In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

After sending my brothers back to the dorm, I remained in the studio.

I needed to finish the work.

Once I get fired up, I have to keep going—otherwise I can’t sleep. So I stayed and worked alone, just like the night I prepared that rearrangement for the year-end evaluation.

By now I’d roughly identified our musical tendencies.

I opened the laptop’s notepad and wrote:

Writing down what I already knew, I paused to consider what was missing—and then added:

For an idol, the most important listeners are the fans. Unlike a general pop song like Something, the biggest consumers of idol music are the fandom itself. Fans are the reason idols exist.

So what message should we send to our current fan café members and to those who will become our fans?

I thought for a moment and tapped the keyboard:

Idols and fans share a dream together. So I started to write about inviting them into our dream... then backspaced it out.

Too heavy. This is our first meeting with fans. That message would be like asking someone on a blind date, “Shall we dream of the future together?”—way too much pressure. Pressure ruins fun. If someone behaves like that on a first date, you’ll end up spitting pasta out your nose.

Let’s keep it light. Instead of inviting them to dream, let’s invite them to play.

“Come hang out with us and have fun,” as a message.

That fit perfectly with the refreshing summer concept and the seaside imagery.

Alright, let’s summarize:

In a warm, cheerful atmosphere (warmth), strangers meet and play joyfully (joy), and friendship—and love—blooms among people who met on vacation (love).

So the core motif is “play.” What title symbolically represents play? What do people do at the beach?

Then my thought stalled unexpectedly. When was the last time I’d actually played at the sea?

I think it was second grade, on a field trip to the port at Gunsan. After that I moved to Seoul as a trainee and spent my days practicing even on days off.

Of course I’d been to the sea many times. There was the coast thirty minutes from home, and I’d had plenty of chances to go on breaks as a trainee. I’d even been invited to beach trips—though I’d declined when I realized the real motive was something else.

Putting that aside, it was a shock. What have I been doing all this time? I didn’t even know what to do at the beach.

Grilled clams, swimming—those were just things I’d heard about, not experienced. I almost considered posting “What do you do at the beach?” on the internet before shaking my head.

Since this was our song, I wanted it to contain real experience.

I closed my eyes, sipping chocolate milk, and recalled a faint memory from when I was maybe five years old. An old, worn-out memory, like from a tattered book.

“Fireworks?”

The next day, I told my brothers the song title.

“I want to make a song that captures the vibe of playing together at the beach, and fireworks felt like a good symbolic motif. Fireworks also have multiple meanings: like celebrating the New Year or marking a special start. It fits our debut album’s theme.”

“Well, that makes sense for once.”

Ri-hyeok gave his strongest approval—the pickiest guy nodding meant no one else needed to object.

Jung-hyun stroked his chin. “Sounds good. How did you come up with the title?”

“I remembered my childhood.”

I described a memory from around age five, at some seaside with Mom and Dad. I can’t recall their faces, but the fireworks I saw are vivid in my mind: that single streak launched into a bright, clear sky.

My brothers smiled in a curious way.

“Sounds good to me. It suits the song’s mood,” Bi-joo said.

Just as I was about to thank him, the maknae interrupted.

“Hyung, are we going to keep the title in Korean?”

“At first I thought of English—Firework—but it didn’t have the right feel, and Grandma struggles with English. People always call Something ‘Ssum-shing,’ so Firework would be even more foreign.”

My brothers on the studio sofa nodded. Jung-hyun especially, having grown up in town with lots of older folks, seemed to relate.

When I finished explaining my chosen title, Ri-hyeok raised his hand as if he had a question.

“What about the lyrics?”

“Oh, right. I didn’t mention that. I’ll leave lyrics to you.”

“Huh?”

My brothers stared, blinking at my reply. I smiled kindly.

“It’s our song. I composed it, so you guys write the lyrics.”

Now it’s your turn to work hard.

Time flew by.

It felt as though the whole month of April had melted away overnight. Days blurred together under the crush of debut preparations.

Our collaborative work evolved too.

After nights spent tearing at their hair for creativity, my brothers each drafted lyrics for their parts. Then a few days later, the once-untitled track transformed into “Fireworks”: [Composed by Woo-joo] [Written by NewBlack]. Recording went smoothly, even if Ji-ho, who was nearly bawling under our main vocal’s exacting direction, shed tears. But we’d all been through this before, so it went off without a hitch.

When “NewBlack – Fireworks” was finally complete, we gathered in one spot to listen—and felt déjà vu. The same sensation we’d had hearing Something’s final version for the first time.

“I didn’t expect it to be this good,” Jung-hyun said, clicking his tongue.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re an alien who dropped by to help us out,” he added. “But... this is so good that it seems a shame to keep it as an album track.”

“Right? We could even release it as a digital single.”

“Thanks for the compliments, but let’s not count our chickens. We should hear what Director Jo and the A&R team say first.”

“Still, you like it, so thanks for saying so. You know I’m stingy with praise.”

Oh, I know that well.

I laughed at Ri-hyeok’s remark and turned to the maknae. I appreciated the praise for the quality—but something was missing. It wasn’t the response I truly wanted.

I asked Ji-ho, who was smiling peacefully, as if imagining something wonderful, “Ji-ho, what do you think? Does it capture our color?”

“Um, I don’t know about the color. I just feel good listening to it. It wasn’t like this with Something, but this really feels like watching fireworks, which I love.”

He went on, “It’s like we’re at the beach watching fireworks burst—remembering how hard we worked as trainees, remembering you, Woo-joo hyung, at the year-end evaluation and music shows. And—what do I say? It brings back memories, but it also makes me feel like a bright future awaits...?”

I finally breathed easy. Ji-ho had nailed exactly what I intended. It was one thing to make something well; another to match the intention.

So had we captured our color?

Bi-joo nodded. “I like this song, too, hyung.”

“Really?”

“It feels good. It’s like a perfect fit. Hard to say too soon, but the more I listen....”

He trailed off, smiling. “I love it because it really feels like our song.”

Late April.

The third-floor conference room at Lemon Entertainment buzzed with people.

Compared to other departments, the A&R team dressed most casually. A&R—Artist & Repertoire—is one of the three pillars of an idol agency, alongside rookie development and management. They oversee everything related to an artist’s album: deciding concepts, soliciting songs externally, or creating them in-house.

At Lemon, thanks to Producer Jo Gyu-hwan’s influence, many staff members were professional songwriters. Naturally, the conversation steered toward music.

“Have you heard the composer’s own song Woo-joo is bringing today?”

“I heard Director Jo hasn’t heard it yet either—only the title: Fireworks.”

“Fireworks?”

The staff tilted their heads.

“A lot of songs share that title. I bet there are five we already know.”

“Well, it’s just an album track.”

“Song title and hit success are separate. Who’d have thought a song called Something would succeed?”

“That’s true. I was surprised myself.”

They recalled Something’s success. When they first heard a rookie boy group was working with Jang So-won, they only thought, “Oh, okay.” Trainees were the newbie development team’s territory. On the bright side, having a singer-songwriter drop a track meant free promotion.

Then they’d forgotten about it—until an unprecedented song suddenly took every chart’s No. 1 spot.

“I really was shocked. I got to the office and the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, promo staff running frantic. It was Ji-ho’s graduation day, and someone from Girls On Top was there, so reporters were everywhere.”

“Manager Yoon even ran off to stop the interviews.”

“Well, the whole company went nuts. Scarlet took a year to hit No. 1, but an unsigned rookie topping the chart? Who’d expect that?”

One staffer said, “Since we trusted him with an original track again, I hope it’s a good one.”

“Sure. If it’s good, great. If not, no harm done.”

“But shouldn’t we have helped him more? They said Jang So-won did a lot on Something. Leaving him alone doesn’t seem like it’d yield quality...”

“We can fix it ourselves if needed,” someone remarked casually, and everyone nodded.

They knew Something’s success but had low expectations overall. After Music Cafe and Something, external composers were lining up—but they still spent one newbie track on a rookie’s self-composed song for image-making: to promote the “composer idol” concept.

So they had little genuine interest in its musical merits. It was business.

“Besides, the source Woo-joo used as his base is notoriously hard. Anyone here tried it?”

Mention of the infamous source made them shudder. Any A&R-affiliated songwriter knew that one: deceptively simple at first glance, it would shred your soul if you tweaked it. Carve here and something else popped out. Touch there and another problem appeared. No one dared try.

If even pros had abandoned it, how well could a rookie manage?

They nodded in agreement. “This one’s going to be tough.”

“Yeah. Let’s at least encourage him. He’s done a lot for the company and for us.”

“Four company dinners so far, right? He’s going places. And he shows he cares about people.”

Whenever Something broke records, Woo-joo treated Lemon staff to dinner and small gifts. That’s why A&R staff liked NewBlack’s leader.

So they’d prepared what to say and how to react—anything to avoid hurting him.

“Director and the team lead are on their way,” a junior staffer announced. Everyone stopped talking and straightened papers.

Producer Jo Gyu-hwan, the A&R team lead, and Director Yoon Seok-hwan entered, followed by the NewBlack members, scuttling in like chicks.

“Hello!” the members greeted energetically, and the staff returned warm smiles.

After introductions, it was time for Woo-joo to present his work so far.

“...So that’s why I chose the title. The primary listeners are our current and potential fans. We focused on a joyful atmosphere, decided on a deep house style—though it ended up with a bit of a tropical feel, so genre lines are blurred.”

Woo-joo bowed with a smile. “It’s far from perfect, but since /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ it’s our first self-produced result, I hope you’ll look on it kindly.”

Of course we will, they thought, sharing glances. No matter how disappointed, they wouldn’t show it.

Then the music played.

“Huh?”

They tilted their heads during the intro. The opening was strong—an almost twinkling beat like stars flickering in the night sky, overlaid with a joyful melody. It evoked a clear, cloudless night without a word of explanation.

“Not bad. Doesn’t seem to need much tweaking.”

They felt pleased at the reduced workload—until it hit Jung-hyun’s rap.

“Jung-hyun’s really good. He’s got a knack for rap-making.”

Under the upbeat melody, the rapper’s voice cut through. It was strong enough to stand out without effort, and they exchanged approving looks.

But then everything changed. From Bi-joo’s part through Ri-hyeok’s section, the rhythm and melody—already building—exploded in the chorus like fireworks. Instead of sparks, a refreshing melody drenched their ears.

“...He made this?”

Their astonishment wasn’t just at the song’s quality—they studied great overseas and domestic hits daily—so they wouldn’t be surprised by a high-level track.

They were stunned by its color: its perfect match with the members. A musical identity so distinctive you’d instantly recognize “that’s their song”—individuality shining yet harmonized.

Like the word NewBlack itself, different colors merging into a striking black.

No matter how good a song is, it fails if it doesn’t suit the artist. Even a big agency with money struggles if it can’t deliver the right concept. Conversely, a small agency can succeed by providing the perfect song.

That’s why idol success comes down to A&R and planning. In that regard, Fireworks surpassed mere musical merit and scored high on planning.

The A&R staff’s minds swirled. They’d prepared reactions expecting mediocrity—but this was exceptional.

“What do we do now?”

While savoring the great song, they felt awkwardness. It was like casting a minor role in a finished film and suddenly discovering someone perfect for the lead had appeared.

“.......”

When the song finally ended, silence filled the room.