After waking up, Ji Hyo wasted no time. He had made up his mind.
If he was going to make it in the industry on his own, he needed more than just talent—he needed skills.
So, the first thing he did?
He spent 10 million won setting up his own mini-studio in his apartment.
The delivery trucks had arrived one after another, flooding his unit with boxes of new equipment.
A professional microphone.
A compact MIDI keyboard.
Studio headphones.
A high-performance laptop loaded with DAW (Digital Audio Workstation) software.
He was practically bleeding money, but he had no regrets.
Even with all this, Ji Hyo knew one thing—he was still lacking a lot.
"I'll figure out the missing equipment later," he muttered, sitting in his chair, eyes scanning the sea of manuals and cables around him.
Then, he got to work.
For hours, Ji Hyo buried himself in music production tutorials.
He watched videos.
Read every single instruction manual (even the unnecessary warranty pages).
Clicked every random button on his MIDI keyboard, hoping it would do something cool.
It was overwhelming at first, but strangely enough… it wasn't too difficult.
He could understand things.
Like how audio layers worked.
How to tweak sound levels.
How effects could change the entire vibe of a song.
It was weird—shouldn't this take months to learn?
Then, a system notification popped up.
[Music Production Level: E+ → D-]
Ji Hyo blinked.
"…Wait. That was fast."
The system responded.
[Host has a natural inclination toward music arrangement due to trait: Musical Sensitivity. Combined with accelerated learning, comprehension speed is enhanced.]
Ji Hyo grinned.
"So basically, I'm a genius?"
[Correction: Host is still below average.]
"…I take back every good thing I said about you."
But deep inside, Ji Hyo felt something click.
For the first time, he wasn't just dreaming about making music—he was actually doing it.
And this—this felt good.
He cracked his knuckles.
"Alright. Let's keep going."
The real work had just begun.
Ji Hyo settled onto his couch, a steaming bowl of ramen in his hands and his notebook open beside him. If he wanted to create a song, he needed inspiration—something to stir emotions deep within him. Music wasn't just about sound. It was about feeling. And if there was one thing that could make people feel, it was movies.
He dimmed the lights, grabbed a blanket, and pressed play.
The first movie he chose was The Classic, a romance film filled with longing and nostalgia. As he watched, he found himself lost in the soft piano melodies that accompanied the main characters' bittersweet love story. The way the soundtrack built emotion without overwhelming the scene fascinated him. The characters didn't even need to say "I love you"—their stolen glances, hesitant touches, and lingering gazes spoke louder than words.
Ji Hyo scribbled notes into his book. Love doesn't have to be loud. A song about things left unsaid…? He tapped his pen against his chin.
"Damn," he muttered, watching the rain-soaked confession scene. "So this is what being in love feels like? Can't relate."
Still, he had to admit—if he ever wrote a song about love, he'd want it to feel like this.
For his second movie, he switched things up with Gonjiam: Haunted Asylum, a horror film famous for its eerie atmosphere. The room was dark now, the only light coming from his laptop screen. Every creak in his apartment suddenly seemed ten times louder.
Ji Hyo noted how the film played with silence—how it stretched out tension, making the audience anticipate a scare before finally delivering it with a sudden burst of sound. It made him wonder if he could do something similar in a song. Maybe an unpredictable beat drop? A creeping tempo that suddenly shifts? He jotted down more ideas, but before he could continue, something moved outside his window.
He froze.
"…Why am I watching horror alone?"
Slowly, he got up and locked the window. Just in case.
Needing something lighter, he chose Extreme Job next, a comedy about detectives running a fried chicken business. Within minutes, he was laughing at the ridiculous dialogue. The movie's soundtrack was bright, full of funky basslines and playful brass instruments that added to the humor.
Ji Hyo leaned back, grinning. "So a song doesn't always have to be deep. It just has to feel good."
A sudden thought hit him. What if he made a song about something dumb—like craving fried chicken? He laughed at himself but still scribbled down the idea. Fried Chicken Groove – A Love Song for KFC.
"…Yeah, maybe not."
Finally, Ji Hyo ended the night with Miracle in Cell No. 7, a tragedy known for breaking even the coldest hearts.
He barely lasted halfway through before he felt the lump forming in his throat.
The soundtrack was painfully simple—soft piano chords, a lingering violin—but it hit straight to the chest. He had never realized how much repetition in a melody could make emotions feel heavier. Every time the theme played, it dug deeper into his heart.
By the time the credits rolled, Ji Hyo sniffled, rubbing his eyes. "Not crying. You're crying."
He quickly wrote in his notebook, A song doesn't need complicated lyrics to be powerful. Painful memories can be written beautifully.
By the time he closed his laptop, the sun was almost rising. Ji Hyo stretched his arms, feeling exhaustion settle into his bones, but at the same time, a fire burned inside him.
His notebook was filled with scribbles—ideas for lyrics, melodies, emotions. He could already hear the kind of song he wanted to make.
Now, it was time to bring it to life.
He decided to get three hours of sleep first since it was already 5 a.m.
Ji Hyo sighed deeply, exhaling all the exhaustion from his body. Even after barely three hours of sleep, he somehow felt energized. Maybe it was the excitement buzzing inside him—the thought of finally creating something of his own.
He stepped into the bathroom, letting the warm water wash over his skin. When he got out, towel wrapped around his head, he paused in front of the mirror and nearly scoffed at his own reflection.
"Unfair," he muttered, running a hand down his flawless face.
No dark circles. No puffiness. No signs of fatigue whatsoever. If anything, he looked even better than yesterday. His skin still glowed, his features still sharp yet delicate—like some kind of AI-generated beauty model.
"Seriously… I might as well be a damn vampire at this point."
The system chimed in.
[Host's natural visual rating is in the S-tier category. Your physical condition adapts to maintain peak appearance. Lack of sleep does not visibly affect your beauty.]
Ji Hyo narrowed his eyes. "So I'm basically immune to looking ugly?"
[In simple terms, yes.]
"…Nice."
Shrugging, he threw on a comfortable oversized hoodie and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. He kept it simple—scrambled eggs, toast, and a banana—since he needed something light but filling.
Once he finished eating, Ji Hyo made his way to the living room. The morning light streamed through the windows, filling the space with a soft golden glow.
He grabbed his music sheet, sat down cross-legged on the floor, and closed his eyes.
To an outsider, he would've looked like he was meditating. But in reality, his mind was racing.
He replayed every note, every melody, every emotion he absorbed from last night's movie marathon. The heartbreakingly soft piano from Miracle in Cell No. 7. The subtle tension of Gonjiam. The funky, carefree rhythm of Extreme Job. The raw longing from The Classic.
All of it swirled together in his mind like puzzle pieces waiting to be arranged.
His fingers lightly tapped against his knee, following an invisible rhythm.
"What do I want this song to feel like?"
Slowly, an idea began to take shape.
He imagined a melody that started soft, almost hesitant—like the beginning of a story. Then, a buildup—something emotional but not overwhelming. A climax that carried the weight of every feeling he wanted to express. His fingers traced invisible notes in the air, his mind filled with an unspoken melody. His apartment was quiet—almost too quiet. It was just him, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the distant noise of Seoul waking up outside his window.
He closed his eyes.
A song was forming in his head, but it wasn't just a random collection of sounds—it was a story waiting to be told.
He imagined a melody that started soft, almost hesitant—like the beginning of a story that had been left untold for too long. A single note, delicate but filled with purpose, like the first step onto an unfamiliar road. This wasn't meant to be loud or demanding. It was meant to draw people in—to whisper instead of shout.
Then, a slow build-up, a quiet ache, something that mirrored his own emotions.
It wasn't just a love song. No—it was a song about losing something before even having the chance to cherish it.
Ji Hyo thought about himself.
He had just started feeling what it was like to be free, to have control over his life, to dream beyond mere survival. And yet, it felt like something was always out of reach. Whether it was the debut team, the truth behind his past, or even his own identity—it was like trying to catch smoke with bare hands.
Loss. Regret. Longing.
That was the essence of the song.
A melody to capture that quiet heartbreak—not the kind that exploded in anger, but the kind that settled deep in the bones, lingering even after the moment had passed.
His hands reached for the keyboard in front of him. The first note he pressed was soft, almost like a whisper in the dark. He played it again. Then again. And slowly, he started adding another note, layering them carefully. The intro needed to feel like standing at the edge of something fragile—a relationship, a dream, a memory.
A soft piano melody. Gentle, melancholic. A pause between each note, giving room for the emotion to breathe.
Then, the buildup—the weight of emotions growing, but never rushing.
This part was the longing, the unsaid words, the distance that had grown too wide to cross. It reminded him of how he watched his old life fade away, how he stood in a new one without knowing if he truly belonged.
As he played, he let the chords take shape naturally. The harmony needed to reflect that feeling of almost, but not quite. The tension of something unsaid—of something left unfinished.
And then—the climax.
A powerful swell of music, but not an explosion. No crashing instruments, no overwhelming volume. Just raw, unfiltered emotion that surged and receded like a wave.
A series of waves.
That's what this song was.
Like his own journey—rising and falling, pushing forward, pulling back. His struggles as a trainee, the fleeting connections he made, the things he wanted but never fully grasped.
Ji Hyo opened his eyes, exhaling slowly.
The melody had found its form. Now, it needed depth.
Moving to his newly assembled home studio, Ji Hyo adjusted the microphone and set up his digital audio workstation (DAW). His fingers hovered over the mouse, adjusting settings, setting the tempo.
60 BPM. Slow, deliberate.
The piano chords would lead the song, supported by a faint reverb, creating a sense of space—a distant echo, like memories fading into the night.
He layered in subtle strings, soft and breathy, to give the sound more weight. Nothing overwhelming, just enough to cradle the emotion, to make it feel bigger than just one voice.
For the pre-chorus, he added a quiet percussive heartbeat—a soft rhythm, steady yet fragile, like someone holding their breath.
Then, for the climax, he introduced deeper bass notes, resonating like an exhale filled with resignation. The peak wasn't about screaming emotions—it was about acceptance. The kind of pain that didn't need to be loud to be overwhelming.
As he worked, he fine-tuned every detail, making sure each element served the story he wanted to tell.
The instrumentals were done.
Now, all it needed… were the words.
Ji Hyo leaned back, staring at the glowing screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
A song about loss, longing, and the quiet pain of watching something slip away.
He thought of the people he lost. His old self. His forgotten past. His uncertain future.
Taking a deep breath, he began to write.