At the tail end of 2019, Seoul’s winter was a few degrees colder than previous years, with an unsettling dampness even in the air.
Liang Yunpulled his slightly faded down jacket tighter, his fingers tapping on the keyboard, the screen filled with dense musical notation.
Outside, scattered snowflakes began to fall, reflecting the dim streetlamp on the corner, casting a desolate scene.
As a Chinese international student majoring in music, he should have been rehearsing and creating with his classmates at school, enjoying his youth.
But a sudden pandemic forcefully kept everyone in place.
School was suspended, and flights back home were canceled, leaving Liang Yun ‘isolated’ in this rental room of less than ten square meters.
Instant noodles became his staple food, online classes became his daily routine, and the only solace he found was in the notes flowing from his fingertips.
The rental room was filled with the salty aroma of instant noodles and the stuffiness of poor ventilation, occasionally mixed with a faint scent of sweat that Liang Yun himself hadn’t noticed.
Liang Yun stood up and stretched, “Ugh… this life… when will it end?” He sighed softly, rubbing his slightly throbbing temples.
On the screen, a song titled “isolation” was already taking shape.
The melody carried a lingering melancholy, yet it surged abruptly in the chorus, like a ray of light piercing through the gloom, full of resilient hope.
He poured all his loneliness, confusion, and longing for the future into this song.
Liang Yun wasn’t a particularly striking looking guy; he was 1.83 meters tall with a well-proportioned build, but his face, as his roommate would say, was “impossible to find in a crowd.” It wasn’t ugly, just too ordinary, so ordinary that people would forget him after a glance.
His biggest hobbies were staying home to play games, watch anime, or strum his guitar aimlessly.
Communicating with the opposite sex was harder for him than disassembling a computer with his bare hands; he would always blush and stammer, unable to speak a few complete sentences.
Because of this, he had never been in a relationship and firmly believed he was destined to live a lonely life.
He walked to the stove, opened the cabinet above it, “Damn it… I’m almost out of instant noodles… I’m really going to starve to death if this keeps up… ”
After preparing his instant noodles, Liang Yunuploaded the demo of “isolation” to a South Korean music forum, considering it a memento of this special period.
After uploading, he closed the forum, brought over his instant noodles, and prepared to begin his “binge-watching video time.”
However, he didn’t know that this song, imbued with his heart and soul, was quietly stirring up a small storm in that virtual online world.
A few days later, Liang Yun was woken up by his roommate Fang Zi’s exclamations.
“Holy crap! Liang Yun! You’re famous, buddy!” Fang Zi, with messy hair, rushed into Liang Yun’s room with his phone, his face full of disbelief.
Liang Yun groggily poked his head out from under the covers, asking sleepily, “What’s famous? Did I rank on the Korean server, or are my instant noodles on sale?”
Fang Zi rolled his eyes and shoved the phone screen in front of him, which clearly showed the play count and comment section for “isolation.”
“Look! The play count is almost three million! The comments section exploded! Everyone’s asking who sang this song and who the composer is!”
Liang Yun instantly sobered up.
He took the phone, looking at the constantly changing numbers on the screen and the comments full of praise, a surge of incredible excitement welling up in his heart.
His heart started racing, a rush of heat went from his chest to his head, and his cheeks felt slightly warm.
He raised a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead: “You didn’t photoshop this to prank me, did you?” The cautiousness of a homebody made him immediately suspect data manipulation.
“Photoshop what?!
Look at these comments, they’re all real!
So many people say this song speaks to their hearts!” Fang Zi was so excited he was gesticulating wildly, “You’re going to get rich, buddy!”
“Get rich my ass,” Liang Yun rolled his eyes.
He knew it was just because more people were online due to the current situation.
Soon, with new popular songs, these netizens would quickly forget this song, let alone its author.
“Let’s log on, let’s log on,” he yelled, pulling Fang Zito play games, and quickly put the matter out of his mind.
“isolation” was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples.
Its melody was simple yet deeply moving, and the lyrics sincerely depicted people’s helplessness and yearning during the pandemic.
In that special period, the song quickly resonated with the South Korean public, and even crossed language barriers, causing a considerable stir in other countries.
A few days later, Liang Yun’s phone rang; it was an unknown number.
“Hello?” He answered the phone, his voice still a little hoarse from sleep.
“Hello, is this Mr. Liang Yun?” A sweet female voice came from the other end of the line, speaking perfect Korean, with the crispness of a career elite.
“It is,” Liang Yun replied, wondering if it was a wrong number from a delivery service.
“This is Starship Entertainment. We saw your song ‘isolation’ posted online and found it to be very promising. We’d like to discuss a collaboration with you,” the female voice continued.
Liang Yun was startled, then burst out laughing.
Starship?
That was one of the top entertainment companies in South Korea!
They launched Monsta X and Cosmic Girls, both of whom had a place in the South Korean entertainment industry.
Could a homebody like him, who got lucky and had a minor hit with a song, really catch the attention of such a company?
Scam call!
It must be a scam call!
“Oh, come on, ma’am, your scam is too old-fashioned, isn’t it? Starship, really? Why don’t you say you’re Lee Soo-man from SM?” Liang Yunimpatiently interrupted her, his tone laced with sarcasm.
The female voice on the other end paused noticeably, then her tone became a little helpless: “Mr. Liang, we are genuinely Starship Entertainment. If you don’t believe us, you can check our official phone number.”
“Check what? I don’t have time to play with you. You should find another target. I’m broke, there’s nothing to scam from me.” Liang Yun rolled his eyes and pressed the hang-up button without hesitation.
He hung up the phone decisively, as if swatting away an annoying fly, a hint of triumphant “scam exposed” pride on his lips.
On the other end of the phone, Director Kim Ji-yeonof Starship’s New Artist Development Department looked at the disconnected call, her beautiful face filled with astonishment.
She had been in this industry for many years, had she not dealt with every kind of big-name artist?
She had never encountered such an “uncut gem” who directly treated her as a scammer!
She took a deep breath, feeling that this whole situation was utterly absurd, like a mother of absurdity opening the door for absurdity itself, reaching peak absurdity.
Liang Yun hung up the phone and triumphantly boasted to his roommate, “See? Even scammers are targeting ‘internet celebrities’ like me these days, even impersonating Starship!”
Fang Zi heard him, a dark expression on his face, and closed his laptop: “Are you sure it’s not real?”
“Real my ass! Would Starship look for a homebody like me? Don’t be ridiculous, buddy!” Liang Yunwaved his hand dismissively.
However, the matter did not end there.
The next day, Liang Yun’s phone rang again; it was still the same unknown number.
Without thinking, he directly pressed reject.
On the third day, the number called again.
This time, Liang Yun simply turned off his phone.
He felt these scammers were too persistent, like lingering ghosts.
It wasn’t until the fourth day that his KakaoTalk (the South Korean version of WeChat) received a message.
The sender was displayed as “Starship Director Kim Ji-yeon.” The message included a photo of Kim Ji-yeon’s employee ID, a real-life picture of the Starship company building, and several video clips of her posing with other colleagues from the company.
Liang Yun looked at his phone screen, his mouth gradually forming an O shape.
“Oh my god, this… this can’t be real, can it?” He tremblingly clicked on Kim Ji-yeon’s KakaoTalk profile, where Starship’s official verification badge was clearly visible.
A chill shot from his feet to his head, Liang Yun’s back was instantly drenched in cold sweat, and he felt his mind buzz, as if he had been struck by lightning.
He quickly called back the unknown number.
“Hello?” On the other end of the line, Kim Ji-yeon’s voice sounded a little tired, but still carried a professional sweetness.
“Uh… that… Director Kim, I… I’m Liang Yun.” Liang Yun’s voice was a little stammering, his cheeks already flushed crimson.
He wished he could travel back a few days and give himself a beating!
Kim Ji-yeon recognized his voice, and only then did a faint, almost imperceptible smile enter her tone: “Mr. Liang, do you believe us now?”
“I… I believe you! I’m sorry, Director Kim, I… I thought it was a scam call…” Liang Yun was very nervous, explaining carefully, realizing how big of a misunderstanding this was.
“It’s alright.
We understand your caution.” Kim Ji-yeon’s voice sounded very forgiving, “So, are you free to discuss a collaboration with us now?
We truly see great potential in your musical talent.”
Liang Yun held his phone, feeling his world turn upside down at that moment.
An ordinary homebody international student, because of a song called “isolation,” was actually noticed by a top South Korean entertainment company?
This was even more fantastical than drawing an SSR in the games he played!
He glanced at Fang Zi, who had a knowing, mischievous grin, and still felt incredibly unreal: “Um, Director Kim, please wait a few seconds.” Then, covering the phone’s microphone, he spoke to Fang Zi, “Fang Zi, slap me.”
Fang Zi paused for a few seconds, looking at Liang Yun like he was an idiot, “Are you sure?” He nodded.
Fang Zi’s mischievous grin became even more mischievous.
He immediately walked up to Liang Yun, raised his hand, and slapped him across the face.