The mission began in a small, soundproofed practice room, a sterile white cube insulated from the rest of the world. It was a space designed for creation, but today it was to be used for a painful, meticulous excavation. Inside, it was just Yoo-jin and Jin. The room was bare except for a single, high-end keyboard connected to a laptop and a large, empty whiteboard. The first and most crucial step in crafting their counter-spell was to map the musical DNA of their enemy, and that meant Jin had to willingly walk back into the ghost-filled halls of his own memory.
The process was proving to be more difficult, more fraught, than either of them had anticipated. Jin sat at the keyboard, his posture rigid, his fingers resting stiffly on the keys. He was struggling, a deep line of frustration etched between his brows.
He played a few chords, a simple, almost generic melancholic progression. "This is it," he said, his voice tight with a tension that had nothing to do with the music. "This was her favorite progression. A minor to G to C. She used it in almost everything. She called it her 'sound of rain.'"
But his playing was lifeless. It was academic. He was recalling the notes as if reading them from a textbook, a technical exercise devoid of any emotion. It was the musical equivalent of reciting a grocery list. This was not the data Yoo-jin needed. This was a wall.
Yoo-jin, standing a few feet away, took a quiet, steadying breath and activated his Producer's Eye, focusing his perception with laser-like intensity on Jin. The cool blue data streams flickered into his vision, painting a clear and immediate diagnosis of the problem.
[Analyzing Subject: Kim Jin-hyuk]
[Emotional State: Actively Suppressed (Trauma Response LV 7)]
[Creative Output: Technically Accurate (99.2%), Emotionally Detached (8%)]
[SYSTEM NOTE: Blockage Detected. Subject is subconsciously creating an emotional barrier to avoid re-engaging with painful memories associated with the target. This is preventing access to the deeper, more nuanced 'Artistic Signature' data required for the mission's success.]
The Eye confirmed what Yoo-jin's gut already knew. Jin was protecting himself. He was treating the memory of Nam Gyu-ri like a radioactive isotope, handling it with clinical distance to avoid contamination. Yoo-jin realized he couldn't just order Jin to remember. That would be like ordering a soldier to charge a minefield. He had to walk him through it, step by step. He had to become a guide for this grim psychological archaeology.
"It's a start," Yoo-jin said, his voice gentle, betraying none of the urgency he felt. "But don't just play the chords, Jin. Go back to that moment. Truly go back. Picture the practice room at Stellar. The one at the end of the hall, with the buzzing fluorescent light. Ten years ago. What did it smell like?"
Jin looked up, his expression confused. "Smell like? Like old carpet and stale coffee. I don't see how that matters. The music is what's important."
"It all matters," Yoo-jin insisted, his voice soft but firm. "Her music didn't come from a vacuum. It came from her, in that room, at that time. To understand her signature, we have to understand the context. The sensory details are triggers for deeper memory. Close your eyes. Tell me about the look on her face when she played this progression for you. Was she proud? Frustrated? Was she trying to impress you?"
Jin sighed, a sound of deep reluctance, but he closed his eyes. The room was silent for a long moment, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning. Yoo-jin watched him, his Producer's Eye still active, monitoring the subtle shifts in Jin's emotional state.
[Emotional State: Resistance (LV 6). Subject is attempting to maintain emotional distance.]
"She wasn't trying to impress me," Jin said finally, his voice distant. "She was always trying to impress Chairman Choi. She thought… she thought this progression sounded expensive. Sophisticated." He played the chords again, and this time, there was a subtle shift. A hint of something—a sad, misplaced ambition—colored the notes.
[Emotional Barrier beginning to degrade. Accessing Latent Memory Data: 22%]
"Good," Yoo-jin encouraged him quietly. "Stay there. What else? What was her biggest frustration as a composer?"
"Her bridges," Jin answered immediately, the memory coming faster now. "She always said her verses were strong and her choruses were catchy, but her bridges were weak. She could never make the transition feel natural. It always felt… forced." As he spoke, he instinctively began to play a more complex melody, one that soared and then stumbled, mirroring the very flaw he was describing. It was a beautiful, broken fragment of music.
[Latent Memory Data Access: 45%. New Trait Information Unlocked: 'Gyu-ri's Structural Insecurity'.]
"And her lyrics?" Yoo-jin prompted. "What was she always writing about?"
Jin let out a short, bitter laugh. "The same things. Being misunderstood. Being a lonely star in a dark sky. The injustice of true talent going unrecognized." He played another melody, this one filled with a dramatic, soaring melancholy. It was the sound of teenage angst polished to a high shine.
This was it. They were getting closer to the core of her artistic identity from that time. But Yoo-jin needed more than just the technical details. He needed the emotional engine that drove them.
"The day of the final presentation," Yoo-jin said, his voice dropping, knowing he was now approaching the heart of the trauma. "The day I… won. She played one last song for you before we went in to see the Chairman. What was it?"
Jin's hands froze on the keys. His eyes snapped open. "No."
[SYSTEM WARNING: Trauma Proximity Alert. Emotional State: Acute Resistance (LV 9). Risk of complete shutdown.]
Yoo-jin knew he had one chance to push through. "I need to know, Jin. It's the most important piece. It was her last, truest artistic statement before everything changed. What did it sound like?"
Jin's face was pale, his breathing shallow. He was back in that hallway, a decade ago, the weight of his own ambition and her impending doom pressing down on him. He shook his head again, but then, as if his fingers had a will of their own, they began to move.
He played a melody that was unlike the others. It was simpler, more vulnerable. It wasn't posturing. It wasn't trying to be sophisticated. It was just… sad. A deep, profound, and surprisingly hopeful sadness.
Yoo-jin watched the data on his Eye shift dramatically.
[Emotional Barrier Bypassed. Full Access to Latent Memory Data Granted.]
[New Trait Information Unlocked: 'Gyu-ri's Hopeful Melancholy'.]
[Analysis: The core of the subject's artistic signature is not bitterness or anger, but a deep-seated belief that profound sadness can be beautiful and, ultimately, redemptive. This is the key.]
Jin stopped playing, his hands falling to his lap. He opened his eyes, and they were shining with unshed tears. "I remember," he whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, painful clarity. "She wasn't just sad when she played that song. She was… hopeful. She truly believed that if she could just make Chairman Choi feel the beauty in her sadness, that he would finally understand her. She thought her art would save her."
He had found it. The root of her grudge wasn't just that she had lost; it was that her core artistic belief, the very thing that made her an artist, had been rejected and deemed worthless.
Yoo-jin let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. The excavation was a success. It had been painful, dangerous work, but he had guided Jin through the minefield of his own past and emerged with the ghost they needed to defeat.