The two-week promotion period ended in a strange atmosphere, a mix of ice and fire.
On stage, Liang Yun-ssi (L.Y) was still the melancholic talent, quietly singing with his guitar.
His live performances were terrifyingly stable; each strum and song was like moving the recording studio directly onto the stage.
His focused immersion in music and his sense of detachment earned him the reputation of a “walking CD” and “Trustworthy L” (L.Y whom people listen to because they trust him).
However, off stage, Liang Yun’s image completely diverged due to the famous “big dog” incident.
Fans and passersby enthusiastically dug through all his video appearances, from the fleeting glance in the MV teaser, to his blood-red ears during a radio live broadcast, and then to the blurry candid photos taken backstage at music shows where he scurried away like he’d seen a ghost when he spotted a camera.
Ultimately, an image combining extreme contrasting charms was born: a tyrant in music, a coward in social situations; a lone wolf on stage, a pure-hearted big dog off stage.
This peculiar persona, far from deterring fans, caused his popularity to skyrocket at an even stranger pace.
His fans, the “Breeders,” found their greatest daily pleasure in looping his melancholic song “Isolation” while discussing on forums what kind of “big dog” could have scared him so badly.
Liang Yun himself was oblivious to all of this, and he didn’t want to know.
As soon as the promotion period ended, Director Kim Ji-yeon grandly gave him a week-long vacation, ostensibly to “adjust his state and prepare for the next phase of work.” Liang Yun felt as if he had been granted amnesty and immediately entered ultimate homebody mode, locking himself in his apartment.
Each day, besides eating and sleeping, he played games and watched movies, trying to recover the Sanity Points he had lost from being around people for the past two weeks.
On the first day after his vacation, Manager Kim Min-ho “escorted” him from his apartment to the company.
What awaited him was no longer a practice room or a recording studio, but a Producer’s studio located on a high floor of the company, offering an expansive view.
This was a studio Starship Entertainment company had specially prepared for him, exclusively for L.Y.
The room was not large, but it was fully equipped, with a floor-to-ceiling window spanning an entire wall, overlooking the bustling streets of Seoul’s Gangnam District.
“From today onwards, this will be your exclusive territory,” Kim Min-ho’s voice was full of envy.
“Demos collected by the company’s A&R department and invitations from artists under the agency will all be sent here.”
Liang Yun looked at this brand-new space, still smelling of renovation, feeling a bit dazed.
Just a few months ago, he was a student living in a small apartment, feeling lost about his future.
Now, he owned his own music creation base in the prime real estate of Gangnam.
Before he could fully process this sense of unreality, there was a knock on the studio door.
Director Kim Ji-yeon walked in, her signature high heels clicking.
Today, she was wearing a well-tailored beige pantsuit with a silk white blouse underneath, the top two buttons casually undone, revealing her delicate collarbone and a small patch of fair Skin.
She looked both capable and feminine.
Her long, straight legs, encased in sheer stockings, moved with determined elegance.
She gently placed a document on the table in front of Liang Yun, and with it came a scent of coffee mixed with high-end perfume.
“Welcome back, our big star,” Kim Ji-yeon’s lips curved into a teasing smile.
“How was your vacation? Did you recover your Sanity Points?”
Liang Yun was surprised she even knew the term “Sanity Points,” and he paused before honestly nodding.
“That’s good.” Kim Ji-yeon’s expression instantly switched back to work mode.
She pushed the document forward.
“Now, let’s start your new job. This is the comeback plan for the company’s new boy group, CRAVITY. They need a powerful title track that can help them achieve their first number one. The company’s production department submitted a few demos, but the higher-ups weren’t very satisfied. Now, this task is yours.”
Liang Yun’s heart skipped a beat.
Producing a comeback title track for the company’s group.
This was completely different from the “homework” mindset he had when writing “ELEVEN.” This time, he was no longer just a behind-the-scenes ghostwriter providing a semi-finished product.
Instead, he was to be the lead Producer, fully responsible for every step of a song’s creation, from its inception to the final studio version, from demo to final recording.
The success or failure of this song would directly impact the future of a nine-member boy group and the company’s ultimate judgment of him.
“I know this is a challenge for you.” Kim Ji-yeonseemed to read his mind, her voice becoming serious.
“Liang Yun-ssi, the company signed you not only because of your ability to write songs like ‘Isolation,’ but more importantly, because of your potential to write ‘ELEVEN.’ A talented singer-songwriter is indeed rare. But a top Producer who can tailor hit songs for artists of different styles is the true scarce resource in this industry. I hope you will be the latter.”
Kim Ji-yeon’s words hit Liang Yun’s heart like a hammer.
He looked at the document on the table, which read “CRAVITY Comeback Project,” took a deep breath, and his eyes became resolute.
“I understand.”
A week later, in one of Starship EntertainmentEntertainment’s large recording studios.
The atmosphere was subtly heavy.
The nine boys of CRAVITY, dressed in neat practice clothes, stood in a row, slightly nervous.
At this moment, they were looking with a mix of curiosity, admiration, and a hint of unease at the legendary Producer—L.Y—sitting at the main console.
This Producer was much younger than they had imagined, and…
much more silent.
He wore a simple black T-shirt and black-framed glasses.
Since he arrived, he hadn’t said a word, except for a barely audible “Hello” when they greeted him collectively.
He just sat there quietly, adjusting the equipment, his focused and indifferent profile making them feel immense pressure.
Was this the monster rookie who wrote “Isolation” and soared to the top of the charts upon debut?
Was this also the pure-hearted man who blushed to the point of freezing during a radio live broadcast just hearing the words “big dog”?
The contrast was too great!
Liang Yun was actually more nervous than them.
This was his first time “directing” an entire idol group as a Producer.
He was used to wrestling with music alone in his studio, but now, he needed to interact with nine living people, clearly convey his intentions, and even…
deliver “lectures” when necessary.
This was a hellish challenge for him.
He cleared his throat, feeling a bit dry.
He tried to recall Director Kim Ji-yeon’s decisive aura and Jeon Soyeon’s cool, queen-like demeanor, but ultimately found he couldn’t emulate either.
Forget it, he’d do it his own way.
“Come over, everyone, and listen to the demo first.” His voice wasn’t loud, but through the microphone, it sounded exceptionally clear in the recording booth.
The nine boys immediately gathered around.
Liang Yun pressed the play button.
An aggressive, synthesized bass sound, as if from the depths of hell, suddenly exploded in everyone’s eardrums.
Immediately following were dense and powerful drum beats, like war drums, and the faint, ominous sound of an alarm in the background.
The entire demo’s atmosphere was dark, explosive, and full of power.
The members of CRAVITY were all stunned.
Most of their previous songs were in a youthful, energetic style.
But this demo, titled “Flame,” was like a fierce beast charging out of an abyss, full of mature, dangerous masculine hormones.
“The theme I want to convey with this song is ‘to ignite an unquenchable flame even in the ashes of despair.'” Liang Yun finally began to explain, and when it came to music, he became more talkative.
“So, I need your voices to have struggle, anger, defiance, and… a desperate resolve. Don’t treat this song with the way you usually sing ‘sweet songs.'”
He looked at the two rappers in the group, Serim and Allen.
“For your two verses, I need stronger grit and aggression. Especially Allen, your vocal range is higher, so when you sing this part, try to tighten your throat a bit more, imitating a… low growl of a beast.”
He then looked at the main vocalist, Woo Bin.
“In the chorus, your high note is key. But this high note cannot be beautiful and floating. It must be torn, roared from your chest, carrying a hint of blood. Do you understand what I mean?”
The boys exchanged glances, all seeing a hint of shock in each other’s eyes.
This Producer-nim, though not talkative, was incredibly clear and specific about what he wanted.
Moreover, he seemed to know each of their vocal characteristics inside and out.
The recording officially began.
As expected, problems arose.
Although CRAVITY’s members had solid fundamentals, their long-standing vocal habits, developed within the K-Pop idol industry system, made it difficult for them to immediately switch to the raw, primal singing style required for “Flame.”
Especially the main vocalist, Woo Bin, who repeatedly recorded the iconic tearing high note in the chorus more than a dozen times, but still couldn’t achieve the effect Liang Yun wanted.
He habitually used his head voice to sing; although the sound was high, it sounded very “clean,” lacking the sense of struggle and power.
The atmosphere in the recording booth became heavy again.
Woo Bin’s forehead was already covered in fine beads of sweat.
He tried again and again into the microphone, but each time, he heard that calm, almost cold voice from the intercom.
“Incorrect. Not enough emotion.”
“It’s still too ‘beautiful.’ I want ‘broken.'”
“Stop for a moment. Woo Bin xi, imagine you’re trapped in a collapsing ruin, all your teammates have fallen, and you’re alone, using your last ounce of strength to send out a distress signal. That kind of scream isn’t for beauty; it’s for survival. Try again.”
He was completely immersed in the role of Producer, forgetting his nervousness, forgetting that the other party was a junior several years his junior.
In his mind, there was only the most extreme, obsessive pursuit of music.
The other members outside the recording booth watched their teammate being “tortured” like this, not daring to breathe.
It was their first time witnessing the terrifying nature of this “Music Tyrant.”
Just then, Liang Yun’s phone, placed on the mixing console, lit up.
It was a KakaoTalk message from that familiar girl.
“Our oppa~ What are you busy with? Are you ‘bullying’ our company’s poor younger brothers? [Puppy peeking.jpg]”
Liang Yun looked at the message, his tense nerves feeling as if they had been gently stroked by a warm hand.
The lines on his face, which had appeared somewhat cold due to intense focus, unconsciously softened.
He picked up his phone, his fingers rapidly tapping on the screen.
“Working. They’re trying hard, but they’re not ‘crazy’ enough.”
His reply was much more natural than before; it was no longer the state of spitting out one word at a time.
The other person’s message was almost an instant reply.
“Then you should personally show them how to be ‘crazy’! Aren’t you good at it? When you recorded ‘Isolation,’ didn’t you imagine yourself standing on stage with many people watching you? You can imagine them as your audience now! Conquer them with your music! Fighting! [Puppy punching.gif]”
Ahn Yujin’s words, like an electric current, instantly struck Liang Yun.
That’s right.
Demonstrate.
He pressed the intercom button and said to Woo Bininside: “Take a ten-minute break. Come out.”
Then, he stood up and walked into the small recording booth that had once made him feel suffocated.
He stood in front of the microphone and put on his monitoring headphones.
“Play the instrumental,” he said to the sound engineer in the control room outside.
As the oppressive instrumental of “Flame” began, Liang Yun closed his eyes.
He didn’t think of Woo Bin, nor did he think of CRAVITY.
In his mind, what appeared was Ahn Yujin’s message, her puppy emoji with clenched fists cheering him on.
A strange impulse, a mix of defiance and a desire to “show off,” surged within him.
“Isn’t it just about being ‘crazy’? I’ll show you how crazy I can be.”
As the chorus melody reached its climax, he suddenly opened his eyes, and into the microphone, with all his might, he roared out that earth-shattering high note.
That was not a sound produced with technique.
That was a battle cry, squeezed and erupted from the deepest part of his chest, with life, with soul, full of passion, anger, and fierce resolve!
The entire recording studio instantly fell into a dead silence.
In the control room, CRAVITY’s nine members all stared dumbfounded at the figure on the other side of the glass wall, a figure that wasn’t particularly muscular, even somewhat slender.
They couldn’t believe that such a terrifying, explosive sound could have come from this seemingly refined Producer.
Woo Bin, standing next to Liang Yun, felt his scalp tingle.
He was closest; he could clearly feel that Liang Yun’s entire body was trembling slightly from the immense power as he produced that sound.
That wasn’t singing.
That was burning life.
After singing, Liang Yun took off his headphones, his chest still heaving violently.
He looked at the stunned Woo Bin, his voice hoarse from the previous roar.
“Did you feel it?
Use this,” he pointed to his chest, “to sing.”
Woo Bin nodded heavily, as if enlightened, his eyes filled with an unprecedented light, a mix of awe and fervor.
He walked back to the microphone.
“One more time.”
This time, when he sang that high note again, his voice finally had what Liang Yun wanted—that tearing, broken power, the flame ignited in despair.
In the control room, Liang Yun’s face finally showed a satisfied, faint smile.
He took out his phone and replied to the girl with two words.
“Done.”