Park Jihoon QA

I refuse three times

The door opened.

About ten centimeters. The latch was still on.

"……."

"Hello."

"……."

"I—"

The door closed.

(closed.)

Only the sound of the fluorescent light flickering in the hallway remained. Jeha stood there for about ten seconds.

"…Excuse me."

"I'm not buying."

"Buying what?"

"Anything."

"I'm not selling anything."

"People like that sell the most."

Jeha laughed. For the first time in eleven years, he laughed in a situation that wasn't funny to anyone else.

"You’re Lee Munire, right."

There was no sound from inside.

Then again, the latch was unfastened.

Room 302 was about six pyeong.

There was one window, but it was blocked with Styrofoam. It was less soundproofing than just being blocked. Egg cartons were stuck to the walls, and half of them had fallen off and been taped back on.

A synthesizer on the desk. An audio interface next to it. Four coffee cups next to that. They all looked like they were from different dates.

(So this is where that album came from.)

"There’s nowhere to sit."

"I can stand."

"Then stand."

Yire sat down in the chair. As he sat, he turned his back. He pretended to look at the monitor, but the screen was off.

"My name is—"

"I know."

"…Right."

"Is there anyone who doesn't know."

There was no edge to the tone. That made it worse. It was just a voice stating facts.

"I listened to the album."

"Which one."

"<Anonymous>."

Yire’s hand stopped. On the mouse.

"…That’s out of print."

"I bought it secondhand."

"How much did you pay."

"……."

"I asked how much you paid."

"220,000 won."

Yire turned around for the first time.

"Are you crazy?"

"Yes."

"……."

"I didn't buy it. My manager did, but he’s still mad."

"Of course he is. It cost 12,000 won to produce."

"That’s cheap."

"It’s expensive. It only sold 500 copies."

Yire turned back around.

"So what. You want an autograph?"

"Please write a song."

The room went quiet. The refrigerator hummed.

(That sound.)

(The low-end noise under track 3. It was the sound of this room’s refrigerator.)

"No."

"The terms were—"

"I didn’t ask about the terms."

"Why not."

"Mr. Yoon Jeha."

Yire turned the chair around. This time, fully.

"Do you know what I do right now?"

"……."

"I write songs. One a day. Idol songs. I hand in demos, get rejected, write again. My name never goes up. That’s the contract."

"But that doesn’t mean it’s bad. I get a salary. 3.2 million."

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

"……."

"A lot of people say they liked that album. They even played it on the radio. But do you know how many people contacted me after that broadcast?"

"Two. One was Mr. Yoon Jeha, and one was an insurance planner."

Jeha couldn't say anything.

"So go. I hate talking about that album."

"…Why."

"If someone comes ten years later and tells you they liked something that was liked."

"That's not comfort. That's a bill."

Jeha went all the way to the door.

Then he turned back.

"Track 8."

"……."

"You got the lyrics wrong at the first line of the second verse."

Yire’s shoulders stiffened.

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

"…I didn’t have the money."

"Liar."

"What did you say?"

"You mastered it yourself, didn’t you. That part about not having money is true. But re-recording track 8 doesn’t cost money. Just turn on the mic and sing it again."

"You didn’t erase it."

Yire looked at Jeha. For the first time, he saw him not as Yoon Jeha, but as a person.

"I can't do that."

"I have twelve songs. Right now. They’re all perfect. In tune, clear diction, all the hooks, and three minutes twenty seconds."

"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 a song."

"……."

"Excuse me."

The door closed.

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

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

The woman looked at Jeha. Only her eyes were visible above the mask.

"……."

"……."

The woman passed him. About three steps later, she stopped.

"Hey."

"Yes."

"You’re coming from room 302?"

"…Yes."

"So you got rejected."

"…Yes."

The woman laughed. Out loud.

"Obviously. He hasn't given a song to anyone for ten years."

"…He said he does. I heard he gives one every day."

"That's selling."

The woman shifted the convenience-store bag in her hand.

"Giving and selling are different."

"I'm Jung Gyeoul. I played drums on that album."

"I know."

"Yeah, I know. There were only two names in the credits."

Gyeoul looked Jeha up and down.

"How many times have you come?"

"This is my first time today."

"Then you’ve got two left."

"…Huh?"

"He rejects you three times. Usually."

Gyeoul went the rest of the way up the stairs.

"But he doesn't reject the fourth."

"That is, if anyone even comes that many times."

The sound of room 302 opening and closing echoed.

Jeha stood on the landing.

In his pocket was a cracked CD case.

(Twice.)

The car was parked outside the alley.

Minseok rolled the window down from the driver’s seat. It smelled like cigarettes. He’d been saying he was quitting for ten years.

"How'd it go."

"Got rejected."

Minseok looked at Jeha.

And kept looking.

"…What?"

"I said I got rejected."

"Hey."

"Yeah."

"Are you smiling right now?"

Jeha started to open the passenger door, then stopped and touched his own face.

(He was smiling.)

"…Uh."

"......"

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

"In those eleven years, I’ve never once seen you get rejected."

"Fair enough."

"Then why do you like it?"

Jeha didn't answer. He got in the car. Buckled his seatbelt.

The car pulled out of the alley. In the rearview mirror, the signless four-story building got smaller.

"Minseok."

"Yeah."

"Director Oh said that when I was seventeen, I wrote twelve songs a month."

"…You did."

"Really?"

"Really. They were all trash, but there were twelve."

They hit a red light.

"Where did they all go."

Minseok stared ahead, hands on the wheel.

The light changed. The car behind them honked. Minseok didn’t move.

"…They're in my warehouse."

Jeha looked at Minseok.

"I told you to throw them all out when we cleaned the practice room. At the company."

"But I couldn't bring myself to."

The car behind honked again.

"The ones burned onto CD-Rs. There should be thirty-something discs. Might've gotten moldy."

"…Why."

"Give them to me."

"Jeha."

"Give them to me, Minseok."

Minseok stepped on the gas.

"…You crazy bastard."

Minseok’s warehouse was in Gimpo.

It was a shipping container. It took Minseok five minutes to open the lock. Not because the key didn't fit, but because the lock was rusted shut.

"First time I’ve opened this in five years."

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

Inside was dark. Minseok turned on a flashlight.

There were amps. Stands. A broken cymbal stand. Bundles of cables. And boxes.

"…What is all this."

"Stuff from the practice room."

"I told you to throw it away."

"I said I threw it away. I didn't say I had thrown it away."

Jeha touched an amp. Dust clung to his fingers.

It was his amp. The one he bought at fifteen. Used, 180,000 won.

"Found it."

Minseok dragged out a box of instant noodles. The lid was folded over, the corners crushed.

Inside were tightly packed CD-Rs. Thirty-some discs. Dates written in permanent marker on each case.

Jeha took one out.

2012.03.11.

(Seventeen.)

Minseok shone the flashlight toward the wall.

There was a poster taped up. A3 size. Printed out. All the ink had faded, leaving only blue.

A band name was written on it.

Moonlight.

Below that, four names. Two of them could no longer be reached now.

Jeha stared at the poster for a long time.

"Jeha."

"Yeah."

"Do you remember why you quit this?"

"…The company made me stop."

Minseok lowered the flashlight.

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

"No."

"…What?"

"Not that."

Jeha looked at Minseok.

Minseok wasn't looking at Jeha. He was looking at the poster.

"Minseok."

"…No, forget it."

"Just carry the box. It's heavy."

Minseok went out of the container.

Jeha stood there for a moment.

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

(…Did I quit?)

It was the first time he'd had that thought in thirteen years.

That afternoon, at the company.

Oh Sangheon was standing by the window. He never talked while sitting down.

"We set the release date."

"…What?"

"November 21. I notified the distributor."

Jeha counted on his fingers. Four months.

"I don't have any songs."

"You've got twelve."

"I can't use those."

"Yoon Jeha."

Director Oh turned around. He still didn't look angry.

"Where do you keep going these days."

Jeha didn't answer.

"Cha Minseok wouldn't tell me. He told me everything for eleven years."

"This is the first time he's covered for you."

"……."

"So that's that."

Director Oh flipped through some documents.

"I'll give you four months. I don't care who you work with."

"But Jeha."

"Yes."

"If the album isn't out by November 21."

"Then I'll release it with the twelve songs."

He set the documents on the desk.

"Under your name."

Jeha left the conference room.

The hallway was quiet. This building had good soundproofing.

(Four months.)

(After the third time, two tries left, and four months left.)

The next afternoon, Nonhyeon-dong.

K's studio was the opposite of room 302 in every way. It was spacious, bright, and crowded. There was a window, and sunlight came through it.

Yire had worked in that room for three years.

"Yire, this one really came out well."

"Thank you."

"Their A&R listened to the demo and said okay right away. Doesn't happen often, right? Usually they reject it three times."

"That's a relief."

"They might even make it the title track."

Yire looked at the monitor. A waveform was on it. The waveform he'd been fiddling with until three in the morning last night.

"What about the credits."

K paused.

"…Yire."

"I know. I'm just asking."

"I'm not going to say sorry. That wouldn't be polite. It's a contract."

"Yes."

"I didn't scam you. You read the contract and signed it."

"Yes. I read it."

K wasn't a bad person.

That was why Yire had been doing this for three years. If he had been a bad person, he would have quit long ago.

"Yire."

"Yes."

"You've been a little weird lately."

"……."

"That demo from yesterday had the chorus attached strangely. Eight bars missing."

"I filled them in. Is that okay?"

Yire didn't answer.

K left. The door closed softly. Unlike room 302’s door, this one made no sound.

Yire was left alone.

Then he took something out of his bag.

A cracked CD case. His album.

The one he'd never opened once in ten years.

(Why did I take this out.)

Yire put on track 8.

Verse 1 passed. Verse 2 came.

At the first line, twenty-four-year-old Yire missed the lyrics. Came in half a beat late.

Yire hit stop.

(Why didn’t I erase it.)

(…I don't remember.)

That was the scariest part.

Three days later.

Room 302 was knocked on three times.

This time, Yire didn't look through the peephole. He knew who it was.

He opened the door. Even unlatched the chain.

"This is the second time."

"Yes."

"……."

Jeha was holding a cardboard box. About the size of a ramen box. The corners were damp.

"What is that."

"My demos."

"…What?"

"The ones I wrote when I was seventeen. Apparently there are thirty-one songs. I haven't counted them yet either."

Yire looked at the box. The lid was open. CD-Rs stood packed inside, each case marked in permanent marker. Dates.

"I told you I wouldn't listen."

"I know."

"Then why bring them."

"To leave them with you."

"……."

"If you're going to reject them, you should listen first."

Yire was at a loss for words for a moment.

"What kind of logic is that."

"If you reject them without listening, then you're rejecting me."

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

Yire looked at Jeha.

An actor who had never failed in eleven years. Never had a flop, never had a scandal, always perfectly fine in interviews.

That person was now climbing three flights of stairs with a wet ramen box, asking to be rejected.

"…This smells like mold."

"It was in a warehouse."

"For how many years."

"Thirteen."

Yire took the box.

Only after taking it did he realize he'd taken it.

"…I’ll listen to just one song."

"That's enough."

"And then I'll reject it."

"Yes."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

Jeha turned back toward the stairs.

"Mr. Yoon Jeha."

Jeha stopped.

"Why me."

Jeha didn't answer for a long time.

"…I don't know."

"……."

"That's the only thing I don't know lately."

"That's why I came."

Jeha went down the stairs.

11 p.m.

Yire shoved the box under his desk. He held out there for two hours.

At 12:40, he pulled the box out.

He took out the top CD. Written in permanent marker was '2012.03.11'. There was a mold stain on the back.

He put it in the player.

Play.

...It was terrible.

The guitar came first, and it was out of tune. Not on purpose, just out. The third string was about 30 cents flat.

The beat wavered. He clearly hadn't used a click track.

The voice came in. Seventeen years old.

His throat broke on the high notes. He was belting them out even though he knew they were breaking.

(Can't sing.)

Yire let out a small snort. No sound came out.

And he didn't turn it off.

Track 2 came on.

Track 3.

Track 4, 5.

The songs were all short. None of them ran over two minutes. Some had choruses, some didn't. With them, it sounded cheesy. Without them, it was strange.

By the eleventh song, Yire made fresh coffee.

By the nineteenth, he brought a blanket.

By the twenty-third, seventeen-year-old Jeha stopped a song halfway through and cursed.

"Fuck……"

Then he started again from the beginning. Without stopping the recording.

Yire replayed that part three times.

3:40 a.m.

Track 31.

The last song. It was a little better. Just a little.

The song ended around 2:30.

But the recording didn't stop.

The guitar faded, leaving only the room’s air. Somewhere, a fluorescent light was flickering. 60 hertz.

And at 2:40, seventeen-year-old Jeha said,

"...Nobody's ever going to hear this."

A laugh sounded.

Then the recording cut off.

Yire sat there with his hand on the stop button.

He couldn't press it.

It was the first night in ten years he had listened to someone else's demo all the way through.

(...I listened.)

(All thirty-one songs.)

The window was blocked with Styrofoam, so he couldn't see the outside brightening.

Same night. Gangbyeonbuk-ro.

Jeha had brought the whole box back.

Except for one disc.

The first one he had taken out in the warehouse. 2012.03.11. He hadn't told Yire that he had put it in his pocket.

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

There was no CD player in the car. There aren't any in cars these days. So Jeha borrowed Minseok's old laptop. Even an external drive.

He put the laptop on the passenger seat and pulled over onto the shoulder.

It was the exact spot where he'd stopped the car a month ago after hearing Yire's song.

(Coincidence.)

It wasn't a coincidence. Jeha remembered the place.

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

Play.

The guitar came on.

It was out of tune.

Jeha hit stop after three seconds.

.........

Play again.

The voice came in. His own voice at seventeen.

It broke on the high notes.

Stop.

Jeha pressed his forehead to the steering wheel.

(Why can't I listen.)

Play. Stop.

Play. Stop.

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

For eleven years, he'd watched thirty films he'd been in. At premieres, on stage greetings, in award show clips. He'd seen his own face thousands of times.

That was nothing.

Because that wasn't him.

But this was him.

(Can't sing.)

(Really can't sing.)

Then suddenly, a strange thought occurred to him.

(How many songs has that person listened to?)

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

(No. He probably didn't listen. He won't have listened to even one.)

(Of course. I wouldn't listen either.)

He closed the laptop.

Then opened it again.

Play.

This time he lasted one minute twenty seconds.

Then turned it off.

The car fell quiet. It was such a soundproof car that nothing could be heard. Not the river, not passing cars.

Jeha sat in that silence for an hour.

(Thirty-one songs.)

(And I couldn't listen to even one.)

He only learned that fact seven hours later.

8 a.m. Room 302 opened.

Gyeoul came in carrying a convenience-store bag. Two triangle kimbap and coffee.

Yire was sitting in a chair under a blanket. The monitor was off.

"Pulled an all-nighter?"

"…Yeah."

"Songs?"

"No."

Gyeoul stopped as she set the bag down.

There was a ramen box under the desk. The lid was open, and about half the CD-Rs had spilled out onto the floor.

"What's this."

"Trash."

Gyeoul picked one up. Looked at the date.

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

"…Is this his? The actor?"

"Yeah."

"You listened?"

Yire didn't answer.

"Yire."

"…Yeah."

"How many songs."

"……."

"How many did you listen to."

"…Thirty-one songs."

Gyeoul set the CD down.

Then laughed. Out loud.

"Why are you laughing."

"Hey."

"Why."

"You haven't listened to my demo for ten years either."

Yire looked at Gyeoul.

"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."

"Liar."

Gyeoul pulled a chair over and sat in front of Yire.

"Do you know what you said when I gave it to you the second time?"

"…Don't remember."

"You said, 'What if I like it?'"

Yire’s hand stopped under the blanket.

"That was exactly it. 'What if I like it.'"

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

"If you like it, you want to do it."

"And if you want to do it, you'll end up making 400,000 won again."

Yire said nothing.

"That's what you're doing now."

"…No."

"Yire."

"I said no."

Gyeoul reached out and adjusted the blanket over Yire.

Yire didn't pull away.

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

"That's not a rejection."

The fluorescent light flickered.

Yire reached out from under the blanket and picked up a triangle kimbap. He failed to open it. Failed again the second time.

Gyeoul wordlessly snatched it and opened it for him.

"…Gyeoul."

"Yeah."

"Do you still have that demo?"

Gyeoul looked at Yire.

"…Yeah."

"……."

"But I'm not giving it to you."

"Why."

"I decided not to give it on the fourth time."

Gyeoul stood up and set the coffee in front of Yire.

"Call him first. Him."

"What am I supposed to say."

"You said you'd reject it."

"Then I should reject it, right?"

Gyeoul left.

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

9 a.m. Jeha's phone rang.

It was an unknown number.

"…Hello."

"I listened."

Jeha sat up in bed.

"…How many songs."

"Thirty-one songs."

Jeha couldn't say anything.

"I said I'd listen to just one song, but things kind of turned out that way."

"……."

"And."

"No."

Jeha closed his eyes.

"…Yes."

"This is the second time."

"Yes. The second time."

"……."

The call wasn't disconnected.

He could hear breathing. Breathing from someone else who'd also stayed up all night.

"But."

"Yes."

"Track 31, 2:40."

Jeha’s hand stopped.

"After the song ended, the recording didn't stop. You said something there."

"Nobody's ever going to hear this."

"And then you laughed."

"……."

"Why did you laugh?"

Jeha couldn't answer.

For eleven years, he had been able to answer every question. In interviews, at award shows, at fan meetings. He could say things that sounded like answers even to questions that had none.

But now nothing came out.

"You don't know, do you."

"…No."

"Then that's fine."

"When you can answer that."

A pause.

"Come a third time."

The call ended.

Jeha sat there holding the phone for a long time.

Han River was visible outside the window. It was a soundproof apartment, so nothing could be heard.

No refrigerator sound, no fluorescent light.

(Twice.)

(One left.)

Only after hanging up did Jeha realize.

That he hadn't asked how the person knew his number.

And that the person hadn't said why he called either.

No one calls to be rejected.

Rejection is just something you don't do.

(...Second time.)

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

Jeha thought about that question all day.

Why had he laughed.

He thought about it on set, in the waiting room, while taking off his makeup.

Even at thirty, he couldn't understand why his seventeen-year-old self had laughed.

(Was it a sneer.)

(Or was he excited.)

(Why make thirty-one songs if you knew no one would hear them.)

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

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

Did the company take him away.

Or had he sent him off himself.

The thing Minseok had started to say in the warehouse kept nagging at him.

Not that.

(Then what else is there.)

That night, Jeha called Minseok for the first time. For eleven years, Minseok had always called first.

"Minseok."

The line was quiet.

"Is the practice room still there?"

Next episode preview

Jeha returns to the room of his seventeen-year-old self.

The practice room that no one has opened for thirteen years. The answer is inside.

And the thing Minseok swallowed in the warehouse comes out there.

"…You were the one who quit, Jeha."

Meanwhile, Yire goes looking for Gyeoul’s demo. The one he rejected three times over ten years.

Until the third visit, four months remain.

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