The following day. The words and advice Shinsadong Tiger had left with him in the studio were still circling in Sol-woo’s head. Though he still hadn’t found the short-term technical solution for adapting the lyrics into Korean, he decided not to spiral — to move forward one step at a time.
Mid-morning, after completing his strict gym routine and showering, Sol-woo found himself seated in Director Yoon’s office.
The experienced executive studied him from behind his desk with a reflective expression and broke the silence:
"Sol-woo-ssi, how has the song been going? The Producer-nim has been filling me in on a few things... Did the transition to Korean give you trouble?"
Sol-woo answered with a calm voice and impeccable posture:
"Honestly, yes, Director. It’s been quite difficult. But don’t worry about the final result — I’m not going to let it fall short."
Director Yoon let out a brief, warm laugh and waved a hand in the air.
"I wasn’t asking for the agency’s sake, son — I was asking for yours. These things need to find their own rhythm. Don’t push yourself too hard. The idea is for you to absorb the learning completely. And as you may know, your Producer-nim has been quite busy this week. He leads EXID — one of the biggest female groups in the country right now."
Sol-woo nodded in silence. He privately admitted that not knowing this detail had been a small oversight on his part — he should have done more research into the local industry. He understood immediately why Shinsadong Tiger was treated with such deep respect: he wasn’t just a mentor at the agency. He was a veteran at the very top of the Korean music market.
He paused for a moment and asked politely:
"Director... did you call me in for something specific?"
"Yes — look at this," Director Yoon said, gesturing for him to come closer to the monitor.
On the screen were open tabs from the most influential Korean internet forums of the era: Nate Pann, Instiz, and DC Inside. The conversation around the mysterious YouTube kid who had captivated audiences with his song in English had overflowed. Ji-soo’s tactical strategy of posting content on local platforms had served as the perfect spark — the engagement had multiplied tenfold.
The director moved the cursor to the comments section of one of the most popular threads and pointed to a verified profile.
"Look at this. It’s a direct message from Lee Jia — one of the most influential talent scouts and A&R heads at JYP Entertainment."
Sol-woo leaned slightly forward to read the text on the screen:
"Your profile interests me. Age and current situation don’t matter — JYP can back your talent. Contact me."
Beside the message was a direct phone number and a corporate JYP email address.
Director Yoon settled back into his chair, fixing Sol-woo with an expression of extreme caution:
"You need to be very careful from this point on, Sol-woo. When Big 3 agencies get involved like this, they won’t take long to reach you directly. You can’t let your guard down. In this industry, everything leaks..."
The director tried to continue with his warning — he knew the cold, hidden face of Seoul’s entertainment industry all too well. No matter how anonymous Sol-woo kept himself on social media, for the intelligence and contacts departments of the major corporations it was remarkably easy to trace IP addresses or cross-reference data within the country to locate a person.
Taking in the gravity of the situation, Sol-woo straightened his posture and answered with firm composure:
"Don’t worry, Director. I signed a contract with you. I’m comfortable here and I fully respect our commitment. You have nothing to worry about."
Director Yoon studied him for a moment, then gave him a light, affectionate tap on the shoulder, letting out a smile of relief.
"I know exactly what kind of person you are — I wasn’t saying that because I doubt your loyalty. Why are you so guarded? I was saying it for your own safety. After this kind of exposure, you could face difficult situations — harassment on the streets, even. Those massive agencies have no mercy: if they can’t recruit a talent willingly, they’ll find ways to apply pressure. If anything comes up, you tell me immediately. I am your backing and your shield. They may be corporate giants — but they have no reason to underestimate me."
Sol-woo stood, nodded with gravity, and delivered a deep, respectful bow. The protocol and etiquette training with Ji-soo over the past few days was showing clear results — his movements projected elegance, composure, and maturity.
The director gave an approving nod at the gesture and dismissed him with a brief wave.
Walking out through the office door and down the lit hallway, a sober thought crossed Sol-woo’s mind:
I can’t expose my mother or my uncle right now. It would only bring them problems.
He made a firm decision to stay extremely cautious throughout the year and not involve them in his public environment at all. In the industry, it was a thousand times better to project the image of a solitary young man with no family ties than to drag his mother into potential media scrutiny or harassment. He wasn’t afraid of obstacles — but he would never forgive himself if his family suffered because of him.
He took his phone from his pocket and opened Instagram. To his genuine surprise, the @by.solwoo account had gone from zero to over 1,000 followers in the span of twenty-four hours — driven entirely by the photograph Ji-soo had taken of him in the studio the day before. The woman clearly knew how to move the pieces of the digital game.
In the photo’s caption, Ji-soo had written something brief but magnetic:
"In the process of preparing Lost Stars... searching for that melancholy that resonates deep within us Koreans."
Sol-woo began scrolling through the comments. The vast majority came from local women — Hangul names, real profiles — expressing enormous anticipation about hearing him sing again. But he noticed one key detail: not a single comment in English. He thought that for the next post, it would be essential to suggest to Ji-soo adding English hashtags with his YouTube channel name — to connect the international audience to his Korean profile.
He let out a quiet breath of resolve, pocketed the phone, and pushed open the door to the production room to face his music once more.
Inside the studio, Sol-woo closed the door behind him, leaving the hallway noise on the other side. He sat on the stool and picked up the guitar. This time he didn’t try to sing the lyrics straight through — he simply began strumming the melody of Lost Stars, letting the chords fill the room.
As the sound of the strings vibrated through the space, he started vocalizing only the final resolutions of the Korean lines. He inhaled, held the air in his diaphragm, and let the syllables flow — testing the resonance of each consonant and vowel, as if he were tuning his own body like an additional instrument.
Having made so many mistakes over the previous days, he had decided to take a step back and return to the most basic elements. He knew that in rebuilding the foundation, he would find the epiphany he needed to unlock the song. He had absolute faith in himself — of that there was no doubt.
He kept trying, over and over. Gradually, his vocalization began to open up — wider, more fluid. He realized he shouldn’t be singing in the rigid, everyday Korean spoken on the streets, but in a stylized Korean — shaped and refined specifically for musical lyrics. It was a subtle but powerful distinction: giving the words a harmonic curvature that transformed the language’s hardness into something sublime.
He tightened his grip on the guitar neck and sang the first complete verse in Korean.
The sound floated through the production room — and for the first time in days, it felt organic. The transition landed naturally, melancholic, full of feeling. He smiled quietly to himself in the silence of the room. He had found the way out.
He gave himself over completely to the practice for hours. He repeated the verse dozens of times, adjusting the shape of his mouth, the pressure of the air, and the texture of his voice until his vocal cords and his fingers began to feel the strain.
Exhausted but clear-headed, he let out a long breath and rested the guitar on its stand. He checked the time on his phone and decided to step out for some air. Walking down the hallway, he noticed Tae-shik was nowhere to be found — something that struck him as unusual given how close the manager typically stayed to his side.
The agency’s internal café was small and didn’t offer the kind of warm drink he was in the mood for, so he chose to go for a walk instead. Over the past few days he’d been memorizing the nearby businesses around the building.
The brutal March cold in Seoul hit immediately as he stepped through the main door. Sol-woo zipped up a thick coat that covered nearly all of him, pulled the hood up, and started walking at an easy pace along the sidewalk — savoring the icy air against his face and the quiet satisfaction of having cleared at least one stretch of the problem.