Star Maker Chapter 3

Jeong Tae-myung muted the guitar sound and said, “Here, listen.”

As the main guitar sound disappeared, the already dull song became even more lifeless.

“Now, this song is like a house with just the basic framework built. To be precise, it lacks any elements that would appeal to the public. But if we add something killer here…”

Jeong Tae-myung began tapping the keys on the master keyboard.

The moment funky electronic sounds were layered over the dull track, it instantly transformed into a refined beat that made one nod along.

Even though the song had a calm vibe, the electronic sounds blended surprisingly well.

It made Han Seon-ho wonder why Jeong Tae-myung wasn’t more invested in the song.

However, as the music progressed, Seon-ho began to recognize the melody Tae-myung was playing.

“This… this is that song, right? Man in the City.”

“Oh, sharp ears. I tweaked it a bit, though.”

The source Jeong Tae-myung had inserted came from the hottest song in Korea at the moment.

It was the melody line of Man in the City, a hit track that could be heard everywhere on the streets.

“The composer who made this must be a real genius. Strictly speaking, this is retro swing, a style that’s long out of trend. But somehow, it fits anywhere you put it.”

Han Seon-ho didn’t quite understand what Tae-myung was saying, but he found the playground he had set up fascinating.

“By the way, do you play piano at all?”

“I think… I can play a little?”

“It’s fine if you’re not good. A hit song isn’t made by playing the piano well. The key is the source, the source.”

Backing up his words, Jeong Tae-myung began explaining the basics of operating the master keyboard and composing software.

After all, the only functions Seon-ho needed to use were creating sessions and recording over them.

The lesson didn’t take long.

“Alright, want to give it a try? Here’s a hint—just press a sound that you think would fit this song. If the source is good, the engineers will take care of the rest.”

“Okay.”

With the explanation finished, Jeong Tae-myung stepped aside.

Now, the master keyboard belonged to Han Seon-ho.

Seon-ho’s hands hovered over the keys.

To be honest, all the kindness Tae-myung had shown so far was to build a connection with Han Seon-ho.

But that didn’t mean he had no interest in his composition skills.

A few years ago, there had been a case where a trainee, who was just learning the basics of composing, ended up creating a song that became a massive hit.

The person who discovered that song was none other than Woo Jae-yoon, the leader of the A&R team that Tae-myung now belonged to.

‘Maybe I’ll get lucky too. It’s not like I’m destined to be just a song-making machine forever.’

Perhaps because of his striking appearance, the sight of Han Seon-ho sitting in front of the keyboard evoked a strange sense of anticipation.

Then, Seon-ho’s hands moved.

The master keyboard finally produced a sound.

Ding— ding— ding—

‘Huh?’

At that moment, Jeong Tae-myung tilted his head.

Was it because Seon-ho played too poorly? Or too well?

It was neither.

‘What is he doing?’

The sounds Han Seon-ho was making were meaningless.

No—more precisely, they were worthless.

The 88 keys, when played sequentially, held no value.

Seon-ho was simply pressing each key on the master keyboard in order, one by one.

As Tae-myung patiently waited, his expression eventually wrinkled up.

If he pressed each of the 88 keys for just one second, it would take 88 seconds.

But Han Seon-ho was taking over five seconds per key.

He waited until the reverberation of the previous note had completely faded before pressing the next one.

On top of that, he pressed some keys multiple times, which naturally extended the process.

‘I have no idea what he’s trying to do.’

Failing to find any reason behind Seon-ho’s actions, Tae-myung started fiddling with his phone.

But if he had paid just a bit more attention, he would have noticed something interesting.

The keys Seon-ho kept pressing multiple times were all black keys—the ones that produced half tones.

It wasn’t until more than ten minutes had passed that all 88 keys had finally been pressed.

But Seon-ho’s work didn’t end there.

Now, he started tweaking the master keyboard’s settings one by one and then proceeded to press all 88 keys again.

‘Is he trying to show that he’s uncomfortable with me being here? Or is he embarrassed by his skill level?’

Tae-myung couldn’t help but think that.

The adjustments Seon-ho was making to the keyboard settings were at a level that someone without ear training wouldn’t even be able to notice.

There was no way Seon-ho could catch those differences, so this was, by all accounts, just killing time.

‘Well, I have to head up anyway.’

Having reached his conclusion, Tae-myung stood up from his seat.

Seon-ho, who had been fully immersed in the sounds of the master keyboard, belatedly reacted.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, the Team Leader should be back from his fieldwork soon.”

“I see. If I come here next time, will you be around?”

“Huh? No. The in-house engineers work on the 7th floor. That’s where all the top-tier equipment is.”

“Then what’s this place?”

“If the 7th floor is like a prime-time broadcast, this place is more like a B-grade cable variety show. When newer, better equipment comes in, the old stuff gets moved down here. But even so, these are still better than what most entertainment companies have.”

MOK’s CEO, Kim Dong-han, had started as a sound engineer before transitioning into a singer-songwriter and achieving success in the entertainment industry.

So, at MOK, producers and engineers had an unusually strong influence. The company had established a system to nurture in-house composers and invested heavily in sound equipment. This was also the reason Han Seon-ho sought out MOK.

As a result of MOK Entertainment’s tendencies, the engineer room on the fifth floor was created.

“This place is basically a public recording studio. It’s used for music video shoots or when inviting external composers. They also use it for unofficial small-scale song camps.”

“I see.”

“That’s why, when saving a track, you have to register your ID card number or access pass number along with it. Oh, right. I haven’t shown you how to save yet, have I?”

After giving one last explanation on how to save projects, Jung Tae-myung disappeared. Leaving behind a casual invitation for a drink sometime.

Once he left, silence once again filled the engineer room.

But it was brief.

Because soon enough, the sound of keys being pressed in order rang through the quiet room again.

Ding— ding—

A note.

And then another.

Han Seon-ho’s expression as he listened to the keyboard’s sound was serious. He wasn’t expressing discomfort, as Jung Tae-myung had assumed. The act that Tae-myung had deemed meaningless was, in fact, anything but.

The moment he heard A.T.’s track, Han Seon-ho had already decided on the killer sound he would add to it. He simply wanted to confirm—exactly—what kind of sound each key produced before he started composing. With a precision that others wouldn’t even think possible.

This is fun.

To an observer, it might seem like a meaningless, tedious action, but to Han Seon-ho, it was more exciting than anything in the world. Because he was finally able to bring to life what had only existed in his mind for the past twelve years.

Han Seon-ho’s hobby was music, like many people. But the way he listened to music was anything but ordinary.

It all started when he was thirteen, thanks to a pianist he had met—an old man whose name he no longer remembered but whose face he could picture vividly.

Listening to a song and breaking it down into its elements. Reassembling those elements to create an even better track. That was his hobby.

At first, he thought everyone could do it. But it didn’t take long for him to realize that this was a talent unique to him.

No one else could do what he did. Only he could.

That realization gave Han Seon-ho a sense of identity and self-worth, allowing him to endure a childhood that had otherwise been a living hell.

But…

As time passed, he came to understand something else. His hobby was ultimately an empty pursuit.

Everything—the process, the result—existed only in his head. He had no way of knowing if the sound he reassembled in his mind could actually be produced or if it would sound the same in reality.

It was similar to symptoms exhibited by people with mental disorders. Being trapped in a world that no one else could comprehend.

The thought filled him with anxiety.

If his ability was nothing more than a delusion, then the identity he had clung to for survival would crumble into nothing.

A normal person, after a month of repeating the same thoughts, would begin to succumb to self-brainwashing. Han Seon-ho had been doing it for twelve years.

If it was all denied—if it turned out to be meaningless—he would have truly lost his mind.

But then, that person gave him faith.

“Aren’t you a genius? Wow, I wish I had a talent like that.”

They had given him unconditional belief, without any proof.

“Since my dream is to become a singer, you should be the one to shape me! What do they call that? Ah, a producer!”

Together, they had brainstormed ways to make use of his ability.

And so now, at this moment—when he finally had the chance to confirm it all—how could he not be excited?

After a long stretch of time, Han Seon-ho had finally checked every possible sound the master keyboard could produce.

It’s a little lacking, but…

Since the master keyboard could only load one virtual instrument at a time, it wasn’t capable of producing a wide variety of sounds.

But it was enough for him to express a portion of what was in his imagination.

Let’s go.

The recording session was activated, and A.T.’s track began playing through the speakers. Han Seon-ho’s keyboard notes started to weave into the music.

There is no absolute methodology in composing. As long as the result is good music, any approach is valid.

That’s why countless composers have countless different methods. But even among all of them, there was no one who worked quite like Han Seon-ho.

Because his approach was strange.

He was marking points with his keyboard notes.

Ding— ding—

The first attempt—just two notes.

While listening to A.T.’s two-minute-and-forty-three-second track, all he had done was press the keys twice.

That was all.

Two dots appeared in the session window.

Alright. Next…

Creating a new session, Han Seon-ho played the track again from the beginning. This time, he added five more dots.

Now, there were seven in total.

But this wasn’t an improvement.

The notes were too spaced out, lacking any flow. And compared to the base elements of the song, the pitch was excessively high, making it unpleasant to hear.

If a sound engineer were to listen to the current state of the track, they would be astounded. Not by how good it was—but by how spectacularly it had been ruined with just seven notes.

But Han Seon-ho wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

Once.
Twice.

Slowly, “A.T.’s song” began to fall apart.

The number of notes added at a time was irregular. Sometimes, he would place ten at once. Other times, he would let the entire two minutes and forty-three seconds play and add only a single note.

But one thing was certain.

With each repetition, the meaningless, scattered dots were beginning to connect.

The dots were forming lines.