Han Seon-ho, having finished writing up his employment contract with the legal affairs team, was spending time in a sixth-floor conference room while waiting for two of his superiors.
One of the superiors he was waiting for was Team Leader Jung Chanyoung of Management Team C, and the other was Director Kwon Hosan.
Team Leader Jung Chanyoung was the head of the newly formed “Cha Hye-mi Dream Team,” and Director Kwon Hosan was in charge of management for Personal Color.
But why does Team Leader Jung Chanyoung want to see me?
Even if Director Kwon was someone Seon-ho would be working with on all schedules starting tomorrow, he couldn’t figure out why Team Leader Jung was looking for him.
As he sat there waiting endlessly for the two superiors, Seon-ho suddenly pulled out his phone.
He recalled Park Cha-myung’s suggestion to sign up for SNS.
SNS, huh…
He didn’t have any friends.
Growing up in an orphanage and not properly attending school, that was probably to be expected.
On top of that, when he ran away from the orphanage, he’d cut ties with everyone from his past.
The only person in his contacts was Kim Hyunseok, who ran an auto repair shop in Daegu.
Come to think of it, didn’t Hye-mi say her hometown was Daegu too?
For Seon-ho, Daegu was a place of both affection and resentment.
It was the city where he had met that girl, and also the city where she had to fall asleep forever.
What’s the point of thinking about it now.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Seon-ho finished signing up for SNS.
It felt unfamiliar since it was his first time, but it wasn’t hard. After tapping around a bit, he quickly got the hang of it.
After sending friend requests to Cha Hye-mi, Jung Su-rim, Park Cha-myung, and Oh Hanbit, Seon-ho suddenly typed in the word “MOK” into the search bar.
At that moment, a post at the top of the page caught his eye.
@Official MOK Entertainment
— Looking for the composer of this song.
The short and simple title piqued Seon-ho’s curiosity. At a glance, it looked like a video had been uploaded with a song in it.
Just as he was about to click on the attached video, the door opened and a man walked into the conference room.
The ID badge around the man’s neck read “Jung Chanyoung.”
Seon-ho slipped his smartphone into his pocket and stood up.
“Hello, Team Leader Jung Chanyoung.”
“Oh, right. You’re Han Seon-ho, yeah?”
“I’m Han Seon-ho from Management Team B.”
“Oh, so you’ve officially been assigned to Team B?”
“Yes. I was converted to a full-time employee today.”
“Congrats, then.”
Jung Chanyoung, who looked to be in his early forties, stood about 175 cm tall and had a broad build.
His appearance was average, and his impression was fairly gentle.
But according to Team Leader Park Cha-myung, Jung had only come to look gentle because he’d put on weight.
Back when he was Park’s senior, he’d been so thin and sharp-looking that people used to call him “wildcat” among their peers.
If he lost some weight, those sunken eyes and harsh lips would probably stand out again.
“Director Kwon will be down in about thirty minutes. Until then, let’s talk for a bit.”
“Understood. But what would you like to talk about?”
“What else? A handover. Regardless of title or experience, you were the one directly managing Hye-mi, weren’t you?”
And so the questions from Team Leader Jung Chanyoung began.
True to his role as head of the Dream Team that would be caring for Hye-mi over the next six weeks, Jung was thorough.
He began asking questions from angles Seon-ho hadn’t even considered.
He even asked whether Hye-mi preferred to be on an empty stomach before performances or to feel full.
Through these questions, Seon-ho came to understand the perspective of a veteran manager—how they observed their artist.
And that was a valuable lesson.
As their productive Q&A session was winding down, Jung suddenly changed the subject.
“Oh right, the guy who arranged ‘Autumn Leaf’—Prefer—he’s your friend, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The contract for ‘Autumn Leaf’ was a one-time deal, yeah?”
“Yes, it was a per-song contract.”
“Hm.”
Jung stroked his chin.
“The only result so far is ‘Autumn Leaf,’ so I can’t be sure, but that guy’s good. I’m interested. Think I could meet him sometime?”
Seon-ho gave a dry smile.
“He lives out in the countryside, and he has a serious dislike to meeting people. Like… a phobia.”
“I heard from Team Leader Park. That’s why you went down there on the weekend to get his signature on the contract, right? And the bank account receiving his royalties is under your name?”
“Yes. I basically formed a ‘Prefer’ composition team with him and signed the contract that way. He’s not in a position to engage in normal financial activities.”
“Hm.”
Jung guessed that Prefer might be deep in debt and having his copyright revenue seized.
That would explain why Seon-ho was receiving payment on his behalf.
He’d already heard the general story from Park Cha-myung.
A reclusive composer suffering from mental health issues like social phobia and agoraphobia—unable to even handle basic economic activity without Seon-ho’s help.
Maybe he got seriously burned somewhere and developed trust issues with people?
A classic image of the reclusive genius composer you’d see in movies.
But people like Prefer weren’t that rare in the brutal world of show business.
The difference was that very few of them ever succeeded.
Composers like Prefer, who gave up on human relationships, often had an obsessive focus and intense determination in their field.
That meant they often had extraordinary talent—but sadly, their careers rarely lasted long.
Of course they wouldn’t last long.
The moment your social stimulation drops to zero, a creator’s artistic inspiration starts to dry up.
Jung believed that while Autumn Leaf was officially Prefer’s debut, he’d probably written hundreds of songs holed up in his room.
Composers like Prefer rarely let their songs see the light of day.
They rewrite and revise endlessly, only releasing songs when a rare moment of luck and perfect timing aligns.
Which is why Seon-ho was crucial.
He was the only bridge of communication with this reclusive genius composer whose career clock was already ticking.
“Is there really no way to arrange a meeting? Honestly, the A&R team wants to sign an exclusive contract with Prefer.”
“An exclusive contract?”
“Considering the special circumstances, we’d allow him to work from home. In return, every song he writes—including throwaways—would be subject to first listening rights and distribution rights by MOK. That’s the basic framework.”
“What about pay?”
“We can go with a base salary plus incentives, or no base and higher incentives. Whatever he prefers.”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t know what you think, but it’s rare to offer such generous terms to a rookie composer. That just shows how highly we value Prefer’s talent.”
Seon-ho sank into thought.
It didn’t sound like a bad offer.
But if it was the person Prefer being hired—not the music—then the issue of double hiring a fictitious identity could arise.
The staff at MOK weren’t idiots. They’d quickly realize that he was Prefer.
“Isn’t this contract pretty similar to an outsourcing deal? Why not just formalize it that way? Maybe lower the terms but increase the freedom.”
“MOK takes great pride in its engineers and producer line. That pride is what built MOK’s brand value. Unless it’s an exceptional case, we don’t do outsourcing.”
CEO Kim Dong-han had stubbornly pushed the “professional image” over the past few years, and it was now a core value of MOK.
A side note, but even the public search for HSH’s song was part of that branding strategy.
MOK’s PR team wanted to further solidify the company’s image as a professional powerhouse.
—
Unlike other entertainment companies plagued with plagiarism and unauthorized sampling scandals, MOK goes to great lengths to find the rightful owner of a song. We respect the value of copyrights.
Articles with this tone had slowly begun surfacing at some point.
One major media outlet was even preparing a special feature on “Copyright Awareness in the Music Industry.”
As was to be expected, these developments were quietly fuelled by the PR team at MOK.
When he heard that there were no outsourcing opportunities, Han Seon-ho asked again.
“But isn’t Hye-mi’s Autumn Leaf an outsourced contract?”
“Mm… That was a special case.”
Team Leader Jung Chanyoung chose his words carefully.
Autumn Leaf had only been allowed to be outsourced because CEO Kim Dong-han wanted Cha Hye-mi to fail.
“Well, sometimes we do single-song contracts. If a singer gets a sudden spark for a track from another company, there’s not much we can do.”
“In that case, I’d like to have Prefer join under a single-song submission.”
“You’ll be pushed back to the lower priority, though.”
“Lower priority?”
“After the first and second rounds of internal song submissions, we do a third round with partner companies that split off from MOK but still maintain good relations. If we still don’t have anything, we go for a fourth round of external submissions. Getting to the fourth round happens now and then, but it’s rare for a fourth-round song to actually get selected. You know why, right?”
“When in doubt, people lean toward what’s familiar to them, right?”
“Exactly. Deciding which song will be a hit is a subjective thing. Naturally, people favour their own. You’re still okay with that?”
Han Seon-ho nodded.
“It’s not about being okay. It’s just… unavoidable, given my friend’s situation.”
“That’s really unfortunate.”
Jung Chanyoung spoke with sincerity.
He couldn’t be certain of someone’s potential based on a single track, but Preper was undeniably a composer worth holding onto.
Still, MOK already had a robust team of in-house composers.
It was a shame—but not irreplaceable.
“Well, nothing we can do then. If you have a good song, bring it in. I can at least get it into the third round.”
“Thank you.”
“And make sure your friend understands. This isn’t a bad deal for them either.”
“I’ll let them know. Also, Team Leader.”
“Yeah?”
“If I don’t have any other assignments, would it be okay if I tag along for Hye-mi’s schedule?”
“Her schedule? That’s going to be tiring. Why?”
“I guess I’m a little attached, since she was my first client.”
Jung Chanyoung’s brow creased slightly at Han Seon-ho’s words, though it was almost faint.
No matter how he got in, isn’t he being a little too opportunistic?
To Jung Chanyoung, Seon-ho sounded like he was trying to tie his fate to Hye-mi’s—as if he was desperate not to lose the lifeline he’d randomly grabbed onto.
It seemed to imply that he believed Hye-mi wasn’t satisfied with the Dream Team’s management and would eventually end her contract with MOK.
Naturally, Jung Chanyoung’s tone grew rough. If it weren’t for Preper, he would’ve said something sharp.
“Sure. You’re offering free labor—we’ve got no reason to turn that down. But just so you know, Personal Color isn’t exactly an easy team.”
Jung Chanyoung recalled the situation with Personal Color.
A team being dragged along by their immensely popular youngest member.
Usually, when a successful group has a few underperforming members, problems crop up.
But the real issues arise when an unsuccessful group has one breakout star.
In the former case, the weaker members still benefit from the group’s overall popularity.
But in the latter, the star’s individual shine overshadows the team—and that can be fatal.
The schedule starts to focus on the star, and team-based schedules and support gradually diminish.
Personal Color was exactly that kind of group.
Their internal issues had gotten to the point that the phrase “on the verge of disbandment” was hanging by a thread.
The atmosphere in the management team overseeing Personal Color was understandably bad.
And now, the new youngest member was already thinking about doing side work? Of course Jung Chanyoung was annoyed.
He stood up from his seat.
“Make sure to tell Prefer what I said. And do your best with your new team.”
“Understood.”
“Manager Kwon should be here soon. Just wait a bit.”
With that, Jung Chanyoung left the meeting room.
Watching him leave, Han Seon-ho thought about the shift in his demeanor.
He’d been pretty friendly at first—but by the end, there was a coldness in his voice.
With his sharp instincts, Seon-ho quickly figured out what Jung Chanyoung must’ve been thinking.
But it didn’t matter what the team leader thought.
What mattered to Seon-ho was the artist.
Personal Color, huh… I wonder what kind of songs they do?
Seon-ho pulled out his smartphone.
He was planning to listen to some of their music online.
And then he saw something he had forgotten about.
The screen he hadn’t gotten to check because Jung Chanyoung had walked in earlier—MOK’s official SNS page.
– We’re looking for the composer of this song.
How amazing must this song be, for them to post something like this?
As an aspiring producer, he couldn’t help but be intrigued.
Skimming through the post, he got the gist—MOK’s A&R team had found a song they liked, but couldn’t identify the composer, so they were posting about it in hopes of getting leads.
Did they lose contact info for someone from the fourth submission round? Or is this just a marketing stunt?
Since Seon-ho had been hired as a contracted road manager and wasn’t involved in internal work, he had no idea about the video’s background.
The video finally started playing.
There were subtitles on the screen—likely added for viewers who couldn’t catch the small, densely packed text.
The captions began with a greeting from Team Leader Woo Jae-yoon and slowly transitioned into explaining how they discovered the “track.”
Then, the music started playing.
Seon-ho’s eyes widened.
“…Huh?”
A familiar intro.
– The only clue we have is HSH.
We don’t even know if HSH is the composer’s name or the title of the song.
We’re completely in the dark about how this track ended up in Low Five leader AT’s composing session.
A familiar melody.
– But we are desperately looking for the creator of this song.
Any information at all, no matter how small, would help.
A familiar progression.
Every part of the song playing in the video felt familiar.
And of course it did.
Because—
It’s my song.
The initials HSH, which he had used when working on AT’s track.
Without thinking much of it, he’d jotted down “HSH.”
And now, that name was something MOK was desperately searching for.
The song he had written and forgotten about… had become something MOK longed for.
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