Inside the office, two leather sofas flanked a low coffee table. Across from them, Shinsadong Tiger hadn’t taken his eyes off Sol-woo since he walked in. Despite the weight of the moment, the atmosphere in the room felt surprisingly calm and professional — open, clean, nothing like the cold boardrooms of the major corporations.
The first to break the silence was Director Yoon, settling into his seat and asking Sol-woo directly with an easy smile:
"How are you feeling, Sol-woo-ssi? Excited?"
Sol-woo met the director’s gaze and gave a slight nod. Then, with impeccable composure, he answered respectfully:
"With high expectations, Director. Especially seeing what’s on the table."
Shinsadong Tiger — who had clearly been itching to speak since the moment Sol-woo walked through the door — decided to take the floor. He adjusted his glasses and went straight to the point:
"Kid... listening carefully to your song, it’s clear it was inspired by someone specific. Am I wrong?" He paused, fixing his eyes on Sol-woo with quiet precision. "Do you currently have a girlfriend?"
Director Yoon turned his head toward the renowned producer — he hadn’t considered that angle from a lyrical standpoint, but he recognized it was a critical point for the Korean market.
Sol-woo looked at the man with the glasses, struck by the sharpness of his musical intuition. Everyone at the agency had focused on technique or appearance — but this man had gone a step further. He had stripped the soul out of the lyrics.
"Yes... the song was inspired by an ex-girlfriend," Sol-woo admitted, his voice measured. "But we have no kind of relationship at this point."
His words were firm, but a faint trace of nostalgia slipped through his tone when the subject came up. Understandable — for a nineteen-year-old, talking about a recent breakup left a mark. In the world of idols and trainees, however, matters of the heart stopped being personal the moment you walked into an agency.
Kang Tae-shik, the solidly built manager, took control of the conversation — this fell squarely within his domain of risk management:
"If you sign with us and that girl comes back into your life, what do you plan to do?" he asked, blunt and without cushioning.
Director Yoon stayed quiet, reading the room. He knew Tae-shik wouldn’t let a detail like this slide, and he thought it was exactly the right move to gauge the young man’s resolve.
Sol-woo didn’t hesitate:
"The moment I sign a contract, I’ll comply rigorously with every condition it sets out. For the agency’s sake and my own, I understand very well that I have to accept certain sacrifices."
The director gave an inward nod, satisfied. It was a crucial point to establish — a romantic scandal at the start of a career could bury a project before it launched. Who the girl was barely mattered; what mattered was where the artist’s priorities lay. It didn’t mean he could never have a relationship in the future, but in the first years of a debut, it would be a fatal mistake.
At the other end of the table, lawyer Park Seung-won continued working through the document page by page. When he reached the financial clauses, he looked up at Sol-woo with a serious expression that carried the faintest trace of quiet satisfaction.
The contract, compared to the industry’s standard predatory terms, was practically impeccable.
It stated that MNO Entertainment would direct the entirety of its initial investment resources exclusively to Sol-woo. On the financial side, it established a 60/40 split — sixty percent to the agency, forty to the artist. An extraordinarily generous figure compared to the typical 80/20 or 70/30 arrangements the major agencies used to squeeze their new acts.
The lawyer adjusted his glasses and put a technical question to the director:
"Are you certain the contract term is only five years?"
Director Yoon nodded without hesitation:
"If after three or four years with us Sol-woo-ssi feels he has outgrown our capacity and wants to move to a larger agency, we’ll give him the freedom to do so. Our goal as a company is to grow alongside his talent. There will naturally be a proportional termination clause tied to his performance, to be negotiated at the time — but the base contract is five years."
Sol-woo was genuinely surprised. He knew all too well that debut contracts in Korea typically locked young artists in for seven or eight years under exploitative conditions. He looked at the director, who returned a warm smile. There was no question they were treating him well — if he hadn’t had a lawyer beside him, he might have thought it was too good to be true.
Lawyer Park turned the page and read another section of interest:
"’The artist will be provided with acting training under high-level instructors. Subject to professional evaluation and performance, the option of an independent contract for the management of an acting career will be made available, generating dual income streams for the artist.’ I also see additional bonuses stipulated in the event that acting projects prove successful."
Park Seung-won raised his eyebrows, genuinely impressed — but didn’t step out of his role as negotiator:
"This strikes me as a very fair incentive, Director. However, what happens if my client ends up exhausted under such a heavy workload managed entirely by the same agency?"
Tae-shik, hearing the objection, cut in with his characteristic directness:
"He wouldn’t need to be exhausted if the schedule is managed professionally. You won’t find better conditions than these anywhere else, Mr. Park — forgive my bluntness. We’re staking our entire capital on him and we expect exactly the same level of commitment in return."
Sol-woo listened to the manager’s words without any irritation. He had always preferred people who were direct and transparent — it was the way he liked to communicate. He felt the impulse to respond, but noticed the lawyer making a discreet gesture with his hand, signaling him to stay quiet and let him stay in control.
"I understand your position perfectly, Mr. Manager," lawyer Park answered with legal firmness. "But we are talking about a nineteen-year-old. He deserves stipulated rest periods. I’m not asking for an empty schedule — I’m asking that dates be planned in a logical and healthy manner."
Director Yoon stepped in to balance the exchange:
"Of course, counselor. The last thing we want is to overwork our lead artist. In fact, if Sol-woo-ssi prefers to focus exclusively on music and decline the acting component, we can remove that clause entirely — no issue whatsoever."
The director made the offer while watching Sol-woo’s face closely, testing whether the young man would react on impulse. But Sol-woo, shrewdly, kept his expression neutral and said nothing.
Lawyer Park continued with steady composure:
"For better or worse, I consider it worthwhile for him to take the acting lessons — we can work out the scheduling details later. On another note, I observe that the contract includes no specific clauses regarding regular psychological support or mental health monitoring. My client could be subjected to severe levels of stress."
Hearing this, Tae-shik’s brow tightened slightly. While it was true that some agencies were beginning to implement psychological support programs, the lawyer’s directness prompted him to ask plainly:
"Sol-woo-ssi, have you suffered or do you currently suffer from depression, anxiety, or any similar condition?"
Lawyer Park cut the exchange off immediately, before his client could say a word:
"He is not required to answer a question of that private nature. The standard and ethical practice for a first-rate agency is to safeguard the comprehensive mental health of its talents from day one of their training. Or am I mistaken, Director?"
Director Yoon nodded in silence, recognizing the lawyer’s flawless move. They were sitting across from a professional who had no intention of giving them a single inch on paper.