Park Jihoon QA

I refuse three times.

The door opened.

About ten centimeters or so. The latch stayed caught.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door shut.

(Shut.)

In the hallway, only the flickering lights’ buzzing noise remained. Jaeha stayed standing, about ten seconds’ worth.

"…Excuse me."

"I’m not buying."

"What?"

"Anything."

"I’m not selling."

"People like that buy the most."

Jaeha gave a laugh. For the first time in eleven years—laughing in a situation where someone else wasn’t even funny.

"You’re Mr. Iré, right?"

From inside, there was no sound.

Then, again—fiddling with the latch.

Room 302 was about six pyeong.

There was one window, but it was blocked with Styrofoam. It wasn’t so much soundproofing as just… covering it up. An egg-crate foam panel was stuck to the wall, and half of it had fallen off; the rest was taped back on.

On the desk, a synthesizer. Next to it, an audio interface. Next to that, four coffee cups. They all looked like they were from different dates.

(That album came out here.)

"There’s nowhere to sit."

"You can stand, though."

"Then stand, I guess."

Irè sat on the chair. As she sat, she turned her back. She pretended to look at the monitor, but the screen was off.

"My name is—"

"I know."

"…Yes."

"Who wouldn’t know?"

Her tone had no barbs. That was worse. It was a voice that just stated facts.

"I received the album."

"Which one?"

"《Nam-Myung》."

Irè’s hand stopped. Over the mouse.

"…That one’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much was it?"

"……."

"How much did you pay?"

"220,000 won."

Irè looked back for the first time.

"Are you insane?"

"Yes."

"……."

"I didn’t buy it myself—the manager did, and I’m still angry."

"Of course. Its cost is only 11,700 won."

"That’s cheap."

"It’s expensive. You sold five hundred copies."

Irè turned away again.

"So what. You want me to sign it?"

"Write a song."

The room went quiet. You could hear the refrigerator running.

(This sound.)

The low-end noise that had been on track three. That was the refrigerator in this room.

"I won’t."

"The conditions—"

"I didn’t ask about conditions."

"Why?"

"Mr. Yoon Jaeha."

Irè turned the chair around. Completely this time.

"Do you know what kind of person I am right now?"

"……."

"I write songs. One a day. Idol songs. I turn over a demo, get ripped apart, rewrite it. My name doesn’t go up. That’s how the contract is."

"But that’s not a bad thing. I get my salary. Three hundred twenty."

"When we made that album, I earned four hundred thousand won a month."

"……."

"A lot of people say they like that album. They even played it on the radio. But do you know this? After that broadcast aired, how many people contacted me?"

"Two. One was you, Mr. Yoon Jaeha. The other is an insurance planner."

Jaeha couldn’t say anything.

"So go. I don’t want to talk about that album."

"…Why?"

"If the person who says, ‘That was good, that was good,’ shows up ten years later—"

"That’s not comfort. It’s an invoice."

Jaeha walked to the door.

And then turned around.

"Track eight."

"……."

"In the very first line of the second verse, you messed up the lyrics."

Irè’s shoulders stiffened.

"You missed one whole line, then came in half a beat late. But you didn’t delete it."

"…Because I didn’t have money."

"Lies."

"What?"

"You mixed it yourself. Yeah, you did it because you didn’t have money—that part is true. But rerecording track eight doesn’t cost anything. Just turn on the mic and sing it one more time."

"You didn’t delete it."

Irè looked at Jaeha. For the first time, not seeing him as Yoon Jaeha—but as a person.

"I can’t do that."

"I have twelve songs. Right now. Every single one is perfect—pitch doesn’t slip, pronunciation doesn’t blur, the chorus is all there. It’s three minutes twenty seconds."

"And I can’t even listen to one of them."

Fluorescent lights flickered. Sixty hertz.

"I envy that mistake."

"That’s why I’m here. I didn’t come to buy songs."

"……."

"Excuse me."

The door shut.

As she went down the stairs, someone came up from below.

Short hair, a black padded jacket, and a convenience store bag in one hand. It was a woman.

The woman looked at Jaeha. Only the eyes visible above the mask.

"……."

"……."

The woman passed by. She climbed up about three steps and stopped.

"Excuse me."

"Yes."

"Are you going to Room 302?"

"…Yes."

"So it got shot down."

"…Yes."

The woman laughed. She laughed out loud.

"Of course. For ten years, she didn’t give songs to anyone."

"…But she said she would. I heard she gives every day."

"That’s selling, though."

The woman adjusted the convenience store bag.

"Giving and selling are different."

"She’s a real drum person. She played drums, on that album."

"I know."

"You know. There are only two people listed in the credits."

Winter looked Jaeha up and down.

"How many times have you been here?"

"First time today."

"Then there are two more left."

"…Really?"

"She refuses him three times. Usually."

Winter finished climbing the stairs.

"But the fourth time, she doesn’t refuse."

"It’s just because no one comes until then."

A sound—Room 302’s door opening and closing.

Jaeha stood on the landing.

In her pocket, there was a CD case with cracks in it.

(Twice.)

The car was parked outside the alley.

Minseok lowered the window from the driver’s seat. You could smell cigarette smoke. He was saying he’d been quitting for ten years.

"What happened?"

"She shot me down."

Minseok looked at Jaeha.

And kept looking.

"…What?"

"She got shot down."

"Dude."

"Yeah."

"You’re laughing right now?"

Before opening the passenger door, Jaeha touched her own face.

(You were laughing.)

"…Ah."

"……"

"Mr. Yoon Jaeha. I’ve been by your side for eleven years."

"Not once in those eleven years have I seen you get shut down."

"Looks like it."

"But why do you like it?"

Jaeha didn’t answer. She got in the car. Buckled her seatbelt.

The car pulled out of the alley. In the rearview mirror, the four-story building with no sign shrank.

"Minseok."

"Yeah."

"Oh, the director said it. When I was seventeen, I wrote twelve songs a month."

"…You did."

"Seriously?"

"For real. They were all trash, but it was twelve songs."

The light turned.

"So where did all of them go?"

Minseok kept holding the steering wheel and stared ahead.

The light changed. The car behind beeped. Minseok didn’t move.

"…They’re in my storage."

Jaeha looked at Minseok.

"You told me when we were cleaning up the practice room—throw it all away. At the company."

"But I couldn’t."

The car behind beeped again.

"The ones burned onto CD-R. Might be around thirty of them. They could’ve gotten moldy too."

"…Why."

"Give it."

"Jaeha."

"Give it, Minseok."

Minseok pressed the accelerator.

"…Crazy bastard."

Minseok’s storage was in Gimpo.

It was a container. It took Minseok five minutes to unlock the padlock. It wasn’t that the key didn’t fit—it was the padlock that had rusted.

"This is the first time opening it in five years."

When the door opened, cold air spilled out. The smell of paper and mold.

Inside was dark. Minseok turned on a flashlight.

There was an amp. A stand. A broken cymbal stand. A bundle of cables. And boxes.

"…What is all this?"

"What was in the practice room."

"You said to throw it away."

"You said you threw it. You didn’t say you didn’t."

Jaeha touched the amp. Dust got on her fingers.

It was his amp. Bought when he was fifteen. Secondhand for 180,000 won.

"Found it."

Minseok dragged out a box of ramen. The lid was folded down, and the corners were crushed.

Inside, CD-Rs were packed tightly. A few dozen—thirty-something. Each case had a date written in a silver-colored pen.

Jaeha took one of them out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minseok shone the flashlight toward the wall.

Posters were on it. A3 size. Printed from a printer. The ink had run out, leaving only blue.

Band names were written.

Moonlight.

Under that, four names. Of them, two were no longer reachable.

Jaeha stared at that poster for a long time.

"Jaeha."

"Yeah."

"Do you remember why you stopped doing this?"

"The company made me quit."

Minseok lowered the flashlight.

As the light fell to the floor, Minseok’s face darkened.

"No."

"…What?"

"Not that."

Jaeha looked at Minseok.

Minseok didn’t look at him. He was looking at the poster.

"Minseok."

"…No. It’s fine."

"Go. Get the boxes. They’re heavy."

Minseok walked out of the container.

Jaeha stood there for a moment.

The four people in the poster were laughing. The image quality was bad, so their facial expressions were blurred, but you could tell they were laughing.

(Did I quit, though?)

That thought came for the first time in thirteen years.

That afternoon, at the company.

Oh Sangheon stood by the window. He didn’t know how to sit and talk.

"We set the release date."

"…Yes?"

"October 21st. I notified the distributor."

Jaeha flipped through a calendar. There were four months.

"There are no songs."

"You have twelve songs."

"I can’t use those."

"Yoon Jaeha."

The director turned around. His face wasn’t angry anymore.

"Where are you going these days?"

Jaeha didn’t answer.

"Chae Minseok didn’t say anything. He told me everything for eleven years, but…"

"It’s the first time he’s been covering for you."

"……."

"Then that’s that."

The director slid the papers over.

"I’ll give you four months. It doesn’t matter who you work with."

"But, Jaeha."

"Yes."

"If the album doesn’t come out on October 21st—"

"Then I’ll release it with twelve songs."

He placed the papers on the desk.

"Under your name."

Jaeha left the conference room.

The hallway was quiet. This building was well soundproofed.

(Four months.)

(Three times—three times were left, and four months remained.)

The next afternoon, in Nonhyeon-dong.

K’s studio was the opposite of Room 302 in everything—spacious, bright, and crowded with people. There was a window, and sunlight came in through it.

Iré had been working in that room for three years.

"Iré, this one really came out great."

"Thank you."

"Their A&R listened to the demos and said okay right away. They never do that. Usually they tear it apart three times."

"That’s a relief."

"They might even change the title."

Iré looked at the monitor. Waveforms were on screen. She was the one who’d been touching them until three in the morning.

"And the credits?"

K paused for a moment.

"…Iré."

"I know. I just asked."

"I won’t say ‘sorry.’ That isn’t proper. It’s a contract."

"Yes."

"I didn’t trick you. You read the contract and signed it."

"Yes. I read it."

K wasn’t a bad person.

That was why Iré had been doing this job for three years. If he’d been a bad person, she would’ve quit long ago.

"Iré."

"Yes."

"Lately you’ve been kind of strange."

"……."

"Yesterday’s demo—the chorus was attached weirdly. With eight bars missing."

"I filled it in. It’s okay, right?"

Iré didn’t answer.

K went out. The door closed softly. That door didn’t make a sound like the one in Room 302.

Iré was left alone.

And she took something out of her bag.

A cracked CD case. Her own album.

Something she hadn’t opened once in ten years.

(Why did you take it out.)

Iré played track eight.

The first verse passed. Then the second verse came.

At the very first line, seventeen-year-old Iré missed the lyrics. Came in half a beat late.

Iré pressed the stop button.

(Why didn’t you delete it?)

(…I can’t remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

The door to Room 302 was knocked on three times.

This time, Iré didn’t check the door scope. She knew who it was.

She opened the door. Even unlatched it.

"Second time, then."

"Yes."

"……."

Jaeha was holding a paper box. About the size of a ramen box. The corners were wet.

"What is this?"

"My demo."

"…Yes?"

"The one I wrote when I was seventeen. It says there are thirty-one songs. I haven’t even counted yet."

Iré looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs were lined up tightly, and for each case, there was handwriting in a silver pen. Dates.

"I told you, I’m not listening."

"I know."

"But why bring it?"

"I’m going to leave it here."

"……."

"If you’re going to refuse, you’ll have to listen first."

Iré briefly couldn’t find words.

"What kind of logic is that?"

"If you refuse after not listening, that’s refusing me."

"Please reject my songs. That’s fair."

Iré looked at Jaeha.

An actor who never failed for eleven years. No work that didn’t sell, no scandals, and interviews that were always… fine. That kind of person.

And now, he was climbing three flights of stairs holding a wet ramen box, asking her to reject his songs.

"…This smells like mold."

"It was in the storage."

"How many years?"

"Thirteen."

Iré accepted the box.

After she received it, she realized she was the one who’d received it.

"…I’ll only listen to one song."

"That’s enough."

"And I’ll refuse it."

"Yes."

"For real."

"I know."

Jaeha turned toward the stairs.

"Mr. Yoon Jaeha."

Jaeha stopped.

"Why me?"

Jaeha didn’t answer for a long time.

"…I don’t know."

"……."

"That’s the only thing I’m not sure about lately."

"That’s why I came."

Jaeha went down the stairs.

At eleven at night.

Iré pushed the box under the desk and waited there for two hours.

At 12:40, she pulled the box out.

She took out the top CD. Written with a silver pen: ‘2012.03.11.’ The back had mold marks.

She put it into the player.

Play.

…It was terrible.

The guitar came first, but the tuning was off. Not intentional—it had just drifted. Line three was about thirty centimeters lower.

The rhythm wobbled. It was clear he hadn’t used a click track.

The vocals came in. Seventeen years old.

His throat cracked in the high notes. She was pushing through, knowing it would crack.

(Can’t sing it.)

Iré smiled with her mouth corners. She didn’t make a sound.

And she didn’t stop it.

Track two came on.

Track three.

Tracks four and five.

All the songs were short. There was no one who could top this. Some had a chorus and some didn’t. If it had one, it was cheesy; if it didn’t, it was weird.

On the eleventh song, Iré made a fresh cup of coffee.

On the nineteenth song, she brought out a blanket.

On the twenty-third song, seventeen-year-old Jaeha stopped halfway through and cursed.

"Ah, damn it…"

Then he played from the beginning again. Without cutting the recording.

Iré replayed that part three times.

Three forty in the morning.

The thirty-first track.

It was the last song. That one was a little better. Just a tiny bit.

Around that time—his thirty seconds—ended the song.

But the recording didn’t stop.

The guitar noise disappeared, leaving only the room’s air sounds. Somewhere, the fluorescent light flickered—sixty hertz.

And at his forty seconds, seventeen-year-old Jaeha said,

"…No one will listen to this."

There was a laugh.

Then the recording cut off.

Iré sat there with her hand on the stop button.

She couldn’t press it.

It was the first time in ten years—an entire night listening to someone else’s demo all the way through.

(So you listened.)

(All thirty-one songs.)

The window was blocked with Styrofoam, so she couldn’t see the outside brighten.

Same night, along the riverside road.

Jaeha handed over the whole box.

Except for one.

The one he’d taken out first from the storage: 2012.03.11. He didn’t tell Iré that he put it in his pocket.

He didn’t even know why he’d taken it out.

There was no CD player in the car. These days, there isn’t. So Jaeha borrowed Minseok’s old laptop. Even an external drive.

She put the laptop on the passenger seat, then pulled over on the shoulder.

It was the exact spot where Minseok had been parked after listening to Iré’s songs a month ago.

(It was coincidence.)

It wasn’t coincidence. He remembered that spot.

He put in the CD. The drive spun for a while. It took time to read a CD-R that was thirteen years old.

Play.

The guitar came on.

The tuning was off.

Jaeha pressed stop within three seconds.

……..

Play again.

The vocals came in. His own voice at seventeen.

Cracked in the high notes.

Stop.

He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel.

(Why can’t I listen?)

Play. Stop.

Play. Stop.

He repeated it about twelve times. The longest he made it was forty seconds.

For eleven years, he’d watched the thirty performances he’d appeared in. At premieres, at stage greetings, at award show clips. He’d seen his own face thousands of times.

But none of it bothered him.

Because it wasn’t him.

But this one was him.

(Can’t sing it.)

(Seriously can’t sing it.)

Then, suddenly, a strange thought came to him.

(How many songs into it is that person listening?)

He checked the clock. 2:10 a.m.

(No. They probably haven’t listened. They definitely wouldn’t have listened to even one song.)

(Of course. Even I wouldn’t.)

He closed the laptop.

He closed it, then opened it again.

Play.

This time, he made it one minute twenty seconds.

And then he turned it off.

The car went quiet. The car had good soundproofing, so no noise came in—no river sounds, no passing cars.

Jaeha sat in that silence for an hour.

(Thirty-one songs.)

(I couldn’t listen to even one.)

He’d find out that fact seven hours later.

At eight in the morning, the door to Room 302 opened.

Winter came in with a convenience store bag—two triangle kimbaps and coffee.

Iré sat in her chair with the blanket wrapped around her. The monitor was off.

"Did you pull an all-nighter?"

"…Yeah."

"Songs?"

"No."

Winter paused as she set the bag down.

Under the desk was a ramen box. The lid was open; the CD-Rs had slid out about halfway, scattered across the floor.

"What is this."

"Trash."

Winter picked one up. Looked at the date.

"2012? Hey, this was before our debut."

"…Is this his? That actor?"

"Yeah."

"Did you listen?"

Iré didn’t answer.

"Iré."

"…Yeah."

"How many songs."

"……."

"How many songs did you listen to?"

"…Thirty-one songs."

Winter put the CD down.

And then she laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Hey."

"Why."

"You didn’t even listen to my demo for ten years."

Iré looked at Winter.

"I gave it to you three times. Once in 2019, once in 2021, and once last year."

"You didn’t listen to any of the three."

"…I was busy."

"Liar."

Winter dragged a chair over and sat in front of Iré.

"When I gave it to you the second time, do you know what you said?"

"…I don’t remember."

"You said, ‘What if it’s good?’"

Iré’s hand stopped inside the blanket.

"That was it. ‘What if it’s good.’"

"Back then, I didn’t know what you meant. But now I do."

"If it’s good, you start wanting it."

"If you start wanting it, you’ll earn another 400,000 won."

Iré said nothing.

"You’re doing that right now."

"…No I’m not."

"Iré."

"No, it’s not."

Winter reached out and fixed the blanket over Iré.

Iré didn’t pull away.

"If you’re scared, say you’re scared."

"That’s not a refusal."

Fluorescent lights flickered.

Iré reached her hand out of the blanket and grabbed a triangle kimbap. She tried opening the wrapper and failed. She failed the second time too.

Winter snatched it away silently and opened it for her.

"…Winter."

"Yeah."

"Do you still have that demo?"

Winter looked at Iré.

"…I do."

"……."

"But I won’t give it."

"Why."

"I decided not to give the fourth one."

Winter stood up and placed the coffee in front of Iré.

"Call first, then. To him."

"What do I say."

"You said you’d refuse."

"Then you should refuse. Right?"

Winter left.

Iré held the coffee for a long time. Until it went cold.

At 9 a.m., Jaeha’s phone rang.

It was an unknown number.

"…Hello?"

"I’m calling."

Jaeha got up from the bed and sat.

"…How many songs?"

"Thirty-one songs."

Jaeha couldn’t say anything.

"I said I’d listen to only one song, but it turned out like this."

"……."

"And…"

"I won’t."

Jaeha closed his eyes.

"…Yes."

"Second time."

"Yes. Second time."

"……."

The call didn’t end.

You could hear breathing. On the other end too—breathing of someone who’d pulled an all-nighter.

"But."

"Yes."

"Track thirty-one, two minutes forty seconds."

Jaeha’s hand stopped.

"The place where the recording didn’t cut off after the end of the song. You said something there."

"No one will listen to this."

"And you laughed."

"……."

"Why did you laugh?"

Jaeha couldn’t answer.

For eleven years, he’d been able to answer every question. In interviews, at award shows, at fan meetings. Even questions that had no answers—he could say things that sounded like answers.

But now, no words came out.

"You wouldn’t know."

"…Yes."

"Then it’s fine."

"If you can answer when the time comes."

A brief silence.

"Come one last time."

The call ended.

Jaeha sat for a long time with his phone in his hand.

Outside the window, you could see the Han River. In a well soundproofed house, there was no sound at all.

No refrigerator noise. No fluorescent light noise.

(Twice.)

(Once left.)

Only after he hung up did Jaeha realize something.

That person hadn’t asked how he knew his number.

And that person also hadn’t said why he’d called.

There’s no one who calls just to refuse.

Refusal is something you can just not do.

(…Second time.)

(Once left. And still no answer.)

That day, Jaeha thought about that question all day long.

Why did you laugh?

He thought about it at the filming set, in the waiting room, while erasing his makeup.

He, at thirty, couldn’t understand why his seventeen-year-old self had laughed.

(Were you mocking it.)

(Or were you just excited?)

(Knowing no one would listen, why make thirty-one songs?)

To answer that question, he had to meet his seventeen-year-old self.

But he couldn’t remember where that kid had gone.

Did the company take him?

Or did he send himself away?

Minseok had been halfway through saying something in the storage, and it kept getting in the way. That’s it—

Not that.

(What else was there, then.)

That night, for the first time in ten years, Jaeha called Minseok. For those eleven years, Minseok was always the one who called first.

"Minseok."

On the other end, it was quiet.

"Is the practice room still there?"

Next episode preview

Jaeha goes back to his seventeen-year-old room.

A practice room that no one had opened in thirteen years. And inside it, there’s an answer.

And the words Minseok had swallowed in the storage—come out there.

"…You quit, Jaeha."

Meanwhile, Iré goes searching for Winter’s demo—the one she refused for ten years three times.

Up to the third visit, there were four months left.

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