Under the powerful industrial execution of Starship Entertainment, Liang Yun’s debut plan was pushed into a terrifying fast-forward mode.
The progress of the entire process was so fast that he felt his soul could hardly keep up with his body.
Three days after the MV filming ended, while Liang Yun was still immersed in the fear of being dominated by the lens and thinking he might have a few days to breathe, Starship Entertainment’s official social media matrix released a teaser poster simultaneously at exactly twelve noon without any warning.
The design of the poster was filled with a high-end, detached sense of art.
The main color was a deep Prussian blue, like the deep sea on the eve of a storm, calm yet containing turbulence.
In the center of the frame was a deliberately blurred, backlit male silhouette.
He sat alone on a wide bay window, holding a natural-colored folk guitar in his arms.
Outside the window was the Seoul night view, as brilliant as a galaxy, with the bustling lights blurred into warm spots of light, contrasting with the silhouette’s loneliness.
At the top of the poster, two letters—”L.Y”—were printed in an extremely minimalist, cool sans-serif white font.
At the very bottom of the poster, a line of small text was noted in the same font: “The 1st Single Album [isolation]”.
L.Y, this stage name evolved from the initials of Liang Yun’s name, officially appeared in the eyes of the Korean public for the first time in such a mysterious, low-key, yet highly stylish way.
This poster was like a depth charge dropped into a calm lake, instantly stirring up violent waves on major forums and social media across the Korean internet.
[Crazy, crazy! Is Starship Entertainment finally willing to push a new soloist? Who on earth is this L.Y?]
[This vibe is incredible! Looking at this posture, he should be a singer-songwriter, right? Not the assembly-line idol type.]
[L.Y? This name… feels like a low-key powerhouse. The silhouette looks like he has a good body, such broad shoulders and long legs!]
[Wait!
[isolation]?
isolation?!
Holy crap, no way, right?
Could it be the original singer of that god-tier song “isolation” on SoundCloud?
Didn’t rumors say Starship Entertainment signed him?]
[The person above, I thought of that too! If it’s true, Starship Entertainment really found a treasure this time! Please, it has to be him!]
The netizens’ guesses and expectations were soon confirmed by the official announcement the next day.
Starship Entertainment released the second wave of teaser materials at the same time—a 30-second MV Teaser.
The video began with several cinematic empty shots—slowly sliding raindrops merging into streams on a glass window, the second hand of an old wall clock ticking, and a few newly written musical notes on an open score with ink not yet dry.
Immediately after, Liang Yun’s figure clearly appeared for the first time.
He wore the slightly loose cream-colored knit sweater the Stylist had chosen for him, sitting in front of that vintage grand piano.
His slender fingers gently glided over the black and white keys marked by time, and a lazy, slightly sorrowful piano melody flowed from his fingertips like a sigh.
The rhythm of the video suddenly quickened, with several montage shots switching rapidly: his confusion as he was surrounded by sheet music on a cluttered floor, looking up at the ceiling; his gentleness as he held a guitar by the window, softly humming toward the sunlight; and the climax of the video, the scene where he stood before the recording studio microphone, eyes closed, singing the chorus with all his might.
Although the entire video had only a few lines of lyrics, that clear voice with its unique magnetic graininess instantly pierced the eardrums of all listeners, like a hooked brush stroking everyone’s heart.
And what truly made this teaser go viral on the internet was the final shot of the video.
When the music stopped abruptly, the screen cut back to the original window side.
Liang Yun held his guitar and slowly turned his head to look at the camera.
In his eyes, there was no traditional idol-style commercial sweetness or handsomeness, but a complex emotion difficult to describe accurately in words—loneliness, confusion, detachment, and a hint of tenderness hidden deep down, unwilling to be noticed.
He just looked at you quietly, as if staring through the cold lens at every soul feeling lonely and helpless in the pandemic era.
This ending, quickly named by fans as the “Story-like Redemptive Gaze,” directly ignited the comment sections of major social platforms.
[Aaaaaah! That gaze, I’m dead! Is he looking at me? He must be looking at me!]
[He’s not the kind of standard flower boy who’s stunning at first glance, but he really has such an aura! He’s exactly like the melancholic senior who writes poetry and plays guitar in my imagination!]
[Did he grow up eating CDs with that voice? It feels completely different from the demo version circulating online; the production is more refined and the emotions are fuller! I’ve already started looping these 30 seconds!]
[Confirmed! It’s the original singer of “isolation”! My god, Starship Entertainment, you finally did something right! I’m definitely stanning this hidden treasure!]
[Waaaah, Oppa’s gaze makes my heart ache, like a Golden Retriever abandoned by the whole world and soaked in rain. Big sister is here! Big sister will dry your fur right now!]
With just one teaser, the name L.Y and his unique image of an “Atmospheric Hottie” and “Melancholic Genius” quickly fermented on the internet, even reaching the real-time trending list on Naver.
People were filled with unprecedented curiosity and expectation for this mysterious singer-songwriter who they had only heard and were now seeing for the first time.
And the center of all this storm of public opinion was currently being arranged by the company to participate in the first, and also his most feared, schedule of his life—the recording of his debut stage on M Countdown. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
When the black van slowly stopped at the entrance of the CJ E&M Center, Liang Yun looked through the dark car window at the fansite masters equipped with “long guns and short cannons” and fans holding support banners outside.
He felt his social anxiety DNA start to throb uncontrollably again, as if holding a rock party in his veins.
He quickly put on a mask and hat, pulling the brim down to its lowest, and almost scrambled to follow his newly assigned Manager, escaping from the relatively quiet underground parking lot into the interior of the TV station as if running for his life.
The corridors backstage were like a busy battlefield.
Idols wearing all sorts of varied stage outfits, surrounded by their respective Managers and staff, swept past like gusts of colorful wind in a hurry.
The air was mixed with the chemical smell of hairspray, various brands of perfume, and the scent of sweat emitted by young people after intense exercise, forming a strange, unique atmosphere belonging to the entertainment industry’s backstage.
“Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap…” Liang Yun kept his head down, wishing he could bury his entire face in his chest, following behind his Manager and trying hard to shrink himself into an inconspicuous, moving background piece.
They were guided by staff into a pitifully small Waiting Room.
As soon as Liang Yun entered, he immediately acted like a hamster that had found a safe burrow, shrinking into the single sofa in the furthest corner and tightly clutching his backpack as if it were the last shield that could block all social radiation.
His Manager was a young fellow who had just entered the industry and still looked a bit like a student, named Kim Min-ho.
Seeing his artist’s autistic appearance of wanting to vanish on the spot, Kim Min-ho didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he didn’t dare say much, only carefully handing over a bottle of mineral water.
“Um… Liang Yun-ssi, please don’t be too nervous. Our stage is a pre-recording, so there’s no live audience. Just… just treat it like a rehearsal in the company’s practice room.”
Liang Yun glanced at him with eyes showing above his mask and nodded, but he knew in his heart that these were two completely different things.
The practice room only had mirrors, but here, there were dozens of cold cameras.
Just as he was burying his head like an ostrich, trying hard to perform self-hypnosis of “I’m not nervous, I’m not afraid,” the thin door of the Waiting Room was politely knocked.
Kim Min-ho hurried over to open the door, and several girls with powerful auras stood outside.
They wore black and red stage outfits with an extremely strong style, with exquisite and upturned cat-eye makeup, and the whole group emitted a cool and arrogant vibe of “do not approach.”
The girl leading them wasn’t tall among female idols, even a bit petite, but the powerful aura coming from her bones made her look like a queen.
She had neat short black hair, eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, and an expression with a natural coolness.
“Hello, we are (G)I-DLE.” Her voice was like her appearance—clear, crisp, and with a unique raspiness.
“Excuse me, is this L.Y nim’s Waiting Room?”
When Liang Yun heard the name “(G)I-DLE,” his brain, which was in a wandering state, was suddenly pulled back, and he subconsciously raised his head.
Oh, it was another key group on his “postgraduate entrance exam cramming” list!
The ace girl group under CUBE Entertainment, famous in the K-POP world for their unique musical concepts and the fact that the members personally compose and write the lyrics for every comeback.
And the short-haired girl in front of him, he recognized her in just a second—(G)I-DLE’s leader and main Producer, Jeon Soyeon (hereinafter referred to as Soyeon).
A woman who can control the entire stage with her rap and is so talented in creation that she’s hailed as a “monster.”
Kim Min-ho was clearly intimidated by her aura and hurriedly bowed ninety degrees, greeting respectfully: “Ah, yes! Yes! Hello, (G)I-DLE sunbaenims! I am L.Y’s Manager, Kim Min-ho.”
Behind Jeon Soyeon, a girl with dazzling long blonde hair, who looked sweet yet had a quirky vibe, immediately handed over a signed album.
It was the group’s Chinese member, Song Yuqi.
“Hello, L.Y xi! This is our new comeback album, ‘I trust’, and the title track is ‘Oh my god’. Please take care of us!” Song Yuqi said in fluent Korean without a trace of a foreign accent, a warm and bright smile on her face.
When her gaze swept over to Liang Yun, who was shrinking into a ball in the corner, she was clearly stunned for a moment.
Then, a hint of realization flashed in her large eyes, and she spoke up bluntly in clear, standard Mandarin:
“Hello! You’re Chinese, right? I’m Song Yuqi!”
This familiar Mandarin with a northern accent was like a warm current, instantly breaking through the cold social barrier around Liang Yun.
He stood up in a flurry, nodded to them, and then replied in Chinese: “Hello, I… I’m Liang Yun.”
Jeon Soyeon couldn’t understand Chinese, but as she watched the interaction between Song Yuqiand Liang Yun, a hint of curiosity appeared on her cool face.
Her gaze didn’t linger too long on Liang Yun’s face, which was mostly covered by a mask, but fell directly on his eyes.
It wasn’t the scrutiny of a senior looking at a junior, nor the curiosity of a girl looking at a boy, but a purer kind of observation and inquiry belonging to fellow creators.
“Hello, L.Y-xi.” Jeon Soyeon spoke up, her voice devoid of much polite formality, possessing only the direct frankness of a musician.
“I’ve listened to your song, ‘isolation’. The arrangement is very creative; you used a lot of ambient sound effects and samples to build the song’s sense of space, and the melody line is very catchy. It’s an impressive work.”
This sudden, straight-to-the-point praise from a professional perspective left Liang Yun momentarily stunned.
He had prepared a stomach full of polite platitudes (like “Sunbaenim’s stage was very cool” or “Please give me a lot of guidance in the future”), but in the end, none of them were useful.
The other party didn’t follow the script at all.
“Ah… thank you,” Liang Yun responded stutteringly.
“Your songs… I like them very much too. I’ve listened to all of (G)I-DLE’s songs. ‘LION’… the concept and arrangement of that song were very… very shocking. Especially the combination of the pipe organ and the drum beats; it has a very epic feel.”
As soon as he mentioned the musical field he was familiar with, the floodgates seemed to crack open slightly, and his speech became more fluent.
Hearing the mention of ‘LION’ and specific arrangement details, Jeon Soyeon’s eyes, which always carried a sharp light, instantly brightened.
It was the kind of light that only appeared when meeting a worthy opponent, filled with appreciation and resonance.
“You understand arrangement?” she followed up.
“Yes, I majored in music production in university.”
“No wonder.” Jeon Soyeon nodded understandingly, and a very faint, fleeting smile actually appeared on that cool face that always seemed a bit aloof.
“You’re a true musician. If there’s a chance in the future, we can exchange ideas.”
Song Yuqi, standing by, watched the two of them go back and forth, discussing “technical details” that she was involved in but didn’t fully understand, and found it somewhat magical.
She blinked her large eyes and then, quite familiarly, spoke to Liang Yun in Chinese again: “Buddy, not bad! You got our leader’s approval right away! She rarely praises people!” As she spoke, she took the album that Kim Min-ho was still holding and stuffed it directly into Liang Yun’s arms.
“Bro, we’re leaving now; we still have to go to other Waiting Rooms to give greetings. It’s not easy debuting in Korea alone. If we see each other at the TV station in the future, let’s keep in touch! You must listen to the album; our songs are also super great!”
Today, Song Yuqi was wearing a cropped black blazer that boldly revealed a section of her firm and slender waist, with her abs faintly visible.
Her lower half was an irregularly cut red plaid skirt paired with thick-soled black Martin boots, making her already long legs look even straighter.
Her long blonde hair was curled into bouncy waves, making her palm-sized face look even more exquisite and cute.
When she smiled while talking, her eyes would curve into beautiful crescents, and her whole being radiated a sunny and cheerful affinity, like a little sun, that was hard to resist.
The girls of (G)I-DLE were like a gust of wind, coming and going quickly.
Before leaving, Jeon Soyeonlooked back once more, giving Liang Yun a meaningful glance.
After they left, the small Waiting Room returned to silence.
Kim Min-ho looked at his artist as if he had discovered a new continent: “Liang Yun-ssi… you… you just chatted with (G)I-DLE’s Jeon Soyeonsunbaenim… very naturally.”
Liang Yun looked down at the still-warm album in his arms.
On the cover, Jeon Soyeon’s signature was flamboyant and full of unbridled power.
He took off his mask and muttered to himself as if talking to himself: “Well, after all, we both like music…”
What she spoke of was music—the language Liang Yun was most familiar with, most confident in, and could use most fluently in this world.
This unexpected encounter was like an unanticipated, powerful sedative, miraculously calming Liang Yun’s heart, which had been frantic with social anxiety.
It turned out that this bizarre industry wasn’t entirely filled with social pleasantries that required painstaking effort to deal with; there were also peers with whom one could communicate directly through works and talent.
Not long after, the PD came to notify him that it was his turn to go on stage for the pre-recording.
When he stepped onto the brilliantly lit, massive stage of M Countdown, even though the audience was empty, the dozens of dark cameras and the jib arms moving slowly like steel behemoths still felt like an army in wait, emitting a suffocating invisible pressure.
His heartbeat inevitably accelerated again.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began his unique “mental therapy.”
“The camera is Ahn Yujin… the camera is Ahn Yujin… No, no, that makes it seem like I like her… Let’s change it this time… That Jeon Soyeon just now had such a strong aura and looked very strict… Right, the camera is Jeon Soyeon… She’s looking at me with the most critical and demanding eyes, wanting to see what the person who could write ‘isolation’ is really made of, and if I’m worthy of her ‘impressive’ comment…”
As soon as this thought popped up, a strange sense of creator’s pride and a refusal to lose instantly overwhelmed his social anxiety.
The music started.
He opened his eyes and looked at the main camera directly in front of him, its red light glowing.
His eyes no longer held the previous evasion and panic, replaced instead by a calm and confident light belonging to a musician.
Holding his guitar, he sat peacefully on the high stool prepared for him, and with his unique and story-filled voice, he began to tell of the loneliness and reflections belonging to this special era.
In the control room below the stage, the show’s main PD and several directors were quietly watching this rookie’s first stage performance through the monitors in front of them.
No flashy dancing, no cool stage effects—just a man, a guitar, and a spotlight.
Simple, yet not monotonous.
Because the emotions contained in that singing were too full, too sincere.
Like a tide, it spread through the top-tier sound equipment to the entire empty studio, even seeming to penetrate the screen and reach people’s hearts.
When the song ended, there was silence in the control room.
After several seconds, the show’s main PD finally picked up the intercom and said in a tone that tried to suppress excitement but still betrayed a hint of trembling: “This take was excellent. ONE TAKE OK! Tell him he can wrap up.”
He paused, looking at the image on the monitor where Liang Yun, after the music ended, was still immersed in emotion and hadn’t looked up for a long time, and added another sentence.
“Also, during post-editing, extend his final ending shot by three seconds. Yes, use that shot of him with his head down—don’t cut away.”