Buzz—
My phone vibrated on the table. An all-too-familiar number lit up on the screen.
"Hoo..."
I took a deep breath and picked up the phone.
"Yes, this is Julien Moreau."
—Hello, Mr. Moreau. This is Claude Bernard, head of Production Team 3 at SY Entertainment.
Just as I expected. It was a call from Claude Bernard.
"Yes, hello."
—First of all, thank you for participating in the SY Entertainment Rookie Composer Contest. I'm pleased to inform you that you've received an excellent score. And...
In my past life, at this moment, I clenched my fists and cheered silently inside.
The fruit of my labor.
It was the first time my original song, which I had stayed up for days creating, had been recognized. And not by just anyone—it was SY Entertainment, one of the top names in South Korea.
Back then, I felt like I owned the world.
—We could've simply informed you by text or email, but I wanted to personally discuss signing an exclusive composer contract with you.
Claude Bernard began explaining the contract period, profit-sharing, activity plans, and the company's welfare policies.
In my previous life, I'd been so thrilled I barely remembered anything he said.
But this time was different.
His words sounded sweet, but I now saw right through the illusion behind them.
From experience, I knew that the "private studio" they offered was barely five square meters.
Their so-called high salary and benefits? Empty promises.
Rookie composers were just chickens in a coop. If they didn't lay eggs, they were discarded like consumables.
SY was nothing more than a massive factory farm.
When I didn't respond, Claude seemed momentarily flustered. I wasn't reacting the way he expected.
Then, he suddenly made an offer I hadn't heard in my past life.
—Ah! I almost forgot to mention. If one of your songs is selected for one of our artists, you'll receive a 10 million won incentive per track.
"What?"
I had never heard that before.
So why hadn't I received this incentive in my previous life?
Whose pocket had that money gone into?
Of course, it was meaningless to dwell on that now.
Without being part of Bernard's inner circle, rookie composers didn't stand a chance.
Even participating in an arrangement was rare—getting credited as the composer was nearly impossible.
Looking back, I must've been incredibly lucky to get a title track once.
Or maybe that was just Bernard's last carrot for me.
In the end, just like in my past life, this offer was no more than an invitation to become a slave to SY.
"That does sound like an amazing benefits package."
—Ah! Right? That's why we're considered the best in the industry. What do you think?
Bernard was clearly eager for a decision.
But I remained calm.
"Joining such a company as an exclusive composer would be an honor. However, I can't make a decision without reviewing the contract. Please email it to me, and I'll get back to you after reviewing it."
—Haha, of course. You're very prudent. I'll send it right away. Please check and get back to me.
"Thank you. Goodbye."
That was the end of the call.
And the beginning of a revelation about that incentive I'd never known existed.
The contract might even have better terms than in my previous life.
But I had no intention of signing with SY in this life.
I had learned a painful lesson in my past life:
A composer isn't just a machine churning out good songs.
Yes, you can technically create highly polished music.
"But does that make it a good song?"
Ultimately, the value of music is determined by the people who listen and enjoy it.
They are the true judges.
And in that sense, SY had already hit its limit.
"I would've ended up the same way."
A composer who runs out of creativity can no longer write good music.
To gain new inspiration and grow, communication with the public is essential.
That's why, in this life, I decided to join TW.
The TW I knew was a company that knew how to communicate with its audience.
They respected artistic freedom and provided full support for it.
A late bloomer, perhaps, but steadily growing.
Even if it took time, TW would someday stand at the center of the Korean music industry.
In my past life, I'd been too buried in work to see that truth.
Do I want to be a famous composer?
Do I want to make a lot of money?
Those are shallow desires.
Sure, fame and money matter too.
But when I stood alone in that unknowable space after death, I realized something:
I just want to make music.
I want to share the music I create with as many people as possible.
That's the dream I truly want to fulfill in this life.
The past is gone.
Now, it's time to prepare for new opportunities.
I left the café and returned to my studio.
As soon as I arrived, I sat in front of the keyboard.
It was time to challenge this new life.
First, I needed to get into TW.
And I had a plan.
In entertainment agencies, there's a key department called A&R (Artist and Repertoire).
They oversee album production and manage artists.
They also act as bridges between various stakeholders in the industry.
One of their main duties is collecting songs.
I planned to send one of my tracks to TW's official A&R email.
"Hmm, late 2010... What albums did TW release around this time?"
One album suddenly came to mind.
It was near the end of the year—during the Christmas season, when new releases were rare.
Even so, TW released a single called Snowman by Pierre Lemoine in mid-December.
"Probably a winter-themed album."
I remembered the song being decent overall, but the chorus was a bit bland.
I assumed the album release had been delayed due to that.
"They must've lacked confidence in it."
If a company lacks confidence in a song, it's better not to release it.
If I had written it, I wouldn't have left it that way.
So I decided to hijack it.
Lost in thought, my fingers naturally moved to the keyboard.
"Was it like this...?"
Snowman by Pierre Lemoine wasn't a favorite of mine. Nor was it a major hit.
So I recreated the melody from vague memory.
Instead of a bright major key, I chose a darker minor key to capture the winter mood.
Since it was a ballad, I set the tempo to around 65 BPM.
"Given Pierre Lemoine's vocal range, this is just right."
My fingers danced smoothly across the keys.
A surprisingly good chord progression emerged.
Next came the rhythm.
I created a new track, loaded a drum set, and layered kick-snare-hi-hat in sequence.
I added drum fills at the end of the 4th and 8th bars for a clean finish.
I subtly adjusted velocity and duration to add a human touch.
Then added a walking bass line to complete the rhythm.
To keep the rhythm natural, I minimized quantization and saved the file.
With rhythm and chords done, it was time for the melody.
I set up a condenser mic on a stand and carefully adjusted the pop filter.
It had been a while since I recorded, so my fingers trembled slightly.
But that was okay.
I wasn't a singer—just a composer.
As long as I could deliver the melody clearly, it was enough.
I turned on the audio interface's phantom power and finished setting up the mic.
After a deep breath, I began recording the melody.
Moments later—
"Good. This will do."
Since returning to the past, my workflow had sped up dramatically.
All the experiences and data stored in my head surfaced whenever I needed them.
Even detailed tasks like orchestration, which used to take hours, were completed instantly.
"Is this even possible?"
When I checked the time, I realized I had finished the ballad in just three hours.
And it wasn't hastily done.
The final product proved its quality.
After thoroughly reviewing the track, I sent it to TW via email.
I titled it Snowman—just like the song they were working on.
But my version was entirely different.
The overall vibe was similar, but the structure diverged.
Still a classic ballad, but I boldly cut the long, boring intro typical of medium-tempo ballads.
Same title, same winter feeling, but a different beast.
If TW hears this version...
"It'll cause a stir."
They say good music transcends time.
And my song really had traveled through time.
In reverse.