6: Chapter 6 Please Name It

Jiang Zhiyu's sweet tooth was no secret back on the Tianxuan Continent; everyone who knew him was aware of it. Wang Shuyun had once personally witnessed him add five full sugar cubes to a cup of black coffee, take a sip after stirring, frown and say, "Still bitter," and then add three more. Eight sugar cubes—a single cup of coffee had taken on the texture of syrup. Wang Shuyun's gaze at him then was like looking at an alien creature, but he didn't care at all, savoring that cloyingly sweet coffee with great relish.

Upon arriving in this world, his sweet tooth hadn't improved; if anything, it had worsened due to the immense pressure of survival. Sweets were one of his few sources of happiness, and milk tea was the most irresistible presence among them.

He hated Iced Americanos the most.

That bitter, burnt-tasting black liquid was no different from traditional Chinese medicine in his mouth. However, Kim Minjeong would bring him an Iced Americano before every training session. He felt too embarrassed to refuse, so he would accept it every time, take a couple of symbolic sips, and then secretly pour it away when Kim Minjeong wasn't paying attention. He kept this secret for a long time until one day NingNing caught him pouring an Iced Americano into the sink of the recording studio's restroom.

"Teacher, what are you doing?"

"Washing the cup."

"That's a new cup."

"...I'm washing a new cup."

NingNing looked at the paper cup in his hand, which still had coffee stains on it, remained silent for three seconds, and then said in Chinese, "Teacher, if you don't like Iced Americanos, just say so. Minjeong isn't the petty type."

Jiang Zhiyu also fell silent. Then he said something that NingNing would never forget: "Every time she buys coffee, her eyes light up. How could I have the heart to tell her I don't like it?"

NingNing opened her mouth to say something, but ultimately said nothing. She only looked at Jiang Zhiyu with a complicated expression before turning to leave.

From then on, NingNing started bringing milk tea to Jiang Zhiyu. It wasn't the bottled milk tea from the convenience store downstairs, but hand-shaken milk tea ordered for delivery, full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans—NingNing thought she was joking when she first ordered it, but after Jiang Zhiyu took a sip, a look of pure, unadulterated happiness that she had never seen before appeared on his face.

"This is delicious," he said.

"Teacher, this is full sugar with four types of toppings. Are you sure your blood sugar is okay?"

"My health is very good."

"If you keep drinking like this, your health won't be good anymore."

"Then we'll worry about it when it's no longer good."

NingNing gave up on trying to persuade him.

From then on, as long as Jiang Zhiyu was at the company, he would be holding a cup of milk tea. Initially, NingNing ordered it for him, but later he learned to use the delivery apps—collecting coupons, bundling orders, and using discounts in a seamless flow. He would place an order punctually around ten o'clock every morning for two "everything in it" milk teas—full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans. One was for himself, and the other was for NingNing. Kim Minjeong and Karina didn't drink milk tea, not because they didn't like it, but because they had to control their weight.

But Jiang Zhiyu discovered a secret.

Every time he walked into the practice room with milk tea, Kim Minjeong's gaze would linger on his cup for a fraction of a second. In that fraction of a second, a complicated mix of emotions would flash in her eyes—longing, restraint, and a faint hint of grievance.

Karina was the same. Her facial control was much better than Kim Minjeong's, but Jiang Zhiyu noticed that after finishing her Iced Americano, she would drain the last few drops from the paper cup with an almost pious attitude and then let out a soft sigh.

No one likes Iced Americanos. This was the conclusion Jiang Zhiyu reached after wandering around the SM Building for a month.

The Iced Americano is the national drink, but just because everyone says so on the outside doesn't mean everyone likes it. The bitterness of coffee is a standard feature of the adult world, a symbol of "I've grown up and I can endure bitterness," a form of social etiquette, and a way to brand oneself. But in reality, no one dislikes sweetness. Sweet milk tea is the most primal craving of human taste buds.

It's just that the trainees don't dare to drink it. The calories in one cup of milk tea are enough to require an hour on the treadmill, and their daily schedules are already filled with training, leaving not even an hour of leeway to spare.

Jiang Zhiyu understood their restraint, so he didn't force them to drink. He just wandered around the SM Building every day with two cups of milk tea, from the first floor to the seventh, from the cafeteria to the practice rooms, from the recording studio to the meeting rooms. Wearing that 15,000-won street-stall white shirt and those black casual pants, holding two pink, white, or milk-tea-colored drinks, he moved between suit-clad producers and exquisitely dressed idols. His vibe was so unique that everyone passing by would do a double-take.

But he didn't care.

He had more important things to do.

Every afternoon, before the training started, Jiang Zhiyu would take his milk tea and wander around the trainee training floors. The training floors were on the fourth and fifth floors of the company building, with over a dozen practice rooms of various sizes where people were practicing dance from morning till night. His favorite place to go was the one at the end of the fourth floor; it wasn't large, but it had good lighting, and the afternoon sun would shine in diagonally through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dyeing the whole room golden.

That was the practice room commonly used by Karina, Kim Minjeong, and NingNing.

Jiang Zhiyu would lean against the doorframe, milk tea in hand, quietly watching them practice. He could remember all the moves after seeing their dance once. It wasn't intentional memorization, but an almost instinctive ability—it was as if his body came with built-in mirror neurons; whatever movement he saw, his brain would automatically deconstruct into joint angles, shifts in center of gravity, and sequences of force, and then his muscles would simulate that feeling.

He had discovered this talent while back on the Tianxuan Continent. A dance teacher at TG Entertainment once had him follow along with a boy group dance; he watched it once and then performed it perfectly, even imitating the power and expressions almost exactly. The dance teacher was silent for ten seconds before saying, "It's truly a pity you aren't becoming an idol."

He just smiled and didn't explain. He didn't want to be an idol, not because he couldn't be one, but because his interests lay elsewhere. He preferred standing behind the scenes, controlling the overall situation, and watching everything he planned come to life from nothing, from zero to one.

It was natural for his singing ability to be strong. As a creator, he had to sing a demo for every song he wrote, sometimes recording multiple versions for producers to reference different interpretation styles. His vocal technique wasn't from formal training, but it excelled due to being rich in emotion, having clear articulation, and a unique timbre. What he excelled at most was English rap—fast-paced, precise rhythm, and sharp articulation. Back on the Tianxuan Continent, he once left a panel of judges at ASB Entertainment speechless with an English rap.

His variety sense was cultivated by TG Entertainment's "weekend special." That was an internal variety show created by TG Entertainment, recorded every Saturday night, where all artists and some staff had to participate. Jiang Zhiyu was initially drafted just to make up the numbers, but after the first episode was recorded, the director grabbed his hand and said, "You are a natural variety star." He didn't know why; he just acted like himself—catching jokes, throwing jokes, self-deprecating, being teased, playing dumb, and being genuinely silly. He had no idol baggage in front of the camera because he wasn't an idol to begin with.

The "TG Entertainment weekend special" aired for three years, and Jiang Zhiyu went from a behind-the-scenes staff member to a top variety star on the Tianxuan Continent. Not an idol, not a singer, not an actor, but—a variety scapegoat. In every episode, he was the one who got messed with the worst, getting splashed with water, sprayed with flour, flicked on the forehead, or chased around. The audience laughed their heads off, and while he looked pathetic on screen, the ratings were always highest during his segments.

He didn't mind. Being able to make the audience laugh was a merit in itself.

Now, he was applying all these abilities to Karina, Kim Minjeong, and NingNing.

The results of the training plan were significant.

Kim Minjeong's emotional expression was no longer a weakness. Jiang Zhiyu had her write a diary entry every day, not to record what happened, but to record what she felt—the happiest moment of the day, the saddest moment, the most embarrassing moment. Then, while singing, she would connect the lyrics to a specific moment in her diary. "Which day's feeling from your diary does this line correspond to?" Kim Minjeong flipped through her diary, found the corresponding day, and the voice she sang with became different.

Karina's breathing issues were also improving. Jiang Zhiyu taught her a set of breathing exercises—not the abdominal breathing taught by SM vocal teachers, but the "Tuna Technique" passed down from Medicine King Valley. Inhale for four seconds, hold for sixteen, exhale for eight—this was the basic version. The first time Karina tried it, her face turned red by the tenth second of holding her breath, but she didn't give up, gritting her teeth to reach sixteen seconds. A month later, she could maintain a stable breath output while dancing.

NingNing's progress was the least obvious because she was already very good. But Jiang Zhiyu helped her from another angle—song selection. NingNing's vocal conditions were excellent, but the songs SM arranged for her didn't always fully utilize her advantages. Jiang Zhiyu analyzed her vocal range and timbre characteristics, recommended several songs in different styles for her to try, and then, based on her performance, wrote a detailed "Vocal Analysis Report" and handed it to her vocal teacher. After reading the report, the vocal teacher was silent for a long time before asking, "Who wrote this?" NingNing said it was her extracurricular tutor, and the vocal teacher didn't ask further.

The progress of the three surpassed the other trainees by a large margin. This wasn't Jiang Zhiyu's delusion; the SM monthly evaluation data said so. Kim Minjeong's vocal ranking rose from 12th to 4th, Karina's comprehensive ranking rose from 8th to 2nd, and NingNing remained firmly in 1st, though her score was a full fifteen points higher than the previous month.

The news spread among the trainees. "That foreign creator on the fourth floor teaches better than the company teachers." "Did you go find him?" "No, his training is only open to three people." "Which three?" "Kim Minjeong, Karina, NingNing." "Why only those three?" "Because they were the first to go. He said his energy is only enough to take on three people."

Jiang Zhiyu had indeed said that. But the real reason wasn't a lack of energy, but that he didn't need to lead too many people. Three was enough. He poured all his heart into these three, not because they were the prettiest or the most talented, but because—they reminded him of Zephyrus.

Kim Soo-yeon's cheerfulness and tenacity, Park Eun-sung's tsundere nature and focus, Kim Ji-yeon's cool exterior and deep emotions, Kim Youjung's vitality and straightforwardness. In Karina, Kim Minjeong, and NingNing, those shadows were faintly present. They weren't exactly the same, but it was enough to give him a strange sense of connection.

It was as if he wasn't fighting a lonely battle in this world.

As if everything he was doing wasn't just for survival, but for some higher, yet-to-be-defined goal.

Jiang Zhiyu's first fame within SM wasn't because of his training, but because of his output.

Ever since he learned Korean, his songwriting speed was like a floodgate being opened, impossible to stop. Every day after returning from language school, he would go to the company's recording studio, close the door, and sit in that worn-out chair in front of an old mixing console and a computer equipped with a MIDI keyboard. His way of writing songs was very strange—he didn't write the melody first, nor the lyrics; instead, he first thought, "Who is this song for?"

When writing for a boy group, he would imagine a group of young men in their early twenties running on stage, sweat flying, audience screaming—that blood-pumping feeling. When writing for a girl group, he would imagine several girls standing under the spotlight, their eyes containing both ambition and unease, as if saying, "Please look at me." When writing for a solo singer, he would imagine a person standing on an empty stage with only a single beam of light on them, the whole world quiet, with only their voice echoing.

Every song had a persona, and every melody had a visual.

Inspiration was like an inexhaustible spring. Walking on the street, hearing the rustle of wind through leaves, a melody would pop into his head. Sitting on the subway, looking at the tired office workers in the opposite seats, lyrics would surface in his heart. Lying in bed, closing his eyes, various musical motifs would fly around in the dark like fireflies; he had to get up to record them, otherwise, he couldn't sleep at all.

This state had been with him since the day he learned to write songs. He was used to it. He even felt that if a day went by without a melody popping into his head while walking, that would be the anomaly.

Every day before finishing work, he would organize the songs he wrote that day, copy them onto a USB drive, walk to the company's song material department, and hand the files to the staff member on duty.

"Today's three."

"Three again?" The staff member on duty was already accustomed to it. "Jiang Zhiyu, you write three songs a day; how are you letting others live?"

"How they live is their business." Jiang Zhiyu pushed the USB drive over. "I just write."

The staff member opened the folder and glanced at the filenames. "'Summer Rain,' girl group dance track. 'Broken Compass,' boy group ballad. 'Midnight Train,' solo narrative ballad. The styles are all different?"

"Yes."

"You decide on the style before you write?"

"Yes."

"How do you decide?"

Jiang Zhiyu thought for a moment and said, "Depends on my mood."

This wasn't a perfunctory answer. He truly went by his mood. If he was in a good mood today, he'd write a dance track. If his mood was average, he'd write a ballad. If his mood was very bad, he'd write a narrative ballad. His moods changed quickly, so his styles changed quickly too.

The staff member finished copying the files and looked up at him. "Do you know how many songs you submitted last month?"

"I don't know."

"Forty-seven."

"Oh."

"'Oh?' You just say 'oh'?" The staff member's voice rose slightly. "There are twenty-three creators signed to the company in total, and the amount you submitted alone accounts for a third of the total. And your acceptance rate is 100%—every single one reached the inclusion standard."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't speak. He didn't think this was anything to make a fuss about. Forty-seven songs, an average of one and a half per day, really wasn't much to him. During his peak back on the Tianxuan Continent, he had written over eighty in a month. Forty-seven was just a normal performance.

The news spread through the Creative Department. Then it spread to the Production Department, the Artist Planning Department, and the high-level meeting rooms. A sixteen-year-old foreign creator, in Korea for less than half a year, with Korean that wasn't even fluent yet, had written forty-seven songs in a month, every single one meeting the inclusion standard, with styles spanning dance, ballad, narrative, R&B, and hip-hop, with quality as stable as a factory assembly line.

"How does he do it?" someone asked.

No one could answer that question.

Park Jiyeon displayed Jiang Zhiyu's creation data at the departmental meeting. On the scatter plot, his output points were as dense as a nebula, while the output points of other creators were like a few scattered lonely stars. The disparity was so stark that the meeting room fell silent for a full five seconds.

"This person," Park Jiyeon pointed at Jiang Zhiyu's name on the screen, "we must keep him."

But Jiang Zhiyu didn't know any of this. He still wandered around the company every day with a cup of milk tea, still taught the three girls to sing in the recording studio, and still hummed new melodies with his eyes closed on the subway ride home.

His life was simple: the goshiwon, the subway, the company, the recording studio, the practice room, the subway, the goshiwon. Day after day, week after week. It was monotonous and repetitive, but he didn't find it boring. Because he was doing what he loved—writing songs, teaching people, and slowly building his own territory in this unfamiliar world.

Until that day, when he received a call from Park Jiyeon.

"Zhiyu, have you heard about Red Velvet's comeback project?"

"No." He really hadn't. He was in the recording studio every day, isolated from the outside world.

"The company is collecting songs, and they're still missing one B-side track. I submitted that song 'Butterfly Dream' you wrote last month, and the production department was very satisfied after hearing it. But you need to attend a song selection discussion in person, where the producer will communicate modification suggestions with you face-to-face."

Jiang Zhiyu held his phone and remained silent for a second. "Okay."

"It's next Wednesday at 2 PM in the large conference room on the seventh floor. The Red Velvet members will be there too; they have their own ideas about the songs and might make some requests on the spot. Be prepared."

"Okay."

Jiang Zhiyu hung up the phone and sat in the recording studio chair, staring at the ceiling for a long time.

Red Velvet.

He knew this girl group. One of SM Entertainment's flagship girl groups, they had been debuted for several years and were highly popular in Korea and throughout Asia. Their musical style was versatile, ranging from pure to dark, lively to emotional; they could handle almost any concept.

But that wasn't why he was dazed.

The reason he was dazed was that he had heard of Red Velvet's leader.

Bae Joo-hyun.

The visual of the fourth generation. Leader of the girl group. Cold and elegant aura. Exquisite features.

Every keyword was like a key, opening a door in his heart that he thought he had already closed.

Baek Ji-xin.

He shook his head, tossing the name out of his mind. They weren't the same person. This wasn't the Tianxuan Continent. Bae Joo-hyun was Bae Joo-hyun, and Baek Ji-xin was Baek Ji-xin. There was no connection between the two.

But he still couldn't help thinking of her. The cold fragrance of her white camellia, the fried chicken she handed over, the look in her eyes when she told him "just the two of us" on the riverside bench. Those memories were carved into his bones, impossible to erase.

Jiang Zhiyu took a deep breath, stood up, and walked to the window.

Outside was the gray Seoul sky, different from the sky of the Nanming Kingdom in the Tianxuan Continent. Nanming's sky was bluer and clearer, and the sea breeze carried a salty scent. The sky here was always gray, as if covered by a veil.

He closed his eyes and opened them again.

Stop thinking about it.

Next Wednesday, the Red Velvet song selection discussion. He needed to be ready.

On Wednesday afternoon, Jiang Zhiyu put on that dark ink-colored custom suit.

He hadn't worn this suit in a long time. The hangers in the goshiwon were too small to hold heavy clothes, so he hung the suit on the wall, carefully covering it with a plastic dust cover he bought from a convenience store. He would look at it every day before leaving, but rarely wore it.

Today, he wore it.

Not because Red Velvet was a top-tier girl group, but because he felt that since this was his first time officially appearing at a core company meeting as a creator, he should look presentable.

He adjusted his collar in front of the cracked mirror in the goshiwon. Dark ink suit, white shirt, no tie. Exactly as he had been in the Tianxuan Continent.

He took the subway to the company, entered the building, and took the elevator to the seventh floor.

The seventh floor was where the large conference room was located. The corridors were spacious, the lighting soft, and the carpet thick, making his footsteps silent. It was completely different from the corridors downstairs where trainees ran around—this place was as quiet as another world.

The door to the large conference room was open, and many people were already seated inside. Producer Han from the production department sat at one end of the long table, holding a document and talking in low tones with the person next to him. Several young assistants sat on either side, their laptop screens glowing as their fingers tapped rapidly on the keyboards. There were also a few people Jiang Zhiyu didn't recognize, likely from the planning department based on their attire.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the door, scanned the people in the room, and quickly assessed everyone's role and position. This was his instinct as a member of the Detective Division—upon entering any setting, he would immediately determine who the decision-makers, executors, bystanders, and potential allies or opponents were.

He didn't go in immediately but stood at the door for a few seconds to let the people inside notice his presence.

Then he stepped inside.

"Producer Han," he greeted in Korean, his tone respectful but neither humble nor overbearing.

Producer Han looked up, saw him, and nodded. "Jiang Zhiyu, you're here. Have a seat."

Jiang Zhiyu found a seat in the middle of the long table. Not at the front, not at the back, not conspicuous, but not easily ignored either. This was the experience he had gathered from countless negotiations—the safest position was often the most advantageous one.

People gradually arrived.

At five minutes to two, footsteps were heard from the conference room door.

Jiang Zhiyu looked up.

Red Velvet walked in.

Five people. The one walking at the very front wore a cream-white knit cardigan over a black turtleneck base layer, with her deep brown hair falling straight down her shoulders. Her face was very small, her features so exquisite they didn't seem real, and there was a natural coldness in her eyes, like the first frost of a late autumn morning.

Bae Joo-hyun.

Jiang Zhiyu's breath hitched for a moment.

It wasn't because she was beautiful. He had seen many beautiful people; back in the Tianxuan Continent, he dealt with the continent's top idols and actors every day. Beauty, for him, was no longer a variable that could trigger a physiological reaction.

What made his breath hitch was her resemblance to Baek Ji-xin.

It wasn't just the features—though they were certainly similar—but the true resemblance lay in the aura. That cold, restrained aura that suppressed all emotions beneath an iceberg. That sense of loneliness, standing in the center of a crowd yet seeming isolated from the world. That contradictory charm that made people afraid to approach when she was silent, yet made them want to get closer when she spoke.

Baek Ji-xin was the same.

At 172 cm tall, she was the focus wherever she stood. Her voice was cold when she spoke, the corners of her eyes curved slightly when she smiled, and she looked like an ice sculpture when she didn't. She had an almost maternal protective instinct for her team members but was ruthlessly harsh on herself.

Bae Joo-hyun was nearly twelve centimeters shorter than Baek Ji-xin. Her frame was smaller, her shoulders narrower, and she looked more delicate overall, like a piece of exquisite porcelain. But those eyes, the angle at which she looked at people, the curve of her hair sliding down when she tilted her head—

Jiang Zhiyu's heart throbbed violently.

He instinctively pressed his hand to his chest, feeling that frantic heartbeat. 130. At least 130. His body was telling him a fact he didn't want to admit—he was seeing Bae Joo-hyun as Baek Ji-xin.

It wasn't just "seeing." His brain had automatically completed the match in that instant. Face, aura, status, position, title—every dimension was sending the same signal to his neural network: this is her.

He knew it wasn't true.

Bae Joo-hyun was Bae Joo-hyun, and Baek Ji-xin was Baek Ji-xin. Two worlds, two people, no connection. Baek Ji-xin was in the Tianxuan Continent, in another dimension he might never return to, doing her own thing. And Bae Joo-hyun was standing less than five meters away from him, an idol of SM Entertainment and the artist he had to work with today.

He knew this.

But his heartbeat didn't.

Bae Joo-hyun sat down with the members on the other side of the long table. Her movements were light, and the chair made no sound. She tucked the hair falling by her face behind her ear, revealing the full line of her profile.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at that profile, his fingers tightening slightly under the table.

Baek Ji-xin had that habit too. Tucking her hair behind her ear to reveal her profile. She said it was so her voice wouldn't be blocked by her hair when she sang.

"Jiang Zhiyu?" Producer Han's voice pulled him back to reality.

"Yes." He quickly adjusted his state, his voice so steady it even surprised himself.

"You wrote 'Butterfly Dream,' so first, introduce the creative concept of this song."

Jiang Zhiyu stood up and walked to the projection screen at the front of the conference room. The staff had already projected the score and lyrics onto the screen. He picked up the remote pen, clicked it, and the melody of the intro flowed from the speakers.

When he introduced the song, his voice was calm, his logic clear, and his expression fluent. He broke down the original intention, melodic structure, emotional direction, and arrangement ideas one by one, explaining them eloquently. The producers nodded frequently, the planning department people took notes, and the assistants' fingers tapped rapidly on their keyboards.

Everything was under control.

Except for his heartbeat.

He didn't dare look in Bae Joo-hyun's direction. He kept his eyes on the projection screen, on Producer Han, on anywhere that wasn't Bae Joo-hyun. His brain was functioning efficiently, his mouth outputting accurately, but the heart in his chest was like a bird trapped in a cage, frantically flapping its wings.

After the introduction, sparse applause broke out in the conference room.

"Very good," Producer Han nodded. "Does anyone have any comments?"

A few people from the production department offered arrangement suggestions, the planning department discussed the fit between the lyrics and the album concept, and the assistants recorded every modification suggestion. Jiang Zhiyu responded to each one, explaining what needed explaining, accepting what needed accepting, and skillfully refuting what needed refuting.

Everything went very smoothly.

Then Bae Joo-hyun spoke.

"Creator Jiang Zhiyu," her voice was light, but everyone in the room heard it, "I have a question."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her.

Their eyes met in the air.

At that moment, he heard the sound of his own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Every beat felt like someone was drumming in his chest.

"Please go ahead." His voice was calmer than he expected.

Bae Joo-hyun pointed to the lyrics on the screen. "In the chorus, the line '나비의 꿈을 따라'—'Follow the butterfly's dream'—I feel the pronunciation of the word '따라' (ttara) is a bit stifled when singing. Could it be changed to '찾아' (chaja)? 'Search for the butterfly's dream.' The meaning is similar, but the open vowel sound will be easier to sing."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the lyrics, his brain working fast.

'Ttara' is a closed vowel sound; singing it at the highest note of the chorus would indeed feel a bit stifled. 'Chaja' is an open vowel sound, which would be easier to vocalize at the same pitch and make the sound more open.

She was right.

"Yes," Jiang Zhiyu said. "Change it to 'chaja'."

Bae Joo-hyun nodded slightly, her gaze moving away from him.

Just that once.

Just that one eye contact, lasting less than two seconds.

Jiang Zhiyu's palms were already covered in sweat.

He sat back in his seat, placed the remote pen on the table, and took a deep breath while looking down. Calm down. Calm down. You're not a seventeen-year-old boy. You're thirty-year-old Jiang Zhiyu. You've seen countless people more beautiful than her. You even loved a woman in another world who looked almost exactly like her.

Calm down.

He looked up, his expression having returned to calm.

The meeting continued. Other members also offered opinions: Seulgi said the chorus melody could be a degree higher, Wendy said a harmony could be added to the bridge, Joy said the lyrics could include more specific imagery, and Yeri said the overall atmosphere could be more dreamlike.

Jiang Zhiyu responded to each one, changing what should be changed and giving reasonable explanations for what shouldn't.

The meeting ended forty minutes later.

The producers left one after another, the assistants packed up the equipment, and the planning department people spoke in low voices. The Red Velvet members also stood up, preparing to leave.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in his place, not moving.

He was waiting.

Waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal.

He didn't know how long he would have to wait.

Bae Joo-hyun stood up from her seat, and as she passed by him, her footsteps paused.

"Creator Jiang Zhiyu." She turned her head to look at him.

Jiang Zhiyu looked up.

She stood beside him, the sunlight slanting in from the floor-to-ceiling window, falling on her profile and plating her silhouette with a faint golden layer. Her expression was still that cold, emotionless look, but her eyes were serious.

"This song," she said, "thank you for writing a song for Red Velvet."

Jiang Zhiyu looked into her eyes, looking at those phoenix eyes with slightly upturned corners, looking at those eyes he was so familiar with, eyes he had gazed into countless times in another world.

His throat felt as if something was blocking it.

"You're welcome," he said.

Bae Joo-hyun nodded slightly and turned to leave.

Her back disappeared at the conference room door.

Jiang Zhiyu sat there, staring at the door, motionless.

His heartbeat finally slowed down.

But his palms were still wet.

—

—

(The most, most, most, most—adorable Minjeong)

(14:20) Minjeong, who doesn't reply: [The pre-recording is over! The stage was so bright, but I secretly looked at the third row on the left side of the audience three times... Oppa really didn't come. (Looking down and poking her fingers) But I performed well! The director Unnie praised my eyes for being especially bright today~]

(14:23) Minjeong, who doesn't reply: [While changing clothes, Joy Unnie suddenly asked me, 'Have you been mimicking Irene Unnie's perfume lately?' My heart almost jumped out of my chest! It was clearly a cedar scent I chose so carefully... (Nervously fidgeting with her fingers)]

(14:26) Minjeong, who doesn't reply: [I had salad with the members for lunch, but I secretly added the small honey packet Oppa gave me! Since it's from Oppa, it was extra sweet~ (Sends a photo of herself secretly pulling a honey packet out of her pocket)]

(14:29) Minjeong, who doesn't reply: [I ran into Taeyeon-sunbaenim in the waiting room. She looked at me and said with a light smile, 'Good eyes.' Waaah, did sunbaenim notice something... I quickly pretended to adjust my skirt! (Calm on the outside but her ears are actually bright red)]

(14:32) Minjeong, who doesn't reply: [Oppa said 'definitely next time'... then I'll start looking forward to 'next time'! Pinky swear! (Sends a serious selfie with her pinky hooked in the air)]

(14:35) Minjeong, who doesn't reply: [Manager Unnie said there's an extra vocal lesson tonight, so I can't send Oppa too many messages... I'll miss you! I'll miss you even during a one-minute break! (Sends a meme of a puppy buried under a pile of books)]