“Producer Joo, did you just talk to Han Seon-ho?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I was just wondering why you’d tell that guy about it.”
At the subordinate’s question, Producer Joo Min-hwan frowned.
“Because he’s in charge of Personal Color, obviously. Who else would I tell?”
“Huh? Oh, right. He is in charge of Personal Color. I must’ve gotten confused for a second.”
Joo’s expression made the subordinate flinch.
Still glaring at the subordinate, Joo muttered to himself as he sent an email to Han Seon-ho.
“Anyway, I really don’t like that Han Seon-ho guy. What kind of punk manager dares to meddle in the A&R team’s work?”
Hearing that mutter, Team Leader Woo Jae-yoon, who was nearby, looked at him in disbelief.
“I mean, even so, why are you going off on someone who’s actually doing a good job?”
Joo snapped at Woo’s comment.
“What’s your problem now?”
“It’s not a problem, it’s just the truth. Why’d you even talk to Han Seon-ho about it in the first place?”
“Director Kwon Hosan delegated the Idol Wars song selection to him, didn’t he?”
At that, Woo let out a sigh.
Technically speaking, Producer Joo wasn’t wrong.
However, bypassing Director Kwon and going straight to Han Seon-ho wasn’t exactly the right move either.
To Woo Jae-yoon, it just looked like Joo wanted to assert authority over Han Seon-ho.
To remind him who was higher up the chain.
Because Han Seon-ho was the manager of Personal Color.
Seeing Woo sigh made Joo even more irritated.
“Don’t you think this is all because you made such a fuss over that HSH song?”
“Pfft, what does that have to do with this?”
“Ever since that HSH you found dissed MOK, the other teams started looking down on A&R! That’s why even a rookie manager thinks he can meddle in A&R matters!”
“Wow, that’s some wild logic. Did HSH bash MOK in the interview? Did they bash the A&R team? Didn’t they just say they liked MOK but didn’t like AT?”
“Either way, that whole mess happened because you found and pitched that HSH song.”
“When I first played that song for you, you said you liked it too. Are you getting old already?”
As Woo Jae-yoon and Joo Min-hwan began growling at each other, the other A&R team members quietly slipped away.
It wasn’t the first time the two clashed, but today’s argument topic was particularly dangerous.
HSH for Woo Jae-yoon, and Han Seon-ho—more specifically, Personal Color—for Producer Joo, were extremely sensitive subjects.
After huffing and puffing for a while, Producer Joo asked,
“So what, you’re saying you’re fine with that Han Seon-ho punk giving Personal Color songs to his artists without following protocol?”
“Sure. A&R is all about results, right? And in terms of results, he’s doing great. Actually, more than great—he’s killing it.”
“Oh, please. Just because those kiddie-sounding songs are doing well, that’s supposed to be his talent? The singers are popular, so the songs don’t even matter.”
“Wow. Look who’s talking. Aren’t you the one who dismissed Personal Color before, saying there was no point recruiting songs for them?”
“That was before they got picked for Idol Wars.”
“And who do you think picked them? Probably Han Seon-ho, right?”
Though both of them belonged to the same A&R Division, their departments were very different.
Woo Jae-yoon was in the Development Team, responsible for scouting and planning artists and songs.
Joo Min-hwan was in the Production Team, functioning as a music producer.
For Woo, an artist’s success was everything, but for Joo, getting his own songs selected mattered most.
Hence the difference in their perspectives.
After a long argument, the fight ended with Woo Jae-yoon backing down.
“Fine. I misspoke. So, what are you going to do? Try to stick your spoon into Idol Wars too?”
“That’s a hell of a way to put it. It’s not like I’m freeloading. The song airing on today’s episode is my arrangement anyway.”
It was Joo Min-hwan who arranged Personal Color’s “Role Model,” originally by Jesco.
“Well, yeah, that’s true.”
Despite his terrible personality, Producer Joo was objectively a capable producer.
He was often criticized for only giving songs to already successful artists and riding their coattails, but from another angle, that meant he ensured those successful artists continued succeeding.
That’s why some artists under MOK were happy to get songs from him.
When Producer Joo gave you a song, it felt like at least a baseline level of success was guaranteed.
“So you are planning to submit a song for Idol Wars, huh?”
“Obviously. How long do you think that kiddie-play system’s gonna last?”
“Why do you keep calling it kiddie-play?”
“Han Seon-ho finds inspiration on site, and Prefers turns it into music? Does that even make sense?”
At his scoffing, Woo Jae-yoon looked puzzled.
“Why not? That’s how top-liners usually work with composers. Even Song Camps are more about sharing inspiration than technical exchange.”
“Sure, with regular composers. But not Han Seon-ho. Think about it. That whole setup means only the singers he likes will get good songs.”
“Hmm.”
“Can inspiration come from someone you dislike? Right now, the artists are basically forced to curry favour with their manager. Like, ‘Please look at me nicely.’”
“So what?”
“You think the kids in Personal Color are going to stay sweet and innocent forever? People change when they get popular. What then? Beg him for songs? We should find a composer who already gets along well with Personal Color.”
His logic wasn’t entirely wrong—except for the fact that the composer he had in mind was himself.
Woo Jae-yoon asked,
“Still, I bet Personal Color trusts Prefers more right now. They spent three years going nowhere, and the moment they got a Prefers song, they finally hit it big.”
“You think I don’t know that? That’s why I’ve prepared something.”
Hearing this, Woo’s expression stiffened.
“Producer Joo, don’t do anything shady. You know our company policy, right?”
At MOK, if there was one area where internal politics were absolutely forbidden, it was song assignments.
This was because CEO Kim Dong-han was a stickler for rules and principles.
“You think I’ve been in this company for a day or two? I’ll do it fair and square.”
Saying that, Joo played the song he had sent to Han Seon-ho.
“Huh? This is…”
Woo’s eyes widened, and Joo smirked.
“Yep. It’s a remake of one of Jung Heesun’s songs.”
“You got Jung Heesun’s permission to remake it? Whoa, that’s huge.”
Jung Heesun.
A legendary diva who debuted in the mid-80s and remained popular to this day.
Unlike most veteran singers who leaned on nostalgia for the ’80s and ’90s, Jung Heesun didn’t.
She was still an active artist.
She might not generate hot gossip like idol singers, but when it came to album sales and streaming numbers, she rivalled them.
Her national tour concerts, held every two years, had never once failed to sell out—clear proof of her popularity.
There was something unique about her: she disliked having her songs remade by younger artists.
Because she was still active, she was wary of diluting the uniqueness of her songs through excessive remakes.
She only allowed remakes in two situations:
When the singer had great vocal ability, or when she personally liked the singer.
And Personal Color checked both boxes.
“I met her informally last week, and she had seen the first episode of Idol Wars.”
“So you pitched it to her?”
“Exactly.”
With a confident smile, Joo said,
“Let’s say Prefers really does make good songs. But do you think his song has more buzz than this?”
Woo inwardly nodded.
This time, it really did seem like Producer Joo would win the assignment.
If he were talentless, it’d be a different story, but Joo Min-hwan was very skilled.
If Prefers could write a perfect 100-point song, Joo could produce a solid 90.
And the remaining 10 points? The promotional value of using “a Jung Heesun song” would more than cover it.
In fact, the mere fact that Jung Heesun had granted a remake could be worth an extra 50 points.
Still smirking, Joo added,
“Prefers has had a taste of success now, right? He’s probably feeling pretty confident.”
“Sure. Probably.”
“But what if every new song he makes ends up getting put aside?”
“Well… he would get frustrated, I guess?”
“Yeah. Of course he’s going to get frustrated and dissatisfied—with Han Seon-ho, the one selling his songs. That’s when we make him an offer.”
Producer Joo Min-hwan continued.
“I’ve got no hard feelings toward Prefer. He just got mixed up with the wrong person and ended up writing music in some weird way, but the guy’s got talent. If Prefer joins our company and starts collaborating, he’ll be able to make even better music. It’s not like Han Seon-ho’s the only one who can inspire him.”
“Hmm…”
“This is exactly why Han Seon-ho is going to such lengths to keep Prefer’s identity hidden. He’s scared that his pipeline to Prefer might get cut off.”
Producer Joo grinned, showing his teeth.
“He doesn’t want to gut the goose that lays golden eggs—so let’s bring that goose over to our side. If we keep the pressure on Han Seon-ho, eventually he’ll start to feel the hunger.”
“If you’re planning to compete with Han Seon-ho fair and square with good songs and strong material, then I’ve got no problem with that.”
“Then can I ask you a favour?”
“I’ll hear you out.”
“Dig up everything you can on Prefer.”
“You could do that yourself.”
“But you’re better at that stuff.”
Team Leader Woo Jae-yoon thought for a moment, then replied.
“I don’t work for free. You owe me now.”
“Yeah, yeah. Got it, punk.”
Personal Color’s lodging was an old, three-story villa—run-down, but fairly spacious.
The first floor was vacant, the second floor served as the boys’ quarters, and the third floor was where the girls stayed.
Today’s broadcast monitoring would take place in the girls’ dorm on the third floor.
Seon-ho parked in the lot and headed upstairs. As soon as he rang the bell, the door opened before the chime even finished sounding.
“You got here fast.”
It was An Jia who had opened the door.
“Jia, you shouldn’t just open the door without checking who it is.”
“The guys are all inside anyway. Plus, I saw the van pull in through the window.”
“Is everyone already here?”
“Yeah, they got here about an hour ago. Come in.”
When he stepped into the living room, he saw two people sitting on the large sofa and two others sprawled out on the floor.
Baek Songyi and Woochan were seated, while Riha and Teiji were lying down.
The members of Personal Color welcomed Seon-ho warmly.
Teiji, who had been lying down, sat up.
“Hyung, you’re here?”
“You guys got here early.”
“Nothing else to do. The manager and Jung Jiwoon said they’ll be here around 10.”
As he greeted everyone, Seon-ho glanced around the dorm.
It was a bit old, but neatly organized and clean.
He’d been inside the boys’ quarters a few times, but this was his first time stepping into the girls’ space.
Telling the others to rest, Seon-ho headed to a room with Jia.
After going in to check her room, Jia stuck her head out and waved him in.
“Come on in.”
The first thing Seon-ho noticed as he entered Jia’s room were shelves and bookcases.
No—that was all there was.
The room was filled wall-to-wall with shelves and bookcases, stacked with countless books, DVDs, and Blu-rays.
There were so many that they were organized alphabetically.
Seon-ho pointed at a particularly golden-glowing shelf.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, that’s my special collection.”
“Special collection?”
“Yeah. Only thirty works that have captured my heart each month get to go there. The Godfather has held its spot for over a year now.”
Seon-ho took his time examining the thirty items.
There were more novels than films, and most of the books were fantasy or wuxia.
Didn’t know she was into this kind of stuff.
A weirdly titled novel she recently said she enjoyed was in the special collection too.
A very odd title: The Integral Calculus Mage.
“Oppa, have you read this?”
“Yup.”
“How was it?”
“Hmm… kind of childish.”
Jia looked a bit dejected at Seon-ho’s honest answer.
But the truth was, Seon-ho had toned it down. He’d read it because of work, but there were more than a few times he wanted to quit because it was just so boring.
“Jia, which character did you feel most immersed in?”
“The princess.”
“What scene struck you the most?”
“The last scene in volume five.”
That one, Seon-ho remembered too.
If I die, please take your own life.
The protagonist’s words as he set off for a final battlefield, for the princess.
“What did you like about that part?”
“I don’t think he was really asking her to die. He was afraid of losing, so he brought up death to push her to run away instead. But the princess doesn’t even hesitate before saying she’ll die too. Like, ‘If you die, I die too, so don’t you dare die.’ Even though she knows they can’t win…”
Jia spoke without pausing for breath, then added softly:
“That’s what makes it so sad.”
As Seon-ho listened to her, a title popped into his mind: Even Though I Know It Won’t Work Out.
He became certain—this was what the song had to be about.
Because it reminded him of the female lead in High School in Melody who challenges herself with a musical despite the odds… and of An Jia, who wanted to keep singing no matter how hard things got.
“Even though I know it won’t work out… how about that?”
Despite the lack of context, Jia understood right away.
“Is that the title of the song?”
“Yeah.”
She kept murmuring the phrase to herself, then broke into a bright smile.
“I like it. I think I know exactly what emotion I need to sing with.”
Ding dong.
Just then, the doorbell rang outside.
“The other managers must be here. Let’s go.”
“Oppa. I… I’m not so sure.”
“Huh? About what?”
“I don’t know what emotion to sing with.”
“…Huh?”
Seon-ho tilted his head.
“Didn’t you just say you knew?”
“I thought I did… but I think I need to talk more about the novel first.”
“Then should we go out and—”
“The others haven’t read this book. It’ll just get in the way. Let’s stay here.”
“Hmm… alright, let’s do that.”
Seon-ho pulled a USB from his pocket.
He had been planning to test which instrument sounds best matched Jia’s voice anyway.
And so, Seon-ho stayed in the room with Jia for about an hour, talking about this and that, before finally heading back out to the living room.