Chapter 31: The Night Before (1)
“Ah, do you have something to add, Heli-ssi?”
I nodded and picked up the microphone.
The trainee’s face instantly grew tense.
No—this wasn’t just tension; her expression turned pale as if she had just seen a ghost.
That stung a little.
Was my face really that intimidating?
Oh, right.
I’d been scowling this whole time because of Kim Yo-han.
I felt a bit guilty about it.
Clearing my throat with a soft cough, I steadied my voice and began to speak.
“Your vocal tone is good. It’s stable, and you clearly understand what kind of song you should be singing. Yoo-ju-ssi, if you keep working hard, I believe you’ll see great results.”
I kept my feedback brief.
Yet, the trainee simply stared at me with wide eyes, not reacting at all.
Thinking she might not have understood, I summed it up in one sentence.
“You did well.”
“Oh! Thank you so much!”
Only then did her face light up.
She gave a deep bow and walked out, her steps light and quick, almost skipping.
Watching her leave, I couldn’t help but feel satisfied.
But the other three producers weren’t looking at me the same way.
Their gazes were… peculiar.
Especially Kim Yo-han.
His furrowed brow felt like a dagger pointed right at me.
“Hey, Heli-ssi. Why are you suddenly playing the role of an angel?”
“Excuse me? Angel role? I’m just saying she did a good job, so I praised her.”
Kim Yo-han shook his head in disbelief.
“Their instructors handle the evaluations. We’re just here to keep them in line—make sure they don’t get out of hand.”
“…Isn’t it our job to guide them in the right direction?”
“No, if you spoil them too much, they’ll turn into brats. They’re just kids, you know? They don’t know better. If they get picked while they’re full of themselves, they’ll be a nightmare to manage later. They might even pick up bad habits.”
For a moment, my mind went blank.
Taming them versus guiding them.
Which of these was the true role of a producer?
“Heli-ssi, we can’t let you have the mic anymore.”
I simply heard Kim Yo-han sneered.
I didn’t respond.
Not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I was so dumbfounded that words failed me.
“Hello!”
Amidst the tension, the next trainee entered the room.
The process repeated itself.
The producers continued to withhold praise, instead focusing their sharp criticism on even the smallest mistakes.
Unlike them, I stuck to my own methods, standing firm.
If they wouldn’t let me use the mic, I’d just use my voice.
“When your pitch drops, your voice tends to shake and lose stability. If you can fix that, things will improve a lot.”
“Your voice lacks color—it’s too monotone, like an undefined shade of gray. You seem stuck, trying a bit of everything without finding your identity. Maybe focusing on one genre could help. R&B might suit you. Start by working on clarifying your tone.”
I gave out some harsh feedback too when necessary.
Perhaps because of that—or maybe because he’d simply grown tired—Kim Yo-han stopped interfering midway through.
…Two hours passed like this.
And then, she appeared.
A woman more striking than any of the previous trainees walked in, a guitar slung over her back.
She stopped for a brief moment when her gaze landed on me, as though surprised.
But she quickly regained her composure and stood confidently.
“My name is Ah-yeong.”
At her introduction, Kim Yo-han reacted loudly, almost theatrically.
“This time, stay quiet. If you don’t want the contract terminated right after it’s signed…”
He trailed off, then continued with a sharp edge in his tone.
“Alright, Ji Ah-yeong-ssi. Let’s start with your singing.”
“Yes.”
Ji Ah-yeong replied politely and began her performance.
Her song of choice was Jin So-jung’s ‘The Wind Blows’.
She had skillfully adapted the original piano accompaniment for the guitar, and her vocals weren’t bad.
That was the problem.
Ji Ah-yeong wasn’t the kind of singer who could be described as ‘not bad’.
“…What the hell?”
The color of her voice was different from what I’d heard before.
The voice that had once shone like sunlight, captivating me from our first meeting, now felt damp and faded.
More precisely, her voice was being buried by the emotions of the song.
It lacked autonomy, dragged along by the fading hue of the melody rather than expressing her own color.
In other words, she was imitating.
Quite literally, she was mimicking.
As though trying to align herself perfectly with the song, she erased all traces of her own individual color.
Why?
Back when we first met, she sang in her own unique style.
What could have happened in such a short time to make her change for the worse?
Why weren’t the other producers pointing this out?
As these questions spiraled in my mind, the song came to an end.
“Ji Ah-yeong-ssi, please perform the dance now!”
Next came the dance portion.
…To be honest, it was barely better than a wooden puppet.
When her performance ended, Kim Yo-han picked up the microphone.
“As for the dance, we’ll just have to let that go. Regarding the song, though, I think you’ve found the right direction. But there hasn’t been much improvement since last time. You can leave now.”
Found the right direction?
Improvement?
She’d regressed, yet he claimed there wasn’t much difference from before?
I was so stunned by his remarks that I found myself doubting everything.
Was Kim Yo-han’s judgment really this lacking?
Or was I the one who was wrong?
“Ah… I understand.”
Though her face darkened, Ji Ah-yeong forced a smile.
She weakly bowed her head and turned away.
None of the other producers offered any additional feedback.
I wanted to say something to her, but Kim Yo-han didn’t hand me the microphone.
Still, I couldn’t just let her go like this.
In the end, I raised my voice.
“Wait a moment.”
Ji Ah-yeong flinched, stopping in her tracks.
She turned back to look at me, her expression tinged with surprise.
Kim Yo-han and the other producers stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, but that didn’t matter.
There was something I had to say to her.
Something she needed to hear.
“Why are you imitating someone else?”
“…What?”
“…Pardon?”
Both Ji Ah-yeong and Kim Yo-han exclaimed in unison, their voices layered with shock.
“I’m asking why are you trying to erase your own color?”
Ji Ah-yeong’s face filled with confusion.
“Is this guy for real—urk.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t deliberately throw away your own color, what makes you unique.”
Shrugging off Kim Yohan’s grip as he tried to restrain me, I pressed on.
His presence was as inconsequential as fallen leaves.
“Your voice shines brighter than anyone else’s.”
I finally said everything I wanted to.
…And then, a wave of embarrassment hit me like a tidal surge.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Kim Yo-han sitting on the ground where he’d fallen, gripping his fist so tightly that I could hear his knuckles crack.
He got up and returned to his seat, his face flushed red with anger, breathing heavily.
“Must be because he’s new here… doesn’t know how things work. Ji Ah-yeong-ssi, pretend you didn’t hear that. You can go.”
“…Ah, yes.”
Ji Ah-yeong bowed politely and left.
I quietly watched her retreating figure.
With Ji Ah-yeong’s performance, the program came to an end.
The other two producers left in a hurry, their faces showing how much they’d found the entire thing tiresome.
But Kim Yo-han and I stayed behind.
Well, more accurately, Kim Yo-han kept me behind.
“Heli-ssi, I told you, didn’t I? If I give the signal, you’re supposed to stay quiet.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know? The signal? I literally said it. What, do you not understand Korean? You speak English, maybe? Do you speak English?”
I nodded silently, my gaze steady.
I had no words to spare for someone who misguides others and tries to crush talent under the weight of authority.
Kim Yo-han’s face twisted like a crumpled newspaper.
“This guy… Are you serious? I told you, didn’t I? If you keep this up, your contract’s going to get terminated the moment it’s signed.”
“…”
“She’s the CEO’s niece. The CEO’s niece! Practically her daughter!”
I pressed my lips tightly together, as if sewing them shut to make sure they wouldn’t open.
Maintaining good relationships is the foundation of everything.
The foundation.
“And who do you think you are, huh?”
Poke.
He jabbed my shoulder with his finger.
The words that were on the verge of spilling out, I shoved back down.
“Who do you think you are to run your mouth like that?”
Poke.
He jabbed again.
Out of respect for his seniority, I held back one more time.
But the heat in my head kept building, steadily rising.
“And what’s with all this talk about her shining voice or whatever? Ridiculous. Just ridiculous.”
And then, the third and final jab.
“Do you think you know better than me? When I tell you to stay quiet, just stay quiet.”
At that moment, something snapped in my mind.
Before I could stop myself, words poured out instinctively, my voice brimming with heat, sharp and confrontational.
“Then who do you think you are?”
“…What?”
His lips tried to curl into a grin, but his trembling hands betrayed him.
Before I knew it, my hand had landed on his shoulder.
Up close, he was smaller than I’d imagined.
“Are you trying to teach me? Who the hell are you to do that?”
“…I-I’m just saying, as your senior…”
“I haven’t even signed a contract yet. You’re not my senior.”
“Y-you haven’t signed? Then why are you even…”
I took a step closer.
With each step I took forward, Kim Yo-han took one back.
Until his back was nearly pressed against the wall.
“H-hey, hold on! You’re not seriously going to hit me, are you?”
“I don’t hit people.”
I’d left brawling behind my back in high school.
Instead, I casually brushed the dust off his shoulder, shaking it loose.
He seemed relieved and gave a nervous cough.
“Ahem… W-well, anyway, I was just saying you should stay in your lane if you don’t know what’s what. It’s just… a courtesy to a rookie.”
Rookie. Rookie.
He kept repeating ‘rookie’.
As if working a few more years than me gave him the right to condescend.
Still, I decided this was enough.
No need to escalate.
“I understand.”
They say enduring three times can save a nation.
So, I just turned away.
…But then, from behind me, Kim Yo-han’s voice rang out, dripping with smugness.
“You know, you might be better off not signing that contract. I don’t think you’d be treated very well here. With that personality of yours… Tsk.”
I smiled.
Slowly, I turned back around.
Startled, Kim Yo-han flinched as I walked toward him, each step deliberate.
“Senior. How about we make a bet?”
“…A bet?”
“Let’s see which one of us ends up getting treated better around here.”
“What are you talking about? Weren’t you just saying I’m not your senior?”
He couldn’t even meet my eyes, shuffling backward step by step.
“And let’s see who gets their ass handed to them and kicked out first.”
I blocked his escape route, standing directly in front of him.
“Let’s make a bet.”
Straightening his wrinkled lapels as though tidying him up, I leaned closer.
My grip tightened slightly, enough to make it seem like I was about to grab him by the collar.
“I’m betting one hundred million won that I’ll beat you within six months.”
Kim Yo-han’s pupils wavered, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
Was it because he lacked confidence?
Or was it because he was terrified of the situation itself?
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