The sound that filled the rehearsal hall was not music. It was a chaotic, disorganized noise, a reflection of the orchestra's splintered soul. Do-hyun's bow moved with mechanical precision, his fingers navigating the notes with effortless skill, but the harmony was gone. The violas were a fraction of a beat late, the cellos were too loud, and the woodwinds seemed to be in a competition to see who could play the most out of tune. Do-hyun's nostrils flared, a silent snarl against the cacophony.
Then, the noise stopped.
Jaemin, without a single grand gesture, had simply lowered his baton. He stood motionless at the podium, his presence so quiet it was almost unsettling.
"The beat," Jaemin said, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the room. "The beat is not in the baton. It's in the air around you. Kang Do-hyun-ssi."
Do-hyun's head snapped up, a jolt of surprise and fury in his chest. Jaemin had singled him out by name, ignoring his rank and the fact that he was the highest authority in the room after himself. He saw Han Chaewon and Kim Seojun exchange wide-eyed looks at the open hint of disrespect at the conductor's choice of address.
"Your tempo is leading the string section, but your presence is creating a vacuum. The rest of the orchestra is trying to follow your pulse, but they can't feel it." Jaemin's gaze was unwavering, cool as glass.
The accusation, so calmly delivered, felt like an insult. "My tempo is textbook, Conductor-nim," Do-hyun retorted, his voice low and laced with annoyance as he emphasized the honorific. "It is the rest of the orchestra's job to follow."
Jaemin nodded slowly, as if he were considering a fascinating observation. "Correct. But a conductor's job is to make it easy for them. The beat should feel inevitable, not forced. Let's try the opening again. But this time, Kang Do-hyun-ssi, I want you to listen."
Do-hyun felt his blood run cold. Listen? He was the First Chair, the concertmaster. He was the one who took the lead, the others following after. The audacity of this beta… it was unbelievable. He felt an intense urge to exert his dominance, to remind this man exactly who he was. His cedar scent began to sharpen, a warning.
If Jaemin sensed it, he ignored it. He simply turned back to the orchestra. "Everyone. Just breathe. And listen. The beat is in the silence between my movements, not in the movements themselves. Let the music rise from the sound of our breathing."
He raised his baton. The orchestra took a collective, shuddering breath. He held it, for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.
And then the baton moved.
The sound that followed was a disjointed disaster. Jaemin's gestures were small, almost imperceptible. But instead of the magical transformation Do-hyun had expected, this beta's subtle movements seemed to confuse the musicians even more. The brass section came in a half-beat too early, the percussionist stumbled, and the strings, caught between Do-hyun's stubborn energy and Jaemin's new direction, fell completely out of sync. The music was a mangled, unrecognizable mess.
Jaemin's hand fell, stopping the music in a jarring silence. The air, already thick with dust and melancholy, was now heavy with embarrassment and frustration.
"That was unacceptable," Jaemin said, his voice still calm, but with an edge of steel. "You were not listening. You were not feeling the music. You were simply playing notes on a page."
A low murmur of protest rippled through the orchestra. "Maestro-nim," Yoon Hyeonwoo, the cellist, grunted, his scent of old leather a cynical presence. "Your tempo is impossible. We can't follow your direction."
Jaemin's eyes met his, and Hyeonwoo fell silent. "We are here to make music," Jaemin said, his gaze sweeping over the orchestra. "Not to follow rules. Not to follow old habits. This orchestra is dying because you are all a group of individuals playing for yourselves. You are not a single, cohesive unit."
Do-hyun felt his blood run cold. He watched Jaemin, his jaw tight, feeling the slow burn of contempt rise in his gut. This man was a beta. He was a nobody. And he was standing there, in front of everyone, daring to challenge his authority.
"And who are you to tell us that?" Do-hyun said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You come here, a complete unknown, and you tell us that we, the ones who have dedicated our lives to this orchestra, are nothing? Your conducting is a mess. It's an insult to the music. To us."
Jaemin turned to him, his face impassive. He met Do-hyun's challenging gaze without a hint of fear. His faint perfume of sandalwood, so mild it was barely there, somehow felt all-encompassing, a void that swallowed the other scents in the room.
"I never said you were nothing," Jaemin said, his voice even. "You can't follow my movements because you're too busy playing with your ego. You fill the room with your pride, and it makes you blind to the music. You're trying to lead when you should be following."
The gasp that rippled through the orchestra was audible. No one, not a single person, had ever dared to talk to Do-hyun like that.
Jaemin wasn't done. "The opening of the piece… your bowing is precise, but it is cold. It lacks emotional depth. You play it like a soldier trying to be a general."
Do-hyun's hands clenched around the neck of his violin. He felt a hot, primal rage build in his chest. This man wasn't just challenging him with dominance; he was challenging his very soul, the core of his art. "My playing has held this orchestra together for a year, Conductor-nim," he said, his voice a low, simmering threat. "You are the one who is new here. You should be the one proving to us that you are not the mistake."
Jaemin's eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle shift that showed he was no longer just calm, but dangerous. "Very well," he said, his voice so quiet it was barely a whisper. "But let me make this clear. I am not here to prove myself to you. I am here to save this orchestra. And if you are not willing to follow me, then you can leave."