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# Chapter 16: His Fingers
The pain of a tattoo needle piercing skin was sharper than Sea-ah had imagined.
Not sharp in the way she’d expected. The sensation layered on itself—not one needle, but multiple needles overlapping, building. Haneul was drawing a line just below her collarbone, across the upper part of her shoulder. A matchstick. A small flame attached to its tip.
“Relax. The more you tense up, the more it hurts,” Haneul said.
Sea-ah tried to let the tension go. Was that even possible? Could anyone relax in this situation? With a needle against her shoulder, the contract file still rested in her hands. She hadn’t put it down—or couldn’t. Haneul had seen this, said nothing. Instead, she’d sat Sea-ah on the couch in her tattoo shop, told her to bare her shoulder, and pulled out the needle.
“Why do you want this, anyway?” Haneul asked.
Sea-ah didn’t answer. She couldn’t remember exactly when Haneul had asked. Before they came to the shop? After? Time had gotten tangled. Right now, in this moment, in this pain, everything was clear.
“Because it’s a fairy tale, right?” Haneul asked again. Her voice was soft—but beneath the softness was something else. A need to confirm. Whether Sea-ah really wanted this, or whether she was running from something.
Sea-ah opened her mouth.
“The Little Match Girl dies,” she said quietly. “She’s selling matches on a cold night, and nobody buys any, so she ends up lighting her own matches for warmth. And she dies in that fire.”
The needle kept moving.
“But do you know what comes before that?” Sea-ah continued. “When she lights the match, her grandmother appears. The grandmother holds her, and she sees a warm room, a table full of food. All of it’s an illusion. It only lasts as long as the match is lit. Then it disappears. So the girl keeps using matches. Right up to the last one.”
“…And then?”
“Then she dies. She dies warm.”
Haneul stopped the needle.
“Sea-ah. What are you saying right now?”
Sea-ah didn’t answer. The pain in her shoulder had faded. Something larger had taken its place. The weight of the papers. The words in the contract. The copyright clause. Copyright belongs to—belongs to whom?
“Haneul,” Sea-ah asked. “Why do you do tattoos?”
“What?”
“Why. What’s the reason. Why do you draw tattoos?”
Haneul picked up the needle again.
“People want to mark something on their bodies. Something they’ll never erase for their entire lives. I help them do that,” Haneul said. “It doesn’t go away. That’s what makes it important to them.”
The needle moved again.
“You’re the same. This match won’t disappear. On this shoulder. For your whole life. You want this, and I know it.”
Sea-ah heard every word. Exactly. All of it.
“Done,” Haneul said ten minutes later.
Sea-ah looked at her shoulder in the mirror. The matchstick was vivid. Four or five small flames rising from the match head. Drawn in black ink, but it looked like fire. Fire on skin, not on a screen.
“Now it won’t disappear,” Haneul said. “You good?”
Sea-ah nodded.
“Even if you change your mind, it won’t disappear. Like a contract.”
Sea-ah’s movements stopped.
Haneul laughed as she removed her gloves.
“Just kidding. If you really want it removed, you can get removal treatment. But I don’t think you’ll want to remove this one.” Haneul looked at Sea-ah. “Will you?”
“…I don’t want to.”
“Then that’s settled. Now you’re someone who has this match. For the rest of your life.”
Haneul helped Sea-ah up and sat her in a chair. She pulled an ice pack from the small refrigerator in the corner of the shop and placed it on Sea-ah’s shoulder. Sea-ah felt the cold. The pain slowly draining away.
“Let’s eat,” Haneul said. “I know a gukbap place, a bit far from here. But it’s good. You need to eat.”
Sea-ah picked up the file.
“What’s that,” Haneul asked. Not holding back anymore. Direct.
“A contract.”
“What kind of contract.”
“A JYA contract.”
Haneul’s face changed. The laughter vanished. Friend Haneul appeared instead of Tattoo Artist Haneul.
“What are you trying to do,” she said. Not a question. A warning. “Sea-ah. Don’t. Not with that company.”
“Why.”
“Why?” Haneul’s voice rose. “It’s JYA. One of the biggest music companies in Korea. Everyone knows they have traps. You know about Park So-jin?”
Park So-jin. The name landed. JYA rookie artist. Released an album last month. Sea-ah had heard her voice at the club where she worked sessions. Clean, precise tone. When Sea-ah heard it, she felt something—though what, exactly, wasn’t clear. It wasn’t jealousy. Something deeper.
“Do you know where those songs came from?” Haneul said. “They’re songs indie musicians released. There’s a rumor. They sold their songs to JYA. Gave up the copyrights completely. Then JYA gave them to Park So-jin.”
Sea-ah listened.
“So Park So-jin released them as Park So-jin songs, but really they’re someone else’s songs. Now they’re Park So-jin’s. The nameless composer gets paid to Park So-jin instead of to themselves.”
“…But the music is good, isn’t it?”
“Are you insane?” Haneul sat on the couch. She rubbed her face with her hands. “What does it matter if the music is good? You don’t get credit. You don’t get paid. And…” Haneul looked at Sea-ah. “And you can’t even sing your own song anymore. That’s how company contracts work. You don’t know? If you sign an exclusive contract, you can’t release music by yourself. You need the company’s permission for everything.”
Sea-ah was silent.
“What you’re doing right now is selling your voice. Not the music—your voice itself,” Haneul said. “And you’ll never be able to use that voice again. Not under your own name.”
Sea-ah’s hands trembled.
“What did Park In-chul say?” Haneul asked.
“…He said Kang Ri-u is interested in my songs. So I have to prove myself.”
“Kang Ri-u?” Haneul laughed without humor. “Kang Min-jun’s son? The JYA son?”
“Yeah.”
“That guy was set from high school. He’s going to inherit his dad’s company. He’s not a real musician. He went to study in Berlin, I don’t know why he came back—probably because he couldn’t play piano. And working at the company now is basically just PR for them. Some A&R position or whatever.”
Haneul picked up the file.
“What does this say?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t opened it yet.”
“Open it now.”
Sea-ah opened the file. A4 papers came out. Typed text. Legal terminology. Sea-ah tried to read. She looked at the first page.
Contract Title: Exclusive Artist Agreement
Below that:
Article 1. Purpose of Contract
The Company shall manage the Artist’s music activities exclusively, and the Artist shall perform music activities under the Company’s guidance.
Article 2. Contract Duration
3 years. Auto-renewal clause included.
Article 3. Artist’s Obligations
(1) Release only music designated by the Company.
(2) Work only with producers/composers designated by the Company.
(3) Cannot engage in other music activities without Company permission.
Sea-ah’s eyes stopped.
Article 4. Copyright Attribution
Copyright to music composed by the Artist belongs to the Company. Exceptions: cases of prior written agreement.
“What is this,” Sea-ah said.
“You can’t write songs. If you go in there,” Haneul said. “Any song you write becomes the company’s. And you can never use that song again. Can’t sing it, can’t release it. Your whole life.”
Sea-ah heard it.
“And you see this?” Haneul pointed to the next page. “Look at this…”
Article 6. Breach of Contract Fee
If the Artist refuses the Company’s instructions or violates the contract during the contract period, the Artist shall pay a penalty fee of 100 million won or more.
Haneul burst out laughing. Angry laughter.
“100 million. 100 million. You have that money? You can’t even pay Do-hyun’s tuition.”
Sea-ah held the contract in her hands. Her hands shook. At first, she thought it was from the pain—the tattoo on her shoulder. But it wasn’t. The trembling came from somewhere else.
“If you sign this, you’re done. Really,” Haneul said. “You won’t be Sea-ah anymore. You’ll be JYA’s artist. And you’ll never be able to make Sea-ah’s music again.”
Sea-ah tried to open her mouth. She had something to say—but she didn’t know what.
“What did Park In-chul say? The second document?” Haneul asked.
“…A music copyright assignment agreement.”
“What.”
“An agreement where JYA manages the copyright of songs I’ve already sold. If there’s a legal dispute, JYA handles it instead of me.”
“What do you get in return?”
Sea-ah didn’t answer.
“Look at the contract. Where is it?”
Sea-ah opened the second file. A thinner one. Shorter content. Five pages. Sea-ah looked at the last page. Where the amount was written.
“…Five million won.”
Haneul’s face hardened.
“Five million won? The company makes tens of billions from those songs. And you get five million won?”
“Park In-chul said it’s compensation. The rest is JYA covering the legal costs.”
“Yeah. That’s right.” Haneul lay back on the couch. She looked at the ceiling. “JYA makes money. You get five million won. And after that, you’re not the composer of those songs anymore. Officially. Legally. It all gets erased from your name.”
Sea-ah was holding the contracts.
“What are you going to do,” Haneul asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Shouldn’t you decide right now?”
“…Park In-chul said he’d give me two weeks to think about it.”
“Two weeks?” Haneul sat up. “What kind of time is that? Is that enough?”
Sea-ah didn’t answer. It couldn’t be enough. How could it ever be enough? Like when her mother collected seaweed in the ocean, holding her breath and waiting? That time was never enough. She always came up with a chest that felt tight, with water still in her lungs.
“What do you want to do,” Haneul asked.
Sea-ah opened her mouth.
“I want to sing. My name on it.”
When the words came out, Sea-ah was shocked. She’d never said this before. Not to anyone. Not out loud.
Haneul looked at Sea-ah.
“Then don’t sign here.”
“…Then what happens.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’ll happen. But at least you won’t lose your music.”
“There could be legal disputes…”
“Yeah. There could be legal disputes. But you can fight. At least you have the right to fight. Once you sign the contract, you won’t even have that right. It becomes the company’s property.”
Sea-ah heard her.
Haneul stood up.
“Let’s eat first. Let’s go to that gukbap place. You’re not in a state to think right now. Everything looks hopeless when you’re hungry.”
Sea-ah followed her. As she left the tattoo shop, she looked in the mirror once more. The matchstick on her shoulder. It would never disappear. Like a contract.
No. Different from a contract. Sea-ah thought. I chose to have this match carved into me. And the contract—the contract, I haven’t signed yet.
The street had turned to the color of evening. All the lights were on. Neon signs, LEDs, streetlights, convenience store lights. Light layered upon light. Sea-ah’s eyes were searching for a moment in that brightness. The moment when Kang Ri-u first heard her song. The moment his eyes changed.
What had Kang Ri-u said then?
“…If your music is good, you have to prove it.”
Proof.
Sea-ah thought about that word again. Was proving it signing a contract? Or was it fighting?
“What are you thinking about?” Haneul asked.
“I think I need to meet Kang Ri-u.”
Haneul stopped.
“Why.”
“He said he’s interested in my songs. So I need to ask him. Whether he really likes my music, or whether it’s for the company.”
“…What’s the difference?”
“There is a difference.”
Sea-ah said it like that.
“There is. I need to know. What does he want? My music? My voice? Or am I just a product that makes money?”
Haneul looked at Sea-ah. For a long time. Like a tattoo artist trying to engrave something.
“You have his number?” Haneul asked.
“…Park In-chul gave it to me. An email.”
“Send him a message right now.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. Tell him you want to meet. Tomorrow. And don’t go alone.”
“What?”
“I’m coming with you. I need to see what this Kang Ri-u guy is really about.”
Sea-ah pulled out her phone. She found the email address Park In-chul had given her. She started a new message.
Her fingers trembled. There was no tattoo pain anymore, no hunger. Just trembling.
Sea-ah typed.
“Kang Ri-u, I’d like to meet. Are you free tomorrow?”
She started to hit send, then stopped.
She added one more sentence.
“Please be honest with me about my music.”
She pressed send.
The message flew away.
In that moment, the matchstick on Sea-ah’s shoulder grew warm. Not from the tattoo needle’s heat. A warmth from somewhere deeper. As if there was really fire inside that matchstick.
Haneul grabbed Sea-ah’s hand.
“Let’s eat. And when you meet tomorrow, say exactly what you want. What music is. What your music is. Even if he acts like he knows, you need to know first.”
Sea-ah nodded.
They headed toward the gukbap place. The street lights kept multiplying. Night was being completed. And in that night, Sea-ah’s phone rang.
A message.
Kang Ri-u had replied.
“Tomorrow at 5 PM. Gangnam Coffee Moment. Please confirm.”
Sea-ah looked at the message. She read it again.
Kang Ri-u’s fingers had written those words. A pianist’s hands. The hands that had left something behind in Berlin. Those hands were now offering her a time.
Tomorrow. 5 PM.
Sea-ah typed her reply.
“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then she put her phone down.
Haneul tapped Sea-ah’s shoulder.
“Nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“Of course you are. You’re starting something. For the first time. For yourself.”
Sea-ah heard that.
The gukbap shop’s light fell across her face. Her eyes sparkled. The tattoo needle’s mild inflammation had made her shoulder red, but Sea-ah couldn’t feel it. Something stronger had taken its place.
The fire inside the matchstick.
The fire for tomorrow.