Two days later, Minjun stood on a cracked sidewalk in Hongdae, staring at the battered guitar case at his feet. Jiwoo crouched beside it, carefully arranging the handwritten sign they'd torn from a cardboard box:
TWO SONGS FOR A SMILE
Minjun hated how cheap the cardboard looked under the neon signs. He hated how his hands shook when he tuned Jiwoo's guitar — strings too old, the wood chipped near the bridge. Once, he'd dreamed of stadiums and million-won microphones. Now it was streetlights and a battered amp Jiwoo found in a pawn shop.
But Jiwoo was here — half-smiling, hair tucked under a beanie, knuckles raw from dragging their borrowed gear across town. And that was enough.
The first chord rang out thin and rough — but honest. Jiwoo tapped the beat on the guitar's body while Minjun took a breath that tasted like fear and freedom.
The first few people drifted past. A couple stopped — university kids in matching windbreakers. They whispered, eyes flicking to the cardboard sign, then to Minjun's face. Recognition flared in the girl's eyes. Isn't he that trainee? Minjun thought he'd hate it — but instead, it made his chest tighten with a reckless pride.
He closed his eyes and started to sing.
No lights. No backing track. Just his voice, raw and warm in the humid night air. Jiwoo's chords stitched the cracks together, filling in the silences that used to drown him.
The words were new — verses they'd scribbled in a cheap notebook in a convenience store just hours ago. A promise in the shape of a melody.
People stopped. First a handful. Then a few more. Some dropped coins into the guitar case. Some pulled out their phones — recording shaky videos that would be posted with captions like Did you see this ex-Starline boy?
But Minjun didn't care. If they remembered him as the boy who walked away, good. Let them see what he'd chosen instead.
After three songs, Jiwoo's voice joined his — rough but steady, blending like it always did when the world fell away and it was just the two of them singing promises to the night sky.
When they finished, a small round of applause broke through the traffic noise. Minjun laughed into the mic they'd borrowed, voice hoarse but alive. Jiwoo just grinned, breath misting in the night air.
Someone shouted, Encore! and Jiwoo threw Minjun a look — One more? Minjun nodded. Of course. Always one more.
They played until the streetlights flickered off and the early buses started their morning runs. By then, the coins and small bills in the guitar case were enough for breakfast and maybe new strings if they skipped lunch.
Minjun counted it up, laughing when Jiwoo scolded him for being sloppy with the change. They sat on the curb together, eating triangle kimbap from a convenience store and sipping lukewarm canned coffee.
For the first time in weeks, Minjun's heartbeat felt calm. Jiwoo nudged his shoulder. "You sure about this? The cold. The late nights. No guarantees."
Minjun leaned back against him, eyelids heavy. "I'm sure."
Jiwoo flicked the empty can across the sidewalk. It clattered against the streetlamp pole. "You know, if you start doubting this, I'll knock you back to your senses."
Minjun smiled, tired but unafraid. "Good. We'll build our own stage. Street by street."
Somewhere deep in the city, Starline's skyscraper glittered under the dawn — a world away. But here, under cheap streetlights and flickering signs, their dream was alive again. Smaller. Louder. Real.