candidate, they sipped water in silence, waiting for the final submission.

“This is the last one. It’s from Korea.”

“Korea?”

“The artist is called The New Black.”

“Oh.”

Edwards nodded. He’d met the K-pop singer via video call last month.

“Korea’s a major market. Why leave this for last?”

“It’s a bit long.”

“Long?”

“Yes. They sent two versions: a highlight part and a full version over three minutes.”

“...?”

“A selection you can choose from.”

At mention of a full three-minute version, the actor and music director furrowed their brows—then nodded. It was unusual, but not a bad thing; they could cut it however they liked.

“Let’s listen.”

At Edwards’s command, the music played.

And in exactly three seconds, their slumped postures straightened, dull eyes snapped wide. They looked at each other, jaws dropping.

“This is it...!”

The Korean song was perfect not only for the domestic cut but for International use too. It fit the film’s overall mood flawlessly.

“It sounds fairy-like.”

Edwards felt the track’s charm: books dancing like pixies around the hero. It matched the scene they’d replayed dozens of times.

“Impressive.”

Rupert Dean marveled. “He heard about the scene by description and nailed it this perfectly across the Pacific? Under the starry Milky Way, fairies dancing among trees—that’s the vibe.”

“I’m curious who this person is.”

The lead actor’s curiosity bloomed. “Whoever made this is clearly a master. I’ll look them up later.”

In his mind, Rupert imagined an elegant artist of beautiful temperament. Of course, in Korea at that same moment, our members were goofing around eating dumplings.

So, what did they decide?

After the song ended, Edwards asked, “What do you think?”

They all agreed unanimously.

“Let’s use this.”

“It came last, but it’s perfect. I can’t imagine any other track.”

“I agree.”

They grinned, having found their match after dozens of listens. Yet a new challenge emerged.

“Cutting it is easy.”

Edwards said. “Just trim out what you need. But after hearing the full version...”

“It’d be a shame to discard it?”

“Exactly. At first I wondered why they sent a three-minute track, but it makes sense now.”

Music Director Sarah Bloom nodded.

“The sound engineering is amazing. The engineers poured their souls into it—must’ve killed a few of them.”

It was true.

“Anyway, I agree we should preserve the full version, John.”

“Same here.”

After consensus, the three dove into hours of discussion on how best to integrate the full cut.

When their marathon meeting finally ended:

“How about we do it this way?”

At John Edwards’s idea, the others exclaimed “Oo!” and nodded repeatedly. It was brilliant. With a concrete plan in place, Edwards rubbed his palms together and smiled.

“Now, shall we contact Korea?”

The Producing Team PDs stared in disbelief.

“A Hollywood musical film...?”

“Yes.”

“Uju, they’re using your song almost in full?”

“Yes. Great, right?”

Uju nodded, elated. The PDs cheered.

“Congratulations!”

“Wow, that’s amazing, Uju!”

“Thank you.”

Embarrassed by praise, Uju smiled awkwardly, then cleared his throat.

“Um... but there are a few changes we need.”

“Like what?”

“They want the lyrics in English for the International Version, not Korean.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But changing the lyrics changes the tone, so it needs fresh adjustments.”

“...”

Everyone realized it was work. Unconsciously their gazes darted to the door—there stood Junghyeon, arms folded like a gatekeeper of hell, and before him the three PDs looked like a three-headed Cerberus.

“To put it simply...”

Uju smiled brightly.

“I thought we had no work.”

“...”

“We did.”

It was a perfect summary.

One afternoon, not long after finishing the album and concert arrangements:

“I’m drowning in work.”

“Ha ha ha!”

“I’m happy—so happy.”

The Producing Team PDs stared at the ceiling, grins lighting their faces.

After assigning the new task to the Producing Team:

“Ugh...”

By Thursday morning, Day Four of the MV release, “Nine” had already surpassed seven million views. It hit a “freeze”—when views spike suddenly, MyTube temporarily halts the count to check for anomalies. “Nine” was frozen several times as overseas word of mouth drove multiple surges from four million to ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) five million in hours.

“I still can’t believe it.”

“Isn’t this the Head Manager’s doing?”

The maknae floated a conspiracy: “Maybe this screen is fake. He’s typing numbers himself in his office just to make us happy.”

“Well, he deserves a break, too.”

The managers laughed at Jiho’s theory. We laughed along as Junghyeon, intrigued, said,

“All right, let’s get off.”

At my cue, my brothers unclipped their seat belts.

Screech—

The door opened and Manager Won-seok got off. As cameras flashed at our beaming faces, we waved. We even lowered our masks and waved at a few people taking pictures with phones.

“Biju!”

When our maknae nearly veered off course, we grabbed him like overprotective parents, causing more laughter. Even at the handball arena we’d worked so hard, but Biju still didn’t realize his hair was red to stand out before the concert.

We passed through the glass doors, laughing like fools.

“It feels like there are more cameras the further we go.”

“Right?”

We were in the K-Net building in Sangam-dong, about to make our first music-show comeback. Our steps through the hallway felt incredibly light.

“Hello!”

Every time we bowed to passing staff, the tired broadcast workers briefly smiled back. And something totally unexpected happened:

“That person’s smiling...”

“He actually said hi...”

A staffer who usually scowled at us in Sangam now smiled and greeted us. Perhaps it was because we’d hit a home run again—our single “Nine,” released on Monday, had held daily chart number one for three days straight and remained first on the real-time chart. I’d even heard “Nine” on the radio while coming here:

“A refreshing song that blows open your stifled heart—NewBlack’s new track, ‘Nine’!”

Recalling that line, we entered a huge waiting room.

“Wow, it’s even bigger.”

“We could rehearse choreography here.”

“This space is awesome.”

As stylists hung our stage outfits on racks, we straightened our clothes. We had a pre-recorded stage later, but first we’d film some content. K-Net’s music shows include mini-games beyond performances. Today’s segment was “Sing each other’s songs” to learn about fellow artists.

“Ahem...”

I warmed up my voice and asked my brothers,

“Shall we go in?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

They nodded seriously. The thought of meeting some scary teenagers in a few minutes made our hearts pound. To us, these rebellious outlaws—kids rough around the edges—were intimidating. We approached a door labeled “Teen Spirit” in careful steps. I knocked.

“Who is it?”

In a stern whisper I said, “It’s us... NewBlack...”

Behind me, my brothers burst out laughing silently. The door swung open to reveal the sulky boys of Teen Spirit. Their faces full of grievances against authority, school, society, we shrank back slightly. Silence fell—just for a moment.

“...Welcome.”

“...”

“We’ve been waiting.”

They all broke into matching gummy smiles, white teeth gleaming.