9: Chapter 9 Please name it:

NingNing arrived at the company dragging her suitcase behind her.

The airport bus from Incheon Airport to Samseong-dong swayed for over an hour. She sat in the back row, her suitcase across her legs, clutching a bulging cloth bag in her arms—inside were ten Harbin red sausages. Her mother had specially ordered them from that master, vacuum-sealed them, wrapped them in a layer of plastic wrap, stuffed them into the cloth bag, tied the opening tight, put that inside another plastic bag, and tied three dead knots.

It was two in the afternoon when she arrived, and the company lobby was nearly empty. The girl at the front desk recognized her and gave her a smile. She said "Happy New Year" in Chinese, then rushed into the elevator with her suitcase and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

The recording studio door wasn't fully closed, leaving a crack through which the sound of a piano drifted out. It wasn't a melody, but single notes played one by one, as if someone were tuning the instrument or lost in thought.

NingNing pushed the door open with her shoulder, shoved her suitcase in first, and then squeezed herself inside. Standing at the door, she panted heavily.

"Teacher, I'm back."

Jiang Zhiyu sat before the mixing console, his fingers on a MIDI keyboard, playing a B-flat. He played it three times, stopped, and turned to glance at her.

"Where are the red sausages?"

...Teacher, shouldn't your first words be 'Welcome back'?"

"Welcome back. Where are the red sausages?"

NingNing untied the bulging cloth bag from her suitcase and placed it on the table. She undid the three dead knots, tore off the plastic wrap, and opened the vacuum-sealed bag. The smoky aroma of the red sausages instantly filled the entire recording studio, so rich it was as if someone had stuffed a whole pine tree into the room.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up from the mixing console, walked to the table, picked up a sausage, turned it over to inspect it, and then took a bite. No heating, no slicing—he just bit right into it. The casing of the red sausage was a bit tough, and he tore it with his teeth. The meat filling inside was firm and elastic. The smoky flavor and garlic aroma exploded in his mouth—salty, fragrant, savory, and slightly sweet. The layers were too complex for it to be just a sausage.

He chewed a few times and then closed his eyes.

Watching him close his eyes, the corners of NingNing's mouth slowly curled up. "How is it?"

Jiang Zhiyu opened his eyes and took another bite. He didn't answer with "delicious" or "not delicious," because the word "delicious" was too thin; it couldn't hold all the feelings this red sausage brought him. He thought of the cured sausages from the Middle Continent of Tianxuan Continent, the air-dried meat from Jinnan Prefecture in Nanming Kingdom, and the smoked fish Wang Shuyun once brought back from the City of Rain. He thought of those flavors he could never return to.

"Good," he said.

"Just one word?"

"Mm."

"Teacher, you really don't know how to praise people."

"My way of praising isn't with my mouth." Jiang Zhiyu finished the rest of the sausage, wiped his hands with a tissue, and then took a stack of sheet music and a USB drive from a drawer next to the mixing console and placed them on the table. "Stop eating for a moment and look at this."

NingNing wiped the grease off her hands and picked up the sheet music.

On the cover, four words were written in Korean—루프나의 눈물. prince ruperts drop. She flipped to the first page. The piano intro's score was as simple as an étude: the right hand played slow octave arpeggios while the left hand played single notes in the bass register. It felt like a person walking alone on an empty street, the sound of footsteps bouncing back and forth between walls, growing lighter and more distant.

She continued reading.

The note density in the verse wasn't high, and the range wasn't wide, but there were large intervals between each note, like the unpredictable tone of someone speaking—sometimes light, sometimes heavy, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. The range of the chorus suddenly expanded, jumping directly from the low register to the high register without any transition, like stepping into thin air and falling off a cliff.

"This song," NingNing looked up at Jiang Zhiyu, "Kim Taeyeon Sunbaenim is going to sing it?"

"Mm."

"When?"

"I don't know yet. Her assistant said we'd meet to talk in a week. But before that, I need a complete demo." Jiang Zhiyu picked up the USB drive from the table. "I've finished the accompaniment. Real piano recording, strings are MIDI, but I used the latest sound library, so it sounds okay."

"So you want me to sing the demo?"

"Yes."

NingNing flipped to the last page and finished reading all the lyrics. She didn't speak, but her breathing changed—from normal, steady breaths to something shallower and faster, as if she were suppressing something.

"Teacher, this song," she paused, "when did you write it?"

"Last month."

"What were you thinking about when you wrote it?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked into her eyes. NingNing's eyes weren't large, but they were deep, like two wells; you didn't know what was at the bottom, but you knew they were deep.

"Thinking of someone," he said.

"Who?"

"Someone you don't know."

NingNing didn't ask further. She closed the score, placed it on the table, and smoothed the cover with her palm. "Let me listen to the accompaniment first."

Jiang Zhiyu walked back to the console, plugged in the USB, and opened the file. The first note of the piano flowed out from the monitor speakers—B-flat, a long note, with the sustain pedal held down. The sound reflected back and forth between the studio walls like a drop of water falling into a deep pool, ripples spreading out circle by circle.

NingNing listened to the entire accompaniment with her eyes closed. Four minutes and thirteen seconds. She didn't open her eyes once, but her fingers moved slightly on her knees—not keeping time, but tracing the lines of the melody, like feeling her way forward in the dark.

The accompaniment ended, and she opened her eyes.

"Teacher, I can't sing this song."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "Why?"

"It's not because of technique," NingNing said. "It's because... I haven't experienced that feeling."

She paused, as if organizing her words. "'I am the Prince Rupert's Drop you forged; my head is hard enough to withstand a thousand pounds of pressure, yet the careless force of your fingertips easily crushes my only weakness.'" She recited the lyrics, her voice not loud, but every word clearly enunciated. "I'm fifteen. I've never been treated like that, nor have I treated anyone else like that. I can't sing that feeling."

Jiang Zhiyu fell silent.

NingNing was right. It wasn't a matter of technique; it was a matter of life experience. She was fifteen, a trainee from Harbin in Seoul, whose daily life consisted of training, training, and more training. The greatest setback she'd faced was a drop in monthly evaluation rankings, and the deepest hurt was netizens calling her fat. She hadn't experienced the pain of being completely possessed by someone only to be easily discarded, the determination of jumping into an abyss despite knowing it was one, or the humility and pride of saying 'at least I was perfect for you once' after being ground into powder.

These things couldn't be taught. They weren't skills, methods, or anything that could be imparted. They could only come from life itself. And a fifteen-year-old's life hadn't had the chance to give her these things yet.

The recording studio was quiet for a while.

The door was pushed open, and Kim Minjeong poked half her head in, her hair loose and her face still flushed from running from the practice room. "Oppa, is Ningning back?"

"I'm back." Ningning waved at her.

Kim Minjeong squeezed all the way in, followed by Karina. The two had obviously run into each other in the hallway and come together. Karina held two cups of coffee—an iced Americano and a full-sugar milk tea. She placed the milk tea in front of Jiang Zhiyu and the iced Americano in front of herself, then sat on the sofa. Kim Minjeong hadn't bought coffee; she leaned over to the table and saw the stack of sheet music.

"Is this that 'prince ruperts drop' song?" She picked it up and flipped through it. "NingNing is going to sing it?"

"I can't sing it," NingNing said. "Teacher asked me to try, but I don't think I can get the feeling right."

"What feeling?"

"The feeling of being ruined by someone and still thinking it was worth it."

Kim Minjeong tilted her head in thought, then looked at Jiang Zhiyu. "Oppa, before you let NingNing sing, you should let her get into that emotion first. Didn't you teach me? You have to imagine a scene before singing."

"I have the scene, but not the feeling," Ningning said. "I know what the scene is—a person standing in an empty room, looking at things left behind by another, wanting to cry but being unable to. But I don't have that feeling. I just 'know' it, I don't 'feel' it."

Kim Minjeong pursed her lips. She looked at the score, then at Jiang Zhiyu, and suddenly raised her hand. "Oppa, let me try."

Jiang Zhiyu glanced at her. Kim Minjeong's face was set tight, a light of refusal to lose in her eyes, as if ignited by something.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure. If Ningning can't sing it, I will."

"It's not a matter of who can sing it. It's—"

"I know," Kim Minjeong interrupted him. "I know what this song needs. Ningning hasn't experienced that feeling, and neither have I. But I want to try. What if I can find it?"

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her sparkling eyes, remained silent for a moment, and then nodded. "Fine. Go in, put on the headphones, and listen to the accompaniment once."

Kim Minjeong walked into the recording booth and sat before the microphone. She put on the headphones and gave Jiang Zhiyu an OK gesture through the glass window.

Jiang Zhiyu pressed the play button.

The sound of the piano flowed into Kim Minjeong's ears. She closed her eyes, leaned slightly forward with her hands folded on her knees, looking like a frozen statue. When the accompaniment reached the end of the first chorus, she opened her eyes and said something into the microphone. Her voice came out of the booth and exploded through the control room speakers.

"Oppa, I can start now."

"Okay."

Kim Minjeong picked up the lyrics from the stand and took a deep breath.

"우리는 무적의 유리였죠——"

We were once indestructible glass.

Her voice trembled slightly on the word "유리" (glass). It wasn't an intentional vibrato, but rather her breath failing to support the note, her vocal cords loosening for a split second upon closing. Jiang Zhiyu's brow furrowed—not because she sang poorly, but because she was nervous. Her lips were trembling, and the fingers holding the lyric sheet were shaking too. She was like a string wound too tight, liable to snap at any moment.

But he didn't call for a stop. He wanted her to continue.

"세상 모든 빛을 refraction하던——"

Refracting all the light in the world.

"Refracting" was a Chinese term; the Korean lyrics used "비추다," but Kim Minjeong sang it as "비치다." The meanings were similar but different. "비추다" is an active shining, while "비치다" is a passive reflection. A single word's difference changed the entire mood. Jiang Zhiyu's brow furrowed even deeper.

"손안에 꼭 쥐면 영원할 줄 알았어——"

Thinking that if held tightly in hand, it would be forever.

She got this line right. Pitch, rhythm, and diction were all on point. But the problem was—she had no emotion. It wasn't that there was "not enough emotion," but that there was "none." Her voice was like a blank sheet of paper with the correct notes and lyrics written on it, but with nothing on the back of the page.

Jiang Zhiyu's finger paused on the fader of the mixing console.

He remembered when Kim Minjeong first came to the studio and he asked her, "What are you thinking about when you sing?" She said, "Thinking about what the next line is." Now she no longer thought about what the next line was, but she hadn't yet learned to think about "what this line means."

Technique can be taught. Emotion cannot.

He sighed in his heart. Then he saw Kim Minjeong flip to the second page, preparing to enter the chorus.

At the very moment her lips parted and the breath surged from her throat—

"Stop." Jiang Zhiyu pressed the talkback button.

Kim Minjeong's voice caught in her throat, like a bird suddenly seized by the neck. She took off her headphones and looked at Jiang Zhiyu through the glass, her expression shifting from focus to confusion, and from confusion to grievance.

"Oppa, I haven't finished singing—"

"No need to finish," Jiang Zhiyu said. "Come out."

Kim Minjeong's lips pressed into a thin line. She placed the headphones on the music stand and pushed open the booth door. Her steps were much heavier than usual as she walked out, each step sounding like she was stomping on something, making a dull thud.

NingNing sat on the sofa, still holding the half-eaten red sausage. Seeing Kim Minjeong's expression, she silently put the sausage down.

"How was it?" Kim Minjeong looked at Jiang Zhiyu, her tone carrying a stubborn unwillingness to admit failure even though she already knew she had.

Jiang Zhiyu leaned against the console, arms crossed. "Do you want the truth or polite words?"

"The truth."

"What were you thinking about while you sang?"

Kim Minjeong was taken aback. "Thinking... thinking about the lyrics."

"What about the lyrics?"

"Thinking about what the next line was."

The studio fell silent for a moment.

Kim Minjeong's face went from grievance to shame, and from shame to annoyance. Not annoyance at Jiang Zhiyu, but at herself. She had been here for half a year, and she still hadn't managed to do what Jiang Zhiyu told her during her first training session: "Don't think about what the next line is; think about that scene, think about that image."

"I..." her voice trailed off, "I'll try again."

"No need," Jiang Zhiyu said. "We're not recording today."

"Oppa—"

"It's not that you can't sing well," Jiang Zhiyu's tone softened a bit. "It's just that your state of mind isn't right today. You're too nervous, too desperate to sing well, so nothing comes out."

Kim Minjeong's nose felt a bit prickly. She sniffed, suppressing the urge to cry, and nodded vigorously. "Then I'll go back and practice more."

Looking at her "I won't give up" expression, Jiang Zhiyu suddenly thought of someone. Kim Soo-yeon. The leader of TG Entertainment's Zephyrus, the girl who practiced until three in the morning and showed up again at seven. Kim Minjeong's stubbornness was very similar to hers—not the loud, in-your-face kind, but the quiet, deep-seated kind where if you tell her not to do something, she'll insist on doing it just to show you.

NingNing had been sitting on the sofa in silence.

She still had the half-bitten sausage in her hand, but hadn't taken a bite for a long time. Her eyes were fixed on the score, on the lyrics she had just said she "couldn't sing," on the line "I am the Prince Rupert's Drop you forged" which had been repeatedly edited in Jiang Zhiyu's handwritten Korean.

"Teacher," she spoke up, "let me try one more time."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. "Didn't you say you couldn't sing it?"

"Even if I can't, I have to." NingNing put the sausage on the table, stood up, and walked to the recording booth door. "This song is your hard work; it can't just be left sitting there. I can't sing that feeling, but at least I can record the pitch and rhythm properly. Kim Taeyeon Sunbaenim wants a demo, not a finished product. She's listening to the melody and arrangement, not my emotions."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her. NingNing's expression was calm, but it wasn't Karina's type of cool detachment; it was a kind of certainty that said "I've thought this through."

"Okay," he said.

NingNing walked into the recording booth and sat before the microphone. She didn't take the lyrics from the stand—she had already memorized them while flipping through the score. Her ability to memorize music was so strong that Jiang Zhiyu sometimes wondered if she had a scanner in her brain.

She put on the headphones and listened to the intro with her eyes closed.

Then she opened her mouth.

"우리는 무적의 유리였죠——"

[part:gemini-3.1-flash-lite]

We once were unbreakable glass.

The voice was steady. The breath support was sufficient. The pitch was accurate. Every note was in the correct position, and every syllable was articulated clearly and powerfully. From a technical standpoint, there were no issues at all.

But from an emotional standpoint—

Producer Jiang leaned against the mixing console, listening to her voice flowing out of the speakers, his expression unchanged.

When she reached the chorus, the high notes hit steadily—no cracking, no breath instability, no flaws whatsoever. But those high notes were "clean," so clean that they were like a piece of freshly wiped glass: transparent, smooth, without a single scratch.

Yet the high notes of this song needed to be "dirty." Not technically dirty, but emotionally dirty. It's the kind of hoarseness that betrays you even when you're holding back tears; the kind of restraint where you want to say "I'm fine" but your lips are trembling; the kind of humility where you ask "Did you ever really love me?" even though you already know the answer.

NingNing finished singing the whole song.

Four minutes and thirteen seconds. As the final note fell, she opened her eyes and looked at Producer Jiang through the glass, as if waiting for a grade.

Producer Jiang pressed the talk button. "Technically, there's no problem."

"And then?"

"There is no 'then.'"

NingNing was silent for two seconds. Then she took off her headphones, pushed open the recording studio door, and walked out. Her expression showed no frustration or disappointment, but rather a calm realization, as if to say, "I already knew."

"I told you I couldn't sing it." She sat back on the sofa, picked up the cold sausage, and took a bite. "But at least I recorded the audio. You can take it to show Taeyeon-sunbaenim so she knows what the melody is like. As for the emotions, she'll handle that herself."

Producer Jiang nodded. He didn't say "thank you," because it wasn't necessary. NingNing knew that he knew.

Kim Minjeong sat on the sofa, both hands resting on her knees, her chin propped on the back of her hands, staring blankly at the floor. No one knew what she was thinking. Karina sat beside her, not looking at her, not speaking, just sitting quietly like a silent stone.

The atmosphere in the recording studio was a bit stifling. It wasn't the kind of stifling that comes from someone being angry, but the kind where everyone has something on their mind but no one wants to talk about it.

Producer Jiang stood in front of the mixing console, staring at the audio waveforms on the screen, his fingers tapping gently on the desk twice.

Then he turned around and looked at Ningning.

"Ningning, while you were singing just now, I thought of something."

"What is it?"

"When you sing a sad ballad, it's like eating a piece of pork belly that's been charred to a crisp."

NingNing stopped chewing, the cross-section of the sausage exposed, her teeth marks visible on it. "…What?"

"It's just that—you know it should be delicious, and you want to eat it, but when your teeth bite into it, it's hard, burnt, and bitter. You chew it twice, but you really can't swallow it, so you have to spit it out." Producer Jiang's expression was very serious. "That's exactly how it felt when you were singing. Your mouth is singing, your vocal cords are working, but your heart isn't there. It's somewhere else—maybe in Harbin, maybe at Haidilao, maybe anywhere that doesn't require singing a sad ballad."

NingNing took the sausage out of her mouth and looked at it, as if inspecting an old friend who had betrayed her.

"Teacher, you really say nasty things."

"I'm telling the truth."

"The truth could be said a bit more nicely."

"Nice words are for people who need to be coddled. You don't need to be coddled." Producer Jiang picked up a new sausage from the table, tore open the package, and took a bite. "What you need is to find someone you truly like, and then have him dump you. When that happens, come back and sing this song. You won't need me to teach you; you'll know how to do it yourself."

NingNing widened her eyes and looked at him. "Teacher, you're cursing me."

"I'm showing you the way."

"What way? The way of heartbreak?"

"The way of creation." Producer Jiang chewed the sausage, his tone flat. "All art comes from pain. Happy people cannot write good songs or sing good melodies. If you want to become a great singer, you must be prepared to endure ten, a hundred times more pain than the average person."

NingNing was silent for a moment. Then she crumpled the sausage wrapper into a ball, threw it into the trash can, stood up, walked over to Producer Jiang, and looked up at him.

"Teacher, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"The songs you write are all so bitter. How much pain have you endured?"

The recording studio went quiet.

Kim Minjeong looked up at Producer Jiang. Karina was also watching him. NingNing stood in front of him, looking up, her eyes holding a stubborn, unyielding light.

Producer Jiang looked at her without speaking.

He wanted to say "A lot," but he didn't. He wanted to say "More than you can imagine," but he didn't say that either. He just thought silently to himself—I lost a world, I lost a person, I lost everyone who knew me and everyone I knew. I stood on completely foreign land, with no money in my pocket, no friends by my side, and even the language had to be learned from scratch. It took me half a year to stop having my first reaction upon waking up every day be "What meeting do I have to attend at TG Entertainment today?"

But he couldn't say these things.

It wasn't because it was embarrassing to say, but because saying it was useless. NingNing wouldn't understand, Kim Minjeong wouldn't understand, Karina wouldn't understand. It wasn't that they were stupid; it was that they were too young. In a fifteen or seventeen-year-old's life, the greatest pain is a drop in monthly exam rankings or gaining two kilograms. If you tell them you "lost a world," they can understand every word, but they can't understand the weight behind that sentence.

"A little more than you," Producer Jiang said.

NingNing watched him for a few seconds, then nodded and sat back on the sofa.

She didn't press for more. She was a smart girl who knew when to ask and when not to.

The recording studio grew quiet again.

Kim Minjeong was sitting on the sofa, hands on her knees, chin resting on the back of her hands, still looking at the floor. But her eyes had changed—from blank staring to deep thought, and from thought to the moment of making a decision.

She suddenly stood up.

"Oppa, let me try one more time."

Producer Jiang looked at her. "Are you sure?"

"Sure." Kim Minjeong's voice was much louder than before, as if she were trying to bolster her own courage. "If Ningning can't sing it, I will. I don't believe I can't sing it."

She walked to the door of the recording booth, pushed it open, went inside, and sat down in front of the microphone. Her movements were fluid and continuous, without hesitation or pause, as if she were afraid that if she hesitated, she would back down.

Producer Jiang watched her expression—one of a "warrior going off to battle never to return"—and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

Kim Minjeong put on her headphones, picked up the lyrics from the music stand, and took a deep breath. Then she turned her head, looked at Producer Jiang through the glass, moved her lips, and said something without making a sound.

Producer Jiang read her lips: "Oppa, don't laugh at me."

He didn't laugh. He pressed the talk button. "Start."

Kim Minjeong pulled her gaze back and focused on the lyrics.

The intro flowed in through the headphones. The long B-flat piano note and the string accompaniment were as quiet as someone sitting alone in the deep of night, with the sound of rain outside the window and the sound of breathing in the room intertwined.

She began to sing.

"We once were unbreakable glass."

This line was much better than before. Not technically better, but emotionally better. There was a sense of "caution" in her voice, as if she were holding something fragile—afraid to use too much force, yet afraid of dropping it.

"Refracting all the light in the world."

She sang the word "refract" correctly. Not "shine," not "reflect," but "refract"—a more obscure, more formal word. Producer Jiang had specifically used this word when writing the lyrics because it had a sense of physical precision that the common "shine" lacked, as if stating an objective fact rather than a subjective feeling.

Kim Minjeong sang the word clearly—so clearly that every syllable seemed to have been polished individually.

"I thought if I held it tight in my hand, it would be forever."

Her voice trembled slightly on the word "forever." This time, it wasn't from nervousness, but from emotion—she was finally no longer just "singing" the word, but "feeling" it. Forever. What a beautiful word, what a false word.

Producer Jiang's fingers hovered over the mixing console, motionless.

Kim Minjeong turned to the second page, entering the chorus.

Her lips parted, and breath poured from her throat—

"I am the Prince Rupert's Drop you forged—"

Suddenly, her voice got stuck.

It wasn't a crack, and she hadn't forgotten the lyrics, but—her emotions had welled up, but her technique hadn't kept up. She wanted to cry, but her vocal cords wouldn't allow her to. She wanted to make her voice hoarse, but her vocal cords were too clean, unable to produce that hoarseness. The result was that her voice cracked on the word "tears," like someone trying to walk two paths but failing both, falling straight into the ditch in between.

Kim Minjeong stopped, took off her headphones, and rubbed her eyes.

Her eyes were red.

Not because she was moved by how well she sang, but because she felt aggrieved by her failure. The tip of her nose was red, her lips trembled slightly, and she seemed as if choked by something, unable to speak or sing.

Producer Jiang didn't press the talk button. He just sat at the mixing console, watching her.

Kim Minjeong sniffled, put her headphones back on, picked up the lyrics, and took a deep breath. She sang the chorus again. This time, there was no cracking, but there was also no emotion. She suppressed all her feelings, pushing them down to a place even she couldn't find.

After she finished singing, she took off her headphones, pushed open the recording studio door, and walked out.

She didn't look at Producer Jiang; she walked straight to the sofa, sat down, and buried her face in her hands.

NingNing reached out a hand, placed it on her shoulder, and patted it gently. "It's okay."

"I know," Kim Minjeong's voice came from behind her hands, muffled. "I just feel so useless."

"You aren't useless," Producer Jiang said. "You're just too young."

Kim Minjeong peeked at him with one eye from behind her hands.

"This song isn't something you can sing right now," Producer Jiang said. "Not because you aren't good enough, but because your life right now doesn't have what this song needs. Your life is too healthy—happy family, many friends, training is going well. You haven't experienced the feeling of being abandoned, forgotten, or discarded like something insignificant. You can't sing that feeling, and that's not your fault."

Kim Minjeong lifted her face from her hands. Her eyes were red, but she wasn't crying. Her lips were pursed, her chin trembled slightly, but she wasn't crying.

"Then Oppa," she said, "can you sing it?"

Producer Jiang looked at her without speaking.

"When you wrote this song," Kim Minjeong's voice was very soft, so soft it was like she was talking to herself, "were you experiencing that feeling?"

The recording studio was so quiet you could hear the ticking of the second hand on the clock on the wall.

NingNing and Karina didn't speak. They looked at Producer Jiang, watching the calm, emotionless expression on his face. But they all felt it—that calmness wasn't true calmness, but a thin layer of ice, with bottomless water beneath it.

Producer Jiang stood up from the mixing console and walked to the window.

Outside the window was the gray sky of Seoul, unlike the sky of the Nanming Kingdom on the Tianxuan Continent. The sky in Nanming was bluer, clearer, and the sea breeze had a salty, fishy scent. The sky here was always gray, as if covered by a veil.

"I have written it," he said. "I have sung it. But I won't sing it again."

"Why?" Kim Minjeong asked.

"Because to sing it once is to experience it all over again. Some experiences are enough just once."

Kim Minjeong didn't ask again.

She lowered her head and looked at her hands folded on her knees. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails neatly trimmed, without nail polish—clean and tidy, just like her.

The recording studio was quiet for a while longer.

Then Producer Jiang turned around, clapped his hands, and drew everyone's attention back.

"Alright, no more singing. That's it for today."

NingNing looked up. "What about the demo?"

"I'll sing it myself," Producer Jiang said. "It was my song to begin with; it's most appropriate for me to sing it."

"You can sing?" Kim Minjeong and NingNing asked simultaneously.

Producer Jiang glanced at them without answering. He walked to the mixing console, pulled up the accompaniment project file, pushed up the microphone volume, and walked into the recording booth.

He closed the soundproof door and sat down in front of the microphone.

He didn't wear headphones because he was too familiar with every note, every breath, and every pause of this song. This song wasn't "written" by him; it had grown out of his body like a tree—from seed to sprout to lush branches, he had been present for every stage.

The piano intro flowed from the monitor speakers, through the soundproof glass, and into the recording booth. Kim Minjeong, NingNing, and Karina sat in the control room, watching Producer Jiang on the other side of the glass.

He closed his eyes, his body leaning slightly forward, his hands folded on his knees. His lips were very close to the microphone, so close they were almost touching it.

He began to sing.

"We once were unbreakable glass."

His voice wasn't loud, even a bit soft, but that softness wasn't weakness—it was a restrained, suppressed tone, as if he were whispering a secret to someone. Every word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying a sense of contradiction: "I don't want to say it, but I have to."

Kim Minjeong's eyes widened instantly.

Not because he sang well—singing well was expected. What made her eyes widen was the thing in Producer Jiang's voice. That wasn't technique, wasn't skill, wasn't anything that could be taught. That was genuine emotion, genuine pain, a genuine, never-healed wound.

"Refracting all the light in the world."

He sang the word "refract" differently than NingNing or Kim Minjeong. He didn't sing it in the active voice, but in the passive voice. It wasn't "the glass is refracting the light," but "the light is being refracted by the glass." A single word difference, shifting from active to passive—active is a choice, passive is destiny.

NingNing sat on the sofa, the sausage in her hand long since gone cold, but she didn't put it down. She looked at Producer Jiang on the other side of the glass, watching his calm, expressionless face, listening to the undisguisable, naked pain in his voice, and suddenly realized that her earlier claim of "I can't sing it" was correct.

She truly couldn't sing it. Not because her technique wasn't enough, not because her emotion wasn't enough, but because this song wasn't her story. This was Producer Jiang's story. Every lyric was torn from his own body, every melody dug out from his own heart. She could imitate his singing style, his breath, his everything, but she couldn't imitate his experience.

In the chorus, Producer Jiang's voice changed.

It hadn't grown larger, but rather, it had become "thinner." This thinness wasn't about being flimsy, but rather a sensation of being on the verge of shattering, like a sheet of paper about to tear in the wind.

"I am the Prince Rupert's Drop you forged—"

"My head was hard enough to withstand the crushing weight—"

"Yet the careless force of your fingertips—"

"Easily crushed my only weakness—"

When he sang the last line, his voice finally broke. It wasn't a "break" like a voice crack, but a "break" of emotion. His voice split open on the word "부숴버렸어" (crushed), sounding hoarse, rough, and carrying an uncontrollable tremor. The crack wasn't large, but it was enough to make the three people in the control room hold their breath simultaneously.

NingNing's eyes turned red. Kim Minjeong's eyes also turned red. Karina did not, but her fingers gripping the iced Americano cup tightened, her knuckles turning white.

The final note faded.

Jiang Zhiyu sat in front of the microphone for a few seconds, then took off his headphones, pushed open the recording studio door, and walked out. His expression was exactly the same as before he went in: calm, indifferent, revealing no emotion. But his eyes were wet—not the wetness of someone who had cried, but the wetness of something having been soaked, like a leaf after a rain, dry on the surface but hiding water within its veins.

Kim Minjeong looked at him, her lips moving as if to say something, but nothing came out.

Jiang Zhiyu walked back to the mixing console, glanced at the waveform on the screen, then closed the project file, unplugged the USB drive, and put it into his pocket.

"That's it for today," he said. "I'm taking the sausage."

He picked up the remaining sausage from the table, put it into the cloth bag that NingNing had brought, and carried it out of the recording studio.

The door closed behind him.

The three people left in the control room remained silent for a long time.

NingNing spoke first. She looked at Kim Minjeong and said something in Chinese. Kim Minjeong didn't understand, but NingNing knew she wouldn't. That sentence wasn't meant for Kim Minjeong; it was meant for herself.

"He must be in a lot of pain."

Kim Minjeong looked at her without asking what she had said. She lowered her head, looking at her hands folded on her lap, thinking about that cracking voice of Jiang Zhiyu from just a moment ago.

That sound was like the tail of a Prince Rupert's Drop being gently crushed.

—

Kim Taeyeon arrived at two in the afternoon.

Jiang Zhiyu arrived at the recording studio twenty minutes early and tidied up the desk. He reset the faders on the mixing console, turned on the microphone switch, adjusted the monitor speaker volume to a moderate level, and straightened the chair. He printed out the schedule confirmation sent by Kim Taeyeon's assistant and placed it on the table, but then felt it was too deliberate, so he folded it and tucked it into a drawer. He pulled the curtains open a bit more, and the afternoon sunlight slanted in, casting golden spots of light onto the mixing console. After a moment's thought, he pulled the curtains back halfway—the sunlight was too strong and glaring.

After finishing all this, he sat down, opened his laptop, and pulled up the project file for "Prince Rupert's Drop." The tracks on the screen were dense—piano, strings, bass, subtle electronic atmospheric tones—each track labeled with color and notes. He made a few subtle adjustments to the final mix, lowering the volume of the strings in the chorus by 0.7 decibels to make the soundstage more focused.

Then he took a cup of milk tea from his bag, inserted the straw, and took a sip.

A new item, strawberry flavor. Full sugar, with pearls, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans. The liquid was a pale pink, tasting like liquid strawberry cake, sweet enough to make his teeth ache. But he liked it. Ever since he learned how to order delivery in this world, he had been trying different milk tea flavors every day, from original to matcha, taro paste to brown sugar to strawberry; each had its own merits. Strawberry was his current favorite because it was sweet enough and had a nice color.

The recording studio door was knocked on.

It wasn't the cautious, tentative kind of knocking, but three distinct, rhythmic raps—"Dong, dong-dong"—even in force, precise in interval, as if measured with a metronome.

Jiang Zhiyu stood up, walked to the door, and pulled it open.

Kim Taeyeon was standing outside the door.

She was smaller than Jiang Zhiyu had imagined. Not in terms of age—he knew her age, born in '89, twenty-eight this year. He meant her build. She had a small frame, narrow shoulders, a slender waist; standing in the hallway, she looked like a plant potted in a flowerpot, with developed roots but a petite stature. She was wearing a loose black hoodie, the sleeves extending long, covering half her fingers. On her lower body, she wore light blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up twice, revealing a section of her ankles. On her feet were white canvas shoes, the laces tied very tightly, the two sides of the bow completely even in length.

Her face was very small, so small that it made one wonder how her features were squeezed onto it. Yet every feature was perfectly placed—natural eyebrows, eyes not large but very expressive, a nose not high but with smooth lines, thin lips that looked like a fine line when pursed. Her hair was light brown, dyed, with slightly dry ends, tied in a low ponytail, with a few stray strands hanging by her ears.

What was most striking was her skin. White, but not the healthy kind of white; rather, a white with a sense of translucency, like someone who hadn't seen the sun in a long time. It was so white that one could see the thin, blue vein beneath her temple.

She was carrying a paper bag, printed with a coffee shop logo. Through the opening of the bag, Jiang Zhiyu saw two iced Americanos—beads of water condensing on the cup walls and dripping down.

"Producer Jiang?" Kim Taeyeon tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over Jiang Zhiyu's face, then landing on his eyes, lingering for less than half a second.

"Taeyeon." Jiang Zhiyu bowed slightly and stepped aside to clear the doorway. "Please, come in."

Kim Taeyeon walked into the recording studio, her gaze sweeping around quickly. The mixing console, monitor speakers, microphone, soundproof glass, sofa, coffee table, the dying plant in the corner—everything lingered in her sight for only a fraction of a second, as if taking a photo; the shutter clicked, and the image was stored in her brain. Her gaze finally landed on the pink milk tea on the coffee table, pausing for a moment.

The milk tea cup had a straw inserted, water droplets condensing on its walls, and on the cup body, it was written in marker: "Full sugar + pearls + coconut jelly + pudding + red beans." The handwriting was Jiang Zhiyu's own—he would include these notes when ordering delivery, but the staff would still get it wrong, so every time he received milk tea, he would rewrite it himself to avoid mixing them up.

Kim Taeyeon's gaze lingered on that line of text for about a second. Then she placed the paper bag on the coffee table and took out two iced Americanos, setting them down next to the milk tea. One was for herself, the other—she had originally intended it for Jiang Zhiyu.

She didn't take that iced Americano back. She just glanced at it and pushed it to the corner of the coffee table, near the dying plant.

Jiang Zhiyu noticed this action. He pretended not to see it and moved the main seat in front of the mixing console, making space for someone to sit.

"Please, sit."

"Just call me Taeyeon," Kim Taeyeon said, sitting down on the chair and pushing up the sleeves of her hoodie, revealing a section of her wrist. Her wrist was very thin, so thin that the wrist bone protruded, like a stone wrapped in skin. "Calling me 'Taeyeon' makes me feel like I'm very old."

Jiang Zhiyu sat down beside her, with the distance of a mixing console between them. "Then shall I call you Taeyeon xi?"

"Hmm." Kim Taeyeon nodded, her gaze landing on the dense tracks on the computer screen, not continuing the small talk. Her fingers tapped lightly on the desktop, as if thinking about where to start.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't rush her. He picked up his strawberry milk tea, took a sip, and waited quietly.

The recording studio was quiet for a few seconds. There was no sound in the monitor speakers, and the air conditioner vent above emitted a faint humming sound, like some large insect flapping its wings in the distance.

"I heard it from Yeri," Kim Taeyeon began, her gaze moving from the computer screen to Jiang Zhiyu's face. "She said a sixteen-year-old genius producer had joined the company, that the songs he writes are good, and that he's good-looking too."

Jiang Zhiyu's mouth twitched slightly.

Yeri. Kim Yerim. The maknae of Red Velvet, the girl who would squat on the floor in the recording studio laughing until she couldn't straighten up, the "little crazy one" who, after exchanging KakaoTalk with him in the elevator, sent him at least ten messages every day. He could almost imagine how she had told Kim Taeyeon—"Unnie, Unnie, you have to listen to Producer Jiang's songs! He's only sixteen! He's very handsome! Really super handsome! Not the polite kind of handsome! He's really handsome!"

"Yeri, she..." Jiang Zhiyu paused, choosing his words carefully. "Is very enthusiastic."

Kim Taeyeon watched the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, her eyes curving slightly. The arc was small, impossible to see without looking closely, but Jiang Zhiyu caught it. He had seen this expression too many times back in the Tianxuan Continent—it wasn't a smile, but a subtle reaction of "I've caught you."

"You two seem to have a good relationship," Kim Taeyeon said.

"It's alright. She teaches me Korean, and I teach her English."

"Has her English improved?"

"...No."

Kim Taeyeon really laughed this time. Not the polite, social kind of smile, but a genuine, heartfelt laugh, with the corners of her mouth upturned and her eyes curving into crescent moons. Her laugh wasn't loud, even a bit hoarse, like an old wooden guitar being strummed—out of tune, but pleasant to hear.

Jiang Zhiyu watched her laughing and suddenly thought of someone. Baek Ji-xin. Baek Ji-xin was like this when she laughed, her eyes curving into crescent moons, the angle of her upturned mouth small, but her whole face would light up. It wasn't the kind of smile that said "I am laughing," but the kind that said "I can't help it."

He looked away.

Kim Taeyeon's laughter quickly subsided. She cleared her throat and resumed that serious, focused expression. She took a tablet out of her bag, opened it, and flipped to the sheet music for "Prince Rupert's Drop." "I've been listening to this song a lot lately."

"It is my honor that you like this song and are willing to sing it," Jiang Zhiyu said. The words were airtight—respectful but not servile, humble but not hypocritical. He had said similar things countless times back in the Tianxuan Continent, to targets ranging from Wang Yuanting to Li Zhiyuan to Song Taiyuan, each sentence carefully designed, every word repeatedly weighed. But this time, he meant it. Not because Kim Taeyeon was the leader of Girls Generation, but because she was the one who truly understood this song.

Kim Taeyeon didn't reply immediately after hearing this "honor." She glanced at Jiang Zhiyu; that glance held scrutiny, assessment, and something indescribable. Then she lowered her head and used the stylus on the tablet to draw a few circles on the sheet music.

"In the second verse, '바닥에 흩어져 있는 건'—'scattered all over the ground'—I think the rhythm here could be a bit looser. You wrote it as one character per beat; it's too tight, like rushing on a journey. I want to stretch it out so that every character has room to breathe."

"That works," Jiang Zhiyu said.

"And in the chorus, '내 유일한 약점을'—'my only weakness'—for '약점을' here, I want to place the accent on '점' instead of '약'. Singing it this way gives it more of a stinging sensation of 'being stabbed in the vital point.'"

"That works."

Kim Taeyeon looked up at him. "You agree to all of it? No counter-argument?"

"You are right, why would I argue?"

Kim Taeyeon pursed her lips. Her lips were naturally thin, and when pursed, they became an almost invisible line. "You, your way of speaking is too airtight. You're a lot like someone I know."

"Who?"

"Someone I don't really like."

Jiang Zhiyu was silent for a second. "I'll be careful in the future then."

Kim Taeyeon glanced at him and didn't speak. She stood up, placed the tablet on the mixing console, walked to the recording booth door, pushed open the soundproof door, and went in. Her movements were quick, so quick that it was as if she were fleeing from something—or chasing something.

She stood still in front of the microphone, adjusted her in-ear monitors, and made an OK gesture toward the soundproof glass.

Jiang Zhiyu pressed the talkback button. "You can start whenever. The accompaniment comes in from the first verse, sixteen seconds of intro; just listen and come in."

Kim Taeyeon nodded.

Jiang Zhiyu pressed play. The sound of the piano flowed out of the monitor speakers and through the soundproof glass into the recording booth. Kim Taeyeon closed her eyes, her body swaying slightly, her lips moving, as if reciting the lyrics silently or breathing along with the melody.

Sixteen seconds later, she began.

"We were once invincible glass—"

Jiang Zhiyu's fingers hovered over the faders on the mixing console, motionless. He didn't need to move. Because her voice had already pushed all the faders to the most correct positions.

Her voice was not what he had imagined. He thought she would sing this song in a more "Kim Taeyeon" way—that signature style, with a metallic texture, the high notes sounding like they were about to tear a hole in the sky. But she didn't. Her voice was very light, so light that it was like whispering to someone; there was no sense of distance like "I am singing," but rather a sense of intimacy like "I am talking to you."

Every word seemed to be dug out from her heart.

"Refracting all the light in the world—"

"Refracting"—passive voice, just as Jiang Zhiyu had sung it. She didn't change it to the active voice, didn't change it to a smoother expression, but sang the lyrics he wrote exactly as they were.

Jiang Zhiyu tapped his finger lightly on the mixing console.

In the chorus, she didn't belt out the high notes as he had expected. She reined in the high notes, reined them in tightly, as if afraid that if the sound were too loud, it would shatter something. But it was precisely this "reining in" that gave the line "내 유일한 약점을 쉽게 부숴버렸어"—"Easily crushed my only weakness"—a deeper, more introverted quality, like swallowing all the pain into one's stomach, leaving only a trace of bitter aftertaste in the throat.

Jiang Zhiyu leaned back in his chair, watching Kim Taeyeon on the other side of the soundproof glass. She had her eyes closed, her brows slightly furrowed, her lips very close to the microphone, so close they were almost touching it. Her fingers were gripping the headphone cable, her knuckles white.

He suddenly understood why she was the leader of Girls Generation, why she was one of the top female singers in South Korea. It wasn't because of technique—there were many people with good technique. It wasn't because of vocal range—there were also many people with a wide vocal range. It was because there were stories in her voice. Not stories made up, not stories heard from others, but stories she had lived herself.

After finishing singing, Kim Taeyeon opened her eyes, took off her headphones, and made an inquiring gesture toward the soundproof glass. Jiang Zhiyu pressed the talkback button, was silent for two seconds, and then said something very unprofessional.

"...That was sung really well."

Kim Taeyeon froze for a moment. Then the corners of her mouth curled up slightly, the arc much larger than before, so large that Jiang Zhiyu could see it clearly through the soundproof glass.

"That is good," she said. "I was afraid you wouldn't be satisfied."

"Satisfied. Very satisfied," Jiang Zhiyu said. "Senior, please come out and take a break. I'll save the track."

Kim Taeyeon walked out of the recording booth and sat on the sofa. She picked up the iced Americano on the coffee table, took a sip, and watched Jiang Zhiyu's busy back as he worked at the mixing console. He was saving the version just recorded, creating a new folder named "Taeyeon_First Take_Initial Recording," and then typing a line in the remarks column: "Emotion perfect, chorus could try a version with more release."

His fingers tapped on the keyboard so quickly that she could barely see which keys he was pressing.

"You type so fast," she said.

"I write songs a lot, so I use the keyboard often," Jiang Zhiyu said without turning around, continuing to operate the computer.

Kim Taeyeon took another sip of the iced Americano. Her gaze shifted from Jiang Zhiyu's back to the pink milk tea on his desk. The milk tea was half gone, a layer of fine water droplets condensed on the cup wall, and there was a faint tooth mark on the straw.

"Don't you drink iced Americano?" she asked.

Jiang Zhiyu's fingers paused. Then he turned his head, glanced at the iced Americano pushed to the corner of the coffee table, and then looked at Kim Taeyeon.

"I do," he said, "but I prefer milk tea."

"Full sugar?"

"Full sugar."

The corners of Kim Taeyeon's mouth twitched again. This time it wasn't a smile, but a subtle expression of "I knew it." "Kim Yerim said you have a sweet tooth, but I didn't believe it."

"What else did Kim Yerim say about me?"

"She said you can do magic tricks and teach English."

"...She says that to everyone."

Kim Taeyeon placed the iced Americano on the coffee table, folded her hands on her lap, and leaned forward slightly. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu, her gaze filled with something she couldn't quite explain herself. It wasn't curiosity—curiosity was too light. It wasn't admiration—admiration was too distant. It was a more complex state, somewhere between "wanting to know" and "already knowing."

She was twenty-eight years old this year. Having struggled in the entertainment industry for over a decade, she had seen more people than she had eaten meals. She had seen geniuses, godly visuals, so-called "born idols," and countless young people called the "next generation." Most of them would disappear in a few years, replaced by a newer "next generation." But Jiang Zhiyu wasn't that kind of person. She couldn't say why, but she just knew. Perhaps it was the way he looked at her—not the look for "Kim Taeyeon," not the look for "Girls Generation leader," not the look for "Senior." It was the look for a person. An equal, level-headed, unfiltered look.

This kind of look, she rarely saw in the entertainment industry.

"For the official recording time," Kim Taeyeon said, "when are you available?"

"You can decide, Senior. My schedule is quite flexible."

"Then next Monday, at two in the afternoon. Still here."

"Okay."

Kim Taeyeon stood up, picked up the iced Americano on the coffee table, threw the empty cup into the trash can, and hesitated for a moment before leaving the other cup—the one originally meant for Jiang Zhiyu—on the coffee table. "Keep this one. If you don't want to drink it, give it to someone else."

"Okay."

Kim Taeyeon walked to the door, her hand resting on the doorknob, but she didn't pull it open immediately. She stood there, back to Jiang Zhiyu, as if thinking about something, or waiting for something to happen.

The recording studio was quiet for a few seconds.

Jiang Zhiyu stood at the mixing console, back to the door, organizing the scattered papers on the table. He folded the sheet music, put it into the folder, unplugged the USB drive from the computer, and put it into his pocket. His movements were very natural, so natural that it was as if he were tidying up in his own home, completely forgetting that there was someone behind him.

Then he spoke. His voice wasn't loud, as if talking to himself, or talking to the air.

"Tsk, that was truly incredible..."

He articulated the words very softly, so softly that it was almost a whisper. But there was an undisguised, heartfelt admiration in his tone, like the evaluation a craftsman would blurt out upon seeing another craftsman's work.

He paused, folded another piece of paper, and tucked it into the folder.

"However, for a thirty-year-old senior who has never been in a relationship to be able to interpret a sad love song to this level, does that count as a different kind of talent?"

When he said this, there was a hint of a smile on his lips. It wasn't mockery, it wasn't sarcasm, but a slightly mischievous smile, as if to say, "I'm telling a secret that only I know."

Then he put the folder back on the table and turned around.

His gaze first fell on the coffee table—the left-behind iced Americano was still there, the water droplets on the cup wall had condensed into a small puddle, spreading a dark circle on the solid wood tabletop.

Then his gaze shifted up a bit. Kim Taeyeon was standing at the door.

One of her hands was still on the doorknob, not pulling the door open, nor letting go. Her body was slightly angled, facing his direction, her head tilted slightly, with a standard expression on her lips that Jiang Zhiyu had seen on countless occasions.

That expression meant—What did you say? Say it again if you dare.

Her face didn't turn green. But her eyes had changed. That gentle filter of "senior to junior" was shattered, replaced by something more primitive and direct. It wasn't anger—anger was too intense. It wasn't grievance—grievance was too weak. It was a complex mixture of "What did I just hear?" "How dare he say such a thing?" and "Is he tired of living?"

Jiang Zhiyu's hair stood on end.

Not an adjective. It was a real, physical bristling of hair. Starting from the back of his neck, running down his spine, like a row of dominoes falling one by one. He was too familiar with this feeling. Back in the Tianxuan Continent, every time he encountered danger, his body would issue a warning a fraction of a second in advance. The training of the Detective Division had honed this early warning system to the extreme—his body perceived the threat before he did.

But now, the source of the threat wasn't an assassin, wasn't a killer, wasn't any danger in the physical sense.

It was a female singer who was less than 1.6 meters tall, weighed less than 45 kilograms, and was as frail as a reed.

Jiang Zhiyu's gaze shifted from Kim Taeyeon's face to the glass door behind her. The soundproof glass reflected his image—stiff expression, lips slightly parted, eyes widened twice their usual size. That reflection looked like a middle school student caught red-handed doing something wrong, not a thirty-year-old former member of the Detective Division who had experienced countless life-and-death trials.

This isn't real. I must be dreaming. Yes, it must be a dream. I'm still in bed at the examination dormitory, the alarm on my phone hasn't rung, I'm still dreaming. When I wake up, everything will be fine.

He took a deep breath, turned around, and faced Kim Taeyeon. Their eyes met.

In that instant, Jiang Zhiyu's brain operated at a speed beyond its limits. He analyzed all possibilities—denial, saying he didn't say those things. But she said she heard it, he said she misheard, and then what? It would turn into a tug-of-war of "did you or didn't you say it," wasting energy, wasting trust, completely meaningless.

Apologize, saying, "Senior, I'm sorry, I said the wrong thing." But what did he do wrong? "Thirty years old and never been in a relationship" is a fact—Kim Taeyeon had mentioned in multiple interviews that she had no dating experience. "Old senior" is also a fact—she was indeed twelve years older than him, and she was indeed his senior. Facts are not wrong, but saying them out loud, that is the mistake.

Play dead, stand there and do nothing, waiting for the storm to pass. But his hair hadn't gone down, the warning system was still blaring alarms frantically. This meant the storm wouldn't pass on its own, he had to do something.

He made a decision. That decision wasn't the result of rational analysis, but something deeper, something from instinct. Like a drowning person grabbing a piece of driftwood at the last moment, not because the driftwood could save him, but because he had to grab onto something.

The corners of Jiang Zhiyu's mouth lifted. It wasn't a bitter smile, not an awkward smile, not a forced smile. It was a brilliant, bright smile, like sunlight piercing through dark clouds. His eyes curved up, the arc of his mouth was so wide that it revealed a few teeth, and his entire face transformed from the stiffness of "I did something wrong" to the innocence of "I didn't do anything wrong, I was just telling the truth."

He extended his right hand, gave a thumbs-up, and struck a standard "like" pose. "Senior Taeyeon!" His voice was half a tone higher than usual, carrying a deliberate, exaggerated, yet not fake-sounding enthusiasm. "Your singing just now was truly perfect! The grasp of emotion was just right, giving me a whole new understanding of this song!"

His thumb was held straight up like a flag. "Thank you for your hard work!"

Kim Taeyeon didn't speak. She stood at the door, hand still on the doorknob, head tilted, with that "What are you talking about" expression on her lips, watching Jiang Zhiyu. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Jiang Zhiyu's thumb was still up, but his smile had already started to show tiny cracks. The corner of his eye was twitching slightly, the arc of his mouth was slowly decaying, like a battery draining at a speed visible to the naked eye.

Kim Taeyeon finally moved. She didn't speak. She just gave him a deep look.

There was too much in that look—there was "I'll remember you," there was "Just you wait," there was "This isn't over," there was "I won't hold it against you today just because you're good-looking," and there was also a subtle feeling, perhaps even she wasn't aware of, like being gently poked by something.

Then she pulled the door open and walked out. The door closed slowly behind her, making a slight "click" sound.

Jiang Zhiyu stood where he was, his right hand still raised in that thumbs-up gesture, not putting it down. He listened to the footsteps in the hallway gradually fading away. Kim Taeyeon's canvas shoes stepped on the carpet, making almost no sound, but he heard it. Not heard with his ears, but heard with some more ancient, more primitive sense—that instinct of sensing the distance of prey or a natural enemy in the dark.

The footsteps disappeared in the direction of the elevator.

Jiang Zhiyu lowered his right hand, walked to the coffee table, picked up the strawberry milk tea that had gone cold, and took a big gulp. The liquid was cloyingly sweet, as if drinking melted syrup. But at this moment, he needed this sweetness. He needed something to dilute the bitter taste of "I'm done for" in his mouth.

He put down the milk tea cup, picked up the iced Americano left by Kim Taeyeon, hesitated for a moment, and then put it into the recording studio's small refrigerator. It sat side by side with the sausages brought by NingNing, the half bag of snacks left by Kim Minjeong, and a box of cut fruit that Karina had put in at some unknown time.

Then he sat back down in front of the mixing console, opened his phone, and clicked into the "The Four of Us" group chat.

His fingers hovered over the input box for a long time, typed a few words, deleted them, typed again, deleted again. Finally, he sent a message.

"I might have said the wrong thing today."

NingNing replied in a second: "???"

Kim Minjeong also replied in a second: "Oppa, what did you say?"

Karina didn't send a message, but three seconds later, she changed the group name from "The Four of Us" to "Jiang Zhiyu's Social Death Scene."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at the new name and was silent for a long time. Then he placed his phone face down on the table, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

There was a fluorescent light on the ceiling with two tubes; the ballast of one was broken, and every few seconds it would flicker, making a faint "buzzing" sound.

He stared at the light, thinking of the scene just now—Kim Taeyeon tilting her head, with that expression on her lips, and giving him that deep look.

That look, he had seen countless times in the Tianxuan Continent. Every time was after he had said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing, or offended someone he shouldn't have offended.

But this time, he couldn't describe the feeling.

It wasn't fear—he wasn't afraid of Kim Taeyeon. It wasn't regret—he had spoken the truth. It wasn't indifference—he indeed felt he shouldn't have said those things, at least not let her hear them.

Then what was it?

He couldn't say.

He just felt that the image of that small figure with her head tilted, standing at the door for three seconds, might stay in his mind for a long time. Longer than the length of a song. Much longer.

Super cute Dongdong (Pounces into arms~)

(08:45) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Good morning Oppa~ Today I was woken up by a kiss from the sunlight! Because I dreamed that Oppa opened his arms to me backstage at the family concert, and I went thump and rolled out of bed... (Rubbing knees and giggling)]

(08:48) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [For breakfast, I had the pumpkin porridge that Oppa said was "best for puppies" last time! I added honey, but not too much, because Oppa said honey should be tasted slowly to be sweet~ (Sends a verification photo of a spoon held high)]

(08:51) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Met Seulgi Unnie in the elevator this morning, she stared at me for five seconds, then suddenly said "You have stars living in your eyes lately." Oppa, did you put my stars in there? (✧ω✧)]

(08:54) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Today I have to record the demo for the OST... the recording studio teacher is the one Oppa personally asked, I will definitely sing with all my might! If I sing well, can Oppa give me a... a hug as a reward? (Sends a shy puppy sticker with fingers poking together)]

(08:57) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [I washed the pair of socks Oppa gave me until they were fragrant, and put them with my stage outfit. If I wear them to sing, will my voice become even warmer?]

(09:00) Minjeong who doesn't reply to messages: [Heading to the recording studio! Today will also be a day of working hard to get closer to Oppa's world~ (Sends a photo of a vibrant back view hopping out the door with a bag)]