Park Jihoon QA

No, three times.

The door opened.

About ten centimeters. The latch was still caught in place.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door closed.

(It shut.)

All that was left in the hallway was the flickering sound of the fluorescent lights. Ire stood still, about ten seconds.

"…Excuse me."

"I don’t buy."

"What?"

"Anything."

"I’m not selling. I’m just—"

"People like us buy the most."

Jeeha started to laugh. For the first time in eleven years, he laughed in a situation where someone else wasn’t even funny.

"You’re Mr. Mun Ire, right?"

Nothing at all came from inside.

Then, again—the sound of the latch unlocking.

Room 302 was about six pyeong.

There was a window, but it was blocked with styrofoam. It wasn’t really soundproofing—more like it was simply covered up. Egg-crate panels were attached to the wall, and half of them had fallen off, then been reattached with tape.

A synthesizer on the desk. An audio interface beside it. Four coffee cups next to that. Each one looked like it was from a different date.

(That album came out from here.)

"There’s nowhere to sit."

"You can stand, though."

"Then stand, please."

Ire sat in the chair. As she sat, she turned her back. Pretended to look at the monitor, but the screen was off.

"My name is—"

"I know."

"…Yes."

"Do I have any unknown people?"

Her tone had no thorns in it. That was worse. It was a voice that simply stated facts.

"I got the album."

"What kind?"

"《Nam-myeong》."

Ire’s hand stopped. Right above the mouse.

"…It’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much did you pay?"

"……."

"How much did you pay for it?"

"220,000 won."

For the first time, Ire looked back.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Yes."

"……."

"I didn’t buy it myself—my manager did, and he’s still mad."

"Of course. The original price is 1.13 million won."

"That’s cheap."

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

Ire turned her back again.

"So what? Do you want me to sign it?"

"Write a song."

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

(That sound.)

(The low-frequency noise that was under Track 3. That was the sound of this room’s refrigerator.)

"I won’t."

"The condition is—"

"I didn’t ask about the conditions."

"Why?"

"Mr. Yun Jeeha."

Ire rotated the chair. This time, fully.

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

"……."

"I write songs. One a day. Idol songs. Hand over the demo, get criticized, rewritten again and again. My name doesn’t go up. That’s how the contract is."

"But that isn’t a bad thing. I get paid. 320."

"When we made that album, I earned 400,000 won a month."

"……."

"A lot of people say they love that album. They said they even played it on the radio. But do you know this? How many people called me after that broadcast."

"Two. One was Mr. Yun Jeeha, and the other was an insurance sales agent."

Jeeha couldn’t say anything.

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

"…Why?"

"If someone comes ten years later to say something was good, when it used to be good…"

"That isn’t comfort. It’s an invoice."

Jeeha walked to the door.

And then he turned around.

"Track 8."

"……."

"In the first line of the second verse, you got the lyrics wrong."

Ire’s shoulders stiffened.

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

"…Because I don’t have money."

"Liar."

"What?"

"You did the mastering by yourself. That was because you didn’t have money—that part is true. But re-recording Track 8 doesn’t cost anything. Turn on the mic and sing it again one more time."

"You didn’t delete it."

Ire looked at Jeeha. For the first time, she saw him—not as Yun Jeeha, but as a person.

"I can’t do that."

"I’ve got twelve songs. Right now. All perfect—no off-pitch, no muddled pronunciation, all the choruses in, and it’s three minutes twenty seconds."

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

The fluorescent light flickered. 60 hertz.

"I envy that mistake."

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

"……."

"Excuse me."

The door closed.

As he 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 Jeeha. Only the eyes revealed above the mask.

"……."

"……."

The woman walked past. She stopped after climbing about three steps.

"Excuse me."

"Yes."

"You’re going to Room 302?"

"…Yes."

"So you got criticized, huh."

"…Yes."

The woman laughed. She laughed out loud.

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

"…But he said he would give them. I heard he gives them every day."

"That’s selling. And those are for sale."

The woman adjusted the convenience store bag she was carrying.

"Giving and selling are different."

"It’s Winter. I played drums on that album."

"I know."

"Sure. There are only two names in the credits."

Winter looked Jeeha up and down.

"How many times have you come?"

"Today’s my first time."

"Then two times are left."

"…Yes?"

"He refuses the third time. That’s how it is."

Winter kept going up the stairs.

"But he doesn’t refuse the fourth."

"It’s just that nobody has come until then."

You could hear the sound of the door to Room 302 opening and closing.

Jeeha was standing on the stair landing.

Inside his pocket was a CD case with cracks.

(Two times.)

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 quit for the tenth year in a row.

"What happened."

"He got criticized."

Minseok looked at Jeeha.

And kept looking.

"…What?"

"Got criticized."

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"You’re laughing right now?"

Jeeha started to open the passenger-side door, then touched his own face.

(He was smiling.)

"…Ah."

"……"

"Mr. Yun Jeeha. I’ve been by your side for eleven years."

"I’ve never once seen you get criticized by someone."

"Seems so."

"But why do you like it?"

Jeeha didn’t answer. He got into the car and fastened his seat belt.

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

"Minseok."

"Yeah."

"Representative Oh said that when he was seventeen, he wrote twelve songs in a month."

"…He did."

"For real?"

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

A traffic light turned.

"So where did they all go."

Minseok kept holding the steering wheel and looked ahead.

The signal changed. The car behind honked. Minseok didn’t move.

"…They’re in my storage."

Jeeha looked at Minseok.

"When we cleaned up the practice room, you said to throw them all away. At the company."

"But I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away."

The car behind honked again.

"The ones you burned onto CD-R. Probably around thirty-something. They might’ve gotten moldy, too."

"…Why."

"Give them."

"Jeeha."

"Give them to me, Minseok."

Minseok pressed the accelerator.

"…You crazy bastard."

Minseok’s storage was in Gimpo.

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

"I’m opening this after five years."

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

Inside was dark. Minseok turned on a flashlight.

There was an amp. A stand, too. A broken cymbal stand. Bundles of cables. And boxes.

"…What is all this."

"Things that were in the practice room."

"You said to throw it away."

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

Jeeha touched the amp. Dust got on his fingers.

It was his amp. He bought it at fifteen. Secondhand for 180,000 won.

"Found it."

Minseok pulled out a ramen box. The lid was folded back, and the corners were crushed.

Inside were CD-Rs packed tightly. A few dozen—thirty-something. Each case had a date written with a marker.

Jeeha took one out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minseok shone the flashlight toward the wall.

Posters were taped up. A3 size. Printed on a printer. The ink was all gone, leaving only blue.

The band name was written.

Moonlight.

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

Jeeha stared at the poster for a long time.

"Jeeha."

"Mm-hm."

"Do you remember why you quit this?"

"The company made me quit."

Minseok lowered the flashlight.

As the light fell onto the floor, Minseok’s face turned dark.

"No."

"…What?"

"Not that."

Jeeha looked at Minseok.

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

"Minseok."

"…No. Never mind."

"Go put boxes in. It’s heavy."

Minseok walked out of the container.

For a moment, Jeeha stood right there.

The four people in the poster were laughing. The facial expressions were smudged because the image quality was bad, but you could still tell they were smiling.

(…Did I quit?)

That thought was new after thirteen years.

That afternoon, at the company.

Oh Sangheon stood by the window. He had no way of sitting and chatting.

"We nailed the release date."

"…Really?"

"October 21. I notified the distributor."

Jeeha flipped through the calendar. Four months.

"There are no songs."

"But there are twelve songs."

"We can’t use them."

"Yun Jeeha."

Representative Oh turned around. His face still wasn’t angry.

"Where have you been going these days?"

Jeeha didn’t answer.

"Cha Minseok didn’t say anything. For eleven years, he told me everything."

"It’s the first time he’s been protecting you."

"……."

"Then it’s fine."

Representative Oh passed over some documents.

"I’ll give you four months. No matter who you do it with, it doesn’t matter."

"But, Jeeha."

"Yes."

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

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

He set the documents on the desk.

"Under your name."

Jeeha left the meeting room.

The hallway was quiet. Soundproofing in this building was good.

(Four months.)

(Three times were used up, and four months were left.)

The next day afternoon, Nonhyeon-dong.

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

Ire worked in that room for three years.

"Ire, this one really came out great."

"Thank you."

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

"That’s good news."

"They said the title track might change."

Ire looked at the monitor. The waveform was there. It was the waveform she’d been tweaking until three in the morning last night.

"What about the credits?"

K paused for a moment.

"…Ire."

"I know. I just wanted to ask."

"I won’t say I’m sorry. That isn’t proper etiquette. That’s the 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 Ire was still doing this job for the third year. If K had been a bad person, she would’ve quit long ago.

"Ire."

"Yes."

"You’ve been acting a bit strange lately."

"……."

"Yesterday’s demo—the chorus sounded attached in a weird way. There were eight bars missing."

"I filled it in. It’s okay, right?"

Ire didn’t answer.

K left. The door shut softly. Unlike the door to Room 302, it made no sound.

Ire was left alone.

And then she pulled something out of her bag.

A cracked CD case. Her album.

The one she hadn’t opened even once for ten years.

(Why did I take it out.)

Ire played Track 8.

The first verse passed. The second verse came.

In the first line, the seventeen-year-old Ire missed the lyrics. She came in half a beat late.

Ire pressed the stop button.

(Why didn’t I delete it.)

(…I can’t remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

Room 302’s door was knocked on three times.

This time, Ire didn’t look through the door scope. She already knew who it was.

She opened the door—unlocking the latch, too.

"Second time, then."

"Yes."

"……."

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

"What’s that."

"My demo."

"…Yeah?"

"The one I wrote when I was seventeen. They say there are thirty-one songs. I haven’t counted yet either."

Ire looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs were standing up tightly, and each case had a marker-written message. They were dates.

"I told you I don’t listen."

"I know."

"But why bring it here?"

"I’m leaving it behind."

"……."

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

Ire’s mouth went dry for a moment.

"What kind of logic is that?"

"If you refuse without listening, then you’re refusing me."

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

Ire looked at Jeeha.

An actor who had never failed for ten years. No un-sold works, no scandals, and interviews that were always safe and fine.

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

"…This smells like mold."

"It was in the storage."

"How many years?"

"Thirteen years."

Ire accepted the box.

After taking it, she realized she had received it.

"…I’ll only listen to one song."

"That’s enough."

"And I’ll refuse after that."

"Yes."

"Really."

"I know."

Jeeha turned toward the stairs.

"Mr. Yun Jeeha."

Jeeha stopped.

"Why me?"

Jeeha didn’t answer for a long time.

"…I don’t know."

"……."

"That’s the only thing I haven’t been able to guess about lately."

"So I came."

Jeeha went down the stairs.

At eleven at night.

Ire shoved the box under the desk. She sat there and endured it for two hours.

At 12:40, she took the box out.

She pulled out the top CD. A marker label said, “2012.03.11”. There were mold marks on the back.

She put it into the player.

Play.

…It was terrible.

The guitar came out first, and the tuning was off. Not by intention—just because it was off. Track 3’s line was about 30 centimeters too low.

The rhythm wavered. It was clear she hadn’t used a click track.

The voice came in. Seventeen years old.

The throat cracked on the high notes. She was singing anyway, even knowing it would crack.

(Can’t sing it.)

Ire gave a small laugh. No sound.

And she didn’t stop it.

Track 2 came out.

Track 3.

Tracks 4 and 5.

All the songs were short. There was nothing that went beyond this. Some had choruses, and some didn’t. If they did, they were corny. If they didn’t, they were weird.

On the eleventh song, Ire made fresh coffee.

On the nineteenth song, she brought out a blanket.

On the twenty-third song, the seventeen-year-old Jeeha stopped the song halfway and swore.

"Ah, shit…"

Then she played from the very beginning again. Without cutting the recording.

Ire rewound that part and played it through three times.

3:40 a.m.

The thirty-first track.

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

It ended around this guy’s thirty-second seconds.

But the recording didn’t cut.

The guitar sound disappeared, leaving only the room’s ambient noise. Somewhere, the fluorescent light flickered. 60 hertz.

And then, at this guy’s forty-second seconds, seventeen-year-old Jeeha said:

"…No one’s going to listen to this."

You could hear a laugh.

And then the recording stopped.

Ire was sitting with her hand on the stop button.

She couldn’t press it.

For the first time in ten years, it was a night when she listened to someone else’s demo all the way through.

(…So you did.)

(All thirty-one songs.)

The window was blocked with styrofoam, so she couldn’t see the outside getting brighter.

Same night. Along the Han River North of the river road.

Jeeha gave the whole box back—

except for one copy.

The one he’d taken first from the storage. 2012.03.11. He didn’t tell Ire that he’d 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, cars don’t have that. So Jeeha borrowed Minseok’s old laptop. Even an external drive.

He placed the laptop on the passenger seat and parked on the shoulder of the road.

It was exactly the same spot where he’d parked after listening to Ire’s songs a month earlier.

(Just coincidence.)

It wasn’t coincidence. Jeeha remembered that spot.

He inserted the CD. The drive spun for a long time. It took time to read a thirteen-year-old CD-R.

Play.

The guitar came out.

The tuning was off.

In three seconds, he pressed stop.

……..

Play again.

The voice came in. His own voice at seventeen.

It cracked on 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 it lasted was forty seconds.

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

It didn’t matter.

Because it wasn’t him.

But this was him.

(Can’t sing it.)

(Seriously, can’t sing it.)

Then a strange thought struck him.

(How many songs has that person been listening to?)

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

(No. She probably didn’t listen. She probably didn’t listen to any song.)

(Of course. If I were her, I wouldn’t listen either.)

He closed the laptop.

He closed it, then opened it again.

Play.

This time, he lasted one minute twenty seconds.

Then he turned it off.

The car became quiet. Because it had good soundproofing, there was no sound at all. Not the sound of the river, and not the passing cars.

In that quiet, Jeeha sat for an hour.

(Thirty-one songs.)

(I couldn’t listen to even one.)

He found out 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.

Ire was sitting in the chair with a blanket over her. The monitor was off.

"Did you stay up all night?"

"…Yeah."

"The songs?"

"No."

As Winter set the bag down, she stopped.

There was a ramen box under the desk. The lid was open, and CD-Rs were sticking out about halfway; they were scattered on the floor.

"What is this."

"Trash."

Winter picked one up. She checked the date.

"2012? Hey, that’s before our debut."

"…Is this his? That actor?"

"Yeah."

"Did you listen?"

Ire didn’t answer.

"Ire."

"…Mm."

"How many songs."

"……."

"How many songs did you listen to."

"…Thirty-one songs."

Winter set the CD down.

And laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing."

"Hey."

"Why."

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

Ire looked at Winter.

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

"You didn’t listen all three times."

"…I was busy."

"Lie."

Winter dragged a chair and sat in front of Ire.

"Do you know what you said when I gave you the second one?"

"…I don’t remember."

"You said, “What if it’s good?”"

Ire’s hand stopped inside the blanket.

"That’s exactly what you said. What if it’s good."

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

"If it’s good, you’ll want to."

"And if you want to, you’ll earn another 400,000 won."

Ire didn’t say anything.

"You’re doing that right now."

"…No."

"Ire."

"Not “no.”"

Winter reached out and adjusted the blanket over Ire.

Ire didn’t pull away.

"If it’s scary, just say it’s scary."

"That’s not refusal."

The fluorescent light flickered.

Ire reached out from under the blanket and grabbed a triangle kimbap. She tried to open the wrapper and failed. She failed the second time too.

Winter silently snatched it away and opened it for her.

"…Winter."

"Yeah."

"Do you still have that demo?"

Winter looked at Ire.

"…I do."

"……."

"But I won’t give it to you."

"Why."

"I decided not to give the fourth one."

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

"Call him first. To him."

"What do I say."

"You said you’d refuse."

"Then you should refuse. Right?"

Winter left.

Ire held the coffee for a long time, until it cooled.

At 9 a.m., Jeeha’s phone rang.

It was an unknown number.

"…Hello?"

"I listened."

Jeeha got up from the bed and sat down.

"…How many songs?"

"Thirty-one songs."

Jeeha couldn’t say anything.

"You said you’d listen to only one song, but it kind of… ended up like this."

"……."

"And then."

"I won’t."

Jeeha closed his eyes.

"…Mm."

"Second time, right."

"Yes. Second time."

"……."

The call didn’t end.

You could hear breathing. On that side too—breathing of someone who’d stayed up all night.

"But…"

"Yes."

"Track 31 is two minutes and forty seconds."

Jeeha’s hand stopped.

"Right after the song ended, where the recording didn’t cut. You said something there."

"No one’s going to listen to this."

"And you laughed."

"……."

"Why did you laugh?"

Jeeha couldn’t answer.

For eleven years, he could answer every question. At interviews, at award ceremonies, at fan meetings. Even questions with no answers, he could make words sound like an answer.

But now, nothing came out.

"You wouldn’t know."

"…Yes."

"Then it’s fine."

"When you’re able to answer that."

A brief silence.

"Come for the third time."

The call ended.

Jeeha sat there for a long time holding the phone.

Outside the window, you could see the Han River. It was a soundproof house, so there was no sound at all.

No refrigerator hum, and no fluorescent light sound.

(Two times.)

(One time left.)

Only after hanging up did Jeeha realize something.

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

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

No one calls to refuse.

Refusal is something you can just not do.

(…Second time.)

(One time left. And there’s still no answer.)

For that whole day, Jeeha thought about that question.

Why did he laugh?

He thought about it on set, in the waiting room, while erasing the makeup.

He couldn’t figure out why his seventeen-year-old self had laughed—back then, not even by thirty.

(Was he mocking?)

(Or 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?

Cha Minseok’s unfinished words from the storage kept running through his mind.

Not that.

(If not that, then what else.)

That night, for the first time, Jeeha called Minseok. For ten years, Minseok had always called first.

"Minseok."

Silence on the other end.

"Is the practice room still there?"

Next episode preview

Jeeha returns to the room of seventeen-year-old him.

A practice room nobody had opened for thirteen years. And inside it, there’s an answer.

And the words that Minseok swallowed in the storage come out there.

"…You quit, Jeeha."

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

By the time of the third visit, there were four months left.

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