In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

A chill ran down my spine at the unidentifiable voice.

“......”

We both yanked out the earbuds in a panic.

Our hearts pounded so loudly it felt like thunder in our ears.

“Viju—did you hear that?”

“I have no idea what that was, hyung. What on earth....”

We said that, but we already knew. It was definitely a middle-aged man’s voice. I recalled the courage challenge from earlier.

“Maybe it’s just some other noise.”

“Y-yeah, that must be it!”

I nodded emphatically at Viju.

“Maybe it’s mixed with some random static, or it’s Junghyun’s voice creeping in, or we’re just imagining things.”

“Right. That makes sense.”

“It’s definitely just interference.”

As we forced ourselves to reach that conclusion, Viju forced a laugh.

“And even if it was really that kind of sound... it’s a good thing, right? It’ll mean we’re gonna hit big.”

“Y-yeah, exactly.”

“Our album’s destined for greatness now.”

“Ha ha ha.”

“Ha ha ha.”

We laughed like idiots, but it was hard to smile properly. On TV variety shows, they’ll point at a clip and shout, “There’s a ghost voice on the recording!” and everyone yells, “Whoa, amazing!” But being the ones it happened to felt very different, because...

“Hey, Viju.”

“Yes?”

“If that really was that kind of sound...”

“Yes?”

I explained to him, blinking.

“It means someone was lurking outside our tent whispering right by our heads while we recorded that song.”

“Ugh... I don’t want to imagine that!”

Viju covered his face, shuddering. I only stared out at Jeju Airport beyond the window, swallowing.

Whoever it was, they were right outside our tent, at our pillow level, whispering while we sang.

“......”

Leaning back in my seat, thinking I’d never sleep tonight, a face popped up behind me.

Our maknae, chewing chocolate like a chubby hamster.

“Hyungs, want some tangerine chocolate?”

“No....”

“Huh? Why so serious?”

“Nothing.”

“......”

The maknae furrowed his brow in concern—then spotted Viju’s shaking shoulders and frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“When we land in Gimpo, I’ll tell you.”

“I want to know now. What is it?”

He kept pestering; I made him promise.

“Promise you won’t blame me?”

“...O-kay?”

“I sent it to your phone.”

I edited the audio file and texted him: “There’s a stranger’s voice on that recording.”

Ten seconds later:

“...Aaaah!”

He screamed and dropped his phone in the row behind us. Viju and I forced wry smiles. Rihyeok, sitting next to Jiho, asked:

“What is it? What now?”

“N-nothing.”

“Come on. Tell me. What’s wrong? I need to know so I can do something.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“What is it?”

The maknae shook his head, but Rihyeok wouldn’t let it drop.

“Don’t blame me after you hear it, hyung.”

“...?”

Another ten seconds passed. A phone clattered to the floor.

“...Aaagh! What is this?!”

“I told you I’d tell you later....”

“Ah, my heart. It’s aching from surprise.”

Rihyeok moaned as if needing a calm-pill. Our managers, sensing the commotion, joined the relay of ghost-time panic.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ll tell you later—”

All four managers said that at once, but none backed down. They pressed us to find out what was wrong, so we quickly sent:

“Check your messages.”

“Messages?”

Mingi and Wonseok shared earbuds, hit play, and three seconds later shrieked—another phone hit the plane floor. I simply smiled, as if to say, “I told you.”

“......”

So four singers and two managers stared up at the plane ceiling.

“Oh.”

...came a voice of admiration after listening to the clip. Six heads turned simultaneously.

“This is interesting.”

Junghyun laughed with fascination, then promptly donned his sleep mask and lapsed into peaceful slumber.

“......”

I envied that mental fortitude.

After dinner at the famed Korean beef restaurant in Gangseo, I returned to the office and sought out the engineering team in the production studio.

“And this is one hundred percent human voice.”

“....”

The engineer, eyes on the waveform on his monitor, removed his headphones and tapped my shoulder with a laugh.

“Congratulations.”

“Huh?”

“They say it’s a superstition, but if you get a weird sound in a recording, it’s always a hit, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

I smiled weakly. If it really led to a smash success, it’d be great—but I’d never experienced anything like it; it was unnerving.

As I left the production room, I asked,

“Is this really good news?”

“Well, what else can we do? We can’t even identify it.”

Jiho stretched and said,

“Since it’s like this, let’s go full-blast for our next album!”

“Waaaaah!”

“Come on, hyungs, say it! Next album’s gonna be a hit! Lively!”

“Waaaaah!”

We raised our fists, and finally the maknae high-fived each of us, shouting “That’s right!” I admired him—Jiho’s so supportive...

“Guess I really am human vitamin after all.”

“......”

“Remember that happy boy everyone loved?”

That snapped me out of it. I clicked my tongue at his cheery smugness.

“If only you hadn’t said that, I almost would’ve thought it was cool.”

“I’ll take it back.”

He said immediately, and I laughed. Whatever—it was best to think positively, as Jiho said. The next album would be a massive hit. Smiling at my brothers, I fetched a cart from the company warehouse and loaded boxes.

“Let’s go, minions!”

“Yes, hyung!”

We stormed the office corridors. Every department we burst into, Junghyun wielded a mini megaphone:

“A performer like this doesn’t visit daily!”

“NewBlack! Aaaaah—NewBl—ack!”

“We, your welfare providers, NewBl—ack, have arrived!”

Employees clapped and laughed. “We’re back!” we announced.

“Did you have a good trip?”

“Yes! We brought souvenirs—everyone take one.”

Whenever we handed out tangerine chocolates or dolhareubang keychains, they delighted.

“What about Scarlet?”

“Nayoon asked to leave one for the studio fridge.”

“Okay, will do.”

We stashed theirs, then grabbed the A&R and producing teams at a nearby café, gave them gifts, and headed down to the basement.

“Heyooo—!”

Jiho sang like an opera tenor as we entered; the trainees in practice dropped everything and ran over.

“Hello, educators!”

“Hi!”

We waved and handed out goody bags.

“Found these on the way.”

“Please take one: Jinhwoo, Boksu, Yoonsoo...”

The bewildered trainees opened them and cheered at the contents.

“Oh, tangerine chocolate and training suits....”

“Bought the suits en route—they’re the most needed by trainees.”

“That’s perfect.”

Jinhwoo showed a hole in his training pants thigh.

“It’s exactly what I needed—I was teased all day for that rip.”

“Ha ha!”

“Thank you so much, seniors.”

“Thank you!”

Others bowed and laughed. While chatting, Viju, watching their footprints and sweat marks, smiled kindly.

“You’re practicing Teen Spirit’s songs? Na-na-na?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Struggling with the chorus?”

“Uh... yes. I keep coming in half-beat late on the chorus.”

“Show me.”

He demonstrated the moves; within five minutes, Viju offered corrections, and they all improved immediately. The trainees exchanged astonished looks.

“See you next time~!”

“Thank you!”

We waved and exited the practice room.

Creak.

We closed the door and strolled away in deliberate unhurried fashion. Then—

“......”

We all paused, pressed our ears to the door.

A ruckus inside: cries of “Amazing!” and “I’m never wearing this—I’ll keep it as heirloom~!” We left the basement corridor, satisfied.

“You’re such cool seniors.”

“Right?”

“I gave more detailed pointers just for that—did I do well?”

“You did, you did.”

We laughed together, while only Rihyeok opened his mouth briefly, then watched with a rueful expression.

We finished the song in just one day—about sixteen hours. Somehow we stayed all night in the studio, but once the idea clicked, we couldn’t stop.

“Graaah....”

Rihyeok and Jiho lay tangled on the studio sofa, exhausted. Viju nodded off between me and Junghyun, who sat at the laptop. I asked Junghyun,

“Think it’s done?”

“Yeah. I think it’s finished.”

“Good work.”

“You too, hyung.”

I pummeled him fist-bump, and he caught it like wrapping cloth. I sipped the last of my Zeti candy-flavored soda, spun my chair, and called my brothers over.

“It’s done.”

“Hsshp!”

Viju swallowed and shook his head. The maknae jolted upright and applauded. “Whoa!” Rihyeok even rolled off the sofa with a shriek. I beckoned them closer to their worn faces, then played the final track.

“It took time to find the right sounds—hard to find traditional-instrument–like tones that still feel trendy pop.”

I said it took time, but it was worth it. As the intro played, their faces brightened.

The slow rhythm picked up speed; they nodded along as the chorus’s fast choreography and rap section rolled in.

“Can you picture it? Where you’ll fit in?”

“No.”

“This is your part, Jiho.”

“Ahh.”

He lit up at hearing he’d stand center in the second-verse chorus. After we finished listening, Viju said,

“It’s really impressive.”

“Good, right?”

“Yeah. It sounds Korean, yet has a pop vibe. How do you describe it?”

Rihyeok said,

“To me, it feels like a future version of traditional music continuing without outside influence.”

“What does that mean?”

“...Just that it’s unique.”

Jiho seemed to agree.

“I don’t think I’ve heard anything quite like this before.”

“New but good, right?”

“Yeah. My taste is pretty basic, but if it sounds this good to me....”

Finally, Junghyun added,

“I have a hunch about this song... heh.”

Viju held up a hand to silence him, then told me,

“Dismissed, you second unit.”

I high-fived and spun my chair back to the desk.

“All right, let’s contact Director Jo and PD Ha.”

The song was done; it was time for the homework check.

Lemon Entertainment.

In the underground parking lot, Ha Seung-joo met with Production Director Jo Gyu-hwan.

“You’re here already, hyung?”

“Hey, Gyuhwan.”

“You had an appointment in Gyeonggi-do this morning, right? You’re early.”

“If they call, you gotta come quickly.”

“True.”

The junior composer smiled and handed him a coffee—cold brew with syrup, just how he liked it.

“I thought I’d bump into you. Bought it in advance.”

“You’re a ghost.”

Sipping his coffee, Ha Seung-joo followed Jo into the building, took the elevator to the second floor, and asked,

“So... I heard Uju completely reworked the song. How is it?”

“Well...”

The doors opened onto the second-floor corridor.

“I haven’t heard the final version—only the melody he emailed.”

“He went to film a travel show and came back working. How is it?”

“It’s good.”

Short answer, but his expression said it all—he liked it a lot. Ha Seung-joo wondered,

“How did he transform it so that this picky kid reacts like that?”

He opened the studio door, and—

“Hello! Director! PD Ha!”

NewBlack greeted them with energy. Their eyes were hollow and their mouths stained with tteokbokki sauce, but their expressions shone like sunlight. They looked like kindergarteners returning a perfect test paper.

“The song’s finished?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Let’s hear it.”

They placed their coffees down, beaming in anticipation, and the two composers leaned in.

“Last time it was ‘Falling.’ This time, he nearly rewrote it and renamed it ‘Nak-hwa.’”

“Nak-hwa.”

“Then we’ll play it.”

The file started. The intro felt like a cold wind sweeping over a barren field. Uju added,

“I haven’t filled in all the parts yet. I’ll hire traditional-instrument players later for studio recording.”

The two men nodded—they understood the direction. The song played on.

“Nice.”

The sixth album and Mini-4’s theme was farewell—not negative departure, but parting with a promise to meet again. This track fit that theme perfectly. Ha Seung-joo clicked his tongue at the soft yet stimulating sounds.

“How does someone in their twenties have this kind of depth?”

Considering whose son he was, it wasn’t surprising—but the admiration was involuntary. It was like an East Asian painting of a flower. The brush strokes were slow at first, drawing branches, then quickened to paint blossoms before the chorus—the melody felt like falling petals.

“Wow....”

Like hearing a great song, his mouth curved into a smile. The NewBlack members gave him a small high-five. The song “Nak-hwa” continued.

“They’ve even made the silence meaningful.”

When making this kind of song, you often overfill it, but the deliberate emptiness enriched it. As both composer and listener, it was a great piece.

When it ended, Ha Seung-joo laughed out loud.

“Man, this is amazing. How did you make it?”

“Ha ha ha! Thank you!”

“Really, you completed this in one day?”

He asked genuinely—it was impossible to produce this in a day. Uju answered.

“You told us to think through our own blocks and solve them.”

“You did.”

“This time I found the solution.”

“Is that so?”

He looked proud; the leader nodded.

“You said not to cling to the old version, but to extract some melodies and build anew.”

“Exactly.”

That was how he’d overcome a similar problem before—rather than cling to worn-out parts, take the crucial bits and remake from scratch. Sometimes it’s easier than fixing. As they mused, Uju continued.

“So I took the melody from my song, then also took from a song my brothers made.”

“Oh....”

Ha Seung-joo nodded at the behind-the-scenes. But he had another question.

“This isn’t two songs, is it?”

Jo Gyu-hwan asked on his behalf,

“There’s a third song, right?”

“Huh? How’d you know? Yes—I felt two songs alone weren’t enough, so I used an older, shelved track too.”

“So three in total.”

“Yeah. Mixing three properly made it come out so well.”

The two men smiled at Uju’s thanks. Jo asked,

“Anyway, I loved it. Is now a good time to discuss the song?”

“Hm... a bit later.”

“Where to?”

“PR called me—have a few questions.”

Regretfully, they agreed to defer the song talk.

“All right, we’ll be back!”

“Take your time.”

“No—will be quick!”

They waved energetically; the two composers waved back calmly. After their farewell, as NewBlack disappeared down the corridor, the men’s smiles vanished.

“......”

They checked the hallway, locked the door, and—panic-stricken—Ha Seung-joo urgently replayed the Nak-hwa audio file.

His expression twisted in bewilderment.

“How did he do this? Three songs combined?”

“I have no idea. This is....”

Jo, listening intently, blinked. Ha Seung-joo chuckled nervously.

“What on earth?”

He was stunned someone could solve it this way overnight: melding three tracks into one. Outwardly he’d laughed, “Ah, three songs, clever,” but inside he was terrified. How could anyone conceive such a structure? Fearful of asking, he said nothing.

“I didn’t mean this,” he muttered.

“Me neither. I just meant, don’t hold on—take it out and start fresh.”

“And he brought back three and merged them.”

“I know....”

It felt like a teacher’s frustration when a student misunderstood “Look for the door right here” and immediately leaped a three-meter wall instead of opening the one in front of them.

“If you tell him to dig bellflower roots, he’ll fetch ginseng. This kid....”

“I still don’t know how he made this in a day.”

“Me neither. I’ve never seen anything like it....”

They played “Nak-hwa” again but ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ still couldn’t comprehend. Could this really be done in such short time? Above them, Uju’s hearty laughter echoed like a mirage.

“No one solves problems like this.”

The two composers stared in stunned silence at this unprecedented solution.