Fingers busily moved across the phone screen, and soon an excited voice burst out.
“Wow! It’s like there’s nothing but praise!”
“Right? Feels good.”
“Look at this! Someone called you ‘Gung Hye-Mirae’—a prophet of the future! You always find the best songs!”
“I didn’t find it. Seon-ho oppa did.”
“Still, if you watch the VTR, it totally looks like you picked it!”
Their lively conversation gradually faded until no voices could be heard at all.
Not because they had nothing to say.
But because there was too much to say.
The two of them were completely focused on the small phone screen with their lips tightly sealed.
Then Hye-mi broke the silence.
“Huh…?”
“Mm? Unni, what is it?”
“Su-rim, take a look at this person’s username.”
“Username?”
At Hye-mi’s request, Jung Su-rim clicked on the name of the commenter.
The profile window popped up, revealing the user ID.
After checking the ID, Hye-mi spoke.
“This… is my friend.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah…”
A friend who debuted before Hye-mi but left the entertainment world after getting hurt.
A friend so close that she influenced Hye-mi’s dislike to revealing outfits.
Lee Jihyun.
—
-That show’s nonsense. Hye-mi’s dad raised her to be very polite.
-I’m her friend. We went to elementary, middle, and high school together. Also studied at the same practical music academy. She was known for being super kind.
-Cha Hye-mi!
-She sings so well. When we were in the academy together, Hye-mi was my goal.
-She’s going to release a great album soon. Please wait for it.
-Hye-mi is definitely going to succeed.
-Go Cha Hye-mi!
—
The same username always appeared whenever there were any negative comments about Hye-mi.
And that nickname matched exactly with the SNS ID of Jihyun, whom Hye-mi knew well.
Hye-mi suddenly looked up.
Her eyes were filled with the sight of Han Seon-ho beyond the phone screen.
“Oppa. Thank you so much.”
“For what?”
“For just… bringing me a great song, and giving me such an amazing stage.”
“It wasn’t just me. We all did it together. You, me, Su-rim-ssi… oh, and Team Leader Park helped a lot too.”
“Still. If it weren’t for you, this kind of stage wouldn’t have happened. I mean it.”
Su-rim, listening nearby, chimed in.
“I think so too! It’s really all thanks to you, oppa.”
“Thanks. But I think it’s because you and Hye-mi sang that made the stage shine.”
“But don’t we need to thank the composer too? I’m so grateful…”
At that moment, Seon-ho felt the urge to reveal that he was Prefer.
It wasn’t because he wanted to brag.
He just didn’t want to lie to these musicians who were this grateful and moved.
He wanted to share the joy with them honestly.
But…
Two things weighed on his mind.
First, there were still two rounds of performances left in the competition.
Through preparing for this stage, he’d come to understand how important a free-spirited atmosphere was.
He remembered just how much inspiration their quiet café conversations had brought, how much they’d pushed each other to grow.
But the moment he revealed he was Prefer, that sense of freedom would inevitably vanish.
The second concern was his growth as a producer.
Yes, he had made Autumn Leaf a success—but that didn’t mean he had reached perfection as a producer.
Producer Han Seon-ho was still a beginner. He needed time.
Time to experiment, fail, and try again, to establish his identity as a creator.
But once he revealed he was Prefer, much of that freedom would be lost.
And MOK’s interference—disguised as advice—would become unavoidable.
Yeah. It’s not the right time yet.
At the very least, he needed to make sure the remaining two Tomorrow K-Star performances were successful.
If he could prove that Autumn Leaf wasn’t a fluke, more people would come looking for Prefer.
More offers meant that the producer named Prefer would have his own solid space.
In the end, Seon-ho shook his head slightly toward Su-rim.
“Hmm. I’ll try asking him. But I’m not sure if Prefer will come up to Seoul.”
“If he’s not in Seoul, we’ll just go to him!”
“He has a bit of a phobia about meeting strangers. But I’m sure you’ll meet him one day.”
Jung Su-rim nodded at Seon-ho’s response, though a little disappointed, then suddenly remembered something.
“By the way, I’ve been curious for a while—why do you use formal speech with me? I’m younger than Hye-mi unni.”
“No real reason. I’m just being careful since you’re not directly assigned to me.”
“Come on, don’t be like that! Technically, I’m one of your singers too. Han Seon-ho’s crew! Hye-mi unni’s number one, and I’m number two!”
Su-rim’s playful tone made Seon-ho smile.
Just then, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned around to see a familiar face.
Not only the face was familiar—the situation felt familiar too.
“Excuse me, Mr. Han Seon-ho. Sorry to interrupt…”
“What’s the matter?”
“Do you have a moment right now?”
“This feels like déjà vu. Don’t tell me—Oh Hanbit is looking for me again?”
Seon-ho joked with Oh Hanbit’s manager.
He was in such a good mood, the jokes just came naturally—even with people he wasn’t particularly close to.
But the joke didn’t stay a joke.
“Yes. Hanbit is asking for you.”
“Me? Why?”
Seon-ho asked, and the manager gave a hesitant expression.
“Um… have you ever done any directing before?”
“Directing? You mean recording directing?”
“Yes. Recording directing.”
Recording directing.
Or just “directing” for short.
It referred to giving feedback to singers during recording sessions.
In other words, it was the job of guiding the artist so that a better version of the song could be recorded.
“I did it once while recording Autumn Leaf. It wasn’t the final recording, just the guide track.”
“Oh… nothing besides that?”
“No, nothing. Why do you ask?”
“Well, Hanbit said he wants you to direct his session. You know, since the rap part in the competition version and the release version is different, he has to record it again.”
“But why me… for directing?”
Recording directors were conductors for singers.
That meant they had to have a clear vision of how the song should be sung. Only with that could they properly direct the artist.
Which is why the job was often handled by the song’s composer or producer.
There were also engineers who specialized in directing, but even they always held meetings with the composer or artist to determine the direction beforehand.
So Hanbit’s request was honestly… strange.
Seon-ho knew nothing about Oh Hanbit’s Love Hospital.
It was a song he was hearing for the first time.
He’s asking a first-time listener to be the director?
Sensing Han Seon-ho’s confusion, the manager ruffled his own hair and said,
“Sounds crazy, right? But what can we do? Hanbit’s been insisting it has to be you. For the past 30 minutes, even.”
“You mean Oh Hanbit is waiting in the recording studio?”
“Yeah. The plan was to start recording right after the performance, but without a director, it couldn’t happen.”
Now that he thought about it, Song Hanmin had announced that the release time for the track had changed from 9 p.m. to midnight.
At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it, but in retrospect, it must’ve been because of Oh Hanbit.
Directing, huh…
There had been no problem directing “Autumn Leaf,” since it was a song he had created himself.
In fact, he had even been dissatisfied with the engineer’s direction during the broadcast recording.
But Oh Hanbit’s rap was completely different from “Autumn Leaf.”
He didn’t know Oh Hanbit, didn’t know much about rap, and knew even less about Love Hospital.
Could he really direct under those circumstances?
At that moment, only one thought came to Han Seon-ho’s mind.
I want to try.
It wasn’t a desire born out of nowhere.
If he thought about it, there was only one reason Oh Hanbit would ask him to direct.
The ideal sound he had vaguely envisioned while evaluating Love Hospital.
That was what Oh Hanbit wanted.
Which meant he had the right to shape Oh Hanbit in line with his vision.
Whether the music in his head was better or worse didn’t matter—he could at least present a clear direction.
This was something Seon-ho had longed to do for years.
To pull the ideal sound from his head into reality.
To prove that the trust that kid had placed in him wasn’t misplaced.
To show that his passion wasn’t hollow.
“Autumn Leaf” had quenched his thirst to some degree, but it wasn’t enough.
A thirst that had lasted nearly a decade wasn’t going to be satisfied so easily.
So he wanted to do it.
Lost in thought, Han Seon-ho finally opened his mouth.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
“Wait, really?”
“You asked me to, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but… You know how it is. If you mess up, people will rip you to shreds, and even if you do well, you still get criticized. To avoid that, you have to be impossibly good…”
“Then let’s try to be impossibly good.”
Seon-ho remembered the words he had said to Oh Hanbit.
“Whether it’s a success or a failure, it’ll be yours alone, right? If there’s no room for excuses, there might be something to gain.”
He had given that advice just a few hours ago.
Now, he wanted to take on that same challenge—without any excuses.
But before that, he had something to do.
“Hye-mi, is it okay if I go?”
At Seon-ho’s question, Hye-mi’s eyes widened.
Then her big eyes curved gently into a smile.
“Of course.”
A manager was someone caught in the middle.
The company saw the manager as being on the artist’s side, and the artist saw the manager as being on the company’s side.
So when a celebrity got into big trouble, road managers often got squeezed from both ends.
Because of that, smart managers chose a clear stance.
Either align completely with the company and aim to transition into an administrative role, or side entirely with the artist and stick with them through transfers or independence.
But the relationship between Seon-ho and Hye-mi didn’t fall into either category.
They were simply a team.
A team that grew together and fueled each other.
Hye-mi wanted to move to a new company with Seon-ho someday.
But for an artist to move with a manager, their brand power had to be strong—strong enough to keep their team intact wherever they went.
And Seon-ho couldn’t be an inexperienced manager anymore.
No company would entrust a newly signed artist to a rookie.
So Hye-mi needed to grow in a way that raised Seon-ho’s brand value as an entertainer, and Seon-ho needed experience to build his credibility as a manager.
Strictly speaking, Seon-ho running off to the studio while Hye-mi was still working could be considered neglectful.
But neither of them cared about that kind of thing.
They weren’t in a boss-employee relationship, nor were they bound by a contract.
They were just a team.
“But you have to come to the celebration party later.”
“Of course.”
Watching the exchange between Seon-ho and Hye-mi, Oh Hanbit’s manager looked on with a mix of envy and surprise.
Didn’t Han Seon-ho join recently? That means the two of them haven’t known each other that long, right?
Yet even from their brief conversation, you could feel the deep trust between them. A trust that went beyond professional bounds.
In fact, what worried him most about asking Han Seon-ho to direct was Cha Hye-mi.
Oh Hanbit’s recording had nothing to do with Cha Hye-mi.
So if she had refused outright, there would’ve been no room to push forward.
What kind of manager would welcome their charge running off to do someone else’s work?
But Cha Hye-mi wasn’t like that.
She welcomed the idea.
More than welcomed—she looked genuinely happy about it.
“Manager-nim, but why did Oh Hanbit ask Seon-ho oppa to direct, anyway?”
“Huh? Oh, because of the advice he gave.”
“Advice?”
“Ah, I guess you haven’t had time to hear it yet. Seon-ho told Hanbit that it’d be good to raise the pitch range in the rap.”
“Ah… so that’s why.”
Since she had worked on Tomorrow K-Star last year, Hye-mi had a decent understanding of Oh Hanbit.
That’s why she had been so impressed with his rap today—it had improved so much.
Only now did she realize that was thanks to Seon-ho.
With a brightened expression, Hye-mi said,
“When I did the guide recording, Seon-ho oppa directed it too, and it was really comfortable. He caught even the smallest things.”
At her words, Su-rim nodded enthusiastically and added,
“Same here. Honestly, I think the guide version was better than the final recording.”
“Oh come on, you’re overexaggerating.”
Seon-ho replied with an awkward laugh, but Jung Su-rim shook her head.
“I mean it. One hundred percent!”
“Thanks.”
Smiling again, Seon-ho turned to Hanbit’s manager.
“Where’s the studio?”
“I’ll take you. I was heading there anyway.”
“Oh, and just a random question—why is there a recording studio in MBN Hall? Isn’t this a concert venue?”
“They sometimes record live performances. For example, with programs like Saturday Classic Journey, the live CD is more popular than the broadcast.”
“Oh, then the equipment must be pretty high-end.”
“It is, but the sensitivity is so high that it’s actually hard to record songs in there. That’s why today, the director’s role is more important than usual…”
Hanbit’s manager almost let something negative slip but bit his tongue.
Whether Seon-ho noticed or not, he changed the subject with another question.
“Can I sneak out for the final results announcement? I’d really like to see that.”
“Sure. Hanbit has to go on stage for that anyway, so there won’t be any recording during that time.”
“Oh, right. Silly question.”
“Let’s go. The sub-PD’s been waiting forever.”
Seon-ho said he’d catch up with Hye-mi and Su-rim later and followed the manager out.
Once he was completely out of sight, Jung Su-rim suddenly spoke.
“If Hye-mi unnie was the first, and I’m the second… then is Oh Hanbit the third?”
“Huh? Third what?”
“Han Seon-ho’s squad.”
