Episode 9: No Introduction Needed
Everyone was speechless.
The game was over from the first line of the verse.
‘As expected, he was holding back on the guide. Is this guy actually insane?’
Ko Yo-han’s suspicion was proven true.
“…”
Watching the performance that validated his earlier whining about almost losing the song, Yo-han gave a wry smile.
“Ha.”
Bang Hokyung, seemingly sharing the same sentiment, let out a stunned breath and leaned forward. Yo-han glanced at him, confirming his feelings weren’t a mistake.
In the irony of emotions shining through suppression and artistry standing out through calmness, Han Yujin showed no sign of struggling to match Yo-han’s voice.
Instead, he unfolded his own colors with such confidence it almost seemed to radiate a halo, as if Yo-han’s performance wasn’t even on his radar.
His high notes, flowing seamlessly from verse to pre-chorus to chorus, were so solid not even a needle could pierce through.
“Haha.”
As Yujin stepped back into the interlude after the chorus without a hint of wavering, a sense of ease emanated from him, drawing another stunned laugh.
‘Anyone would think he’s been in this game for a decade or two.’
As a singer himself, Yo-han felt the weight of Yujin’s talent on a deeper level.
‘He’s playing with it. Masterfully.’
The word “masterful” implies experience or seasoning more than raw talent.
His gift wasn’t just a gem—it was insufficient to call it that.
A mysterious metal riding a meteor shower from the cosmos.
Outwardly indistinguishable from common stone, but all the more precious for it, destined to shine when polished.
So, Yo-han grinned at the man in a deeply pulled-down baseball cap who’d entered the studio just in time, pointing his chin toward Yujin.
As the interlude ended, Yujin stepped forward, and the song resumed.
His voice, piercing the heart just by listening, proved the emotions from the first verse were no fluke.
‘Thought his looks were too good to waste on a solo career.’
He’d seemed like a born idol, but that wasn’t it.
Missing his visuals in the idol scene was less regrettable than missing a song filled with such narrative depth from that voice.
Zing.
A message arrived on Yo-han’s phone, sent from the man right behind him.
[Who’s that guy?]
[Just watch. That’s why I called you.]
What need was there for words?
Yujin was proving himself through song, attitude, and skill.
The high notes of the chorus, rising smoothly, stopped the messages from continuing.
And then—
“Gasp.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Holy…!”
The ad-lib, bursting with uncontainable emotion, pulled unrestrained reactions from the staff.
To be honest, it felt a bit awkward.
Hard to pinpoint why, but if pressed, it was like—
‘A middle schooler born in ’08 passionately singing a ‘90s folk song?’
It felt like wearing clothes that didn’t fit his age.
But what did that matter?
The rookie in front of them was singing well.
The atmosphere shifted the moment Yo-han had that thought.
Yujin’s gaze, preparing for the final chorus after the ad-lib, was starkly different.
Singing of bitter regret while looking toward the future—what a paradox.
‘He was doing so well, why change it at the end?’
For anyone else, it might be understandable, but for Bang Hokyung, who rarely tolerates a singer’s discretion, a scolding wouldn’t be surprising.
Yet, Yo-han felt a sense of relief.
‘This makes him human.’
A 23-year-old rookie in his first proper recording.
Trying to slip in his own interpretation to make an impression?
That’s understandable.
‘Getting a little heat won’t hurt.’
He’s a singer who delivered a guide so perfect it needed no further interpretation, with the guts to demand a rerecord.
A little criticism wouldn’t break him.
So, Yo-han leaned back in his chair, ready to enjoy the rest of the song.
Thanks to that, he caught sight of Bang Hokyung, eyes ablaze but showing no sign of stopping the recording.
It wasn’t anger fueling Bang Hokyung’s gaze—it was awe at an unexpected twist.
“Ah.”
At the same time, a thought flashed through Yo-han’s mind like lightning.
“He figured it out.”
Yo-han nodded at Bang Hokyung’s slightly trembling voice.
The song he and Yujin were singing had set themes.
Yo-han’s was a middle-aged man steeped in regret for realizing what mattered too late.
Yujin’s was a young man granted a miraculous chance to right that regret.
The young male lead in the drama isn’t a character wallowing in regret until the end.
He’s one who moves forward.
‘He’s interpreting the character, not just the song—without even seeing the drama?’
Yujin couldn’t have seen it, just like Yo-han hadn’t.
At most, he’d have referenced news articles or YouTube clips of script readings.
Yo-han now understood the reason for those hollow eyes.
They were the remnants of the grueling effort only an unknown singer could pour in.
“He’s doing something we didn’t even tell him to.”
Yujin’s ‘For You, a Moment’, filled with hope, cut through Bang Hokyung’s playful scolding and sank slowly into silence.
***
Given there was no specific direction before recording, my choice to alter the ending was definitely overstepping.
But, let me say again—Bang Hokyung isn’t an old fogy.
‘His standards are just too damn high.’
He’s someone who gives credit where it’s due.
There’s no way he wouldn’t recognize the direction that fits the drama’s character.
And he’s not the type to chew out someone who catches that hidden intent with sharp intuition.
Maybe he didn’t give me specific orders because he didn’t know me well enough?
Worried that changing a well-captured image might ruin it—some pointless concern like that.
“Recording’s done for today. Go home.”
As expected, Bang Hokyung’s calm voice called me out of the booth.
One take.
A one-take isn’t always ideal in recording, but when it’s flawless, it’s undeniably perfect.
‘Starting at 8 a.m. and wrapping up a full day’s schedule before 9?’
That’s gotta be right.
Yo-han hyung finishing his session with Bang Hokyung in 40 minutes was impressive, but a one-take on top of that?
Only someone like me could pull that off—no one else would come close.
That aside, I’m not entirely at ease.
“Yujin, you got screwed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“No? Too much humility is toxic.”
Even with rare praise from Bang Hokyung (and yes, that’s genuine praise), I shook my head.
‘It’s not good enough.’
Bang Hokyung’s clearly satisfied, and Yo-han hyung’s looking at me like I’m some kind of freak, but—
‘There’s a reason I was unknown at this point.’
My current singing is something I, of all people, can’t give a passing grade.
An incomplete body.
An incomplete sound because of it.
The vessel that is the current “me” is undeniably too small to contain 16 years of experience.
If I had to put it into words—
‘It’s like a six-year-old kid singing a soulful trot about life’s hardships.’
Sure, some might find that endearing, but I’m the type who hates wearing ill-fitting clothes.
If the 39-year-old Han Yujin’s full potential had come through, this atmosphere wouldn’t exist.
‘Instead of praise, Bang Hokyung would be making the same face as Yo-han hyung.’
Now that I think about it, it’s probably better there aren’t any audition shows around now.
If I’d jumped in without thinking, my limits would’ve been exposed quickly.
‘I need to rebuild my body first.’
At least to the level I had when I debuted with Polaris—that’s the minimum to scrape a passing grade.
‘Maybe I can time it for Blind Singer.’
It’s not just about redecorating an existing foundation; I need to rebuild from the ground up.
It’s a pity I don’t have the top-tier staff who transformed the old me.
‘Having management versus going it alone really makes a difference.’
I don’t miss Lee Heekyung or Starlight.
Just thinking about her still makes my blood boil.
But I can’t deny the management I got there shaped my music significantly.
The good news? The discipline of an idol who reigned at the top for 16 years isn’t gone.
And I’ve got plenty of time and will.
‘The problem is money…’
It’s not that I’m broke.
It’s just—
‘It feels like giving Zia an excuse to keep working part-time.’
As I mulled over that, an unexpected voice broke through.
“Bang-ssaem, Yujin’s done, right?”
“Yeah, he’s done.”
Yo-han hyung suddenly wedged himself between me and Bang Hokyung.
When Bang Hokyung nodded, Yo-han flashed a bright smile and continued.
“Then shall we get to our business?”
“What, redo the recording?”
“You said it couldn’t get better than that. Not that.”
Yo-han’s gaze shifted elsewhere.
“When I said ‘we,’ I meant over there.”
I finally noticed a man sitting in the corner where I’d been earlier, someone I hadn’t seen before.
Wearing a Dodgers cap pulled low, hiding his face, he threw a light low kick at Yo-han’s thigh and spoke.
“Ugh, you said it’d be fun. How’s this fun? It’s freaking serious.”
The voice from under the cap snapped me to attention.
‘Huh?’
I never imagined hearing that voice here.
‘Now that I think about it, Yo-han hyung’s agency…’
Meanwhile, the man turned to Bang Hokyung, asking for permission.
“Bang Pro, mind if I step in?”
“Oh, wondered who came in. It’s all done anyway, so go ahead. But I’ve got questions too, and I’m holding back. This guy’s a mess—keep it short.”
Bang Hokyung gave his approval while looking at me, one corner of his mouth curled in his version of a pleased smile.
And for good reason.
“Didn’t expect to meet a talent like this in such a way. No introduction needed, right?”
Bang Hokyung knew.
The man extending a handshake to me could offer a different kind of opportunity than the one he’d given.