Stepping through the agency doors after showering and changing in the gym locker room, both men looked completely renewed. Their faces carried the freshness of people who felt that the first hours of the morning had been worth far more than expected.
As they entered the lobby, Director Yoon spotted them arriving. He approached with an unhurried step and looked at the young man with a hint of curiosity:
"Sol-woo-ssi, why aren’t you in your session with Instructor Ji-soo?"
Before Sol-woo could get a word out, Tae-shik stepped forward without hesitation:
"We’re coming from his gym routine. He suggested doing it in the mornings himself — and I couldn’t argue with the results. I’ll speak with Ji-soo shortly to shift his sessions a little later."
Director Yoon looked at Sol-woo and gave a single quiet nod. He said nothing more — the operational management of the young man was entirely under Tae-shik’s control, and there was no reason to second-guess his judgment.
With that settled, Sol-woo said goodbye with a bow and headed directly to the rehearsal room, where Ji-soo was already waiting. He explained the situation clearly and calmly. To his mild surprise, the woman made no complaint about the delay and showed no irritation — she simply let it go with professional composure.
Before beginning the protocol and stage etiquette lessons, Ji-soo crossed her arms and went straight to the point:
"Your name has gotten even more traction in the internet forums. It’s time to take the next step. Are you willing to take a photo for the account? It could be right here in the studio — no need to show too much of the equipment. Just you, sitting, holding the guitar. It would be a huge hit."
Sol-woo nodded without hesitating:
"That sounds perfect. Let’s do it."
Ji-soo smiled with approval and moved into the lesson:
"Today I’ll teach you how to hold your gaze in front of a camera — whether it’s an interview or a public event. You need to maintain a firm posture at all times. You can’t let even a trace of nerves show, or let your eyes wander with uncertainty — all of that would work against the image we’re building. What you need to project to the public is absolute calm and confidence in yourself. That’s what generates real admiration."
After a couple of intense hours practicing posture, head angles, and eye control, they left the rehearsal room and headed to the production studio to take the photograph. When they walked in, the space was empty and silent — no sign of Shinsadong Tiger.
Sol-woo prepared without losing time. He picked up the acoustic guitar, settled onto the stool, and followed Ji-soo’s instructions to the letter.
From the other side of the phone screen, Ji-soo couldn’t help but admire how extraordinarily photogenic the young man was. Once again she found herself surrendering to his natural talent. Beyond the serious composure he carried, she could sense a brilliant future ahead of him.
She captured a spectacular shot: Sol-woo’s fingers resting on the strings, his gaze tilted subtly toward the fretboard, his posture immaculate. But the most striking detail was his hair — slightly disheveled from the busy morning, the ends falling like a luminous cascade caught in the studio light and the phone’s glow.
She stayed looking at the screen for a few seconds, caught by the image. It wasn’t just Sol-woo’s physical appearance — it was the magnetism and the organic sense of professionalism he projected without any effort at all.
"Done," Ji-soo said, putting away her phone. "The photos came out excellent. I’ll show you the result when I post them to the account."
She began gathering her things to leave, but just before crossing the door, she turned back:
"By the way, Sol-woo-ssi — let’s add each other on KakaoTalk. That way I can send you screenshots of the post directly. I have to get going."
"Of course, that works," Sol-woo agreed.
They exchanged contacts on the app and Ji-soo said goodbye with a brief nod before stepping out into the hallway.
The clock read 12:20 PM — time for lunch. Sol-woo picked up his phone thinking about ordering delivery so as not to lose time, but at that exact moment the studio door opened. Tae-shik walked in carrying a thermal bag.
Without ceremony, the manager set down on the work table a warm traditional Dosirak container — portions of juicy bulgogi, steamed rice, and fresh banchan — alongside a can of cold barley tea.
Sol-woo thanked him with a light smile, pulled up to the table, and began eating while filling Tae-shik in on the morning’s progress with Ji-soo and the photo session. Between bites, both men talked easily, feeling the trust between artist and manager settle a little more firmly into place.
Once lunch was done, Sol-woo leaned back slightly in his chair, completely satisfied.
"That was good. Mr. Manager — please bring this same option every day at this hour," he said with a quiet smile.
Tae-shik nodded in silence. Privately, he was thinking exactly the same thing. While clearing the wrappers from the table, he reminded him in a casual tone:
"Keep an eye on your Instagram later. We’ll want to see how many followers we start picking up once the photo goes up."
Sol-woo looked at him with a flicker of surprise. He’d had the impression that Tae-shik was too rigid or old-fashioned for social media matters — but he realized now he’d been completely wrong. The manager was paying attention to every single detail of the work plan. He simply nodded with respect.
Shortly after, Tae-shik collected everything and left the studio. It was time to get back to the music.
Sol-woo picked up his notebook and went over the thoughts from the night before. He couldn’t limit himself to translating the lyrics word for word from English — he had to restructure the vocalizations, the pronunciation, and above all, the way each line resolved in Korean.
He threw himself into the work and managed to get a first draft of the verse down on paper. But when he tried to sing it over the melody, he frowned. It still didn’t feel right. His voice sounded stiff, heavy, constrained. Going out to perform like this — before an audience or critics — wouldn’t be a debut. It would be an embarrassment.
He let out a long breath of frustration. At that exact moment, the door opened and Shinsadong Tiger walked in. The veteran producer wore a calm, easy expression. He glanced at the page full of crossed-out lines and asked gently:
"You’re struggling, aren’t you? That’s completely normal."
Before the young man could explain himself, the producer continued in an unhurried tone:
"If you need me to step in and fix the lyrics, I can do it in ten minutes. But the point of this exercise is for you to learn to handle this yourself. Knowing how to solve this will save your life in the future. I’m not always going to be at your side correcting every verse."
Sol-woo nodded in silence. He knew the producer was right. No matter how gifted the mentor in front of him was, he couldn’t lean on a crutch forever. If he wasn’t capable of clearing this hurdle on his own, what was the point of choosing to be a complete artist?
After a moment’s reflection, Sol-woo looked up and asked:
"Producer-nim... have you had other students with this same problem?"
Shinsadong Tiger gave a slight nod.
"As a matter of fact, yes. But for most of them the difficulty ran the other direction — going from Korean to English. That’s the major advantage you have over the rest. The gap between both languages is enormous, but having lived and built your craft in English first, making the transition to Korean is, in theory, far more accessible for you."
The producer paused briefly to let the idea settle:
"English is a universal language — fluid, malleable. Korean is more conservative, more melodic, with very defined structures. Do you understand the difference? The secret isn’t to fight the syllables — it’s knowing how to make the words work together, understanding their nuance, and making them play in your favor. I’ll leave that with you to think about."
Before leaving, the Producer-nim turned, gave him one last reassuring smile, and headed toward Director Yoon’s office.
Sol-woo was left alone in the studio, sunk in deep silence. Shinsadong Tiger’s words echoed through his head like a steady pulse, pushing him to rethink his entire approach from scratch.