Over the next couple of weeks, a quiet, almost imperceptible shift took place in the Seoul Philharmonic. The rehearsal hall, once a tomb of fractured dreams, began to hum with a cautious, growing energy. Jaemin didn't command. He guided. Instead of the forceful, sweeping gestures of a traditional conductor, his hands moved with a quiet, precise grace, as if he were shaping the very air around the notes.
He worked them on a challenging but familiar piece, Dvorak's "New World Symphony." It was a masterpiece of emotional depth, and Jaemin pushed them, not with anger, but with an unwavering focus. He told the brass to "breathe with the strings," and asked the woodwinds to "speak to the flutes like a chorus of birds in the forest." His language was strange and lyrical, but the results were undeniable. The separate sections, once so disconnected, were beginning to knit together.
Do-hyun, from his position as first chair, watched it all with a growing, grudging fascination. His mind still screamed that this was an elaborate trick, but his body remembered the uncanny sensation of being pulled by Jaemin's hand. He found himself not just playing his part, but listening to the parts of everyone around him, responding to their rhythm, their emotion. He was no longer a soloist surrounded by an audience; he was a voice in a conversation, a thread in a tapestry. The music they made was still imperfect, but it felt alive in a way it hadn't in years.
During a short break, a nervous energy crackled through the break room.
Kim Seojun, the oboist, leaned forward conspiratorially, his round face alight with drama. "I'm telling you," he declared, his voice hushed but ringing with theatricality. "There's a cosmic connection. He just waved his hand, and Do-hyun-ssi's violin became a part of his universe."
Han Chaewon, sipping her black coffee with an amused expression, rolled her eyes. "He just conducted in a way that resonated with the music. It's not 'cosmic,' Seojun-ah. It's called being a professional."
"No, no, no," Seojun insisted, gesturing with a half-eaten pastry. "You didn't see the way Do-hyun-ssi looked at him after that piece the other day. It was pure, unadulterated confusion. He's been the alpha of this orchestra for a year. He's never looked at anyone like that. It was like his brain short-circuited."
"I think his pride short-circuited," Chaewon retorted, a hint of a smirk on her face. "He's used to being the one in charge. Seo Jaemin is a different kind of authority."
"He's strange, but he's good," Yoon Hyeonwoo admitted, the theatricality in his voice replaced with awe. "He told the strings to 'sing their sorrow,' and the whole section sounded like one person. It's like he doesn't just hear the music; he feels it."
"He feels it, and he makes us feel it too," Chaewon added, a thoughtful look on her face. "It's the first time in a year I've felt like we weren't just playing notes. Kang Do-hyun-nim feels it too. He used to fight Conductor-nim's direction, but now he's anticipating it."
"I know!" Seojun said, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and terror. "Did you see that last passage? Conductor-nim didn't even look at him, but Kang Do-hyun-nim changed the tempo at the exact moment he did. It's like... it's like they're having a conversation with their bows and their hands."
Chaewon nodded, her smirk now a soft, genuine smile. "Exactly. It's a language they both understand, and the rest of us are finally learning to listen. He's not just a good conductor, he's bringing us together, note by note."
…
As the musicians began to filter back into the rehearsal hall, Do-hyun took his seat.
The Dvorak was a masterpiece, but it was also a test, and they had just, for the first time, played something as one. The orchestra's morale, so brittle just a week ago, was now cautiously optimistic. Jaemin had done what no other conductor had been able to do.
A soft voice broke through his thoughts. "Kang Do-hyun-ssi," Jaemin beckoned. "A moment of your time?"
"You have it." Gruffly, Do-hyun rose and followed the conductor into the hallway just outside the rehearsal hall.
Jaemin turned to him, holding a simple, worn leather folder in his hands. He didn't open it, simply held it out to Do-hyun, a silent offer that spoke volumes.
"We will play something that cannot be played alone," Jaemin said, his voice a low, final chord. "A test of whether you can lead an orchestra and still allow it to lead you. Brahms' Violin Concerto in D Major. I'd like you to learn it, and potentially perform it at the Revival Gala."
The words hit Do-hyun with the force of a physical combination blow. "The Revival Gala?" he balked. "The one in two months? But we already have the Adagio, this Dvorak, and all the other pieces we've been practicing—will we even have time to rehearse them all?"
Except for a small crook at the corner of his mouth, Jaemin's expression didn't change. "The programme hasn't been published yet, so we still have the freedom to choose what exactly we want to perform, to let our audience know that we're back in business. Why, you don't think we can do it?"
Challenge upon challenge. Do-hyun stared at the folder in Jaemin's hand. The concerto was a masterpiece, a titan of the classical world that demanded not just skill, but a powerful, profound emotional commitment. It was a perfect, beautiful trap.
He could not, would not, refuse this challenge.
Jaemin simply stood there, his scent a quiet whisper, his gaze a silent question. He wasn't giving an order. He was waiting. For a soldier to lay down his arms and pick up a song.
Do-hyun's hand moved. He took the score.