The second song Yeonwoo made for the idol group was quickly delivered to Ellis.
Although she had requested a song for the second digital single, Ellis hadn’t expected to receive it so quickly. She decided to listen to it first.
She already knew he was a genius and didn’t think there was anything left to surprise her.
But the song was a completely unexpected new style, and it left her stunned.
The fast, unique beat pounded in her ears, yet the melody refused to follow its rhythm.
It was bizarre yet brilliant—so addictive it felt dangerous.
Ellis immediately headed to BSK after listening to the song.
She gathered CEO Kim Beomshin, second-in-command Executive Director Park Sangcheol, and all the debut members to play it for them.
“…….”
“Why is everyone so quiet? What do you think?”
Silence lingered in BSK’s recording studio after the three-minute song ended.
Ellis broke the stillness.
Kim Beomshin was the first to respond.
“What do I think? Seriously… where the hell did Yeonwoo crawl out from? The kid’s insane.”
“So you like it?”
“Are you kidding? Wow, how does he keep writing like this? It’s fresh every time. This… this is what a real genius looks like. Sangcheol, your thoughts?”
“Even a music illiterate like me can tell it’s good. It’s catchy as hell.”
Kim Beomshin and Park Sangcheol glowed with satisfaction. How could they not when their idols’ song showed such hit potential?
The members shared the enthusiasm.
The track was complex upon analysis but deceptively simple and infectious when played.
“Honestly… people will love this regardless of age or gender.”
“You’re saying both kids and adults will vibe with it?”
“Exactly. Wait—doesn’t the beat feel vaguely familiar?”
Ellis chuckled at the question.
“It’s built on a trot foundation.”
“Trot… what? This is trot?!”
Kim Beomshin stared at her in disbelief before snorting with laughter.
“This is like… serving gourmet burgers on gold plates at a Michelin restaurant.”
“So we’re all agreed the second single will be this?”
At Ellis’s prompt, Kim Beomshin slammed his palm on the table.
“I gave you full authority! We trust your decisions!”
“You mean you trust Yeonwoo, not me.”
“That too! Either way, it’s your call!”
“I know. But I still need budget approval. Give me funds.”
“Money? Why?”
“I’m commissioning Jabbawockeez for the choreography.”
“Already?!”
“We row the boat even when the tide’s out. Constant hustle.”
After finalizing the second track, Ellis planned to release the debut digital single followed by the second just one week later.
Though promotion cycles had shortened to 2-3 weeks recently, back-to-back releases within seven days remained unheard of.
But with Taein scheming behind the scenes, resting on one song wasn’t an option.
The debut album would showcase vocals, the second would highlight choreography and musicality—proof that her idols relied on pure talent.
Speaking of which…
What about lyrics?
“By the way, do you know any skilled lyricists?”
“Why? You wrote Fly High perfectly.”
“I want someone else this time.”
Kim Beomshin didn’t understand.
The pressure of being scrutinized by a six-year-old prodigy.
“What’s the group’s name anyway? Don’t tell me it’s still undecided before recording?”
Ellis recalled Yeonwoo’s comment upon meeting the trainees.
“Someone said they look like fairies.”
“Accurate. My kids do have that ethereal vibe.”
“So I named them ‘Hadas.’”
“Hadas?”
“Spanish for ‘fairies.’”
“Not bad. Unconventional yet meaningful.”
Hadas.
Fairies.
The name was set for the group debuting with Yeonwoo’s song.
Shortly after, Jabbawockeez delivered the choreography—a high-difficulty blend of precision and individuality to embody freedom.
The trainees, long prepared for this moment, drilled relentlessly to memorize and synchronize the moves.
With their debut showcase imminent, they practiced through sleepless nights without complaint.
The dream was too close to feel the exhaustion.
As the choreography solidified, they filmed the music video and concept photos.
Based on that, teaser videos were uploaded to the BSK official channel in the order of Dahyun, Ayoung, Yoonseo, Somin, and Chaewon. Now, with the debut showcase just a week away, it was already October—autumn had slipped in almost unnoticed.
And our Yeonwoo continued his unchanging routine.
He woke up each morning, went to daycare, played enthusiastically there, and after returning home, immersed himself in music.
“Yeonwoo.”
“Yes?”
“So… you’re still not interested in anything else these days?”
“No.”
At Yeonwoo’s resolute answer, Heo-ok scratched her head.
Yeonwoo remained steadfastly devoted to ppongjjak—a vibrant genre of Korean trot music.
Though his creations had evolved into something barely recognizable as traditional ppongjjak.
Not that he’d entirely abandoned it. During his music sessions, Ji-young’s room occasionally echoed with sounds fit for a tour bus karaoke.
Heo-ok didn’t mind whether Yeonwoo crafted traditional ppongjjak medleys or explored uncharted genres. The real issue was the noise.
To protect his young ears, she forbade headphones and kept speaker volumes low. This worked during daylight hours, but as his late-night composing sessions grew frequent, the noise became untenable.
Yet demanding he limit himself to an hour or two felt unreasonable.
At six years old, Yeonwoo was already a professional musician earning income.
As a fellow musician, Heo-ok believed in respecting his craft.
While she and Ji-hoon disagreed on specifics, even Ji-hoon refrained from interfering until Yeonwoo’s 10 p.m. bedtime.
It’s not like making music is harmful, Heo-ok reasoned.
One evening, after Yeonwoo fell asleep, she approached Ji-hoon returning from work.
“What is it, Mom?”
Their relationship, though no longer severed, remained stiff with unresolved history.
Decades of estrangement had carved deep emotional trenches—not easily bridged by recent attempts at reconciliation.
“About Yeonwoo… What if we create a studio for him?”
“A studio?”
“Yes.”
“But… he’s just a child—”
Heo-ok met Ji-hoon’s bewildered stare with calm authority.
“He’s six, but his work transcends a child’s hobby.”
“That’s…”
Ji-hoon faltered.
The copyright statement for Cold Night—received days earlier as Yeonwoo’s guardian—flashed in his mind. Three months’ earnings matching an adult’s annual salary. Ji-young had hinted at even larger payments pending next quarter.
“Restricting his creative time feels wrong, but letting him compose late at home risks noise complaints.”
“True… It’s a miracle we haven’t received any yet.”
“And he can’t keep borrowing Ji-young’s gear forever. She needs to focus on her own career.”
Ji-hoon rubbed his neck. “I’ll search for studio spaces.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Huh?”
“The three-story building beside the daycare—convenience store on the first floor.”
“Yes?”
“I own it.”
“Ah…”
His mother, whom he’d assumed lived reclusively in her old apartment, casually revealed property ownership.
Should’ve expected this, he thought.
“The third floor is vacant. We’ll convert it into his studio.”
“Convenient location,” Ji-hoon conceded.
In earlier years, he’d have stubbornly insisted on handling everything himself. Not anymore.
Though uncertain of Heo-ok’s feelings toward him, he knew her devotion to Yeonwoo was absolute. He wouldn’t obstruct a grandmother supporting her grandson—especially when Yeonwoo adored her beyond measure.
“I’ll handle the interior and equipment.”
He couldn’t let her shoulder everything.
“You’re certain?”
“I’m capable. What father wouldn’t do this much for his son’s passion?”
Heo-ok studied him—this son who’d become a stranger during her 30-year musical obsession. Who’d raised a child alone. Who stood before her now: no longer just her son, but a father.
A remarkable father.
He was a stubborn and strong father who, despite having his wife and child taken away before the child’s first birthday, and though his wife eventually left, managed to hold his son in his arms after years of struggle—all while refusing to abandon his career during that time.
Unlike him, who had fled everything except music, unable to let it go.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you staring at me like that? Is there something on my face?”
“No, it’s nothing. Let’s proceed. If we talk to Ji-young, it’ll be settled quickly. The interior and equipment too.”
At this, Ji-hoon snorted and said:
“If we tell Ji-young we’re making a studio for Yeon-woo, she’ll throw a fit. She’ll demand to know why we aren’t making one for her.”
“You think? Wait—couldn’t Ji-young share the studio with Yeon-woo? Having her around might be better than leaving her alone.”
“I’ll mention it to her. She’ll probably love the idea.”
The moment they finished discussing Ji-young—
Click. The door lock disengaged.
“Ji-young was never cut out to be a lady.”
“Whaaaaat the—AAAAAH!”
Ji-young stormed inside, stomping so hard the floor shook, and shrieked:
“You’ll wake the baby!!”
“What’s wrong with you, brat?”
Under her mother and brother’s scolding, Ji-young pouted and cried:
“This isn’t the time! We’ve got a huge problem!”
“What?”
Ji-young slumped onto the couch beside them and blurted out:
“It’s Tae-in. You won’t believe what happened.”
