12: Chapter 12 Super Lollipop!

By the time they stepped out of the pojangmacha, the night was already deep.

The wind by the Han River was a bit cooler than in the evening, carrying moisture and the scent of smoke from distant barbecue stalls. Jiang Zhiyu walked in front, an old wooden guitar on his back, an amplifier in his left hand, and a cloth bag containing a microphone stand in his right. NingNing followed behind him, carrying a takeout box—inside were unfinished tteokbokki and kimbap; she said they couldn't be wasted. Kim Minjeong walked in the middle, still draped in Jiang Zhiyu's jacket. The sleeves were a bit too long, covering her fingers and leaving only her fingertips visible. Karina walked at the very back, her steps light and steady, like a cat moving through the night.

The four of them walked along the riverside path toward the subway station. The streetlights stretched their shadows long, casting them onto the concrete ground like four silhouettes painted on paper. There were very few people on the road now; occasionally, one or two night runners would pass by, their footsteps echoing on the empty path before disappearing back into the night.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't walk fast, but his pace was rhythmic, with each step nearly the same distance apart, as if measured with a ruler. His gaze occasionally swept over nearby alley entrances and forks in the road—not out of deliberate observation, but as a habit, an instinct etched into his bones that required no thought. Back on the Tianxuan Continent, this habit had saved him many times. In unfamiliar environments, always maintain awareness of the surrounding space, always anticipate potential dangers, and always position oneself most advantageously.

NingNing yawned. "Teacher, how much further to the subway station?"

"Ten minutes."

"Another ten minutes of walking..." NingNing grumbled, but her pace didn't slow down. Her stamina was much better than when she first arrived in Korea; ten-plus hours of daily training hadn't been for nothing.

Kim Minjeong didn't speak. She kept her head down, stepping on Jiang Zhiyu's shadow as she walked, each step landing precisely on the shadow's outline, as if playing a game only she knew.

Karina walked at the very back, her gaze calmly watching the road ahead. Her peripheral vision swept over a narrow alley on the right—it was unlit and pitch black, like an open mouth.

As the four of them passed that narrow alley, a sound came from within.

It wasn't voices, but footsteps. Heavy, chaotic footsteps from more than one person. The footsteps drew closer, and then several figures emerged from the darkness.

Three men. No, four. There was one more at the very back, wearing a dark jacket with his hat pulled low, his face obscured. The man leading them was tall, estimated at over 1.85 meters and weighing around 90 kilograms. He wore a flashy Hawaiian shirt with the collar open, revealing a patch of dark skin on his chest. His face was as red as a boiled shrimp, his eyes cloudy and pupils dilated; he had clearly been drinking a lot.

"There are some pretty girls here—"

The man's voice was loud, thick with the smell of alcohol and an uncomfortably slimy tone. His gaze swept from NingNing to Kim Minjeong, then from Kim Minjeong to Karina, finally landing on Jiang Zhiyu. He paused for a moment, then let out a muffled laugh.

His two companions stood behind him, shorter but equally sturdy. The three of them blocked the path, standing under the streetlight, their shadows looming over like three mountains.

NingNing's footsteps stopped. Her hand instinctively tightened around the takeout box, her knuckles turning white. Kim Minjeong looked up from Jiang Zhiyu's shadow. The moment she saw the men, her breathing quickened, her lips trembled slightly, and she subconsciously took half a step back.

Karina didn't retreat.

Her footsteps stopped, but her body didn't move back. She stood her ground, her gaze sweeping across the three men's faces without flinching or showing fear, only a calm look as if she were evaluating something.

Jiang Zhiyu stopped. He didn't look back, simply placing the amplifier in his left hand and the cloth bag in his right slowly onto the ground, his movements gentle as if handling something fragile. Then he took the wooden guitar off his back and leaned it against the amplifier. He did these things calmly and without haste, every step as composed as if he were performing a routine task that required no special attention.

"Oppa—" Kim Minjeong's voice was tiny, almost scattered by the river wind. Her hand emerged from the jacket sleeve and grabbed the hem of Jiang Zhiyu's shirt, her fingers gripping so tightly that her fingertips turned white.

Jiang Zhiyu turned around and looked at her.

There was fear in Kim Minjeong's eyes, but not the kind from being terrified; it was the fear of "I know you're in danger." She wasn't afraid of getting hurt herself; she was afraid of him getting hurt.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her fingers gripping his shirt and remained silent for a second. Then he reached out and pried her fingers away one by one, gently, as if dismantling a precision instrument. He placed her hand back into the jacket pocket, then pulled the jacket's zipper all the way up to just beneath her chin.

"Don't move," he said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady—so steady it was like a stone dropped into deep water, without even a ripple.

Then he turned around and walked past Kim Minjeong.

His pace wasn't fast, but every step was firm, as if leaving footprints on the ground. He walked up to the three men and stopped less than two meters away. This distance was close—close enough to smell the strong stench of alcohol and cigarettes, close enough to see the shape of the grease stain on the man's shirt collar.

He didn't speak. He just stood there, looking at them.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt felt a bit uneasy under his gaze. It wasn't the look a sixteen-year-old boy should have—it was too cold, too calm, as if he were looking at something irrelevant and unworthy of attention.

"Hey, this kid—"

He didn't finish his sentence because Karina stepped out from behind Jiang Zhiyu.

She walked to Jiang Zhiyu's right and stood side-by-side with him. Her steps were light but firm, each one landing in the intervals of Jiang Zhiyu's steps, as if a silent understanding existed between them. Her hands hung at her sides, shoulders slightly dropped, center of gravity lowered, and she took half a step forward with her left foot, toe touching the ground and heel slightly raised. Her right hand was clenched into a fist at her waist, while her left hand was open in front of her chest. With her chin tucked and her gaze level, she looked from the opponent's eyes to their shoulders, then from their shoulders to their knees—this was a standard Karate starting stance, integrating offense and defense, capable of both attacking and retreating.

Jiang Zhiyu glanced sideways at her.

He truly didn't know Karina knew Karate. He had known her for almost six months, and she had never mentioned it. Not in the group chat, not during training, not during barbecue dinners. She had hidden it well—so well that even he hadn't noticed. Standing there with her back straight and her gaze cold, she was like an unsheathed blade—not a shiny new one, but an old blade hidden in its scabbard for a long time, never shown to anyone, but with its sharpness undiminished.

Jiang Zhiyu reached out and nudged her arm. The force wasn't heavy, but the meaning was clear—step back.

Karina didn't retreat.

Her body remained motionless, as if rooted to the spot. Her gaze stayed locked on the opponent, her lips slightly pursed, and the line of her jaw was tight.

"Ji-min," Jiang Zhiyu called her name. His voice wasn't loud, but there was something unquestionable in his tone.

Karina finally looked at him. There was so much in that glance—it wasn't bravado, it wasn't stubbornness, it wasn't "I'm not listening to you," but a quiet, stubborn insistence of "I can protect you too."

Jiang Zhiyu looked into those cold eyes that didn't show a hint of retreat and remained silent for a second.

Then he withdrew his hand and didn't push her again.

"Then be careful," he said.

"Okay."

Seeing these two "discussing" who would fight in front of him, the man in the Hawaiian shirt's expression changed from drunken red to an angry flush. He was being ignored. Ignored by a boy who looked less than twenty and a young girl. This feeling was worse than being cursed at.

"You punks—!"

He reached out and lunged for Jiang Zhiyu's collar. The movement was fast and forceful, carrying a brute strength intended to hoist him up.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't dodge.

His right hand rose from his waist, palm facing outward and fingers together like an open fan. His palm pressed against the man's wrist—not grabbing it, but "sticking" to it. There was almost no gap between his palm and the man's skin, yet he applied no force. Then his wrist turned slightly, guiding the man's wrist to flip outward. The movement was so small that an onlooker could barely see him moving. But the man in the Hawaiian shirt felt as if his wrist were being twisted by an invisible force, his entire arm involuntarily veering outward, his hand missing Jiang Zhiyu's collar and sweeping past his side.

Tai Chi. Grasp the Sparrow's Tail.

This wasn't just for show, not the slow-motion morning exercise for the elderly in parks. This was real, combat-ready Tai Chi—every move integrated offense and defense, and behind every seemingly soft curve lay hidden explosive power sufficient to break bones. Jiang Zhiyu had started learning this set of fist techniques from the old physician of Medicine King Valley at age seven. He had practiced it for twenty-three years, performing it every single morning without fail, regardless of the weather. His Tai Chi wasn't for health or performance, but to eliminate the most enemies in the shortest time with the least expenditure.

The man in the Hawaiian shirt was stunned. He didn't know how he had missed. He only knew that he had reached out, and then his hand had veered out of control. He tried to pull his hand back, but Jiang Zhiyu's palm was still stuck to his wrist, that seemingly gentle force acting like a film that glued his hand in place.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't give him time to react.

His left hand shot out from below, his fingertip striking the Jiquan point under the man's armpit. The force wasn't great, but the positioning was extremely precise. The Jiquan point is an acupoint on the Heart Meridian of Hand-Shaoyin; when stimulated by external force, the entire arm instantly loses power, as if the power plug had been pulled.

The Hawaiian-shirted man's right arm went limp, like a snake with its bones removed. A look of terror appeared on his face—not from pain, but from the "unknown." He didn't know what the boy had done to him; he only knew he suddenly couldn't control his arm. This feeling of loss of control was more terrifying than any pain.

Seeing things go south, his two companions charged forward at the same time.

The one on the left threw a punch at Jiang Zhiyu's head, the fist whistling through the air with great speed. The one on the right circled around from the side, reaching out to grab Karina's hair—he likely thought girls were easier to deal with.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't look at the punch from the left. His body sank slightly, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left, then he suddenly sprang up. His right hand traced an arc from bottom to top, his palm supporting the base of the opponent's fist and sending it upward and outward. The force of the opponent's punch was neutralized by this arc, its direction changing from "hitting Jiang Zhiyu's head" to "hitting the air thirty centimeters above Jiang Zhiyu's head." The opponent lost his balance due to the excessive force and stumbled forward.

Jiang Zhiyu's right hand didn't stop. His palm slid from the opponent's wrist to his elbow, then gave a light push. The force wasn't great, but the direction perfectly matched the opponent's stumble. This push accelerated the stumble, and the man went flying like a swatted fly, landing face-down on the ground with a dull thud.

Meanwhile, Karina's side also engaged.

The man reaching for her hair underestimated her reaction speed. Just as his hand reached above Karina's head, her left hand shot up from below, blocking his wrist. Her right hand formed a fist, palm up, and thrust forward from her waist—Chudan Tsuki, the most basic and direct attack in Karate. The punch hit the opponent's solar plexus precisely. The force wasn't massive, but the location was accurate. The solar plexus is the area with the densest concentration of phrenic nerves; an impact there causes brief breathing difficulties and intense pain.

The man clutched his chest and bent over, his face pale, mouth open but unable to make a sound. Karina didn't give him a chance to breathe. Her right foot stepped forward, knees slightly bent, center of gravity sinking, then she suddenly twisted her waist and hips, her right arm sweeping inward from the outside—Chudan Uchi Uke, a Karate blocking technique, but in her hands, it became an attack. Her forearm struck the side of the opponent's neck; the force wasn't heavy, but it was enough to make someone already bent over completely lose their balance. The man fell sideways to the ground, clutching his neck and letting out a muffled groan.

Jiang Zhiyu caught a glimpse of Karina during a gap in the fight. Her movements were clean and efficient, without any unnecessary flair; every move was simple, direct, and effective. This wasn't just for show; it was a level achieved only through long-term, systematic, and rigorous training. He didn't know how long she had practiced, but he knew she must have endured a lot. Karate training is brutal, especially for girls. Breaking boards, breaking bricks, sparring, and falling techniques—every lesson is about making friends with pain.

But he had no time to think further. The fourth person.

The man who had been standing at the back, wearing a dark jacket with his hat pulled low, had somehow circled to Jiang Zhiyu's side. Something was now in his hand—a folding knife. The blade wasn't long, but it was sharp, glinting a cold white under the streetlights.

He didn't charge in shouting like the others. He was quiet, as quiet as a cat approaching its prey. His footsteps were light, his breathing steady, and his gaze focused. This person wasn't a drunk thug; he was sober, and the most dangerous of the four.

NingNing saw the knife.

She stood at the back, still holding the box of unfinished tteokbokki. The moment she saw the blade glinting under the streetlights, her heart felt as if it were being squeezed. She wanted to shout, "Teacher, watch out!" but the words were stuck in her throat, and she couldn't make a sound. She wanted to rush forward, but her legs wouldn't obey, as if they were nailed to the ground.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Kim Minjeong saw it too. She stood next to NingNing, her two hands clutching the collar of her jacket, her knuckles white, her lips trembling. She wanted to shout "Oppa," but her voice was so small that even she couldn't hear it.

The man in the jacket raised his knife and stabbed toward Jiang Zhiyu's lower back. The movement was fast, so fast that the process from lifting his arm to stabbing took less than half a second. The blade cut a cold white arc through the air, heading straight for Jiang Zhiyu's waist.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't turn around. But his body moved a fraction of a second before the blade could strike. He didn't dodge—dodging was too slow. His body rotated slightly to the left, just enough of an angle to let the blade graze past his waist. The tip of the blade tore his white shirt, leaving a slit in the fabric, but it didn't hurt his skin.

He turned around to face the man in the jacket.

A flash of surprise crossed the man in the jacket's eyes. He hadn't expected this person to be able to dodge. His knife was fast, fast enough that even he thought it was fast. But this person had dodged it, and done so very easily, as if stepping over a puddle while out for a stroll.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the knife, his brows slightly furrowed. Not because of fear, but because of impatience. He hadn't intended to get serious. These few drunk thugs could just be brushed off; there was no need to make a big scene. But using a knife was different. Using a knife meant the opponent had murderous intent, and an opponent with murderous intent could not be handled by just "brushing them off."

He stepped forward with his right foot, followed by his left, shifting his center of gravity forward. He extended his right hand from his waist, index and middle fingers pressed together, fingertips pointing forward like a blade-less sword. A sword-finger. This was a unique skill he had learned from an old physician at Medicine King Valley, combining the knowledge of acupuncture points from traditional Chinese medicine with the pressure-point techniques of traditional martial arts. It required extremely precise finger strength control and internal energy coordination to be effective. Back on the Tianxuan Continent, he had used this move to subdue armed mercenaries and had struck the pressure points of West Twilight Continent female agents in underground bunkers. Now, he was using it against a knife-wielding street thug—it was a bit embarrassing to say out loud, but as long as it worked, that was fine.

The man in the jacket stabbed again. This time, aiming for Jiang Zhiyu's chest.

Jiang Zhiyu leaned back slightly, and the blade grazed past his chest, less than two centimeters from his shirt. His right hand shot up from below, his sword-finger striking the Neiguan point on the inner side of the opponent's forearm. The Neiguan point is a vital point on the Pericardium Meridian of Hand-Jueyin; when stimulated, the entire arm would go numb like an electric shock, losing its ability to move. The man in the jacket's arm indeed went limp, and the folding knife slipped from his hand, falling to the ground with a crisp metallic clatter.

True fear appeared on the face of the man in the jacket. Not the frustration of "I can't beat you" from before, but the fear of "I don't know what you are doing." His arm wouldn't obey him, as if something had cut off the signal from the inside. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't obey him either—because Jiang Zhiyu's sword-finger had already struck the Huantiao point on the outer side of his thigh.

The Huantiao point is an acupuncture point on the Foot-Shaoyang Gallbladder Meridian. When stimulated, the entire leg instantly loses strength, and the person collapses as if their pillar had been pulled out. The man in the jacket's knees went soft, and he fell to his knees, then collapsed sideways, curling up on the walkway like a snail whose shell had been stepped on.

Jiang Zhiyu withdrew his hand and stood up straight. His breathing was steady, his heart rate hadn't accelerated, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. He looked at the man in the jacket curled up on the ground, then looked at the other three thugs who were already lying on the ground with varied expressions, and then brushed off his hands. The movement was light, as if brushing off non-existent dust.

NingNing stood where she was, mouth agape, eyes wide, still holding that box of tteokbokki. Her brain processed too much information in that instant—Jiang Zhiyu dodged the knife, Jiang Zhiyu used his finger to strike that person's arm and the person couldn't move, Jiang Zhiyu struck the person's leg again and the person knelt down—these pieces of information were like a pile of scrambled puzzle pieces in her mind, and she desperately tried to piece together a complete picture, but couldn't.

Kim Minjeong stood next to NingNing, her hands still clutching her jacket collar, but her fingers were no longer trembling. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu's back, looked at his white shirt with the slit in it, looked at his straight back under the streetlights, and suddenly felt that this man—no, this boy—was much more powerful than she had imagined. Not the kind of power that came from "writing songs very well," but a more primitive, more instinctive power, like a beast lying in wait in the shadows suddenly opening its eyes.

Karina stood to Jiang Zhiyu's right, her Karate starting stance still not retracted. Her breathing was a bit rapid, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead, but her eyes remained cold and calm. She had watched the entire process of Jiang Zhiyu using his sword-finger to strike the pressure points, watching those thugs collapse as if under a spell, and her pupils contracted slightly.

She was a martial artist; she knew what had just happened. That wasn't magic, not a trick, not luck. That was a real, tempered, millimetre-precise technique. The power released from his fingers in that instant was not muscular power, but a more internal, deeper power that seemed to surge from within his bones. She didn't know what it was, but she knew it was very impressive.

Jiang Zhiyu turned around and looked at the three of them.

NingNing's mouth was still open, Kim Minjeong's fingers were still clutching her collar, and Karina's starting stance hadn't been retracted. The three of them stood under the streetlight, their expressions different, but all written with the same meaning—who exactly are you?

Jiang Zhiyu looked at their expressions and was silent for a second. Then he smiled—not the kind of "haha I fooled you" smile, but a kind of "alright, alright, don't ask" smile, tinged with a bit of helplessness.

"Alright, let's go back to the dormitory."

He said it very lightly, very casually, as if saying "what should we eat for breakfast tomorrow." He bent down to pick up the folding knife from the ground, closed the blade, and put it in his pocket—this thing couldn't be left at the scene; if some passing child picked it up, it would be troublesome. Then he walked back, shouldered the acoustic guitar that had been leaning against the speaker, and picked up the speaker and the cloth bag.

NingNing finally closed her mouth. When her mouth closed, it made a slight "click" sound, as if her jawbone had finally reset.

"Teacher," her voice was a bit hoarse, "that just now... was that Chinese Kung Fu?"

Jiang Zhiyu glanced at her. "You could say that."

"You could say that?"

"Tai Chi. With a little something else added."

"What something else?"

"Pressure point striking."

NingNing's mouth opened again. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu, as if looking at someone who had walked out of a martial arts novel. She grew up in the country, had read Jin Yong, read Gu Long, and watched countless martial arts dramas. She had always thought "pressure point striking" was made up by screenwriters, created by special effects, and something that didn't exist in reality. But now, right in front of her, right on the walkway by the Han River in Seoul, right under the streetlights, she had seen with her own eyes a person use a finger to strike another person's arm, and that person couldn't move. Her worldview shifted in a way that was irreversible at that moment.

Kim Minjeong raised her head from her jacket collar and looked at Jiang Zhiyu. Her eyes were a bit red—not from crying, but because she had been too nervous just now, and tears had almost spilled over. "Oppa, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Jiang Zhiyu said. "How about you?"

"I'm fine."

"That's good."

Karina finally retracted her starting stance. Her hands hung at her sides, her shoulders relaxed, and her center of gravity shifted from a low position back to a normal height. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu, was silent for a moment, and then said something.

"Can you teach me the move you just used?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. Karina's gaze was serious—not the kind of serious that meant "just asking," but the kind that meant "I must learn this."

"Karate and pressure point striking are not quite the same," he said. "Karate is a hard style, while pressure point striking is a soft art. The training methods are different, and the applications are different too. If you want to learn, you can start with the basics of Tai Chi."

"Okay," Karina said.

NingNing listened to this conversation from the side and suddenly felt her worldview shift a little bit more. Just a moment ago they were fighting, and now they were discussing a teaching plan. She couldn't understand the brain circuits of these two people.

Kim Minjeong reached out from her jacket pocket and grabbed Jiang Zhiyu's hem again. This time it wasn't out of fear, but for confirmation—confirmation that he was really okay, confirmation that he was still by her side, confirmation that everything just now was real. Jiang Zhiyu looked down at the fingers clutching his hem, didn't pull them away, and didn't say anything. He turned around and walked in the direction of the subway station.

The four of them walked along the path. Jiang Zhiyu walked in front, guitar on his back, carrying the speaker and the cloth bag. Kim Minjeong followed behind him, one hand clutching his hem, the other hand tucked in her pocket. NingNing walked beside Kim Minjeong, still holding the box of tteokbokki, but her steps were much lighter than before. Karina walked at the very back, her steps light and steady, her gaze calmly watching the road ahead.

The streetlights stretched the shadows of the four people very long, casting them onto the path, like a silhouette painting frozen in time. The river breeze blew over, carrying the moisture of the water and the chill of the night. On the bridge in the distance, the traffic was still flowing endlessly, the car lights connecting into a strip of light in the night, as if someone had lit a string of eternal lamps in the darkness.

Jiang Zhiyu walked for a while, then suddenly stopped, turned his head, and looked at Karina.

"Ji-min."

"Yeah."

"How long have you been practicing Karate?"

Karina was silent for a moment. "Eight years."

"When did you start?"

"Nine years old."

"Why practice it?"

Karina was silent for a moment again. The streetlamp light fell on her face, softening her contours. Her expression remained that cold, emotionless calm, but there was something in her eyes—not sadness, not anger, but something quieter, something that had been polished by time, no longer sharp but still existing.

"Because I wanted to protect myself," she said.

Jiang Zhiyu looked into her eyes, and from those calm, cold, emotionless eyes, he read the words she hadn't spoken. It wasn't because of a lack of trust, but because those words were too heavy, so heavy that she herself didn't want to touch them again. He didn't press further, just nodded, turned around, and continued walking forward.

Kim Minjeong's hand clutching his hem tightened slightly in the night breeze.

NingNing walked behind, looking at Jiang Zhiyu's back, and suddenly said something that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Teacher, you are really amazing."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't turn around. "I know."

NingNing froze for a moment, then laughed. Not the kind of "haha you're so funny" laugh, but a kind of "alright, you really have the qualifications to say that" laugh, tinged with a bit of helplessness and a bit of admiration.

The river breeze continued to blow. The night in Seoul was still long. But the footsteps of the four people were lighter than when they had come. Not because they weren't tired anymore, but because the stone in their hearts had, without them knowing when, quietly fallen away.

The comeback planning process for SM's idol groups was as complicated as a machine that was precise to an infuriating degree. From project initiation to song selection, recording, choreography, MV filming, styling design, promotional planning, and final release, every step had a dedicated team responsible, and every team had their own ideas and persistence. Jiang Zhiyu had been at SM for nearly a year and had already figured out how every gear in this process turned—but figuring it out was useless because he wasn't in the position of any of the gears. He was a creator; a creator's job was to write songs, hand them in, and then wait. Wait for the production department to choose his song, wait for the planning department to put the song into an album, wait for the company's schedule to allow the song to be recorded and released. What he could control was the speed and quality of writing songs, but what he couldn't control was the waiting time.

Red Velvet was in their prime, with frequent comeback periods. This was a good thing, a good thing for them, and a good thing for Jiang Zhiyu—frequent comebacks meant more demand for songs, and more demand for songs meant a greater probability of his songs being selected. But the problem was that Red Velvet had their own exclusive production team; from A&R to arrangement, mixing, and mastering, every step was handled by fixed people who had worked together for many years. Jiang Zhiyu wrote "Butterfly Dream" for Red Velvet, which was included in their album, and it had good results and a good reputation, but that didn't mean he had become Red Velvet's fixed creator. He was just one of many collaborators, and the youngest and least experienced one at that. In the eyes of those producer seniors, he might just be a "lucky kid"—wrote a decent song, it just happened to be chosen by Kim Taeyeon, and it just happened to be a hit. What about the next one? The one after that? Whether one can continuously produce high-quality works is the true standard for measuring a creator's value.

As for the boy groups, it went without saying. SM's boy group system was almost closed; from song selection to production and promotion, there were specialized teams responsible, and external creators found it hard to get in. Jiang Zhiyu had tried a few times, submitting a few songs suitable for boy groups, but they were all returned. It wasn't that the quality was poor, but that it was "not suitable for our direction." This reason sounded very official; translated, it meant—we have our own people we are used to using, and we don't want to change.

"prince ruperts drop" shot to the top of the charts, landing at number one, and dominated the charts for several days. Jiang Zhiyu's name hung alongside Kim Taeyeon's name on the music website, followed by a blue "Hot" tag. His phone received countless messages every day—from people he knew and didn't know, real or fake, mostly polite "congratulations" and probing "do you have time to chat." He replied to them one by one, replying politely to the polite ones, replying with pleasantries to the probing ones, refusing what should be refused, and ignoring what should be ignored. But he knew in his heart that the direct economic benefit this song brought him was not high.

Copyright royalties are a long-term income, with little to be seen in the short term.

The contract SM gave him is fair, but fair does not mean lucrative.

As a rookie creator, his royalty percentage is above average in the industry, but compared to those top-tier producers, it is not even close.

A song's copyright income has to have the company's share deducted, distribution costs deducted, and various miscellaneous fees deducted; what finally falls into his pocket is probably enough for him to eat barbecue for a month.

Of course, in the long run, as long as the song is still being played, downloaded, and covered, he will continue to receive money.

But "long term" is how long? One year? Five years? Ten years?

His five-year plan cannot wait that long.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in the recording studio with a cup of strawberry milk tea that had gone completely cold in front of him, and his five-year plan document on the screen.

The first phase, "Rising to Fame," has already been completed—his reputation in the industry has been established; at least everyone inside SM knows him, and outside companies have also started to take notice of him.

But the second phase, "Capital Accumulation," is progressing slowly.

Although his income is much higher than before, it is still far from being able to "start his own company."

He needs more songs to be released and more copyright income to come in before he can save enough startup capital.

But how can everything go according to his own wishes?

He thought that if he wrote good songs, the company would use them; if the company used them, they would release them; and if they were released, money would come in.

The reality is—the company has its own rhythm, its own arrangements, and a pile of things to consider.

No matter how good his songs are written, they have to wait in line, wait, and be put into that long, tedious, and maddening process.

He created a folder on his computer desktop for those backlogged music files, naming it "Pending Release," and there are already nearly a hundred songs inside.

From dance tracks to ballads to narrative songs to R&B to rock, there are all kinds of styles; every single one has been carefully polished and produced, and every single one has reached a standard where it could be released at any time.

But the A&R department at SM only has a few people, and it is impossible for them to handle so many songs at the same time.

They have their own rhythm, their own priorities, and their own working habits.

As a rookie creator, no matter how much of a genius he is, he has no right to rush them.

"Forget it."

Jiang Zhiyu threw the milk tea cup into the trash can, closed the five-year plan document, and opened a new folder.

The name of the folder was "Taeyeon."

Inside were the songs he had written for Kim Taeyeon.

Not one or two, but over a dozen.

Since "prince ruperts drop," he has been writing songs for Kim Taeyeon.

Some were tailor-made for her, and some were songs he had written and then thought, "This song suits Taeyeon Noona," so he put them in.

Every single one has a different style: there are lyrical narrative songs, light pop songs, slow songs with a touch of jazz, and mid-tempo dance tracks with electronic elements.

He wants to dig out all the possibilities of Kim Taeyeon's voice, to let listeners know that she is not just a singer who sings ballads; she can master any style.

His contact with Kim Taeyeon has become frequent since that collaboration.

It is not deliberately frequent, but natural—she would occasionally send a message asking him if he was "at the company," and if he was, she would come to the recording studio to sit for a while, listen to the songs he had written recently, and chat for a bit.

Sometimes they talk about professional issues, such as how to change the chord progression of a certain song, or where the stress of a certain lyric should be placed; sometimes they don't talk about anything at all, just sit quietly—she drinks her iced Americano, and he drinks his strawberry milk tea.

That kind of silence is not awkward; it is like background music without a melody—you won't listen to it deliberately, but you know it's there, and you feel at ease.

His address for Kim Taeyeon also changed from "Senior Taeyeon" to "Noona."

He remembers the day he changed how he addressed her very clearly—it was at a barbecue restaurant, and Im Yoona was there too.

He called out "Senior Taeyeon," and Im Yoona rolled her eyes beside him, saying, "You have already eaten together eight times and you still call her Senior, aren't you tired?"

Kim Taeyeon did not speak, just looked at him, the corners of her mouth carrying a faint, non-committal curve.

He looked into Kim Taeyeon's eyes, was silent for a second, and then said, "Noona, this piece of meat is grilled."

Kim Taeyeon picked up that piece of meat, put it in her mouth, chewed it slowly, and then said, "Hmm, very delicious."

She didn't say, "You can call me Noona," and she didn't say, "You can call me that from now on."

It was just a "Hmm, very delicious," and then the matter was settled.

For several months, besides the three trainees and Yeri, the ones Jiang Zhiyu most often freeloaded meals from were Kim Taeyeon and Im Yoona.

The frequency of the three of them eating together is about once a week, sometimes twice.

The location is not fixed—sometimes it's a barbecue restaurant, sometimes a Japanese restaurant, and sometimes a Korean table d'hote restaurant near the company.

Im Yoona is very picky about food, but her way of being picky is not "this doesn't taste good," but "this is okay, we can come again next time."

Kim Taeyeon is not picky about food; she eats everything, but she doesn't eat much of anything, as if she is completing a task that must be done.

Jiang Zhiyu is responsible for eating what they leave behind—not deliberately, but because he has a good appetite and eats a lot; every time, he sweeps the dishes on the table clean, not even sparing the side dishes.

During the meals, it is usually Jiang Zhiyu and Im Yoona bickering with each other.

Im Yoona says he is a brat pretending to be an adult, and Jiang Zhiyu says her big forehead will go bald sooner or later.

Im Yoona says he drinks milk tea like an elementary school student, and Jiang Zhiyu says she drinks iced Americano like she is taking Chinese medicine.

Im Yoona says he will get fat sooner or later if he doesn't exercise, and Jiang Zhiyu says her skin will age from running schedules every day.

The two of them go back and forth, speaking as fast as playing ping-pong, neither of them yielding to the other.

Kim Taeyeon sits in the middle, holding her bowl, eating quietly, her gaze moving back and forth between the two, like a spectator watching a ball game, not participating, but watching with great engagement.

Once, Im Yoona said to Jiang Zhiyu, "You are just a brat who hasn't grown up, pretending to be deep all day," and Jiang Zhiyu replied, "At least I don't have to pretend; you don't even need to pretend, you are just a childish ghost."

Im Yoona was so angry she slapped the table, and Jiang Zhiyu expressionlessly moved her water glass to the side to prevent her from knocking it to the floor.

Kim Taeyeon watched from the side, a tiny curve at the corners of her mouth.

Kim Taeyeon is not there every time.

Sometimes her schedule is too full and she can't come, so it's just Jiang Zhiyu and Im Yoona.

The meal for two is completely different from the meal for three—three people form a stable triangle, while two people form a straight line; there is no buffer, no neutralization, and all collisions are direct and naked.

That time Kim Taeyeon wasn't there, Jiang Zhiyu and Im Yoona met at a Japanese restaurant near the company.

Im Yoona ordered a pot of sake, poured herself a cup, and then looked at the teacup in front of Jiang Zhiyu.

"You're not drinking?"

"Sixteen years old."

Jiang Zhiyu said.

"In the United States, you could have drunk it a long time ago."

"This is Korea."

Im Yoona looked at him, the corners of her mouth slightly raised.

"You, sometimes you are really hard to understand. You clearly have American citizenship, but you always use Korean rules to constrain yourself."

"Because I live in Korea."

Jiang Zhiyu picked up a piece of salmon, dipped it in soy sauce, and put it in his mouth, "Follow local customs."

"Then why don't you 'follow local customs' in front of me? I am a senior, you should be respectful to me."

"When I am respectful, you say I'm a brat pretending to be an adult."

Im Yoona opened her mouth, realizing she had been led into a trap.

She picked up the sake and took a sip, using the cup to hide the slight twitching of the corners of her mouth.

The salmon was finished, and the skewers arrived.

Chicken skewers, beef skewers, pork skewers, three of each, neatly arranged on a rectangular wooden platter, brushed with sauce, and slightly steaming in the residual heat of the charcoal fire.

Jiang Zhiyu picked up a chicken skewer, took a bite, chewed twice, and then frowned.

"This chicken is overcooked."

"Your standards are really high."

Im Yoona picked up a beef skewer, took a bite, chewed, "I think it's okay."

"Your standard for 'okay' is too low."

"And your standards are too high."

"My standard is the normal standard. Things you think are 'okay' are called 'barely edible' by normal standards."

Im Yoona looked at him, her eyes holding a threat of "try saying that again."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't look at her, focusing on eating that skewer of chicken he had evaluated as "overcooked," eating it cleanly, even using his teeth to scrape the fascia off the bone.

Halfway through the meal, the topic somehow turned to music.

Perhaps it was the background music playing in the shop, which happened to be an old song of Kim Taeyeon's, with a gentle melody and a clear voice.

When Jiang Zhiyu heard that song, his chopsticks paused for a moment, and then he continued picking up food.

"Taeyeon Noona's voice is really good."

He said.

Im Yoona looked at him.

"You are calling her Noona more and more naturally."

"Because she is Noona."

"And me?"

"You are also Noona."

"Then call me."

"Yoona Noona."

Im Yoona's mouth curled up.

"Call me again."

"Yoona Noona."

"Call again—"

"Yoona Noona. Yoona Noona. Yoona Noona."

Jiang Zhiyu called out three times in a row, his tone as flat as if reading a textbook, "Is that enough?"

Im Yoona picked up her glass with satisfaction and took a sip.

"Enough."

The two of them ate quietly for a while.

Jiang Zhiyu had eaten most of the skewers on the table and started to finish the remaining sushi.

Im Yoona watched the way he ate—not slow, but not rushed; not elegant, but not rude; chewing every bite thoroughly, as if he were treating the food in his mouth seriously.

"Jiang Zhiyu."

She suddenly called his full name.

"Hmm."

"What are your plans for the future?"

"What kind of plans?"

"Career-wise."

Im Yoona put down her glass, folded her hands on the table, and looked at him, "You can't be a creator at SM your whole life, right?"

Jiang Zhiyu chewed the sushi in his mouth, swallowed it, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

He looked at Im Yoona, silent for a moment.

"Do you have an idea?"

Im Yoona asked.

"Yes. But I can't say it now."

"Why?"

"Because if I say it out loud, it won't work."

Im Yoona looked at him, the corners of her mouth slowly curling up.

"You, you really know how to keep people in suspense."

"It's not keeping people in suspense. It's that for some things, the effect is completely different whether you say it or not. If you say it, others will think you are bragging; if you don't say it, when you achieve it, others will naturally see it."

Im Yoona looked at him, silent for a moment.

Then she picked up her glass and drained the remaining sake in one gulp.

"Fine, then I'll wait and see."

The meal where Kim Taeyeon was present was at a Korean table d'hote restaurant near the company.

The table was full of side dishes: soy-marinated crab, pancakes, japchae, spicy rice cakes, kimchi, soybean paste soup, and a large bowl of bibimbap.

The three of them sat around a small square table, Kim Taeyeon sitting opposite Jiang Zhiyu, and Im Yoona sitting beside him.

While eating, Kim Taeyeon suddenly brought up a problem she had encountered during recording.

"I've been recording a new song recently, and there's a line in the chorus, '기억해'—'Remember.' I've sung it many times, but I always feel it's not right. It's not a problem with pitch, it's not a problem with breath, it's just... not right."

"How is it not right?"

Jiang Zhiyu asked.

"It's too perfect."

Kim Taeyeon said, "This lyric should have a sense of regret, a sense of remorse, like the contradiction of 'I remember' but 'I don't want to remember.' I sang it too cleanly, so clean that it's like saying 'I remember, but I don't care.'"

Jiang Zhiyu listened, silent for a moment.

Then he put down his chopsticks and looked at Kim Taeyeon.

"Noona, try singing '기억해' in that lyric as '기억할까.'"

"기억할까?"

Kim Taeyeon repeated, "'Should I remember?'"

"Yes. It's not a declarative sentence, not 'I remember,' but an interrogative sentence, 'Should I remember?'"

Jiang Zhiyu said, "'I remember' is past tense; it's something that has already happened, with no room for choice. 'Should I remember' is present tense; it's a choice currently in progress; it's the contradiction of 'I know I should forget, but I can't bear to.' If you change this lyric from 'I remember' to 'Should I remember,' the emotional logic of the whole song changes—from 'I am reminiscing' to 'I am deciding whether or not to reminisce.'"

Kim Taeyeon listened and fell silent.

Her fingers tapped lightly on the table twice, then she raised her head to look at Jiang Zhiyu.

There was something indescribable in her eyes—not surprise, not admiration, but a kind of confusion of "how do you think even further than I do."

"You are always like this."

She said.

"What?"

"Saying things I can't think of in the simplest words."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't respond.

He picked up his water glass and took a sip, his expression as calm as if nothing had happened.

Im Yoona listened from the side, a half-smile hanging on the corners of her mouth.

She looked at Kim Taeyeon, then at Jiang Zhiyu, and then cleared her throat.

"Wow, you two are such a good match."

Kim Taeyeon glanced at her.

"What?"

"Musical soulmates."

Im Yoona rested her chin on her hand, her smile sweet, "One writes, one sings, completely in sync."

Kim Taeyeon ignored her and lowered her head to continue eating.

Jiang Zhiyu glanced at Im Yoona.

"Yoona Noona."

"Hmm?"

"Do you know, some idols sing songs their whole lives, but might not even understand what a chord progression is."

Im Yoona's smile froze for a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—"

Jiang Zhiyu's tone was very flat, as if stating an objective fact, "Some people sing only five words in a song, 'Hama-go-si-po,' and then think they are singers."

Im Yoona's face turned beet red instantly.

Not because of shyness, but because of anger.

"Hama-go-si-po" was a lyric she had in a Girls Generation song; the part she was assigned in the whole song was indeed not much, just that one line in the chorus "하고 싶어" (hago sipeo)—"want to."

Being said by Jiang Zhiyu in this way, translated into "Hama-go-si-po," it sounded like a foreigner who couldn't even speak Korean well was imitating her singing.

"Ah—!" Im Yoona stood up abruptly, her chair sliding back with a harsh, screeching sound. Her eyes were wide, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her face flushed from the base of her neck all the way to her hairline. She opened her mouth to scold him, but couldn't find the right words—not because she didn't know how to curse, but because Jiang Zhiyu's description of "Hamagoxipo" was just too vivid. It was so vivid that the image of herself singing that line in the recording studio appeared in her mind, and then that image was precisely summarized by Jiang Zhiyu in those five syllables. She was both angry and amused, the two emotions churning together, stuck in her throat, turning into a muffled "Uh—."

Kim Taeyeon looked up, glanced at Im Yoona, then at Jiang Zhiyu. Her expression didn't change, but her chopsticks paused in mid-air, sauce dripping from the leaf of vegetable.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at Im Yoona's flushed face and was silent for a second. Then, he picked up his chopsticks and plucked a piece of grilled meat from his plate. He had let that piece cool for a while; it wasn't hot, just right for eating. He stood up, leaned slightly forward, and with his right hand holding the chopsticks, popped the grilled meat directly into Im Yoona's mouth.

The movement was fast, so fast that before Im Yoona could even close her mouth, the piece of grilled meat was already inside. When the chopsticks were pulled from between her lips, she felt the wooden surface gently scrape her lower lip, leaving a faint, cool sensation.

Her anger was physically interrupted in that instant. What arrived faster than the anger was the flavor—the spiciness of the chili, the aroma of cumin, the richness of the fat melting on her tongue, the nutty fragrance of the sesame, and the intertwined salty-sweetness of the sauce. The grilled meat exploded in her mouth like a small, delicious bomb, shattering all her anger, grievance, and embarrassment into pieces.

She subconsciously chewed twice. The meat was tender, juicy, and seasoned perfectly—neither too salty nor too bland—and the spiciness lingered on her tongue for a moment before dispersing, leaving a warm aftertaste. She couldn't help but chew twice more, then swallowed.

Then she came to her senses.

The anger hadn't completely disappeared, but it had been scattered by that piece of grilled meat. The remaining shred of anger was stuck in her throat, unable to go up or down, turning into a muffled "Hmph." She sat back down, pulled her chair forward, settled in, and then viciously picked up a piece of meat from her own plate and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing loudly as if using her teeth to express some dissatisfaction. Jiang Zhiyu sat back in his seat, picked up his bowl, and continued eating. His expression was as calm as if nothing had happened. But when he reached for food, he glanced at Im Yoona from the corner of his eye—the tips of her ears were still red, but the arc of her mouth had changed from "I'm going to kill you" to "Fine, you win."

Kim Taeyeon watched this scene and slowly put the vegetable that had been hanging in mid-air into her mouth. She chewed the leaf, her gaze shifting back and forth between Jiang Zhiyu and Im Yoona, with a tiny, almost invisible curve at the corner of her mouth. She didn't say anything. But she thought, these two probably wouldn't cut ties. Not because they were close, but because Jiang Zhiyu knew how to shut Im Yoona's mouth—in her favorite way.

Im Yoona finished chewing the meat she had viciously stuffed into her mouth, fell silent for a moment, and then spoke. "Jiang Zhiyu."

"Hmm."

"What kind of meat was that piece you just gave me?"

"Pork belly."

"Which plate?"

"The one in front of me."

Im Yoona glanced at the plate of pork belly in front of him, which was more than half empty, and pursed her lips. "...Is it good?"

"It's good," Jiang Zhiyu said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be eating it."

Im Yoona looked at him, silent for a moment. Then she pushed her empty plate toward him, the meaning clear—give me another piece.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the empty plate she pushed over, then looked at the three remaining pieces of pork belly in front of him. He picked up one and placed it on her plate. It wasn't the fattest piece, nor was it the leanest; it was the one in the middle—the one with the perfect balance of fat and lean, grilled most evenly.

Im Yoona looked at the meat on the plate, and the curve of her mouth deepened slightly. She picked it up, put it in her mouth, and chewed slowly. This time she wasn't vicious; she chewed very quietly and seriously, as if savoring something precious that she didn't want to finish all at once.

Kim Taeyeon finished the rice in her bowl, put down her chopsticks, and wiped her mouth with a tissue. "Are you both finished?"

"Finished," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"I'm finished too." Im Yoona swallowed the last piece of meat and also put down her chopsticks.

Kim Taeyeon stood up and picked up her bag. "Let's go."

The three of them walked out of the Korean restaurant; the night breeze blew over, carrying the chill of early autumn. Im Yoona turned up the collar of her jacket and hunched her shoulders. Kim Taeyeon put on her mask, revealing only her eyes. Jiang Zhiyu walked at the very back, carrying a takeout box—inside were the unfinished pancakes and japchae, which Kim Taeyeon had said, "Take it back for a midnight snack."

Im Yoona was walking in front when she suddenly stopped, turned around, and looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

"Jiang Zhiyu."

"Hmm."

"In the future, if you say 'Hamagoxipo' again, I will—"

"You will what?"

Im Yoona opened her mouth, only to realize there was nothing she could do. She couldn't hit him—she couldn't win; she had already witnessed his pressure-point skills at the dinner table, and although that time was about dealing with thugs by the Han River, she had heard the details from Kim Minjeong and knew this person was not someone she could physically fight. She couldn't scold him—she couldn't win; his mouth was much sharper than hers, and he could always say the most hurtful things in a tone of "I'm just stating facts." She couldn't ignore him—because next time they ate, he would still pick meat for her. She was silent for a long time, then finally said, "I'll post the photo of you drinking bubble tea online."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "What photo?"

"The photo of you drinking bubble tea. Full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans, the pink liquid, with your eyes closed and looking so satisfied."

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a moment. "When did you take it?"

"I won't tell you."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her eyes, which were curved like crescent moons, and was silent for a second. Then he said, "Then go ahead and post it. After you post it, next time we eat, I won't have any meat to give you."

Im Yoona's smile froze. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu's calm eyes, which showed no emotion, trying to determine if he was joking or serious. She stared for five seconds and couldn't tell.

"...You're ruthless." She pulled her jacket collar tighter, turned around, and walked quickly toward the parking lot.

Jiang Zhiyu stood in place, watching her back disappear at the entrance of the parking lot. Kim Taeyeon stood beside him, also watching that direction.

"Is she angry?" Jiang Zhiyu asked.

"No," Kim Taeyeon said. "She's shy."

Jiang Zhiyu glanced at Kim Taeyeon. Her expression remained that detached, unreadable calm, but there was light in her eyes—not mockery, not teasing, but a gentle light, like an older sister watching her younger brother and sister bicker.

"Let's go," Kim Taeyeon said. "I'll take you back."

"No need, I'll take the subway—"

"I'll take you." Kim Taeyeon's tone brooked no refusal. "It's not safe at night."

Jiang Zhiyu recalled that at the dinner table earlier, when Im Yoona said, "You know martial arts, what are you afraid of," Kim Taeyeon had said, "Even if you know martial arts, I still have to send you." He didn't refuse again and followed behind Kim Taeyeon toward the parking lot.

Kim Taeyeon's car was a white sedan, not big, but the interior was very clean. Jiang Zhiyu sat in the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt. Kim Taeyeon started the car, and the car audio automatically connected to her phone, playing a song he hadn't heard before. The melody was unfamiliar, but the style of the arrangement was very familiar to her—piano arpeggios, string accompaniment, the rhythm unhurried, as if telling a quiet story without too many twists and turns.

"Who wrote this song?" she asked.

"Me," Jiang Zhiyu said.

Kim Taeyeon glanced at him. "When did you write it?"

"Last week. Haven't turned it in yet."

"Why not turn it in?"

"Don't know who to sing it."

Kim Taeyeon was silent for a moment. The car drove out of the parking lot and merged into the evening rush hour traffic. On a Friday evening in Seoul, traffic jams were the norm; she followed the car in front at a leisurely pace, her fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel, following the rhythm of the car's music.

"Sing it for me," she said.

Jiang Zhiyu turned his head to look at her. Kim Taeyeon's gaze was fixed on the road ahead, her expression calm, as if she were talking about a very ordinary matter.

"Noona, isn't your schedule very full?"

"Even if it's full, I can squeeze out time."

"Will your team agree?"

"I am the leader," Kim Taeyeon said. "I have the final say."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, silent for a moment. Then he smiled—not the deliberate, social smile, but a genuine, heartfelt smile with the corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes slightly curved.

"Okay," he said.

Kim Taeyeon caught the arc of his mouth from the corner of her eye. She didn't speak, but the rhythm of her fingers tapping on the steering wheel changed—from steady quarter notes to a dotted rhythm, as if her heartbeat had suddenly accelerated a beat, then returned to normal.

The car stopped at the entrance of the goshiwon. Jiang Zhiyu unbuckled his seatbelt, picked up the takeout box, and pushed open the car door. "Noona, get home safely."

"Hmm."

Jiang Zhiyu closed the car door and stood in place, watching the taillights of the white sedan disappear around the corner of the alley. The night breeze blew over, carrying the chill of early autumn and the smoky scent of a barbecue stall from afar. He stood there for a long time, then switched the takeout box to his left hand and took his phone out of his pocket. In the group chat "The Four of Us," NingNing had sent a message—"Teacher, did you have a fun meal today?" Kim Minjeong followed with—"Oppa, did Yoona Noona bully you?" Karina didn't send a message, but she changed the name of the group chat from "The Four of Us" to "Jiang Zhiyu's Meal Observation Diary."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the name, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. He typed a few words—"Fun. No. I'm the one bullying her." Then he put away his phone and walked into the entrance of the goshiwon. The lights in the corridor were still on, the dim yellow light falling on the floor, making the whole corridor look like a tunnel leading to the past. He walked through this corridor, opened his room door, put the takeout box on the table, took off his jacket, and hung it on the hanger behind the door. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the small patch of clouds in the gray night sky outside the window, dyed orange-red by the city lights.

He was thinking about what Kim Taeyeon had said—"Sing it for me." Her tone when she said that was too calm, so calm that it was like saying "The weather is nice today." But he knew that for her, this was not a casual matter. She was an extremely cautious person who never made impulsive decisions at work. Every word she said, every choice she made, was carefully considered. She said "Sing it for me," which meant she really liked the song, which meant she really trusted him, which meant she really regarded him as a collaborative, equal, and respectable creator, not a "sixteen-year-old kid."

Jiang Zhiyu lay on the bed, placing his phone by his pillow. The screen lit up; it was a message from Kim Taeyeon—"Home. Goodnight."

He replied—"Goodnight, Noona."

Then he pressed his phone to his chest and closed his eyes. Outside the window, the night in Seoul continued. The sound of traffic came from afar, like a river that never ceased. The walls of the goshiwon were thin, and the tenant next door was on the phone, their voice lowered, but he could still hear some fragmented, fuzzy syllables. He didn't find it noisy. These sounds made him feel that he was still alive, still here, still in this city he had chosen, a city that was strange but slowly becoming familiar.

— —

Why is my Dongdong so handsome???

(18:30) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The rehearsal just finished! When the snowflake projection fell on my shoulders, I secretly made a wish: "I hope in the moment Oppa sees this, I am also shining." Then I looked up and saw Oppa standing by the console waving at me... The wish came true too fast! (✧ ω ✧)]

(18:33) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The hot cocoa Oppa handed me during the break, I drank it in small sips for ten minutes. Ningning said, "Unnie, are you drinking honey? Your face is so sweet," but it's actually because there was the warmth of Oppa's fingers on the cup~]

(18:36) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa wore the dark gray scarf I gave him today! Even though it's just a very small gift, seeing it against Oppa's neck made me suddenly want to cry... It feels like I can finally block a little bit of the cold wind for Oppa.]

(18:39) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The dance teacher praised my improvisational spin today as being especially light, like a snowflake carried by the wind. Actually, it's because Oppa was watching me from the audience, and even my toes couldn't help but be happy. (Sends a blurry snapshot of the skirt blooming while spinning)]

(18:42) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [When changing clothes, I found the hand cream in my pocket was warmed by my body temperature, just like Oppa's palm. I secretly squeezed a little and applied it behind my ears, so when I bow at the curtain call, I can salute the audience carrying Oppa's scent.]

(18:45) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The stars tonight are especially bright; I kept looking up on the way back to the dorm. Oppa, do you think there might be one in there that turned into starlight we both watched together? Goodnight, my cosmic coordinate. (Sends a photo of a profile view smiling with eyes squinted under the starry sky)]