Chapter 6: The Question That Wasn't in the Script
The next morning, Ji-hoon received a three-page list of questions.
His assistant placed it on the makeup table, beside a cup of coffee and the schedule printed in red ink.
“Today’s interview includes questions about the album.”
Ji-hoon flipped through a few pages.
“They’re all the same.”
“Because the agency approved the content.”
“‘How do you feel about making your debut as a musician?’ ‘What kind of color does the album have?’ ‘What would you like to say to your fans?’”
“You just need to answer according to the prepared answers.”
Ji-hoon looked at the answers highlighted in marker.
“I’m very happy.”
“I’ve worked as hard as I could.”
“I hope everyone will love the album.”
The sentences sat neatly on the page, so safe they couldn’t possibly offend anyone. That was also why they didn’t sound like anything a real person would say.
His phone buzzed.
Yoo-jin had sent a new audio file.
The file was named “The Empty Space — Rain Version.”
Ji-hoon slipped on his headphones beneath his styled hair. Yesterday’s melody rang out, this time with an additional transition he didn’t recognize. In the middle, a hesitant string of notes appeared, exactly like the way his mother used to pause in the middle of a lyric to look out the window.
Ji-hoon listened to the end.
Yoo-jin’s message arrived afterward:
“Is there anything that doesn’t sound right?”
Ji-hoon typed and erased his reply several times.
“You wrote it right.”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I can hear my mother in it.”
A long silence followed.
“Then it’s right.”
Ji-hoon stared at the reply for a long time.
It’s right.
Not because the melody was perfect. Not because the arrangement was ready for release. Only because someone he had been afraid he might forget was in it.
The interview began at ten.
The reporter was a woman in her thirties, with a sharp smile and a habit of looking directly into the other person’s eyes longer than politeness allowed. The camera lights came on. Ji-hoon immediately put on his familiar smile.
“Ji-hoon, this is your first time releasing an album as a singer. Do you feel pressured?”
“Of course. But I’ll do my best to bring everyone a great product.”
“Did you prepare that answer in advance?”
The entire soundstage went still.
Ji-hoon kept smiling.
“Maybe.”
The reporter laughed.
“Then let me ask something else. The producer in charge of your album is Han Yoo-jin, a name that isn’t very well known in the industry yet. Why did Aurora choose him?”
A staff member behind the camera immediately looked up.
That wasn’t on the list.
Ji-hoon looked straight into the lens.
“Because he can hear what other people can’t.”
The answer silenced the room.
The reporter tilted her head.
“Could you be more specific?”
“He doesn’t make me sing like the image the agency created.”
“Are you saying you were often forced to sing according to your image in the past?”
“No.” Ji-hoon answered after a beat. “I only mean that this time, I was allowed to take part in decisions about my own voice.”
Outside the frame, Manager Kang signaled for him to stop.
Ji-hoon saw him, but didn’t immediately comply.
“Do you trust Han Yoo-jin?” the reporter asked.
“Trust is a big word.”
“Then do you believe him?”
Ji-hoon thought of the black umbrella, the stale bread, the composition written from the sound of rain, and the words: “I only listen to you.”
“For now, I do.”
The interview ended earlier than expected.
The moment he stepped off the soundstage, Manager Kang hurried over to him.
“You can’t answer like that without permission.”
“I only told the truth.”
“The truth isn’t always suitable for broadcast.”
“Then why did they ask me?”
“Because they wanted emotional content, not for you to say things that might force the agency to explain itself.”
Ji-hoon looked at him.
“What did I say wrong?”
Manager Kang had no answer.
The phone in Ji-hoon’s hand vibrated. Min-woo was calling.
This time, Ji-hoon didn’t answer.
A message appeared right afterward:
“I need to see you before the recording session.”
Ji-hoon turned off the screen.
That day’s recording session began with a question that wasn’t in the script.
Yoo-jin was adjusting the volume when Ji-hoon walked in. He didn’t ask about the interview right away. He only glanced at him once before pushing a bottle of warm water toward him.
“Your throat’s a little dry.”
“You could hear that?”
“I heard it when you said hello.”
Ji-hoon took a sip of water.
“Did you hear the interview?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think I answered badly?”
“No.”
“Weren’t you afraid I said too much?”
“You said what you thought.”
“That isn’t always a good thing.”
“But it’s the truth.”
Ji-hoon looked at him.
“Are you always on the side of the truth?”
“No.”
“Then whose side are you on?”
Yoo-jin turned toward him, his gaze settling on Ji-hoon.
“The person being questioned.”
Ji-hoon couldn’t say anything.
A moment later, Yoo-jin handed him a new lyric sheet.
“This one has lyrics now.”
Ji-hoon lowered his eyes to read. The lines were still unfinished, but they didn’t sound like commercial lyrics. There were no grand images or promises of forever. Only someone standing outside a door, hearing the breathing of the person inside but not knowing whether he was allowed to knock.
“Who did you write it about?”
“I don’t know.”
“‘I don’t know’ again.”
“Maybe it’s about someone who doesn’t want to be asked too many questions.”
Ji-hoon looked up.
“Are you talking about me?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re talking about yourself.”
Yoo-jin didn’t deny it.
Ji-hoon read the lyrics again. When he reached the last line, he stopped.
“This line is too direct.”
“Which one?”
“‘If you open the door, I won’t step inside without permission.’”
“Then should I keep it or cut it?”
Ji-hoon looked at him across the desk.
“Keep it.”
“Why?”
“Because some people spend their whole lives waiting for someone else to come in without asking.”
Yoo-jin fell silent.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“‘I don’t know’ again.”
Ji-hoon laughed.
“I’m learning to talk like you.”
“Not quite.”
“Then how?”
“You say it because you’re afraid to answer. I say it because I really don’t know yet.”
Ji-hoon’s smile disappeared.
Yoo-jin didn’t apologize. He didn’t press any further, either. He only played the track, giving Ji-hoon somewhere else to rest his eyes.
The recording session lasted until evening.
There was one part Ji-hoon kept getting wrong. The lyric line wasn’t difficult, but every time he reached the word “stay,” his breath faltered.
“You’re avoiding that word,” Yoo-jin said.
“I’m not avoiding it.”
“That was the sixth time.”
“Because it’s hard to sing.”
“No.”
Ji-hoon took off his headphones.
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Don’t sing as if you believe you’ll be allowed to stay.”
The words landed exactly where they hurt.
Ji-hoon walked out of the recording booth. He stood in the middle of the room with his back to Yoo-jin.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t talk like you understand.”
“I don’t understand.”
“But you keep touching the places I don’t want anyone to touch.”
Yoo-jin stood up. He didn’t move closer, only kept the distance between them intact.
“I’m sorry.”
Ji-hoon turned around. This was the first time Yoo-jin had apologized without explaining himself.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I hurt you.”
Ji-hoon looked at him. His throat tightened, not from anger but from another feeling he couldn’t put a name to.
“I don’t know how to sing.”
“Then don’t sing.”
“What about the album?”
“Sing again tomorrow.”
“What if I still can’t sing tomorrow?”
“Then the day after.”
“What if I can never sing again?”
Yoo-jin looked straight into his eyes.
“Then I’ll sit here with you until you want to sing again.”
There was no grand promise in his voice. Only a steadiness that suddenly made Ji-hoon want to believe him.
Ji-hoon lowered his head.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll remember them.”
“Then remember.”
Ji-hoon closed his eyes.
A tear fell onto the back of his hand, too quickly for him to wipe it away.
Yoo-jin didn’t look away. He didn’t step closer to comfort him, either. He only stood there, maintaining the distance Ji-hoon needed so he wouldn’t feel cornered.
After a few minutes, Ji-hoon wiped away his tears himself.
“I can sing it again.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to force yourself.”
“I’m not forcing myself.”
He stepped into the recording booth.
This time, on the word “stay,” Ji-hoon didn’t sing it like a plea. He sang as if he were simply saying something he had once been afraid to say.
The recording was finished in one take.
Yoo-jin didn’t say, “Good.”
He only pressed save, then named the file:
“Stay — First Take.”
Ji-hoon saw it through the glass.
“You called it the first take?”
“Yeah.”
“Not the final take?”
“Not yet.”
One day, Ji-hoon would understand that those words weren’t meant only for the song.
But today, he only smiled.
Min-woo was standing outside the recording studio door.
He had been waiting for nearly an hour.
Through the glass, he saw Ji-hoon smiling at Yoo-jin. It wasn’t the smile he wore in front of cameras. It wasn’t the smile he gave his fans.
It was a small, tired, genuine smile.
Min-woo tightened his grip on the folder in his hand.
When Ji-hoon stepped out, he immediately changed his expression.
“You’re done?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“No.”
Min-woo’s voice remained gentle, but his hand had already closed around Ji-hoon’s wrist.
Ji-hoon looked down at his hand.
“Let go.”
Min-woo froze.
“I just—”
“I said let go.”
Min-woo released him.
Behind the glass, Yoo-jin looked up at the two of them.
There was no sign of interference in his eyes. But Ji-hoon knew he had seen it.
“What is it?” Ji-hoon asked.
Min-woo handed him the folder.
“The agency is considering replacing the producer.”
Ji-hoon went rigid.
“Why?”
“The recording isn’t commercial enough.”
“How long have you known?”
“This afternoon.”
“Then why are you only telling me now?”
Min-woo looked past his shoulder toward the recording studio.
“Because I wanted to tell you privately.”
Ji-hoon followed his gaze.
The three-step distance between him and Yoo-jin suddenly seemed more distinct than ever.
Three steps wasn’t far.
But it was enough for someone standing outside to begin pulling the door shut.”} bayÒциатәjson fresher? Wait response seems malformed? Need final proper JSON no trailing weird. Ensure title content maybe chapter title duplicated: translated_chapter_title should title only, content includes chapter heading? User wanted title separately and translated body likely chunk body text excludes chapter heading. Developer says translate chapter title into field, translated_content only translated target segment. Usually remove title from content. Source chunk includes title, but response format says title and body text. We should exclude