The director studied Sol-woo carefully. He didn’t know the young man’s personal history — but years of talent scouting had taught him to recognize the kind of shadows and emotional weight that boys like this tended to carry. That was why he’d been relentless. He needed to measure the kid’s psychological resilience and find out exactly how far he was willing to go.
Deep down, he was more than satisfied. The raw talent was there — but it was this unusual maturity that made him think Sol-woo was worth staking his capital and his contacts on.
Still, if the young man couldn’t clear this last mental barrier, it would mean he hadn’t been built to survive the pace of this industry. In South Korea, the demands placed on an artist bordered on brutal compared to any foreign market.
Watching Sol-woo sink into a few seconds of quiet reflection, the PD-nim let out a short breath. His assistant chose that pause to slip into the office — she set a steaming cup of coffee on the desk in front of the director and withdrew without a sound, all quiet professionalism.
Then Sol-woo broke the silence. His voice was unhurried, but it carried weight:
"You’re right, Director. Maybe this isn’t the perfect moment, or the easiest path — but if I don’t try, if I don’t find out for myself what I’m capable of... what’s the point of having this talent at all?"
A spark lit in the producer’s eyes. He leaned back slightly in his chair and challenged him with calm deliberateness:
"Go on. Tell me why I should invest my time and my money in you."
Sol-woo held his gaze. In that moment, he understood clearly that this man wasn’t rejecting him — he was testing him, cornering him psychologically to see what he was made of. The trial by fire of a true industry veteran.
Despite the unease that had moved through him moments before, Sol-woo recovered his composure and answered with a quiet, crushing calm:
"Haven’t there always been artists who debuted far later than the average and went further than any academy trainee? Just as there are young people who spend years in rigorous training — and in the end, the industry discards them anyway."
He paused, holding the producer’s gaze without blinking.
"I may be a newcomer to this country’s entertainment world, Director — but I can tell you that the foundation of a true musician is the same in every corner of this planet. Beyond money or fame, we do this because it fills something in us. Doesn’t it? So why should I give up before I’ve even started? I accept that I’m coming in late by local standards — but I’d rather see that as the hand I was dealt."
The passion in Sol-woo’s words became something almost tangible in the room.
"If I’m being honest, I never planned this. I always saw myself going in a completely different direction. But in the blink of an eye, a visceral desire was born in me — to conquer the world through music. Why would I take a step back from that?"
He paused briefly to breathe, that imposing presence of his fully intact.
"I feel entirely capable of facing whatever comes. I know very well that, being mixed, the criticism and the prejudice will be there from day one. But my talent will speak for itself. If you and your agency decide to bet on me — I promise you won’t regret it."
When he finished, silence reclaimed the office.
What had been most striking wasn’t just the substance of his words — it was the eloquence and absolute conviction with which he’d delivered them. For the PD-nim, that quality was worth infinitely more than any technical skill. An artist who can only sing but has no mental foundation is useless in this business — at the first scandal or fierce criticism, they collapse like a house of cards. To survive the waves of this industry, you need a character armored in layers of emotional intelligence.
The director brought the cup to his lips, took a slow sip of the hot coffee, and quietly admired the young man sitting across from him.
There was no room left for doubt, for challenge, for further testing. There was nothing left to ask — pressing on would have been absurd.
After processing everything in silence, the director fixed his gaze on Sol-woo and spoke with complete finality:
"Leave me your contact information, your visa status, and all your details. I’ll draft the contract proposal. Once you’ve had a chance to review it carefully, you can decide whether you want to sign with us or not."
Sol-woo allowed himself a quiet breath of relief. It was an unmistakably positive sign.
He watched the man rise to his feet — a subtle signal that the meeting was over — and stood as well. But just as Sol-woo was about to step through the doorway, the producer spoke again:
"Junior... I loved your ambition. ’Conquer the world through music—’" The man let out a full, genuinely amused laugh. "Who in the world says something like that in their first interview?"
He said it with a wide smile — that declaration had clearly landed somewhere real. Then he added, his tone shifting to something carrying unmistakable expectation:
"I’ll put together the best conditions I can for you. I genuinely hope we get to work together."
Sol-woo gave a respectful bow and answered with complete sincerity:
"Honestly, I didn’t expect to come across someone of your caliber this early. I’m deeply grateful to you for showing me the real factors I need to keep in mind. Thank you."
He bowed again. Still with that slight stiffness he hadn’t quite ironed out — but the intention was impeccable.
The PD-nim smiled with even more satisfaction. He genuinely liked this young man’s directness. He raised a hand in an easy farewell gesture, closing the meeting.
Uncle and nephew left the floor and rode down to the underground parking. Once outside the building, Min-ho — who had kept absolute silence through the entire exchange — opened the car door and broke the quiet:
"Why were you so drawn to this agency? You noticed they’re just getting started, right?"
Sol-woo got into the passenger seat and answered with complete steadiness as he buckled his seatbelt:
"Uncle, it’s a thousand times better to bet on a company this size than on one of the big corporations. Do you think the dominant agencies are actually going to invest everything they have in me from day one? No matter how much talent I have, to them I’ll just be another foreigner on their roster. This director, on the other hand — he gave me confidence and showed real experience. Did you see those partnership documents he showed me? He has exactly what I need to grow as an artist from the ground up. I feel like this is the perfect starting point. Uncle, I want to sign with them. But the smart move is to wait until tomorrow — the contract clauses will decide everything."
Min-ho studied his nephew, genuinely surprised by how carefully he’d weighed every variable. Still, as the adult in the room, he added with caution:
"Tomorrow you’re bringing the lawyer your mother mentioned. In this business there are always predatory contracts — traps written in the fine print — and I don’t want you ending up tied down like a slave. No matter how much confidence that man projects, remember the saying: faces we see, hearts we don’t."
"You’re right, uncle," Sol-woo agreed without hesitation.
He leaned his head against the window as the car pulled out, watching the modern architecture of Cheongdam-dong slide past. Deep in his chest, he felt something shift — the abstract longing he’d always carried for music hardening into something serious, deliberate, and hungry.
For the first time in his life, he felt a genuine desire to stand in front of a camera. To expose his art to the world. To be seen and valued for his own talent.
It was a feeling entirely new to him — like someone who has spent years confined to the shadows and, stepping into the light for the first time, discovers how full life can actually be.
In the silence of the car, he made a decision he would never break: he would become a giant of the music industry. Whatever it cost. Even if it meant standing openly against his father’s will.