“This is driving me crazy.”
In the end, after wrestling with the session for over an hour, Team Leader Woo raised the white flag.
This was untouchable.
No matter how he tried to adjust it, he couldn’t preserve the original feel.
Each note was intricately connected, forming a tight-knit structure—changing even a small part caused the entire framework to collapse like a line of dominoes.
Dominoes?
A thought struck him, and as he checked the session, a dumbfounded expression crossed his face.
“What kind of lunatic…?”
At first, he couldn’t understand.
Now, he did.
Whoever had created this was completely insane.
This was like a mosaic painting—
One where you could only recognize the image when viewed from afar.
If you tried to change the overall shape by removing a few tiles or altering some colours, the entire picture would be ruined.
To modify it, you had to fully grasp the entire composition.
And that was something only the original creator could do.
Sampling—extracting parts of a song and using only what was needed—was an option.
But to do that, he’d have to get permission from the original composer and go through the proper licensing process.
In the end, no matter what approach he took, he needed to track down the creator.
Who the hell made this?
At first, he hadn’t understood why there were so many session tracks.
Now, he knew—this was done entirely by hand, note by note.
Some sessions had as many as ten notes, while others had just one.
And they were placed in completely random order.
That alone was astonishing.
He himself would never be able to do something like this.
Of course, if you asked a professional composer whether this method was efficient, they’d all shake their heads.
With talent at this level, there was no reason to work in such an inefficient way.
They could’ve just composed the usual way.
He even checked if each note had been assigned different velocity values or micro-adjustments, but there was nothing like that.
The virtual instrument used was a simple, standard grand piano.
“This is seriously insane.”
It felt like being a detective trying to profile a psychopath.
Why?
For what reason?
What purpose did this lunatic have in making something like this?
Now that he thought about it, the note ‘Mi’ seemed to appear more frequently than others.
“A true madman.”
Muttering in frustration, Team Leader Woo suddenly realized something.
Why was this in AT’s folder?
A moment later, he discovered the crazy song was based on a self-composed track by AT.
“Wow. Absolutely insane.”
Why?
With skills like this?
On top of AT’s utterly ordinary song?
For a moment, he considered whether AT had made it.
But that was impossible.
It was as like as Woo cross-dressing and debuting in a girl group.
Besides, AT was the type who always ran to the A&R team, whining for them to give his songs to other artists.
After pondering for a while, Team Leader Woo glanced at the clock and got up from his seat.
First, I need to find this lunatic.
That wouldn’t be easy.
Even the title, “HSH,” showed that the composer wanted to hide their identity.
There was no ID number or composer credit.
And the way the session was linked to AT’s project hid the original save date—pure meticulousness.
Seriously, the real problem is that they made something like this and just stayed silent. What a shy little bastard.
The only saving grace was that AT’s project retained session modification timestamps.
In the entertainment industry, security concerns often meant CCTV coverage was not much in upper-floor offices.
Instead, strict access control was enforced at the first-floor entrance.
MOK was no exception.
There were no cameras on the fifth floor, but the first-floor records would show exactly who entered and exited on each date.
All he had to do was check the session modification dates.
Cross-referencing those with the list of composers and engineers who entered the building would lead him to the culprit.
The maddeningly intriguing lunatic.
The excessively shy boy.
With his thoughts in order, Team Leader Woo picked up his phone.
After just a few rings, a subordinate from Team 1 answered.
“Wonho.”
— “Yes?”
“Send Tae-myung up to the fifth-floor engineer room.”
— “The rookies went to Japan for the blacklist concert backup. You sent them yourself—did you forget?”
“Oh, right. Anyone else available?”
— “No idea. Everyone’s pretending to be busy at their desks.”
“Tell them it’s first come, first served—anyone interested in detective stories, crime thrillers, or psychological warfare, send them up. ASAP.”
— “Detective stories? Psychological warfare?”
“Yeah. Tell them it’s something insanely fun, and they’ll miss their chance if they’re slow.”
He hung up.
Are we detectives or what? Do we really need to go this far?
The answer was obvious.
Yes. We do.
In the A&R team, hit songs meant higher salaries.
And the single they were preparing?
Low Five’s AT was the son of CEO Kim Dong-han.
This crazy bastard. If I catch him, I’m signing him on the spot.
A short while later, the self-proclaimed “genius of deduction, pursuit, and psychological warfare,” Lee Dong-hyun, arrived at the engineer room, eager-eyed.
“You said this would be fun!”
Seon-ho headed to the bathroom to shake off his sleepiness.
He had dozed off while watching Jung Su-rim and Cha Hye-mi’s profile shoot.
It was fine when he was moving, but staying still made him unbearably sleepy. He had stayed up until morning working on Autumn Leaf.
But just because he pulled an all-nighter didn’t mean the song was finished.
For AT’s track, all he had to do was add a killer sauce. But Autumn Leaf required a change in expression.
To complete it fully, he had to break through the inherent limitations of its current style.
That meant the process naturally took time.
Which virtual instrument created which feeling?
Did the chosen virtual instrument harmonize with the other elements?
He had to listen carefully to all these aspects with his own ears.
I think I can finish it today.
The review and first round of edits were done by morning, so he could begin the final touches within the day.
“Ugh…”
Even after splashing cold water on his face, the sleepiness wouldn’t go away.
In the end, Seon-ho took out his smartphone and played the song he had been refining all night.
As if by reflex, his mind snapped awake.
It felt like his music had a special property—one that could drive away sleep and fatigue.
Familiar yet unfamiliar music filled the bathroom.
Han Seon-ho’s Autumn Leaf.
A melody that carried a certain loneliness and lyricism.
The smooth progression of an acoustic guitar.
It started with an intro similar to Jung Su-rim’s version.
But after about twenty seconds, a shift began.
A new melody emerged—one that wasn’t in Jung Su-rim’s, Cha Hye-mi’s, or even the original song.
“Manager!”
Just then, a woman suddenly burst into the men’s restroom.
It was Yoo Ayeon, the casting director of W(UU) Entertainment, who had come for an on-site inspection.
He had briefly greeted her earlier when she handed out coffee at the studio.
Her sharp, professional suit made her instantly recognizable.
Stopping the music, Seon-ho quickly asked,
“Director Yoo, did something happen to Hye-mi?”
The only reason a woman would run into the men’s restroom looking for him had to be something related to Cha Hye-mi.
His guess was right.
“Photographer Kim Taesu is cursing at Cha Hye-mi and going crazy right now!”
Before she even finished her sentence, Han Seon-ho bolted out of the bathroom.
The moment he stepped out, an angry male voice and the murmurs of the other participants filled the air.
A crowd had gathered, watching the commotion.
“Excuse me! I’m Cha Hye-mi’s manager.”
Pushing through the onlookers, Seon-ho saw Cha Hye-mi with her head lowered.
Next to her, Jung Su-rim looked restless, while the photographer was shouting and jabbing a finger aggressively.
Lastly, a toppled camera stand and discarded clothing lay on the floor.
Clothing?
Seon-ho could already piece together a rough idea of what had happened.
But right now, understanding the situation wasn’t the priority—protecting Hye-mi was.
Moving swiftly, he positioned himself in front of her and addressed the photographer.
“I’m Han Seon-ho, Cha Hye-mi’s manager. What’s the issue here?”
The photographer faltered for a moment upon seeing Seon-ho’s face but quickly regained his anger.
“You’re her manager?”
“Yes, and what seems to be the problem?”
“MOK teaches their kids like this? Huh?! Is this how you train them?!”
“You seem quite upset. Please, calm down first.”
But the photographer was already beyond reasoning.
He threw more insults and even tried to shove Seon-ho aside.
“Move, you little bastard! I said move!”
When Seon-ho didn’t budge, the man’s curses escalated.
The surrounding murmurs grew louder as well.
“What, do you think I’m some pervert? Who the hell wants to see your body? You crazy b—”
Seon-ho couldn’t take it anymore.
He grabbed the photographer’s wrist mid-gesture and spoke in a low voice.
“Watch your language.”
“You—You—”
The photographer struggled to break free, but a scrawny man in his late forties stood no chance against Seon-ho’s strength.
“Let go! Are you insane?!”
Seon-ho knew this wasn’t the best way to handle the situation.
But he couldn’t just let it slide.
He saw the underlying sense of entitlement in the photographer’s actions—I can do this, and she just has to take it.
It disgusted him.
They say if you ride with a reckless driver, you’ll crash too…
With a deep sigh, he let go of the man’s wrist.
The photographer, who had been struggling, stumbled backward.
“We’ll discuss this in private.”
Taking advantage of the moment, Seon-ho swiftly led Hye-mi and Su-rim into the fitting room.
Angry shouts echoed from outside.
Even inside the fitting room, the tension remained thick.
Hye-mi still had her head down, and Su-rim fidgeted beside her.
Maybe it was because of the yells coming from outside.
After a moment of thought, Seon-ho adjusted the air conditioner.
The sound of the cooling system filled the room, muffling the shouts.
Su-rim asked nervously,
“Are we allowed to leave the set like this?”
“We haven’t left the set. We’re still inside.”
“Well, that’s true, but…”
“I need to understand why that man was so furious. That’s the only way to resolve this.”
Seon-ho turned to Hye-mi.
“Hye-mi, can you tell me what happened?”
“…”
“I’m asking you, please.”
After hesitating, Hye-mi slowly lifted her head.
Surprisingly, her eyes were calm—neither frightened nor teary.
But she still didn’t speak.
After a brief pause, Seon-ho asked,
“Is it because of the clothes?”
The discarded clothing on the floor.
The word “pervert” that the photographer had spat.
Seon-ho, sharp as always, quickly grasped the situation.
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