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# Chapter 15: The Left File
Two folders sat on the table.
The one on the left was a JYA exclusive contract. The one on the right — Sea-a didn’t know yet.
Park In-cheol placed his hand on the right folder.
“This one’s different.”
He slid it toward her. She didn’t take it. Just looked at it. The cover was white. Plain white, no text, nothing to tell you what was inside. Sea-a had always been instinctively wary of things like that — things that didn’t show you what they contained.
“What is it.”
“Open it.”
Jazz drifted through the café. The bass line moved low and slow. Sea-a listened to the rhythm and picked up the folder.
The first page appeared.
She read it.
Then read it again.
The JYA Entertainment logo sat at the top of the document. Below it, a title. Agreement Confirming Transfer of Musical Works and Assignment of Rights. She moved past the title to the next line. Names. Not her name — other names. Three agency names and their respective representatives. And at the bottom, one item in bold.
List of Works: See Attachment A.
She found Attachment A. Second page.
Three songs.
The titles were listed side by side. She looked at them. First song. Second song. Third song. Each title had been altered — none of them were what she’d originally called them. What she’d named On a Day Without Waves had become Still Water. What she’d named Winter Prayer had become December Hymn. The third song, the one she’d never managed to name — it was listed as a number. Track 3.
Sea-a closed the folder.
Her hand rested on the white cover. She noticed it — how cold her hand was. Colder than when she’d gripped the railing over the Han River earlier. Even though she’d been holding a coffee cup.
“What is this.” She wasn’t asking. She was confirming.
Park In-cheol answered.
“It’s an agreement for the agencies currently holding Na Sea-a’s songs to transfer the copyrights to JYA.”
She let that land.
“Why.”
“Once JYA takes ownership, rights management gets consolidated. And through that process — the original authorship verification can be reopened.”
“Original authorship.”
“Na Sea-a.” Park In-cheol paused. “It means you could get your name back.”
The jazz climbed toward its chorus. Someone opened the door, and a gust of cold air slipped in before it swung shut. Sea-a felt it — the cold coming in and going out.
You could get your name back.
Those words caught on something inside her. Like a hook. She knew he’d said it deliberately. Knowing that, it caught her anyway.
“What are the conditions.” she asked.
Park In-cheol moved his hand to the left folder.
“An exclusive contract.”
Sea-a got back to the goshiwon just past six.
She stopped at a convenience store on the walk from Hapjeong Station. A triangle kimbap and a warm can of corn soup. While she paid, she thought about her card balance. Her part-time pay from the convenience store job wouldn’t come in for another three days. The session work was next Friday. Between now and then, the expenses lined up in her head — Dohyeon’s living costs, her mother’s medication, the goshiwon rent.
She unwrapped the kimbap and walked down the goshiwon corridor.
A TV drama leaked through the wall from the room next to hers. A phone conversation drifted through from somewhere else. The sound of a toilet flushing down the hall. The corridor was always like this — the sounds of separate lives playing out behind thin walls. Sea-a didn’t mind them. At least they confirmed she wasn’t entirely alone.
She went in and dropped her bag on the floor.
Both folders were in it. Park In-cheol had said, “Take them home and read them over.” She had. She would read them — just not quite yet.
She sat on the edge of the bed and ate the kimbap. Tuna mayo. She couldn’t tell if it tasted good or not. While she ate, she stared past the window — the room was semi-underground, so she couldn’t see outside. Just the feet of people passing by. Two pairs of dress shoes. One pair of sneakers. Then nothing for a while.
She opened the can of soup. It was warm. The smell of corn spread through the small room.
She took out her phone.
She considered texting Haneul, then didn’t. Haneul would be at the shop by now. Six in the evening was peak reservation hours at a Hongdae tattoo parlor. There was nothing more to send Dohyeon — she’d already transferred his money that morning. She called her mother once a week. This week’s call hadn’t happened yet, but tonight wasn’t the night.
Sea-a set her phone down and finished the soup.
Then she took both folders out of her bag.
The exclusive contract was fifteen pages.
She read it from the first page. Slowly. She stopped at the parts she didn’t understand, went back, read them again. She typed the legal terms she didn’t recognize into her phone’s notes app as she went.
Moral rights non-exercise clause.
Prohibition on independent releases during exclusive period.
Penalty calculation upon termination — remaining contract period × 30% of projected earnings.
She stopped at the projected earnings figure. There was a number. She looked at it, and her hand went still for a moment — not because the number was large, but because that number was the baseline for calculating the penalty. If the contract ended badly, she’d owe thirty percent of it. Measured against what was currently in her bank account, the time it would take to pay that off — she stopped doing the math.
She kept reading.
She stopped at page seven.
Article 7 (Ownership of Musical Works)
All musical works created during the contract period (including lyrics, composition, and arrangement) shall be vested in the Company as economic rights. Moral rights shall remain with the artist.
She read that clause twice.
Economic rights to the Company.
Moral rights to the artist.
She knew what moral rights meant — the right to claim a work as your own. The right to put your name on it. But economic rights belonging to the Company meant the right to profit from that work went to the Company.
Your name, but not the money.
Sea-a set the folder down.
She looked up at the ceiling. One fluorescent light. The left end flickered occasionally — she’d asked for it to be fixed two months ago, and it still hadn’t been. She’d gotten used to it. She knew the pattern by now. Once every thirty seconds, two flickers, then nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked at the screen.
Kang Riu.
She answered on the third vibration.
“Hello.”
“Na Sea-a?”
His voice was low and quiet. Different from the café — or not different. Without the ambient noise, the voice itself came through more clearly. She shifted her position on the edge of the bed.
“Yes.”
“It’s Kang Riu. From the club last night — do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“Sorry for reaching out late. I got your number from Park In-cheol. Is that okay?”
She heard the question. Before answering, she considered what it was really asking — whether it was okay that he’d gotten her number, or okay in the broader sense, right now, in this moment. Both, probably. She wasn’t okay in either sense, but there was no reason to say so.
“It’s fine.”
“Did you meet with Park In-cheol? Today.”
“Yes.”
“How did it go.”
Sea-a looked at the two folders on the table.
“He gave me contracts to take home.”
“Have you read them?”
“I was reading them.”
A brief silence on the other end of the line. The quality of it was strange — the kind of silence that comes from choosing words carefully. She felt it. He’d started to say something and stopped.
“Sea-a, are you free right now?”
“Yes.”
“Can we meet? Now.”
She looked around the room. Semi-underground goshiwon. The flickering fluorescent light. Two folders. A kimbap wrapper. An empty can of soup.
“Where.”
He said the Han River.
Mangwon Hangang Park, specifically. About ten minutes further along the bike path from where she’d been that afternoon. She found the choice odd — she hadn’t expected that. A person coming from Gangnam choosing Mangwon as the meeting spot didn’t quite add up either. She thought it was strange but didn’t say so. She just went.
Past seven, the river was dark.
Streetlamps burned amber along the bike path. The lights reflected and shivered on the water. The winter wind off the river hit her ears. It hurt. She pulled the drawstrings on her hoodie tight, letting the padded hood close half over her face.
Kang Riu was standing near the railing.
His coat collar was turned up. Hands in his pockets. He turned when he saw her approaching. The dark circles under his eyes looked deeper in the lamplight.
“You came.”
“Yes.”
Sea-a stopped about two steps away from him. She didn’t lean against the railing. The wind came. Her hair shifted inside the hood.
He looked at her.
“Are you cold?”
“I’m fine.”
“…You’re not dressed warmly enough.”
Not a question. An observation. She didn’t respond to it.
“You said you had something to say.” Sea-a said.
Kang Riu closed his mouth for a moment, then opened it.
“What did Park In-cheol tell you?”
“You’re asking what I heard first?”
“There’s an order to this.” Kang Riu said. “I want to check whether what I know and what you were told are the same thing.”
She took that in.
“He said you were interested in my songs. The ones that were released. And the credits issue — that the copyright wasn’t under my name.”
“And?”
“He said if I signed the exclusive contract, he’d help me get my name back. That JYA would acquire the rights from the agencies and reopen the original authorship verification process.”
Kang Riu nodded.
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
He looked out at the water. Just for a moment. Then back at her.
“There’s something Park In-cheol didn’t tell you.”
She waited.
“That agreement — the rights acquisition agreement. How long it actually takes to go through.”
“How long does it take.”
“Six months if things move fast. Usually over a year. The agencies aren’t going to hand things over easily. And the third song especially — there’s no contract for it, is there.”
She’d known that. She had known it — but Park In-cheol had glossed over that part, and she hadn’t fully registered it until Kang Riu said it out loud just now.
“Is that the problem?”
“The exclusive contract is three years.” Kang Riu said. “While spending a year fighting to get your name back, you’d be locked in as a JYA exclusive songwriter the entire time. And did you read the terms?”
“I read them.”
“Article 7.”
“I read it.”
Kang Riu paused.
“Economic rights vest in JYA. Even if you get your name back — the money that name earns belongs to the company.”
She’d already known that. But hearing it come out of his mouth, it landed with a different weight than when she’d read it. Getting your name back at the cost of the money. No — more precisely: being bound longer, more tightly, with your own name as the leverage.
“Why are you telling me this.” Sea-a asked.
He looked at her.
“What do you mean.”
“You’re JYA’s son.” She said it plainly. “You’re on the A&R team. It’s strange that you’d be telling me the exclusive contract isn’t in my interest.”
Kang Riu went quiet.
The wind came. Ripples spread across the water and disappeared.
“You’re right.” he said. “It is strange.”
“So why.”
He took his hands out of his pockets. They looked cold. He spread his fingers once, then curled them back in.
“I listened to your songs.” he said. “At the club last night. And then I went and found everything that was released.”
She heard that. Went and found everything.
“And.”
“I never thought those songs belonged to Park So-jin.” Kang Riu said. “From the first time I heard them. They were arranged to suit her voice, but the bones underneath — she couldn’t have built that. My instinct could be wrong, of course.”
Sea-a said nothing.
“And then I watched you perform at the club last night.” he continued. “Those two things — I understood they were the same person. That whoever wrote those songs was the same person who sang at that club.”
Her fingers held the drawstrings of her hood.
“And.” Sea-a said again. She tried to keep her voice level. It dipped anyway.
“So I wanted to tell you before you signed anything.” Kang Riu said. “Because I don’t think that contract is good for you.”
“JYA’s son is saying JYA’s contract is bad.”
“JYA’s son knows exactly what JYA’s contracts are like.”
She heard that.
The river moved. The lamplight trembled on the water. Sea-a stood without holding the railing. The wind kept coming. Her ears ached more.
“So what am I supposed to do.” Sea-a asked.
Kang Riu looked at her.
“I don’t know yet.” He said it honestly. “I don’t have an answer right now. I just — don’t want you to rush.”
“Park In-cheol said he needs a decision within a week.”
Kang Riu’s eyebrows shifted. She caught it. He hadn’t known that. Or he’d known, and it was shorter than he’d expected.
“A week.”
“Yes.”
He turned toward the water. Said nothing for a moment. Sea-a watched the muscles in his jaw move through the silence.
“Sea-a.” he said. Still looking at the river.
“Yes.”
“Those three songs — do you have others? Songs you’ve written.”
She paused.
“Why.”
“Do you or don’t you.”
“…Yes.”
“How many.”
She counted in her head. The notebooks in the goshiwon drawer. The melody fragments saved in her phone’s notes. Finished ones and half-finished ones and ones she’d barely started.
“Just the finished ones?”
“Just the finished ones.”
“…Nine.”
Kang Riu looked at her.
Nine songs.
She couldn’t read his expression exactly. He looked surprised, and then he didn’t. He was quiet for a moment before he spoke.
“Can I hear them?”
“Right now?”
“Not right now. Whenever.”
She let the question settle. Can I hear them. Such a simple sentence. And yet it landed on her with a strange weight. She had never played her songs for anyone. Not Haneul. Not Dohyeon. Not her mother. When she sold songs, she sent files. She had never sat down and played them for someone. Not once.
“Why.” She asked again.
Kang Riu looked at her. She didn’t look away.
“I want to know what your songs are like.” he said. “Not because of JYA. Not because of Park In-cheol. Just — I want to know.”
Just. I want to know.
For a moment she wasn’t sure what language that was. In the life Sea-a had built, the word just rarely appeared. Things without reasons didn’t come without costs. Things without costs had traps hidden in them. That was what she’d learned.
And yet he’d said I just want to know.
She didn’t know whether to believe it. She didn’t know if she wanted to.
“I’ll think about it.” Sea-a said.
Kang Riu nodded. He didn’t push.
They stood there for a little while without moving.
No particular reason. Like they both knew it was time to leave, but that moment hadn’t quite arrived yet. The river wind kept blowing. Sea-a’s nose went cold. Kang Riu’s coat rippled.
“Do you come here often?” Kang Riu asked.
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“It’s wide.”
He heard that. She knew it was a strange answer and didn’t take it back. Strange, but not wrong.
“I ended up here for a strange reason too.” Kang Riu said.
“What was it.”
“I got into a fight with my father this morning.” He said it like it was nothing. “Over work. Afterward I just drove around, and somehow ended up here. It takes about twenty minutes from Gangnam.”
She took that in. He’d fought with his father. Over work. Just drove around, somehow ended up here.
“What kind of fight.”
“…I talked about you.” Kang Riu said.
She heard that.
“About me.”
“Yes.”
“What did you say.”
Kang Riu paused. He looked at the water. Sea-a looked at it too. They stood side by side, both watching the river. The lamplight swayed.
“I said the contract terms were too unfair.” Kang Riu said. “That spending a year on the authorship fight while you were locked into JYA was one-sided.”
“What did your father say.”
“He said that’s standard industry practice.”
“He’s not wrong.”
Kang Riu looked at her. The tone she’d said it in — something between resignation and acknowledgment — made him lose his words for a moment.
“Do you think he’s right?” Kang Riu asked.
“I think the standard itself is wrong.” Sea-a said. “But the standard being wrong doesn’t expand my options.”
He heard that.
She didn’t continue. If she said more, the words would go somewhere she didn’t want them to go.
“Sea-a.” Kang Riu said.
“Yes.”
“I’ll try to find a way to help.”
She heard that.
I’ll try to find a way to help.
Not something to trust easily. Kang Riu was JYA’s son. A&R team. He said he’d fought with his father, but that didn’t mean he was standing on the opposite side. She knew that.
Even so.
She looked at him.
His hands were out of his coat pockets. In the cold air. She looked at his hands — long fingers, thickened at the knuckles. A pianist’s hands, Haneul had said last night. They looked cold.
“Why.” Sea-a asked. She’d lost count of how many times she’d asked that today.
“Just.” Kang Riu said.
Just, again.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She didn’t know how to respond to just. She had no practice with it.
A strong gust came. Sea-a stepped back half a step to keep her footing.
Kang Riu saw it.
“Let’s go.” he said. “It’s too cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your nose is red.”
Sea-a touched her nose. Her fingertip was cold when it made contact. He was right. She lowered her hand.
“Come on.” Kang Riu said again.
This time it wasn’t a command. More like an offer. She felt the difference.
His car was in the Mangwon Hangang Park lot.
A black SUV. She looked at it. Wasn’t sure if she was supposed to get in. Kang Riu walked toward it like it was obvious.
“Hapjeong?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“I can walk.”
“I know.” He opened the car door. “I’ll drive you anyway.”
She stood there a moment. She could walk. Walking was more familiar. But the wind wasn’t stopping, and her ears hurt, and her nose was red — Sea-a opened the passenger door.
The car was warm.
The heat was already on. She felt it as she sat down, the warmth settling around her. The car smelled like coffee — old coffee. A half-finished americano in the cupholder. A few sheets of sheet music on the floor by the passenger seat. She shifted her feet to avoid stepping on them.
Kang Riu got into the driver’s seat and noticed.
“Oh, just step on those.”
“It’s sheet music.”
“It’s useless anyway.”
Sea-a picked it up. Looked at it. Piano score. No title at the top. A date at the bottom — not in handwriting she could read clearly, but the numbers were legible. Three years ago.
“Did you write this yourself?”
Kang Riu started the engine. Didn’t answer. Instead he turned on the navigation.
“Address in Hapjeong?”
Sea-a put the sheet music down and gave him the address.
The car pulled out. As they climbed onto the riverside expressway, Seoul’s nightscape spread before them. The bridges over the Han River glittered with light. She watched — the lights of cars crossing the bridges stretched long on the water, then broke apart.
“You came from Berlin.” Sea-a said.
Kang Riu glanced at her from behind the wheel, then back at the road.
“Haneul told you?”
“Yes.”
“I studied piano there.”
“Why did you stop.”
He didn’t answer. She didn’t wait for one. She could tell it wasn’t coming. But the silence was an answer — there was a reason he couldn’t say.
“This score.” Sea-a said. She held it up. “Why is it useless.”
“…I couldn’t finish it.”
“You could finish it now.”
“I can’t.”
She heard that. I can’t. When he said it, the texture of his voice changed. Gone was the easy, measured tone. Something snagged, caught briefly, then came out.
Sea-a looked at the score. She tried to read the melody. She could read music — basic theory, at least. But the car’s interior was too dim for detail. She could make out the structure instead. It seemed divided into three movements. And the third movement was almost empty.
“You got stuck in the third movement.” Sea-a said.
Kang Riu’s grip tightened on the wheel. She noticed.
“How do you know.”
“It’s empty here.” She pointed to the third movement on the page.
“…You can read it?”
“Just the structure. I’m not good at actually reading scores.”
He said nothing for a moment.
The car moved along the riverside expressway. The Han River flowed on their right. The lights trembled on the water. The heater hummed quietly.
“My hands stopped during a performance in Berlin.” Kang Riu said. Slowly. Like he’d made a decision to say it.
She waited.
“It was a recital. I’d prepared a lot. I walked out, sat down at the piano — and my hands wouldn’t move. Not because I’d forgotten anything. Just.”
Just.
That word again. He’d used it three times today. Each time it meant something different.
“How long.”
“Four minutes.”
“You didn’t play anything for four minutes?”
“No.”
Sea-a tried to picture it. A stage —