Chapter 36
“What’s Danha-sunbae like?”
The next morning.
We were up before dawn, heading straight to the recording studio. Everyone was rubbing their sleepy eyes, trying to squeeze in a little nap, but that question immediately lit up the room with curiosity.
Jo Heeon had just asked Seo Baekyoung about Danha.
Naturally, since Baekyoung had been with the company the longest, she was the one we all thought would know best.
“I don’t really know him, either.”
“Huh?”
“He doesn’t really interact with others much…”
Well, that was true.
Even in the entertainment industry, he was notorious for it.
His aversion to socializing.
“Outside of his team, he flat-out rejects any personal contact. He barely even acknowledges greetings. I heard he never goes anywhere besides his studio and practice room.”
“…So that’s what it takes to make it big, huh?”
“Exactly. We should take notes.”
At least the kids were drawing good conclusions from it.
“Reporters tailed him constantly after debut, trying to dig up something, but apparently found absolutely nothing.”
“He was so distant from his own team, people even speculated about discord.”
Even Lee Kyungah seemed to have heard a few things and added her piece.
“Wowww.”
Yeon Juhong let out a small sound of wonder.
“Well, I don’t want to be like that. I want to be super close with my members!”
“Then debut first.”
Kim Geum poured cold water on her excitement without even blinking. Juhong fumed indignantly, and Kim Geum added nonchalantly,
“Though, I mean… you probably will debut.”
“Really? For real?!”
“Dunno, idiot. Just work hard.”
…Honestly, they get along like a house on fire.
“Nice to meet you.”
When we arrived at the recording studio, two members of BurnAsh were already waiting.
Danha and Han Jaei.
Han Jaei was the group’s main vocalist and was known for writing a lot of lyrics. His skills were legit—he was practically the visual and main vocal type that Colors was famous for producing.
Ah, Colors… If only the CEO of my past life’s agency had even half their eye for talent, I wouldn’t have suffered half as much.
“Hello, everyone!”
Han Jaei came across as warm and cheerful.
Danha… not so much.
He was polite—likely because the cameras were rolling—but he didn’t exactly exude warmth or welcome. He was just… stoic.
Exactly as I remembered him from my previous life.
“Good morning!”
Still, we weren’t exactly relaxed on our side either, so we couldn’t talk.
“I heard you’ve already divided parts. Before we begin recording, we’ll go over the concept and hear your interpretation. If anyone has any ideas for arrangement, feel free to speak up. If we think it’s a good idea, we’ll actively incorporate it.”
“If we think it’s good,” huh.
That was all it took to know how high their standards would be.
Saying they wanted to hear our interpretations? That alone was intimidating.
But I still appreciated that they seemed to take their songs seriously.
Better to work with someone passionate than someone who’s just going through the motions.
If the songwriter and performer both mean what they’re doing, the results are bound to be better.
“Let’s start with the vocal team.”
The rest of the trainees moved to a different room.
Danha and Jaei sat across from the four of us.
“You’ve chosen Fingertips, I see.”
He must’ve already been briefed by the producers, because he got straight to the point.
“Yes.”
“Who picked it?”
“I did.”
I raised my hand carefully.
I prayed he wouldn’t get annoyed that the vocal team, and not the dance team, had chosen the song.
“…I was hoping the vocal team would choose it. That’s a relief.”
Oh.
Good.
“Let me see the part assignments.”
Lee Kyungah handed over the sheet showing the part breakdown.
Both Danha and Jaei studied it closely, then exchanged glances.
“You divided the parts very evenly. Even the chorus gets rotated among the members. Why did you choose to split it this way?”
It was a fair question, really.
We had prepared for this.
But still…
He’s terrifying!
A completely different brand of terrifying than Kim Geum—more like a cold military drill instructor. All of us froze up, too nervous to speak.
In the end, I had to step up.
“We wanted to highlight each member’s individual strengths as much as possible.”
“Hm.”
Danha’s eyes were unreadable.
“You’re the one who picked the song, right? What’s your name?”
“Yoon Cheong.”
“And your part?”
“Part R.”
“I see. Why did you choose this song?”
Was… was this a job interview?
I suddenly felt like a desperate college grad, trying to land an internship.
“I liked the unique story it told. I believe that for a vocalist, it’s not just about technique. You need to be able to draw out the emotions embedded in a song.”
“…And what emotions did you find in this one?”
That’s a tough one.
“I don’t think there’s only one. But the strongest feeling I got was—”
I glanced down at the lyrics.
“—a person blooming despite oppression.”
It wasn’t Danha, but Han Jaei whose expression shifted at that.
“Not love, but… a person?”
“Yes. There was definitely love in there too, but… the person stood out more to me.”
“Interesting.”
Han Jaei smiled.
“This is actually the only one of the five songs I didn’t write.”
“!”
“Danha wrote both the lyrics and the music—start to finish.”
…Well, I didn’t know that.
“I personally interpreted it as a love song. But Danha… didn’t think love was all there was to it. So—”
“There’s no right answer. It’s my song, but your interpretation is also valid.”
Danha cut him off.
That was… anticlimactic.
I glanced toward the camera.
This could’ve been a great moment to make a good impression, but he ended it just like that.
“The lyrics probably gave you a hint, but this song is about two people.”
His voice was low, almost emotionless.
“What their relationship is—that’s up to your interpretation. Express what you felt through your performance.”
…He really wasn’t going to tell us his own interpretation, huh?
“I heard the inspiration came from a classic novel. Which one was it?”
That was Ryu Bora.
Figures—her actor instincts kicked in.
“That’s—”
“It’s a secret.”
Han Jaei started to answer, but Danha stopped him.
“I’d rather you didn’t know until after you’ve performed it. Or maybe not even then.”
“Is there a reason?”
“It just seems more fun that way.”
“….”
…He wasn’t just eccentric.
He was certifiable.
Artists are known for being a little out there, but this guy was something else entirely.
Now I understood why he had just as many antis as he did fans.
Being this blunt on camera? That’s a rare level of boldness.
“Anyway, I’d like to make a few adjustments to the parts.”
Danha started scribbling on a notepad.
“For the chorus, instead of one person at a time, I’d like two people to sing it together—twice. But with different emotions for each pass. The first and second verses take the story in different directions, after all.”
“What kind of emotion…?”
“That’s up to you.”
Oof.
I felt all four of our necks stiffen at once.
And the suggestions just kept coming.
He’d listen to our voices, then change parts. He’d describe the vibe he wanted in the vaguest terms.
But the thing was—his critiques made sense.
Often, his ideas were better than ours.
After countless rounds of feedback, we finally started recording.
“We’ll do a rehearsal take first.”
“Yes!”
“Let’s start with Part A—Ryu Bora.”
“Okay.”
Both Danha and Han Jaei had experience producing.
“Don’t just sing your own part—sing the whole song once through.”
“Understood.”
Ryu Bora put on her headphones, swayed to the rhythm, and started singing.
“…Her face is the size of those headphones.”
Lee Kyungah mumbled under her breath.
I’d been thinking the exact same thing.
And suddenly I felt irrationally wronged.
“You missed the pitch there. Again.”
Even the rehearsal take was intense.
They made her redo even the smallest missteps.
From the very beginning.
“Do they… always make you redo the whole thing like that?”
“Not really.”
Jo Heeon whispered to Lee Kyungah.
Yeah.
Not really.
“Ryu Bora.”
“Yes?”
“Stop trying to act. This isn’t a drama set.”
Gasp.
The girls beside me let out sharp breaths of surprise.
Bora, on the other hand, was totally unfazed.
Not a flicker of emotion.
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll try again.”
“The emotional flow does change with each part. That’s true. But instead of pretending it changes, I want you to actually understand why it does. I know we’re being vague, but you’re experienced.”
Han Jaei looked a little guilty.
“Yes, I’ll reflect that.”
Seriously, I don’t think even stabbing her would make her flinch.
She was kind of… impressive.
“Let’s wrap the rehearsal and move on to the first part.”
“Okay.”
So now the real recording starts.
Jo Heeon and Lee Kyungah both looked visibly relieved.
But not me.
This was only the beginning…
“Let’s go again.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t raise your pitch at the end.”
“Okay.”
“Watch your breath control.”
“Yes.”
Yep.
Welcome to feedback hell.
We were all starting to worry about Ryu Bora.
Not her mental state, but her stamina. It was looking rough.
“Ryu Bora.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be honest. Your vocalization, pitch, diction—none of it’s bad.”
“Okay.”
“But it’s not good, either. You know why, right?”
Danha stared at her, emotionless.
“Yes, I know.”
It felt like two blocks of ice talking to each other.
“That was harsher than anything she actually said… I feel personally attacked.”
“Same…”
Lee Kyungah and Jo Heeon whispered, and I sighed.
Yeah.
Recording was going to be hell.
“Yoon Cheong.”
Han Jaei suddenly called my name.
“Since you picked the song, I think it might help if you tried recording first, before Ryu Bora does her next take.”
“I’m fine with that.”
Honestly, I preferred it that way.
I’d just been thinking I might’ve made things harder for everyone by choosing such a difficult song.
“Ryu Bora, please step out.”
“…Okay.”
Bora walked out of the booth.
And as I took her place, I saw it.
The hand she thought no one was watching—
.
.
.
Was shaking.
