14: Chapter 14 The Shadowless Kick of Foshan!

Loen Entertainment's creative studio was on the third floor of the office building. At the end of the corridor, there was a brass plaque on the door engraved with the two letters 'IU'. It wasn't her name, but her code name. This was the only creative studio in the entire company without a room number, because it wasn't needed—everyone knew whose place this was.

Lee Ji-eun sat by the window, headphones over her head, covering half of her face. She was wearing a gray hoodie, the two strings of the hood hanging down her chest at uneven lengths, the left side noticeably longer than the right. Her hair was untied and draped over her shoulders, the ends a bit dry and split, but she was too lazy to trim them. She wore no makeup, her lips were a bit dry, and there was a tiny milia at the corner of her eye that glistened white under the light.

Spread out on the desk in front of her were a laptop, a tablet, two notebooks, three pens, a cup of Americano, an unopened bag of almonds, and a finished box of strawberries—the box was still there, containing only a few green leaves. A notebook was flipped open, its pages densely packed with writing—not lyrics, but evaluations. Every song was followed by a letter: S, A, B, C, like a teacher grading a student's exam paper.

Song selection season was her busiest time. The company's A&R team would filter through them first, weeding out the ones that were clearly unsuitable, mismatched in style, or of poor quality, and then send the rest to her. She would listen to them one by one, grade them one by one, and decide their fate one by one. The workload was immense, so much so that she would sometimes listen for an entire day until her ears felt numb and her mind was filled with clashing fragments of melodies and chords. But she enjoyed doing it.

The charm of music comes from its uniqueness. Everyone's understanding of music is different; a demo written on an old keyboard in a rented room might have more soul than a finished product produced in a top-tier recording studio. She didn't want the A&R team to make that judgment for her, nor did she want any middleman to filter out things that might be rough but sincere. She wanted to hear them herself.

The tip of the pen rustled against the paper. She was listening to a narrative ballad with piano and strings. The melodic line was smooth but uninspired, and the lyrics about longing after a breakup used too many clichés—'like the stars,' 'like the wind,' 'like winter snow'—images that might have been fresh ten years ago but were now overused. She wrote a 'C' in her notebook and clicked on the next song.

The next song was a dance track, the electronic synthesizer's bass making her headphones vibrate. The rhythm was strong, and the melody in the chorus was quite catchy, but the arrangement was too crowded, lacking any sense of breath. It was a pile-up of timbres from start to finish, making the listener feel tired after hearing the whole song. This wasn't what she wanted. She wanted songs that could make people sit down and listen quietly, not the kind that made people bob their heads in a club. She wrote a 'B-' in her notebook and clicked on the next song.

The next song was R&B, slow-tempo, with guitar and a drum machine. The vocals were processed to sound very distant, as if listening to someone sing through a fog. The melody was good, but the lyrics were too personal, like the songwriter was writing their own diary without leaving any room for the audience to enter. She wrote a 'B' in her notebook and clicked on the next song.

Next song.

Her finger paused on the trackpad.

The intro was piano. A single note, B-flat, held long, with the sustain pedal pressed down. The sound was like a drop of water falling into a deep pool, ripples spreading out circle by circle. Then came the second note, the third note... the melody was like a person walking slowly, unhurried, each step on the beat, yet not as if they were rushing, but more like they were taking a stroll.

The tip of her pen hovered over the paper, not descending.

The verse began. The melodic line was simple and gentle, as if describing a quiet afternoon where nothing major happened, just staring blankly at the sunset. The lyrics were about Jeju Island. Not the Jeju Island in the eyes of tourists—Hallasan, Seongsan Ilchulbong, Udo, those places beautified by filters. Instead, it was about the blue night of jeju island—quiet, as if soaked in seawater. There was no 'I love you,' no 'I'm sorry,' no 'I miss you' in the lyrics. There was only one image: a person sitting by the sea on Jeju Island, watching the moonlight fall on the water, the blue light breaking and gathering in the waves, like something was disappearing, and yet like something was being born.

Lee Ji-eun put down her pen, leaned back against the chair, and closed her eyes.

She finished listening to the entire song. Four minutes and thirteen seconds. When the final note faded, she opened her eyes and glanced at the sender's name.

SM. Jiang Zhiyu.

She recognized the name. Not recognized, but knew of it. No one in the entire Korean music industry didn't know this name—the producer of Kim Taeyeon's 'prince ruperts drop', sixteen years old, a foreigner, the youngest creator signed to SM. That song was still hanging on the music charts, right below her own title track, in third or fourth place, sometimes jumping to second and pushing her song down. Her fans and Kim Taeyeon's fans were going back and forth in the comments section, arguing incessantly, putting her and Jiang Zhiyu's names side by side on the trending searches like a pair of strangers forced into a blind date.

Lee Ji-eun let out a 'tsk'. It wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet creative studio.

It wasn't that she hadn't heard Jiang Zhiyu's songs. She had heard 'prince ruperts drop' more than once. The melody was good, the arrangement was good, the lyrics were good, and Kim Taeyeon sang it well. It was so good that it gave her an indescribable feeling—not jealousy, not envy, but a more subtle tension, like 'this person is competing with me'.

But she had never heard the songs Jiang Zhiyu wrote for others. She didn't know what his style was, where his strengths lay, or if he only had one good song in him or truly had the ability to consistently produce high-quality work. Now she knew.

She wrote an 'S' in her notebook. Not an 'S-', not an 'S?'. Just 'S'. Clean and decisive, without hesitation.

Then she clicked on the next song.

The title of this song was 'Seoul Station'.

The intro was no longer piano. It was strings, the low register of the cello, steady and heavy, as if describing a weary person dragging a suitcase through an empty waiting hall late at night. Then came the piano, broken chords in the high register, like falling raindrops. The tempo was a bit faster than the first song, a mid-tempo narrative ballad, like sitting on a train watching the scenery fly by outside the window.

The lyrics were about parting. Not the heart-wrenching kind—no tears, no arguments, no 'why are you leaving me'. Instead, it was a quiet, silent parting, like 'we both know this is the last time we'll meet, but neither of us says it out loud'. There was a line in the chorus that she read over three times.

"우리는 다시 만나기 위해 헤어지는 게 아니야,"

"We aren't parting to meet again,"

"그냥 헤어지는 거야."

"We're just parting."

She stared at those lyrics and fell silent for a long time. She thought of many people. She thought of the companions she had spent countless days and nights with during her trainee days, who eventually left for various reasons. She thought of the members she had fought alongside on stage, who later went their separate ways. She thought of the friends she had gradually lost touch with because their schedules were too full. Not parting to meet again. Just parting. This sentence was too cruel, so cruel she didn't want to admit it was true. But she knew it was true.

She wrote another 'S' next to the first one. Then she clicked on the next song.

'Through the Night'.

When she saw this title, her finger paused for a moment. She also had a song called 'Through the Night' for which she had written the lyrics herself, about writing a letter to someone at night. She was very satisfied with that song, and it had been well-received after its release, later becoming one of her representative works. She didn't know if Jiang Zhiyu had thought of her song when he wrote this title. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe not.

The intro was guitar fingerstyle, warm and quiet, like sitting alone by a window late at night, watching the moonlight outside. The direction of the melody was completely different from hers, but the emotional core was similar—both were letters about longing written at night. Her version leaned more towards 'I am missing you,' while Jiang Zhiyu's version leaned more towards 'I want to tell you that I am missing you.' With the difference of a few words, the entire perspective of the song changed. 'I am missing you' is a monologue, words said to oneself. 'I want to tell you that I am missing you' is a dialogue, words said to someone else. The former is lonely, while the latter yearns for a response.

She wrote down a third 'S' in her notebook.

Then she clicked on the next song.

'The Little Prince'.

The arrangement of this song was simpler than the previous three. Just a guitar and a voice. The tempo was very slow, as if taking a stroll. The lyrics used imagery extracted from the book 'The Little Prince'—roses, foxes, planets, sunsets. But what it expressed wasn't the beauty of a fairy tale, but the price of growing up.

"어른이 되어서 길을 잃은 우리,"

"We who have grown up and lost our way,"

"어딘가에서 별을 보고 있을 너,"

"You, who must be looking at the stars somewhere,"

"나는 더 이상 어린 prince가 아니야,"

"I am no longer The Little Prince,"

"너도 내 별에 돌아오지 않아."

"And you won't return to my planet either."

She put down her pen, took off her headphones, and rubbed her ears. She had been wearing them for too long, and her outer ears were a bit sore from the pressure. She picked up the Americano on the desk and took a sip; it was cold, and the bitterness was heavier, like some kind of herbal medicine. She frowned and put the cup back without swallowing, holding it in her mouth until the bitterness slowly dissipated before finally swallowing.

She thought of a line from 'The Little Prince'. 'What is essential is invisible to the eye.' She didn't know what Jiang Zhiyu was thinking when he wrote this song. She only knew that this person had truly understood 'The Little Prince'. Not just 'read' it, but 'understood' it. The distance between those two words was further than the distance from Jeju Island to Seoul.

A fourth 'S'.

The last one. 'the last greeting'.

The arrangement of this song was richer than the previous four. Strings, piano, guitar, bass, and subtle electronic atmospheric tones—all the instruments appeared exactly where they should, with nothing extra and nothing missing. It was as if a hand were conducting it all, with every note arranged in the most appropriate place. The melodic line was the most complex of the five songs; the verse had many semitones and modulations, and the chorus had a high note with a large span that needed to be hit with a chest voice rather than switching to falsetto. This style of singing placed high demands on the singer's vocal conditions and technique; not just anyone could sing it.

But she could sing it. She knew she could. This song wasn't 'written for IU'; it 'grew out of IU's body'. Every note, every line of lyrics, every vocal run felt like her own. It wasn't imitating her, approaching her, or being 'suitable for her'. Rather—this was her song. No one else could sing it. It wasn't a technical issue, but an emotional one. The emotional density of this song was too high, so high that if it wasn't 'that person,' they wouldn't be able to bring out that flavor. That flavor of 'I know this is the last time we'll meet, I'm ready, but I'm still a little reluctant to let go'.

The last line of the lyrics was:

"이게 마지막 인사라는 걸 알면서도,"

"Even though I knew this was the the last greeting,"

"나는 웃으며 손을 흔들었어."

"I still smiled and waved my hand."

Lee Ji-eun placed her headphones on the desk, leaned back in her chair, and looked at the ceiling. There was a fluorescent light on the ceiling with two tubes; the ballast of one was broken, and it would flicker every few seconds, making a faint buzzing sound. She stared at that light, watching the broken tube flicker on and off, with only one thought in her mind.

Five songs. Five S's. She had listened to over a hundred songs and given out countless A's, B's, and C's, but there were only these five S's. All written by one person. SM. Jiang Zhiyu.

She picked up her phone, opened the search bar, and typed in 'Jiang Zhiyu'. There were many search results—news, forum posts, SNS updates—mostly related to 'prince ruperts drop', along with some clips from radio programs. She clicked on a video, which was a clip of Jiang Zhiyu on Kim Taeyeon's radio show. In the frame, a youth wearing a light blue shirt sat next to Kim Taeyeon. He wasn't holding anything—no, he had placed it on the table: a cup of pink milk tea with 'Full Sugar + Pearls + Coconut Jelly + Pudding + Red Bean' written on the cup. His smile wasn't big, but it was sincere, like a friend listening to you intently.

She turned off the video and placed her phone face down on the desk.

Jiang Zhiyu. Sixteen years old. Foreigner. SM's signed creator. The producer of Kim Taeyeon's song. They had never met, had no intersection, and had only exchanged a few songs via email.

But the songs this person wrote were better than any she had written recently. Not 'a little better,' but 'much better'. So good that after listening, she glanced at the title track she had written herself, fell silent for a long time, and then closed the file. Not because it was bad, but because next to these five songs, it looked like a street stall item in a designer shop. It wasn't that her song had changed; the frame of reference had changed.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Lee Ji-eun stood up and walked around the studio.

She walked from the window to the door, and then from the door back to the window.

Her pace was not fast, but it was heavy; every step felt like she was trying to stomp a hole in the floor.

Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her hoodie, her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms until it hurt.

But she did not let go.

She walked back, sat down, stood up again, and did another lap.

She felt like a hamster trapped in a cage, running and running, but unable to go anywhere.

There were several voices speaking in her head at the same time.

One voice said: "Choosing two or three is enough. Combine them with the title track you wrote yourself to market yourself as a musical genius. The media will write, 'IU participates in songwriting, showcasing her musical talent,' fans will praise, 'Jieun Unnie is amazing,' and the public will think, 'She's not just a singer, she can write songs too.' This is the company's plan, based on market research and data analysis, and it's the safest route."

Another voice said: "Who are you kidding? If you put your own songs next to these five, won't you just be mocked even more? Your own songs aren't as good as the ones you're considering including, so what kind of genius are you? When the time comes, the media headlines won't be 'IU showcases creative talent,' but 'IU's self-composed songs crushed by unknown producer.' Fans will argue in the comments section; some will say, 'These songs are indeed good,' and others will say, 'Unnie's own songs are also good,' but everyone will know the latter is just a hollow defense."

Yet another voice said: "Then don't choose them. Send them all back. These songs will be returned and then added to SM's music library, to be sung by SM artists in the future. Maybe it will be Red Velvet, maybe it will be NCT, or maybe some trainee who hasn't debuted yet. Those people will sing them well too, and their fans will like them. But these songs weren't written for them; these songs were written for her. Every note, every line of lyrics, every vocal run was tailor-made for her voice. Others will sing them well, but not 'that' well."

Lee Ji-eun stopped and stood by the window, looking at the sky outside.

The sky over Seoul was always gray, as if veiled by a layer of gauze.

Today, the gray was heavier than usual, and the clouds hung low, as if it were about to rain, but it wouldn't, just hanging there in mid-air, suspended, making her feel restless.

She thought of herself ten years from now.

If she sent these songs back, and if, one day ten years from now, somewhere, she happened to hear these songs.

Maybe she would be walking down the street and hear them playing in a mall. Maybe she would be driving and hear them on the radio. Maybe some junior artist would cover them at a concert.

The moment the melody started, she would stop, stand right where she was, and listen to the end.

Then she would think of today. She would think of this studio, these five songs, and that sixteen-year-old boy named Jiang Zhiyu whom she had never met.

Then she would ask herself a question—why didn't you take them back then?

She didn't know how to answer. She only knew that the question would follow her for ten years, twenty years, a lifetime.

Lee Ji-eun turned around, walked back to the table, and sat down.

She picked up the cup of Americano, which had gone cold, and took a big gulp.

The bitterness spread from the tip of her tongue to the back of her throat, as if something were burning in her esophagus.

She set the cup down heavily on the table; coffee splashed out, forming a dark circle on the surface.

Restless.

Not because the coffee was bitter, not because the sky was gray, and not because those five songs were too good.

But because—Jiang Zhiyu, we've never even met, so why does it seem like you understand me better than I understand myself?

She bit her lip, her fingers tapping unconsciously on the table, with no rhythm or pattern, like some kind of chaotic heartbeat.

She thought of a lyric from "Prince Rupert's Drop"—"I am the Prince Rupert's Drop you forged, with a head hard enough to withstand immense pressure, yet the careless force of your fingertips easily crushes my only weak spot."

When she heard this lyric, she felt something was off.

It wasn't that the lyrics were bad; it was that they were too good.

So good that it didn't seem like something a sixteen-year-old boy could write.

That feeling of "having one's weak spot held by someone else" wasn't imagined; it was experienced.

She didn't know what Jiang Zhiyu had been through, but she knew he must have been in a lot of pain.

Lee Ji-eun took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

She picked up a pen and wrote a line in her notebook.

"Jiang Zhiyu—five songs, all kept."

After she finished writing that line, she stared at it for a few seconds.

Then she added parentheses at the end and wrote a number inside.

"(Tentative)"

But she knew this "tentative" was just fooling herself.

She had already decided.

From the moment she heard the first note of the first song, she had already decided.

The following four songs were just confirming that this decision was correct.

She stood up, walked to the door, opened it, and walked out.

The hallway was empty; there wasn't a soul around.

Her footsteps echoed in the hallway, the sound of her high heels clicking crisply on the floor.

She walked to the bathroom, pushed the door open, and went inside.

The bathroom was also quiet, with only the exhaust fan humming overhead.

She pushed open the door to one of the stalls, went in, and locked it.

Then she sat on the toilet, staring at the stark white bathroom door in front of her, lost in thought.

The door was very white.

So white that there wasn't a speck of color, so white that it looked like it had been washed with bleach countless times, so white that it was blinding.

Her gaze landed on the door panel, but it had no focus.

She wasn't "looking" at the door; she was zoning out "at" the door.

Her mind was still spinning.

Turning over those songs, those lyrics, those melodies, and that sixteen-year-old boy named Jiang Zhiyu whom she had never met.

She thought of the lyrics in "Seoul Station".

"Not a parting for the sake of reunion. Just a parting."

She thought about how many times she had experienced such partings.

Friends from her trainee days, leaving one after another.

She couldn't remember the faces of some, only that on the day they left, there was one less person's belongings in the practice room, and a little more silence.

She could still name some of them, but she hadn't been in touch for a long time.

Not because she didn't want to, but because she didn't know how to start.

It had been too long since they had seen each other, too long since they had spoken; the time between them was like a wall, separating the two of them into different worlds.

She thought of the lyrics in "The Little Prince".

"I am no longer The Little Prince, and you will not return to my planet."

She thought about when she stopped believing in fairy tales.

It wasn't any specific moment, but a slow, irreversible process.

Like a candy slowly melting in water; you watch it get smaller, fade, and finally disappear. You know it's still in the water, but you can no longer taste the sweetness.

She thought of that song, "Through the Night".

"I want to tell you that I'm missing you."

How long had it been since she had said this to anyone?

Not "I miss you," but "I want to tell you that I'm missing you."

The former is a monologue to oneself; the latter is pouring one's heart out to someone.

The latter has more courage than the former, and more of an expectation that "I care about your response."

She didn't know when she had lost that kind of courage.

Lee Ji-eun closed her eyes.

The sound of the exhaust fan hummed overhead, like some ancient, melody-less lullaby.

She leaned her body against the plastic toilet tank; it was a bit cold, and the chill seeped through the fabric of her hoodie into her skin, crawling up her spine.

She thought that she would probably be sitting here for a long time today.

Not because she didn't want to go out, but because she didn't know what to do once she did.

Those five songs were lying in her inbox, like five crystal balls wrapped in bubble wrap.

She knew they were beautiful, and she knew that as long as she opened the packaging and displayed them, everyone would say, "How beautiful."

But she didn't dare to open them.

Not because she was afraid they would break, but because she didn't know where to put them.

If she put them in the most prominent place, people would say, "The best song on her album wasn't written by her."

If she put them in a corner, people would say, "Why didn't she put the best song at the front?"

No matter how she placed them, someone would have something to say.

It wasn't that she was afraid of being talked about, but that she knew those people were right.

These five songs were better than any song she had written.

This was a fact.

Facts don't need to be forgiven, but facts are uncomfortable.

Lee Ji-eun opened her eyes.

The stark white door was still there.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she spoke up.

"Aish—"

Her voice wasn't loud, but it sounded exceptionally clear in the quiet bathroom.

The hum of the exhaust fan didn't stop, but her voice pierced through the white noise, reflecting off the tiled walls like a pebble thrown into an empty room, bouncing a few times before landing.

After cursing, she was silent for three seconds.

Then she cursed again, this time louder.

"Aish!"

The second one was more forceful than the first.

It was as if she were squeezing something out of her body, using her voice to push it away, further and further, until it was out of sight.

She stood up and pressed the flush button.

The water roared in the pipes, like a small waterfall.

She pushed open the stall door, walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face.

The water was very cold, so cold that her skin tightened slightly the moment it made contact.

She looked up and saw herself in the mirror.

Bare-faced, lips chapped, that milium under her eye still there, hair messy, and the collar of her hoodie crooked.

She looked at herself in the mirror and was silent for a few seconds.

Then she made a decision.

Not choosing two or three. Not sending them back. Not pretending nothing happened.

Five songs, taking them all.

Using one of them as the title track.

Not because she wanted to admit that the songs she wrote weren't as good as someone else's, but because she didn't want to regret it ten years later.

Regret is more painful than admitting failure.

Failure is temporary; regret is for a lifetime.

She took out her phone, opened her email, and began to write an email to Jiang Zhiyu.

She typed a few words in the subject line: "Regarding song inclusion."

She wrote and deleted the body text over and over again, repeating it several times, until only one line remained.

"All five songs kept. Please contact me as soon as possible to discuss follow-up matters. — IU Lee Ji-eun"

She looked at this line, was silent for a moment, and then added a sentence at the end.

"PS: the blue night of jeju island that you wrote makes me want to buy a plane ticket to Jeju Island. But I'm too busy lately to go. So I will sing that song in Seoul. I hope you can understand."

She pressed the send button.

The email flew out of her outbox, passed through Loen Entertainment's servers, crossed Seoul's network, went through countless cables and signal towers, and landed in some unknown inbox.

She didn't know when Jiang Zhiyu would see this email, didn't know how he would reply, and didn't know what would happen next.

She only knew one thing.

She would not regret it. At least, she wouldn't regret this.

Lee Ji-eun put her phone in her pocket and walked out of the bathroom.

The hallway was still empty; there wasn't a soul around.

Her footsteps echoed in the hallway; this time, they were lighter than when she came.

Not because she wasn't restless anymore, but because she had made a decision.

Whether this decision was right or wrong, at least she didn't have to stand at the crossroads and hesitate anymore.

She walked back to the studio, sat down, and put her headphones back on.

She clicked on the five songs and listened to them again, starting from the first one.

the blue night of jeju island, Seoul Station, Through the Night, The Little Prince, and The the last greeting.

Each song was like a world; she walked into it, stayed for a while, and then came out.

After listening to the five songs, she took off her headphones, picked up a pen, and crossed out the line "(Tentative)" in her notebook.

Then she wrote a new line next to it.

"Jiang Zhiyu—five songs, all kept. Candidate for title track."

After writing this line, she leaned back in her chair, picked up the cup of Americano that had gone completely cold, and took a sip.

It was still very bitter.

But she didn't frown.

She held the coffee and looked at the sky outside the window.

The clouds were still low, the gray was still heavy, and it still hadn't rained.

But she felt that maybe it wouldn't rain today.

Not because the weather had improved, but because she didn't want it to.

Lee Ji-eun put down the coffee cup, picked up her phone, and sent a message to the company's A&R team.

"All five of Jiang Zhiyu's songs are accepted. Prepare the contract as soon as possible. Price according to the highest standard."

After sending it, she thought for a moment and added another one.

"Also, help me get a photo of him. I'm curious what he looks like."

After sending this message, she paused for a moment and quickly clicked recall.

But it was too late. The other party had already read it.

Lee Ji-eun turned her phone face down on the table, her face feeling a bit hot.

Not because she was shy, but because: she was a senior who had debuted for nearly ten years, and she was actually asking the company for a photo of a sixteen-year-old junior; what would people say if they heard that?

She took a deep breath and decided to pretend that nothing had happened.

But her fingers were tapping unconsciously on the table, the rhythm much faster than before.

Outside the window, the sky over Seoul still hadn't cleared up.

But Lee Ji-eun felt that maybe a cloudy day wasn't so bad.

Cloudy days are good for writing songs, for listening to songs, for sitting in the studio, and listening to those heart-stirring melodies over and over again.

She picked up her pen, opened her notebook, and began to write her work log for the day.

At the top of the first page, she wrote a line.

"A certain day in May 2018. Received five songs from Jiang Zhiyu. All accepted. Mood: Complicated."

[part:gemini-3.0-flash]

There was a coffee shop downstairs from Loen Entertainment, located at the corner of the first floor. It didn't have much of a storefront, but the lighting was excellent. The floor-to-ceiling windows faced the street directly, and the afternoon sunlight poured in, casting a warm patch of light on the light-colored wooden floor. There were only a few tables in the shop, not arranged very neatly, but there was a casual, relaxing sense of comfort.

IU sat in the innermost seat, with her back against the wall, facing the door. This was a habit she had developed over many years—sitting in a spot where she could see everyone. It wasn't because she had a persecution complex, but because she was too famous, so famous that anyone who recognized her might do something unpredictable. In her earlier years, a Sasaeng fan had followed her home and crouched at her doorstep for an entire night. When she opened the door the next morning, the person was still there, smiling at her. Since then, she had formed this habit.

She was wearing a light gray hoodie with the hood down, her hair draped casually, and no makeup. The difference between her bare face and her look with makeup wasn't that big, but her skin condition certainly wasn't as good as it appeared on camera; it was a bit dull, there was a tiny milia near the corner of her eye, and her lips were a bit dry. She didn't care. This was downstairs from Loen Entertainment, and the floors above were her territory. Even if she were recognized, so what? She was IU, the highest-earning artist in this company and a regular on the South Korean Digital music charts. She didn't need to wear makeup downstairs from her own place.

An Americano sat on the table in front of her, already half-finished, with a layer of fine condensation clinging to the cup. Her fingers rested on the cup, her thumb unconsciously stroking the ceramic surface as if she were waiting for something. She was waiting for someone. Waiting for someone she had never met in person but had exchanged several rounds of emails with. SM's Jiang Zhiyu, the producer of prince ruperts drop, a sixteen-year-old genius, and the person whose five songs had made her curse 'Aish, seriously' twice in the bathroom.

The appointed time was two in the afternoon. It was now five past two. Lee Ji-eun picked up her coffee and took another sip, her gaze scanning the street outside through the floor-to-ceiling window. There weren't many people, just a few occasional passersby; no one stopped, and no one looked into the shop. She put down her cup and tapped her fingers twice on the tabletop.

Then, she saw someone.

That person walked over from the other end of the street. His pace wasn't fast, but every step was firm. He wore a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head and the brim pressed very low, almost covering half of his face. Below that was a black mask, covering the other half of his face. On his lower body were black casual pants and black sneakers. From top to bottom, inside and out, he was entirely in black. His whole being was like a walking shadow, or like a severely burned patient who had just escaped a fire, covered in soot and in need of emergency hospitalization.

Lee Ji-eun stared at the person for two seconds, and the corners of her mouth slowly curled up. She recognized him. It wasn't because his outfit was distinctive—in fact, his outfit made him completely unidentifiable in a crowd—but because of his aura. That composed, unhurried gait, as if he were taking a stroll in his own backyard, was something she had seen in a video. In that clip from Kim Taeyeon's radio show, he had walked into the live studio with that same stride, showing no nervousness or stage fright, as if he were doing something he had done hundreds of times before.

Jiang Zhiyu stopped at the entrance of the coffee shop. He stood there, tilting his head slightly, and scanned the interior layout through the window. His gaze moved from left to right, then right to left, like a scanner mapping out a chart. He was identifying the locations of exits, blind spots, and the angles of surveillance cameras. This was a habit he had developed in the Tianxuan Continent; it was etched into his bones and could not be changed.

Then, he pushed the door and entered.

The doorbell gave a crisp 'ding-dong.' The other customers in the shop looked up at him for a moment and then lowered their heads again. In Seoul, many people go out wearing masks—pollen allergies, colds, no makeup, not wanting to be recognized—the reasons are endless. However, someone fully armed from head to toe like him, without even a finger exposed, was indeed rare.

Lee Ji-eun watched him walk toward her step by step, and the curve of her lips widened a bit more. She picked up her coffee cup, hiding half of her face, leaving only her eyes which were curved into crescents.

Jiang Zhiyu came to a stop opposite her. He didn't sit down immediately but stood there, looking down at Lee Ji-eun. His eyes behind the sunglasses were sizing her up, from the collar of her hoodie to her hand resting on the cup, from the milia at the corner of her eye to the half-smile on her lips.

"Jiang Zhiyu?" Lee Ji-eun spoke first.

"IU-ssi." Jiang Zhiyu nodded and extended his hand.

The two of them shook hands. Lee Ji-eun's fingers were very cold, likely from holding the iced Americano for too long. Jiang Zhiyu's fingers were warm, with a just-right temperature that made one want to hold them a little longer. The handshake was brief, lasting less than two seconds, but the moment she let go, Lee Ji-eun noticed a thin layer of calluses on Jiang Zhiyu's palm—not the kind from playing an instrument, but a different kind. She didn't know what they were from, but she remembered them.

"Producer Jiang-nim," Lee Ji-eun said, withdrawing her hand and tilting her head to look at him, "why are you dressed like this?"

Jiang Zhiyu sat down opposite her. He didn't answer immediately but first looked around—turning his neck to scan left, right, and behind—to confirm that no one was paying attention to them. Then he leaned forward slightly across the table, his voice kept very low, as if he were sharing an unspeakable secret.

"If SM found out I came here to aid the enemy, I'd be dead."

Lee Ji-eun raised an eyebrow. "Aid the enemy?"

Jiang Zhiyu's voice was still very low, but this time his tone carried a sense of "you know what I mean" rapport. "IU-ssi and Noona are rivals online. Since I support Noona, naturally that makes..."

He didn't finish. But Lee Ji-eun understood. By "Noona," he meant Kim Taeyeon. In online fan wars, Kim Taeyeon and IU's fans were often compared—who had better digital results, who had higher sales, who had more influence. Jiang Zhiyu was Kim Taeyeon's producer; it was only natural for him to be on her side. Yet here he was, coming to the "enemy's" territory to write songs for the "enemy," wanting the "enemy" to sing his songs, and planning to make money from the "enemy." If SM found out, it would indeed be hard to explain.

Lee Ji-eun looked at him. The smile on her lips didn't change, but her expression did. It wasn't anger or mockery, but a sort of probing gaze that said, "You're quite an interesting person."

"Producer Jiang-nim," she said, "in your eyes, do I count as an enemy?"

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a second. Then, as if talking to himself but clearly loud enough for Lee Ji-eun to hear perfectly, he muttered, "IU-ssi and Noona are rivals online, I support Noona, so of course that's... *cough cough*."

He didn't say the words after "that's." But that "cough cough" was more lethal than if he had spoken them.

Lee Ji-eun didn't dwell on it. She wasn't the type to get angry over the difference between being called "Noona" and "IU-ssi." She had been in the industry for over a decade and had been called "IU-sunbaenim," "IU-teacher," "IU-Unnie," "Jieun-ah," and "CEO Lee." She had heard all sorts of titles. A sixteen-year-old junior calling her "IU-ssi" was already quite polite in her eyes. She didn't press him, only smiled and said in a "fine, fine, let's not talk about that" tone, "Producer Jiang-nim should take that stuff off first. It's safe here."

Jiang Zhiyu hesitated for a second. Then he took off his sunglasses and placed them on the table. He removed his mask, folded it, and put it in his pocket. He pulled the hood off his head; his hair was a bit flattened and messy, with his bangs sticking to his forehead. He reached up to brush them aside, revealing a smooth forehead and eyes that were calm, like the water in a deep pool.

Lee Ji-eun looked at him, lingering for a few extra moments.

It wasn't because he was handsome—though he certainly was. It was because of the contradictory qualities on his face. The greenness and youth of a sixteen-year-old boy could be found there—his jawline hadn't fully filled out, the outline of his Adam's apple was barely visible, and the color of his lips was that translucent pink unique to the young. But there was something else about him, something that didn't belong to a sixteen-year-old. It was a sense of composure and calm, a relaxed air that only comes after having navigated countless major scenes. It wasn't faked, it wasn't learned; it was bred in his bones.

Boy and man. The two words were intertwined in him, creating a charm that was hard to describe, both contradictory and harmonious. Lee Ji-eun had been in the industry for over ten years and had seen more male artists than she had eaten grains of salt. Handsome ones, ugly ones, charming ones, dull ones, those who acted cool, and those who were truly cool—she had seen them all. But there were few like Jiang Zhiyu, who had something inexplicable beyond just being "handsome" that made one want to look a few more times.

She thought silently to herself: This face, in a few years, is going to be a nightmare for countless young girls. Not because he's unattractive, but quite the opposite—because he's too good-looking. So good-looking that one can't help but wonder "what will he be like later." When he's twenty, twenty-five, thirty, when he's fully matured, when his aura is polished by time into something more mature, when he's no longer a "boy" but a "man"—she didn't quite dare to imagine that picture.

Then she thought of something else. Kim Taeyeon. That woman who liked younger men. The Kim Taeyeon who had dated Byun Baekhyun. The Kim Taeyeon whose eyes lit up when she looked at Jiang Zhiyu and laughed on the radio show. Lee Ji-eun's lips twitched slightly, not in a smile or mockery, but in a confirmation of "so that's how it is."

"Producer Jiang-nim," she said, "are you very close with Taeyeon-ssi?"

Jiang Zhiyu was tidying his hair that had been messed up by the hood. Hearing this question, his fingers paused. "It's alright. We've collaborated a few times."

"Just collaboration?"

"...I've also gotten free meals from her."

Lee Ji-eun nodded and didn't ask further. She picked up her coffee and took a sip, using the rim of the cup to hide the meaningful curve of her lips.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't notice her expression. He was taking a stack of documents out of his bag and spreading them on the table, his movements as practiced as a workplace veteran who had done countless proposals. The first page of the documents was a song list, with the titles, durations, keys, tempos, and arrangement configurations of the five songs all clearly marked. The second page was a draft contract, with copyright clauses, royalty percentages, scope of authorization, and duration of use, all neatly arranged in dense text.

Lee Ji-eun picked up the draft contract, flipped through two pages, and then put it down. She didn't look at it closely, because she knew the real negotiation wasn't there. The real negotiation was further in, regarding the things not written in the contract that needed to be confirmed face-to-face.

"Producer Jiang-nim," she began, "regarding these five songs, I have a few thoughts."

"Please, go ahead."

"I want to place 'the blue night of jeju island' as the second track of the album. Not the title track, but right after it. It's a song for listening quietly; if placed at the beginning, the listeners' emotions won't have settled in yet, and it would be a waste." Lee Ji-eun looked into Jiang Zhiyu's eyes, observing his reaction.

"Okay," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"For 'Seoul Station,' I want to re-arrange it. The strings you used are too full; I want a feeling that's more empty. Like someone walking alone in an empty station, where the sound of footsteps has an echo."

"That's fine. I'll change it when I get back."

"As for 'Through the Night,' I'm going to change the title. Not because it's poorly written, but because I have a song with the same name, and I don't want to confuse the listeners."

"Change it to what?"

"I haven't decided yet. Do you have any suggestions?"

"Letter Written at Night."

Lee Ji-eun thought about it. The meaning was similar to 'Through the Night,' but it added the action of 'writing,' placing more emphasis on the process of creation. She nodded. "Okay."

"I want to make 'The Little Prince' the album's intro," Lee Ji-eun said. "Not the full song, just keeping the first verse and chorus, and then transitioning into the title track. Like a prologue, leading the listeners into the world of this album."

"Okay."

"I want 'the last greeting' to be the title track."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"No regrets?"

"No regrets."

Jiang Zhiyu nodded and wrote a line in his notebook. His handwriting was very messy, but Lee Ji-eun could tell he wrote 'the last greeting - Title Track.' Then he looked up at Lee Ji-eun. "Any other requirements?"

Lee Ji-eun thought for a moment. "None for now."

"Okay," Jiang Zhiyu said, "I agree to all of them."

Lee Ji-eun raised an eyebrow.

It was too smooth. So smooth it was abnormal. She had been in the entertainment industry for over a decade and had negotiated countless times. With the company, with producers, with advertisers, with TV stations. Every negotiation was a game of chess, both sides moving back and forth, giving and taking. Never had there been a time where the other side accepted everything. Total acceptance only had two possibilities. First, the other party was an inexperienced fool who didn't know what they were doing. Second, the other party was waiting for you with something much bigger later on.

Jiang Zhiyu was no fool.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

Lee Ji-eun leaned back against the chair, arms crossed, looking at the face opposite her that hovered somewhere between a boy and a man. "Producer Jiang," she said, "do you have any requests?"

Jiang Zhiyu smiled. It wasn't that polite, social, professional smile with slightly upturned corners of the lips, but a genuine, heartfelt smile, one with a hint of slyness that seemed to say, "You finally asked." That smile lit up his entire face, as if someone had turned on a light behind him.

Lee Ji-eun watched his smile and made a mental note—this person was two different people when he smiled versus when he didn't. When he wasn't smiling, he was like a deep pool of water, bottomless. When he smiled, he was like sunlight piercing through dark clouds; it was warm, yes, but you knew the dark clouds were still there.

"I have two requests." Jiang Zhiyu held up two fingers, a gesture that looked like a "V" for victory, but his expression was serious, so serious it was as if he were reading a legal document.

"First, the copyrights to my songs stay with me. Loen Entertainment will hold the authorized usage rights, not the copyright ownership. The term is for three years, with automatic renewal after that, and the revenue-sharing ratio remains unchanged. If IU-xi does not use these songs within three years, the copyright automatically reverts to me, and I can dispose of them as I please."

Lee Ji-eun tapped her fingers lightly on the tabletop. Copyright was the core interest. She had expected him to ask for a higher revenue-sharing ratio or some other form of equity. But what he wanted was the copyright. Not money, but ownership. This meant that these songs didn't fundamentally belong to Loen Entertainment, nor to this album; they only belonged to him. Loen Entertainment was merely "renting" these songs for three years.

"Second," Jiang Zhiyu continued, "I want to handle all matters related to the album's operations and marketing. From concept planning to promotional strategy, from MV filming to music show appearances, from SNS management to media public relations—I will be responsible for all of it."

Lee Ji-eun's fingers stopped.

She looked at Jiang Zhiyu and was silent for three seconds. Then she smiled. It wasn't a mocking smile that said, "What nonsense are you talking about," nor a helpless smile that said, "Are you out of your mind," but a smile that said, "You are very interesting," filled with curiosity and appreciation. Her eyes curved into crescents, and the arc of her lips was much wider than when she usually smiled, revealing a few teeth. The laughter wasn't loud, but it was genuine, like she had been tickled in just the right spot and couldn't help it.

"Producer Jiang," she said, stopping her laughter and looking into his eyes, "do you know what you are saying?"

"I do."

"Aren't you a songwriter for SM? How can you handle operations at the same time?"

"Songwriter is my position; operations is my skill," Jiang Zhiyu said, his tone as calm as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today." "SM only hired me to write songs; they didn't hire me to do anything else. So, doing other things doesn't violate my contract."

Lee Ji-eun looked at him and was silent for a moment. Then she picked up her coffee and took another sip. This time, she drank very slowly, as if using the time to think about something. The coffee had gone completely cold, and the bitterness was stronger, but she didn't frown. She set the cup down, placed her hands folded on the table, and leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them.

"Producer Jiang," she said, "I cannot agree to your requests."

Jiang Zhiyu's expression didn't change at all, as if he had anticipated this answer long ago.

"You have to talk to the company executives yourself," Lee Ji-eun said. "The copyright matters, the operations—these aren't things I can decide. I'm just a singer, not the boss."

"I know," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"Then why are you telling me?"

"Because I need to get your consent first." Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, his gaze calm and sincere. "You are the one singing these songs. If you don't agree, it doesn't matter how well I negotiate with the company. Once you agree, I have the qualification to go and talk to the company."

Lee Ji-eun looked into his eyes, and in those calm, unfathomable pools of water, she saw something: respect. Not respect for "IU," not respect for a "senior," not respect for the "Queen of Digital Charts," but respect for "Lee Ji-eun." Respect for her judgment as a singer, and respect for her agency as an artist.

"Fine," Lee Ji-eun said. "I can help you schedule a time. But whether you succeed or not is up to you."

"Of course," Jiang Zhiyu smiled. "I will prove my capabilities."

When he said this, there wasn't a hint of uncertainty in his tone. It wasn't arrogance, it wasn't conceit, but a certainty born from repeated calculation and full confidence in himself. It was as natural as saying "1+1=2."

Lee Ji-eun looked at the confident smile at the corner of his lips and suddenly remembered that afternoon in the bathroom when she had cursed "Aish-bal." She had agonized over these five songs for an entire afternoon, pacing back and forth in the studio, staring blankly at the pale door while sitting on the toilet, finally gritting her teeth to make a decision. And this person, sitting across from her, had nonchalantly proposed two requirements she had never heard of—requirements that were almost absurd—and then said "I will prove my capabilities" in a tone that suggested "this is perfectly normal." A voice in her heart said: This person is either a true genius or a true madman. The difference between a genius and a madman lies only in whether he can do what he says.

She didn't know if he could do it. But she was curious.

"Producer Jiang," she said, "can I ask you a question?"

"Please go ahead."

"You are sixteen this year, and you've been in Korea for less than a year. On what grounds do you think you can handle the operations of an album? Do you know what the budget for this album is? Do you know which music shows there are in Korea? Do you know the composition of the judges for the year-end awards? Do you know—"

"I don't," Jiang Zhiyu interrupted her.

Lee Ji-eun stopped.

"I don't know right now," Jiang Zhiyu said. "But I will know in the shortest time possible. Budget, music shows, awards ceremonies, media relations, fan management, copyright management, distribution channels—I will figure all of this out before I officially take over."

He paused, looked into Lee Ji-eun's eyes, and his tone softened slightly. "IU-xi, I'm not gambling with you. I can truly do it."

Lee Ji-eun looked at his serious eyes, which held not a hint of a joke, and was silent for a long time.

Then she reached out her hand. "Then I wish us a happy cooperation."

Jiang Zhiyu took her hand. "Happy cooperation."

This handshake lasted a bit longer than the last one. Lee Ji-eun's hand was still cool, and Jiang Zhiyu's hand was still warm. When they let go, Lee Ji-eun noticed the position of the calluses on his palms—not on the fingertips, but at the base of the palms. She didn't know what kind of calluses those were, but she remembered them.

The two chatted about details for a while longer. Lee Ji-eun explained the general concept of the album, and Jiang Zhiyu took many notes in his notebook, occasionally interjecting a sentence or two, but spending most of the time listening. When Lee Ji-eun spoke, he would look into her eyes, nodding from time to time, never interrupting, never cutting her off. He listened so intently that Lee Ji-eun felt like she was chatting with an old friend, not discussing work with a sixteen-year-old junior she was meeting for the first time.

After they finished talking, Jiang Zhiyu stood up and put his mask, sunglasses, and hat back on. He had turned back into that "burn unit patient."

Lee Ji-eun looked at his heavily armed appearance and couldn't help but laugh again. "Producer Jiang, you really don't need to be so nervous. This is downstairs at Loen Entertainment; no one will snitch."

Jiang Zhiyu pulled up the zipper of his hoodie, all the way to the top, up to his chin. "Better safe than sorry." His voice came from behind the mask, muffled but very serious.

Lee Ji-eun looked at his "I'm going on a secret mission" appearance, and the arc of her lips widened a bit more. She suddenly remembered something. "Producer Jiang."

Jiang Zhiyu stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her.

"You call me 'IU-xi' and call Taeyeon-xi 'Noona'." Lee Ji-eun tilted her head, her smile sweet. "Shouldn't we standardize how we address each other?"

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a second. Then he took off his mask, revealing the lower half of his face, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. "Jieun Noona."

Lee Ji-eun froze for a moment. It wasn't because he called her "Noona"—that was her intention all along. It was because he called her "Jieun Noona," not "IU Noona." "IU" was her stage name, her work, the person in front of the public. "Jieun" was her real name, the name on her ID card, the name her parents called her, the name she would write in her diary when she was alone. He called her "Jieun Noona." She didn't know if he did it intentionally or unintentionally, but she didn't want to ask.

"Yeah." She nodded. "Go ahead. Be careful on your way."

Jiang Zhiyu put his mask back on and pushed the door open to leave the coffee shop. The doorbell chimed with a crisp "ding-dong." Lee Ji-eun sat in her seat, watching that black shadow disappear around the corner of the street. She picked up the completely empty coffee cup and blew into the rim, but nothing blew out because there was no coffee left inside. She set the cup down, picked up the file on the table, flipped to the first page, and looked at the titles of the five songs.

the blue night of jeju island. Seoul Station. Through the Night. The Little Prince. The the last greeting. Five songs, five worlds. Each world was built by Jiang Zhiyu, and she was just someone invited in to visit. But now, she decided to move into these worlds. Not to visit, but to live. To wake up every day, open the window, and see these landscapes.

Lee Ji-eun stood up, packed away the file, picked up her phone, and sent a message to the company's A&R team.

"For Jiang Zhiyu's contract, handle the copyright and operations clauses according to his requests. Schedule a time for him to talk directly with the CEO."

After sending it, she thought for a moment and added another one.

"Oh, and help me book a plane ticket to Jeju Island. Next month, any day is fine. I want to go see the blue night."

After sending this message, she put her phone in her pocket and walked out of the coffee shop. The afternoon sun fell on her, warm, like a quilt that had just been aired out. She stood at the doorway, squinting at the sky. The clouds were still low, and the gray was still heavy, but the sunlight leaked through the gaps in the clouds, casting patches of light onto the street.

She took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

She thought, it probably wouldn't rain today. Not because the weather had improved, but because she didn't want it to.

——

[Why is my Dongdong so cute?]

(08:05) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Good morning, Oppa! I woke up extra early today because I dreamed that Oppa's cross-border meeting went super smoothly, so I danced a celebratory dance in my dream~ but I ended up kicking the bedpost... wuwu, but thinking it was kicked for Oppa makes it not hurt at all! (◕ ᴗ ◕ ✿ )]

(08:08) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [For breakfast, I used a mold to press the rice balls into stars and snowflakes! Although the kimchi filling leaked out, the sentiment is complete~ (Sent a photo of the star rice ball tilting its head and the snowflake rice ball pursing its lips)]

(08:11) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [While watering "Little Dong," I noticed it grew its third new leaf; it's as tender as the color of the matcha latte Oppa drank last time~ I touched the leaf gently and said, "Grow up well, your dad is a very amazing person."]

(08:14) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [I'm recording a variety radio show today, and the writer Unnie asked me to prepare a "moment of happiness recently." I secretly changed the answer to "every time I receive a message from someone"... I shouldn't be found out, right? (Nervously rubs hands)]

(08:17) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [I put on the white sweater that Oppa praised as "soft like a cloud." Even if the radio show only broadcasts sound, I want happiness to overflow from the folds of my clothes~]

(08:20) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Before leaving, I practiced smiling in the entryway mirror and suddenly felt that the arc of my lips is becoming more and more like how it looks when Oppa says "Our Minjeong is so good." Is this what you call... the contagion of happiness?]