In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

When the song ended,

I ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) found myself enveloped in an unsettling silence like nothing I’d ever experienced.

What’s with everyone?

“.......”

I studied the faces of the A&R staff.

There was the engineer who’d adjusted the track, songwriters, and other team members—each with their own distinct personality.

Yet now, every expression was identical.

They’d been like this since the song started.

They looked as though they’d just witnessed something inexplicable.

I wanted to use my mimicry ability right then to copy their expressions—if only to know what emotion lay behind them.

The only thing I could read in that room was the same bewilderment my brothers had felt.

Feeling frustrated, I cleared my throat.

“Um... what did you think?”

“Huh?”

Their eyes blinked in surprise.

“Oh, I mean....”

“Well....”

But no one could bring themselves to speak. Perhaps this wasn’t what they’d expected. Their brows furrowed as they struggled for an appropriate reaction.

“You did very well.”

It was Director Jo Gyu-hwan, seated at the head of the table.

“This is far beyond what I anticipated. We’ll need to tweak a few things, of course, but for a first composition, this is truly excellent. It would be perfectly worthy of inclusion on the debut album.”

“Ah—thank you.”

“I don’t think this is the right moment for detailed feedback. I’ll share it with you later. We also need to hear from the rest of our team.”

Director Jo’s gaze shifted to the A&R team lead beside him.

Silent glances passed between the two men. When the team lead nodded, our producer spoke again.

“Then....”

Though his tone seemed casual, I sensed there was more behind it.

“Thank you all for your hard work. NewBlack, you can head out now. We’re about to get into some delicate discussions.”

As the NewBlack members left with uneasy expressions, silence fell over the conference room once more.

It was natural I couldn’t read the mood—it held both affirmation and doubt.

On the positive side, the song was phenomenal.

Anyone in album production grows adept at judging which songs are good and which suit the artist. Fireworks was a gem in the rough.

Just as Woo-joo intended—to draw in potential fans—the track was crafted for easy listening: enjoyable yet effortlessly soothing. And its chorus was addictive.

Rather than merely refining the existing source, he had broken it apart and rebuilt it—an inspired choice. Had he only tweaked it, he’d have failed like every other composer who’d tried that notorious source. Instead, he used the source material as a springboard for an entirely new melody. Whatever form remained of the original was so transformed it was unrecognizable, yet its intoxicating essence lingered—like the sharp tang of dried chili in pasta.

Even now, some of those staff envisioned the chorus melody echoing in their ears, tempting them to listen again.

A summer-season song couldn’t find a more perfect fit. Sure, the sloppy tune adjustments, odd instrumentation, and slightly cheesy bridge would need immediate work, but at its core it was outstanding.

—and that was exactly the problem.

The staff sat tangled in conflicted feelings because Woo-joo’s song was just too good. A great song was a great song—but it was so great it upended their plans.

Since the day NewBlack appeared on music shows with Jang So-won, the A&R team had been planning the album internally. They’d sketched out the entire concept weeks ago. The documents on the table reflected that blueprint. Everything had been decided—until now.

They’d engaged Woo-joo in songwriting primarily for business reasons. Sure, letting him practice composition was part of it—but not the main purpose. A label is, after all, a business. What were the odds of a novice composer producing a hit? Their expectations had been zero. What they needed was the promotional image of a “composer idol” to carry on from Something. So they’d reacted generously no matter what the song sounded like; album tracks rarely get real attention, and they intended to outsource the title track to a famed composer anyway.

If only this Fireworks hadn’t been brought in.

“The song is just... too good.”

They’d hoped for a track that listeners would think, “Not bad.” A smooth album filler. Instead, Fireworks was a perfect marriage of song and artist, with color that fit NewBlack like a glove. And it was powerful.

It was the worst-case scenario for an album track: you couldn’t cast a supporting actor who outshone the star.

So they faced three choices:

The A&R staff leaned toward the first option—they didn’t want to abandon the two months of planning. But doing so would derail their promotional strategy of highlighting Woo-joo as a “composer idol.” And choosing the second option carried too much risk: if fans heard the album and wondered, “Is the company crazy? Why isn’t this the title track?”—it would backfire.

While everyone wrestled in silence, the A&R team lead sighed.

“He was supposed to bring us an album track—and instead he’s brought us a title track.”

Laughter bubbled up around the room. Everyone felt exactly the same way.

It was Director Yoon Seok-hwan who spoke first.

“From what I hear, the song’s quality is excellent and perfectly suits the group’s color... but since the A&R team has worked so hard over the last few months, I think it’s best we let Director Jo make the final call.”

“Yeah... the situation is tricky.”

The team lead turned to Director Jo.

“It would be ideal if you could tie this up, sir. You’ve always made the right decisions before.”

Everyone nodded. At Lemon Entertainment, when it came to crucial calls, Jo Gyu-hwan always delivered optimal outcomes.

What would he decide this time?

All eyes turned to the producer, seated with his legs crossed, deep in thought.

Five minutes passed.

At last, Director Jo sat up straight.

“Well....”

His gaze fell on the planning documents.

Then, as if his mind was made up, he flipped the top sheet without hesitation.

“I think we need a complete re-evaluation.”

Nearly a week passed after that A&R meeting without any word from the company.

Director Jo had promised feedback, but there was radio silence.

I considered asking the A&R team, but they seemed busy in meetings—and Manager Yoon wouldn’t tell me anything, no matter how I prodded.

As for Representative Min-gi... he was in his own world.

“Thank you so much—I’ll really enjoy these snacks!”

He was grinning ear to ear as Senior Jang So-won handed him some chips.

Honestly, that guy should’ve been managing Sugarfish instead of me.

Now I was in the green room. Today’s recording was for Midnight Music Concert.

Airing every Sunday evening, it aims to unite all generations through music—anyone from trot singers to idol groups can appear. It’s one of PBS’s flagship shows.

This booking came as a result of our Music Cafe appearance. A PD who’d loved our Between performance personally requested us. I’d heard both the Music Cafe PD and Senior Ha Seung-joo had strongly recommended us.

It had originally been scheduled earlier, but somehow got pushed to now.

Well, it felt good to be back in a TV station, even at an odd time.

Of course my mind was still on the song.

Leaning against the sofa in a daze, the sight of wrapped desserts caught my eye.

“Hyung, look—these are soufflés! Soufflé~”

“Uh-huh.”

“Soufflé, I said!”

“Looks tasty.”

“Why aren’t you reacting? Souff... what?”

The maknae, who’d been teasing me happily, looked at Ri-hyeok, who’d playfully jabbed him in the ribs.

“Just leave him. Hyung’s been kind of off lately.”

“Oh.”

Ji-ho fell silent, nodding as if he understood. Then, slumped like a dog with drooping shoulders, he waited.

Meanwhile Senior Jang, chatting with Min-gi, asked,

“Why’s our maknae so low on energy?”

“Well, Senior, lately when Woo-joo hyung teases him, he doesn’t react—no fun. Teasing him with soufflés was his greatest pleasure....”

“Why’s the leader in a bad mood?”

“I’m fine, Senior.”

I gave her a wry smile as she tilted her head.

“He’s just teasing us.”

“Look at that smile. He doesn’t smile like that for us.”

At Ji-ho’s teasing finger, Jung-hyun bit into his bread and said,

“I can’t even remember the last time Woo-joo hyung smiled at me.”

“Hey, Jung-hyun, you too....”

“You know I can’t lie, hyung.”

That was true.

Still, had my expressions really looked that bad lately? No one would tell me otherwise.

I felt a pang of embarrassment.

“I’m going to get a drink.”

I rose and left the green room.

“Can I come?”

My main dancer followed me down the hallway, smiling. I broached the question.

“Have I really been looking unhappy?”

“They’re only teasing you.”

“That felt half serious.”

“Honestly... since you started composing, you’ve seemed stressed. I’m not criticizing. It’s natural—you get annoyed and angry when you’re under strain.”

“Now that you say it, I feel like I’ve done something seriously wrong.”

I had felt pressure ever since getting our own studio. “I have to deliver greatness,” I’d thought. Yet no one was forcing me—I was my own worst taskmaster. It had led to a great song, but I’d been so consumed by it.

“Don’t take it too seriously. They’re half joking, half worried about you.”

“Me?”

“You’ve been holed up in the studio every day. Your eyes are hollow, your cheeks hollowed. You’d say it’s not so bad, but to anyone watching, it looked worrisome.”

“.......”

“So when the song was done, we were all overjoyed. Of course we loved the song, but above all, it meant you’d be back to your old self.”

That should have been true—but since the A&R meeting, I’d become... hypersensitive, I suppose. Bi-joo continued with a smile:

“For days we’ve been begging each other to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“That it’s okay to relax a little.”

What did he mean?

“We all want to rise higher with you. But you’ve done more than enough. As we said on Music Cafe, we’d never have gotten here without you. And we haven’t even debuted yet—this is already more than enough.”

“.......”

“So please, ease up. It’s okay to take it easy sometimes.”

He added playfully, “And have fun with us, too.”

I felt grateful to him—and to the others who surely felt the same but couldn’t say it aloud.

Now that I thought about it, I had been too focused on my own concerns. In my drive to make things perfect, I’d inadvertently driven my brothers too hard. I shouldn’t have judged overzealous TV parents—real parents—when I’d been that way myself.

“Thanks.”

“For what? Oh—here’s a Vespa. I’ll have this.”

I pressed the drink machine’s buttons. Jang So-won chose black coffee, Ji-ho a soda, Jung-hyun a pine-needle beverage.

Bi-joo beamed as he held his can.

“They even have this at the station. I’ve been looking for it—only ever seen it in hospital vending machines.”

“Hospital? What hospital?”

Bi-joo flinched.

“......Huh? Hospital?”

“You said hospital just now.”

“Oh, that was when I had to go for a checkup recently.”

He hesitated oddly, and I let it go. I didn’t want to spoil the good mood.

Just as I was about to return to the green room and greet the others with a smile, the door swung open—and I sensed an excited commotion inside.

“Hyung.”

Jung-hyun, unusually flushed, called to me.

“What is it? Why the look?”

“They’ve decided to make our song Fireworks the title track.”

“Is that for real?”

I glanced at Manager Yoon, who grinned and handed me his phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey—it’s me. Sorry for the delay.”

It was Director Jo’s voice.

“We just finished the meeting with the president.”

“Director, is this real? My song is becoming the title track?”

“That was the conclusion. We pooled feedback from A&R, management, and PR, then voted. It was 40 to 7 in favor. The CEO and division head also approved after listening.”

“.......”

“Are you there?”

“Ah, yes. I’m just... a little overwhelmed.”

I heard quiet laughter on the line.

“I wanted to give you a heads-up, but I didn’t want to disappoint you if it didn’t work out. Anyway, congratulations—and thanks for your hard work.”

Of course, he reminded me that the work wasn’t done—there were still massive revisions ahead—but I heard none of it.

My song as the debut album’s title track.

I’d always pictured performing it someday—at a concert, maybe—but never on a music-show stage as the title track.

I was indescribably thrilled.

Just getting our own studio had felt like validation; this surpassed it.

When the call ended, I flopped onto the sofa, laughing.

“Hyung! Congratulations!”

My excited brothers piled on, nearly suffocating me with their weight—and laughter.

My chest felt like it had opened wide, and I exhaled, elated.

Hearing the lively chatter through the phone’s speaker, Director Jo ended the call.

“Was today’s schedule the Midnight Music Concert recording?”

Judging by the mood, there would be no concern about stage quality.

Smiling as he imagined Woo-joo’s face on camera, he set his phone on the desk. His long finger tapped the screen, and the piano intro of Fireworks flooded the office.

“I could listen to this all day. It’s so catchy.”

He closed his eyes and savored the melody.

He didn’t know if it would hit No. 1 or set records, but he was certain it would remain popular for a long time. It was addictive without growing stale—perhaps thanks to that original source.

He recalled a recent conversation with Woo-joo:

He’d asked, “Director, why the face?”

Director Jo had opened his eyes and given an embarrassed smile.

Everyone has a dark moment, after all.

He glanced at the folder on his desk—a profile of NewBlack’s members. At the top was Woo-joo, beaming.

He tapped that photo fondly.

“I’ll have to nurture him well.”

He wondered just how far this talented young man could grow.

Smiling at the thought, he listened once more to the song.