45: Chapter 45: I'm just writing whatever comes to mind! A messed-up timeline doesn't really matter!

After hanging up the phone, Lee Tima paced back and forth on the floor with her short legs.

Her leather shoes clicked against the floor, "da-da-da," in a rapid rhythm, fast enough to sound like a drum solo only she could hear.

Her hands were clasped behind her back, fingers twisted together until her knuckles turned white.

Her lips were pressed into a thin line, so tightly that they lost their color.

Her brows were furrowed deep, so deep that a vertical line appeared between them.

She was the only one in the private JYP recording studio, bathed in warm yellow light, with her unfinished cola sitting on the mixing console and a blank audio track on the screen.

She stared at that straight line for a long time.

Then she opened her mouth, but not to "speak"—to "spew."

"Shit." Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "Shit, shit, shit."

She cursed three times, each one more forceful than the last, each one louder than the one before.

After finishing, she took a deep breath and cursed once more.

"Jiang Zhiyu, you son of a bitch, what are you so smug about? You just wrote one song, right? I've written over a hundred! I've been writing since the Tianxuan Continent! I was writing back when you were still in diapers!"

She paused and thought for a moment.

"Wait, no, I wasn't even born when you were in diapers. Wait, no, you were already in diapers when I was born. No—"

She stopped thinking about it.

She kicked the leg of the mixing console hard.

The leg was iron and hard; her leather shoe was soft.

Force is reciprocal, and her toes paid the price.

She crouched down, clutching her toe, grimacing in pain.

It hurt, it hurt a lot, so much that tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.

She held them back, because she was Lee Tima, the youngest producer at JYP, a genius. Geniuses don't cry because they kicked a table leg.

She stood up, continued pacing, and continued cursing.

"Iracebeth, Iracebeth, Iracebeth."

She rolled the three syllables around in her mouth, as if tasting some particularly foul medicine.

"Red Queen? Big head? Decapitation? Dark fairy tale? Family upbringing?"

She curled her lip, her entire face screaming, "Is that it?"

"Who wants to watch this kind of song? Who wants to listen to this? People are already tired from work, tired from school, tired from just living. Who wants to hear you lecture them? Who wants to hear you talk about their dysfunctional families? Who wants to watch you rip off a Band-Aid to look at a wound?"

"They don't want to hear it! People just want to hear something happy! Something sweet! Something that makes them smile, hum along, forget today's troubles! Something that makes them think—'Ah, love is so great, I want to fall in love too!'"

Her eyes lit up. Not just "lit up," they were "shining."

She stopped abruptly, standing in the center of the recording studio, hands on her hips, chin slightly raised.

Her gaze landed on those blank audio tracks, but her mind was no longer blank.

A movie was playing in her mind—the footage was colorful, the filter was pink, and the soundtrack was sweet.

A young girl running under cherry blossom trees, her skirt fluttering in the wind, her ponytail swinging behind her, holding an unsent letter in her hand.

On the letter, it read "I like you," but there was no name.

Not because she didn't dare to write it, but because she wanted to say it in person. Saying it in person was the only way to be sincere.

She didn't know who this person was; she only knew she had to sing this song.

Sing it for all the girls, for everyone who was once a girl, for everyone who wants to fall in love but hasn't yet.

Once they hear it, they'll go and date. Once they date, they'll be happy. Once they're happy, they'll smile. Once they smile, it's—she started to think.

ITZY wouldn't work. Lee Tima sat down, crossed her legs, and tapped her fingers lightly on the desk.

ITZY was too young, just debuted, and hadn't found their footing yet. Their fanbase was still growing, their songs weren't widespread enough, their influence wasn't strong enough, their impact wasn't lethal enough. Using ITZY to fight Red Velvet was like throwing an egg against a rock. The egg would break, and the rock would remain. She wouldn't do it.

GOT7? They couldn't even get everyone together now, so who was left? Some were in the army, some were acting, some were doing solo work, some were dating, some were just spacing out. Trying to get all seven of them together was harder than collecting the seven Dragon Balls. She gave up.

Stray Kids? Lee Tima thought about it. Although she had composed quite a bit of music for boy groups, she had never written any breakout hits.

The boy group songs she wrote had decent results, but they weren't huge hits. Not being a hit meant they weren't good enough. Not being good enough was because—she stopped thinking about it.

Either way, they weren't good enough, and there was no need for a reason. Plus, Jiang Zhiyu had written so many boy group songs, so many she didn't want to count.

Every time she listened to a boy group song written by Jiang Zhiyu, she would think, "I wish I had written this song."

She didn't want to have that feeling, so she didn't listen. If she didn't listen, she wouldn't feel it. If she didn't feel it, she wouldn't be jealous. If she wasn't jealous, that meant—she stopped listening.

Lee Tima stopped abruptly. TWICE. Yes, that was it, TWICE.

TWICE was more popular than Red Velvet, with wider reach and a larger fanbase.

Their songs always carried that sweet, girlish, lovey-dovey feeling: sweet, lively, and energetic. They sang "I like you so much, do you like me?" not "Cut off his head." They sang "Let's be together," not "Your dysfunctional family hurt you." They sang "The weather is so nice today, let's go on a date," not "The Band-Aid is ripped off and the wound is bleeding."

This was her comfort zone—no, not "comfort," it was "dominion."

She definitely couldn't beat Iracebeth when it came to concepts, because Iracebeth's concepts were too deep. So deep that you'd need a five-thousand-word review to understand them, deep enough that you'd need to listen to the whole album to get it, deep enough that you'd need to chew on it repeatedly to savor the flavor.

But who had time to chew on it repeatedly? Everyone was busy: busy working, busy studying, busy just living. Living was already tiring enough; people didn't want to use their brains anymore. That's why people would come to listen to her songs. No need to use their brains, just their hearts. If their hearts were moved, that was enough.

But when it came to promotion, to international reach—Lee Tima's lips curled up, revealing an arc that was "not a smile, but triumph."

The left corner of her mouth curled up, very high, almost touching her ear. Her eyes narrowed into slits, and in those slits was light—not "light," but "fire."

The fire was burning, burning fiercely, making her blood boil, making her fingers tremble—not from "fear," but from "excitement."

She picked up a pen and wrote a few words on a blank sheet of staff paper. Not "chords," not "melody." It was a song title: "Cheer Up."

"No, that's TWICE's. Change it." "Heart Shaker." "No, that won't work either. Change it again." "What is Love?"

"—Are you asking me to write a whole series?" She thought for a moment and decided not to write the song title first, but to write the melody first. Once the melody came out, the song title would follow.

A cackling laughter squeezed out of Lee Tima's throat. It wasn't a "laugh," it was "BGM for a villain's entrance."

She laughed loudly, so loudly that a trainee passing by outside the window stopped, hesitating whether to knock and ask, "Are you okay?"

She didn't hear them, because she was already immersed in her own world. A world that was pink, and so sweet it was cloying.

She went full throttle. Her fingers landed on the MIDI keyboard, and the first chord rang out, a bright major triad, like a beam of sunlight shining through the window, landing on the skirt of the girl under the cherry blossom tree.

The second chord was also bright, the third was even brighter, and the fourth shone even brighter, until the entire recording studio was glowing.

The melody was simple, so simple it sounded like a kindergarten kid singing. But the simpler it is, the harder it is to write, because you have nowhere to hide your flaws. One wrong note, and the whole song is ruined.

She wrote a note on the paper and listened. Wrote another, and listened again. Wrote another, and listened again. Wrote and erased, erased and wrote. Wrote and erased again, erased and wrote again.

Her brows were furrowed, not because she couldn't write it, but because what she wrote wasn't good enough. Not "not good enough," but "not sweet enough." What she wanted was "sweet enough to make your throat cloy," not "slightly sweet," not "less sugar," but full sugar.

No profound concepts, no metaphorical truths. Love is just love, making people lose their wisdom, lose their judgment, lose their self-control.

You just want to have a sweet romance immediately after listening, not caring who the person is, not caring about the outcome, not caring if you'll break up tomorrow.

Because today, right now, this moment, the instant you hear this song, you just want to fall in love. Love doesn't need a reason, just like this song doesn't need an explanation.

She sped up, her fingers dancing on the keyboard, the melody pouring out from her fingertips like flowing water.

She didn't need to think, because this song wasn't "written," it was "flowing" out.

Flowing from her heart, from her memories, from the movie she watched, the album she listened to, the comic she read.

All the sweetness converged together, turning into a song.

No matter how well Iracebeth is written, no matter how profound the concepts are, so what? Who wants to watch it? Who wants to listen to it? No one wants to watch, no one wants to listen.

Everyone will only come to listen to my songs. Because my songs don't tax your brain, only your tears. Not tears of "sadness," but tears of "it's too good."

Thinking this, her creative speed accelerated even more. The arc of her mouth grew larger and larger, until her cheeks were aching.

But she was smiling, smiling happily, so happy she forgot she was just cursing Jiang Zhiyu, so happy she forgot the pain of her toe kicking the table leg, so happy she forgot she was nine years old.

She wrote all night. The clock on the wall went from ten to eleven, from eleven to twelve, from twelve to one.

She didn't know, because there was no time in her world. Only melodies, only chords, only that unfinished girl group love song, sweet enough to make your throat cloy.

Her fingers danced on the keyboard, sweat sliding down her forehead, but she didn't wipe it. Not because she didn't want to, but because she forgot.

Her hands were writing, her brain was thinking, her mouth was humming. What was she humming? The chorus.

The chorus melody hadn't been finalized yet, and she had already hummed a dozen versions. Each one was close, but none were close enough.

She stopped, not to "give up," but to "rest." She needed to rest for a moment because her brain was struggling to keep up.

She was too excited, excited to the point where her heart was racing, her blood was rushing, and she felt like an overheated machine.

She took a deep breath, picked up the cold, flat cola on the table, and took a sip. Sweet, very sweet, sweet enough to make her throat cloy.

She put down the cup and looked out the window. The night in Seoul was still the same, the neon lights stretched into lines in the darkness, the taillights of traffic flickering in the distance.

She stared at those lights for a long time.

Then she lowered her head, looking at the dense notes on the staff paper. She wrote a few lines on the paper.

TWICE. Comeback. Love song. Full sugar. Girlish heart. No preaching, only heart-fluttering. No dysfunctional families, only first-snow confessions. No trauma healing, only holding hands for a walk. No breaking out of the cocoon to become a butterfly, only—I like you, do you like me?

She finished writing this line, leaned back in her chair, and the curve of her lips could finally no longer be suppressed.

It wasn't 'smugness,' it was 'anticipation.'

She anticipated TWICE singing this song, anticipated fans listening to it, and anticipated it surpassing Iracebeth on the charts.

Once it surpassed it, she could call Jiang Zhiyu.

When the call went through, she wouldn't say 'Hello,' wouldn't say 'Oppa,' and wouldn't say 'Bro.'

She would say—'You lost.'

Then she would hang up, not waiting for his answer.

She had imagined it many times, and every time it felt great.

She continued writing.

On the day Lee Tima finalized her new work, the JYP recording studio was filled with a scent so sweet it was cloying.

It wasn't perfume, it wasn't snacks; it was the scent of the melody itself.

She also gave this song a name, 'love declaration.'

She had changed the lyrics of the chorus many times, and what was finally decided was—'I hereby announce that from now on, you are my boyfriend.'

'You don't need to agree, because I have already decided.'

'I've taken your hand, I've taken your heart, and I've claimed you as mine.'

'Objections are invalid, appeals are dismissed, and this is effective immediately.'

It was a standard sweet love song style, carrying the wilfulness of a tsundere girlfriend.

You would smile when you heard it, but not a 'haha' laugh; it was a 'I really want to fall in love' smile.

Once you smiled, you would hum along; once you hummed along, you would remember it; and once you remembered it, you would want to listen to it again.

To increase its popularity, Lee Tima added a little 'special' technique.

This technique wasn't invented by her; it was researched by the thirty-five-year-old Jiang Zhiyu on the Tianxuan Continent.

At that time, he had already been at TG Entertainment for many years, witnessing the rise and fall of countless idols.

He watched those once-popular songs slowly being forgotten, watched those melodies that had once been hits on every street corner being washed away by time.

He felt it was a pity, so he used modern neuroscience and his self-created brain neural technology to develop a music therapy program.

The principle was simple—utilizing certain special sound waves and melodies to stimulate the areas of the brain responsible for memory and emotion, allowing the entire brain region to be activated when the listener heard a specific melody.

After the listener heard it once, the brain region would automatically replay it in the background.

You wouldn't need to try to remember it; your body would remember it on its own.

The original purpose of this technology was to treat vegetative patients.

He spent three years researching it, utilizing the AI knowledge he had accumulated while working as a technical team leader at Tianzhou Group, the understanding of human meridians from the internal energy cultivation methods inherited from Medicine King Valley, and his sensitivity to melody and emotion when writing songs.

With these three approaches combined, the theory was formed, and on the day before the clinical trial, he made a decision—'Before putting it into clinical use, let's try it out with a song first.'

He thought, if this technology could truly wake up vegetative patients, it must also be able to make ordinary people remember a song.

He found a song he had written but hadn't released yet and implanted a small grace note in the chorus.

That grace note was very short, less than half a second.

Small enough that listeners wouldn't notice, small enough that music critics wouldn't analyze, small enough that even he sometimes forgot where he had placed it.

But that less-than-half-a-second grace note was like a switch.

Listen once, and the switch was pressed.

Once the switch was pressed, the brain region was activated, and the entire song's melody, lyrics, and rhythm were all pulled from the depths of memory and replayed in the mind.

Once the replay was finished, the switch turned off.

Not 'off,' but 'hibernation.'

Next time you heard that grace note, the switch was pressed again, and the entire song was replayed.

Repeating this cycle, you would never forget this song.

While on the Tianxuan Continent, this program was not put into clinical use because the approval process for clinical trials was too slow.

But he used that small grace note in many songs, and every single one became a hit, hitting the top of the charts.

No listener realized they were being treated as lab rats, and no music critic discovered that the same technology was hidden in those songs.

They only thought the melodies sounded good, so good that they couldn't forget them after one listen.

They didn't know it wasn't that the melodies were good, but that their brains had been tampered with.

As Jiang Zhiyu's apprentice, Lee Tima naturally knew how to do it too.

She had studied it for many years, starting from her time at TG Entertainment on the Tianxuan Continent.

Jiang Zhiyu taught her how to write songs, arrange music, produce, and he also taught her this brain neural technology.

When he taught her, he said, 'Don't use this recklessly,' and she said, 'Okay.'

She used it recklessly, starting from the day he taught her.

In this world, she used it recklessly too.

The Jiang Zhiyu of this world wouldn't know how, because he wasn't the thirty-five-year-old Jiang Zhiyu.

He was the seventeen-year-old Jiang Zhiyu, who hadn't yet researched neuroscience, hadn't worked as a technical team leader at Tianzhou Group, and hadn't invented that treatment program.

So he wouldn't know, and she—as Lee Tima thought of this, the corners of her lips slowly curled up.

Not a 'smile,' but 'I won.'

She was bound to win.

The news spread from the JYP recording studio.

In the hallway, a trainee walked past the door of Lee Tima's recording studio and heard the melody coming from inside.

He stopped, stood for a moment, and then walked away.

After walking a few steps, he started humming.

Not 'humming,' but 'autoplay.'

He didn't even know what he was humming; his mouth just moved on its own.

After he finished humming, he paused for a moment, thinking, 'What song was I just humming?'

Then the melody came back, and he hummed it again.

He hummed it three times, walked to the door of the practice room, pushed it open, and shouted to his teammates inside—'I really want to fall in love!'

His teammates looked at him, silent for a long time.

'Are you crazy?'

'Probably.'

Another staff member, a veteran employee who had worked at JYP for over a decade, a section chief responsible for arranging artist schedules, walked by.

He passed by Lee Tima's recording studio, heard the melody, and didn't stop because he was rushing to a meeting.

He walked into the meeting room, sat down, and opened his folder.

Then he started humming.

When he hummed the first line, no one noticed.

When he hummed the second line, the colleague next to him glanced at him.

When he hummed the third line, the department head opposite him spoke up.

'What are you singing?'

'I don't know.'

'Then why are you singing?'

'My mouth moved on its own.'

The department head didn't press for an answer, because he was also humming.

Everyone in the meeting room was humming.

No one realized what they were humming, no one knew what the song was called, and no one had seen the lyrics.

But they had all memorized it.

This 'illness' was known within JYP as the 'musical contagion.'

The symptoms were as follows—hearing a certain melody, the mouth would automatically hum, after finishing humming one would want to listen to it again, if one couldn't hear it, one would imagine it, after imagining it one's mood would improve, after one's mood improved one would want to fall in love, and upon wanting to fall in love one couldn't help but shout—'I really want to fall in love!'

There was no source of infection, no incubation period, and no specific cure.

The only treatment method was—wait for TWICE to release this song, then go and listen to the full version.

After listening to it, you would be cured; not 'cured,' but 'satisfied.'

Once satisfied, you wouldn't shout anymore.

If you weren't shouting, you were normal.

News in the industry travels very fast, especially gossip that is this unique and funny.

The 'musical contagion' within JYP spread from trainees to Managers, from Managers to producers, and from producers to peers at other companies.

The news seemed to have grown wings, flying to YG, flying to SM, flying to Loen.

Some said it was a marketing tactic, some said it was a coincidence, and some said, 'You call it a contagion, but where is the evidence?'

There was no evidence, because no one could find that small grace note.

It was too short, short enough that instruments couldn't detect it, short enough that music critics couldn't hear it, and short enough that even Lee Tima herself sometimes forgot where she had placed it.

In the nine-member chat group for TWICE, messages had been flooding in since morning.

Because Im Nayeon was close to Lee Tima, her information was faster and more accurate.

She sent a message to the group—'I heard JYP is releasing a special album single called "love declaration."'

'Who wrote it?'

'Lee Tima.'

'That kid?'

'That genius.'

'How is the song?'

'I heard the demo.'

'How is it?'

'I really want to fall in love right now.'

The group was silent for a moment.

Then Momo sent a message—'I want to too.'

Sana sent a message—'I want to too +1.'

Jihyo sent a message—'I want to too +2.'

Dahyun sent a message—'I want to too +3.'

Chaeyoung sent a message—'I want to too +4.'

Tzuyu sent a message—'I want to too +5.'

Jeongyeon sent a message—'I don't want to.'

Nayeon sent a message—'Jeongyeon, don't you want to fall in love?'

'I want to eat fried chicken.'

'...You're really hungry.'

Leader Park Jihyo only formally notified the group after hearing the company's arrangements.

She sent a long message, with a very official tone and very official punctuation.

'Everyone, the company has decided that TWICE will release a special album single, "love declaration," and will film a simple MV.'

'The goal is—to defeat Red Velvet's upcoming release, "Iracebeth."'

'Please adjust your state and prepare for recording.'

The group exploded again.

'Defeat Red Velvet?'

'Go head-to-head with Red Velvet?'

'Exciting.'

'It's not head-to-head; the comeback times just clashed.'

'On purpose?'

'The company did it on purpose.'

'Lee Tima did it on purpose.'

'What will happen when Jiang Zhiyu finds out?'

'He will write an even better one.'

'Then we'll fight again.'

'Fight, fight.'

Im Nayeon didn't participate in the discussion.

She was looking at that name on her phone screen—Iracebeth.

She recalled the words Jiang Zhiyu had said on the radio, recalling him talking about album concepts, family education, and inner fortresses.

She recalled his expression—earnest, focused, his eyes full of light.

She suddenly felt that this song would sound very good.

Not 'should,' but 'definitely.'

But she couldn't say it, because she was a member of TWICE.

TWICE had to defeat Red Velvet; she couldn't say Red Velvet's song sounded good.

She could only say it in her heart.

Lee Tima wrote a letter in the creator's credit column—'Z.'

She thought about it and felt that 'Z' was Jiang Zhiyu's alias, but she couldn't be bothered to think of anything else.

Older brother's is younger sister's, and younger sister's is still younger sister's.

The logic was simple—Jiang Zhiyu's things; what's wrong with her using them?

He used 'Z' to write five songs for IU, so she could also use 'Z' to write a song for TWICE.

Just one song, she wasn't being greedy.

She silently thanked Jiang Zhiyu in her heart, not because of his technology, but because of his 'Z.'

One letter; it was fast to write, looked cool, and sounded cool.

Unlike 'Lee Tima'—three characters; if said quickly, it sounded like 'Ni Ta Ma.'

She didn't want to be called 'Ni Ta Ma,' so she used 'Z.'

She sent the song title and credit to the company's planning team, then leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, looking at the ceiling.

The fluorescent light was still the same, the tungsten filament inside the tube glowing, not flickering, not dim, not making a buzzing sound.

She stared at that light and thought—will Jiang Zhiyu be angry?

No, because he wouldn't know.

Will he know?

Yes, because when TWICE releases the song, he will hear it.

When he hears it, he will recognize that small grace note.

Once he recognizes it, he will know she put it there.

Once he knows she put it there, he will know she used his technology.

Once he knows, he will call.

When the call goes through, he will say, 'Lee Tima, you—,' and she will say, 'I'm hanging up now,' and then hang up.

Not waiting for him to finish, because she knew what he was going to say.

'You used my technology recklessly,' 'You infringed on my copyright,' 'You—.'

She didn't care.

Because she won.