In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

“What business would the police have at the company?”

Back at TJ Entertainment, I once saw prosecutors show up with blue boxes and raid the place.

But judging by Jongwan’s face, it didn’t look like that.

“Why did the police come?”

“They didn’t say that far... want me to call back and ask?”

“No, it’s fine.”

We can just ask inside.

As we headed in, Jiho glanced back at the car.

“That’s odd. It’s not a patrol car.”

“Right?”

Police coming by the company wasn’t rare.

Whenever stalker fans caused a scene or tried to sneak in, we’d call the police, and it was usually siren-wailing patrol cars that showed up.

But the vehicle outside now was a normal civilian car.

Which meant these weren’t patrol officers—they were investigators.

Junhyun tilted his head.

“What do you think it is?”

“We’ll know upstairs. Doesn’t seem huge.”

Thankfully, our curiosity was answered right away.

The moment we reached the Producing Team office, we found investigators there with our PDs.

“Wooju!”

Producing Team Lead, PD Na Sangyun, came up, clearly relieved.

“Are you okay? Hey. We were really worried. Thought it might be something serious.”

“I’m okay. I’ve recovered a lot now...”

“That’s good.”

PD Na’s eyes were warm as he looked me over.

Meanwhile, other producers stood gathered with grave faces at a computer alongside an investigator.

The investigator, focused on the monitor, met our eyes.

“Hello.”

“Ah, yes.”

He exchanged a brief greeting, looked back at the screen, then asked:

“Mr. Wooju, are you feeling all right?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Then... huh?”

His fingers paused on the keyboard; he looked up.

“Oh? NewBlack? Oh—sorry. Hello.”

We burst out laughing as the investigator stood to bow.

We were used to it—people greet us on instinct because they’ve seen us on TV so much.

After a sheepish chuckle and a quick chat with him, I whispered to PD Na:

“So what’s going on?”

“The computers have been acting weird for a few days. We called a security firm, and they found hacking attempts. We started looking into it internally and escalated to the cyber unit.”

“...Hacking?”

“Looks like malware got planted on the Producing Team and A&R machines. They targeted just these two.”

We went “ah” and smiled.

It felt a lot like last night, when Teen Spirit told us “occult concept is trending.”

Like Planktons trying to hack the secret formula for Mr. Krabs’ crab-burger sauce.

More absurd than infuriating.

Even if you steal a production source, it doesn’t automatically make a hit. Why go that far.

“Hmm...”

After checking a few things on the company machines, the cyber investigator wrapped procedures and headed out.

“We can’t jump to conclusions yet, but ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) these crimes are pretty common lately. There are syndicate-like contractors in places like China or Vietnam... my guess is someone ordered a job from that side.”

In short, finding the client would be practically impossible.

The good news was it didn’t look like any especially critical data had leaked.

After he left, we sat with the producers and talked.

“What a world.”

“It didn’t used to be like this. People keep crossing lines. What are they going to do with song data a little early.”

“Right.”

Composer Saltman sighed and told us:

“Did you hear? That rumor you’re doing an occult concept spread, and everyone plastered their stuff with it.”

“Y-yeah...”

We laughed awkwardly.

It wasn’t pure rumor; it had some basis—but we didn’t bother clarifying.

“Anyway, really glad you’re back. When we heard you were sick in Korea, we freaked.”

“We nearly died on-site too. This hyung just collapsed...”

Starting with my collapse, we traded updates about the Billboard Music Awards, the U.S. tour, and more.

“By the way, want souvenirs?”

“Oooooh!”

Meanwhile, we heard their updates too.

What had happened while we were gone.

“As you just saw, the copying’s getting worse. Back then they at least looked around nervously while they copied...”

“If you’re gonna copy, at least copy well. They copy weird.”

“Now they’re even hacking.”

It was about the boom in chasing a genre or concept in a way that skirts plagiarism fights.

Still bristling, the composers suddenly smiled.

“Let ’em copy.”

“We don’t fully understand the structure of the songs you build—how are they going to get it?”

“If they want to plagiarize, let ’em try. They can suffer staring at that god-awful difficult structure... bwa-ha-ha!”

Is that a compliment or an insult.

I smiled and gave them a steady look; they coughed and gazed off into the distance.

Biju grinned and asked:

“Did you hear we decided to release an English track?”

“Ah, right.”

The producers asked:

“Got a plan for how to work on it?”

“Yep.”

I explained our plan.

“I’m thinking we try a song camp this time.”

“Oh.”

I heard their low buzz—“not bad.”

A song camp.

Just like a weekend camp.

You bring in famous overseas writers, keep them together for three or four days or a week, and pull one song a day.

You gather writers from the Nordics, the U.S., all over.

Maybe because different countries’ music fuses, it’s a way to get unique, trendy tracks.

Sometimes those “this feels different” big-agency idol songs come out of processes like this.

But housing high-profile foreign writers for nearly a week isn’t cheap.

And the songs born this way tend to be experimental, so it’s a method only labels with money and leeway can use.

So in Korea, it was mostly an occasional event at big agencies like TJ, KM, MOP, SNH.

“If we do a song camp, which writers are you thinking of inviting?”

“I’ve got a few in mind, but we haven’t locked anyone.”

I smiled.

“It’s an English track, sure, but I’m not convinced foreign writers are automatically better than Korean writers...”

As I said it, I shot the Producing Team a warm smile.

You know. You’re my Nobi-s.

I looked at the Nobis, plural s fully intended; warm smiles came back.

“Go away.”

The composers waved us off.

“Come on, we’re Koreans—what English track.”

“Yeah~”

“If it’s an English track, work with people who use English. The sensibility differs by country.”

“We can sit this one out.”

I smiled at their evasive maneuvers.

“Please attend. All of you.”

“...Right.”

“Understood...”

“If Captain Flower says jump, we jump...”

Their eyes darkened.

Having accepted fate, Team Lead Na Sangyun spoke, complexion calm again:

“By the way, we did get a recommendation list from the U.S. label—producers to consider for this project.”

“Oh.”

“Pick some you’d like to meet. We can set meetings and you choose who fits.”

Ever since we said we’d try an English track, the U.S. label had been extremely proactive.

We put our heads together and studied the list.

“This one worked with Logan Smith. Specializes in dance and electronic... oh, promising.”

“EDM. Doesn’t feel like a match.”

“Here’s someone who wrote a World Cup theme? Whoa...”

I saw our own producers’ shoulders subtly sink as they looked.

“Honestly, we should sit this out... compared to careers like that, we’re a bit lacking.”

“What are you talking about. You’re not lacking at all.”

Even so, our composers looked a bit deflated.

An English track for the U.S.—confidence was shaky, and seeing famous names with Billboard credits seemed to make it worse.

Truth is, even compared to the folks on that list, they wouldn’t fall behind. It stung to see them shrink.

“Why so timid? Have some confidence.”

“We want to, but...”

“But...?”

“Every time we try, a certain someone shows up like, ‘Does that really feel right?’ ‘If it were me, I wouldn’t,’ and casually tweaks things, and suddenly all the problems we were wrestling with are solved.”

“Yeah. The minute it feels like we’ve leveled up, someone walks in with a crazy track...”

They were clearly shading someone; I played dumb.

“You mean Director Cho.”

“You! You!”

The boys and the other composers cracked up.

We laughed at the jokey “the reason we lack confidence is you” and asked for meetings.

“Please tell this Steve Garrett we’d like to meet. Of the list, he seems the best fit.”

We’d meet the best-fit candidate and decide how to run the camp.

Just as we wrapped with the producers and stood—

“And guys.”

“Yes?”

“Make sure you see the CEO before you go. His face is... not great right now...”

“Huh...?”

We traded puzzled looks.

“......”

“......”

Back at the company after a while, the vibe was oddly eerie.

“[cough] [cough]”

“Ugh... heartburn. Ugh... should’ve skipped the kimchi stew.”

“Burrrrrp.”

Every staffer we passed in the hall had turned zombie, scuffing along in slippers.

The reactions were nearly identical.

They’d shuffle like zombies, then spot me, and their eyes would go wild.

“Wooju...!”

“Yikes!”

Grab.

Clutching my hand, they’d stare and ask:

“Healthy!”

“Uh... yes...”

“Good. I told them you were healthy... I told people myself... but nobody...”

Mutter mutter.

Grinning with bloodshot eyes, they’d shuffle back to their offices. “Sun Wooju is healthy...!” mumbling.

Jiho blinked.

“Why is the company giving zombie-movie energy?”

“Weird...”

Thankfully, in the hall we ran into TF Team’s Manager Hong Seoyoung and got the real behind-the-scenes.

“While you were in the U.S., it was wild. People called to complain we were overworking you... every acquaintance we saw asked if Wooju was okay...”

“......”

So that’s how it was.

Ri Hyuk summarized neatly:

“So it’s because of you.”

“......”

“If you’d listened when we told you to take care of yourself, none of this would’ve happened. Honestly...”

I ignored the tsk-tsk nagging and went to the CEO’s office.

Like the others, the CEO had gone full noodle-zombie.

Slurp, slurp.

He was downing restorative tonic like an octopus drinking ink.

“Oh! You’re here...!”

“How have you been, sir?”

“I’ve been fine. You look healthy—that’s such a relief. Truly...”

Like checking the gold leaf on a gold toad, he inspected me from every angle, then smiled warmly.

“Wooju. Take care of your health. Not just you—everyone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Especially Ri Hyuk—be careful. Our Ri Hyuk could collapse if he pushes a little.”

“He still passed out before me, sir.”

We shook our heads at Ri Hyuk’s triumphant face; the CEO smiled kindly.

I think we got thirty minutes of “please take care of your health.”

“I heard you took a lot of... unpleasant heat because of me, and it made my chest ache.”

“When something bad happens to an artist, of course the company gets blamed. That’s normal. If we’re being blamed for not doing our job properly, we can accept that all day.”

He looked at me.

“But Wooju—whatever else, I never want to see our artist sick and collapsing again.”

“...I’ll take care of my health.”

“As the one scheduling activities, I know it’s odd to say this, but... I want you to put some burdens down. You don’t have to do absolutely everything yourself.”

It was what Director Jo had told me before.

“We strap on the wings; you just need to flap. Picking the material and the way we mount them—if you worry about all that, it’ll break you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You worry about those things, and you end up like me—losing your hair.”

“I will absolutely keep it in mind.”

I felt his concern, his care, his affection.

He’s been consistently warm, from pre-debut when we were nobodies to now. I was so grateful.

“Don’t mind what the public says about the company. That’s the flak we’re supposed to eat.”

Junhyun quietly raised his hand.

“Sir, by the way.”

“Yes, Junhyun.”

“What’s that list on the table?”

On an A4 sheet were letters and numbers—IDs and nicknames.

A note read “Check through Legal Team,” and we were curious.

“People who cursed you out?”

“No.”

His eyes turned a little triangular.

“People who posted hate comments about you. I can tolerate them insulting me, but our kids...”

“I can’t forgive insults to my kids,” his eyes seemed to blaze, and we burst out laughing.

The meeting we requested through the Producing Team came together immediately.

We weren’t committing to any contract yet, so it would be a video call.

“Ughhh...”

I downed the premium red ginseng pack the CEO gave me.

I could feel it coursing through my veins—energy charging.

“But where’d the guys go?”

Team Lead Na, sitting beside me, answered:

“Not sure. Looked like they were talking with the studio folks.”

“The studio?”

He must mean Studio LM.

Director Jo’s production company—the subsidiary that makes Jiho’s web drama, “Shin,” and our NewBlack TV content.

I’d heard they were expanding into other dramas and TV variety lately.

“What are they up to...”

My minions had told me they had somewhere to go and blocked me from tagging along.

— If you follow, you’re Seo Ri Hyuk!

I had no choice.

It felt iffy—like they were plotting behind my back—but I let it go.

They’ll tell me later.

“We’re back.”

Biju and the other minions came into the workspace all smiles, like things had gone well.

“What did you talk about with the studio people?”

“Uh...”

“PD Na told me he saw you with them.”

“Uh...”

Our improv-challenged minions panicked. Jiho’s eyes rolled and he listened to Ri Hyuk whisper.

“W-we talked about... Brexit.”

It was so out of left field I laughed.

I was about to say I’d ask later when composer Steve Garrett appeared on the monitor.

— Nice to meet you. I’m Steve.

— I’m Garrett.

They were a writer duo working as Steve+Garrett.

We exchanged brief greetings with bearded Steve and snapback-wearing Garrett, then got to it.

— So, you’re thinking of entering the U.S. market with an English track.

“Yes.”

— It won’t be easy...

First impression wasn’t great.

— World Records set this up, but our schedule is extremely tight. We might not be able to devote ourselves fully to you—hope you’ll understand.

— Honestly, the fact you’re rookies also gives us pause. We haven’t worked with a rookie in five years. There’s risk—we want you to be aware.

They were making sure we knew that, even so, they were graciously showing up to meet us.

At the slightly puffed-up tone, Ri Hyuk’s eyes narrowed.

If he sees rude people, he bites; my boy started a low growl like a chihuahua, and I held him back.

“Not yet.”

Personality doesn’t matter.

In this field, weird personalities are a dime a dozen; if the work’s good, that’s what counts.

The duo opened a laptop.

— Let’s play you this first.

They hit play.

“Oh...”

At my small exclamation, Steve and Garrett’s eyes tilted up—see, told you.

A dance track blending disco and rock.

The bass and drums balanced exquisitely, pulling the listener in; the structure was solid and well-built.

Nothing felt neglected.

That also revealed a downside.

The structure was so solid it felt overstuffed, which could burden the listener; and though the sound was stable, after a few plays it might get... meh.

Even so—

“If this is just a sample, it’s not bad.”

“Pretty solid.”

I traded looks with the boys.

If they were playing it here, it was probably a sample to show their chops.

If a mere sample was at this level, what monsters were lurking on their hard drive?

So this is why they’re famous.

The world is full of talented people. It made me smile. The world is wide and there are many gifted ones.

It even made me self-reflect a little.

When the sample ended, Steve folded his arms with a triumphant smile.

“How is it?”

I was about to smile and give my thoughts when Garrett said:

“Impressive, right? This is the best track we’ve prepared.”

...Huh?