No More Thug Life, I’m Playing Music

Episode 24: No Redemption (5)

Here was the situation:
Soon, the end-of-year concert for Han Chamber, founded by Professor Han Gwangsook, was approaching. As it was the holiday season, many music groups were preparing similar events. Unfortunately, the concert was scheduled just three days apart from the one by FunFun Orchestra, a group comprised of students from the Korea National University of Arts.

The two groups had always harbored an unspoken rivalry. Recently, a live broadcast featuring Choi Woochul and Jung Seojoon had fanned the flames. Sensing the tension, a journalist went ahead and published a provocative article:
“A Beautiful Duel Between the Elites of Korea University and the National University of Arts.”

To add fuel to the fire, FunFun Orchestra invited a pianist who had recently returned victorious from an international competition: Jo Sanghyuk.

Jo Sanghyuk was a graduate of the prestigious Paris Conservatory, renowned among the world’s top music institutions. He was not only a celebrated figure in Korea but also a rising star on the global stage. Naturally, attention turned to whom Han Chamber would invite as their soloist.

Most assumed it would either be Han Yeoreum, one of their prominent members, or an internationally acclaimed performer from abroad. But then…

“This is absurd. He’s just a high school student!”
“He doesn’t even have a single adult competition title! People are definitely going to mock us.”
“No matter how much of a genius he is, Jo Sanghyuk is on a completely different level. And Kevin… well, he’s from way too long ago…”

Professor Han Gwangsook made the surprising decision to nominate Jung Seojoon as the soloist.

On stage, the spotlight is reserved for two figures: the conductor and the soloist. Knowing this, the ensemble members fiercely opposed the decision.

“Keep your mouths shut,” Professor Han said with a scowl.

With that one sentence, the uproar among the members was silenced. Professor Han held an unshakable position at Korea University, and such open defiance from the members was unusual. However, this time, their objections couldn’t be suppressed.

“I’ll hear your complaints after practice.”

…
“Of course, that’s if you still have complaints by then.”

Professor Han turned to Yoon Seol with an icy expression.
“Let’s try the piece we performed at the last regular concert.”
“Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2?”
“Yes, just the first movement.”
“Ah… do you think it’ll be okay?”

Yoon Seol glanced at Jung Seojoon—not with disdain, but with concern over the difficulty of the piece. Seojoon scanned the ensemble members impassively, as if trying to commit each face to memory.

Professor Han approached him and asked, “Will you be able to do it?”
“Yes.”

Seojoon gave a short nod and walked to the piano. It was positioned just in front of the conductor’s podium, where he could meet Yoon Seol’s gaze if he looked up.

Professor Han sat on a chair beside the podium, folding her arms and closing her eyes, as if suppressing her irritation.
“Whew…”

Yoon Seol watched her uneasily and let out a small sigh before turning to Seojoon.
“I’ll get the sheet music for you.”
“That won’t be necessary. Could you just show me your score for a moment?”
“Oh… yes.”

Yoon Seol handed over the conductor’s score. Seojoon quickly scanned it, committing it to memory.

The conductor’s score—also known as the full score—contained the complete structure of the piece. It was designed for the conductor, who needed to guide the orchestra with precise musical expression. Each line was densely packed with notes, and conductors often filled the margins with detailed instructions, just like Yoon Seol had.

“She’s quite meticulous…” Seojoon thought, rapidly deciphering her musical intentions.

This was only his second time performing with an orchestra. During his first performance in the lobby of Shinhwa Hospital, he had played freely, trusting Park Myunghoon. But this time, he understood that he needed to prove something to the ensemble.

After a brief moment, Seojoon handed the score back to Yoon Seol.
“Thank you. I’ve seen enough.”

Even then, his sharp hearing picked up the murmurs of dissatisfaction from the members:
“Arrogant.”
“Does he even understand what he’s looking at?”
“Bet he’s just showing off.”

They had forgotten that it had been a while since they’d last performed Rachmaninoff’s concerto themselves, and instead focused on belittling Seojoon.

Wearing a stoic expression, Seojoon lifted the lid of the grand piano and ran his fingers lightly over the keys, warming them up. Then, he pressed the A key.

[Thummm—]

The sound prompted the members to begin tuning their instruments.

Yoon Seol glanced at Seojoon, sitting upright at the piano, and felt a pang of sympathy.
“He must be feeling the pressure.”

A young prodigy, not yet an adult.
She, too, had grown up being called a genius. So had every other member of the ensemble.

It was no wonder they were resentful. They would scrutinize his every move, waiting for him to falter.

“Let’s begin,” Seojoon said softly, closing his eyes.

Gently, he placed his hands on the keys, as though caressing them. With a short breath, he began to play.
…

…

…

The ten-minute performance came to an end.

“Hah…”
Yoon Seol exhaled deeply as she lowered her baton. She tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear and looked at Jung Seojoon, her face brimming with satisfaction.

Seojoon, too, was wearing a contented expression as he looked back at her. His gaze seemed to say, “Was it good?”

Unintentionally, Yoon Seol found herself nodding. She couldn’t help it. The entire time she conducted, she felt at ease and genuinely enjoyed herself. Although she had conducted many concertos as a student in the conducting department, this was the first time the soloist had so perfectly aligned with her intentions.

From rhythm to dynamics, every musical expression she wanted was executed precisely where it belonged. At times, she wondered if he was somehow reading her mind.

“Ah…”

Her doubts were quickly resolved when she glanced at the full score on the music stand. It was covered in her notes, filled with interpretative markings she had painstakingly added.

“Could he really have memorized all this in such a short time?”

This score represented months of research, developed through listening to and analyzing performances by master musicians.

“Seojoon…?”

As she was about to cautiously call out to him, Professor Han Gwangsook beat her to it.

“Well done, Kevin,” she said, standing up and walking over to Seojoon.

She patted his shoulder approvingly, nodding.
“You’ve understood the conductor’s interpretation perfectly.”
“Yes, it made sense to me,” Seojoon replied nonchalantly.

Professor Han then scanned the ensemble members. They remained silent, unable to utter a word. Having experienced Seojoon’s skill firsthand, they were left speechless. All they could do was regret their earlier opposition to Professor Han.

“Why is everyone so quiet? Go on, speak up like you did before.”

…

 “If no one wants to volunteer, I can point you out. Let’s go one by one, starting with our impressions.”

She gestured toward one of the members—a clarinet player whose face had turned red.

“What was it you said earlier? That people would laugh at us? Does this still seem laughable to you—”

“Professor,” Seojoon interrupted, standing from his seat.

Professor Han waved dismissively, motioning for him to stay seated.
“Don’t stop me. These people looked down on you; are you just going to let it slide?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
“Would it be alright if I shared my impressions with the ensemble first?”
“Hmm? If you want to, go ahead.”

“Thank you.”

Seojoon walked over to Yoon Seol, who looked at him curiously as he climbed onto the conductor’s podium.

“Excuse me for a moment.”
“Oh my…”

Startled, Yoon Seol quickly stepped down, leaving the podium to Seojoon.

“Kevin…”

Even Professor Han hadn’t anticipated this unexpected move, leaving her no time to intervene before Seojoon began to speak.

“To be honest, I don’t have any professional expertise. So I’ll just share what I heard.”

Seojoon turned toward the man who had been scolded earlier by Professor Han, his gaze cold and unyielding.

“Clarinet first? You missed the pitch in the second entrance, didn’t you? And three more times afterward.”
“Wha… Well, my reed—”
Seojoon ignored him and shifted his attention.

“Cello, second row, left side.”
“M-me?”
“Do you not know what pianissimo means? Why were you the only one consistently loud? Did you have a big meal before rehearsal? You seemed incapable of controlling your strength.”

Next, Seojoon’s eyes moved to the back of the orchestra.
“And timpani. A percussionist unable to match the soloist’s tempo? Or were you staring at your sheet music instead of watching the conductor?”
“What? No, I—”

Seojoon continued his critiques, one after another, targeting only those who had openly opposed or dismissed him earlier.

The musicians he addressed could say nothing in return. Each critique was precise, pointing out real mistakes they had made. That such detailed feedback came from a soloist, not the conductor, left them astonished and flustered.

“That concludes my impressions,” Seojoon said finally.

…

 “If I’ve offended anyone, I apologize. I simply shared my thoughts as requested. Also…”

He delivered one final remark.
“If this is what the ‘elite’ of Korea University is, I must say I’m a bit disappointed.”

At that moment, Seojoon locked eyes with Professor Han. She showed no signs of being upset; instead, she gestured for him to continue.

After a slight nod, Seojoon looked back at the ensemble members, who were now staring at him with a mix of complicated emotions.

“About two months ago, I performed this same piece with FunFun Orchestra.”

His words caused a stir among the members.
FunFun Orchestra, their rival group.

Some of them gasped as if finally piecing something together.

“Ah! Shinhwa Hospital! That faceless pianist!”

“No way… That was really Kevin?”

“Those National Arts kids… That’s why they didn’t tell us who it was…”

Seojoon paid no mind to the murmurs and continued.
“To be honest, the comparison is a little stark.”

His words seemed to strike a nerve. Anger flickered in the eyes of those now staring at him.

Dozens of eyes glared at Jung Seojoon. It was a situation unbearable for anyone without nerves of steel. But Seojoon wasn’t someone who could be described with mere words like “nerves of steel.” He accepted the stares impassively.

“Thank you for your time, Professor,” Seojoon said.
“No, I should be the one feeling embarrassed,” Professor Han replied.

“Pardon me, but may I leave for today? I tend to hold grudges, and I’d like to cool off.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll decide on the piece for the performance and contact you.”

Seojoon walked out, passing through the ensemble members. Their eyes were glued to the back of his head as he left.

Professor Han clapped her hands loudly, snapping them out of their daze. She returned to her seat, where she sat down and called, “Seola.”

“Yes, Professor…”

“Let’s try that accompaniment again.”

With a sly smile, Professor Han closed her eyes.
“Ah, crap,” Han Yeoreum muttered among the violinists, shaking her head. She, of all people, understood the gravity of the situation.

If her mother was smiling like that, she was absolutely furious. And when Professor Han was angry, her wrath wasn’t easily quelled.

The ensemble members, who had been the targets of her ire, were about to pay dearly.

Shortly after:
“Again.”

…

“Again!”

…

“You call yourselves Korea University students? Again!”

It was morning.

If someone asked me what the best part of my changed body was, I’d say this first: the sense of refreshment.

Waking up in the morning feels incomparable. There’s no scratchy phlegm in my throat, and the lingering aftereffects I used to suffer are gone.

Especially with regular morning exercise, I can feel my body becoming healthier, and that makes everything enjoyable.

–Beep beep!

“Hah…”

If I had to pick a single downside to this body, it would be my hypersensitive hearing. Sometimes, it gives me headaches.

It’s gotten worse lately. In noisy places like school, where there’s a lot of meaningless chatter, I have to wear earplugs all day. Crowded, noisy spaces have become places I try to avoid.

But compared to the health issues I used to have, this is nothing—barely even a nuisance.

As I laced up my sneakers at the door, I noticed my father’s old shoes next to them. They looked so worn-out, it seemed like the toes might poke through at any moment. The contrast with my clean sneakers was striking.

I felt a pang of guilt for being so indifferent until now.

“Heading out for exercise?” my father asked, emerging from the bedroom.

“Yes. Would you like to come with me?”

“No, I’ll just grab a glass of water and go back to sleep.”

His steps toward the fridge seemed heavy. My eyes drifted to the pain relief patches covering his body.

Lately, he’d been busy with work—or so he claimed. But judging by his battered shoes, it didn’t seem like company work.

“Father.”
“Yes, Seojoon.”
“Someone I used to know once told me this: everything comes and goes and eventually comes back again.”
“…What?”
“Life is like that. When winter comes, spring isn’t far behind. The same goes for money and happiness.”

“Stay strong, Father. It won’t be long now.”

“…Thank you, son…”

Leaving my father staring blankly, I stepped outside.

****

After jogging along the trail for a while, I caught sight of Junsoo’s house not far ahead.

A black sedan was parked right in front of the wall. I pulled out my phone and called Ducheol.

-“Yes, boss.”

“Anything unusual?”

-“No, boss. Occasionally, there’s some buzzing from flies outside, but nothing serious.”

“Any discomfort?”

-“None. It’s perfect. Feels like a palace since it’s where you used to live.”

“Haha, and Junsoo?”

-“He’s heading back to school starting today.”

“That’s good to hear.”

I casually walked past Junsoo’s house, glancing at the parked car. I could see the men inside, dozing off.

“Oh, by the way, have you found my safe yet?”