Choi Min-jun’s voice, low and sharp, cut through the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Ha-mi’s fingers tightened around the minuscule microphone, her heart thrumming against her ribs. She offered him a smile, the kind she usually reserved for customers who tried to pay with expired coupons. Too wide, too innocent, utterly unconvincing.
“Min-jun-ssi! Just admiring the… unique decor choices. A certain minimalist charm, wouldn’t you agree?” She gestured vaguely at the spartan bedside table, then, with a flourish, pocketed the bug. “And this? Why, it’s a… a very tiny, very advanced lint roller. For the discerning idol’s stage outfit, of course. Dust bunnies, you know how they cling.”
Min-jun’s dark gaze remained unwavering, making her feel like a moth under a microscope. He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. His lips thinned. “Funny. I didn’t realize lint rollers came with internal wiring and a frequency modulator.” He stepped further into the room, his presence filling the space. “Management has their reasons, Muse. Don’t pretend you’re above it, or that you’re not already trying to find an angle.”
Ha-mi met his eyes, her own bravado kicking in. “Angle? Min-jun-ssi, my only angle is surviving this gilded cage without accidentally setting off a global scandal. Unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury of artistic integrity when my rent is due.” She tapped her pocket. “And if this ‘lint roller’ can help me understand the intricacies of idol life, then I’ll roll lint with the best of them.”
He scoffed, a soft, dismissive sound. “Spare me the melodrama. Get dressed. Park Seon-gil wants you in Studio C, now. Apparently, your ‘divine inspiration’ is urgently required. Specifically, for me.” He pivoted on his heel and left, the door clicking shut with a definitive thud. The air in the room felt lighter, but the tension hadn’t dissipated. It had simply shifted.
Studio C was a cavernous space, all soundproofing panels and gleaming equipment, bathed in the cool glow of LED strips. Han Do-yun leaned against a mixing console, arms crossed, his expression a familiar blend of skepticism and impatience. Kwon Ji-ho was perched on a high stool, idly plucking at an acoustic guitar, his usual playful grin absent. Baek Si-woo, ever the bundle of restless energy, was bouncing a tennis ball off a padded wall, catching it with practiced ease. Min-jun was already seated at the main console, headphones perched on one ear, eyes glued to a monitor displaying complex waveforms.
“Ah, the Muse arrives,” Do-yun drawled, pushing off the console. “Just in time. Min-jun’s latest track is proving… challenging. Perhaps your celestial wisdom can unblock him.” There was a definite edge to his tone, a subtle challenge.
Ha-mi forced another smile beneath their collective scrutiny and doubt. “My celestial wisdom operates on a very specific frequency, Do-yun-ssi. Sometimes it requires… ambient light, or a particular brand of artisanal kimchi.”
Ji-ho chuckled, a dry sound, finally looking up. “So, our Muse is a food critic? I’d have thought you’d be communing with ancient spirits of harmony, not debating the merits of fermented cabbage.”
Min-jun ignored them all. He tapped a few keys. A sparse, melancholic chord progression filled the control booth, twisting and turning, almost beautiful, almost complete, but with a lingering sense of something missing. It was clear he was struggling. He pulled off his headphones, his eyes fixed on Ha-mi. “Well, Muse? What does the color of this sound tell you?”
Ha-mi’s mind went utterly blank. The ‘color of sound’? Was that even a thing? Her artistic talent extended to drawing crude stick figures and failing miserably at karaoke. She wracked her brain, desperately trying to conjure some semblance of profound insight. “It’s… it’s a very… periwinkle sound,” she blurted out, her voice cracking slightly. “Muted, yet bright. With, um, flecks of… ochre.”
Ji-ho snorted, trying to hide it behind a cough. Si-woo paused his ball bouncing, a smirk playing on his lips. Even Do-yun looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Min-jun, however, merely fixed her with a glare, his brow furrowed deeper. “Pastel blue. Ochre. Fascinating. And what exactly does that suggest for the bridge, Muse? More cowbell?”
The humiliation was a hot flush across Ha-mi’s cheeks. She stammered, “No, no, not cowbell! More… more ethereal, yet grounded. Like a… a particularly well-rooted cloud. Yes. A cloud with excellent soil.”
Silence. Thick, oppressive, judgmental silence. She could feel her imposter syndrome clawing its way out from under her carefully constructed bluff. This was it. She was going to be exposed. Sued. Forgotten. Her phone vibrated with a discreet buzz in her pocket. It was Yu-ri.
[Yu-ri: OMG HA-MI! MY SOURCES ARE SAYING SNE HAS A ‘SHADOW SONGWRITER’ – SOMEONE WHO GHOST-WRITES FOR THE IDOLS! IT’S A RUMOR, BUT IF TRUE, IT’S HUGE. COULD BE YOUR TICKET OUT OF THIS MESS! FIND OUT MORE!!!]
Ha-mi barely processed the text. Her phone buzzed again, a different, more ominous hum. The system. A new ‘note-to-self’ notification.
[QUEST: Convince the Producer his chord progression is derivative of a 90s shampoo jingle. Reward: 10 Karma Points, +5 Wit Stat.]
Ha-mi checked the screen, then glanced up at Min-jun’s intense, expectant face. A vintage soap advertisement tune? It was so absurd, so specific, it just might work. What did she have to lose? More dignity? Impossible.
“Wait!” Ha-mi exclaimed, startling herself as much as the others. “Min-jun-ssi, I’ve just had a breakthrough! It’s not soft blue at all! It’s… it’s the exact chord progression from that old ‘SparkleSilk’ hair-wash commercial! You know, ‘SparkleSilk, for hair that shines like a star!’” She even hummed a few notes, a ridiculously cheerful, overly saccharine melody that clashed violently with the poignant track he’d just played.
Min-jun’s face, which had been a mask of creative frustration, went utterly white. His pupils shrank, absolute horror flashing across his features. He gaped at the monitor, then back at Ha-mi, as if she’d just revealed the deepest, darkest secret of his soul. His hands flew to the keyboard, playing the chords again, slowly, deliberately. The notes rang out, stark in the sudden quiet. Then, almost imperceptibly, he started humming. The cheerful ditty. His shoulders slumped. “No…” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “No, it can’t be. I’ve been blocked for so long… I didn’t even notice.” He ran a hand through his hair, a profound sense of self-disappointment radiating from him.
Do-yun’s jaw dropped. Ji-ho’s guitar slipped from his lap, clattering softly on the floor. Si-woo’s tennis ball rolled forgotten across the polished concrete. They all stood frozen, looking from Min-jun to Ha-mi, shock giving way to comprehension. The Muse, the useless, instant-noodle-smelling Muse, had just cracked the musician's creative block with a forgotten commercial hook.
The soundproof door slid open with a soft hiss, and a new figure entered. He was impeccably dressed in a dark, tailored suit, with sleek, silver hair and eyes that missed nothing. Mr. Kang, a high-ranking SNE executive known for his ruthless efficiency and terrifying smile. He surveyed the stunned silence, his gaze lingering on Min-jun’s mortified expression, then settling on Ha-mi.
“Ah, Director Kang,” Do-yun said, recovering first, his voice tight. “To what do we owe the… pleasure?”
Mr. Kang’s smile widened, revealing perfect, white teeth. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Just checking on our prized asset, ASTRAL. And their magnificent new Muse.” He walked slowly into the room, his footsteps echoing softly. “Noh Ha-mi, isn’t it? I must say, your methods are… unorthodox. But effective, it seems.” He nodded towards Min-jun, who was still staring at his screen in disbelief. “To pull a forgotten melody from the depths of creative despair. Truly inspired.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze sweeping over each member of ASTRAL. The room turned ice-cold under an oppressive hush. “However,” he continued, his voice losing its pleasant lilt, “inspiration, however unorthodox, must translate into results. And results, gentlemen, have been lacking.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Therefore, effective immediately, if ASTRAL cannot deliver a chart-topping comeback track within 72 hours, the entire comeback slot will be reassigned to our rival group. You have until Monday morning.”