When Liang Yun-ssi squeezed out the three words “I’ll try” from between his teeth, he felt as if he had signed an irreversible devil’s contract.
The sound was so soft it was almost inaudible, yet in the ears of Director Kim Ji-yeon and the Planning Director, it rang out like a bell.
Director Kim Ji-yeon’s face revealed a knowing, satisfied smile, while the Planning Director beside her immediately seemed to be injected with an stimulant, instantly transforming from a steady middle-aged man into a passionate product manager.
He opened the documents in his hand and began to speak voluminously.
“Excellent, Liang Yun-ssi!
I assure you, this is the most correct decision!” He excitedly waved his arms, “Regarding the MV shoot, we’ve already contacted the industry’s top VM Project team.
Their visual style is a perfect match for your musical temperament!
We’ll create a scene that is both artistic and close to everyday life, highlighting your ‘boy-next-door genius’ persona!
For styling, we won’t give you overly exaggerated idol looks; we’ll focus on simple, comfortable casual wear to emphasize your youthful vibe and the aura of a creator…”,
“And for promotion, we’ve already booked appearances on several mainstream music radio stations, and there’s a special online concert. The debut showcase will be on Mnet’s M Countdown, and we’ve secured seven minutes of special stage time…”,
“MV… music show performances… fan meetings…”,
These colorful terms, to Liang Yun-ssi, sounded like invitations from hell.
Every word was like a sharp knife, precisely cutting into his already fragile social nerves.
His vision blurred in waves, and he felt the entire office spinning.
Director Kim Ji-yeon’s sharp suit and the Planning Director’s excited face all turned into blurry color blocks in his sight.
He almost fainted on the spot.
The next few days, for Liang Yun-ssi, were nothing short of an unprepared war he was forcibly dragged into.
He was like a duck pulled out of its cozy nest by a hunter, and before he could even understand the situation, he was rushed onto the assembly line called “debut.”
His first stop was a familiar yet strange hell—the recording studio.
Logically, this should have been his home ground, his most intimate and secure fortress.
As a Producer, he had once commanded here, meticulously refining the voices of many singers.
But today, the roles were completely reversed.
He had to step out of the control room, where he could control everything, through that heavy, soundproof glass door, and into the recording booth, tightly wrapped in sound-absorbing material, to become the object of scrutiny and judgment.
The person in charge of recording his single was a senior recording engineer from the company, surnamed Park, a serious middle-aged man in his forties with slightly thinning hair.
Engineer Park was an industry veteran, known for his discerning ear and high standards; countless big-name singers had been polished under his guidance.
Liang Yun-ssi took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the recording booth.
This small, seemingly isolated space, at this moment, felt like a huge, invisible pressure vessel.
The top-tier Neumann U87 microphone standing in the center, usually a treasure he dreamed of and wished he could take home to sleep with, now seemed like a cold, merciless judge.
Behind its black metal grille, a pair of all-knowing eyes seemed to be hidden, silently waiting for him to “make a fool of himself.”
“Liang Yun-ssi, are you ready? Let’s start with a verse to get a feel for it.” Engineer Park’s voice came through the headphones, businesslike and devoid of any extra emotion, every syllable as precise as if calibrated.
“Okay… okay.” Liang Yun-ssi put on the headphones, feeling his heartbeat amplified countless times in his ears.
Thump, thump, thump, like an out-of-control blower, violently striking his eardrums, making his head spin.
He could feel his palms sweating, and the T-shirt on his back began to feel sticky.
The familiar accompaniment started playing; it was a melody he had written countless times, one he could play with his eyes closed.
However, when he opened his mouth, preparing to sing the first word, he found his throat felt as if an invisible hand was firmly gripping it, dry and tight, muscles stiff, unable to produce a single complete note.
Air was drawn into his lungs but got stuck at his vocal cords.
“Liang Yun-ssi?” Engineer Park’s voice came through the headphones, tinged with a hint of confusion.
“Sorry, Teacher Park… I… I’m a bit nervous, my voice isn’t warmed up. Let’s try again.” Liang Yun-ssi’s face flushed crimson, and beads of sweat had already started to roll down his temples.
The music started again.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself not to think about the scrutinizing gaze beyond the glass wall, trying to recall how it felt when he recorded demos in that tiny rented room, facing an old laptop.
Back then, the world was just him and his music; he could wear slippers, cross his legs, and sing in the freest, most uninhibited way.
“In the empty room, watching the raindrops outside the window…” He finally squeezed out the first line of lyrics, but the sound made him want to cover his own ears.
It was dry, trembling, nearly a semitone lower than the reference pitch, with a hint of a ridiculous crack at the end. This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
This wasn’t singing; this was clearly a gander with its neck squeezed, struggling for its life.
This was a completely different species from the clear, lazy, and subtly detached voice in his demo.
In the control room, Engineer Park’s brows instantly furrowed, the wrinkles deep enough to trap a fly.
He pressed the talkback button without hesitation, pausing the recording.
“Liang Yun-ssi, relax a bit. You’re completely tense right now, and your voice is being squeezed out of your throat. Drop your shoulders, use your core, use your dantian to support your voice.”
“Yes…” Liang Yun-ssi felt his face burning.
He was like a trainee on his first day of vocal lessons, knowing nothing, being chastised by the teacher about the most basic vocal techniques.
And the most ironic part was that these were the very words he used to say to nervous new singers in the recording studio.
Now, the karma was hitting him squarely.
The next hour was nothing short of a public, utterly disastrous catastrophe.
The more he tried to sing well, the more focused his mind became, and the more tense his body grew; the more tense he became, the more uncontrollable his voice was.
Either he was half a beat too fast, or half a beat too slow, or some note would wander off to grandma’s house.
He took a song he knew by heart, engraved in his DNA, and sang it into fragmented, unrecognizable pieces.
Engineer Park’s patience was slowly being depleted.
Although he didn’t say anything harsh again, those emotionless “one more time”s coming through the headphones, those fingers tapping on the table, and those occasional, almost inaudible sighs, all felt like tiny hammers, making Liang Yun-ssi feel more shame and frustration than any severe criticism.
“I can definitely sing it well… It wasn’t like this when I was alone… Why is this happening?”
He irritably ran his hands through his hair, a deep sense of powerlessness and self-doubt completely engulfing him.
“Am I a fraud? A fraud who only knows how to make music hidden behind a computer?”
Finally, after another disastrous performance, Engineer Park’s voice came through: “Let’s take a ten-minute break. Adjust your state.”
Liang Yun-ssi felt as if he had been granted a pardon, rushing out of the suffocating recording booth as if escaping.
He didn’t even dare to look Engineer Park in the eyes.
He jogged all the way to the fire escape at the end of the hallway, pushed open the window, letting the June wind blow on his hot face.
He leaned against the cold wall, taking deep breaths of fresh air, feeling like a balloon pricked by a needle, all his confidence, talent, and pride leaking out completely with those off-key notes.
He took out his phone, instinctively opening his music app, wanting to listen to something to calm his almost collapsing mood.
On the homepage, big data accurately pushed a collection of IZ*ONE’s latest comeback stages.
He clicked into it as if possessed.
In the video, it was Ahn Yujin and her group’s comeback stage on M Countdown.
The familiar prelude to “Fantasy Fairytale” began, and the twelve girls, in a dazzling light show and a dry ice-created wonderland, displayed a breathtaking stage charisma completely different from their practice room selves.
Liang Yun-ssi’s gaze was fixed on Ahn Yujin.
Her forehead was covered with fine beads of sweat, glistening under the stage lights.
A few strands of dark hair clung tightly to her cheeks from the intense dancing, and her chest heaved rapidly from the continuous high-intensity movements.
Yet, her singing remained stable and penetrating, and her face even wore that unique, vibrant, dog-like smile, as if dancing and singing were as natural as breathing for her.
Every pause in her movements, every shift in her gaze, seemed to declare: I enjoy this stage; I was born for this.
He then shifted his gaze to Jang Wonyoung.
This girl, who would blush slightly from shyness in the practice room, erupted with astonishing energy on stage, like a queen surveying her territory.
Her luxurious white dress traced elegant arcs with her body’s turns, sweat rolled from her forehead, and the thin fabric clung to her body, outlining the girl’s slender yet powerful waist.
Even during the most complex position changes, her camera presence was never lost; she could always precisely find the camera with the red light on within a second, delivering either a sweet or cool expression.
That poise and confidence completely transcended her age.
Aren’t they tired?
Under the gaze of tens of thousands of people, surrounded by dozens of cameras, aren’t they nervous?
Liang Yun-ssi suddenly remembered something Ahn Yujin had said in a behind-the-scenes clip when he was “archaeologizing.” At that time, she had just come off stage, so exhausted she collapsed onto a chair, gasping for breath.
The Producer asked her what was the hardest part of being an idol.
She caught her breath, looked at the camera, and suddenly flashed her signature dog-like smile: “It’s probably always having to show your best side in front of the camera. Even if you’re so tired the second before that you want to lie down immediately, even if you’re sad about something, as soon as the camera turns on, you have to smile and transmit energy to the fans. Because this is our profession.”
Profession… These two words exploded in Liang Yun-ssi’s mind like a bolt of lightning.
He had always treated singing as a hobby, a way to express emotions in a private space. New chapters come out on g.com first.
But at this moment, he suddenly realized that from the moment he agreed to Director Kim Ji-yeon’s proposal, from the moment he decided to step onto that stage, singing was no longer just a hobby for him.
It had become a “profession.”
As a Producer, he demanded the most professional state from singers; he had zero tolerance for flaws in pitch, rhythm, or emotion.
So now, as a singer-songwriter about to debut, why couldn’t he demand the same of himself?
Nervousness?
Social anxiety?
Fear of cameras?
These were all real emotions, but they could not be an excuse for unprofessionalism.
He turned off his phone, straightened his body, and the eyes that had been filled with confusion and frustration now re-gathered their light.
It was a kind of unquestionable determination belonging to a creator.
He straightened his somewhat wrinkled clothes, turned, and strode back into the “hell” he had just fled.
When he pushed open the control room door again, Engineer Park, who was about to take a sip of coffee, was surprised to find that the young man’s aura seemed to have undergone a dramatic change in just ten minutes.
The previous panic, insecurity, and dejection were swept away, replaced by a calm, focused, and even slightly undeniable oppressive presence.
“Teacher Park, let’s continue.” Liang Yun-ssi’s voice was not loud, but it was exceptionally steady, without the slightest tremor.
He didn’t look at Engineer Park’s expression again, walked straight into the recording booth, stood in front of the microphone, let out a long breath, and skillfully put on his headphones.
When the accompaniment started again, he closed his eyes.
This time, he no longer imagined an empty rented room, but a brightly lit stage, buzzing with human voices.
He was no longer Liang Yun-ssi, the socially anxious homebody trembling in a corner, but a singer-songwriter named “Liang Yun.” Below the stage were countless spectators, and among them, perhaps Ahn Yujin and Jang Wonyoung, watching him with a “checking homework” gaze, tinged with a hint of mischief.
He didn’t want to embarrass them, and even more, he couldn’t embarrass his own work.
“In the empty room, watching the raindrops outside the window…”
This time, when he opened his mouth, that clear, lazy voice, tinged with just the right amount of confusion and detachment, finally returned.
Pitch, rhythm, breath, emotion… everything was flawless, even more full and layered than in his demo performance.
In the control room, Engineer Park’s eyes instantly widened.
He looked at Liang Yun-ssi on the other side of the glass wall in surprise, his mouth slightly agape, almost forgetting to press the record button.
This kid… was he acting just now?
Or was he possessed by something?
Liang Yun-ssi was completely immersed in the world of music.
He wasn’t “singing,” but “performing,” narrating.
With his voice, he vividly depicted the loneliness of a young man trapped during the pandemic, his confusion about the future, and, amidst that confusion, the unextinguished, sole burning passion for music.
The song ended, the last note fading into the air.
Both the recording booth and the control room fell into a long, stunned silence.
After several seconds, Engineer Park’s voice, tinged with excitement and disbelief, even a slight tremor, finally came through the headphones: “…Perfect! Kid, you… your performance just now was world-class! This take is a direct pass! We don’t even need to record a second take!”
Liang Yun-ssi took off his headphones and bowed slightly towards the control room.
There was no proud expression on his face, only the calm and composure of a job completed.
Sweat was still flowing, but this time, it was the satisfying sweat of exertion.
When he walked out of the recording studio, Seoul’s night had completely fallen, and the city lights were just coming on.
Liang Yun-ssi walked down the company corridor, feeling as if he had fought an incredibly difficult battle.
Though physically and mentally exhausted, his heart was filled with an unprecedented sense of peace.
He knew this was just the first step of a long journey.
Next, there were MV shoots, music show stages… challenges like hellish dungeons awaiting him.
But this time, he was no longer afraid.
He took out his phone, opened the familiar dog avatar chat box with Ahn Yujin, and typed a short message.
“My homework has also begun.”