With Go Min-young's lyrics spread out on the table like a sacred text, a new, formidable challenge emerged. The words had a soul, but a soul needs a body. They needed music—a sound that could match the lyrics' cold fury and vulnerable heart. Han Yoo-jin's first instinct was to tap into the network he had painstakingly built over ten years at Stellar Entertainment. He retreated to a corner of the office with his phone, armed with a list of promising, mid-tier freelance composers and producers—talented individuals who were always hungry for work.
He exuded confidence for the sake of his two young charges, who were watching him with a mixture of hope and anxiety. But inwardly, he was bracing for impact. He knew Director Kang's threat on his last day wasn't just idle posturing.
The first call went straight to voicemail. No callback.
The second call was answered by a producer named Choi Seung-hwan, a man Yoo-jin had worked with on a successful project two years prior. "Yoo-jin! Long time no see! How are things?" Seung-hwan's voice was warm and friendly.
"Good, Seung-hwan. Actually, they're better than ever," Yoo-jin said cheerfully. "I've left Stellar and started my own label. I'm producing a new solo artist, a truly special vocalist. I have the lyrics for her debut track right here, and I immediately thought of you for the production."
The silence on the other end of the line was instantaneous and telling. The warmth in Seung-hwan's voice evaporated. "Oh," he said, the single word now heavy and cautious. "You… you left Stellar? I hadn't heard."
"It was a recent development," Yoo-jin said, keeping his tone light. "So, are you available? The budget is competitive."
"Ah… you know, Yoo-jin, I'd love to, I really would, but… my schedule is just… it's insane right now. I'm fully booked for the next six months. A real shame."
"Six months?" Yoo-jin pressed gently. "Last week your social media said you were looking for new projects."
Another pause, this one filled with discomfort. "Yeah, well, something big came up. You know how it is. Hey, I've gotta run. Let's catch up another time!" The line went dead.
Yoo-jin stared at his phone, a cold knot forming in his stomach. He took a deep breath and dialed the third name on his list, a producer known for his edgy, electronic sound. This one was more direct.
"Han Yoo-jin? The Han Yoo-jin from Stellar Entertainment?" the producer asked, his voice wary.
"Formerly from Stellar, yes," Yoo-jin corrected. "I've started my own independent label, Aura Management."
"Yeah, I heard," the producer said, his tone turning to ice. "I got a call about you yesterday, actually. Look, man, I'll be straight with you. I like your work, you have a good ear. But my studio has equipment leases to pay. I can't afford to get on Director Kang Min-hyuk's bad side. He has a very, very long memory. You understand, right?" Click.
Yoo-jin lowered the phone, his jaw tight with a suppressed rage. The poison was already spreading, faster and more effectively than he had imagined. Kang wasn't just a ghost from his past; he was an active, malevolent force working against him. Aura Management was being blacklisted, strangled in its crib before it could even take its first breath.
He turned to face Da-eun and Min-young. They didn't need to ask what happened; they could read the answer in the grim set of his jaw.
"No one will work with us?" Min-young asked, her voice small and filled with disappointment.
"They're afraid," Yoo-jin said, walking back to the table. He sat down, his mind racing. He could feel the despair starting to creep into the room, threatening to undo the creative breakthrough they'd just had. He had to kill it, now.
"So, the established route is closed to us," he announced, his voice firm and decisive. "That's fine. We were never going to be an established company anyway. This is a blessing."
Da-eun raised a skeptical eyebrow. "How is being blacklisted by every producer in Seoul a blessing?"
"Because it forces us to look where they won't," Yoo-jin explained, a new fire in his eyes. He opened his laptop. "The producers on that list, they're good. But they're safe. They make hits by following trends. They wouldn't have understood our song anyway. If we can't hire a famous producer, we'll find an unknown one. A brilliant one. Someone who is just as much of an outcast as we are."
He began his new search, not through his industry contacts, but through the digital back alleys of the music world: obscure music production forums, years-old SoundCloud pages, and the liner notes of forgotten indie albums. He was hunting for ghosts—talented individuals who had been burned, cheated, or cast aside by the industry machine.
After hours of relentless digging, he found a promising thread on a forum for audio engineers. The post, dated five years ago, was a bitter rant accusing a famous producer at Starship Entertainment of stealing a song from his uncredited partner, a shadowy figure known only as "Ghost." Yoo-jin's fingers flew across the keyboard. He dug deeper, cross-referencing names, dates, and song titles. Finally, he found him. Kang Ji-won. A composer credited on a few critically acclaimed but commercially invisible indie albums a decade ago, who then seemed to vanish from the face of the earth.
He focused his ability on the name on the screen. The system responded instantly.
[Name: Kang Ji-won (Alias: Ghost)]
[Overall Potential: S+ (Composer/Producer)]
[Key Strengths: Genre Fusion, Unconventional Chord Progressions, Atmospheric Sound Design]
[Critical Weakness: Deep Distrust of the Industry, Creative Paralysis (Caused by Perfectionism)]
[Scandal Factor: 25% -> Details: Prone to leaking demos of producers he dislikes online. Has a history of explosive arguments with A&R teams.]
Yoo-jin grinned. An S+ rank producer with a grudge against the entire industry. He was perfect. He was one of them. Through a database of music royalty payments, Yoo-jin found a recent address linked to Ji-won's account.
The address led him to a rundown, semi-industrial area on the outskirts of Seoul, a place of auto body shops and small warehouses. He found the unit and descended a flight of narrow concrete stairs into a dimly lit basement. He knocked on a heavy, soundproofed door.
After a long moment, the door opened a few inches, held by a chain lock. A man with wild, unkempt hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a deeply suspicious expression peered out at him. The room behind him was a chaotic maze of synthesizers, computer monitors, and a spaghetti-like tangle of cables.
"What do you want?" the man, Kang Ji-won, asked. His voice was raspy, as if from lack of use.
"My name is Han Yoo-jin. I'm starting a new label," Yoo-jin said clearly. "I need a producer."
Ji-won let out a short, harsh laugh. It was a sound completely devoid of humor. "A label? Good for you. That's great. I'm not for hire. I don't work for suits. Now get lost." He tried to shut the door.
Yoo-jin put his hand flat against the door, stopping it. "You worked on the album 'City of Echoes' for the indie band 'Neon Shift' back in 2012," he said quickly, his voice sharp and precise. "The third track, 'Rainy Night Drive.' You used a blend of a programmed TR-808 drum machine with a live-recorded, slightly delayed hi-hat pattern. And you layered a reversed piano chord progression underneath the main synth line to create a sense of dissonance. It produced a sound that was both nostalgic and futuristic. Nobody has done anything like it since."
Kang Ji-won froze, his hand still on the doorknob. His hostile glare was replaced by a look of utter shock. The system panel in Yoo-jin's vision confirmed his reaction.
[Kang Ji-won's Current Thoughts: How…? How in the hell? Nobody knows about that track. The album sold less than five hundred copies. How does this corporate-looking guy know my specific, obscure production techniques from a decade-old failure?]
"I'm not looking to hire a ghostwriter to make me the next big K-Pop hit," Yoo-jin said, pressing his advantage. "I'm looking for Kang Ji-won. The artist. I have lyrics, written by an undiscovered S-rank poet. I have a vocalist with a one-of-a-kind tone that the industry was too stupid to recognize. I need a soundscape for them that no one else in Korea is brave enough or brilliant enough to make. I'm not offering you a job. I'm offering you a chance to finally make the music you actually hear in your head, with no executive committee, no marketing team, and no sales directors to dilute it. Total. Creative. Freedom."
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket—a printout of Go Min-young's lyrics. He pushed it through the crack in the door.
"Read that. And if it speaks to you, my number is at the bottom. If it doesn't, I promise I will never bother you again."
Yoo-jin turned and walked away without waiting for a response. He left Kang Ji-won standing in the doorway, staring at the slip of paper in his hand, then back at the empty hallway, utterly and completely bewildered.