# 1 The Moment of Glory
What a beautiful night.
To celebrate the new year, the night was more splendid than ever.
Signs, lights, and fireworks.
Everything shone, as if competing to outshine the sun.
I must give it my all now.
I must burn with all my life to shine, so I won't look shabby when day comes.
"What? Retirement?! Did you just say retirement?"
The sudden shout startled even Road, the driver, who turned to look back.
I gestured for him to focus on the road. He reluctantly looked forward, but his ears were still perked up.
"Retirement on a day like this?!"
His manager repeated the words, as if in disbelief.
"Who the hell retires at an awards ceremony?!"
Judging by his reaction, if they weren't a singer and manager, he would have grabbed him by the collar with his gorilla-like hands.
"Don't just puff on that cigarette, say something, Halo. You're a free spirit, but not *this* much."
Halo chuckled, putting down his cigarette.
It was a dry laugh, like the brittle ends of his bleached hair.
"What do you mean by 'this much'?"
"Oh, sorry, but could you not act like my girlfriend? I'm getting flashbacks. More importantly, are you serious? Is this a joke?"
"Maybe."
He ignored his manager, who looked ready to explode. His long legs, propped up on the seat, swayed rhythmically—a gesture he made when he had no intention of explaining himself.
The manager knew he couldn't let this go.
Halo was the most reckless person he had ever met, a crazy bastard who might actually announce his retirement at the Grammys [the Recording Academy's annual awards show].
The manager spoke softly, as if coaxing a child.
"Halo, let's not do that at the awards ceremony. It's the Grammys, for crying out loud. Those guys who used to be so arrogant have finally knelt before you! It's a night to bask in victory. Okay, fine! I'll let you do whatever you want just this once. Curse at the judges, strip naked, get into a scandalous relationship—I'll take responsibility. But no crimes and no retirement."
Halo chuckled at the desperate plea.
"What's the big deal about the Grammys?"
"The Grammys are… a big deal!"
"It's just American pumpkin pie. They pat each other on the back until something goes wrong, then they start watching their own backs. Or did you grease some palms?"
"Grease palms? What?"
The manager's expression hardened.
That was the face he made when he was truly angry.
Despite his appearance, the manager was a devout Christian, the most morally upright person in the entertainment industry. Halo realized his mistake and raised both hands.
"Sorry. I guess the medicine I took yesterday hasn't worn off yet. Do you have any booze left?"
"Unfortunately, I can't give you any after what you just said."
"Just this once."
"Absolutely not. Don't change the subject. Promise me. Promise you won't even utter the 'r' word."
"…"
Sigh.
There was no answer.
The manager couldn't help but sigh.
He couldn't understand the madness of this lunatic. If he could, he'd crack open his skull to see how his brain worked.
"Let me ask you one thing. Do you want to throw everything away? Did you suddenly get tired of luxury and pleasure?"
"It's not like that."
"Then why are you suddenly retiring? Don't act like a teenager, tell me straight."
"I'm not old enough to be called a teenager, am I?"
"If you're an adult, act like one and take responsibility for your words."
"My heart is always young."
"Fuck."
Finally, a curse escaped the manager's lips.
Halo chuckled and turned his head.
Beyond the window, there were no streetlights.
The land was too vast to illuminate, it seemed.
All that lay before him was darkness.
The path ahead was invisible, and the path he had walked felt futile.
Like the manager said, it wasn't that he wanted to throw everything away.
He hadn't suddenly contracted a terminal illness, so why would he throw it away? He preferred spending to saving, and he loved luxury and attention.
Sincerity, abstinence, and temperance—these things didn't exist in his dictionary.
Besides.
Was he even in a position to throw everything away? He could if he caused an irreparable scandal. But he had no intention of deliberately creating one.
'But, how should I put it?'
Everything felt so futile, like realizing those stars are just ugly lumps of electricity.
It wasn't that he was tired of music and songs.
He still loved his music, his passion, and his job.
However.
The thought suddenly occurred to him:
He had already done everything.
So many goals he had set as a child.
He never thought he would achieve them, but he had finished them at the young age of thirty-two.
'There's nothing left to do.'
He had run blindly, without looking back or to the side, and reached the top.
He had finished everything.
If his life were a movie, the end credits would be rolling now.
The most wonderful music he had ever made would be playing in the background,
And the names of everyone who helped with the production, from the actors to the director, would be mentioned one by one.
And at the end, there would be a phrase like this:
'This movie is based on a true story.'
Isn't this a perfect story?
The manager was wearing a serious expression.
He was probably thinking all sorts of things, wondering if he had caused an accident that he couldn't cover up.
Halo barely suppressed a laugh when he belatedly noticed the manager's pure eyes, which didn't suit his massive frame, were starting to water.
"Never mind."
"What?"
No, in the end, he couldn't hold it in. His expression was so ugly. He couldn't stop laughing, no matter how crazy the manager looked at him.
"Halo, what do you mean never mind?"
"Hahaha!"
"What do you mean?!"
The manager was serious, even desperate.
Halo remembered that the manager had been worried about high blood pressure lately and decided to let it go just this once.
"I was just kidding about retiring."
He just said it on a whim.
As always, on a sudden impulse.
Life is a movie—what a teenage fantasy.
Retirement? No way.
If he retired at the Grammys, it would be a spectacle, but the guys who used to hate him would soon be gleefully running wild.
He could never let that happen.
Leave when they're clapping? No way. He'd stay until he was smearing shit on the walls.
"Oh, so it was a joke after all?"
The manager's face lit up, as if he had believed it all along.
"Ha! Hahaha! That was a pretty funny joke! A joke I'll probably remember for ten years!"
Halo had a fleeting, wicked thought toward the manager, unsure if he was happy or sarcastic.
"I have to release a new album and go on talk shows. Retirement? What retirement?"
Right, the album. A special day that comes every four years. He had plans to release it. Halo looked around the car, remembering.
"Where's my Marie?"
"Here."
The manager handed him an acoustic guitar.
The sleek, streamlined folk guitar with the H emblem was Marianne, the only guitar Gibson had ever made for Halo.
Hmm-
He held Marianne in his arms and hummed briefly.
Until dawn comes.
A song unlike any of the music he had made so far, focused on a calm, acoustic sound.
A song that suited this night, with literary lyrics.
The critics would dismiss this calm song and criticize Halo for being washed up.
But well, he had never cared about what the critics said. Critics always contradict each other anyway.
He continued humming the lyrics and turned his head toward the window.
Blinding light was rushing toward him, like the lyrics of the song.
Was it already morning?
It was too early for the sun to rise yet.
He only felt something was wrong for a moment, and then he couldn't continue his reverie.
─Bang! Kwang!!
A huge car crash.
Someone's scream echoed, and his vision instantly turned white.
That was his last memory.
#
Halo's life was like a movie.
A boy who had a talent for music since he was a child.
He clashes with his parents' wishes and runs away from home.
A runaway teenager is thrown into the raw reality of fraud, assault, neglect, and injustice, but eventually rises to the top of the world.
Halo.
This alias, more widely known than his real name, was chosen haphazardly from a crumpled science textbook, but everyone says there could be no more fitting name.
A galaxy that sucks everything in,
A halo surrounding the sun and moon.
And glory.
His life unfolded like his name.
An outstanding appearance and singing ability, enough to be called the reincarnation of Apollo [the Greek god of music, arts, knowledge, healing, plague, prophecy, poetry, manly beauty, and archery].
A value system that doesn't compromise with the world.
A special narrative of a runaway teenager becoming the world's best singer.
Above all, the music he created captivated many people.
Even the 'moment' he was going to receive the most 'glorious' award became his last.
'I said it was like a movie, but I didn't want this ending.'
He muttered self-deprecatingly.
He really didn't want this.
It was just a fleeting fantasy.
He was young and still had so much he wanted to do.
Not yet.
He shouted unfairly.
There was no answer.
There was no one to listen to his voice.
…He was really dead.
With realization, all the strength drained from his body.
The cigarette he was holding fell to the ground.
He didn't even know if it was a cigarette. He couldn't see it.
He couldn't do anything in this place where he couldn't see anything.
It never listened when I needed it, and now it ends like this.
He slumped to the floor.
He propped his chin on his hand and stared blankly into the void.
He couldn't see, hear, or feel anything.
Even the stuffiness, which may or may not have been real, scattered into the void.
Tick.
It was then.
"!"
His hearing reacted sensitively to the sound that came from somewhere. But still, there was nothing to see.
Did I hear wrong?
Just as he was about to bury his head again.
Tick, tick.
This time, it was continuous.
It wasn't a hallucination.
He couldn't stand it and jumped to his feet.
Where is it? Where is it?
The sound echoed repeatedly, as if calling him. It sounded like a clock ticking. Or maybe it sounded like something falling.
Tick, tick.
The sound was heard at regular intervals.
He couldn't stay still.
He walked out, relying on the sound to escape from this place.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I think I know now.
What this sound is.
The sound of thin plastic colliding with a regular beat,
"A metronome?"
At that moment, the world lit up.