An hour and a half Sol-woo had been practicing the formal greeting over and over. Ji-soo had made it clear from the very first minute — that movement had to become an impeccable reflex. Not the slightest stiffness, hesitation, or break in the flow of his gestures could exist.
For industry veterans, the way a newcomer executed a bow said everything: it revealed the young person’s genuine humility and the level of respect they were extending to those who had spent years carving a path in the field. Earning the goodwill of senior figures or experienced artists often began with something as simple and powerful as a flawless greeting — which was exactly why Ji-soo had decided to make it the first real lesson.
While correcting the angle of Sol-woo’s shoulders, Ji-soo delivered grounded, realistic warnings about the profession:
"Regardless of your emotional state or whatever problems you’re carrying, you always receive people in this industry and your audience with a calm smile. For an idol or a public figure, that self-control is everything. And if you’re going to work as a professional actor in the future, you need to let go of that rigidity immediately. You have to learn to draw an invisible but clear line between your working moments and your personal life."
Sol-woo absorbed each instruction in silence and made every adjustment without a single complaint. He was taking it with absolute seriousness. His mother’s side of the family were ordinary people — they had never demanded formalities of this level in daily interactions. But now that he was about to expose himself to the scrutiny of an entire country, he understood that mastering this etiquette was deeply necessary.
After two uninterrupted hours of practice, a shadow appeared through the small glass panel on the rehearsal room door. Director Yoon.
Peering in alongside Shinsadong Tiger, both men observed the focus and seriousness with which Sol-woo repeated each movement. Director Yoon gave a quiet nod, visibly satisfied by the young man’s adaptability, then turned to the renowned producer and asked in a low voice:
"What are you planning to work on with him this afternoon?"
Shinsadong Tiger adjusted his glasses and answered with a reflective tone:
"We’ve already heard him sing in fluent, flawless English — now we’ll see how he handles Korean. I don’t think pronunciation will give him too much trouble; his spoken Korean is fairly natural despite everything. It’s really just a matter of better vocalization. Where I think it’s genuinely going to challenge him is when he has to write his own songs in Korean. Composing in English is completely different from composing in Korean — the meter, the feeling, everything shifts. We’ll see how that goes. If not, we’ll have to look for that person—"
Director Yoon turned sharply toward the producer and cut him off with a hard look:
"Don’t even think about naming him. Sol-woo will not be around those individuals. We need to build him a strong character and a clean image. I was initially drawn to him by his raw talent — but now I genuinely want him to succeed on a large scale. That’s how he’ll be able to break down these rigid walls that exist in this country."
Shinsadong Tiger nodded in silence, conceding the point. He wasn’t particularly conservative — he loved his country, yes, but in certain ways he was repulsed by the social hypocrisy that dominated the entertainment industry. Breaking that open required people like Sol-woo, capable of clearing the path for a new generation.
Ji-soo and Sol-woo noticed the two men looking through the glass panel. Ji-soo reacted immediately, walking to the entrance to open the door. As she did, she caught the severe, uncomfortable look still lingering on Director Yoon’s face.
The director, noticing Ji-soo watching him, softened his expression immediately and asked with composure:
"How is Sol-woo-ssi getting on?"
Ji-soo gave a brief respectful bow before answering:
"Quite well — he learns quickly. Honestly, I expected it to take more work to adjust his posture, but Sol-woo-ssi grasps the idea immediately. He just needs to polish the practice. There is one thing, though, Director. I’d recommend bringing in a dance instructor. I’ve noticed some rigidity in his body movement, and it would be ideal to start working on his fluidity now."
Director Yoon nodded in silence. It was a diagnosis he’d already anticipated — after all, the kid couldn’t be a flawless prodigy in every single area. He took a few steps toward the center of the room and addressed the young man directly:
"Sol-woo, how are you feeling so far?"
Before Sol-woo could answer, the director added a question that, for the first time, edged into personal territory:
"Have you practiced any form of dance before? And tell me — do you have any medical condition or treatment that could affect your lung capacity or breathing on stage?"
For Sol-woo, that kind of question had never been easy to approach. If there was one thing he disliked, it was digging into his past — and specifically, into certain episodes from his childhood. Still, he held his composure and answered with complete professionalism:
"Director, I’ve never practiced dance. But I was an athlete in the past — I swam competitively for a period of time. So as far as breath control or physical performance goes, there’s nothing to worry about."
Director Yoon nodded at the response. He noted the distant, surface-level nature of the answer — it confirmed what he’d already suspected: the young man kept his secrets under lock and key. The director understood he would need to tread carefully. If after so many years in the industry he couldn’t read the personal reserves of a trainee, all that experience would have been wasted. There was history behind Sol-woo — he was certain of it. But at this moment he had neither the reach nor the means to send someone to investigate the young man’s life on the other side of the ocean. All he could do was be patient.
Shinsadong Tiger, watching the scene with his arms crossed, stepped in to break the weight of the silence:
"Take a thirty-minute break, then come find me in the studio. I want to make the most of today’s session."
Unlike the previous days, when the celebrated producer had treated him with a relaxed warmth, Sol-woo was now facing a producer locked entirely into his role as a rigorous instructor. Sol-woo responded with a respectful bow and said nothing more.
Both men left the rehearsal room. Sol-woo walked to the bench in the corner to pick up his water bottle — and Ji-soo stepped over, phone in hand:
"On the subject of your social media — I’m still finalizing the account setup. But your official Instagram is already created: @by.solwoo."
Sol-woo looked at her for a moment. For a brief second, the idea of using his Western name for the profile crossed his mind. Ji-soo seemed to read it immediately and shut down any objection with executive coldness:
"Don’t even think about using your Western name. Remember — you’re building a career to become an influential figure in South Korea. If we start your public trajectory by leading with a foreign name, all you’ll attract is attacks from the unhinged fan forums. We start from the ground up, with both feet firmly planted."
With that, without waiting for a reply or a debate, she walked to the side table and sat down to eat a light snack. Sol-woo watched her for a few seconds in silence, processing the cold strategic precision with which every millimeter of his new life was being managed.