Seon-ho greeted the second PD and the sound director, who both wore strange expressions, the moment he arrived at the recording studio.
The second PD looked like he had a lot to say, but perhaps due to the time constraints, he merely opened and closed his mouth a few times without saying anything.
After exchanging the awkward greetings, Seon-ho looked around and asked,
“By the way, where’s Oh Hanbit?”
“He went to the bathroom. He’ll be back soon.”
Almost as soon as the PD finished speaking, the studio door opened, and Oh Hanbit entered, trailing a strong scent of cigarettes.
“Oh! Manager-nim—no, manager hyung. You’re here.”
“You asked for me?”
“Yes. I was hoping you could help direct a bit.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? You’re the one who showed me the direction—I’m just asking you to take me to the destination.”
There was confidence and excitement in Oh Hanbit’s eyes.
It was as if he had become a completely different person from the one who had been full of doubts just hours earlier. He was now fully satisfied with his own performance.
So Seon-ho had no choice but to ask,
“Is your destination the stage, or is it the studio?”
“Sorry?”
“I’m asking if the rap you want to record right now is the same one you performed on stage a few hours ago—or the one that exists in my head.”
Seon-ho didn’t claim to know everything about singers, but he believed this: artists could fall into a sort of self-hypnosis. The more they listened to their own songs, regardless of actual quality, the more they believed in its excellence.
And now, Oh Hanbit was extremely pleased with his performance.
So if the rap he wanted to record was identical to what he’d just performed, Seonho couldn’t direct him.
Because—
“I don’t understand. Are you saying the rap I did on stage and the one in your head are different?”
“Yes.”
“They’re different?”
“Yes. They are.”
The ideal sound in Seon-ho’s mind was not the same as what Oh Hanbit had performed on stage.
To be honest, the advice he’d given Oh Hanbit’s manager was more of a vague suggestion.
He didn’t have the time, the reason, or even the expectation that it would be taken seriously.
But Oh Hanbit had taken it seriously—and made it his own.
He definitely had talent.
A rap couldn’t be improved simply by raising the pitch range.
The advice to raise the pitch wasn’t meant to enhance the rap by itself—it was to completely separate his domain from Ryu Hail’s, instead of awkwardly overlapping. That way, Ryu Hail’s singing could shine, and Oh Hanbit’s rap could establish its own independent space.
So the improvement in Oh Hanbit’s rap came from the fact that he had correctly grasped Seon-ho’s intention hidden within that simple advice. Whether consciously or unconsciously.
But that advice was only a temporary fix.
Considering the urgency of the performance, separating the two artists’ territories had been the best option. There simply wasn’t enough time.
What Seon-ho truly had in mind was an ideal sound where Oh Hanbit’s and Ryu Hail’s tonal spaces could harmonize.
Maintaining their individuality, yet creating a meaningful intersection between them.
The problem was, in doing so, the vibe that Oh Hanbit had been so satisfied with might inevitably change. The memory of that stage was still fresh—it had only been a few hours ago.
Rappers call that the vibe, don’t they?
Seon-ho figured it wouldn’t be easy for Oh Hanbit to let go of his vibe.
Just then, Oh Hanbit spoke.
“How different is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking—how different is what I did on stage from what’s in your head?”
“Well, I don’t know much about rap, so I’ll have to leave the basics to you. But even if what I’m asking for is just ten percent—or even one percent—different, it’ll change the overall feel of the song you envisioned.”
Oh Hanbit nodded at that.
And not just any nod—a bold, confident one.
“Got it. I’ll do exactly what you say. I’ll be your complaint-free avatar. Let’s give it a shot.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Seon-ho was the one taken aback by Oh Hanbit’s overly enthusiastic response.
He had considered the possibility that Oh Hanbit might eventually choose to work with him—but he thought it would take more time. Shaking off the high from that electrifying performance just hours ago shouldn’t have been so easy.
So for Oh Hanbit to nod so readily—it was strange.
At that moment, Seon-ho felt a peculiar sense of déjà vu.
Hadn’t something like this happened before?
How could there be déjà vu when I’ve only just entered this industry?
And then he remembered Jung Su-rim’s voice.
“Let’s go with Producer Prefer’s track.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
Jung Su-rim’s expression was full of certainty.
“Because this one’s better. Much better.”
He had assumed she would choose the rearranged version by PD Joo Min-hwan since it was based on her own song.
But Su-rim hadn’t hesitated for even a second in picking what she thought was best. That had made him try even harder, too.
Seon-ho had been thinking about it all wrong.
He believed that the advice he’d given Oh Hanbit was just a throwaway comment—but in that moment, for Oh Hanbit, there had been no better advice.
If Seon-ho had given him complicated directions about this part and that part, would it have reached him?
Especially with only a few hours left until the performance?
Not a chance.
To Oh Hanbit, that simple suggestion to raise the pitch had come with an unspoken assumption: the rest is up to you.
Whether it’s singing or rapping, music flows organically—so a change in one part forces a change in the whole.
Pitch was the fuse. The actual explosion was his to ignite.
That’s why Oh Hanbit could trust Seon-ho—even if it meant changing the feeling.
He was excited to see what kind of masterpiece might emerge when someone capable of flipping everything with one comment actually got involved in the details.
Trust.
Through Oh Hanbit, Seon-ho came to truly understand the kind of producer he wanted to become.
A producer who delivers results when trusted.
A producer who inspires certainty when believed in.
It was because that kid had given him unconditional trust and belief that he had wanted to become that kind of producer.
And now, while Hye-mi had given him emotional trust, Oh Hanbit was giving him trust in his skill.
“Are you ready to become my avatar?”
“Please call me Obata!”
“Then let’s get started.”
Despite his best attempt at a joke, Oh Hanbit glanced at Han Seon-ho’s expressionless face and entered the recording booth.
“Heh.”
As soon as Oh Hanbit disappeared, a small sound escaped.
The PD and sound director standing nearby turned to Han Seon-ho with puzzled expressions. He had his lips tightly pressed together, and he didn’t look too well.
“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“You look sick, though.”
“I’m holding back laughter.”
“Laughter? At what?”
“Obata… Isn’t that funny?”
The PD looked dumbfounded.
Their earlier conversation had already been baffling, but this was just absurd.
Is he worshipping him or what? It’s not like Seon-ho is Zhuge Liang or something…
From what he could tell, Han Seon-ho’s advice had clearly had a huge impact on Oh Hanbit’s rap. That alone made it understandable for him to be trusted with directing. Even if it was a bit much.
But that wasn’t the problem. The atmosphere between Oh Hanbit and Han Seon-ho during their conversation suggested it wasn’t just about handing over direction—it felt more like he was asking to be taught.
Well, they’re both young. Maybe they just got caught up in the moment. Let’s just see how it goes.
By the time the second PD was thinking that, Han Seon-ho was learning some basic equipment operations from the sound director.
Though the sound director would handle things like fading, cutting, and mixing the sessions, it would be up to Seon-ho to decide on the timing for communicating with Oh Hanbit.
—Mic check. Can you hear me?
—Yes, loud and clear.
—Try doing a freestyle take first.
—Freestyle? Like how I performed it earlier on stage?
—Yeah. Just do it comfortably.
After finishing the brief exchange with Oh Hanbit, Han Seon-ho turned to the sound director.
“Director, sorry to ask, but can you make thirty-six recording tracks for the rap?”
“Thirty-six? You mean thirty-six voice tracks?”
“Yes.”
“…Alright, suit yourself.”
It wasn’t a particularly difficult task, so the thirty-six tracks were quickly created.
What the hell is he planning with that many tracks?
In truth, sound director Gam Jongcheol wasn’t in the best mood.
Originally, the second PD had asked him to direct. But Oh Hanbit had shot him down and brought in this rookie manager instead.
Gam Jongcheol wasn’t a professional director, but he’d been working in sound engineering for eighteen years, since the age of twenty-three. When it came to sound balance and sensitivity, he believed even most producers would have to defer to him.
So it didn’t sit well with him that he was getting pushed aside by some newbie like Han Seon-ho.
Still, personal feelings aside, he was committed to doing his best for the recording. But it was hard not to look at Han Seon-ho through a sceptical lens.
And that scepticism only deepened as the session went on.
What the hell is he doing?
Gam Jongcheol may not have been a director, but he understood there were various directing styles.
Some people sliced up a track by the half-line and patched them together. Others insisted on full takes only.
But no one, absolutely no one, directed the way Han Seon-ho was doing it.
“Oh Hanbit, for the rhyme section that connects with ‘antibiotic,’ I want you to replace that entire part with just ‘antibiotic.’”
—All of it?
“Yes.”
—I’m not sure I get it. You mean change the word ‘stimulant’ to ‘antibiotic’?
“Well? Is that the only section where you used a rhyme with ‘antibiotic’?”
—No, there’s also the line “in this life.”
“Then change that one to ‘antibiotic’ too.”
—Won’t the beat feel off? The syllable count is different.
“That’s fine. Just do it anyway.”
Love is like a virus, I need antibiotics.
A stimulant I can’t escape from in this life.
Just like the title Love Hospital, Oh Hanbit’s lyrics metaphorically compared falling in love to an illness. But with one instruction, it all became weird:
Love is like a virus, I need antibiotics.
Anti-biotic I can’t escape from, antibiotic.
Though Oh Hanbit skillfully adjusted the rhythm to fit, the request itself made no logical sense.
“Put that in track twelve, please.”
The director gave in simply because it was his job, but in Gam Jongcheol’s view, that was a complete waste of a track. Had the second PD not been too busy to leave, he doubted the session would’ve continued at all.
But the bizarre recording process didn’t stop there.
Sometimes Seon-ho had Hanbit record parts with missing lyrics.
“Put that in track twenty-two, please.”
Sometimes he had him repeat a single word in rhythm and tone.
“That one goes in the third-to-last track, please.”
Some parts were recorded normally, but only a few. Even if they were all stitched together, it wouldn’t form a complete song.
Eventually, Gam Jongcheol gave up trying to understand Seon-ho’s actions. He was just following instructions anyway—if anyone was going to get blamed, it’d be Han Seon-ho.
And so, while Gam Jongcheol mechanically carried out the instructions, the tracks steadily piled up.
Thirty-six tracks were nearly full.
That’s when Oh Hanbit’s manager returned to the studio.
“Seon-ho, the results are about to be announced, so Hanbit needs to get ready.”
“Ah, then I’ll head out too. Director, could you save all this as a first draft?”
“Sure. You want me to clean it up too? I can if needed.”
“No, it’s fine. There’s stuff to organize, but I can’t do it until it’s all done.”
“Alright then.”
With that, Han Seonho, Oh Hanbit, and the manager left the studio. Gam Jongcheol took the chance to use the bathroom and step out for a smoke before returning to the now-empty booth.
Since it was a live broadcast, the wait time was long, but once the results were ready, they’d be out in no time. If they were down to the top five, they’d want to build suspense, but there were too many contestants still.
Gam Jongcheol was idly fiddling with something when he glanced at the screen.
The session layout looked like a toppled game of Jenga with a few blocks missing.
Is this even going to work?
With little thought, he pressed the spacebar.
The key for full playback.
All of the sessions Han Seon-ho had stacked began to play at once.
Since they were meant to be layered, playing them together was expected.
But the sound that came out… was anything but expected.
Not at all.
A cascade of music burst from the monitor speakers, sending chills across Gam Jongcheol’s body.
Those fragments… turned into this?
There were still mismatched beats and some awkward overlaps—parts clearly meant to be edited—but the overall picture was already clear.
Sounds that had seemed useless suddenly transformed, layering as doubles to emphasize certain lyrics. It felt almost like magic.
So you’re telling me Seon-ho planned all this? Every single thing, across thirty-six tracks? Is that even possible?
In truth, Seon-ho hadn’t planned it all.
He had a rough framework in mind, but left room for flexibility. Some parts changed entirely as the recording progressed.
But to others, his method was beyond understanding.
So to Gam Jongcheol, it could only mean one thing: Han Seon-ho had envisioned this entire masterpiece from the start.
A rookie manager, huh?
Gam Jongcheol suddenly found himself burning with curiosity about who Han Seon-ho really was.
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