23: Chapter 23 - Such bad luck!

The contract was finalized on a Thursday afternoon. Someone from Loen Entertainment's legal department called Jiang Zhiyu, their tone carrying a sense of "you won" resignation—"Producer Jiang, the company has agreed to all your requests. The contract has been revised and sent to your email. Please confirm." Jiang Zhiyu sat on the bed in his gosiwon, his laptop spread out before him, the screen displaying the modified contract. He started from the first page, flipping through them one by one, reading each page very slowly. The definition of the promotional period was changed to "from the effective date of the contract until eight weeks after the album's release." The profit-sharing ratio was changed to "65% for Party A, 35% for Party B." Copyright clauses, scope of authorization, period of use—every place he had requested a change had been corrected. He spent over an hour confirming every number, every clause, and every punctuation mark. Then he flipped to the last page of the contract, looked at the blank signature line, picked up a pen, and wrote his name.

Jiang Zhiyu. Three characters, written very slowly, stroke by stroke, as if he were carving them. It wasn't because he was hesitating; it was because he wanted to write every stroke clearly. This was the first contract he had signed in this world that wasn't "working for SM." It wasn't being "hired"; it was a "collaboration." It wasn't "someone giving him an opportunity"; it was an "opportunity he fought for himself." He scanned a copy of the contract to save to the cloud, then put the paper version into a manila envelope, sealed it, attached the courier slip, and sent it back to Loen Entertainment. The courier gave him a look when picking up the package, probably wondering what important thing this kid living in a gosiwon was sending. Jiang Zhiyu didn't explain. He closed the door, lay back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. The ballast in the fluorescent light on the ceiling was still broken, flickering every few seconds. He stared at that light, a single phrase replaying in his mind—"It's starting."

The process of requesting leave from SM went more smoothly than expected. Jiang Zhiyu sat in the HR department office, facing Manager Lee, who still wore those silver-framed glasses and spoke in his usual measured pace. After listening to Jiang Zhiyu's request about "lacking inspiration and wanting to travel around Korea," Manager Lee fell silent for a moment before saying something that surprised Jiang Zhiyu—"The company recognizes your creative ability. Inspiration is something that can't be forced. Rather than keeping you pinned down here unable to write anything, it's better to let you go out and wander. Just bring back a few good songs when you return."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at him, a voice in his head saying—"You're not letting me go wander; you're afraid I won't be able to write songs." But he didn't say it out loud. He nodded and said, "Thank you, Manager Lee." Manager Lee added one more thing—"You must upload one song every week. The company needs to confirm your creative status." Jiang Zhiyu thought about it. One song a week, fifty-two songs a year. The songs he had stockpiled were enough for him to upload at that frequency for twenty years. It wasn't just "enough"; it was "more than enough." He nodded. "No problem."

When he walked out of the HR department, he ran into Yeri in the hallway. She had just come out of the practice room, her hair soaked and clinging to her face, the collar of her T-shirt drenched to a dark gray with sweat. Her eyes lit up when she saw Jiang Zhiyu. "Zhiyu-ah, why haven't you come to eat with us lately?" Her voice was the same as ever, carrying a sense of entitlement as if saying, "You owe me a meal." "I'm going on a long trip." "Where to?" "I don't know. Just wandering around." "For how long?" "I don't know. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few months." Yeri looked at him and fell silent for a moment. Then she reached out and patted his shoulder with just the right amount of force. "Then be careful on the road. Bring me back something delicious when you return." Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. "Okay."

He didn't tell Kim Minjeong, NingNing, or Karina, "I'm leaving." He only said, "I'll be a bit busy lately, so I might not be able to come to the practice room often." Kim Minjeong asked, "Busy with what?" and he said, "Writing songs." Kim Minjeong didn't ask further. NingNing glanced at him and didn't speak, but she sent him a message—"Teacher, if anything is going on, you can tell us." Jiang Zhiyu looked at the message for a long time before replying—"It's nothing. Just busy." NingNing sent an emoji of a kitten with squinted eyes and upturned corners of its mouth, looking very content. Jiang Zhiyu looked at the kitten, and the corners of his mouth also turned up slightly.

Karina didn't send a message. Instead, she changed the group chat name to "Teacher is on a business trip." Jiang Zhiyu looked at the new name and was silent for a moment. He sent her a private message—"The contract is signed." Karina replied instantly—"Congratulations." Then she sent another—"When do you start?" Jiang Zhiyu replied—"Tomorrow." Karina didn't reply. But a few minutes later, she changed the group chat name again—"Teacher is on a business trip, but he'll be back." Jiang Zhiyu looked at those words, pressed his phone to his chest, and lay there for a long time.

The day he went to Loen Entertainment, the weather was very good. Not the "cloudless" kind of good, but the kind where "there are many clouds but every one is white, and sunlight leaks through the gaps in the clouds, casting patches of light on the ground." Jiang Zhiyu stood downstairs at Loen Entertainment, looked up at the small logo embedded in the gray wall, and took a deep breath. He was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, the brim pulled low. His mask was black, covering half his face. His pants were black, his shoes were black, and his bag was black. His whole person was like a walking shadow. He stood at the entrance, looked around to make sure he didn't see any SM employees, and then pushed the door open and walked in.

The girl at the front desk wasn't the same one from last time. The previous one had probably been transferred or was on vacation. When this new girl saw him, her eyes went round and her mouth opened slightly, as if she wanted to say something but didn't know what. She was probably thinking—"How can this person's outfit be so suspicious?" Jiang Zhiyu walked to the front desk and took off his mask, revealing the lower half of his face. The girl's mouth opened even wider. "Hello, I am Jiang Zhiyu. Starting today, I am in charge of Senior IU's album promotion." The girl froze for a moment, then lowered her head to check the computer. She looked up at him again, then lowered her head once more. "...Please wait a moment." She picked up the phone and dialed an internal extension, her voice very low, but Jiang Zhiyu heard her—"That Jiang Zhiyu is here. Yes, that one. Dressed... very tightly. Okay." She hung up, looked up, and wore a professional smile that said "I have notified them." "Please go to the seventh floor. The third office on the left. Someone will be waiting for you there."

Jiang Zhiyu put his mask back on and headed for the elevator. His pace was neither fast nor slow, each step roughly the same distance. As the elevator doors closed, he heard the girl at the front desk say to a colleague nearby—"That's Jiang Zhiyu? He's so handsome." Jiang Zhiyu didn't look back. He looked at his reflection in the elevator door—black hoodie, black mask, black hat. He really did look like a patient from a burn ward. He thought that by the time this album was finished, he would probably become known among Loen employees as "that Jiang Zhiyu who dresses like a robber."

Seventh floor. Third office on the left. The door was open, and two people were standing inside. A man in his forties, wearing a dark suit and holding a folder. His expression was professional, the kind of "I'm just doing business" professional, with no smile on his lips and no wrinkles on his brow. The other was a young woman in her early thirties with short hair and glasses, holding a cup of coffee. Her expression was more varied than the man's; at least her eyebrows twitched when she saw Jiang Zhiyu.

"Producer Jiang?" the man spoke. "Hello, I am Jiang Zhiyu." "I am Kim Min-soo from the PR Department. This is Lee Ji-eun-xi's assistant, Park Min-jung-xi."

Jiang Zhiyu bowed slightly. "Group Leader Kim, Assistant Park. Please take care of me."

Kim Min-soo looked at him, sizing him up for a moment. His gaze moved from Jiang Zhiyu's hat to his mask, from the mask to the hoodie, and from the hoodie to his shoes. His expression didn't change, but his eyes were saying—"This kid is the one who made the CEO nod?" He didn't say it out loud. He handed the folder to Jiang Zhiyu. "This is the list of PR Department employees and their responsibilities. Your office is at the end of the hallway; it has been prepared. If you need anything, contact me anytime." Having said that, he nodded and turned to leave.

Park Min-jung didn't leave. She stood at the door, looking at Jiang Zhiyu with the tiniest curve at the corner of her mouth. "IU-xi asked me to tell you, welcome to the team." Her tone was flat, but when she said "welcome to the team," there was a bit more warmth than when Kim Min-soo said "please take care of me." "Thank you," Jiang Zhiyu said. Park Min-jung nodded and left as well.

Jiang Zhiyu was left alone in the hallway. He stood on the seventh floor, looking at the open door on his left and then at the closed door at the end of the hall. He walked toward the end of the hallway. His pace was the same—neither fast nor slow, each step roughly the same distance. As he passed other offices, he could feel people watching him from behind the doors. It wasn't a "malicious scrutiny," but a "curious observation." He heard whispers, not loud, but clear enough—"Is that the Jiang Zhiyu?" "So young." "He's really handsome." "I heard he wrote five songs for IU." "More than that. He also wrote for Kim Taeyeon. That song 'prince ruperts drop'." "Really?" "The CEO personally approved the contract. The people in the PR Department are furious." Jiang Zhiyu didn't stop. He reached the office door at the end of the hallway and pushed it open.

The room wasn't large, about ten square meters. A desk, a chair, a bookshelf, and a filing cabinet. There was no computer on the desk, no telephone, no stationery. The bookshelf was empty, and the filing cabinet was empty too. The window faced south, and sunlight poured in, casting a warm patch of light on the light-colored wooden floor. On the windowsill was a green plant that was about to die, its leaves yellowing and the soil dry and cracked. In the corner were a few unopened cardboard boxes, probably junk piled here before that had been moved out hastily, but not completely.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the door, looking at the room. He remembered the recording studio he was assigned when he first arrived at SM. It was like this too—not big, with old equipment and neglected things piled in the corner. He had spent a few months turning that recording studio into his own territory—the mixing console was wiped clean, the cables were organized, acoustic foam was pasted on the walls, and a green plant he brought from the gosiwon was placed in the corner. Now, he had to start all over again. He took a rag from his bag—he had prepared it in advance because he knew the new office wouldn't clean itself. He entered the room and opened the window to let the fresh air in. Then he went to the restroom to get a bucket of water, returned to the office, crouched down, and began wiping the desk.

The desktop was wooden, light brown, with a thin layer of dust on it. His rag went from left to right, top to bottom, not missing a single corner. He wiped the desk legs, the edges, and even the crossbar underneath. He wiped very seriously—not the "I'm doing chores" kind of serious, but the "I'm familiarizing myself with this space" kind of serious. While wiping the desk, he was observing. The grain of the wood, the color of the timber, the angle of the sunlight coming through the window, the way dust danced in the light beams. He was using these details to imprint the room into his mind. The door was open. Occasionally, someone passed by in the hallway, their footsteps fast or slow; someone stopped for a moment at the door, probably looking at him. He didn't look up and continued wiping.

IU leaned against the doorframe, holding two iced Americanos, having stood there for a while. She watched his back as he crouched on the floor wiping the desk, saw his black hoodie bleached slightly by the sun, and saw his exposed neck and collarbone covered in a thin layer of sweat. Sunlight shone from behind and to his side, making the sweat drops on his neck look like transparent beads rolling on his skin. There was a scent in the air. It wasn't perfume or laundry detergent, but a kind of fragrance she couldn't quite describe, like some sort of fruit. Plump, juicy, like the sweetest peach in summer, warmed slightly by the sun. If you held it in your hands and smelled it up close, it was that sweet fragrance with a hint of solar warmth that made you want to take a bite. Her nasal cavity was filled with that scent, and her brain was telling her—"This is peach." But she knew it wasn't a peach; it was Jiang Zhiyu.

IU leaned against the doorframe, looking at his profile. His jawline was very clear in the sunlight, the height of his nose was just right, and his eyelashes cast a small fan-shaped shadow under his eyes. His lips were slightly pursed, and his focused expression made it look like he was doing something very important—wiping a desk. Suddenly, she thought of Kim Taeyeon. That woman who liked younger men. The woman whose eyes sparkled when she laughed at Jiang Zhiyu on the radio show. The woman who had dated Byun Baekhyun, been attacked by the entire internet, hid alone in her dorm crying until dawn, and then appeared on camera as usual the next day. She hadn't quite understood Taeyeon's taste before. Byun Baekhyun was indeed handsome, but several years younger than her; she had thought it was just a coincidence. But now, looking at Jiang Zhiyu crouching on the floor wiping a desk, she suddenly understood. It wasn't a matter of "being young"; it was a matter of "him having a temperament that makes people want to get close." That temperament wasn't "I'm a younger brother, you need to take care of me," but "I know what you need, I will appear at the right time, and disappear when you don't need me." It wasn't taking; it was giving. It wasn't dependence; it was support. That was what Kim Taeyeon liked. It wasn't "younger"; it was "he can catch me."

IU remembered the scene in the meeting room where she watched Jiang Zhiyu talk with the Loen executives. He sat there, facing seven people decades older than him, neither humble nor arrogant, neither hurried nor impatient. Every word he said was thought through, but not the "I'm calculating" kind of thought; it was the "I know what I'm saying" kind of certainty. When he made a request, he wasn't "asking" or "fighting"; he was "stating." He knew he was worth the price, so when he said it, there was no hesitation. That kind of "certainty" was not something a sixteen-year-old should have. When she was sixteen, she was still carrying a guitar to auditions for management companies, being rejected with comments like "you're too fat," "you're not pretty enough," or "your singing has no character." She didn't even dare to say "how much profit share I want" because she was afraid that saying it would lead to rejection. But Jiang Zhiyu dared. Not because he was arrogant, but because he was clear about his own value. She didn't know how he possessed such clarity at the age of sixteen; she only knew that Kim Taeyeon must have been attracted by this clarity too. That depressed woman desperately needed someone who could make her feel that "there is still someone in this world to lean on."

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

IU looked at Jiang Zhiyu's profile, looking at that face of his that hovered between boy and man, and defined him in her heart—he was a grape in the midst of growing.

Still green and unripe, hanging on the vine, soaking up the sun, slowly accumulating sugar.

In another two years, he would be ripe, plump, juicy, exuding an irresistible fragrance.

By that time, Kim Taeyeon would pick him, savor him carefully, and then swallow him whole.

She felt this metaphor was wonderful, so wonderful that she repeated it in her mind once more.

A growing grape, picked by a woman who had waited a long time, held in her mouth, her tongue pressing against the skin, feeling that taut, near-bursting tension, then a gentle bite, the juice exploding in her mouth, sweet enough to make one squint their eyes.

She didn't know if Kim Taeyeon would really do that. But she felt that the woman really would.

Depression patients, to put it bluntly, are mentally ill. And she herself was too. Mildly mentally ill.

After all, anyone who can stay in the entertainment industry for so long is, to some extent, neurotic. Not "crazy," but "sensitive."

Too sensitive, sensitive to the point where they can see things others cannot see, hear sounds others cannot hear, and feel emotions others cannot feel.

This sensitivity makes one more gifted when creating, but also more painful when living.

She didn't know Kim Taeyeon's pain, but she knew her own.

When she was attacked by the entire internet, she had also thought, "Why do I do this line of work?" But she persevered, not because she was strong, but because apart from singing, she knew how to do nothing else.

"Finished wiping?" IU spoke up. The voice wasn't loud, but it was very clear in the quiet corridor.

Jiang Zhiyu looked up. She was standing at the doorway, wearing that beige knitted cardigan, her hair let down, no makeup, holding two iced Americanos in her hands.

Her expression was calm, but her eyes were smiling. Not the kind of smile that says "I'm glad to see you," but the kind that says "I've been watching you wipe the table for a long time."

"Not yet," Jiang Zhiyu said. He stood up, placed the rag into the bucket, and shook the water off his hands.

His face was slightly flushed from squatting for too long, a thin layer of sweat on his forehead, a few loose strands of hair stuck to his temples. He reached out to brush the stray hairs away, revealing a smooth forehead.

IU walked in and placed the two iced Americanos on the table. "One is yours. One is mine."

She paused, glanced at the iced Americano on the table, and then looked at Jiang Zhiyu again. "You don't drink iced Americanos, I know. But there's only this coffee shop downstairs. You'll have to make do for now; next time I'll bring you milk tea."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her and was silent for a moment. "Thank you, Noona."

IU raised an eyebrow. "What did you call me?" "Noona," Jiang Zhiyu said, "Aren't you older than me?" "I'm twelve years older than you." "So, Noona."

IU looked at him, the corners of her mouth slowly curling up. "Do you call Taeyeon Noona too?" "Yeah." "Did she ask you to call her that?" "She said calling her 'senior' is too distant."

IU nodded and didn't ask any further. But a voice in her heart was saying—Kim Taeyeon, you really would.

She picked up one of the iced Americanos, inserted a straw, and took a sip. It was bitter and cold, but she didn't frown.

She leaned against the table, looking at Jiang Zhiyu. "After you finish wiping the table, what are your plans?"

Jiang Zhiyu thought for a moment. "First, get familiar with the workflow of the Publicity Department. Then, coordinate with the recording engineer. Then—" "Then come to my recording studio," IU interrupted him.

"Why?" "Because I want to hear you sing the demos." Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "What demos?" "The five songs you wrote, have you sung the demos?" "I have." "I want to hear your version."

"Why?" "Because only after I hear your version will I know how this song should be sung."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her and was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Okay."

IU placed the iced Americano on the table and turned to walk out of the office. Her steps were light, her shoes making almost no sound on the floor.

She walked down the corridor, passed the Publicity Department office, passed Kim Min-soo's office, passed Park Min-jung's workstation. She didn't look at anyone, but everyone saw the curve of her mouth—not "I am smiling," but "I am very satisfied." No one knew what she was satisfied with. But everyone knew she rarely smiled like that.

Jiang Zhiyu stood in the office, looking at the door. She had left, but her scent remained in the air—not perfume, but the bitterness of the iced Americano and the faint scent of laundry detergent on her.

He picked up the iced Americano on the table, inserted a straw, and took a sip. Bitter. He frowned slightly, but drank it anyway. He placed the cup on the table, squatted down, and continued wiping the table.

Sunlight shone in through the window, landing on his back, warm and cozy. The dying green plant on the windowsill, under the illumination of the sunlight, seemed to have its withered yellow leaves look less obvious.

He glanced at the green plant, picked up the rag from the bucket, wrung it out, and wiped the dust off the flowerpot. Then he walked to the restroom to get a cup of water and poured it into the soil. The water seeped down quickly; the soil was indeed too dry. He watered it twice until water flowed out from the hole at the bottom of the pot. He put the flowerpot back on the windowsill, looked at the soil that had been soaked by the water and turned a darker color, and thought—maybe it could survive. Maybe not. But he had watered it; whether it could survive was its own business.

He returned to the table and continued wiping. The tabletop was already clean, so he started wiping the bookcase. Layer by layer, starting from the very top. There was a thin layer of dust on every shelf; his rag went from left to right, from top to bottom, wiping every inch very carefully.

After the bookcase was done, he wiped the filing cabinet. The handle of the filing cabinet was metal and had some rust; he wiped it repeatedly with the rag, and the rust faded a little, but it didn't completely disappear. He looked at it and decided to bring a bottle of rust remover next time.

Someone passed by in the corridor again. The footsteps were very light, but this time they didn't stop. The person walked past without looking at him.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't look up. He was wiping the bottom shelf of the filing cabinet, squatting, body leaning forward, arms stretched out long. His hoodie sleeve had gotten wet, a section soaked, sticking to his wrist, feeling a bit cold. He didn't mind.

The door was knocked three times. Jiang Zhiyu looked up.

Park Min-jung stood at the door, holding a folder. "Producer Jiang, this is IU's schedule for the next two weeks. Recording times, MV shooting times, promotional schedules, variety show recordings, radio appearances—they are all listed on it. Please take a look; if there is anything that needs adjusting, let me know at any time." She placed the folder on the table and turned to leave.

"Assistant Park," Jiang Zhiyu called out to her. "Please speak." "How is IU's recent recording schedule arranged?" "Originally, it was intended for the go-to recording engineer, Senior Kim, to be in charge. But IU said she wanted you to do it." Park Min-jung's tone was very flat, but her eyes were saying— "She rarely changes her mind." Jiang Zhiyu nodded. "I understand."

Park Min-jung left. The corridor became quiet again. Jiang Zhiyu stood up, picked up the folder on the table, and opened it. The first page was IU's two-week schedule, every day packed full, from morning to night, with almost no gaps. He slid his finger across the page, reading line by line. Recording, MV shooting, pictorial shooting, variety show recording, radio appearances, fan meetups—every schedule was marked with time, location, person in charge, and precautions. It was very detailed, detailed enough to make one's scalp tingle. He closed the folder, placed it on the table, picked up the rag, and continued wiping the filing cabinet.

Sunlight shone in through the window, landing on him, warm and cozy. The green plant on the windowsill, under the illumination of the sunlight, had water droplets on its leaves sparkling. He thought, maybe it could survive. He continued wiping.

— — The day the album was titled "blue night," Jiang Zhiyu sat in the Loen Entertainment office for a long time. The window was open, and the May breeze blew in, carrying the unique scent of Seoul, a mix of exhaust fumes and locust flower fragrance.

Spread out before him was a stack of A3 paper, each sheet filled with charts, arrows, timelines, and notes. This was the project proposal he had spent three days creating, from album concept to song arrangement, from MV shooting to promotional rhythm, from social media operations to fan interaction activities, every link was marked with the specific execution time, person in charge, budget, and expected results.

He was not a person who liked to write proposals; when he was on the Tianxuan Continent, his plans were all in his head and didn't need to be written down. But this was Loen Entertainment, this was IU's album, and he needed to let everyone see his ideas, not "hear" them, but "see" them. Things seen are more persuasive than things heard, because things seen cannot be taken back.

Ten songs, three composed by IU, five composed by Jiang Zhiyu, two works by other singers. When arranging the tracklist, Jiang Zhiyu placed those two "others" as the third and seventh songs of the album.

The third position was a "buffer," between IU's self-composed songs and the songs he wrote, like a transition, letting the listeners' emotions slowly slide from one atmosphere to another.

The seventh position was a "breather," in the latter half of the album, when listeners were tired of listening and needed a song that wasn't so catchy, not so intense, and could be used as background music.

He wrote these thoughts in the proposal, marked them in red font, and drew an arrow next to them, pointing to the preview image of the tracklist. The title track was "the blue night of jeju island." It wasn't IU who chose it; it was Jiang Zhiyu who decided.

When IU saw that this was the chosen title track, she was silent for a moment, then said, "I thought you would choose 'Last Farewell'." Jiang Zhiyu said, "'Last Farewell' is too bitter and not suitable as a title track."

IU said, "Why can't a bitter song be a title track?" Jiang Zhiyu said, "It can, but for the first comeback, you want more people to hear it. Bitter songs, many people won't dare to listen a second time after listening once. 'the blue night of jeju island' is not bitter; it is gentle. Gentle songs can be listened to many times."

IU said no more. She didn't know if Jiang Zhiyu was right or not, but she knew he understood the "masses" better than she did. Not "understanding music," but "understanding people."

He knew when people wanted to listen to what kind of songs, under what mood they would be moved by what melodies, and in what scenarios they would add a song to their playlist, play it repeatedly, and share it with friends. She didn't know how he knew, but she trusted his judgment.

The MV shooting proposal was the part Jiang Zhiyu spent the most time thinking about. Ten songs, three live-action, four anime-style, one hand-drawn comic version, two without MVs.

It wasn't because he wanted to save budget, but because he wanted the visual presentation of this album to have layers. Live-action is "reality," anime-style is "fantasy," hand-drawn comic version is "memory," and songs without MVs are "negative space."

Listeners don't need every song to have visuals; for some songs, the visuals are in the listeners' minds, which is better than anything any director could shoot. He wrote this logic in the proposal, using a whole page of paper to explain it.

It wasn't that he was afraid the people at Loen Entertainment wouldn't understand, but that he was afraid they wouldn't grasp the concept. If they don't grasp it, they will question it, and if they question it, it will waste time. He didn't want to waste time.

The proposal for promotional methods took up five pages. The first page was "Soundtrack Editing for Film and Television Works." He intended to edit a few songs from the album into classic film and television clips, not using the original soundtrack, but using his songs.

When the visuals and music don't come from the same work, but fit perfectly, the chemical reaction produced is something no single work can achieve. He had used this method on the Tianxuan Continent, and the effect was very good. So good that he never used it again later, because everyone started using it.

The second page was "IU on Jeju Island with a guitar on her back, encountering passersby on the road and playing and singing." It wasn't a real encounter; it was designed. But a designed "encounter" is more infectious than a real one, because you know where the camera is, you know when to smile, you know when to look at the camera, you know when to lower your head, pretend to tune the guitar, while actually waiting for that passerby to walk over.

Jiang Zhiyu wrote the specific execution steps in the proposal—the location chosen was the coastal road in western Jeju Island, at 4 PM, when the sunlight is softest. IU, carrying an acoustic guitar, walks on the side of the road, stops, sits on the curb, and starts playing and singing.

The passersby don't need to be actors; they are real passersby, who don't know who IU is, or know but aren't quite sure. They hear the music, stop, listen for a while, and then continue walking.

This feeling of "stopping to listen for a while, then continuing to walk" is more real than any performance of "being moved to tears." Because this is how music originally exists in life—you pass by, you hear it, you stop, you finish listening, you leave. No extra drama.

The third page was "Self-singing video under the streetlights at dawn." Not a "selfie," but "self-singing." IU sits on a bench under a streetlight, no phone in her hand, only a microphone. The camera is set up far away, with a telephoto lens, not disturbing her.

She is singing, not knowing someone is filming. This feeling of "not knowing someone is filming" is what Jiang Zhiyu is best at. He used it on Karina's Instagram, used it in Yeri's posts, used it in Kim Taeyeon's and Im Yoona's reposts. Now, he wants to use it on IU. Not candid photography, but "pretend candid photography." Pretending someone recorded your most real self when you weren't paying attention. That look is more worth looking at a few more times than the look you have when smiling at the camera.

The fourth page was "IU Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." An independent variety show. Not the self-filmed, fan-oriented, daily-life-recording Vlog like "IUTV," but a real variety show with a flow, a script, editing, post-production, and a fixed duration for each episode.

Jiang Zhiyu wrote down the basic framework of the show in the proposal—forty minutes per episode, divided into four segments: song performance, role-playing, variety tasks, and fan lucky draws.

In the song performance segment, IU will sing a song. It could be a new song from the album, or an old song she likes and wants to recommend to the listeners. Not promoting a song, but sharing. Like a friend sitting across from you, saying to you, "I've been listening to this song lately, take a listen."

No need for a stage, no need for lights, no need for backup dancers, just a chair, a microphone, and a lamp. The light shines on her, everything else is dark. You can only see her, hear her voice. This is what she is best at—one person, one song, making everyone quiet down.

The role-playing segment features a different persona each episode. Lee Ji-eun could be a coffee shop clerk, a bookstore owner, a taxi driver, or an old lady feeding pigeons in the park. It is not about "acting," but about "becoming." She does not need to deliberately change her voice or expressions; she only needs to place herself in that scene and imagine she is that person. That person's personality, tone, habits, and small mannerisms will naturally grow out of the scene.

Producer Jiang wrote the role for the first episode in the proposal—"the late-night convenience store clerk." Lee Ji-eun, wearing the convenience store uniform, stands behind the checkout counter, ringing up customers who come in late at night. The customers are played by staff members, but there is no script for the dialogue. Lee Ji-eun needs to improvise based on the customers' reactions. This "unpredictable" interaction will allow the audience to see another side of Lee Ji-eun—not "singer IU," but "Lee Ji-eun." A regular girl who would slip an extra piece of candy to a customer late at night, say "fighting" when a customer says "I'm so tired today," and stare blankly at the empty convenience store after the customer leaves.

The variety show task segment is the source of laughter for each episode. The tasks must be simple, prone to funny mistakes, and make the audience laugh—not out of mockery, but the kind of laughter that makes one think, "I want to try that too." Producer Jiang wrote several task proposals—finishing a whole bottle of cola with a straw within thirty seconds without burping; finding 10,000 won hidden inside a balloon in a room filled with balloons while blindfolded; catching marshmallows falling from a height using only her head, without using her hands or mouth. When Lee Ji-eun does these tasks, she will definitely break character and laugh; if she laughs, she has to start over, and starting over will only make her laugh more. What the audience sees is Lee Ji-eun laughing until she squats on the ground, tears coming out, saying, "I can't do it." That image is more endearing than any meticulously designed "variety show effect."

The fan giveaway segment features a large spinning wheel. The wheel is painted with various prizes—photocards, signed photos, unreleased photos, limited edition merchandise, and "10,000 won in cash." The rule is: purchase two albums to get one chance to throw or shoot. It is not a "raffle," but a "game." Lee Ji-eun stands in front of the wheel, holding an air gun or darts. Staff spin the wheel, and Lee Ji-eun shoots or throws when the wheel is spinning at its fastest. Whatever she hits is the prize they get. The 10,000 won cash is the smallest section on the wheel, only one-fourth the area of other prizes, making the probability of hitting it very low. But once someone hits it, that person's scream, Lee Ji-eun's surprise, and the envy of other fans will become a "legendary scene" that can be repeatedly shared. 10,000 won is very little, but the happiness from 10,000 won is a lot.

Producer Jiang calculated the economics of the fan giveaway segment in detail in the proposal—one album is priced at 6,000 won, and two at 12,000 won. The 10,000 won cash prize, plus the cost of gifts like photocards, signed photos, and merchandise, brings the average cost per giveaway to about 3,000 won. 12,000 won minus 3,000 won leaves a net profit of 9,000 won. It is not about "making money off fans," but "making fans feel like they earned something." Fans spend 12,000 won, buy two albums, and get a chance to play a game. When playing the game, she might win; if she wins, she will think, "I earned it," and if she loses, she will think, "It's okay, I bought the album anyway." This "you can't lose" mentality is the core consideration Producer Jiang had when designing this segment. He also calculated a bigger picture—if 10,000 fans each buy two albums, the album sales would be 20,000 copies, with a revenue of 120 million won. Deducting prize costs and production costs, the net profit would be about 60 million won. 60 million won is enough to shoot a music video. He wrote this calculation in the proposal as well, marked in red font, with a smiley face drawn next to it. Not a "haha, I made money" smiley face, but a "look, I really did the math" smiley face.

Producer Jiang thought about the program name for a long time. He originally planned to call it "IUMaya," because "Maya" sounds like "Aiyou Maya" (Oh my god), which is an exclamation of surprise in Chinese, carrying a meaning of "Wow, this is amazing." He thought this name was good, memorable, fun, and had a hook. The Chinese market is huge, so huge that no Korean singer can ignore it. Lee Ji-eun has many fans in China, her songs have high play counts on Chinese music platforms, and her concert tickets in China are hard to snatch. If there were a name that could make Chinese fans feel, "This program is so friendly," it would be a huge help to Lee Ji-eun's popularity in China. But then he thought of another problem—Lee Ji-eun is not a Chinese singer; she is a Korean singer, facing fans all over the world. Being too partial to the Chinese market would cause dissatisfaction among fans in other regions. Japanese fans would say, "Why isn't it a Japanese name?" European and American fans would say, "Why isn't it an English name?" A name cannot satisfy everyone. But a name must not make anyone dissatisfied. This is the bottom line. "IUMaya" would satisfy Chinese fans, but it might make fans in other regions think, "Why is it Chinese?" It is not "dissatisfaction," but "weirdness." A weird feeling is more terrifying than dissatisfaction. Dissatisfaction is "I don't want to watch," while weirdness is "I don't know if I should watch." The latter is more fatal than the former because you don't even get the chance to be hated; you are simply ignored.

Producer Jiang wrote the final program name in the proposal—"IU Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." It is not "Twinkle Twinkle," not "Little Star," but "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." The Korean is "반짝반짝 작은 별," and the English is "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." But the program's name is written with Korean and English side by side—it is not a translation, but a juxtaposition. The Korean "반짝반짝 작은 별" and the English "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" are placed together, with a small, almost invisible "&" symbol in between. The meaning of this symbol is—this is not a translation; these are two names. If you speak Korean, you can call it "반짝반짝 작은 별." If you speak English, you can call it "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." It doesn't matter what language you speak; what matters is that you know the name of this program is a nursery rhyme. A nursery rhyme that everyone has heard, that everyone has known how to sing since they were little, and that can be understood without translation.

"When Lee Ji-eun sings, there are stars in her eyes." This is the first sentence of the program introduction Producer Jiang wrote in the proposal. When he wrote this sentence, his pen tip paused on the paper, then he continued writing. He knows that the stars in Lee Ji-eun's eyes are not real stars; they are reflections of the lighting boards, the light points formed by the studio lights reflecting on her cornea. He is a materialist, and although his definition of "materialism" has wavered somewhat since he physically crossed into this world, he still believes that the light in the eyes can be explained. Light is emitted from a source, shines on the surface of an object, reflects into the eyes, forms an inverted image on the retina, is transmitted through the optic nerve, and is parsed into an image in the brain's visual cortex. This is physics, this is biology, this is science. The stars in Lee Ji-eun's eyes are reflections of the lighting boards. He knows this. But he also knows that when Lee Ji-eun sings the chorus of "the blue night of jeju island," her eyes are brighter than usual. It is not that the angle of the lighting board has changed; it is her own light. That kind of light is not reflected; it is emitted. It comes from her body, from her voice, from her heart. That kind of light cannot be produced by lighting boards, and it cannot be explained by the framework of materialism. He is not a person who is swayed by "feelings," but when he wrote the sentence, "When Lee Ji-eun sings, there are stars in her eyes," his pen tip paused. It was not because he was lying, but because he was thinking—is this the truth, or is it the truth he is willing to believe?

Producer Jiang closed the proposal, leaned back in his chair, and looked out the window. Outside the window was the gray sky of Seoul, different from the blue of Jeju Island. The sky of Jeju Island is blue, and the sea is blue, a blue night, a blue dream. He remembered the day he wrote "the blue night of jeju island," sitting on the bed in the exam room, outside the window was Seoul at 4 a.m., the sky was black, without stars. In his mind, he saw the night of Jeju Island, blue, quiet, moonlight falling on the sea surface, shattering into pieces of light. He had never been to Jeju Island, but he saw that image. The image was not real, but he believed it was real. Because believing is more powerful than knowing. Knowing is "I saw it," while believing is "I cannot see it, but I know it is there." His five-year plan, his planning proposal, his publicity strategy, everything—all of it is built on "believing." Believing he will succeed, believing his judgment is correct, believing Lee Ji-eun's album will sell well, believing his five-year plan will be realized step by step. There is no evidence, no one can prove it. But he believes.

Producer Jiang put the proposal into his bag, stood up, and walked out of the office. The corridor was empty, with no one there. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, his shoes tapping on the floor, making a crisp, rhythmic sound. He walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited for a while; the elevator arrived. The door opened, and a person was standing inside. Lee Ji-eun. She was wearing a white T-shirt and light blue jeans, her hair tied in a low ponytail, no makeup, holding an iced Americano in her hand. When she saw Producer Jiang, she paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Producer Jiang, is the proposal finished?" "Finished." "Let me see." Producer Jiang took the proposal out of his bag and handed it to her. Lee Ji-eun took the stack of A3 paper, flipped to the first page, and saw the name of the album—"blue night." Her finger pressed lightly on the character "blue." The paper was hot, the warmth from just coming out of the printer had not completely dissipated. She did not know if it was because it was just printed or because of the warmth of Producer Jiang's hands. "blue night," she read it once, "it sounds very nice." She continued flipping and turned to the page with the program name. She saw the words "IU Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," and saw the Korean and English written side by side: "반짝반짝 작은 별 & Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." The corners of her mouth turned up slightly, not a smile, but a confirmation of "you are really good at naming things."

"Why not 'IUMaya'?" "It's too partial to the Chinese market." "Do you not care about the Chinese market?" "I do. But I don't want others to think I only care about the Chinese market." Lee Ji-eun looked at him and was silent for a moment. "You are very good at naming things." "Thank you."

Lee Ji-eun closed the proposal and returned it to Producer Jiang. She took a sip of the iced Americano, the bitterness spreading on the tip of her tongue. She looked at Producer Jiang's calm eyes, which were unfathomable, and suddenly asked a question. "Producer Jiang, do you believe there are stars in one's eyes?" Producer Jiang looked at her. Her eyes were very bright under the elevator lights, not reflections of lighting boards, but light points formed by the elevator's fluorescent tubes reflecting on her cornea. But he knew this was not what she was asking. She was asking—do you believe someone can emit light when they sing? Do you believe that kind of light is not reflected, but emitted? Do you believe that kind of light can be seen, heard, felt, and remembered? Do you believe it? "I believe," Producer Jiang said.

Lee Ji-eun looked at him without speaking. The elevator reached the first floor, and the door opened. Producer Jiang walked out, took a few steps, stopped, and turned to look at Lee Ji-eun in the elevator. "Noona, when you sing, there are stars in your eyes. Not from the lighting boards, but your own." The elevator door closed. Lee Ji-eun stood in the elevator, still holding the iced Americano. She looked at the closed door, looking at her own face reflected on the door. Her eyes were very bright under the light, so bright it seemed like there were stars. She did not know if it was the reflection of the lighting board or her own light. But she believed it was her own. Because Producer Jiang said so. She believes everything he says. Not because he is always right, but because he never says things he does not believe.

— — Clearing Levels Winter!

(10:05) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa! Today in vocal class, the teacher praised me for "120% emotional investment," but after class, Ningning secretly said, "Unnie, did you automatically replace the 'you' in the lyrics with someone again?" ... I was so scared I crushed my mineral water bottle! (Sent a close-up of a crushed bottle and wide, panicked eyes)]

(10:08) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [I accidentally squeezed the pickled plum in my breakfast rice ball, and it was so sour my face scrunched up! Then, the Manager Unnie passed by and said, "Aigoo, even our Winter's failed expression management looks like she's filming a CF" ... Is this really a compliment, Oppa? ㅠ ㅠ (Attached a selfie with a scrunched nose and pursed lips, making a pained face)]

(10:11) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Passing by the practice room mirror, I noticed a piece of hair sticking up, and even after dancing three times, I couldn't press it down! Did it elope with the scarf Oppa gave me? Otherwise, why is it so rebellious! (Finger gently pulling that strand of hair, looking pouting)]

(10:14) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The temperature dropped suddenly today, so I wore an oatmeal-colored sweater under my stage outfit! Although the stylist Unnie said I "look like a penguin who stole an adult's clothes," this way it feels like being wrapped in the "hugging feeling" Oppa mentioned~ (Shrinking her neck, the sweater collar covering half her face)]

(10:17) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [The fourth leaf of "Little Winter" is sprouting! I was so excited I wanted to video call Oppa, but my hand slipped and I pressed the group chat invitation... Luckily I canceled it immediately! Phew, my agent skills almost got exposed. (Sent a photo of hands pressed together in apology, with the succulent in the frame)]

(10:20) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Oppa will wear a thick coat today, right? Will wear a scarf, right? Will... think of me for a second, right? If not, I'm going to draw a crying expression on the piano keys on the honey toast! (Sent a "threatening" photo of a drooping mouth drawn with honey on the toast)]