Star Maker Chapter 17

“Have you ever seen anyone tampering with your track?”

—I’ve seen amateurs sampling it or adding rap to it. Why?

“Have you ever downloaded one of those?”

—Uh, why do you keep asking questions without answering mine?

“I was wondering if we could use your skills for promotion, to build a strong producer image.”

Seizing the opportunity, Team Manager, Woo made up a plausible excuse.

If he told the truth, AT would definitely whine about copyright and suggest just stealing the track outright.

But MOK’s brand value was tied to its professionalism.

CEO Kim Dong-han had spent years shaping MOK’s reputation as an “entertainment company with a systematic and professional structure.”

Even if it meant short-term financial losses, he had prioritized long-term credibility, and the strategy had worked.

Now, when people mentioned MOK, they associated it with “a team of experts” or “trusted music.”

Of course, not every MOK track was a hit.

There were plenty of failures, like Low Five.

But regardless of mainstream success, MOK had built a reputation for maintaining at least a minimum level of quality.

As a result, many other entertainment companies outsourced work to MOK, and the revenue from those contracts was massive.

Giving in to AT’s whining and stealing HSH’s track would be the worst possible move.

If caught, the financial damage would be immense, and Woo would have to take responsibility.

AT was the CEO’s son, after all.

And that wasn’t the only issue.

Team Manager, Woo already knew that only a madman could handle a madman’s track.

HSH’s music was like a art.

To modify it, one needed a complete grasp of the overall picture—a level of understanding only the original composer had.

Any engineer other than the composer would only produce a subpar imitation.

It was like getting fingerprints all over a precious gem.

—A strong producer image? How exactly?

On the other end of the line, AT’s voice was brimming with anticipation.

“I’m still figuring that out, which is why I’m asking these questions.”

—Ah, okay.

“Good. So be thorough with your answers. Have you ever downloaded the session file?”

—Hmm… I don’t think so.

AT’s tone softened.

“‘Think so’? Is that a no, or are you unsure?”

—I think I haven’t. Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I work on tracks, but I don’t always remember what I did.

“You compose while drunk?”

—Yeah. Sometimes I wake up the next morning, and there’s a finished track I don’t recall making.

Given AT’s carefree nature, Woo didn’t fully trust him.

But for now, he had no choice but to take his word for it.

After a few more questions, he ended the call.

This is a mess.

He was more confused than ever.

Had Dong-hyun failed to check the CCTV properly?

Or had AT really downloaded the track from the internet?

After some thought, Woo instinctively played the HSH track—no, the madman’s track—again.

Damn it.

Listening to it just drove him crazy again.

There were a ton of things he wanted to ask the composer.

And if he could get answers, Low Five would gain a ton of fans, the composer would get a ton of offers, and the company would rake in a ton of money.

Wait. A ton?

A sudden idea flashed through his mind.

Dummy. A gaming term for bait.

Bait, huh…

What if MOK launched a massive social media campaign to find the track’s owner?

And what if they offered a hefty reward for any information?

It wouldn’t be huge news, but it would definitely generate some buzz.

People in the entertainment industry often joked that “ten million people want to be celebrities.”

That was more than the total number of teenagers in Korea.

It meant the vast majority of young people were interested in the entertainment world.

And teenagers were excellent at spreading information.

If the PR team stirs things up a bit…

Finding the madman would be the endgame.

If they could secure HSH’s track and release it as Low Five’s next single, the attention on the song would naturally shift toward the group.

Of course, he wasn’t expecting explosive popularity.

But right now, Low Five was buried ten thousand meters under in the entertainment industry.

Even a little exposure would be a godsend.

Plus…

A composer this skilled couldn’t be completely off the grid.

They might belong to an international production team.

Maybe even some blonde-haired, blue-eyed foreigner.

If there was any extra excitement, the campaign could spread even faster than expected.

The more he thought about it, the better it seemed.

There’s just one problem.

What if the madman turned out to be from MOK?

That would be a disaster.

If netizens found out MOK had staged the whole thing, they’d explode with rage over the company’s marketing stunt.

In that case, the whole plan would backfire spectacularly.

So Woo decided to investigate MOK more thoroughly first.

And this time, he would check the CCTV himself.

Dong-hyun was good at his job, but nothing beat seeing it with his own eyes.

If even that turns up nothing…

Then, on the day he was absolutely certain the madman wasn’t inside the company—

A post would go up on social media.

Session 4. Autumn Leaf.

---

“Ah, you can hear me clearly, right?”

Through her monitoring headset, Hye-mi nodded at the sound of the engineer’s voice.

A voice tinged with laughter followed.

“You can respond. I can hear you.”

“Oh, yes. I know, but it’s been a while since I last recorded.”

“Let’s run through a rehearsal first. Sing comfortably, and even if you make mistakes, keep going until the end.”

“Understood.”

The moment Hye-mi responded, the music began playing.

Through her headset, Su-rim’s voice, layered over the lyrical opening beats, filled Hye-mi’s ears.

Moments later, a melody joined in, signaling the start of Hye-mi’s part.

One note at a time.

One phrase at a time.

Hye-mi’s voice, as if carefully savouring each sound, soon filled the recording booth.

Whenever Jung Su-rim’s voice took over, she had brief moments to rest. But after the midpoint, there were no breaks—she had to diligently lay down the backing vocals.

And so, the 3-minute and 57-second song came to an end.

Hye-mi took a deep breath and looked past the window into the engineer’s room.

More precisely, she looked at Han Seon-ho, who stood behind the engineer.

Sensing her gaze, Seon-ho smiled and nodded.

Then, the engineer’s voice came through again.

“Wow, what kind of rehearsal is this? I told you to loosen up a bit.”

“Huh? I wasn’t even singing at full capacity yet.”

“Really? That was incredible. It’s incomparable to last year’s session. Take a listen.”

No sooner had the engineer finished speaking than the just-recorded session began playing through the headset.

Listening to the song, Hye-mi scribbled notes on a printed copy of the lyrics, marking areas she found lacking.

The engineer would provide direction, of course, but there were always inevitable differences in interpretation between singer and engineer.

While she was deep in thought, the engineer asked,

“By the way, did you sing it this way on purpose?”

“Which part?”

“The overall feel of the song.”

“Oh, yes, I did.”

“That’s amazing. Honestly, you’re impressive, but the person who arranged this is even more impressive. Autumn Leaf wasn’t originally like this.”

At the engineer’s words, Hye-mi beamed.

“Our manager brought in the composer.”

“As expected of MOK. They really know their stuff.”

The engineer seemed slightly mistaken, but there was no need to correct him.

After a few more rehearsals, when Hye-mi finally gave the okay, the main recording session began.

Recording directors each had their own distinct styles.

Some divided songs into sections and pieced them together like a disk defragmentation.

Some recorded in long, continuous takes.

Some preferred long takes as a base, with short takes added as needed.

Today’s director was the latter type.

Though a few short takes were done when necessary, the recording was primarily built on long takes.

As a result, Hye-mi had to keep singing nonstop.

“Wow, normally when you sing this much, emotions start to waver, but Hye-mi, you’re rock solid.”

“I thought Autumn Leaf would sound more or less the same, but it’s completely different.”

“This is going to be a hit.”

Seon-ho smiled, pleased, as he listened to the recording director and the assistant engineer chat.

Then, the assistant spoke up.

“But why does she keep looking our way while singing?”

“Probably just a habit of handling her gaze. Trust me, she’s not singing while looking at you, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Oh, it’s not like that. It’s just… she’s been unusually kind since she walked into the booth. It’s making my heart race. Last year, she still felt like a kid, but now… she’s really grown into a woman.”

Just as the assistant noted, Hye-mi kept glancing toward the engineer’s room after each take.

Sometimes, she even flashed a bright smile.

But in truth, she was recalling a conversation from a few days prior.

—“Hye-mi, did you sing that way on purpose?”

—“Huh? What do you mean?”

—“It doesn’t feel like Autumn Leaf. More like… the budding sprouts of spring.”

Autumn Leaf was originally a gloomy song.

The lyrics mourned a past relationship, regretfully reminiscing about a love that had fallen like autumn leaf.

So, the singer was meant to infuse the song with a sense of longing.

But oddly, Hye-mi’s version kept carrying traces of joy and happiness.

“Um…”

Hye-mi rolled her eyes for a moment before answering.

“I think it’s because I’m happy. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve sung this freely.”

“I feel the same way. Before, I was always tense from survival competitions, but not this time. Maybe it’s because I genuinely love this song.”

After Hye-mi’s comment, Su-rim chimed in.

Seon-ho fell silent, lost in thought.

But before he could organize his thoughts, Hye-mi spoke again.

“I’ll refocus my emotions. You’re right—this song should be sung with a gloomy tone…”

“No, wait.”

“Huh?”

“If it were just you, it’d be one thing, but if Su-rim feels the same way, forcing it would be unnatural. Why not change the song instead?”

“The song?”

Hye-mi blinked.

“We can adjust the song to match the emotions you’re both expressing.”

“But Autumn Leaf has always been about sadness and longing. Even if we change the lyrics…”

“I’m not a lyricist, so I don’t know for sure, but as long as the syllable count matches, shouldn’t it be possible?”

“No, that’s not the issue. The whole essence of Autumn Leaf is rooted in sadness and nostalgia, so even if we tweak the lyrics…”

Seon-ho interjected.

“Not every breakup is filled with sorrow, right? If you loved without regrets, you could look back and smile. And I’m not saying we should change everything. Just keep the fundamental vibe while allowing room for happy memories to coexist.”

“Wouldn’t that make the arrangement too difficult?”

At Su-rim’s concern, Seon-ho walked over to the master keyboard in the studio.

Plink. Plink.

He pressed a few keys and nodded.

Fortunately, the keyboard was already synced with a grand piano VST.

“I was thinking of something like this…”

Seon-ho started playing.