For a long moment, the only sounds in Café Monochrome were the drumming of the rain against the glass and the frantic thumping of Seo Haneul's own heart. The business card in his hand felt less like paper and more like a block of lead, its sharp corners digging into his palm. Kang Min-hyuk's words—"you might just be the one to save me"—echoed in the quiet space, a pronouncement so heavy it seemed to suck the air from the room.
Haneul's first instinct was to retreat. He wanted to push the card back into the man's hand, utter a string of apologies, and lock the door behind him, sealing himself back into the comfortable anonymity of his life.
"You're mistaken," Haneul finally managed, his voice thin. He gestured vaguely at his own simple attire—jeans, a faded t-shirt under his work apron. "I'm not... I'm not what you're looking for. I can't dance. I've never taken a lesson. I get nervous just taking a customer's order."
Min-hyuk didn't dismiss his fears. He met them head-on, his gaze unwavering. "We can teach you to dance. We have the best choreographers in the country. We can't teach what you have in your voice. We can't manufacture a soul." He took a step closer, his voice dropping. "That song you were just singing. The one about the face in the crowd. Did you write it?"
Haneul flinched, feeling as if the man had just read a page from his private diary. He could only nod, his throat tight.
"I thought so," Min-hyuk said, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. "The industry is full of perfect voices singing empty words written by committee. It's a lie, Haneul-ssi. A beautiful, profitable lie that is finally starting to crack. I don't need another perfect doll. I need an artist. I need the truth. And my company needs it to survive."
The raw honesty was disarming. This wasn't a slick corporate pitch; it was a plea. Still, the world Min-hyuk was describing was a foreign planet. The life of a trainee, the grueling schedules, the public scrutiny—it was Haneul's worst nightmare.
He shook his head, taking a step back. "I can't. I'm sorry."
As the words left his lips, an image flashed in his mind: the pile of brown envelopes on the tiny table in his one-room apartment. The final notice for his student loan. The maxed-out credit card statement. More vivid, and more painful, was the memory of his mother's voice on the phone last night. She tried to sound cheerful, but he could hear the strain as she spoke of his father's worsening arthritis, of another expensive medication the doctor said was necessary. He had ended the call with a hollow promise that he would send more money soon, knowing full well that his barista's salary was already stretched to its breaking point.
His dream of being a musician had always felt like a selfish indulgence. His duty was to his parents. But what if this terrifying, impossible offer was the only realistic way to fulfill that duty? The irony was crushing.
Min-hyuk must have seen the war playing out across Haneul's face. He saw the flicker of fear give way to a shadow of desperation that he recognized all too well. He decided to place his final card on the table.
"Your father's medical bills," he stated, not as a question, but as a fact. Haneul's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. "And your own debts. I can make them disappear."
"How... how did you know?"
"I'm a desperate man, Haneul-ssi. I spent the last two days learning everything I could about the barista with the million-dollar voice. I'm not just offering you a spot in a group. I'm offering you a solution." Min-hyuk named a figure for a signing bonus, a number so large it seemed fictional, a number that would wipe Haneul's slate clean and secure his parents' comfort for years. "That's before your salary. Before any royalties from the songs you'll write. All I ask is that you trust me. Give this a chance."
The air crackled. The abstract terror of fame was suddenly pitted against the concrete, immediate relief from his crushing financial reality. It was a lifeline, wrapped in the very thing he feared most. His quiet life was safe, but it was also a dead end, a slow suffocation under the weight of responsibility. Min-hyuk's world was a monster, but it held a key.
Haneul looked down at the business card, then back at the CEO's intense, hopeful face. The "no" died on his tongue. But a "yes" was still too large, too terrifying to form.
He found a middle ground. "I... I'll think about it."
A wave of relief washed over Min-hyuk's features. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, understanding he couldn't push any further. He pulled out a pen and scribbled his personal number on the back of the card.
"You have until this time tomorrow," he said, his voice regaining a sliver of its executive authority. "After that, my board will force me to go with a safer option, and Starlight Entertainment will probably release another forgettable album before fading into history."
He turned and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "My future is on the line, Haneul-ssi. But so is yours. Think about which future you want."
With that, he was gone, the tinkling of the bell above the door signaling his departure. Seo Haneul was left alone in the heart of his sanctuary, which no longer felt safe at all. It felt like a cage he was only now realizing he had the key to unlock.