Heo-ok opened her eyes.
The world seemed to spin wildly, but she soon steadied herself.
What happened?
This wasn’t home—it was a hospital.
Heo-ok scanned her surroundings, trying to piece together the situation.
“Hmm?”
That’s when she felt it.
Something heavy lay in her arms.
Warm with a sweet scent—yes, it was Yeon-woo.
Heo-ok gazed at the sleeping child in her embrace and instinctively smiled, reaching out to stroke Yeon-woo’s hair.
“Mmmph…”
At the touch, Yeon-woo’s eyes fluttered open.
Realizing her grandmother was watching, Yeon-woo jolted upright.
“Yeon-woo.”
“G-G-Grandma…!”
“…Y-Yeon-woo?”
“G-Grandma… okay?”
Though her tongue felt stiff and her speech slurred, Yeon-woo was unmistakably speaking.
Heo-ok’s eyes widened as she cupped Yeon-woo’s cheeks—soft as glutinous rice cakes—and asked,
“Y-You can… speak?”
“Mmm, Grandma okay?”
“Heavens… Dear God.”
For the first time in her life, Heo-ok uttered a prayer while clutching Yeon-woo tightly.
“Mom!!”
Ji-young appeared just then, pushing aside the hospital curtain. She sighed at the sight of Heo-ok holding Yeon-woo.
“You look alright. Fainted again?”
“She insists she’s managing her health, but this keeps happening.”
“Shouldn’t you get a thorough exam?”
Truthfully, Heo-ok had long suffered complications from chronic low blood pressure.
With careful management, she stayed stable—but occasional shock still caused collapses.
“I know my own body,” Heo-ok retorted, echoing the refrain of those indifferent to their health. She patted Yeon-woo’s head.
“Though… without my grandchild this time, it might’ve ended badly.”
“But Yeon-woo—how did you even call for help? The ambulance?”
“Well, Yeon-woo—”
“…Auntie…”
“Did you hear that?!”
“Oh my God…!” Ji-young clapped both hands over her mouth when Yeon-woo addressed her.
“D-Did she just—?!”
“Yes. Yeon-woo… she’s talking now.”
“Unbelievable!!”
Ji-young swept Yeon-woo into her arms, peppering her cheeks with kisses.
“Our Yeon-woo cured herself to save Grandma! Isn’t she incredible? Wait—we’re getting sidetracked!”
Jiyeong took out her smartphone from her pocket.
"I should tell hyung about this..."
"Mom! Yeonwoo!"
"...Honestly, there’s no hope for him to become a proper gentleman."
Jiyeong, about to make a call, turned at the sound of Jihun’s voice behind her.
"Ah, Dad."
"...!!"
At Yeonwoo’s voice, Jihun’s eyes widened as much as Jiyeong’s.
After a prolonged silence, Jihun strode toward Yeonwoo and pulled him into a tight embrace.
"Dad, c-can’t breathe...!"
"Yeah, Yeonwoo. Thank you. Thank you for telling me."
Jihun didn’t understand why his own tears were so unruly, always threatening to spill at the slightest provocation.
Days after Yeonwoo regained his voice, Jihun took him to the hospital.
He dwelled on the doctor’s words:
‘Mutism stems from psychological causes, so a triggering event can lead to rapid recovery like this. The emotional stability and strong bond you’ve built with the child recently were crucial. It’s remarkable how much dedication you showed in such a short time.’
Jihun flushed with guilt.
Work had kept him from spending much time with Yeonwoo.
Certainly compared to his mother. No—even Jiyeong, who’d been glued to Yeonwoo daily since returning from abroad, had been more present. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he’d spent less time with his son than she had.
He studied Yeonwoo’s face as the boy chattered:
"Dad, I love fizzy drinks! My throat tingled at first, but now it’s fun! Feels like my insides get all bubbly-clean! But Grandma and Auntie say no. They say it’s unhealthy. Why’s yummy stuff bad? If it’s yummy, it should be good!"
Yeonwoo, now vocal, spoke like a broken dam.
His pronunciation had improved rapidly, but the relentless chatter was exhausting. Listening earnestly without tuning out felt like a Herculean task.
But what choice was there? His beloved son needed to voice years of pent-up words.
"True, but Auntie and Grandma aren’t wrong. Too much soda’s bad for you."
"That’s why I drink zero cola now! One tiny can daily. Promised Grandma."
"With Grandma?"
"Uh-huh! She said I should stay healthy. That she’d hurt more if I got sick than if she did."
"Grandma... said that?"
"Yep."
Jihun reeled.
He knew they were close, but Lady Heo Ok—the woman who’d raised him and Jiyeong—uttering such tenderness?
In their childhood, this was inconceivable. Age might’ve softened her, but in his memories, she remained the unyielding matriarch who’d sooner bleed than cry.
‘They say no parent loses to their child, but no grandparent ever beats their grandkid...’
Jihun pondered this as he entered the car. A thought struck him:
"Yeonwoo, want anything? Should we get a toy?"
"Not a toy. Something else!"
"Like?"
"A guitar! A mini guitar!"
"A... guitar?"
It was a request that seemed unusual for a child, but then again, our son is extraordinary.
Thinking of Yeon-woo astonishing singers and producers by playing jazz piano despite his age, it made perfect sense.
By the way, where can we get a guitar?
“Uh… Yeon-woo, what if we order it online?”
“If it’s available for Firework Delivery, Yeon-woo wants it.”
Since when did kids his age learn about Firework Delivery?
“Uh… sure.”
Jihun sighed, thinking kids these days were too sharp for their own good.
Then it happened.
“Huh?”
[Oppa!! Alice messaged me!!]
A KakaoTalk notification from his sister popped up.
Alice?
[Yeon-woo—no, Composer Yooin—strictly banned face reveals, but Alice insists on meeting him after seeing his photo. What do we do?]
[She sounds desperate!]
[Should I reveal Yeon-woo’s identity?]
[Can you ask him for me?]
[Hurry!!]
Jihun scratched his head, overwhelmed by Jiyeong’s relentless messages.
So…
Who is Alice?
Alice—or Noh Heeyeon.
She had a dream: to create idols entirely on her own terms, free from agency interference.
Most independent producers shared this dream, though few had the skill or influence to achieve it.
But Alice was different.
She’d already launched multiple successful idol groups, cementing her reputation in the industry.
The problem was her agency.
Taein—a place where even someone like her couldn’t break free from their rigid mold.
They clung to their “signature style” with cult-like fervor.
So she left.
Taein made half-hearted attempts to dissuade her before letting her go.
Free at last, Alice scouted agencies and partnered with BSK.
They granted her full creative control, and their trainees’ talent surpassed her expectations—vocalists, dancers, and personalities that radiated star quality.
She handpicked five to form a new group.
Unlike major agencies that turned trainee selections into televised spectacles, BSK skipped the theatrics. No need to drag out unwanted candidates for drama.
With her lineup finalized, she settled on a concept: freedom.
A group where each member’s individuality would shine through their music and movement.
This vision stemmed entirely from her time at Taein.
Taein forced identical vocal techniques and choreography on every trainee. Even their recruits looked like clones—so Taein, people would say.
If that were their only flaw, it might’ve been tolerable.
he song itself must either be crafted in a Ta-in-esque style or explicitly demanded to follow it.
Honestly, isn’t it remarkable that I managed to scout an idol of that caliber from the group?
No, it is remarkable.
It needs to be remarkable.
Some accuse me of riding Ta-in’s coattails, so this time I’ll prove them wrong.
For her, BSK was both a challenge and a proving ground.
Standing on the evaluation stage with five female trainees, Ellis asked BSK:
“The song…?”
“Write it yourself if you want. You’ve always had a knack for picking tracks, Ellis.”
Kim Beom-shin, hailed as the ballad legend in this industry, might seem like an old-school stickler at first glance due to his age, but he defied expectations entirely.
“Do whatever you want. I’ll loosen the reins—so spread your wings and fly.”
…The phrasing made her cringe slightly, but since he’d truly set her free, she’d have to soar.
Steeling herself, she resolved to choose a song devoid of Ta-in’s influence. She even combed through her existing compositions.
But something felt off.
Nothing satisfied her.
Neither her past works nor new creations could grip her heart—not because they echoed Ta-in’s style.
She’d always been a born rebel, pushing against Ta-in’s musical norms even while working there.
What was wrong?
Was the issue with her?
Had Ta-in’s influence seeped so deeply into her that she’d become one of them?
Ellis clutched her head.
“Wait—let’s try something else.”
This was BSK. Not a corporate giant, but a rising agency led by Kim Beom-shin, the undisputed king of ballads.
Naturally, songs poured in from both unknowns and established composers.
Ellis sifted through them.
There were plenty of solid tracks, as if she’d stumbled into a treasure vault.
Yet none resonated.
Most were trend-chasing, meticulously following Korea’s proven money-making formulas. Countless even reeked of Ta-in’s signature style.
So the problem wasn’t her being out of touch.
Was the industry’s golden formula now just repackaging trendy tracks with slick planning and marketing?
Then—
“Hmm?”
[1☆]
A music file with a hauntingly familiar title blinked on the screen.
It dragged her back to the song she’d desperately tried to bury after fleeing Ta-in amid turmoil.
“That song… could it be?”
She’d never truly forgotten.
This was the track that had sparked her vision for a new girl group—the very reason she’d clashed with Ta-in over creative control before leaving.
“Perfect.”
Yes. This was it.
A song that doesn’t follow trends yet incorporates a money code, crafted in such a fresh way you wonder how they composed it.
Yet it feels neither unfamiliar, off-putting, nor overly complex.
It strikes the perfect balance between novelty and mass appeal.
“Whoever wrote this is definitely a genius.”
Why else would Taein—someone who rigidly sticks to his own style—agree so fervently to secure this song, even if it meant treating a newcomer like an established top-tier composer?
Perhaps Jiyoung, the representative of composer Yooin, had circulated the song sample to all agencies, including this one, but Taein might have already claimed it.
Then again, you never know.
The composer, or Shin Jiyoung herself, might have rejected Taein’s overly intrusive proposal—one that threatened to dismantle the song’s core essence.
If that’s the case, we have to get it.
Hoping for the best, Ellis called the director of BSK.
“It’s about the song Producer Shin Jiyoung sent, Director. Ah, Senior Beomsin knows about it too? But I heard it’s already been claimed?”
“From what I heard, Taein met with them, but the deal fell through. Since Senior Beomsin’s also eyeing it, that’s probably true.”
“Understood.”
A glimmer of hope.
If this works, there’s no need to write or hunt for a new song.
As planned, we must secure this track at all costs.
We need to move fast. Get it before anyone else who recognizes its value does.
“Director—can we take this song? Nothing else compares. Oh, you’re meeting Producer Shin Jiyoung again? She wants to see me? Perfect! Um… could I meet the composer too? Yooin, right? Please—I need to meet them. Yes, absolutely, absolutely!”
Her heart split between excitement and dread, Ellis waited after proposing the meeting through BSK.
Days later, Yooin’s response came through Shin Jiyoung.
“…What’s this?”
The KakaoTalk message contained a contract.
“A non-disclosure agreement…?”
“Never disclose the composer’s identity—that’s all. Simple enough, right?”
“I suppose…”
But… is all this really necessary just to meet someone?
What secret could they possibly be hiding?
“So? Sign and meet, or walk away?”
The more mysterious it felt, the more her curiosity burned.
To Ellis, the NDA loomed like Eden’s serpent, the forbidden fruit itself—a tantalizing temptation whispering promises of hidden truths.
“…I’ll sign and send it.”
In the end, like Eve biting the apple, she signed her name on the printed contract.
