“No, I’m not a paparazzo or stalker or anything like that. This area’s near my college, and the director invited me over to hang out. Hahaha....”
“......”
“...Haah... Sure.”
I slowly looked Baek Jijun up and down as he trembled and desperately tried to explain himself.
He probably heard my conversation with the system, but it had sounded enough like muttering to pass as me talking to myself. Still, he had caught me laughing while watching that paparazzo get dragged away, so... yeah, maybe I really should sink him too.
“I—I’m working on the BGM for Midnight Protocol!!!”
“......”
“I’m super useful! The director said this movie couldn’t even exist without me! Oh, crap, this is bad!!”
Ding!
[Excellent instincts....]
Exactly.
Now that I thought about it, I did remember hearing that the director # Nоvеlight # had assigned the Midnight Protocol background music to a few famous composers. I hadn’t realized one of them was Baek Jijun.
He seemed desperate to prove his usefulness, so I pushed my impulse aside and greeted him casually.
“It’s been a while. How have you been?”
“Yes! Of course! And you, Mr. Seo—”
But no matter how cheerfully he greeted me, it wasn’t like we’d ever really cross paths again.
Ignoring him, I started walking toward the set.
“...—Not that I really need to know how you’ve been! Still, it’s nice to see you. You sound great as always!”
When I turned around, he was still following, wearing that overly friendly grin.
“Oh, Baek Jijun!”
“Hello!”
Apparently, his excuse about being invited for BGM work wasn’t a lie—several staff members welcomed him warmly. Since he obviously hadn’t come to see me, I sat down alone and examined the model gun parts laid out on the table.
There was a scene later where I’d have to assemble it, so I picked up a piece and slid the barrel into place. Somewhere along the way, Baek Jijun had finished greeting people and was hovering nearby, peeking curiously.
“Wow, that’s so cool.”
“Mr. Baek Jijun.”
“Want me to give you a song?!”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“......”
No need to pretend to be polite anymore. My personality was already public knowledge.
Feeling the cold, heavy metal in my hands, I thought idly about what to do after filming ended. Baek Jijun muttered under his breath,
“...You really do have a bad personality, Mr. Seo.”
“I’m glad you finally realized.”
“I feel like it’s something I could’ve gone my whole life without realizing...” he grumbled softly, but I ignored him.
‘Actually, this might be a good thing.’
Even after Song Camp ended, he’d been messaging me regularly—offering songs, asking to collaborate.
I’d always turned him down politely, but I’d known I’d have to draw a firm line sooner or later.
If I accepted, who knew how much more sulky Kang Ichae—who was already refusing to speak to me—would get?
Thinking about it made my grip on the gun tighten without realizing. Baek Jijun flinched.
“...Still, I’m glad I came.”
I pulled the slide back and let it snap forward. When our eyes met, Baek Jijun gave a sheepish smile.
“I’ve been in kind of a slump lately, so I thought I’d drop by in case you were around. Seeing you in person really helps.”
...You came to see me?
I raised an eyebrow. The composer seemed completely oblivious to how weird that sounded. Instead, he started chatting excitedly, saying, “Maybe it’s the spooky vibe earlier, but I feel inspired—yeah, I’m scrapping all the BGM and starting fresh.”
I ignored all that and asked flatly,
“What exactly do you mean by a slump?”
“...Huh?”
Setting the model gun down, I looked straight at him.
“How do you fix it?”
Kang Ichae had said the same thing—he was in a slump, but it wasn’t a big deal, he’d get over it soon.
I’d been furious at his attitude at the time, but those words still lingered in my mind.
‘If it were something measurable, like viewership ratings, I could at least understand it.’
I didn’t know much about that kind of thing—but Baek Jijun had been writing hit ballads since he was young. He might actually know the answer.
He glanced between me and the gun, swallowed nervously, and said,
“Well... there are a few ways to define it.”
“......”
“Technically, you can still write music during a slump. It just ends up forced, that’s all.”
“Explain it simply.”
He scratched his head, thinking hard, then said quietly,
“...It’s like when a spring runs dry.”
He rested his chin on his hand.
“There’s no spring that never dries up, and no candle that burns forever. A slump is when the wick’s completely burned out—... You’re looking at me like I’m talking nonsense.”
“No, I’m deeply moved.”
“...You probably don’t get it, Mr. Seo, but every artist would.”
That’s what he called a simple explanation?
If it were Lim Hyunsu, she’d have said something like, “Get wasted,” or “Find a hot bastard to hook up with.”
Springs, candles, wicks—what the hell was that supposed to mean?
Losing even the faint interest I had left, I turned away. Baek Jijun laughed awkwardly and added,
“But I’m sure Kang Ichae will figure it out.”
“I never said this was about Kang Ichae.”
“Aw, come on, I’ve heard things. Kang Ichae’s a romantic, right?”
What?
My brows furrowed. Baek Jijun blinked.
“...Huh? Wait, you really don’t know?”
“......”
“...You seriously don’t??”
I stared, demanding he explain. The composer hesitated, clearly realizing he’d said too much.
“...Am I even allowed to tell you this?”
And then he told me.
“Well, first of all—...”
By the time he finished, I was speechless. Reading my expression, Baek Jijun fidgeted and muttered,
“Uh... well, yeah. Having a source of inspiration is good, right? Whatever—or whoever—it might be... hahaha.”
“......”
“Hahaha... ha... haha....”
He kept glancing at me nervously, then decided he’d better get out while he could. Just then, the director came over and greeted him warmly.
“Oh, what’s this? Jijun, you’re here?!”
“Wow! Director! I missed you so much!!”
With that easy charm, Baek Jijun turned to the director, chatting energetically. After the director walked off again, he started edging away from me, still sneaking glances.
“If you ever want a smoke, let me know,” he murmured.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Eh, you always have that kind of face, though.”
Like someone who just needs one drag—he smiled brightly, tossed the line, and left.
The faint smell of cigarettes lingered in the air after he was gone.
I rubbed my forehead and tapped the floor lightly with the tip of my shoe. Then, replaying his words in my head, I slowly lowered my lashes and turned my eyes back to the set.
***
Filming went on for quite a while.
It was the long-awaited final shoot, so even though everyone was exhausted, there was a certain sharp energy in the air. The stunt team was bustling, and the staff were locked in their usual fierce arguments. The director, waving the script and gesturing wildly, shouted at the top of his lungs,
“—Alright, last take!”
I tossed the script aside, stepped in front of the camera, and got into position. The director called, “Action!”
The final scene of Midnight Protocol’s overseas shoot.
[—In front of a ruined warehouse.
Black smoke cuts through the sky, flames rising between the steel beams. Agent ‘Han’ struggles to lift his body from the dust, coughing. His blood-soaked body refuses to move.]
Once this was done, The Dawn’s next activities would begin.
...Assuming Kang Ichae actually finished the last song.
[He watches the fire bursting again from the warehouse, then turns his gaze to the sky. Rain pours down.]
The heat from the rising flames and the black smoke brushed against my cheek. The air was suffocating, forcing a cough out of me; sweat gathered at the tips of my lashes.
[Near death, he looks at the sky and recalls the past. He thinks of ‘Baek Sunwoo,’ the one who, despite his doubts, tried desperately to save him.]
I tried to focus on the stage direction, but it wasn’t easy.
[And he laughs, as if finding it all absurd.]
Because my mind was still full of that conversation with Baek Jijun.
Baek Jijun had that look—like he’d stepped on a landmine—and after hesitating a moment, he’d said,
“...Well, as you know, Mr. Kang Ichae is the hottest thing in the industry right now. Especially after Song Camp.”
That part I could accept.
The guy had appeared like a comet a few years ago, and despite starting late, he’d blown past everyone else with overwhelming talent.
“There’s a truckload of people sending him love calls. But no matter how much money they offer, no matter how good the opportunities, he turns them all down. People have been wondering—maybe he’s just not that desperate.”
That, I couldn’t agree with.
That so-called genius would lock himself in the studio even during a slump, skip meals, churn out dozens of masterpieces, and still throw them away if he wasn’t satisfied.
Who in their right mind would call that not desperate?
“So there were tons of rumors. Why does he do that, what conditions is he looking for—someone even asked composer Lim Hyunsu about it. And do you know what she said two days ago?”
Baek Jijun had laughed softly.
“She said he’s sorry, but he can’t help it. He’s already taken. He started composing for them, and he’ll live forever as a song machine for their sake.”
The fire and the downpour blurred the line between reality and fiction.
“...But he said he likes it that way.”
“...Pfft.”
A laugh burst out as I stared at the orange light flaring in the distance.
God, this bastard.
“Puhaha...”
All that anger, all that irritation—and then he goes and says something like that behind my back?
What’s he going to do if I find out?
Baek Jijun must’ve thought Ichae was talking about leaving the group or something, but—no. He wasn’t.
He was still the same as ever.
Trying to hold it in only made it worse. I started laughing so hard I didn’t even realize the cut had been called.
“—Mr. Hoyun...!”
The “cut” signal rang out, the rain machines stopped—but I was still lying on the floor, shaking with laughter despite being covered in fake blood.
The director came over, wiping his eyes.
“Please... please, let’s make you an actor! That performance was insane—my God! Look at him, he’s still laughing! He’s still lost in the role!! How could the idol industry waste talent like this?!”
I had no idea what kind of misunderstanding that was supposed to be, but the director was ranting about “injustice” and “tragedy” while I stood up, wiping the fake blood and rain off with a towel.
“Next time too... Hoyun, we’ll work together again, right? You’ll do my project before any other director’s, right?”
“Oh, of course.”
I grinned.
When you’re in a good mood, anything sounds fine.
They started monitoring the footage right away, and it got an OK in one go. I slung my bag over my shoulder, handed out the gift certificates, and was about to leave when they dragged me back to take a few group photos with the bouquet. The staff began groaning that giving a gift card and a thank-you letter wasn’t enough to end a project.
On my way out, I spotted the youngest staff members hesitating, too nervous to approach. I walked up to them first.
They looked like startled rabbits, clearly not expecting me to come over. I spoke quickly.
“—The director here’s fine, but when you move on to other shoots, make sure you get a written work contract. Even if long hours are common, always record your working time. And make sure payment deadlines are specified, so you don’t get stuck with unpaid wages.”
“...Sir?”
“Got it?”
“...Is this... the Labor Office helpline??”
They looked flustered, but when I gave them a sharp look, they immediately shut their mouths. I dug into my bag and handed out the extra gift cards I’d saved for the younger ones.
“Alright, I’m in a hurry.”
“W-wow, so cool!”
“He’s such a boss!”
“Hey, don’t get swept up! Mr. Seo Hoyun, why are you in such a rush?! Don’t go!!”
“Sorry. Gotta run.”
Leaving the friendly heckling behind, I slipped out of the set. After checking in with my manager, I got into the car alone and picked up my phone.
A message from Baek Jijun was waiting:
[Heading off first, but if you ever want a song, just say the word—]
“That’ll never happen.”
Then I pressed in a familiar number and made the call.
It went straight to voicemail again, same as last time.
“Blocking me won’t help you.”
You can’t block me from your life, after all.
Smirking, I started the car. The stereo automatically connected and began playing Kang Ichae and Nerdy Freak’s “Garage.” Listening to the Korean verse, I remembered one of his old interviews and couldn’t help but laugh.
That stubborn guy who’d said he wanted to “put the dawn” into his music—for the people he loved.
***
“...Trash.”
Kang Ichae muttered, cheek pressed to the desk.
Trash song, trash beat, trash lyrics.
“How can I produce nothing but garbage for a whole month...”
No matter how much he insulted himself, no one was there to answer back.
That was the problem with being alone. Even fake tears had no one to witness them. He’d started calling the U.S. studio “the chamber of time and spirit.”
“It’s over... I’m done for...”
He tapped the spacebar repeatedly, then dragged every song file he’d written in the past few days—dozens of them—straight into the trash bin.
Rustle—.
The dull sound of deletion echoed in the silent room. He splashed water on his face and stared blankly at the monitor.
After a while, he stood up, paced the studio restlessly, and finally stepped outside.
“...Nice weather.”
People passing by glanced his way. Some recognized him and did a double take.
He gave them a faint smile before putting his sunglasses back on and heading into the beach park Lim Hyunsu had recommended. Collapsing onto the grass, he murmured,
“The weather’s disgustingly nice...”
Somewhere far off, children were laughing.
A soft breeze brushed against his skin.
Warm sunlight spilled down—
...and still, not a single melody came to mind.
Staring bitterly at the sky, he suddenly heard the roar of a motorcycle engine in the distance. The sound grew louder—then stopped right in front of him.
A shadow fell across his face.
“Yap.”
“...!”
Lim Hyunsu took off her helmet, leaned down playfully, and grinned down at him.
“My dear disciple, your badass master has arrived!!”
