30: Chapter 30: The Quiz Master Appears – What Does "In-Game Suggestions" Mean?

Lee Tima's arrival brought Jiang Zhiyu both joy and pain.

The joy was because he was no longer alone.

In this world, there was finally someone who knew his past, someone who didn't need him to explain "who I am," didn't need him to prove "what I can do," and didn't need him to carefully hide "things I don't want you to know."

He could talk to her about TG Entertainment, about Wang Shuyun, about Zephyrus, about those names he would think of in the dead of night but never dared to mention during the day.

As they talked, he would smile, and after smiling, he would fall silent, and after the silence, he would say one thing: "They should be doing fine."

Lee Tima would say "Definitely fine," and he would ask "How do you know," and she would say "Because they were taught by you."

He looked at her without speaking.

But there was an arc to the corners of his mouth.

It wasn't a smile, but a confirmation of "Thank you."

The pain was because Lee Tima was a social terrorist.

She wasn't "shy," she was "afraid of being strangers."

Every time she arrived in a new environment, her first goal wasn't to familiarize herself with the terrain, but to familiarize herself with the people.

People's names, people's positions, people's personalities, people's gossip—she collected all this information in the shortest possible time, organized it, and archived it.

Then she started socializing.

It wasn't "chatting," it was "conquering."

She used her innocent little girl appearance, paired with that twenty-two-year-old "Generation Diva" heart that had experienced countless interviews, variety shows, and fan meetings, like a red-hot knife cutting into butter, without any resistance.

The day Jiang Zhiyu took her to SM was a sunny Tuesday morning.

He stood in the company lobby, holding a strawberry milk tea, with a little girl in a white dress standing next to him.

The little girl's hair was tied in double ponytails, a sweet smile on her face, and her eyes were bright, like two black pearls just fished out of the water.

The girl at the front desk saw them and was stunned for a moment.

"Producer Jiang, who is this?"

"My younger sister."

"Younger sister? Producer Jiang, you have a younger sister?"

"Mm. Just arrived from America."

"What is her name?"

Lee Tima stepped forward, tilted her head up, and revealed a standard, practiced, sickeningly sweet smile.

"Hello, Unnie, my name is Lee Ji-eun."

The front desk girl was stunned.

"Lee Ji-eun? Like IU—"

Lee Tima's smile didn't change.

"Yes, same name as IU sunbaenim. But I'm younger than her."

She paused, "A lot."

Jiang Zhiyu stood on the side holding his milk tea, expressionless.

His gaze fell on the back of Lee Tima's head, watching the ends of her double ponytails sway gently in the air, like two dancing snakes.

A voice in his heart was saying—it's over.

The news spread faster than he expected.

Not "fast," but "light speed."

On his way to the recording studio, Lee Tima had already told everyone she met in the elevator, "My name is Lee Ji-eun, I am Jiang Zhiyu's younger sister."

From the first floor to the fourth floor, the elevator stopped three times, seven people got in, and all seven people knew.

By the time he walked into the recording studio, his phone had already started vibrating.

Kim Minjeong's message: "Oppa!!! You have a younger sister?!"

Ningning's message: "Teacher!!! Your sister is named Lee Ji-eun?!"

Karina didn't send a message, but she changed the group chat name to "Observation Diary of Jiang Zhiyu and His Sister Lee Ji-eun."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the name, was silent for a moment, and then replied— "Her name is Lee Tima. Lee Ji-eun is her stage name."

Kim Minjeong replied instantly— "Lee Tima? What a strange name."

Ningning also replied instantly— "Sounds like 'Ni Ta Ma'."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the screen and thought—you guys know too much.

Kim Minjeong had dragged Ningning over.

They ran from the practice room to Jiang Zhiyu's office, bumping into two Managers, one trainee, and an A&R department employee holding coffee along the way.

The coffee spilled, splashing onto the employee's shirt, the white shirt stained with dark brown coffee, like an abstract painting.

The employee looked at their retreating backs, opened his mouth, but didn't curse.

Because it was Kim Minjeong and Ningning, famous in the company as "Jiang Zhiyu's people."

He didn't want to offend Jiang Zhiyu, because Jiang Zhiyu was the producer of IU's album, the person in charge of Red Velvet's comeback project, and SM's youngest signed songwriter.

To offend him was to offend half the company.

It wasn't worth it.

So he shut up.

Kim Minjeong and Ningning stopped at the door of Jiang Zhiyu's office.

The door was closed, but it wasn't soundproof.

There were people talking inside, two voices.

One was Jiang Zhiyu's, deep, steady, like the lower register of a cello.

"The budget allocation for the second part of this project proposal is unreasonable. The promotional expenses account for too high a proportion, and the production costs are compressed, which will affect the quality of the final product."

The other was a little girl's voice, sharp, childish, but the tone wasn't childish.

That tone was an adult's, someone who had experienced many things, someone who knew what she was talking about.

"Wrong, wrong. Promotional expenses cannot be reduced. If you reduce promotion, others won't see your production. If others don't see your production, it's useless no matter how well you do it. This isn't a problem of quality, it's a problem of cognition. You let consumers first recognize, then approve. Cognition comes first, approval comes later. The order cannot be messed up. If it's messed up, everything is messed up."

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a moment.

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Promotional expenses remain unchanged, production expenses increase. If the budget is not enough, cut it from other places. For example—your milk tea money."

Jiang Zhiyu was silent again.

This silence was longer.

"...Are you a devil?"

"I am your younger sister."

Kim Minjeong and Ningning looked at each other.

Both of them saw the same thing in each other's eyes—shock.

It wasn't shock that Jiang Zhiyu had a younger sister, but shock at this younger sister's way of speaking.

That tone, that logic, that certainty of "I know what I'm talking about," was not something an eight or nine-year-old little girl should have.

That was an adult, an adult who had struggled in the workplace for many years, who had seen big storms, and who knew how to negotiate with people.

Kim Minjeong took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

It was Jiang Zhiyu's voice.

Kim Minjeong pushed the door open and walked in.

Ningning followed behind.

In the office, Jiang Zhiyu was sitting behind the desk, with several documents spread out in front of him, holding a pen in his hand, the tip hovering over the paper, not falling.

His expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be seen.

But his eyes were not calm.

His eyes were looking at the sofa.

A little girl was sitting on the sofa.

A white dress, double ponytails, white socks, black leather shoes.

Her legs were very short, so short that when she sat on the sofa, her feet couldn't reach the ground.

Her leather shoes hung in mid-air, swaying gently.

She was holding a document in her hand, flipping through it, her gaze moving across the pages.

Her brows were slightly furrowed, her lips pressed into a line, her whole face tense, like a little adult seriously doing something very important.

She finished the last page, closed the folder, raised her head, and looked at Kim Minjeong and Ningning.

Her eyes brightened, the corners of her mouth lifted, revealing a sweet, candy-like smile.

"Hello Unnies, my name is Lee Ji-eun. I am Zhiyu Oppa's younger sister."

The corners of Kim Minjeong's mouth twitched.

Not "twitched," but "curled."

Curled up, unable to be pressed down.

"Hello. My name is Kim Minjeong."

"My name is Ningning. You can call me Ningning."

"Ningning Unnie."

Lee Ji-eun's smile became even sweeter.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up from behind the desk, walked to the sofa, picked up a stack of documents from the table, and placed them next to Lee Ji-eun.

That stack of documents had more than a dozen copies, each one very thick, piled together like a small hill.

"These, finish reading before getting off work today. Write the annotations clearly, mark what can't be changed, I'll handle it at night."

Lee Ji-eun looked at the small hill, silent for a moment.

"Oppa, I am your younger sister, not your assistant."

"With me, younger sister equals assistant. Assistant equals labor that doesn't need to be paid. Labor that doesn't need to be paid is the most efficient labor."

Lee Ji-eun looked at him and gritted her teeth.

"...You're ruthless."

"Learned it from you."

Kim Minjeong and Ningning stood to the side, watching the conversation between these two people, dumbfounded.

They didn't know who Lee Ji-eun was, didn't know where she came from, didn't know why she was so small but so capable.

They only knew that Jiang Zhiyu trusted her.

Trusted her enough to hand over documents for her to handle, trusted her enough to let her participate in project discussions, trusted her enough that when she said "Promotional expenses cannot be reduced," he didn't refute.

Jiang Zhiyu was not the type of person to trust others easily.

For him to trust someone required a long time, many tests, and many confirmations of "she won't hurt me."

He had confirmed it, so he trusted her.

Kim Minjeong didn't know how he confirmed it, she only knew that she also wanted to trust her.

Because someone Jiang Zhiyu trusted wouldn't be bad.

Lee Ji-eun looked at Kim Minjeong and Ningning, her eyes brightening.

"Unnies, are you trainees?"

"Mm."

"Singing or dancing?"

"Both practice."

"Then you must be very good."

"Not bad."

"Too modest. People taught by Zhiyu Oppa wouldn't be bad."

Kim Minjeong was stunned for a moment.

"How do you know Oppa taught us?"

"Because the look in his eyes when he looks at you is different."

Lee Ji-eun paused, "When he looks at you, there is light in his eyes. That kind of light isn't 'I am looking at you,' it's 'I am looking at my work.' If the work is good, he is proud. If he is proud, he will smile. When he smiles, you can't see it, but others can."

Kim Minjeong turned her head to look at Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu was looking at the documents and didn't look up.

But there was a tiny arc at the corners of his mouth.

Kim Minjeong saw it, and Ningning saw it too.

Both of them smiled at the same time.

Lee Ji-eun said she was Jiang Zhiyu's younger sister and knew many embarrassing stories.

Kim Minjeong asked "What embarrassing stories," and Lee Ji-eun thought for a while and said, "Once he was writing a song in the recording studio, wrote until very late, was sleepy, and fell asleep on the mixing console. When he woke up, there were button marks from the mixing console on his face, round, red, like strawberries."

Kim Minjeong laughed, laughing until she bent over.

Ningning also laughed, laughing until tears came out.

"What else, what else?"

"Another time, he went to the cafeteria to eat, saw 'fried chicken nuggets' on the new menu, he was very happy and ordered a portion. When it was served, he realized it was fried tofu. Imagine his expression."

Kim Minjeong imagined it, and then laughed even harder.

"Was he very disappointed?"

"Not disappointed, but the anger of 'I was cheated.' He held that plate of fried tofu, walked to the window, and asked the auntie 'Is this chicken?' The auntie said 'It's tofu.' He said 'The menu says it's chicken.' The auntie said 'Written wrong.' He said 'If it's written wrong, change it.' The auntie said 'Okay.' The next day, the menu was changed, and it said 'Fried tofu cubes.'"

Kim Minjeong laughed until she crouched on the ground, and Ningning laughed until she leaned against the wall.

Jiang Zhiyu raised his head and looked at the three of them.

He was speechless.

Truly speechless.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say "Can you guys be quiet," but he didn't say it.

Because he knew, saying it would be useless.

Lee Ji-eun was there, they wouldn't be quiet.

Lee Ji-eun was a social terrorist, she could get along with anyone in the shortest time, and after getting along, she would start chatting.

Chatting until the end of time, until the seas ran dry and the rocks crumbled, until he couldn't stand it.

He couldn't stand it, but he wouldn't say it.

Because she was Lee Ji-eun.

The Lee Ji-eun he picked up from the ASB entrance, his only family in this world.

Ningning noticed that they were indeed a bit noisy.

She looked at Jiang Zhiyu, who was reading documents, but his brows were furrowed.

Not the furrow of "angry," but the furrow of "I am enduring."

Enduring it, just not saying it.

Not saying it meant he didn't want you to think he was annoyed.

Not thinking he was annoyed meant you could keep chatting.

Keeping on chatting meant being even noisier.

Being even noisier meant he would be even more annoyed.

She didn't want him to be annoyed.

So she spoke up.

"Minjeong Unnie, shall we take Ji-eun to the practice room to play?"

Kim Minjeong looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu was reading documents and didn't look up.

But his brows relaxed a little.

Kim Minjeong was about to speak, but Jiang Zhiyu spoke first.

"Not allowed—"

His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear.

Before he finished the word "allowed," Lee Ji-eun's voice rang out.

"Then let's go quickly! Unnie!"

Her voice was very loud, loud enough to cover Jiang Zhiyu's "Not allowed."

Loud enough that Kim Minjeong's ears were buzzing, loud enough that Ningning subconsciously covered her ears, loud enough that the pen in Jiang Zhiyu's hand drew a long line on the paper.

He raised his head and looked at Lee Ji-eun.

Lee Ji-eun had already stood up, pulling Kim Minjeong's hand, walking towards the door.

Her pace was very fast, so fast that Kim Minjeong was dragged into a stumble.

She turned her head, looked at Jiang Zhiyu, stuck out her tongue, and then disappeared at the door.

The door closed, and the footsteps gradually faded in the hallway.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the closed door, silent for a moment.

Then he lowered his head and continued reading the documents.

There was a tiny arc at the corners of his mouth.

It wasn't a smile, but a confirmation of "Alright."

Lee Ji-eun was brought to the trainee floor by Kim Minjeong and Ningning.

The corridor was long, lined with dense practice rooms, each with a number on the door.

A1, A2, A3, B1, B2, B3.

Some doors were closed, others open.

Music drifted from the closed doors—strong drum beats, heavy bass, mixed with the "tick-tock" of a metronome.

Inside the open doors, people were practicing dance, facing mirrors, repeating the same movement over and over.

Spin, squat, stand, spin again.

Sweat flew from their hair, landing on the floor, glistening under the lights.

Lee Ji-eun walked down the corridor, wearing a white dress, hair in pigtails, black leather shoes on her feet.

Her pace was steady, neither fast nor slow.

Each step was firm.

Her gaze swept from one practice room to another, from one person to the next.

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

But inside, she was not calm.

Her heart was saying—I feel like I've been here before.

Not "been here," but "dreamt of it."

When she was in the Tianxuan Continent, she had dreamt of this place.

Dreamt of this corridor, these practice rooms, these people dancing.

She didn't know why she dreamt of it; she only knew that the dream made her feel at peace.

So at peace that she wanted to keep dreaming.

Now, she didn't need to dream; she was here.

Kim Minjeong led her into the A3 practice room.

It was a medium-sized room with wooden floors, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and speakers embedded in the walls.

A few water bottles and towels were piled in the corner, and the air was filled with the scent of sweat and laundry detergent.

Lee Ji-eun stood in the center of the room, spun around, and looked at herself in the mirror.

White dress, pigtails, black leather shoes.

She was small, so small that standing in this room, she felt like she was packed into a box.

But she didn't feel stifled, because her heart was big.

Big enough to hold the entire stage, big enough to hold all the audience, big enough to hold every song she had ever sung.

Songs don't get smaller, and neither would she.

She was Lee Ji-eun, the "Generation Diva," the person standing in the center of the stage, illuminated by countless lights.

The lights would change, the stage would change, the audience would change.

But she would not.

No matter how big she was, no matter how small, no matter where she was.

She was always herself.

Kim Minjeong turned on the stereo and played a song.

It wasn't a pop song, but a vocal etude—simple melody, narrow range, perfect for warming up.

She handed the microphone to Lee Ji-eun.

"Sing one?"

Lee Ji-eun took the microphone, gripping it in her palm.

The microphone was small, small enough for her hand to just hold it.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

The intro started—piano, single note, B-flat.

Her lips parted slightly, and the voice poured out from her throat.

It wasn't a child's voice; it was an adult's voice.

Clear, full, with long breath control.

For the high notes, she hit them steadily—no cracking, no wavering, no flaws.

For the low notes, she sank into them, thick and steady, like the bass range of a cello.

After singing, she opened her eyes and looked at Kim Minjeong and Ningning.

Both their mouths were hanging open, unable to close.

"Y-you really are eight or nine years old?" Ningning's voice trembled.

"I am."

"How are you so good at singing?"

"Because I am a genius."

"A genius?"

"Hmm. A genius."

Lee Ji-eun's tone was calm, so calm that it sounded like she was saying, "The weather is nice today."

Kim Minjeong and Ningning exchanged a look.

Both saw the same thing in the other's eyes—shock.

Not shock that she sang well, but shock that she sang *too* well.

That kind of goodness wasn't something a trainee could reach.

That kind of goodness was the kind found in someone standing in the center of the stage, illuminated by countless lights, looked up to by countless people.

That kind of goodness, they had only seen in one person.

That person was IU.

No, even IU wasn't this good.

IU was a singer, the digital queen, the nation's little sister.

But Lee Ji-eun—she was the "Generation Diva."

Not just a "diva," but a "Generation Diva."

In one generation, there is only one.

And she was the one for this generation.

The news spread throughout SM at three in the afternoon.

It wasn't just "spread," it "exploded."

It exploded to the point where A&R staff were running through the corridors telling each other, the production department was fiercely debating in the meeting room, and the artist management department was making frantic calls in their offices.

It exploded until Lee Soo-man's secretary walked into Lee Soo-man's office and placed a stack of documents on his desk.

"Chairman, Jiang Zhiyu's younger sister, named Lee Ji-eun. Eight or nine years old, sings extremely well. Not just 'well,' but 'extremely well.'"

Lee Soo-man opened the documents and looked at the photo on the first page.

White dress, pigtails, black leather shoes.

She was standing in the practice room, facing the mirror, holding a microphone.

Her mouth was open, eyes closed, eyelashes long, casting a small fan-shaped shadow under her eyes.

He tapped his finger on the photo twice.

"Bring her to me."

"Chairman, she's only eight or nine—"

"Bring her."

The secretary said nothing more.

He exited the office and closed the door.

The news also reached other companies.

The head of YG's planning department slammed the table in the meeting room.

"Where did SM dig up another genius? Eight or nine years old? Sings extremely well? That's impossible!"

The JYP Chairman paced back and forth in his office.

"Jiang Zhiyu, Jiang Zhiyu, it's always Jiang Zhiyu. He's great at writing songs, great at planning, and even his younger sister is this amazing? Does their family specialize in producing geniuses?"

No one answered him.

Because he didn't need an answer.

The answer was already there.

In the SM practice room, in room A3, in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

A little girl, wearing a white dress, hair in pigtails, holding a microphone.

She was singing, singing her own song.

Not "her song," but a song she wrote.

The song title was "Journey."

Not Korean, not English, but something she wrote when she was in the Tianxuan Continent.

She didn't know if this song would be a hit in this world; she only knew she had to sing it.

If she sang it, she wouldn't forget.

If she forgot, she would have lived in vain.

If she lived in vain, it wasn't worth it.

And if it wasn't worth it, that meant—she was worth it.

She was worth being remembered.

SM's cafeteria, in Lee Tima's mouth, was a piece of shit.

Not "like" a piece of shit, it "was" a piece of shit.

She sat at the dining table with a white tray in front of her.

The tray was divided into compartments; the largest compartment held rice—brown rice, individual grains distinct, hard as pebbles.

In the compartment next to it was soup, soybean paste soup, dark in color but very bland, so bland it was like drinking salty water.

In the next compartment was salad—lettuce leaves, shredded cabbage, a few slices of cucumber, a few cherry tomatoes.

There was no salad dressing, only a small dish of vinegar.

In the outermost compartment was the main dish—fried pork cutlet.

The cutlet wasn't big, about the size of an adult's palm, coated in breadcrumbs, fried golden.

But Lee Tima poked it with her chopsticks, and the cutlet made a "crunch" sound.

It was crispy, but the crispness was wrong.

It was crispy like it had been over-fried, crispy like it had been sitting out for a long time, crispy like—she took a bite, chewed twice, and then spat it out.

"This is a pork cutlet? This isn't a pork cutlet. This is fried flour. There's a tiny bit of pork inside the flour, so little you'd need a microscope to see it."

She poked the pathetic cutlet on the plate hard, the tips of her chopsticks poking little holes in the breadcrumbs, like rows of bullet holes.

She endured it.

She endured it again.

She endured and endured.

Finally, she could endure it no longer.

"Aish—!"

The sound wasn't loud, but it was clear.

Clear enough that the trainee at the next table stopped their chopsticks, clear enough that the cafeteria lady cleaning up trays shook, causing her spoon to drop into the trash can, clear enough that Kim Minjeong almost choked on her brown rice.

Lee Tima stood up, braced her hands on the table, and leaned forward, her small body taut like a fully drawn bow.

"What is the meaning of this, SM! It's one thing to exploit employees, but to be this stingy even with a fried pork cutlet!"

Her voice echoed in the cafeteria, hitting the walls and bouncing back, creating a small echo.

Kim Minjeong quickly tugged at her sleeve, lowering her voice.

"Ji-eun, keep it down—"

"To debut, I've endured it!"

Lee Tima ignored her and continued outputting, "But, it can't always be like this! Is this a life for humans? We are people, not cattle or horses! Even if we were cattle or horses, you should give us some quality feed to change up the taste sometimes!"

The cafeteria went quiet.

Not "quiet," but "hit by something."

Those trainees, Managers, producers, A&R staff—everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at this little girl in a white dress, with pigtails, less than 1.3 meters tall.

She stood in the center of the cafeteria like a little volcano that had been lit, erupting with hot lava.

Jiang Zhiyu sat next to her, holding strawberry milk tea, his expression as calm as if nothing had happened.

He took a sip of the tea, put the cup down, and said something that made everyone even quieter.

"I heard JYP's food is pretty good."

Lee Tima's eyes lit up instantly.

Not "lit up," they "exploded."

It was like someone had lit a lamp in her pupils—the lamp was LED, super bright, so bright that Kim Minjeong subconsciously squinted.

She turned her head and looked at Jiang Zhiyu.

"Then I'm going to JYP! Oppa, you lead the way! Let's go right now!"

Kim Minjeong panicked on the side.

"Ji-eun, Oppa has signed—"

"Signed?"

Lee Tima waved her hand, her tone light and airy, "Then Oppa stays here. I'm going to JYP to have a feast."

She paused, turned her head to look at Kim Minjeong.

"Minjeong Unnie, are you coming too?"

Kim Minjeong's face turned red.

Not the red of "shyness," but the red of "embarrassment."

How could she dare go to JYP?

She was an SM trainee; if she were caught going to JYP, tomorrow's trending topic would be "SM Trainee Defects to JYP," the day after she'd be called into the office for a talk, and the day after that she'd be fired.

She didn't dare.

So she shook her head, her voice as small as a mosquito's buzzing.

"I'm not going…"

Lee Tima looked at her cowardly appearance and sighed.

"Unnie, you're too timid. People need to be daring; if you don't venture out, how will you know what's ahead?"

"There are security guards ahead."

"What's there to be afraid of with security guards? He won't eat you."

"He'll kick me out."

"If you get kicked out, run. If you can't run, cry. If you can't cry, scream. If you can't scream, call for Mom. If you can't call for Mom, then—"

Jiang Zhiyu reached out and pinched her mouth.

Not "covered," but "pinched."

Two fingers, thumb and index finger, pinched her upper and lower lips, like pinching a duck.

Lee Tima's voice leaked out from between his fingers, muffled and unclear.

"Mmph mmph mmph—"

Jiang Zhiyu let go.

Lee Tima glared at him.

"Oppa, what are you doing?"

"Eating."

"Not eating. This food isn't for humans."

"Then what do you want to eat?"

"I want to eat what you make."

"None."

"Then I'll eat the cafeteria food."

"Didn't you say you wouldn't eat it?"

"I changed my mind."

She picked up her chopsticks, picked up a piece of pork cutlet, stuffed it into her mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed.

Her expression was like she was swallowing medicine.

But she didn't spit it out.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her "I'll endure it" expression, and a tiny arc appeared at the corner of his mouth.

He didn't laugh, but he wanted to.

He held it back.

After lunch, Jiang Zhiyu walked in front holding his milk tea, Lee Tima followed behind him, and Kim Minjeong and Ningning walked at the very back.

The four of them passed through the corridor, passed the A&R department, passed the production department, passed the artist management department.

Lee Tima looked around as she walked, looking at the posters on the walls, looking at the idols on the posters, looking at the idols' faces.

She didn't recognize them, but she knew they were SM artists.

There was light on the artists' faces—not the light from reflectors, but the light of dreams.

Dreams glow, and if they glow, they get seen.

If they get seen, they get remembered, and to be remembered is—she wanted to be remembered.

So she, too, had to glow.

Jiang Zhiyu walked into a small meeting room—not a formal meeting room, but the kind used for small team meetings, only big enough for five or six people, with a small whiteboard and a few markers.

He pulled over a chair and sat down, placing his milk tea on the table.

Lee Tima sat next to him, and Kim Minjeong and Ningning sat opposite them.

The door was open; occasionally someone passed by in the hallway, footsteps pausing for a moment at the doorway before walking away.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't close the door because he didn't need to.

What he had to say wasn't a secret.

Secrets can't be told, but what he was talking about was a concept.

Concepts can be stolen, but he didn't care.

Because he had another hundred concepts in his head—they couldn't be stolen all.

"Red Velvet's new album concept."

Jiang Zhiyu took a marker out of his pocket and wrote a word on the whiteboard—Broken.

Not "broken," but "Broken."

English, uppercase, B-R-O-K-E-N.

He drew a line under the word, the end of the line branching out like the branches of a tree.

"A broken city, a broken mirror, a broken self. Everyone is a mirror; when it breaks, it reflects many selves. Some selves are laughing, some are crying, some are watching you. You don't know which one is real, you don't know which one is you. You don't know, so you have to search. The process of searching is the album."

Lee Tima looked at the word he had written and was silent for a moment. "It's too abstract. The fans won't understand."

"Fans don't need to understand. Fans need to feel."

"Feel what?"

"Feel 'brokenness'."

Lee Tima thought for a moment. "Then give them a concrete image. A broken city isn't enough. A broken mirror isn't enough either. You have to let them see how 'brokenness' happens. Not the result, but the process. The process is more important than the result. Because there is only one result, but many processes. Many processes allow many people to find their own shadows."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "How do you think it should be presented?"

"Cyberpunk." Lee Tima's voice was not loud, but very clear.

"Neon lights, holographic projections, mechanical prosthetics, a rainy night, damp streets. The mirror is broken, shattered into many pieces, and in every piece, there is a version of her. She is in different worlds, doing different things. Some are singing, some are dancing, some are crying, some are laughing. She looks at those versions of herself, and those versions also look at her. They are talking, arguing, fighting. In the end, she shatters all the mirrors, walks out from those fragments, stands in the rain, soaked to the bone, but she is smiling. Because she knows that they are all her. No need to choose, no need to search, no need to become just one of them. She is all of her."

Jiang Zhiyu tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "It's too complicated. It can't be filmed in an MV."

"If it can't be filmed, then don't film it. Use animation. 2D, cyberpunk, broken mirrors, many versions of her. Animation can do things that live-action cannot. Imagination doesn't need to be limited by budget."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, silent for a moment. "You didn't come to Korea to debut; you came here to argue with me."

"I came to help you."

"Help me argue?"

"Help you clarify the concept."

Kim Minjeong sat opposite them, watching these two talk as if no one else was around. It wasn't "talking"; it was "colliding." One idea would come out, and another would crash into it. It would shatter, breaking into many fragments, and each piece would be a new idea. New ideas would collide again, shatter again, and grow again. Her brain couldn't keep up, because she wasn't a genius. She was just an ordinary trainee who could sing and dance, but couldn't conceptualize. Concepts were Jiang Zhiyu's business; she only needed to turn his concepts into dance. Dance was her language; she didn't need to think, she only needed to dance. But as she listened, she suddenly felt that every concept was good. The broken city was good, cyberpunk was good, and Pinocchio was also good. So good that she didn't know which one to choose. She didn't know which one Jiang Zhiyu would choose, she only knew that no matter which one he chose, she would dance it. Because she trusted him.

Ningning sat next to Kim Minjeong, resting her chin in her hands, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on the words written and erased, erased and written again on the whiteboard. She was wondering what kind of concept suited her. Did a broken version of her fit? She didn't know. Did a cyberpunk version of her fit? She didn't know either. Did the Pinocchio version of her fit? She knew even less. She only knew that she wanted to be the person laughing in the rain. Not "wanted to become," but "wanted to act." To act as the person who shattered all the mirrors, walked out from the fragments, soaked to the bone but still laughing. She didn't know if she could act it well, but she wanted to try. Only by trying would she know. If she didn't try, she would never know.

Karina came in later. She pushed open the meeting room door and saw Jiang Zhiyu sitting in front of the whiteboard, holding a marker, writing. Lee Tima was sitting next to him, her legs crossed on the chair, curled up into a ball like a cat nesting on a sofa. Kim Minjeong and Ningning were sitting opposite, their expressions so focused that they didn't notice her come in. Karina stood at the door, watching Jiang Zhiyu. His profile was clear in the sunlight, the curve of his jawline, the height of his nose bridge, the fan-shaped shadows his eyelashes cast under his eyes. His mouth was moving, speaking words she didn't understand. Things like "the dark side of fairy tales," "spirit of rebellion," "tragedy of the Red Queen." She didn't understand, but she liked listening. Because his voice was pleasant. Deep, steady, like the bass section of a cello. She listened to that voice, walked over to Ningning's side, and sat down. Ningning turned her head, glanced at her, and wanted to say something, but didn't. Because Jiang Zhiyu's voice was too loud, loud enough to drown out her words. Not "loud," but "powerful." A powerful voice doesn't need to be loud. It echoes in your ears, echoes for a long time, long enough that you can still hear it when you close your eyes. Karina closed her eyes and heard it.

"Pinocchio." Jiang Zhiyu wrote these words on the whiteboard. "A puppet is a controlled figure. It has no freedom, no will, no choice. It can only be pulled by strings, going where it doesn't want to go. But it wants to become a real boy, so it rebels. It rebels against the strings, against the control, against those who tell it 'how you should walk.' Its rebellion is not violence; it is will. It doesn't want to be controlled anymore, so it learns to refuse. Refusal is a word, but for a puppet, it is an action. It refuses to be pulled, refuses to be pushed, refuses to be posed in positions it doesn't want to be in. It learns to say 'no.' Saying no is freedom."

Lee Tima shook her head. "Pinocchio is too childish. Red Velvet's fans are adults; adults don't want to see puppets, adults want to see themselves. Pinocchio is a story for children; an adult's story is—"

"Is what?"

"It's 'I have been controlled all along, but I don't want to admit it.' To admit it is to lose. Not to admit it is to keep holding on. When you can't hold on anymore, you break. When you break, you—"

"You what?"

"You become free." Jiang Zhiyu's fingers paused on the table. He looked at Lee Tima, and Lee Tima looked at him. The two stared at each other for a moment, then spoke at the same time. "Alice in Wonderland."

Not "Alice in Wonderland," but "a dark version of Alice in Wonderland." Alice falls down the rabbit hole, not to explore, but to escape. Escaping reality, escaping family, escaping the version of herself she doesn't want to face. She meets the Mad Hatter, the Cheshire Cat, the Red Queen. They are not characters from a fairy tale, but projections of her inner self. The Mad Hatter is her chaotic thoughts, the Cheshire Cat is her desire to disappear, the Red Queen is her fear of authority. She doesn't want to face it, so she runs. Runs into dreams, runs into fantasies, runs to a place where no one can find her. But she realizes she can't escape. Because wherever she is, her fear is there too. She cannot outrun her own shadow.

Jiang Zhiyu wrote "Red Queen" on the whiteboard. He drew a line under the word, and at the end of the line, he wrote a word—"Family." "The tragedy of the Red Queen is not that she is evil, but that her family had problems. Her parents favored her sister, the White Queen. The White Queen was beautiful, gentle, and obedient. The Red Queen was not beautiful, not gentle, not obedient. So she was not liked. Because she wasn't liked, she wanted to prove herself. Prove that she was worthy of being liked, prove that she wasn't a waste, prove that she could also be loved. But the more she tried to prove it, the more she failed. The more she failed, the angrier she became. The angrier she became, the crazier she became. In the end, she became a tyrant, a tyrant whom everyone feared but no one loved. Her tragedy was not of her own making. It was her family."

Lee Tima leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "What spirit do you want to convey with this album?"

"Rebellion."

"Rebellion against what?"

"Rebellion against the voices that tell you 'what you should be like.' Parents' voices, teachers' voices, the company's voice, society's voice. All the voices are saying 'you should do this, you shouldn't do that.' If you listen, you become a puppet. If you don't listen, you become the Red Queen. Whether you listen or not, it's a tragedy. So what do you do?" Lee Tima looked at him. "What do you say we do?"

"Don't be a puppet, and don't be the Red Queen. Be Alice. Fall down the rabbit hole, experience everything, and then wake up. After you wake up, you know it was a dream, but you know the things in the dream were real. The fear was real, the escape was real, the desire to disappear was real. You know those things were real, so you are no longer afraid. Being no longer afraid is—"

"It's growing up." Lee Tima took over his words.

Kim Minjeong sat opposite, her mouth slightly open, eyes wide round. She felt like she was attending a class, a class about "how people should live." She didn't know "how people should live," she only knew "how a trainee should practice." Practice until her throat was hoarse, practice until her legs cramped, practice until she fell asleep on the floor. She thought this was everything. But now she knew, it wasn't. This was just the beginning. After the beginning, there was still a long road ahead. The road was very long, and she didn't know how to walk it. But she knew that Jiang Zhiyu knew. If she followed him, she wouldn't get lost.

Ningning was on the side, her pen writing quickly in her notebook. Not the words Jiang Zhiyu said, but her own words. She was thinking, if she were Alice, what would she do? She didn't know. She only knew that she didn't want to escape. If she escaped, she lost. If she didn't escape, she faced it. Facing it meant being brave. Being brave meant growing up. Growing up meant—she wanted to grow up.

Karina sat next to Ningning, not looking at the whiteboard, not looking at her notes, not looking at anyone. She was looking at Jiang Zhiyu. Watching the way he wrote, the way he held the marker, the way he squinted when he drank milk tea. A voice in her heart was saying—he is really amazing. Not "amazing," but "deep." Deep until you can't see the bottom, deep until you don't know what he is thinking, deep until the more you think, the shallower you feel yourself to be. Once shallow, you want to be deep. Once deep, you feel even shallower. She didn't know what she was thinking, she only knew that she wanted to sit next to him. Not "next to," but "closer." A little closer, and she could smell the peach scent on him. A little closer, and she could hear his breathing. A little closer, and when he drank milk tea, she could see his Adam's apple bobbing. She didn't know what she was thinking, she only knew that she was blushing.

Lee Tima noticed Karina's blush. Not "noticed," but "saw." Her eyes were sharp, sharp enough to pick out the person stealing glances at Jiang Zhiyu from a crowd. She found them, not just one. Kim Minjeong was watching, Ningning was watching, and Karina was watching too. The eyes of all three were fixed on Jiang Zhiyu. The corners of Lee Tima's mouth slowly curled up. Not a smile, but a confirmation of "I understand." She understood, but she wouldn't say it. If she said it, it wouldn't be fun anymore.

(15:55) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [Resting halfway through the pictorial shoot, the fluffy coat is too hot! I secretly unzipped it to cool off, and the photographer Oppa snapped a picture saying "It looks like a sticky rice cake with filling leaking out"... Now the whole crew is laughing at me! (Sends a messy photo with the coat open and a small wet patch on the stage outfit inside)]

(15:58) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [There were heart-shaped fish cakes in my lunchbox, I excitedly took a picture to send to you, but my hand slipped and I sent it to the aespa group chat... Karina Unnie replied immediately: "Winter-ah, does Daddy need to help you heat it up in the microwave?" I'm so embarrassed I want to crawl into my coat and never come out! (Buries face in the fluffy hood)]

(16:01) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The mom of "Chuchu" (a large ginkgo leaf) was accidentally bent by me when I sat on it... I urgently used a dictionary to flatten it, and now it is stuck tightly to the "Spring" entry in the dictionary. Does this count as a blessing in disguise? (Shows a ginkgo leaf bookmark flattened in the dictionary page)]

(16:04) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [While touching up my makeup, the makeup artist Unnie said "Winter's eyelids are sparkling like falling snow today," but actually it's because I secretly applied the eyeshadow sample Oppa gave me! Even the makeup is helping me lie, saying "I look so good"~ (Blinks eyes to show the fine glitter)]

(16:07) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [The puffer jacket bread elf was hung on the balcony to sunbathe today, and when the wind blew, it puffed up as if it were breathing. I said to it "Absorb the sunlight well, and keep wrapping around your owner tonight," and it shook its sleeves to agree!]

(16:10) Minjeong who doesn't reply: [Recording a radio show later, if the host asks "the warmest moment recently," I will definitely answer "It's when I realized someone finds even my leaking sticky rice cake appearance cute." Oppa, can you guess who it is? (Sends a photo covering half her face with the fluffy coat, revealing only her curved smiling eyes)]