44: Chapter 44 If I were a dog, would you love me?

Inside the SM practice room, the music made the floor vibrate slightly. It was not just "playing music," it was "hammering music." The drumbeats hit the walls like hammers, bounced back, and slammed into the three dancing girls. They did not dodge, because they were used to it. Karina stood in the middle, Kim Minjeong on the left, and Ningning on the right. Their movements were perfectly synchronized, so synchronized it was like looking into a mirror. Raise hands, turn, squat, stand up. Sweat flew from their hair, landing on the wooden floor, blooming into small, dark circles. Their hair was soaked, sticking to their foreheads, cheeks, and the backs of their necks. The color of their T-shirts had turned from light gray to dark gray, with the darkest patches at the collars and underarms, as if they had been soaked in water.

Ever since they learned they had a chance to debut early next year, they began this "life-risking" practice. Kim Minjeong's heels were rubbed raw, so she applied bandages; when those wore through, she applied another layer. Ningning's throat was hoarse, but she drank warm water and kept singing. Karina's ankle was swollen, so she wrapped it in bandages and kept dancing. They did not know how many people would debut, or if it would be a four-member, five-member, or six-member group. What they did know was—if they did not work hard now, even if they made it into the pre-debut group, there was a risk of being cut. The competition was fierce; if they did not run, others would catch up. If they ran, others would run too. To run slower than others was to lose. To lose was—they did not want to lose.

The music stopped. The three of them stopped simultaneously, bent over, hands on their knees, gasping for air. No one spoke, because no one had the strength to speak. Kim Minjeong's mouth was open like a fish pulled onto the shore, her tongue sticking out—not to be cute, but to cool down. Ningning sat against the wall, head tilted back, looking at the ceiling; the fluorescent light was the same as ever, the tungsten filament inside glowing. Karina lay sprawled on the floor, limbs splayed like a dried-out octopus. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes casting a small, fan-shaped shadow beneath them. She was not asleep; she was just resting. Resting meant recovering energy. Recovering energy meant continuing.

Jiang Zhiyu pushed open the practice room door; it was already nine o'clock at night. The light from the hallway squeezed through the door gap, drawing a thin line of light on the floor. He stood at the entrance, holding several plastic bags. They were white and transparent, allowing the contents to be seen. In the first bag were three chicken breast salads in transparent containers, with lettuce at the bottom, topped with chicken breast, eggs, cherry tomatoes, and cucumber slices. The dressing was packed separately in small boxes labeled "low-fat." The second bag contained pizza in a square red box with the pizza shop's logo printed on it. The third bag contained fried chicken; the paper bag was already soaked through with oil, with a dark circle blooming at the bottom. He was also holding a cup of milk tea, pink in color, with a fine layer of condensation on the cup wall.

Kim Minjeong's nose twitched. It was not just a "twitch," it was a "sniff." Like a cat that had smelled meat, her nostrils flared, breathing rapidly, capturing every molecule in the air. Her eyes were still closed, her head still tilted back, but her nose was at work.

"Oppa, what else did you bring?" Her voice was not loud, but it was clear. "I smell pizza and fried chicken!"

Jiang Zhiyu's smile stiffened. It did not "disappear," it "froze." It froze on his face, at the corners of his mouth, at that moment of "being discovered." Then he immediately returned to normal, as if nothing had happened.

"My dinner." His tone was very flat, so flat it was like saying "The weather is nice today."

Kim Minjeong opened her eyes. "Let me see."

Ningning had already guessed. She pulled at her mouth, the corners turning down, her whole face saying "I do not want to know." "I do not want it. Do not show me."

Karina's eyes opened. It was not just "opened," it was "glared." She glared with round eyes, her pupils reflecting the plastic bags in Jiang Zhiyu's hands. Her gaze shifted from "exhaustion" to "intent to kill," and from "intent to kill" to "just try taking them out." She stared at Jiang Zhiyu without speaking, but her eyes were speaking.

Jiang Zhiyu coughed. It was not a "cough," it was "clearing his throat." He cleared his throat, placed the plastic bags on the floor, and sat down cross-legged.

"Alright, alright, I know everyone has been very tired lately. That is why I do not come often." He paused, shifting his gaze from Kim Minjeong's face to Ningning's, and from Ningning's to Karina's. His expression was somewhat awkward because he always appeared confident in front of them. He never said "I am in trouble," never said "I do not know what to do," never said "I need help." He could not say it, because he was used to being the person who solved problems, not the one who posed them.

Kim Minjeong, Ningning, and Karina exchanged glances. Three people, six eyes, exchanged a signal in the air. They gathered around and sat down in front of Jiang Zhiyu. Karina sat at the very front, closest to him, close enough to smell the scent of peaches on him. Her voice was not loud, but it was clear.

"What happened?"

She looked at him, at his slightly furrowed brow, his pursed lips, and the way his fingers tapped lightly on his knees. She was thinking—the matter he found troublesome might need her father to solve. The Karina family's resources, connections, and influence—as long as she could help him, she was willing to speak up. She was not afraid of being rejected; she was only afraid of him not asking.

Jiang Zhiyu's voice was not loud, but it was clear. "It is still about the lyric writing for 'Iracebeth.' I was wondering—if you could provide some inspiration."

Kim Minjeong's eyes lit up. It was not just "lit up," it was "shining." Like two lightbulbs being turned on, like two stars falling from the sky. Her expression shifted from "exhaustion" to "excitement," and from "excitement" to "smugness." She was a trainee, had not debuted yet, did not have her own work, and had not been recognized by anyone. But she could actually participate in the lyric writing discussion for a senior artist's album. She could brag about this for the rest of her life.

Ningning fell silent. She did not "express an opinion," she was "thinking." Her brow was slightly furrowed, her lips pressed into a line, her whole face saying "I am thinking of a shocking idea." She wanted to surprise Jiang Zhiyu, surprise Kim Minjeong, surprise Karina, surprise everyone. She thought for a long time.

Karina had originally intended to call her father. Her fingers had already reached for the phone in the corner, the screen lit up, and the contacts were already flipped to "Father." Then she heard Jiang Zhiyu say "lyric writing." Her fingers paused, then retreated, and she pushed the phone back. She let out a self-deprecating laugh, very short, so short it lasted only half a second, the curve of her lips almost invisible. Yes, Jiang Zhiyu's work ability was something they had all witnessed; why would he need the Karina family's help? Even if she wanted to help, Jiang Zhiyu would not agree. He never accepted anyone's "help," he only accepted "exchanges." You have what I need, I have what you need, we exchange, and neither owes the other. But she did not have what he needed; she had no bargaining chip to exchange, so she could not speak up. To speak up was to "owe." He did not want to owe her, and she did not want him to owe her. So she kept her mouth shut.

Kim Minjeong wiggled her hips a few times and moved next to Jiang Zhiyu. Her movements were fast, so fast it was like she was fighting for a spot. She leaned in closer, close enough for Jiang Zhiyu to smell the sweat on her. It was not "unpleasant," it was the "scent of hard work."

"Oppa, Oppa, I know!" Her voice was loud, loud enough to echo in the practice room.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "Minjeong, tell me your thoughts."

Kim Minjeong said, "The Red Queen's behavior is because of her childhood family environment, so we should criticize the family more." After she finished, she looked up at him, her eyes filled with "Aren't I amazing?"

Jiang Zhiyu ruffled her hair. His fingers slid from the top of her head to the back of her head, his fingertips gently massaging her scalp. Kim Minjeong's eyes narrowed, her whole body shifting from "tense" to "relaxed," and from "relaxed" to "about to fall asleep." He did not refute her, nor did he lecture her. He just took out his phone, opened his notes, and typed while saying:

"Good idea. I have noted it down."

Ningning raised her hand. Her arm was stretched straight, fingers together, palm facing forward, like a student answering a question in class. Her expression was very serious, so serious it was like she was taking an important exam.

"It should develop in the direction of 'love.' The family's favoritism toward children, while appearing to be equal, actually remains biased toward one side. So—it should lean more toward the Red Queen lacking parental love, which ultimately makes her too paranoid. In reality, she just does not know how to accept the love others have for her."

Before Jiang Zhiyu could speak, Kim Minjeong spoke up. "That is not right."

Ningning looked at her. "What is not right?"

"The Red Queen is not 'not knowing how to accept love,' it is that 'no one has ever given her love.' Because it was never given, she does not know what love is. Because she does not know, she cannot accept it. Because she cannot accept it, she rejects it. Because she rejects it, she is lonely. Because she is lonely, so—" "Are you talking about yourself?" "I am talking about the Red Queen!" "You are talking about yourself."

The two began to bicker. Kim Minjeong said "You are the one who does not understand," and Ningning said "You are the one who does not understand." Kim Minjeong said "Let me finish," and Ningning said "You have no logic at all." Their speaking speed got faster and faster, their voices got louder and louder, like two kittens fighting over food.

Jiang Zhiyu watched them argue with a smile on his face. He did not stop them because he liked watching them argue. When they argued, their eyes would shine, their voices would brighten, and they would transform from "trainees" into "themselves."

His gaze met Karina's. Their gazes met in the air; there were no sparks, no collision, only a tacit understanding of "you understand, and I understand." They both realized—Kim Minjeong and Ningning were not arguing, they were expressing themselves. When expressing, you do not need logic, you only need truth. Truth is enough.

The two smiled at each other. Not a "loud laugh," not a "smile," but a "helpless smile." After the smile, Jiang Zhiyu's gaze remained on Karina's face. He was waiting, waiting for her to speak. Karina looked at him, at his eyes that shimmered with a faint gold under the lights, at the almost imperceptible curve of his lips. She took a deep breath.

"When the Red Queen speaks and says 'Off with his head!'—" Her voice was not loud, but it was clear. "Oppa, do you know what else there is besides anger?"

Jiang Zhiyu thought for a moment. "The past self? A past one does not dare to face?"

Karina shook her head. "It is a past one wants to forget. It has been awakened. It is like—" She paused, finding the most accurate metaphor. "Like a wound that has not healed properly, covered by a bandage, being ripped open by someone again."

Kim Minjeong shivered. She hunched her shoulders, hugged her arms, as if she had been caught in a breeze. "Unnie, what you said about 'the bandage being ripped off a wound that has not healed'—that sounds so painful!"

Ningning said deliberately, "If it is ripped open, it is that kind of—flesh being torn apart, blood flowing down, the stinging sensation after the wound, followed by a numb feeling, and then the urge to vomit—"

Kim Minjeong's voice rose. "Yah! Ningning!!"

Jiang Zhiyu's eyes brightened for a moment.

Not "brightened," but "shone."

Karina's words were like a key, inserted into that door in his mind that had been locked for a long time.

He turned it, and the door opened.

Not "opened," but "kicked open."

What he had originally pursued was the Red Queen's pain and resentment toward her family of origin, appealing for attention to family emotional education.

He had written many versions, and each one revolved around this core.

Each version was wrong, because he was writing about a "victim," not about the "Red Queen."

The Red Queen is not a victim; she is—he couldn't quite put it into words.

Karina helped him say it—"A wound covered by a bandage that hasn't healed properly, ripped open by someone."

Not "ripped open by someone," but "ripped open by herself."

She rips off the bandage herself, looking at that wound herself.

Not to let others see it, but to make herself remember.

Remember the pain, remember why it hurts, and remember who caused her to hurt.

Once remembered, she won't be hurt by the same thing again.

Not being hurt is safety.

Safety is—he didn't need to think anymore.

He knew.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at Karina gratefully.

That look was very short, so short it lasted only a fraction of a second.

But that look contained too much—not "thank you," but "you understand me."

Not "you understand me," but "you are here."

He wrote down her words—not "wrote," but "carved."

Carved into his mind, carved into his heart.

He would write it as soon as he went back.

Write about the Red Queen ripping off the bandage.

Write about the Red Queen looking at the wound.

Write about the Red Queen remembering the pain.

Write about how she went from someone who couldn't feel pain to someone who could.

Karina lowered her head and smiled with pursed lips.

The curve of her lips wasn't large, but it was genuine.

The smile spread from the corners of her mouth to her cheeks, and from her cheeks to her eyes.

Her eyes curved into crescents, curving until there was light inside.

She was embarrassed to let Jiang Zhiyu see her smile, because she didn't know why she was smiling.

"Did I actually help?" she asked herself in her heart.

She didn't know the answer; she only knew that he had looked at her.

That look was enough.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up, walked to the door, and carried in those plastic bags.

The pizza box was opened, and the round pizza had been cut into eight slices.

The cheese was still hot, pulling out into long strings.

The fried chicken paper bag was torn open, golden chicken legs piled together, their surfaces sprinkled with white sesame seeds and chili powder, the aroma filling the practice room.

The bubble tea had a straw inserted, and the pink liquid surged up through the straw.

He picked up a piece of fried chicken, a drumstick, it was huge, so large that his fingers couldn't wrap around it.

"After I finish eating, I'll take you all back."

His tone was very flat, so flat it was as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today."

Karina looked down at the chicken breast salad on her plate.

Lettuce, chicken breast, egg, cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices.

No dressing, because dressing had calories.

Her chopsticks picked up a piece of chicken breast, placed it in her mouth, and she chewed.

It tasted like wax.

She swallowed it and looked up.

Jiang Zhiyu was eating the fried chicken, the drumstick, took a bite, with a "crunch," the skin was crispy, juices seeping from the meat, dripping down his fingers.

He sucked on his finger, took another bite, and there was another "crunch."

Three pairs of eyes were staring fixedly at him.

There was killing intent in Karina's eyes, killing intent in Kim Minjeong's eyes, and killing intent in Ningning's eyes too.

The killing intent surged out without hesitation, like three swords drawn from their sheaths, their tips pointed at Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu was eating very intently.

He didn't look at them, because he knew he was "committing a crime."

Eating fried chicken, eating pizza, and drinking bubble tea in front of three trainees who could only eat chicken breast salad.

This was a felony, and the sentencing standard was "social death."

He wasn't afraid, because he had the kings card.

the kings card could offset any punishment, and his kings card hadn't been used up yet.

"Oh right, Ji-min."

Jiang Zhiyu's tone was very casual, so casual it was as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today."

"I won't use my alt account to spam 'Mantis Woman' under your Instagram account anymore.

After I write it, you will be my god."

Karina's face turned even redder.

Initially it was shyness, the red spreading from her earlobes to her cheeks.

Now it was anger, the red spreading from her cheeks to her neck, and from her neck to her collarbone.

"Mwo-ra-go?"

Her voice squeezed out from her throat, carrying a tremble of "what are you talking about."

"Man—tis—Wo—man? Yah—!"

Karina pounced like a leopard.

Her body sprang up from the floor, her speed too fast for Kim Minjeong's eyes to follow.

Her arms reached toward Jiang Zhiyu, fingers spread out like claws.

Her eyes were wide open, and her pupils reflected Jiang Zhiyu's face, still smiling, unaware of his impending doom, with fried chicken still in his mouth.

Jiang Zhiyu reached out and protected her waist.

The movement was very fast, so fast it was as if it had been rehearsed.

His arm passed by her waist, his palm pressed against her lower back, his fingers tightening slightly.

Not to "embrace," but to "block."

Blocking her momentum as she pounced, and also protecting himself from being knocked down by her.

He steadied himself.

Karina's face was very close to his, so close she could see her own reflection in his pupils.

So close she could smell the peach scent on him, stronger than usual, probably because he had just come in from outside and it hadn't dissipated.

So close she could hear his heartbeat, thump-thump-thump, very fast, so fast she couldn't tell if it was hers or his.

Jiang Zhiyu smiled, picked up a piece of fried chicken, and stuffed it directly into her mouth.

The movement was fast, so fast that before Karina could even close her mouth, the fried chicken was already inside.

Her lips touched his fingers, warm, carrying the oily aroma of the fried chicken.

The chicken leg squeezed between her teeth, meat juices splashing on the tip of her tongue, the spiciness of the chili powder exploding in her mouth.

Karina widened her eyes in shock, forgetting to chew, forgetting to breathe, forgetting that she had just been angry.

Her brain went through an emergency reboot in that instant.

Jiang Zhiyu smiled. "Mianhae."

Kim Minjeong and Ningning also saw this scene.

Ningning covered her mouth, her eyes peeking through the gaps between her fingers.

Her eyes curved into crescents, her pupils reflecting the two figures pressed together.

Her expression said—"I'm shipping them again."

Kim Minjeong wasn't shipping them; she only saw the fried chicken.

She screamed, "I want to eat fried chicken too, ahhh—!" and then rushed over, her speed like a cannonball being launched.

The force was great, so great that Jiang Zhiyu was knocked backward.

Before Karina could get up from him, Kim Minjeong had already crashed into them.

The three of them instantly lost their balance, Jiang Zhiyu's arm swiped through the air, catching nothing.

He fell down, his back hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Karina was lying on top of him, and Kim Minjeong was lying on top of Karina.

The three of them were stacked together like a pile of blocks that had been knocked over.

"Ji-min, are you okay?"

Jiang Zhiyu's voice came from the very bottom, muffled.

Karina was lying on Jiang Zhiyu, her face buried in his chest, the tip of her nose pressed against the second button of his shirt.

She smelled that special fruity scent on him—the sweetness of peaches mixed with the bitterness of herbs.

She couldn't help but take a few more sniffs, like a drowning person clutching the last piece of driftwood.

She didn't want to get up, because if she did, the scent would be gone.

The scent would dissipate, and once it dissipated, she wouldn't be able to smell it.

If she couldn't smell it, she would—she scrambled up.

Glaring viciously at the culprit of all this.

Kim Minjeong had already stuffed a few pieces of fried chicken into her mouth, her cheeks bulging like a hamster.

This was revenge eating, revenge without any regard for calories.

She didn't care, because she would practice an extra hour tomorrow.

If one hour wasn't enough, two hours; if two hours weren't enough, three hours.

She could afford to eat it, and she could afford to practice it off.

Ningning was watching with great interest from the side.

She suddenly realized that this seemed like a good opportunity to fish in troubled waters.

Everyone was fighting over the fried chicken, and no one was paying attention to the pizza.

She quietly inched over and reached out to take a slice.

The pizza was Super Supreme flavor, with a thin and crispy crust, stringy cheese, sausage slices rolled into the edges, and bright green strips of green pepper.

She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

Then she couldn't stop.

It would be fine if she only ate one slice, she thought, and took another.

Speaking of which, with such constant indulgence, could they really join the debut group and successfully debut as idols?

She thought as she ate the pizza in big bites.

Kim Minjeong had already eaten her third piece of fried chicken, chili powder on the corners of her mouth, her fingers covered in oil, but she didn't care.

Karina continued to eat her chicken breast salad, her chopsticks picking up lettuce, dipping it in the dressing, placing it in her mouth, chewing, swallowing.

The movements were slow, so slow it was as if she were performing some kind of ritual.

But her eyes kept glancing at Jiang Zhiyu, a glance, pulling back, another glance, pulling back again.

Jiang Zhiyu was also looking at her, but every time she glanced over, his gaze happened to shift away.

The two of them were playing a game of "whoever gets caught first loses."

There were no winners, and no losers.

Karina swore in her heart—she would check who the account on her Instagram that dared to call her "Mantis Woman" was as soon as she got back.

Once she found it... once she found it, she would—

She hadn't decided what she would "do."

Scold him? She couldn't bear to.

Hit him? She couldn't win.

Tell on him? Tell who?

Kim Minjeong and Ningning wouldn't help her; they would only say, "Oppa is right."

She gritted her teeth and chewed the lettuce even harder.

What does it feel like for thoughts to gush like a spring? Jiang Zhiyu hadn't believed it before.

He never needed his songwriting to "gush"; he needed it to "open."

Turn on the tap, and the water flows out.

Flowing fast, flowing slow, flowing a lot, flowing a little, it depended on how much he turned it.

But this time was different.

Karina's line, "A wound covered by a bandage that hasn't healed properly, ripped open by someone," was like a key, inserted into that door in his mind that had been locked for a long time.

He turned it, and the door opened.

Not "opened," but "exploded."

The door exploded into fragments, the fragments turned into butterflies, the butterflies flew out, their wings covered in melodies and lyrics.

He chased those butterflies all the way, running from the SM recording studio to the hallway, from the hallway to the stairwell, and from the stairwell back to the recording studio.

The butterflies landed on the mixing console, on the keyboard, on the empty audio tracks.

He sat down, opened the computer, and his fingers landed on the MIDI keyboard.

The first chord rang out, then the second, then the third.

The melody flowed out like a river, requiring no thinking, no editing, no looking back to check.

A river won't flow in the wrong direction; it only flows toward lower ground.

Where is the lower ground? It was the lowest note that Bae Joo-hyun's voice could reach.

He wrote for a day and a night.

Not "writing," but "transcribing."

Transcribing those melodies he heard in his mind, copying the notes onto the staff, writing the lyrics on paper, marking the arrangement on the tracks.

He didn't drink water, didn't eat, didn't go to the bathroom, didn't check his phone.

His world consisted only of the screen, the keyboard, and the speakers.

And that cup of strawberry bubble tea sitting on the corner of the table, full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans added.

He took a sip; it was cold.

He took another sip; it was still cold.

By the third sip, he had forgotten what he was drinking.

The next afternoon, he finished adjusting the last timbre, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

Not "resting," but "confirming."

Confirming that the song was finished, confirming that every note was in its proper place, confirming that every word was what he wanted to say.

He confirmed it three times, then opened his eyes, picked up his phone, and sent a message to the recording engineer—"Hyung, come over, recording a demo."

The recording engineer's surname was Lee, in his forties, with thinning hair, wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses, having worked at SM for twenty years, having handled countless hit songs.

When he pushed the door open, he was holding a coffee in his hand and had a cigarette in his mouth.

The cigarette was extinguished the moment he walked into the recording studio, the butt tossed into the trash can, a very practiced movement.

"Finished writing?" He placed the coffee on the table and glanced at the audio tracks on the screen.

"Yeah, help me record a version."

"You're singing it yourself?"

"Yeah."

Recording Engineer Lee looked at him, not saying "Can you do it?" because he knew the answer.

It wasn't the first time he had helped Jiang Zhiyu record a demo; he knew this guy was a very strong singer.

Not "strong," but "absurd."

So absurd that he didn't understand why this guy didn't become a singer.

He had asked once, and Jiang Zhiyu said, "Writing songs makes more money than singing them."

He thought about it, and it seemed that was indeed the case.

Jiang Zhiyu walked into the recording booth, put on his headphones, and stood in front of the microphone. He didn't sit down because this song needed to be sung while standing. It wasn't "needed," it was "he felt so." When standing, his breath flowed better, his chest cavity was more open, and his voice could project further. He took a deep breath and gave Recording Engineer Lee, who was behind the glass, an OK gesture. Recording Engineer Lee pressed play, and the intro began. The bass of the electronic synthesizer exploded from the speakers, shaking the studio's glass windows. Then came the drum beats, followed by Jiang Zhiyu's voice.

His rap was fast. It was so fast it was like a machine gun firing, yet every word was clear, clear enough to look like it had been printed on paper. There was no emotion in his voice, because he didn't need emotion. This song wasn't "sung," it was "shouted." It shouted anger, grievances, and all those unspoken words. In the chorus, his voice changed. It went from "low" to "high-pitched," and from "high-pitched" to "shredding." The high notes were like a knife, slicing through the air of the studio, cutting through the faders on the mixing console, and slicing through the steaming cup of coffee in Recording Engineer Lee's hand. Recording Engineer Lee didn't drink that coffee because he had forgotten about it. He stared at the waveforms on the monitor, watching the red line that was almost hitting the ceiling, and fell into a long silence.

Then, Jiang Zhiyu's voice changed. It went from "Jiang Zhiyu" to "Kim Taeyeon." He gripped his throat, his thumb and index finger pressed against the sides of his Adam's apple; the pitch, timbre, and pronunciation were almost identical to Kim Taeyeon's. He sang the final chorus, but the high notes weren't "shouted"—they "floated." Like a feather, slowly descending from a height, landing on the surface of the water without a sound.

When the last note faded, the studio fell silent. Recording Engineer Lee's fingers hovered over the mixing console, forgotten. He opened his mouth, wanting to say "Badass," but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He felt that the word "badass" didn't do justice to this song, to this performance, or to this sixteen-year-old genius sitting in the studio drinking cold milk tea. He took a deep breath and pressed the talkback button.

"Producer Jiang, you could totally release this as is."

Jiang Zhiyu felt a secret thrill. Not just "thrilled," but "extremely thrilled." He was so thrilled that he felt the corners of his mouth curling up, his eyes shining, and his tail—if he had one—wagging like a propeller behind him. But on the surface, he was very calm. He took off his headphones, walked out of the recording booth, and picked up the milk tea on the table for a sip. It was cold, but the sweetness remained. He set the cup down, his tone very flat.

"It's alright. Just setting an example for the seniors."

Recording Engineer Lee looked at him without speaking. He had lived for over forty years and had seen many people. The humble, the arrogant, those pretending to be humble, those pretending to be arrogant. He could distinguish between "genuine humility" and "fake humility." Jiang Zhiyu was a third type—genuinely arrogant but unwilling to let others see it. He hid this pride well, tucked behind that cup of milk tea, behind that "It's alright," and behind his calm face that betrayed no emotion. Recording Engineer Lee didn't expose him, because he was the same kind of person.

The birth of Iracebeth at SM was no less than dropping a depth charge into deep water. Not "throwing," but "launching." A depth charge makes no sound upon entering the water; it sinks to a certain depth and then explodes. The shockwave of the explosion spreads underwater, and by the time it reaches the surface, it's a massive tidal wave. The news spread from the recording studio. After hearing the demo, Recording Engineer Lee couldn't help but send a message to the production department group chat— "Jiang Zhiyu's new song is finished. A masterpiece." Just that one sentence. No emojis followed, no "badass," no unnecessary punctuation. That sentence blew up the group chat. "What song?" "The title track for Red Velvet's new album?" "Iracebeth?" "Send the demo, let us listen!" "Can't send it, Producer Jiang didn't agree." "Then why did you send the message?" "I sent the message to tell you—it's a masterpiece." No one asked again, because they knew Recording Engineer Lee was not a person who gave praise easily. He had worked at SM for twenty years, handled countless hit songs, and had never used the word "masterpiece" before. This was the first time.

The news reached the production department, the A&R department, the artist management department, and finally Lee Soo-man's secretary's office. The secretary stood at the door for a moment, then pushed the door open and placed a stack of documents on the desk. "Director, Jiang Zhiyu's new song is finished. The recording engineer says it's a 'masterpiece'." Lee Soo-man flipped through the documents, looking at the song title on the first page. He tapped his fingers lightly on the desk twice, then closed the file. "Have Red Velvet's Manager arrange the recording time." The secretary nodded, backed out, and closed the door.

The news also reached the ears of other creators. Some were unconvinced and wanted to hear just how "divine" it was. Some were jealous, thinking Jiang Zhiyu was just lucky. Some were disdainful, feeling the word "masterpiece" had been overused. But they all did the same thing—they waited. They waited for Red Velvet's comeback, waited for the release of Iracebeth, and waited to see if that sixteen-year-old genius who didn't need sleep to write songs could create another miracle.

Jiang Zhiyu was very proud of himself. He wasn't someone who got smug easily, because his threshold for satisfaction was very high. Back on the Tianxuan Continent, he had topped the charts with seventy-eight songs and had felt smug for about 0.1 seconds. When he wrote "Prince Rupert's Drop" at SM and helped IU sell 1.2 million albums, he felt smug for 0.1 seconds. But this time, he remained smug for a long time. So long that even he felt something was wrong. He reflected on it: Why? The answer was simple—because this was his song, from the first note to the last, it was all his. It wasn't "Jiang Zhiyu and xxx," it wasn't "Jiang Zhiyu feat. xxx," it was just "Jiang Zhiyu." Lyrics by Jiang Zhiyu, composed by Jiang Zhiyu, arranged by Jiang Zhiyu. Three "Jiang Zhiyu"s lined up neatly, like a family of three. He looked at it many times, and every time, it felt great.

On the surface, he still looked like the same guy wandering around carrying milk tea. He walked from the recording studio to the cafeteria, from the cafeteria to the practice room, and from the practice room to the window at the end of the hall that overlooked the Han River. His pace was neither fast nor slow, his expression calm, showing no emotion. But inside, he was wildly praising himself. He stood by the window, looking at the Han River, thinking to himself— "Jiang Zhiyu, you are a badass. Not just a regular badass, but an extremely badass. Not just extremely, but—" He couldn't think of a more badass word, because he felt "badass" no longer did him justice. He wanted to find another word, but after thinking for a long time, he couldn't find a suitable one. He took a sip of milk tea and kept thinking.

He even thought about getting an Iracebeth creator badge, golden, pinned to his chest, shining wherever he went. Or wearing a custom Iracebeth-lettered hoodie, with "Iracebeth" printed on the front and "Created by Kangjiwong" on the back. Or changing his studio door sign to "Iracebeth Creative Sanctuary, Admission 10,000 KRW." He even thought about putting a cash box at the door, self-service, no change provided. He thought about it and decided this plan was feasible. Then he thought about it again and decided it wasn't. Because no one would come to visit, except for Kim Minjeong and Ningning, and they didn't even have 10,000 KRW; they would just freeload. He gave up.

His showing off manifested in every aspect. For example, when teaching Karina and the other two, he would say, "You can refer to this bridge in my new song." His tone was very casual, as casual as saying, "The weather is nice today." But his subtext was— "Listen up, I wrote this part, it's very badass, you can try to learn from it, but you probably won't be able to, because you aren't geniuses." He didn't say it out loud because he was afraid of getting beaten up. But he said it in his heart.

For instance, when he @everyone in the Red Velvet group chat, indicating that they could consult him anytime if they had questions, since he was the creator. After the message was sent, Bae Joo-hyun didn't reply. She never replied to his messages in the group chat; it wasn't that she "didn't reply," it was that she "didn't initiate a reply." If someone else @ed her, she would reply. If someone else asked her a question, she would reply. But if he sent a message, she wouldn't start a conversation. She was afraid that if she engaged, he would just keep talking. If he kept talking, it would be endless, and if it was endless, she would—she didn't want to think about it. The other four were very polite. Yeri immediately replied with "Producer Jiang is a badass," Seulgi sent a "Thank you for your hard work," Joy sent a "Looking forward to it," and Wendy sent a "Thank you, Producer Jiang." The wording was very official, very standard, as if copied from some etiquette manual.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at those messages, complaining internally— "Why are the seniors' remarks so official? Complimenting people doesn't cost money! Say something like 'I'm handsome,' 'How did you write that,' or 'You're a total genius' for me to hear!" He waited for a long time, but didn't get it. Yeri sent an emoji of a kitten throwing flowers. Seulgi sent a "fighting," Joy sent a "cheer up," and Wendy sent a "good night." Bae Joo-hyun still hadn't replied. He placed his phone face down on the table, took a sip of milk tea, and told himself—I don't care.

Lee Tima's call came during dinner time. Jiang Zhiyu was eating in the cafeteria; his tray was piled into a small mountain, the rice was pointed, the vegetables were heaped, and the soup was filled to the brim of the bowl. He picked up a piece of fried egg, put it in his mouth, and chewed. His phone vibrated, the screen lit up with the name "Lee Tima." He picked it up, and before he could speak, the person on the other end started.

"Oppa, send me the audio source for Iracebeth so I can listen."

"What did you call me?" "Oppa." "Wrong." The other end of the line was silent for a moment. "...Ge." "Call me again." "Ge." "Call me again." "Jiang Zhiyu, don't go too far!" "Rude child." Lee Tima took a deep breath. Jiang Zhiyu could hear her inhaling, because her inhalation and exhalation were very loud, loud enough to sound like she was doing some kind of vocal exercise.

"The song is finished? The Red Queen one? I heard people in the company talking about it. They said SM released a masterpiece, and I was wondering who it was, and it turned out to be you. If the masterpiece you wrote is a masterpiece, then what about mine? Mine is a masterpiece too! My masterpiece just hasn't come out yet! When mine comes out—" "What have you written?" "...I'm writing it." "How much have you written?" "...The beginning." "You've been writing the 'beginning' since last year, and it's still just the beginning? When are you going to finish? When ITZY reaches the top? When all of TWICE gets married? When Park Jin-young retires?" "You—" "Lee Tima, didn't you say you were going to create a high note that would destroy the world as your debut song? You haven't even written a single note yet. Could it be that you've lost your touch—oh, you're only nine years old. Then you simply have no talent."

Jiang Zhiyu's tone was very flat, as flat as saying "The weather is nice today." But his words were like knives, each one stabbing Lee Tima in her most sensitive spot. It wasn't "pain," it was "anger." So angry that her teeth ground against her lips, her fingers clawed at her phone case, and her nostrils flared, the air she exhaled spraying onto the screen.

"Come back from JYP sooner." Jiang Zhiyu's tone shifted from "flat" to "concerned." "From now on, you are not allowed to say you are a genius. However—you can introduce yourself as Jiang Zhiyu's sister. Because you are the foil to a genius, hahaha."

Lee Tima sneered twice. Two sounds, "Hmph," "Hmph." Very cold, cold enough to feel like it was squeezed out of a nasal cavity in minus forty-degree weather. Then she hung up the phone.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the words "Call Ended" on the screen and was silent for a moment. He whispered, "Rude child." He placed his phone face down on the table and continued eating. The rice was still hot, the fried egg was still runny, and with his chopsticks, he picked up a piece of kimchi, put it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He thought—Lee Tima is angry. It's good that she's angry; when she's angry, she will write songs. Once she writes them, he would have an excuse to say, "You wrote well, but it's still not as good as mine." He had been saying this sentence for a long time, from the Tianxuan Continent to this world. He intended to keep saying it.