“…….”
CEO Kim Donghan’s persistent gaze was fixed on Seon-ho, but Seon-ho only returned a look of puzzlement.
Seeing this, CEO Kim Dong-han fell into thought.
Did Han Seon-ho influence Cha Hye-mi?
Or did Cha Hye-mi act on her own?
Judging by the timing, it had to be Han Seon-ho who moved Cha Hye-mi. The cause and effect implied nothing else.
But the more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
Before meeting at MOK, Cha Hye-mi and Han Seon-ho had been complete strangers.
He could be sure of that because he had investigated Cha Hye-mi.
Which meant their connection was only about three months old, and the time they actually worked together had been less than two.
Could someone make such a big request based on such a shallow relationship?
Could they… be romantically involved?
The thought occurred to him suddenly, but that too felt off.
If Cha Hye-mi and Han Seon-ho were in a relationship, they wouldn’t be acting so openly. It would be normal to go out of their way to avoid attention.
There were results, but no clear motive for the actions.
So CEO Kim Dong-han couldn’t trust his own judgment.
Then what about the resignation letter? Did she get a scout offer from another agency? UU Entertainment, perhaps?
Seon-ho read CEO Kim Dong-han’s expression and could clearly tell what the man was thinking.
CEO Kim Dong-han still hadn’t reached a firm conclusion.
Because he couldn’t understand why Hye-mi had taken on such risk.
What Hye-mi had done today was no trivial matter.
There was considerable risk involved.
A female singer setting a male manager as a condition for re-signing?
Regardless of the truth, it could easily become gossip material.
On top of that, Hye-mi had listed “Han Seon-ho” as the first item on her contract renegotiation terms.
And when a celebrity brings up such a point at the start of a negotiation, it usually means:
If this condition isn’t met, I’m leaving. But if it is, I’m willing to compromise on the rest.
That was the implied meaning.
And Hye-mi had chosen him as her non-negotiable condition.
So if the re-signing proceeded as is, Hye-mi would very likely suffer in minor areas—perhaps even unknowingly.
And even if the issues were small, the money involved likely wouldn’t be.
But there was something CEO Kim Dong-han didn’t know.
That Seon-ho was “Prefer,” the composer behind Autumn Leaf, Girl In The City, and Vivid.
Just that fact alone made it easy for Hye-mi to overlook the minor conditions.
If a talented composer with a record of three consecutive hits offered to write songs exactly the way the singer wanted, the value of that was immeasurable.
More importantly, there was a firm trust between Hye-mi and Seon-ho.
That’s when CEO Kim Dong-han asked,
“If I assign you to Personal Color, what would you do?”
“I’d be grateful and work hard.”
“And what about Hye-mi?”
“Sorry?”
“Aren’t you close with Hye-mi?”
Seon-ho paused as if thinking, then answered,
“Of course, I’d love to work with Hye-mi too. But right now, I can’t take my eyes off Personal Color. They’re just starting to spread their wings in the idol war. I want to support them with everything I’ve got.”
“Hm.”
“And since we’re in the same company, I’m sure I’ll get a chance to work on the same team with Hye-mi eventually.”
At Seon-ho’s words, CEO Kim Dong-han asked,
“If I let you handle Personal Color, will you withdraw your resignation?”
“Of course.”
“Then withdraw it.”
“…Are you serious?”
“I didn’t realize how much you cared about Personal Color. We’ll consider the team transfer undone. You may go.”
CEO Kim Dong-han’s voice was calm.
But Seon-ho realized this was the final check.
CEO Kim Dong-han wanted to see if he would mention Hye-mi—or not.
If he had coordinated with Hye-mi, and she hadn’t finalized her next move yet, then he might try to dig deeper.
“I sincerely apologize for the unreasonable request, and thank you for granting it. I’ll work hard not to disappoint you.”
With that, Seon-ho bowed and exited the CEO’s office.
Even as he closed the door behind him, he could feel CEO Kim Dong-han’s gaze lingering on him.
One hurdle cleared.
CEO Kim Dong-han still had doubts, but as long as Seon-ho didn’t behave suspiciously, those doubts would gradually fade.
Now all that remained was to wait.
Wait until CEO Kim Dong-han gave instructions for Hye-mi and Personal Color to work together.
Of course, Seon-ho could’ve made it obvious—I moved Hye-mi. I have that kind of influence.
It would’ve been the more straightforward way to demand what he wanted.
But if he did that, he would’ve wounded CEO Kim Dong-han’s pride—the pride of a man who had just lost a battle of wits.
And a wounded CEO might play his last card and give up on Hye-mi altogether.
That’s why Seon-ho aimed for a partial victory.
He would get what he wanted, but make it seem like it wasn’t his doing.
Let CEO Kim Dong-han think that things just happened to unfold this way, not that he had been outmaneuvered.
There was no need to turn CEO Kim Dong-han into a firm enemy just yet.
Suddenly, the conversation he had with Hye-mi on the KTX came back to him.
—
“Oppa, how long should I sign the new contract for?”
“Can you decide that freely?”
“MOK didn’t treat me right before, remember? I’ve got the upper hand now.”
“Hmm… I don’t know much about contracts. What’s the minimum period?”
“Top stars sometimes go year-to-year. I’m not at that level yet, but I think two or three years is standard.”
“Short contracts aren’t always better though, right?”
“Right. If it’s short, they do tend to pay more attention to you since re-signing comes quickly. But if it’s long, you can get better terms.”
“Hmm…”
As Seon-ho was mulling it over, Hye-mi asked,
“But when are you leaving MOK?”
“Huh?”
“You’re going to go independent, aren’t you?”
“…Yeah. I should.”
He had vaguely considered it before, but never seriously.
“Su-rim said she was debating which company to sign with and said, ‘If Oppa started a company, I’d join without hesitation.’”
“Even just hearing that makes me grateful.”
“It’s not just talk. I feel the same way. I bet every singer who’s worked with you would.”
Hye-mi smiled.
“Still, I’m your second-in-command.”
“Huh? Second-in-command of what?”
“You’re General Han Seon-ho. I’m your Vice General.”
Seon-ho didn’t know much about military ranks, but he could understand the sentiment.
“Then if Su-rim joins, what rank does she get?”
“Hmm… Chief of Staff?”
“And Hanbit?”
“Private.”
At Hye-mi’s firm response, Seon-ho burst out laughing.
—
Seon-ho held no ill will toward MOK itself.
Sure, there were people he didn’t like, like PD Joo Min-hwan or Team Leader Kang San—but there were good ones too, like Team Leader Park Chamyung or Director Kwon Hosan.
That was a matter of individuals, not the organization.
But the problem was the one running the organization: CEO Kim Dong-han.
For now, Seon-ho had a low rank, so they rarely clashed, but he felt that their values were completely different.
And on top of that, he couldn’t read CEO Kim Dong-han’s true intentions at all.
Today, Seon-ho finally reached a clear conclusion—and made a firm resolution.
He had built a nest.
He was a small bird nesting in the tree called MOK.
Pecking at its fruit, building a home in its branches.
Career, experience, connections…
He would take whatever he could.
And when the time came to leave the nest and take flight—
The little bird would soar as a great roc. *Roc is a legendary giant bird in Middle Eastern and Persian mythology.
Seon-ho’s days were flying by.
He was so busy managing Personal Color’s schedule that he didn’t even have time to catch his breath.
As Personal Color’s recognition skyrocketed, the number of gigs grew in proportion.
There was a time when he would’ve been grateful just to be invited to an event, but now, he had to carefully evaluate whether the event matched Personal Color’s image, whether it was safe, and whether the sound equipment was any good.
Since they were participating in a survival program where the rankings were decided by public vote, he couldn’t afford to overlook even the smallest details.
What mattered was that even after filtering out events based on these criteria, there was still a lot of work to do.
Another important point was that more and more people at events were singing along to “Vivid,” Personal Color’s song.
Even as Seon-ho juggled the chaotic schedule, CEO Kim Dong-han remained unresponsive.
They had spoken on Monday, and today was Wednesday—this marked the third day.
In Seon-ho’s mind, CEO Kim was still cautiously tapping at the stone bridge before crossing it.
He was probably digging into the relationship between Hye-mi and himself or trying to figure out why Hye-mi had taken such a risk.
But that kind of action from CEO Kim was pointless.
‘Trust’ wasn’t something you could measure.
Before long, Seon-ho figured he’d be managing Hye-mi and Personal Color together.
The time had come to start preparing in earnest for Hye-mi’s first full-length album.
“Heading out, Seon-ho? Today’s a broadcast day—aren’t you monitoring?”
As Seon-ho slipped on his coat and stepped out of Team B’s office, a passing staff member called out to him.
“I’m planning to monitor from the dorm.”
“The dorm? Ah, the Personal Color dorm?”
“Yes.”
“Guess the recording went well, huh?”
“I’m just hopeful. Anyway, take care.”
During the first recording, he hadn’t monitored the show with the Personal Color members.
He’d thought that if the episode turned out well, the members might feel like they had to read his expression too much.
But today was different.
That’s how confident he felt.
During the “Team Introduction Mission,” Personal Color had stood apart.
Regardless of how well they’d done, the song “Vivid” was just fundamentally different from the typical hook songs used by idol groups.
It was like trying to compare cats and dogs—they were on completely different planes.
In contrast, the “Song Switch Mission” they’d recently recorded was held on an even playing field.
They had sung another group’s song, and the arrangement wasn’t done by Seon-ho.
So when Personal Color competed on the same level, their performance could be summed up in one word: massacre.
If Personal Color’s stage was like a marquee name from Chungmuro like Seo Taejun or a Hallyu star like Taewon, then the other groups’ performances were…
“Hm.”
Seon-ho caught himself, mentally scolding himself for picturing Team Leader Choi Ki-seok’s beaming face, and exited the building.
Before heading to the Personal Color dorm, Seon-ho stopped by his own apartment.
He needed to grab a USB containing music files.
Inside the USB were drafts of songs from the High School in Melody OST, including Jia’s first solo track.
He called them drafts because they were far from complete.
Now that he’d finally finished reading that oddly titled novel, he wanted to ask Hye-mi which instrument sessions she preferred.
Currently, Seon-ho was working on four tracks.
First, Jia’s solo song.
Second, a song that Team C’s music director Baek had asked him to rearrange.
The third and fourth were intended for the third round of Idol War.
The theme of the third round was “Units.”
A unit meant a sub-group of two or more members formed within a single idol group.
For example, if the three female members of Personal Color performed under the name “Girls Color,” that would be considered a Personal Color unit.
By the third round of Idol War, only five teams would remain.
Of the original seven teams, one would be eliminated in today’s broadcast, and another during the cover song mission.
The five remaining teams would then need to form two units each.
This meant carefully splitting their members into “Unit A” and “Unit B.”
These ten units would then face off against other teams’ units in randomly assigned matchups.
Winning two matches meant safety.
One win and one loss meant waiting to see how things played out.
Zero wins and two losses meant elimination—unless another team also went 0–2.
It was a strategic mission.
One could stack talent into Unit A to aim for a win and intentionally sacrifice Unit B to ensure at least one victory.
Because if you split your members evenly and just happened to go up against two powerhouses, you could end up losing both.
But that didn’t mean forming a “win team” was always the best move.
If Dream Girls’ win team went up against Jesco’s, they’d almost certainly lose.
Unless your skills were overwhelmingly superior, it was hard for a girl group to beat a boy group with stronger fandom power.
Seon-ho found PD Nam Yoonsu’s unit mission extremely intriguing.
It was a brilliantly fun concept.
Figuring out how to divide the Personal Color members into two teams felt like playing a game.
One idea was making Riha a solo Unit A, and grouping the other four into Unit B.
Although units typically meant two or more people, this mission allowed solo performances too.
Or he could group “Baek Songyi, Riha, and An Jia” into Unit A, and “Woochan and Teiji” into Unit B to highlight the contrasting appeal of female and male members.
Since Personal Color was a co-ed group, they hadn’t had many chances to show off that contrast.
There were so many possible combinations, and each sparked its own set of inspirations.
With Kwon Hosan having entrusted the third round to him, there would be no interference in his decisions.
After mulling over it for several days, Seon-ho had finally settled on a unit composition today.
Others might think he was crazy for the choices he made—but somehow, Seon-ho felt confident.
Ah, I’m going to be late.
Pulled from his thoughts about the unit mission, Seon-ho snapped back to reality.
He still had time, but he needed to pick up some late-night snacks along the way and talk to Jia after he arrived, so it was better to get going.
Just as he confirmed he had his car keys and stepped out his front door, his phone rang.
It was an unregistered number.
“Hello?”
—Where are you.
The abrupt, casual tone made Seon-ho tilt his head.
He didn’t have the number saved, but the voice sounded familiar.
“Who is this?”
—Seriously? You don’t save your senior’s number?
At that moment, Seon-ho recognized the voice.
It was PD Joo Min-hwan—the one who’d deliberately done a half-hearted arrangement of “Autumn Leaf.”
“PD Joo Min-hwan?”
—Yeah. Where are you.
“I’m just heading out of my apartment.”
—You’re going to the Persnal Colors dorm, right?
“Yes.”
He could hear the clicking of a pen on the other end of the line.
—Give me your email address.
“My email?”
—Who else’s would I be asking for?
Seon-ho gave it, puzzled as to why he was being asked when it could easily be checked through the company network.
Then PD Joo Min-hwan said:
—I’m sending you two guide tracks by email. Listen to them with Kwon Hosan and the Personal Colour kids.
“What kind of guides?”
—Songs for Idol War Round 3.
“Huh?”
—I’ve written down the unit compositions in the email, so just pass it along as is.
Leave a Reply