Episode 54: The Curse of November
There’s a rumor in the Korean entertainment industry: November brings scandals and incidents, the so-called “November Curse.”
‘That’s nonsense.’
Statistics show March has the most incidents, and some October scandals drag into November.
To me, it’s just a forced jinx, like the 27 Club, framed to fit a narrative.
But one thing’s clear: dispelling this baseless rumor will be tough this year.
[Polaris Plagiarism Allegations!]
The spark Gong Jiu ignited has spread like wildfire across online communities.
YouTubers, eager for clicks, slap “November Curse” onto their sensational titles.
Honestly, I hate the November Curse.
Probably everyone in this industry does.
-“Let there be no talk of it this year. Or at least let it miss me.”
I’ve had that thought for 14 years, excluding my debut year.
It’s exhausting.
Ironically, I donated more and did good deeds in November to counter it—calculated and cynical, I know.
The November Curse is impossible to ignore.
‘So it’s ironic.’
I, who despised and even loathed the November Curse, am now—
“Han Yujin-ssi, ready?”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
“Uh… about ‘that question,’ are you sure we can keep it?”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I have things to say about ‘that issue’ too.”
“Alright… let’s go.”
—about to pour fuel on its flames.
***
Meanwhile, in an office at Y&I Law Firm.
“We rejected their request as you suggested, but I’m not sure this is right.”
A seasoned partner lawyer voices concern to Min Aeran, a senior associate nearing partnership.
She bows lightly and responds confidently.
“This time, ‘this side’ is right, sunbae-nim. The outcome’s clear, and public opinion agrees.”
“When have we ever cared about public opinion? It’s separate from legal reasoning.”
“True, we don’t need to. But our clients are different, aren’t they?”
“Hmm…”
As the senior lawyer groans, Min Aeran presses on.
“Y&I has dominated Korea’s legal scene for over a decade. Handling cases for influential figures has branded us as a firm that crushes with money and prestige.”
The senior lawyer stays silent, unable to deny it.
“Before our clients are seen as the axis of evil, a bit of image cleansing isn’t bad. We won’t earn fees here, but consider it a cost for PR. It’s not a big loss.”
“The media’s too quiet for PR.”
“They’ve likely done the same fact-checking we have. They’re waiting for an opening. If we give them one, they’ll jump in. Starlight lacks our major clients’ influence, making this perfect for image improvement.”
Despite her reasoning, no affirmation comes, so she steps further.
“As you see, the outcome’s certain. If handled well, it might not even reach litigation. Even if it does, we can manage it alongside other cases for a solid win. Leave it to me.”
“If you’re that confident, I’ll trust you. Go ahead.”
With her taking responsibility, approval comes.
Min Aeran bows and exits.
“How’d it go?”
Her paralegal follows, and she shakes her head.
“That sly old fox… Only approved it when I said I’d take responsibility. Tch. It’s confirmed, so proceed as planned.”
“Great job, lawyer-nim.”
“Great? I’m stuck doing this at my age because of my starry-eyed son.”
“You say that, but you look happy.”
“Me? No way. This is a hassle.”
Though she cites various reasons, the paralegal sees through her: she’s protecting the dazzling entertainment world her son idolizes.
“Not being honest, huh?”
The paralegal chuckles, about to send good news to Jung Eunhye, when—
“Lawyer-nim! Paralegal-nim! Look at this!”
Another team member rushes over, thrusting out their phone.
The screen shows a YTV studio with a blue “NEWS” backdrop.
A striking young man with light green hair is being interviewed.
‘Is he fearless or just clueless?!’
After becoming the eye of the industry’s storm, the man who avoided media for so long picks a celebrity news interview for his debut.
“Paralegal-nim, contact them now.”
As Min Aeran barks orders, a thought flickers through her mind:
‘At least it worked out.’
Relief washes over her—her son’s role model won’t have to stand opposite them.
***
“What the hell was the A&R team doing?”
A man, scolded by a woman who looks ten years younger, stays silent as if struck mute.
When it comes to the wildfire now at their doorstep, the A&R team bears the lion’s share of blame.
“You’re saying you didn’t know?”
Pointing out the obvious is Lee Heekyung, the group’s representative.
No matter how senior the A&R team leader is, he can’t argue against her authority.
“So, what’s Kevin Lee saying?”
At Lee Heekyung’s question, the A&R team leader mumbles.
“He says it’s just a coincidence due to genre similarities…”
“Ha!”
A scoff of disbelief echoes before he finishes.
“Do plagiarists get a script? Why do they all sound the same? If you’re gonna lie, at least put some effort into it. Who even started this ‘genre similarity’ crap?”
Her sharpened rebuke weighs heavier on the team leader’s bowed head.
The melody claimed as Rising Star’s original matches its score note-for-note, save for a slight variation in tail direction—a fact already circulating on communities and YouTube.
Add to that Kevin Lee’s past misdeeds surfacing one by one.
“Let’s hold off on the blame and decide our stance first, CEO,” says Lee Heeyeon, the marketing team leader and Lee Heekyung’s blood relative, practically a deputy CEO.
“The legacy media’s silence is just the calm before the storm. We need to take the offensive first—either stand by him or cut him loose.”
“Cut him.”
Lee Heekyung answers without hesitation, brow furrowed.
“Dragging it out in court for two or three years might quiet things down, but what about our image? Kevin Lee can hide behind a frontman and release songs to live well, but we can’t. Once we’re tainted, it’s over. We say we didn’t know but will take moral responsibility. Put the original composer’s name in his place and move forward.”
“Understood.”
“Also, sue Kevin Lee for breach of duty. Make it clear Starlight and Polaris are victims too. We just got investment—nobody’s happy about this mess.”
At that moment—
“Excuse me…!”
The meeting room door swings open, and someone enters.
Unlike a drama, no one snaps at the intruder.
Everyone knows only a major incident would give a mere employee the courage to barge in.
“Assistant Park, what is it?”
Lee Heeyeon, recognizing her team member, asks.
The employee, lips tightly pressed, rushes to her and hands over a phone.
Seeing the emerald-blue-haired figure in a close-up on the screen, Lee Heeyeon passes it to Lee Heekyung.
“Everyone except Team Leader Lee, leave.”
Lee Heekyung’s voice, suddenly icy, clears the room.
Left alone with her sister, she snarls,
“What the hell is he doing here?”
Han Yujin—the one who rejected her idol offer, claiming it wasn’t his music, then captivated the nation with idol songs and shattered her pride with his quintessential idol presence—was now the trigger for her rage.
“No idea. Gotta watch to find out. They brought it urgently,” Lee Heeyeon replies.
Crunch.
Lee Heekyung grinds her teeth, roughly tapping the screen.
Soon, YTV’s anchor and Han Yujin’s voice fill the room.
“The next question might be sensitive. There’s an issue in the music industry—plagiarism. What are your thoughts, Yujin-ssi?”
“It’s… quite unfortunate. I actually feel a lot of responsibility about this issue.”
“You? Why would you feel responsible?”
“If I’d acted sooner, the original composer might’ve suffered less. Yes, I knew about this beforehand.”
“You knew?”
“I didn’t think it was plagiarism, but… I didn’t carry this around to show off. Can you take a look?”
On-screen, Han Yujin hands the anchor a phone.
“That file is the original for this issue.”
“The file’s creation date is… January 13 this year? The song in question came out in June, so… five months earlier.”
“Yes. I listened to it often because I liked the melody. Then it became someone’s debut song. I thought the producer uploaded it anonymously as a test. ‘Even famous producers can go unnoticed without a name. I need to work harder,’ I thought, and moved on. I never imagined it’d become this issue.”
“Blaming yourself for that seems a bit much.”
“That makes me feel a bit lighter, thank you.”
A small laugh passes between them.
Lee Heekyung’s hand, gripping the phone, reddens and trembles.
“Fact-checking comes first, but if this is true, the agency should respond firmly. The original composer’s efforts deserve recognition. Idols lead K-pop, which has spread globally, inspiring dreams—it should stay clean, right?”
“Thank you for your insight. Lastly, any words for your fans?”
“Well, I’ve been busy preparing a new song since the audition, so I haven’t been out much. That song will soon…”
Crash!
Han Yujin’s voice cuts off.
The phone, flung from Lee Heekyung’s hand, smashes into the floor, her heel grinding it to pieces, rendering it useless.
“Han Yujin, that bastard…!”
They were going to act anyway, but his public statement makes it look like Starlight’s moves are dictated by him.
Yet, she’s powerless.
Behind Han Yujin stands Seo Yoonje, a titan who’s kind only to artists he favors.
In this cutthroat world, Lee Heekyung’s petty schemes won’t touch Seo Yoonje, a survivor of over 30 years.
“Hey. Get me an actor.”
“An actor? Out of nowhere?”
“A solid one. I’ll write the script. We need to bury Kevin Lee so hard he can’t focus on this. Big enough to overshadow the plagiarism.”
“What’s the script?”
“The ugly, depraved side of a plagiarist producer. That’s the only way to bury this issue.”
“Do we need to go that far?”
“Yes. I was already debating it.”
A plan no one could’ve imagined surfaces.