Chapter 107 : A Quiet Provocation
Chapter 107: A Quiet Provocation
The words slipped out without a filter.
‘I don’t have a color.’
Color?
Even I didn’t really know what that meant.
Red? Blue? Yellow?
Or maybe it was something like style, emotion, or identity.
The question was simple, but there was no answer.
Probably most composers were the same.
They didn’t even know what their own color was.
I glanced at Director Han Ji-hyuk.
He held his teacup quietly, eyes fixed only on me.
After thinking for a long moment, he put the cup down and asked,
“What do you think your color is, Writer Stay?”
This time, I lifted my own cup.
Director Han gently added,
“I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m genuinely curious. The word ‘color’ sounds different to everyone, after all.”
Maybe he thought it was a difficult question.
My hyung stepped in to help.
“I think what the director means is—when he said earlier, ‘a color that matches our company,’ he’s curious what that means to you, Seo-writer.”
Roundabout, but the core wasn’t hard to grasp.
— What kind of person are you?
It was a question about my composition style,
but it felt like it was probing something deeper—my identity as a musician.
Director Han, my hyung, and Team Leader Bang.
Their gazes were deep.
I didn’t dislike this kind of atmosphere.
It was a moment when someone wanted to know me.
And through that, I often ended up reflecting on myself, too.
“Hm……”
Blink, blink.
I blinked slowly a few times.
This wasn’t a rehearsed answer.
Not some clever line I’d read somewhere, nor something someone had taught me.
I simply strung together the words that came to mind in that moment.
“Let me use a painting as an analogy.”
Director Han and hyung nodded at the same time.
“Having a color means having boundaries. Red and blue, blue and green—you can draw a clear line between them.”
I paused.
Everyone seated focused only on my lips, saying nothing.
Setting the still-warm cup down, I continued.
“If a composer stays only within those boundaries, they’ll end up circling the same space over and over—trapped in an image of, ‘Oh, this one writes this kind of music.’”
Familiar sounds.
Familiar structures.
Familiar concepts……
Safe, maybe.
“But I didn’t like that.”
A composer with a color writes for themselves.
A composer without one writes for the artist.
I was closer to the latter.
“If I had to put it in color…… silver, I guess.”
“Silver?”
“Yes. A mirror.”
At my answer, the three of them exchanged glances, shoulders shaking faintly.
“A colorless composer is a mirror. A mirror reflects only the artist. Because the singer should always be the main character.”
“A mirror, huh……”
“But even mirrors sometimes crack. Sometimes they get overwhelmed by the artist’s color.”
Hyung let out a small, impressed “oh,” and Team Leader Bang Hyunwoo quietly nodded.
Only Director Han kept his eyes locked on me, unblinking.
Then he straightened his posture.
The corners of his lips, which had been smiling moments ago, lowered quietly.
“That’s a good way to put it.”
That’s what he said, but—
his face was calm, unreadable.
Whatever he thought, however he judged me, I didn’t care. No regrets.
I might have hesitated a bit, but—
I’d conveyed exactly what I meant.
“Thank you.”
“But, Writer Stay.”
Han Ji-hyuk looked straight at me.
“What we’re really curious about is something else.”
“What do you mean…?”
“That mirror you just described—who will you reflect in it now?”
It was a direct question.
But it didn’t feel rude.
I’d expected it, actually.
He didn’t dance around it with fake humility, nor did he bluntly demand a specific name.
“Hm……”
Hyung drew in a faint breath.
If what came before had been a subtle exchange, this part was the real business.
I turned my eyes away for a moment.
The framed pictures on the meeting room wall—
each showing off its unique style with confidence.
Abstract pieces shaped like musical scores.
Restrained neon line art.
Anime-style illustrations bursting with youth.
They weren’t just decorations.
They captured Tomorrow Entertainment’s vision and its artists’ identities—album jackets, all of them.
Team Leader Bang spoke up, his voice tinged with excitement,
as though he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Lee Hyoeun? Forteo? Neo Nova? Legacy? Or… Cardo would be good too.”
Huh.
What was this atmosphere?
Once again, the three of them widened their eyes, waiting for my answer.
I decided to start carefully.
“The names you just mentioned—they’re all artists every composer would want to work with. You’re right, absolutely, but…”
I slowly scanned the wall again.
‘Where is it…’
And then I found her—
in a vivid purple jacket photo, wearing an awkward smile.
[TAESY, Taeshi]
Headphones on, DJ equipment in front of her.
I couldn’t stop wondering—why did she look so somber?
Wasn’t that supposed to be the place where she felt happiest?
Without realizing it, I murmured while pointing to the photo on the wall.
“Taeshi…”
At that, Team Leader Bang Hyunwoo rubbed the back of his neck, speaking awkwardly—
as if he hadn’t expected it at all.
“Ah, Taeshi… yes, she’s a great artist. A rising female rapper, very talented in lyric writing too. Multi-skilled—she raps well, sings decently, great visuals, and lately she’s been learning DJing, expanding her career in various ways…”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this industry—
when someone talks that much, it means there’s something they’re nervous about.
While Team Leader Bang fumbled his words, Director Han slipped in, quick as ever.
“Taeshi, huh. That’s unexpected.”
He even lifted his shoulders a bit.
Didn’t seem pleased.
I understood.
Stay would probably want to work with a singer with more name value. That was simply how this industry worked.
Even when I thought about my own career, it wasn’t all that different.
An idol rapper. An idol of the hip-hop scene.
Just working with Card could become a stepping stone for growth.
But I—I really wanted to meet Taeshi.
What was she hiding behind those trembling eyes?
Was that truly… what she wanted to do?
Curiosity about her identity?
A lukewarm sympathy?
No, it wasn’t anything so grand.
‘Why on earth…….’
Taeshi.
It was strange that no one ever mentioned her.
As if they hadn’t even considered the possibility.
That was exactly what intrigued me.
The person no one expected might be the one with the greatest potential.
My curiosity was simple.
Why on earth was she standing there, in front of a sacred turntable, looking like that!
Stay’s declaration of “having no color.”
To Han Ji-hyuk, it carried quite a shocking nuance.
It wasn’t humility.
If anything, it was the opposite.
It was the composure of someone who had the power to choose—a refined provocation declaring that he held the reins.
But—
‘Taeshi is actually the artist with the most distinct color…….’
By choosing her, Han Ji-hyuk instead felt his expectations and certainty toward Stay begin to crumble.
There was no way Stay didn’t know Taeshi’s clear concept.
So what was his real intention……
Han wasn’t the only one with that puzzled expression.
Bang Hyunwoo, and Seo Dongyoon too—
they merely whispered faint fragments of imagination to each other.
‘Writer Stay… why on earth is he doing this?’
‘Ugh, Seo Taeyoon, get a grip! This isn’t the time to act cool. You’re not a hipster!’
But they couldn’t say that out loud.
What mattered now wasn’t their questions—it was Taeyoon’s answer.
Amidst the uneasy air,
Han Ji-hyuk calmly asked,
“I’m curious—why Taeshi? Among Tomorrow’s artists, she probably has the most defined color.”
Was it confidence that he could change that?
Or a reckless challenge?
To that, Taeyoon answered firmly,
“I wanted to see what kind of person would appear once the pretty wrapping was peeled away.”
“……!”
“Someone who hides something instead of pouring out passion, who clings to the stage as if out of obsession. What’s that person’s real self like…? Isn’t that something anyone would be curious about?”
The meeting room fell silent.
Han Ji-hyuk reproached himself for doubting Stay even for a moment.
Then quietly, he thought to himself—
‘He didn’t seem like someone who knew Taeshi’s secret.’
He turned to look at Seo Dongyoon.
Dongyoon seemed even more startled.
Then that meant……
‘It’s not like Dongyoon gave him a hint.’
Stay had simply read the instability Taeshi carried.
Han withdrew his gaze from Dongyoon.
He turned instead to the photo of Taeshi hanging on the wall, observing it coolly.
Eyes that endured just to avoid running away.
How had he read that?
As if in response to Han’s silent question, Taeyoon spoke again—clearly, word by word.
“Tension, not desperation. That’s what I saw in Taeshi. I thought maybe she’s someone who could finally reflect her true self in my mirror. That’s what I believed.”
Han Ji-hyuk narrowed his eyes.
Yes.
Not desire, but defense. Not ambition, but disguise.
Or maybe… just clumsy acting happening on stage.
Was Stay seeing through the truth that both the artist and the company had been hiding?
Han slowly went over Stay’s words in his head again.
It was strange. It wasn’t even some grand statement.
Yet, there was a peculiar resolve embedded in it.
This wasn’t just an album project.
It was a declaration—as if he intended to save someone.
Or perhaps, Stay’s quiet provocation—his desire to draw something out from within Taeshi.
“……Can you take responsibility for those words?”
The question slipped out before he realized it.
He glanced at the staff sitting with them.
Seo Dongyoon bit his lip, and Team Leader Bang Hyunwoo turned his head aside.
Their eyes practically shouted:
‘If you mess with Taeshi, there’ll be hell to pay……!’
Stay didn’t flinch and answered calmly,
“If responsibility means seeing the project through to the end, then of course.”
His tone was steady.
Neither bravado nor modesty—just conviction.
It wasn’t a promise of results.
It was firm determination to take responsibility for his choice.
Han Ji-hyuk drew in a short breath,
his fingers curling tightly.
‘……Looks like that free pass might get used sooner than I thought.’
Then he remembered—
that casual promise he’d made just hours earlier,
the free pass he’d handed over to Dongyoon.
That token of formal encouragement might just turn out to be his hidden card.
Scratch—
sigh.
Ughhh!
The sound of scratching and dry electronic tones—
mixed with groans and sighs—filled Tomorrow Entertainment’s MIDI studio, creating a discordant noise.
“Taeshi, Director Han Ji-hyuk wants you to come up for a bit.”
“……Me?”
Taeshi Hyun, who had been staring blankly at a sequencer window where the beats and chords had all collapsed, blinked in confusion.
A sudden summons.
No matter how many times she blinked, she couldn’t hide her tension.
‘Director Han almost never calls me up himself…….’
She wiped away a bead of sweat rolling down her temple without thinking.
Feigning calm, she quietly stood up.
“Yes. I’ll tidy this up and head right up.”
After the staff left,
she looked again at the chaotic sequencer window stacked with tangled tracks.
[Save changes? Y / N]
‘…….’
Taeshi stared blankly at the screen, then quietly pressed—
[N]
and closed it.
All those sad sounds that no one had heard vanished with it.
She glanced at the mirror.
Hair tied messily like a punk, a random training suit, Crocs dangling a plush keychain.
‘……What a mess.’
Then she chuckled.
Eh, whatever.
There were plenty of people running around drenched in sweat anyway.
This wasn’t so bad.
And so—
with nothing but the small hope that it wasn’t something serious,
she quietly closed the studio door behind her.