Chapter 109 : Romance
Chapter 109: Romance
There was one right-hand man that CEO Tae Junggi of Tomorrow Entertainment relied on.
It was none other than the Content Executive Director, Han Ji-hyuk.
He had many strengths.
He managed employees well and could read an artist’s inner world.
He also had an instinct for spotting what would make money.
But in this industry, skills like that were common.
They alone weren’t enough to earn Tae Junggi’s trust.
Han Ji-hyuk’s true weapon was that he knew how to keep his mouth shut.
“Where should I draw the line when talking…….”
To someone who only heard what they wanted to hear, that trait became the greatest virtue.
That was why Tae Junggi trusted Han Ji-hyuk.
He filtered everything and reported only what truly needed to be said.
Bzzz—
Han Ji-hyuk, who had been standing absentmindedly, looked down at his vibrating phone.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be right up.”
After a short call, he exhaled and loosened his watch.
He straightened his shirt sleeves and quietly tightened his tie knot.
As he tossed his paper cup into the trash, he muttered softly,
“No reason to poke a hornet’s nest.”
Then he headed straight to the CEO’s office.
CEO Tae Junggi.
When he worked in the field, he was so passionate that he produced every record himself and meticulous enough to revise contracts dozens of times.
On stage, he pushed his artists to the front, but beneath the stage, he was a results-driven realist who never compromised.
For such a man to push “Taeshi” so forcefully—it was unusual.
His low, firm voice filled the meeting room.
“How was the meeting?”
Han Ji-hyuk took his seat and replied,
“It went smoothly. Composer Stay also responded positively.”
“Was the meeting really for collaboration?”
“Yes.”
“Did it go through?”
“It’s practically confirmed. No unreasonable remarks from Taeshi’s side either.”
Tap— tap— tap—
Tae Junggi’s fingers tapped the table at a steady rhythm.
It seemed meaningless, yet carried a definite weight.
That motion often spoke louder than words.
“……What did Composer Stay see in Si-hyun?”
Not Taeshi, but Si-hyun.
The way Tae Junggi referred to him felt strangely unfamiliar to Han Ji-hyuk.
“I think… he found fascination in the gap between the original image and the new one. There’s an unrefined charm there—a kind of raw vitality no one can imitate.”
“That’s why I like you, Director Han.”
At that, Tae Junggi’s fingers stopped.
Han Ji-hyuk subtly tensed his shoulders.
He knew full well that wasn’t a compliment.
As he paused to choose his words, Tae Junggi asked again,
“Composer Stay seems to have good intuition, huh?”
Han Ji-hyuk thought of Taeyoon.
That wasn’t mere intuition.
It was insight that pierced through everything—
Empathy that read emotional structures through music.
That was how he saw it.
There wasn’t a single clue hinting the two were father and daughter.
Their appearances, their personalities—none of it matched.
Which made Han Ji-hyuk’s own uncertainty even deeper.
But one thing stood out.
He recalled a rumor he’d once heard about Stay.
An extreme music otaku, far beyond her age.
‘If that’s the case…….’
Maybe she had found a structural connection between Tae Junggi’s music and Taeshi’s.
That would make sense.
So Han Ji-hyuk replied,
“She’s got an exceptionally sharp ear.”
Tae Junggi, who had known him for years, understood the hidden meaning.
He simply nodded slowly, feigning nonchalance, and asked again,
“The demo?”
“Haven’t received it yet.”
“She seemed pretty good at beat production.”
“Yes. Her specialty is crafting beats and melodies that suit the vocalist, so I don’t think you need to worry about the track.”
“Hmm… I wonder.”
Tae Junggi leaned back in his chair.
An uneasy thought surfaced out of nowhere.
Stay.
She produced songs everyone wanted.
Which meant fame and compensation were already guaranteed.
And yet, she had deliberately chosen Taeshi.
That was no ordinary move.
In this business, he had survived long enough to know—
People like Stay, who turned the industry upside down, were never simple.
He couldn’t say what her intentions were, but one thing was clear.
She was someone who looked further—and deeper—than most.
Reading Tae Junggi’s uneasy expression, Han Ji-hyuk shrugged lightly.
“Well, maybe she just has a strong sense of challenge.”
At that, Tae Junggi’s brows furrowed sharply.
He didn’t like admitting it, but it was a reasonable point.
He gazed out the window in silence for a while before muttering to himself,
“Ambition’s good. But one should never forget—constant defiance of control always comes with risk.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Let’s just observe for now. Keep an eye on things, though. Report as soon as the demo comes in. Good work.”
As he watched Han Ji-hyuk close the door and leave, Tae Junggi thought,
Stay. People like her always upend the board.
Either they make something great—or destroy it.
The problem was, no one ever knew which.
He had only one wish—
That she wouldn’t end up turning people upside down too.
“Waaaaas it goooood?”
The moment I stepped into the house, my brother let out a groan that sounded almost like divine revelation.
“You like it that much?”
“Heeeeell yeahhhh.”
He had finally splurged on a massage chair.
He claimed it was because his back and shoulders ached after sitting too long at work.
But honestly, it was for him.
After visiting several entertainment companies lately, I realized—being an office worker was no joke.
Watching him slumped in his chair all the time was just… sad.
He was already in his thirties. Of course it was tough.
It was my own little gift. Though he didn’t know that.
As I was thinking that and walking toward my room, I felt him suddenly behind me.
“Ah, crap—you scared me. Go enjoy it some more.”
“I’ve been on it all day.”
“……You like it that much? You’ll end up bleeding from your back.”
“My little brother bought it for me. If I bleed a bit, who cares? Thanks.”
Then he grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.
Ah, man. That made me feel good for no reason.
……But only for a moment.
“Wait, come here for a sec.”
“Ugh, why? Just say it.”
“I’ve got something to tell you—come here.”
He grabbed my arm and shoved me down onto the sofa.
I might just sell this massage chair off.
“Did everything go well? Did the Director say anything after we left? You didn’t say anything weird, did you?”
“Ah, what are you talking about.”
Why’s he interrogating me like that— when he already knows everything?
“Did you happen to meet the CEO too?”
“Not yet.”
“What about other artists? No—wait, wait. Let’s talk while we eat. Want tonkatsu?”
“Yeah, add spaghetti.”
“Deal.”
A little later, with food in front of us, I felt as if we were on the same boat again as we resumed our talk.
“Taeshi’s kind of unusual, isn’t she?”
“How should I put it? She was… fascinating.”
“Calling a person fascinating… but yeah, I get it.”
We just laughed.
What else needed to be said? That was the only way to describe it.
“She’s a rapper, but her voice is really nice.”
“Not easy to sound husky and crisp at the same time.”
“I’m curious about something—can I ask?”
“She’s an artist I’m working with, of course you can.”
It felt surprisingly comfortable. Being able to casually talk about an artist at home like this.
“What do you think of Taeshi’s singing?”
“She’s been training since she was a kid, so there’s nothing she can’t do. She probably dances well too.”
“Then why rap? She didn’t suit hip-hop at all.”
It was enough to make me think she’d have done better as an idol instead. If she could do everything, wouldn’t that have been better?
Then my brother hesitated before replying.
“……Romance.”
“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean all of a sudden?”
“The CEO’s romance.”
What kind of nonsense was that?
I really didn’t understand, so I asked,
“Why project your own romance onto your daughter?”
Clink—
My brother dropped his fork.
Was he surprised? Was that a secret?
As I scratched my head awkwardly, he asked back,
“How did you know? There’s no way Director Han told you, and there’s definitely no way Taeshi said it herself.”
“I just knew right away.”
“Oh, right—we used to listen to that Concrete album, didn’t we? And 1999 Korea, too.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Concrete.
A hip-hop group active in the late ’90s and early 2000s.
The group itself wasn’t that famous.
But their compilation album, 1999 Korea, had a symbolic title.
It captured the end-of-century hip-hop sentiment— rebellion, social criticism, all of it intact.
When I tilted my head in question, my brother explained,
“Our CEO used to be a member of Concrete.”
“Who? Junk-T?”
“No, Mechanical Heart.”
No way.
The same Mechanical Heart who wore baggy cargo pants, Timberland boots,
and flashy bandanas while rapping like a storm— was the very same Tae Junggi, the stiff and solemn CEO of Tomorrow Entertainment?
“Apparently he was wild back then. Went on stage with a bandana and cussed out the police. He’s like a completely different person now.”
An old music video I’d seen once played in my mind— a rapper furiously pointing at the camera.
That was the CEO of Tomorrow Entertainment?
“Didn’t see that coming.”
“You think Taeshi’s style is anything like his? I don’t really see it. Then again, you’ve always had sharp ears, Seo Taeyoon.”
“No, not really.”
“Then? How’d you know?”
I answered casually,
“It just felt off. Her name was Tae Si-hyun, so I threw out a guess—turns out I was right.”
My brother narrowed his eyes.
“You figured it out from that?”
“Well, not instantly. Just a hunch, I guess?”
Even I found it kind of funny as I said it.
I hadn’t analyzed anything.
“……Really?”
I just shrugged.
It was a lucky guess, that’s all.
But my brother didn’t seem convinced.
“Well, sure. Sometimes you just sense things you can’t explain. But that’s not just a simple hunch.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you listen long enough, your ears open up without you realizing it. That’s you, Seo Taeyoon—different as always.”
……What was with this weird misunderstanding?
I dimmed the lights.
Then traced through my thoughts.
Taeshi.
No clear image surfaced.
A bare face, awkward gestures, a clumsy greeting.
Everything was hazy, like a photo submerged in water.
And then—
“Kyaak!”
Taeshi’s short scream.
That high-pitched sound scraped past my ears.
It was just an exclamation, but for some reason, it stuck in my head, refusing to fade.
Not unpleasant—rather, vivid.
At first, I thought I’d use it as a simple sample.
‘No.’
High, clear—
And that roughly torn tone had its own distinct charm.
I’d been trying to force emotion out of it.
That was my impression of Taeshi— not her story.
[ Delete this track? ]
Click.
I deleted all the tracks I’d built so far.
The low frequencies weren’t needed.
I’d been sinking into Taeshi’s narrative, producing a gloomy beat—
Trying unconsciously to drag out the dark side of a rapper with secrets.
‘Let’s flip that around.’
Now it was time to show her charm.
Composing isn’t confessing your own emotions.
It’s shaping someone else’s.
That’s why I’d called it being a mirror.
I opened a new track.
At first, silence.
Then, a single line.
A high synth that resembled Taeshi’s scream— that one sound began it all.
Taeshi’s real voice.
That would be the foundation of the stage I’d build.