After Liang Yun-ssi sent out that message, “My work has begun too,” which was full of declarations of war, it was several minutes before Ahn Yujin’s reply finally arrived.
There was no teasing, no emojis, just a short but powerful word: “Fighting!”
Looking at the word, Liang Yun-ssi seemed to see her put away her playful expression, her eyes becoming serious and sharp.
This was the most direct recognition and expectation from a peer.
He felt a warm current surge through his heart, and the energy that had been exhausted by the recording seemed to have recovered somewhat.
However, this energy, brought about by the method of spiritual victory, was instantly zeroed out, and even turned negative, when he faced the music video shoot the next day.
If the recording studio was the first layer of hell, the “Voice Refining Purgatory,” then the music video set was the eighteenth layer of hell, the “Avici Hell.”
The filming location was an art district converted from an abandoned old factory in Gyeonggi Province.
Inside the huge factory building, the set had already been built, perfectly replicating a messy yet cozy creator’s room—scattered sheet music, several guitars leaning against the wall, bookshelves piled high with professional books, and a large desk with a computer and MIDI keyboard.
Sunlight slanted in from the tall windows, casting a golden halo on the dust in the air, full of the texture of an art-house film.
The director of VM Project was a middle-aged man with an artist’s signature long hair and stubble.
He was directing dozens of staff members busy adjusting lights, tracks, and cameras.
The scene was bustling with noise, the clatter of various equipment and the shouts of staff intertwining, forming a chaotic sound wave that made Liang Yun-ssi feel suffocated.
And he, as the only protagonist today, was being held down in the makeup room chair, at the mercy of two makeup artists and one stylist.
This was the first time in his life he had worn such “formal” makeup.
Cold powder puffs and soft brushes worked on his face, making him stiff all over, feeling as if his face no longer belonged to him, but had become a canvas for anyone to paint on.
The stylist held several clothes up to him, comparing them, and finally chose a slightly loose off-white knit sweater and a pair of washed jeans.
“Alright, perfect!” The makeup artist noona looked at her work with satisfaction and clapped her hands.
Liang Yun-ssi looked at his familiar yet strange self in the mirror.
His Skin was flawlessly taken care of, his eyebrows were trimmed to be more heroic, and his hair, which had been a bit messy from staying up late, was styled into a layered, slightly lazy look.
He certainly looked much more energetic than usual, and…
much more handsome?
But before he could offer any opinion on his new image, he was led in front of the camera by the director’s assistant.
Dozens of gazes instantly focused on him.
The director, cameramen, lighting technicians, script supervisor…
and even some staff members who looked like they were from other departments of the company, there to “observe.” Their eyes held various expressions: curiosity, scrutiny, anticipation.
Liang Yun-ssi felt like a giant panda being observed in a zoo—no, he didn’t even have the composure of a giant panda.
He didn’t know where to put his hands and feet, and the “relaxed look” that the makeup artist had painstakingly created on his face instantly collapsed, becoming stiffer than stone.
“Liang Yun-ssi, hello, I’m today’s director.” The long-haired director walked over, patted his shoulder, and spoke kindly, “Don’t be nervous. Today you are not a Producer, you are just yourself. We just want to capture your most authentic, most natural state.”
Most authentic state?
buddy’s current state is as authentic as it gets—sweaty palms, weak legs, wishing he could instantly find a hole to crawl into!
Liang Yun-ssi ranted silently in his heart.
“The first scene is very simple.” The director pointed to the set desk.
“You just sit there, put on headphones, and pretend to be creating music. We’ll use several different camera angles to capture your state, especially your eyes and close-ups of your hands. Just pretend no one else is around, and immerse yourself in your own world.”
“Pretend no one else is around” is easier said than done!
Liang Yun-ssi glanced at the dense crowd around him, and the several cameras staring at him like monster eyes, feeling that the director was talking about a fantasy.
But he still bit the bullet, sat down at the desk, and put on the headphones.
“Alright, departments ready! Action!”
With the director’s command, the main camera on the crane arm slowly and oppressively moved towards him.
The lens got closer and closer; he could even see his own panicked face reflected in the lens.
His mind was blank.
“Immersed in music… eyes… hand close-up…”
The director’s words echoed in his ears, but he couldn’t do a single one of them.
His body was completely stiff, his fingers on the MIDI keyboard, but he couldn’t even press a chord.
His eyes darted around, not daring to look directly at the camera, only staring intently at a wood grain on the desktop.
“Liang Yun-ssi, relax a little, your expression is too stiff. You’re creating, not facing an interrogation. Imagine a beautiful melody being born in your mind, that joy, that focus, show it.”
Joy?
Focus?
This old man just wants to explode on the spot.
Liang Yun-ssi took a deep breath, trying to force out a smile that was uglier than crying.
“Action!”
The camera pushed in again.
Liang Yun-ssi forced himself to move.
He reached out, pretending to play on the keyboard, but his movements were stiff, like a marionette.
His eyes tried hard to look “profound” and “focused,” but in the lens, they appeared hollow and sluggish, like a sleepy idiot.
“Cut! Cut! Cut!” The director finally showed some impatience.
“Liang Yun-ssi, your hands! Your hands are shaking! And your eyes, don’t look at the camera! What are you looking at? The ceiling?”
The atmosphere on set began to grow heavy.
Although the staff didn’t say anything, the silent pressure washed over Liang Yun-ssi like a tide.
He felt like he was the good-for-nothing dragging down the entire team, and shame and anxiety almost suffocated him.
Time passed minute by minute; a simple shot that should have taken only a few minutes, they filmed for nearly an hour, with dozens of NGs, and not a single usable take.
The director’s face grew increasingly grim.
He walked over to Liang Yun-ssi, his tone becoming serious: “Liang Yun-ssi, I know you’re not a professional actor, but you at least need to give us something. The way you are now, we can’t film anything. You wrote the song yourself, don’t you have any feelings for it?”
“I have feelings for it, but I have camera phobia!” Liang Yun-ssi cried out in his heart, but he knew that saying such a thing would only be seen as an excuse for incompetence.
Just then, Kim Ji-yeon appeared on set, no one knew when.
Today she was wearing a simple black dress with a beige trench coat over it, still looking like the elegant and capable career woman.
The black dress was cut extremely close-fitting, perfectly outlining her mature female curves.
The round neckline revealed her long, fair neck and delicate collarbones, and the hem of the skirt swayed gently as she walked, revealing a section of her toned calves encased in nude stockings.
Her steps were firm and composed, the sound of her high heels tapping on the ground creating a unique, unignorable rhythm amidst the noisy set.
She didn’t speak, just stood quietly behind the director, watching the playback on the monitor.
Liang Yun-ssi wished he could perform a dogeza on the spot, seeing those stiff, sluggish faces filled with “save me.”
Kim Ji-yeon finished watching the playback, said nothing, just gave the director a look, then walked towards Liang Yun-ssi.
She walked to the desk, not looking down at him from above, but pulled up a chair and sat beside him.
A faint scent, a mix of high-end perfume and coffee, drifted into Liang Yun-ssi’s nose.
“How did you do it during the recording?” She didn’t criticize or comfort him, just asked this question calmly.
Liang Yun-ssi was startled for a moment, then subconsciously replied, “I… I imagined myself standing on a stage, with many people watching me…”
“Including Ahn Yujin and Jang Wonyoung?” Kim Ji-yeon hit the nail on the head.
Liang Yun-ssi was taken aback, wanted to deny it, but ultimately said nothing and implicitly agreed.
“And now?” Kim Ji-yeon looked into his eyes, “Now, what do you imagine the camera to be? A man-eating monster? Or a judge condemning you?”
Liang Yun-ssi was speechless.
“Liang Yun-ssi,” Kim Ji-yeon’s voice was very low, only the two of them could hear it, “The camera has no emotions; it’s just a recording tool. You are the one who gives it emotions. If you’re afraid of it, it’s a monster in your eyes. If you treat it as eyes, it’s your audience.”
“You’re not afraid of the camera; you’re afraid of those unknown, judgmental gazes behind the camera. Right?”
Liang Yun-ssi’s thoughts had been exposed, and he nodded awkwardly.
“Then don’t think about those gazes.” Kim Ji-yeonstood up, looking down at him, her eyes sharp as knives, “Now, you treat that camera as Ahn Yujin, Jang Wonyoung. They are sitting across from you, propping their chins, looking at you with that ‘checking homework’ kind of critical yet expectant gaze. She wants to see what the genius Producerwho wrote ‘WHO DO U LOVE’ and ‘ELEVEN’ looks like when he’s creating his own music.”
“Are you going to disappoint them?”
After saying that, she no longer looked at Liang Yun-ssi, turned to the director, and said, “Director, clear the set. Except for essential staff, everyone else out. Give him a quiet environment.”
The set was quickly half-emptied, and the noise instantly diminished significantly.
Liang Yun-ssi sat there alone, Kim Ji-yeon’s words, like a bullet, accurately shot into his brain.
He looked up and once again gazed at the black, cold machine.
He tried hard to replace that monstrous lens in his mind with Ahn Yujin’s face, bearing a sly smile.
“Producer-nim, can you do it? If not, we’ll find someone else, alright?” He seemed to hear her teasing.
A strange, unyielding drive surged from the bottom of his heart.
Damn it, yes!
Why not!
How can a man say no!
“Director, I’m ready.” He said into the walkie-talkie, his voice carrying a desperate determination.
“Alright! Action!”
The camera slowly pushed in again.
This time, Liang Yun-ssi didn’t flinch.
He looked directly into the camera, his eyes no longer panicked, but filled with a complex emotion, mixed with tenderness, focus, and a hint of almost imperceptible provocation.
The corners of his mouth curved into a faint, confident smile.
His fingers, on the MIDI keyboard, played the intro to “isolation” with flowing grace.
It was no longer a stiff pose, but a genuine flow of emotion.
He relaxed his entire body, swaying gently with the rhythm of the music.
He sometimes bowed his head in thought, sometimes looked up at “her,” as if having a silent conversation with “her” through music.
In the control room, the director watched the footage on the monitor, his eyes widening, his mouth slowly opening, almost wide enough to fit an egg.
“Is… is this the same person?!”
On the monitor, the young man who had been stiff as wood just moments before now exuded a fatal charm.
That focus of being immersed in his own world, that talent that inadvertently revealed itself, that light in his eyes when facing “her”…
all of it felt too real to be acting.
This was exactly the footage the director had dreamed of!
“Good! Excellent! Hold it! All cameras follow! Close-up! Hand close-up! Eye close-up!” The director roared excitedly into the walkie-talkie, afraid of disturbing Liang Yun-ssi’s state.
The song ended.
Liang Yun-ssi emerged from that strange state, still a little dazed.
The set was silent.
After a few seconds, a thunderous applause erupted.
The director was the first to rush over, patting his shoulder vigorously, his face full of excitement and disbelief: “Genius! You’re a genius! You’re not bad at acting, you just need a’switch’! That last take was perfect!”
Liang Yun-ssi smiled a little shyly.
He turned to look for Kim Ji-yeon, but found that she had quietly left.
The subsequent filming went exceptionally smoothly.
Whenever Liang Yun-ssi felt nervous, he would silently repeat to himself, “Ahn Yujin is the camera, Ahn Yujin is the camera…” and then that wonderful feeling would return.
Sometimes he sat by the window, holding a guitar, gently playing and singing to the sunlight outside, his eyes melancholic and tender.
Sometimes he lay on the messy floor, surrounded by sheet music, staring blankly at the ceiling, as if capturing fleeting inspiration.
Sometimes he stood in front of the microphone, eyes closed, singing the climax of the song with all his might, veins bulging on his neck, full of raw power.
The director became more and more excited as he filmed, discovering a unique, unpolished treasure in this young man.
His social anxiety, in front of the camera, transformed into a unique, artistic temperament of detachment from the world; and his talent made this detachment incredibly sexy.
By the time the last shot was finished, it was already late at night.
Liang Yun-ssi was so tired he felt like he was falling apart, but his heart was filled with an unprecedented sense of satisfaction.
He looked at his glowing self on the monitor and, for the first time, felt that “debuting” didn’t seem so terrifying after all.
“Looking at it this way, buddy’s quite handsome.”