19: Chapter 19's title has five words.

Jiang Zhiyu stood below Loen Entertainment, looking up at the off-white building. Sunlight leaked through gaps in the clouds, falling onto the glass curtain wall and reflecting a blinding glare. He squinted, shifting his gaze from the bright spots to the black glass door at the entrance. The door wasn't large, even somewhat inconspicuous; if not for the brass plaque engraved with "Loen Entertainment" beside it, passersby would likely assume it was just an ordinary office building. But Jiang Zhiyu knew that the people sitting behind this door held the key to the second stage of his five-year plan.

He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The air in his chest was squeezed out, and new air rushed in, carrying the cool of early autumn and the scent of car exhaust from the street. He stood at the door, not pushing it open immediately, but silently reciting a sentence in his heart—the strongest creator in history, the genius boy whose project swept the global internet in a single week, has arrived at his loyal Loen Entertainment today. After finishing the thought, the corners of his mouth curled up slightly. It wasn't a smile, but a confirmation of "Alright, let's go in." He wouldn't say it out loud, of course; that would be too stupid. But saying it once in his head was like a ritual, a way of telling himself—you are qualified to walk through this door.

He pushed the door open and walked into the lobby. The front desk staff seemed to have known he was coming; they didn't ask who he was looking for or make him register, but simply pointed toward the elevator with a smile. Jiang Zhiyu bowed slightly, walked to the elevator, and pressed the button for the seventh floor. The elevator doors closed, and the mirror-like metal panels reflected his image—a dark gray suit, a white shirt, no tie, with the collar slightly open. His hair wasn't styled, just hanging naturally with his bangs just covering his eyebrows. He didn't look sixteen, or at least not like the sixteen-year-old most people imagined. Sixteen should be the age for wearing school uniforms, carrying backpacks, and running through school hallways. He wasn't that. He was wearing a suit, standing in an elevator with a briefcase in hand, containing over twenty pages of project materials, knocking on the door of an entertainment company to discuss not "Can you give me a chance?" but "I'll handle the promotion for your album."

The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor. The hallway was covered in dark gray carpet, making his footsteps silent. Posters of Loen's artists hung on both walls, with IU's photo in the most prominent position. She was wearing a white dress, standing among flowers, her smile as gentle as if she were looking at an old friend. Jiang Zhiyu didn't stop as he passed the poster, but his gaze lingered on that face for a fraction of a second. He wasn't looking at "IU," but at "Lee Ji-eun." The woman who sat in the coffee shop with a bare face, gripping a mug of Americano, whom he called "Jieun Noona." The her on the poster was perfect, but that perfect version wasn't the one he knew. The her he knew was imperfect—bare-faced, with chapped lips, milia at the corners of her eyes, and a nose that crinkled when she laughed. But that imperfect her was ten thousand times more real than the one on this poster.

At the end of the hallway was a dark brown wooden door, half-ajar, with voices coming from inside. It wasn't just one person, but several; their voices weren't loud, but they rose and fell as if in discussion. Jiang Zhiyu stood still at the door, not pushing it open immediately. He listened for two seconds, judging from the fragmented, blurred syllables that at least five people were sitting inside. Three male voices, two female voices. The pace of the conversation was fast, like an argument, but the tone wasn't heated; it was more like the back-and-forth of a business negotiation. He adjusted his collar, confirming that the first button of his suit was undone—leaving it done up would look too stiff, while leaving it undone would look too casual, but in this setting, casual was better than stiff. Stiff says "I'm afraid of you," while casual says "I'm not afraid of you." A world of difference in a single nuance.

He pushed open the door.

The talking in the conference room stopped the moment the door was pushed open. It was as if someone had pressed the pause button; all sound was sucked away, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning vents. Five people sat on either side of the long table—three men and two women, all around forty years old, dressed in dark formal wear with varying expressions. Some were sizing him up, their gaze sweeping from his face to his feet and back again, as if weighing him by the pound. Some were expressionless, making it impossible to tell what they were thinking, but that "inscrutability" was an attitude in itself—I'm in no rush to judge you, you speak first. Others had a faint, ambiguous smile that wasn't kind, but rather the "I'll see what you can actually say" kind.

IU sat at the far end of the long table, by the window. She was wearing a cream-white knit cardigan over a black turtleneck, her hair down, and her makeup very light. An Americano sat before her, the condensation on the cup forming a dark ring on the table. Her gaze was different from the others. It wasn't scrutiny, it wasn't sizing him up, it wasn't an evaluation; it was a mix of surprise that "you actually dared to come" and curiosity about "what on earth do you want to do." There was a tiny curve at the corner of her mouth—not a smile, but a confirmation of "you really are an interesting person."

Standing at the door, Jiang Zhiyu unhurriedly gave a slight bow to everyone. The angle of his bow was neither too deep nor too shallow, perfectly poised between "respectful" and "unyielding." After straightening up, he didn't speak immediately. Instead, he walked to one end of the long table, placed his briefcase on it, and unzipped it. His movements were neither fast nor slow, as if he were performing a task he did every day that required no special focus. He took several identical sets of materials from the bag—a thick stack—with the title printed on the cover: "She Doesn't Know I'm Watching Her - Case Review." Not a "Project Proposal," but a "Review." A world of difference; the former is "I plan to do it," the latter is "I've already done it." What he wanted them to see was the result, not a promise. Results don't need to be trusted; they only need to be confirmed.

He walked to each person and placed a copy of the materials in front of them. As he did, he would bow slightly, but he didn't wait for a response before moving on. Five people, five sets of materials, five bows. His movements were clean and efficient, without unnecessary flair. Finally, he returned to his spot, pulled out a chair, and sat down. The chair legs made almost no sound on the carpet, but his posture was upright, his back straight, and his hands folded on the table. His gaze swept across everyone's faces—from left to right, right to left—finally landing on IU for a brief moment before moving away.

"Greetings to the leaders of Loen Entertainment. It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Jiang Zhiyu."

He didn't say "SM's Jiang Zhiyu." It wasn't an oversight; it was intentional. SM was his company, but today's matter was his own. He hadn't come as an SM creator, but as "Jiang Zhiyu." Everyone present picked up on the distinction between these two identities. When they heard this, someone's brow twitched slightly. Not a frown, but a raised eyebrow, as if saying "interesting." Others shifted their gaze from "sizing him up" to "scrutiny." "Sizing up" is looking at the exterior; "scrutiny" is looking at the interior. A world of difference, a level apart.

The conference room was silent for a few seconds. No one spoke, and no one flipped through the materials he had handed out. The five people sat there, waiting quietly, as if waiting for him to continue. This was a tacit understanding, and also a test. They were watching how he would open. Would he boast about his achievements, or humbly say "please guide me"? Was he anxious to prove himself, or calmly waiting for them to ask questions?

Jiang Zhiyu was in no rush to speak. He first looked out the window. The sky outside was overcast, like all skies in Seoul, as if covered by a veil. He pulled his gaze back and let it rest on the wall opposite the long table. An abstract painting hung there; it was hard to tell what it depicted, but the colors were beautiful—blue and white interwoven like the sky or the sea. He looked at the painting for two seconds and then began to speak. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear, every word seeming individually polished, smooth and full.

"Why did this project go viral? It's not because I wrote it well, nor because Ji-min filmed it well; it's because this era needs something like this."

He shifted his gaze from the painting on the wall to the man sitting second from the right. The man was in his early forties, his hair combed meticulously, wearing rimless glasses and a professional expression—the kind that says "I'm listening, but I won't take a stand." Jiang Zhiyu looked into his eyes and continued.

"Modern society moves too fast—so fast that people have no time to stop and look at those around them. Everyone is busy with their own affairs—going to work, leaving work, eating, sleeping. Photos on social media are edited to look better and better, but no one knows if the person behind the photo is truly happy or just pretending. In this environment, someone suddenly tells you—'I'm watching you. You don't know it, but I am.' That feeling isn't voyeurism; it's companionship. It's not 'I'm staring at you,' it's 'I am here.' In a place you don't know, someone is watching you work hard, watching you progress, watching you become better and better. He won't disturb you, won't rush you, and won't tell you 'what you should do.' He just watches, quietly, silently, like a lamp."

His gaze moved to the woman sitting third from the left. She was around forty, with short hair, wearing pearl earrings, exquisite makeup, and deep red nail polish. Her fingers tapped lightly on the table, without rhythm, as if she were thinking. Jiang Zhiyu looked into her eyes, his tone unchanged.

"Why are so many companies following the trend? It's not because they think the project is good, but because they found it to be useful. It's useful, so they copy it. Copying means they recognize it. Recognition means this model can be replicated. Replicability means it can be applied to anything that needs to be 'seen.' IU's album needs to be seen. Not 'heard,' but 'seen.' To see her hard work, to see her dedication, to see her in the recording studio singing over and over, revising over and over, pushing herself to the limit over and over. The audience hears a song, but behind that album is a whole person. Her exhaustion, her persistence, her insecurity, her refusal to lose. These things won't be written in the lyrics, but they exist. They need to be seen."

The man sitting in the middle stopped tapping his fingers on the table. His fingers hovered for half a second before slowly flattening against the surface. His expression didn't change, but his body leaned forward slightly. The change was tiny—so small that only Jiang Zhiyu, who had been observing him, noticed. Leaning forward signifies interest. It's not "I'm listening," but "I want to hear." The distance between those two states is this one-centimeter lean.

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

"Therefore, the core of this project isn't 'peeking,' it's 'gazing.'"

Jiang Zhiyu's voice was softer than before, but that softness wasn't weakness; it was restraint.

"It's not 'I am watching you,' it's 'I am here, watching you.' You cannot see me, but you know I am here."

"That 'knowing' is power."

"When a person is working hard, if they know someone is watching, they will work even harder. Not because they want to please that person, but because they don't want to disappoint that person."

"That person doesn't know him, doesn't know his name, hasn't said a single word to him, and only liked his post. But that 'like' is power."

The conference room fell silent for a moment. It wasn't an awkward silence, but the kind of silence where "everyone is processing."

The man sitting second from the right spoke up. His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady, like a lawyer questioning in court.

"Jiang Zhiyu-xi, we understand everything you've said. But understanding is one thing, and implementation is another. Instead of saying so much, why don't we just talk about how you plan to promote Jieun's new album?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at him and was silent for a second. Then he smiled. It wasn't a polite, social smile, but a slightly mischievous one that said, "I've been waiting a long time for you to say that."

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly; the arc wasn't large, but that smile lit up his entire face, as if someone had turned on a light behind him.

"Regarding the specific details of the promotion, I will inform you immediately after the contract is signed."

His tone was very calm when he said this, so calm that it was as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today."

But the content of the sentence was anything but calm—telling them only after signing meant he didn't intend to reveal any specific operational details before the contract was signed.

If you want to know my plan, fine, sign the contract first. If you don't, then don't expect to know anything.

The man second from the right frowned slightly. It wasn't anger, but the realization that "this kid is not easy to deal with."

He looked at Jiang Zhiyu, and Jiang Zhiyu looked back at him. Their gazes met in the air; there were no sparks, no collision, just a quiet stare, as if they were checking each other's bottom line.

The man second from the right looked away first, leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and his expression shifted from "scrutiny" to "fine, you win."

The woman third from the left spoke up. Her voice was softer than the man second from the right, but that softness wasn't weakness; it was experience. She knew when to be firm and when to be soft. Now, she chose to be soft.

"Producer Jiang, how long did it take you to design this project?" Her tone was like chatting with a junior, casual yet polite.

"About two days."

"Two days?" Her eyebrows arched slightly.

"Two days from conception to formation. But execution took a week." Jiang Zhiyu paused, then added, "Inspiration is actually a matter of a split second. Most of the time was spent on how to turn that moment into a plan that can be executed, replicated, and verified by data."

The woman third from the left nodded and tapped her fingers on the table twice more. "What about the title? 'She doesn't know I'm watching her'—how did you come up with that title?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked into her eyes and was silent for a second. Then he said something that made everyone in the conference room go quiet. "Probably because I really am watching her."

Silence. Not the kind of silence where "everyone is thinking about what to say next," but the kind of silence where "what does that sentence mean." The five people stopped what they were doing at the same time.

Fingers tapping on the table hung in mid-air, hands turning pages stopped on a certain page, coffee cups stopped at their lips. "Really watching her"—who is this "her"? Is it Karina? Or someone else? Or everyone?

He didn't explain, nor was there any need to. This sentence could have countless interpretations, and each one would trigger different associations in the listener. And association is more powerful than explanation.

The man sitting on the far left coughed, breaking the silence that made people not know where to look. His voice was lower than the others, as if squeezed from deep within his throat.

"So, can I assume that this project was actually done by Jiang Zhiyu-xi to prove himself? Not for Karina, not for the project itself, but to prove 'I can do it.'"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at him; the arc of his mouth didn't change, but his eyes did. It wasn't the awkwardness of being exposed, nor the defensiveness of being questioned, but a sense of composure that said, "You finally asked about this."

"Yes." He didn't deny it, "This project was indeed to prove myself. Because obtaining the promotion rights for Jieun's album was something I proposed. I needed a case study, a case study that isn't 'I say I can do it,' but 'Look, this is what I did.' Now, this case study is right in front of you."

He reached out and tapped the stack of materials on the table. The four characters for "Full Case Review" on the cover reflected a faint light under the lamps.

"In one week, the followers grew from over 30,000 to 200,000. A trainee who had never debuted, without spending a single cent on promotion, made it to the forum's trending topics, was imitated by major entertainment agencies, was actively used by members of Red Velvet, and was reposted by people like Taeyeon, Im Yoona, and Bae Joo-hyun."

"These aren't things I said; they are things the data told you. Data doesn't lie; data doesn't need to be trusted, it only needs to be seen."

The man sitting in the middle—from the start of the meeting until now, he hadn't spoken. He just sat there, fingers tapping lightly on the table, his gaze moving back and forth between Jiang Zhiyu and that stack of materials.

His silence made the air pressure in the conference room lower than at any other time. When others were speaking, he would occasionally nod or frown, but he never spoke. Now, he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but every word felt like reading a verdict in court: steady, slow, and irrefutable.

"What do you intend to prove? That you can obtain the position of head of promotion?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked into his eyes. There was no scrutiny, no questioning, no curiosity in the man's eyes, only a calm wait that said, "I already know the answer, but I still want to hear you say it."

Jiang Zhiyu shook his head. "It's not to prove that I can get this position."

He paused, moved his gaze away from that man, and swept over everyone present. The woman third from the left, the man second from the right, the man on the far left, and Jieun. Finally, his gaze fell back on the man in the middle.

"I want to prove that I am not just a reckless fool. Or rather—to prove to everyone in this conference room that the requests I put forward will absolutely succeed."

The conference room went quiet. This silence was longer than any before. No one tapped the table, no one turned pages, no one held coffee.

The five people sat there, looking at this sixteen-year-old boy. His expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be seen. But there was a fire in his eyes, not the kind of blazing, crackling fire, but the kind of blue fire pressed deep in the furnace, with extremely high temperature but no visible flame on the surface.

The man in the middle looked at him and was silent for a moment. Then he lowered his head and opened the stack of materials in front of him.

The first page, the follower growth curve, from thirty thousand to two hundred thousand, a steep, almost vertical upward line.

The second page, daily data details, from the first day to the seventh day, every like, comment, and share, every number was marked with date and time.

The third page, forum dissemination path, the post's click volume, number of replies, trending search ranking, archived screenshots.

The fourth page, dissemination data of Yeri's post, the moment the likes exceeded two million, was screenshotted, with "Spontaneous dissemination, unpaid" marked next to it with a red arrow.

The fifth page, screenshots of posts by Taeyeon, Im Yoona, Bae Joo-hyun, and others, with "Active use, unpaid" marked under each one.

He turned the pages slowly, reading page by page, as if confirming the authenticity of every number. Others also opened the materials in front of them; some were looking at data, some at screenshots, some at the review summary written by Jiang Zhiyu.

In the conference room, only the sound of turning pages remained, the rustle of paper rubbing, like autumn leaves being blown across the ground by the wind.

Jieun didn't turn the pages. From the start of the meeting until now, she hadn't turned a single page. The stack of materials was spread out in front of her, but her gaze remained on Jiang Zhiyu.

From the moment he said, "Probably because I really am watching her," her gaze had not left his face. She was watching him. Not "sizing up," not "scrutinizing," not "evaluating," but "watching."

Purely, focused, without any filters. Watching the arc of his lips opening and closing when he spoke, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the subtle arc at the corner of his mouth when he was silent.

She watched him, and a voice in her heart was saying—what right do you have? Sixteen years old, why are you so composed? Why are you so confident? Why are you sitting in front of these people as if you were sitting in your own living room?

Why can you say things like "the requests I put forward will absolutely succeed" and still not make people feel like you're bragging? Why?

Jealousy. An inexplicable jealousy welled up from her heart, like a seed buried in the soil that suddenly sprouted, broke through the soil, and grew tender green leaves.

What was she doing when she was sixteen? She thought about it. At sixteen, she was holding a guitar, going back and forth in Seoul auditioning for agencies. Rejected, disliked, fobbed off. "You don't look good enough," "Your voice is too ordinary," "Go back and practice more."

She had heard those words countless times, and each time it was like a needle pricking her heart—not deep, but painful. She didn't give up, not because she was strong, but because besides singing, she didn't know what else she could do. She was stubborn, but not because she was brave; it was because she had no way out.

And what about Jiang Zhiyu? He sat here, calm and composed, like a student who had already received all the answers and was waiting for the teacher to hand out the test papers.

His composure wasn't faked; it was grown into his bones. That composure came from experience—what had he experienced? Sixteen years old, what could he have experienced?

But the songs he wrote were like those that could only be written by someone who had lived a lifetime. The way he looked at people was like that of someone who had seen countless people, had been seen by countless people, and no longer needed to confirm anything from others' gazes.

Jieun picked up the Americano and took a sip. It had gone cold, and the bitterness was heavier, like some kind of traditional Chinese medicine. She didn't frown, put the cup back on the table, and stroked the side of the cup with her fingers. Her fingertips slid over the smooth ceramic surface, making a subtle, almost inaudible rustling sound.

She thought of Taeyeon. She didn't think the two were rivals—Taeyeon is Taeyeon, and she is herself; music is not a competition, and there is no need to determine a winner or loser.

But deep down, did she really have no competitive spirit? She wasn't sure. She only knew that every time Taeyeon released a song, she would listen to it. Not to compare, but to confirm—to confirm that she hadn't been left too far behind. To confirm that she was still on the same field. To confirm that she could still run.

Taeyeon and Jiang Zhiyu—if these two joined forces, it would be, in the truest sense, invincible.

One sings, one writes; one expresses, one creates; one stands in the spotlight, one stands behind the scenes.

When they are together, the very air changes.

It is not about dating; it is about creating.

That kind of chemistry is not the chemistry between lovers, but the chemistry between artisans—you understand me, I understand you; you do not need to say what you need, and I already know what you need.

The day Taeyeon found Jiang Zhiyu was the day every other female singer began to feel anxious.

She was not one of them, but she felt anxious too.

Because the songs Jiang Zhiyu wrote for Taeyeon were even better than the ones she wrote for herself.

It was not "a little better," it was "a lot better."

So good that it made her feel like the things she wrote were like homework submitted by an elementary school student in a university classroom.

Damn it.

Lee Ji-eun's smile deepened.

It was not a happy smile; it was a smile that said, "Fine, I admit it."

She admitted it.

She admitted that Jiang Zhiyu wrote better than her, admitted that Taeyeon met him before she did, and admitted that in front of this sixteen-year-old boy, she felt for the first time that sense of powerlessness of "not being able to catch up."

But she would not give up.

Not because she refused to lose, but because she could not bear to let go.

Those five songs—she could not bear to let them go.

She knew that if she let them go, these songs would be returned, added to SM's music library, sung by Red Velvet, sung by NCT, or sung by some trainee who had not even debuted yet.

They would sing them well, too, and their fans would love them.

But these songs were not written for them; they were written for her.

Every note, every lyric, every vocal run was tailor-made for her voice.

Others might sing them well, too.

But not "that" well.

The man sitting in the middle finished flipping through the last page.

He closed the materials, looked up, and stared at Jiang Zhiyu.

His expression remained that calm, unreadable "professional" look, but his eyes had changed.

It was not "this kid has some skills," nor "we need him," but a more complex realization, like, "we might not be able to keep him."

"Jiang Zhiyu-xi," his voice was not loud, but it was clear, "We have received your materials.

We have also seen your capabilities.

But this matter cannot be decided today.

We need to discuss it further.

We will give you an answer in a few days."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at him and was silent for a second.

Then he nodded, stood up, and bowed slightly.

"Okay, I will wait for your news."

His expression did not change at all—no disappointment, no anxiety, no impatience like "why do you still need to consider it?"

He simply accepted the result calmly, as if he had anticipated it all along.

But he observed their expressions.

When he said "in a few days," the woman on the far left of the left side's brow twitched slightly—not a frown, but that kind of movement that says "what a pity."

When he said "in a few days," the second man from the right had a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, but a confirmation that said, "Fine, I agree."

When he said "in a few days," the man on the far left looked down and flipped through the materials again—not because he needed to look again, but because he could not bear to put them down.

Lee Ji-eun did not speak.

She sat by the window, holding that cup of Americano that had already gone cold, her gaze fixed on Jiang Zhiyu.

Her expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected.

But there was something in her eyes—not "goodbye," not "good luck," not "I will wait for your news."

It was—I will sing your songs.

I will sing them for everyone to hear.

I will let them know that the person who wrote these songs is named Jiang Zhiyu.

A sixteen-year-old, a genius who makes me jealous, but one I have to admit is better than me.

Jiang Zhiyu walked out of the conference room, the door slowly closing behind him.

The hallway was very quiet, and his footsteps made almost no sound on the carpet.

He walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited.

The elevator rose from the first floor, the doors opened, and it was empty inside.

He stepped in, leaned against the elevator wall, and let out a long breath.

He had been holding that breath for a long time, ever since the moment he walked into the conference room.

He could not let anyone see that he was nervous; he could not show any trace of uncertainty in front of those executives.

He had to be poised, had to be calm, had to act like a student who already had all the answers.

Now, the meeting was over, and he could finally let out a sigh of relief.

The elevator descended, the floor numbers jumping one by one: 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

The doors opened, and the lights from the lobby surged in, making him squint.

He walked out of the elevator, crossed the lobby, and pushed open the glass door.

The sunlight fell on his face, warm and cozy, like a quilt that had just been aired out in the sun.

He stood at the entrance, took a deep breath, and then slowly exhaled.

The air in his chest was squeezed out, and new air rushed in, carrying the chill of early autumn and the smell of car exhaust from the street.

He took out his phone and sent a message to Karina.

"Talk's over.

Waiting for news."

Then he sent one to Minjeong.

"Not coming over for dinner tonight.

Eat by yourself."

He sent one to NingNing.

"Any red sausage left?

Save me two."

Finally, he sent one to Yeri.

"About the Hanwoo beef, let's talk after I get the contract."

After sending them, he put his phone away, walked down the steps, and merged into the crowd on the street.

He was wearing a dark gray suit, carrying a briefcase, walking on the streets of Seoul, looking like an office worker who had just gotten off work.

No one recognized him; no one knew what he had just done in that gray-white building; no one knew that his briefcase contained a project proposal capable of silencing the executives at Loen Entertainment.

He was just an ordinary person, walking on an ordinary street, basking in the ordinary sun.

But he knew that he was not.

He was Jiang Zhiyu.

Not SM's Jiang Zhiyu, not Loen's Jiang Zhiyu, not any company's Jiang Zhiyu.

He was his own Jiang Zhiyu.

He walked down the road, the corners of his mouth slightly lifted.

It was not a smile, but a confirmation that said, "Alright, today was not bad."

In the conference room, after the door closed, there was silence for ten seconds.

No one spoke, no one moved.

The five people sat in their original seats like five statues.

Then, as if someone had pressed the play button, voices suddenly erupted.

"This kid, we must sign him."

"Isn't he with SM?

How do we sign him?"

"Contracts always have an expiration date.

We can wait."

"Wait?

Wait until when?

Until he's written ten songs for Taeyeon?

Until he's helped Lee Ji-eun win three grand prizes?

Until he's become the person every agency is fighting over?

Will it be too late by then?"

"His planning ability is indeed strong.

One week, 200,000 followers, without spending a cent on promotion.

In this industry, I've been working for twenty years, and I've never seen a second person like him."

"It is not just strong ability; it is a good brain.

He knows what content will go viral, knows when to post it, and knows how to guide the spread.

This is not something learned; it is innate."

"That 'she doesn't know I'm watching her' sentence structure is now being used all over the internet.

Taeyeon, Im Yoona, Bae Joo-hyun—these people are actively helping him spread it.

What does that mean?

It means his connections are not just within SM.

Taeyeon has a good relationship with him, Yeri has a good relationship with him, even Lee Ji-eun—"

The speaker stopped and glanced at Lee Ji-eun's empty chair.

Lee Ji-eun was no longer there.

She had stood up shortly after Jiang Zhiyu left, greeted everyone, and walked out.

Her steps were light, so light that no one noticed when she left.

Lee Ji-eun walked back to her studio, closed the door, and sat down in her chair.

On the table, the half-finished Americano was still sitting there; the water droplets on the cup had dried, leaving rings of water stains.

She opened her computer, clicked on the player, and found the song.

the blue night of jeju island — the blue night of jeju island.

The prelude started, a single piano note, B-flat, a long note, the sustain pedal held down; the sound was like a drop of water falling into a deep pool, ripples spreading out in circles.

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

The sky outside the window was gray, just like every sky in Seoul, as if covered by a veil.

But the Jeju Island she heard was blue, the night sea surface shimmering under the moonlight, the wind blowing from the sea, carrying a salty, fishy smell and moisture.

She sat by the sea, no one else there, only the sound of the waves.

She did not know if Jiang Zhiyu had ever been to Jeju Island.

She did not know what kind of night he was having when he wrote this song.

She only knew that when he wrote this song, he was thinking of a place in his heart.

That place was not Jeju Island; it was somewhere else.

That place also had a sea, wind, and moonlight.

But the people there spoke another language, ate other food, and used another currency.

She did not know where that place was, but she heard the sound of the waves from that place in this song.

Lee Ji-eun opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling.

There was a fluorescent light on the ceiling, two tubes, both lit, not flickering.

She played the song again, and then again.

By the fourth time, she picked up her phone and sent a message to the company's A&R team.

"Meet Jiang Zhiyu's requirements as much as possible.

Copyright matters, operational matters, everything can be discussed."

After sending it, she placed her phone face down on the table, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.

the blue night of jeju island was still playing.

The sound of the piano echoed in the studio, as if saying to her—it is okay, wait a little, it will be fine.

—

My cute Dongdong, why have you become such a clingy person~

(16:18) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [Magazine shoot is over!

When I was wearing the oatmeal-colored sweater, the photographer oppa said, "Your eyes suddenly became soft."

I lowered my head and tugged at the hem of the sweater... because I remembered oppa saying "I want to hug you."

(Sends a close-up of fingertips curled into the sweater cuffs)]

(16:21) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [During a break, I received the photo of the ginkgo path that oppa sent, and I immediately changed my phone wallpaper to that one!

Now every time I look at my phone, it is like standing on the same carpet of fallen leaves with oppa~

Although we are separated by a screen, our heartbeats are synchronized, right?]

(16:24) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [The makeup artist Unnie applied honey-colored lipstick on me, and she said, "It really suits the warm you today."

I quietly pursed my lips, wondering if oppa saw it, would he also feel like he tasted a sip of autumn's sweet brew?]

(16:27) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [On the way back, I passed by that convenience store and bought the exact same hot milk oppa gave me for the first time.

The taste seems sweeter, because now I know this warmth will last a lifetime.]

(16:30) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [In today's magazine interview, they asked for the "definition of happiness," and I replied, "It is meeting someone who makes ordinary moments shine."

The editor's pen paused for a moment, and then she wrote the title—《The Girl Favored by Autumn》.

Actually... it should be the girl favored by oppa.]

(16:33) Minjeong who does not reply to messages: [The sunset is tangerine-colored, like the gentle tail end of oppa's voice message yesterday.

I am going to step on this sunset glow and head to the practice room now; tonight's sweat will also shine for oppa!

(Sends a blurry silhouette of running toward the sunset)]