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# Chapter 19: After Reading All 45 Pages
It took two hours to read all 45 pages of the exclusive contract.
When Sea-a turned the last page, she heard a drunk man’s voice from outside — someone stumbling through the goshiwon hallway. Heavy footsteps. The walls were thin here. From the room next door came the sound of someone brushing their teeth. A faucet turning on.
Haneul was sitting on the floor with her back against the edge of Sea-a’s bed. She hadn’t looked at her phone once the whole time Sea-a was reading. She just stayed there. Listening to the occasional scratch of a pen — the sound of Sea-a underlining something.
Sea-a closed the folder.
“How many?” Haneul asked.
“Places I marked?”
“Yeah.”
Sea-a opened the folder again and counted the red underlines. Twelve.
“Twelve.”
Haneul exhaled.
“Read them out.”
Sea-a turned back to the first mark. Page 7. All creative activities by the Artist during the contract period require prior approval from Party A (JYA Entertainment). She read it aloud. Haneul listened.
Second mark. Page 11. During the contract period, the Artist is prohibited from collaborating with any other agency or independent label, except with the prior written consent of Party A.
Third. Page 19. Revenue generated from musical activities shall be distributed at a ratio of 60% to Party A and 40% to Party B, with a ratio of 70% to Party A and 30% to Party B applied during the initial two years.
Fourth. Page 23. The Artist’s public statements, interviews, and social media posts may be subject to prior review by Party A.
Fifth.
Sixth.
Sea-a read through all twelve.
As she read, the room seemed to shrink. The ceiling seemed to drop lower. She knew it wasn’t real — the ceiling had always been low. Goshiwon ceilings always are. But the feeling was real.
“Done.”
“So.”
Sea-a thought for a moment before answering. How to put it. What words to use. For what it felt like, exactly, to have read this contract.
“It’s a cage.”
Haneul went still.
“They let you do things inside JYA, but you can’t leave JYA. What I create belongs to JYA, what I say gets reviewed by JYA, what I earn JYA takes first. And through all of that, they tell me, ‘We’ll let you make your music.’”
Haneul said nothing.
“A cage can be beautiful. Inside it you’re warm, they feed you, they take care of your feathers.” Sea-a set the folder down on the table. “But a cage is still a cage.”
“…Yeah.” Haneul said. Quietly.
Silence settled into the room.
Sea-a looked at the folder on the table. White cover. Nothing written on it. Inside, 45 pages of contract. A contract with a blank space waiting for her name.
If I sign.
If I sign, I get my name back. That’s what Ryu said. What Park In-cheol said. JYA would buy the copyrights back from the other companies and restore my name to where it belongs.
That might be true. That might not be true.
But none of that is written anywhere in this contract.
Sea-a opened the folder again and flipped to the twelfth mark. The last one. Page 43. In the event of any dispute regarding the interpretation of this contract, Party A’s interpretation shall take precedence.
She pressed her finger to the sentence. Traced the words slowly.
“This part.” Sea-a said.
Haneul leaned forward to look.
“’Party A’s interpretation shall take precedence.’” Sea-a read. “Park In-cheol made promises to me today. That I could get my copyrights back. That I could reclaim my name. But none of that is in the contract. Those were verbal promises. And yet page 43 says that in any dispute, JYA’s interpretation is the one that counts.”
Haneul crossed her arms.
“So.”
“Even if I say later, ‘But you promised me that’ — if JYA says, ‘That’s not what we meant’ — then by the terms of this contract, JYA is right.”
The room was quiet.
Haneul nodded slowly. Not in agreement. In confirmation. That Sea-a had read it correctly.
“Na Sea-a.” Haneul said.
“Yeah.”
“You actually read the contract today.”
“Yeah.”
“Really read it. This time you really read it.”
Sea-a sat with the weight of that for a moment. Haneul wasn’t complimenting her. She was verifying something. Whether Sea-a had changed from before.
“Yeah.” Sea-a said.
“Then we need to look at the other one.”
The copyright transfer agreement. Sea-a picked up the folder on the right.
The copyright transfer agreement was 23 pages.
Thinner than the exclusive contract, but it took longer. The reason was simple — inside it was a list of Sea-a’s songs. Not by title, but by code. Song code YSH-041, YSH-042, YSH-043. Sea-a knew those codes were her songs. She knew — but right now, she had no way to prove it.
She stopped on that page for a long time.
“What is it.” Haneul asked.
“These are my songs.”
“I know.”
“But it doesn’t say they’re mine. Not anywhere in here.”
Haneul craned her neck. Looked at where Sea-a was pointing.
“Just the code numbers.”
“Yeah. It doesn’t say these codes are my songs. It only says ‘works under YSH.’ I don’t even know what YSH is. Whether it’s another company’s name, or some internal code.”
Haneul pulled out her phone. Searched.
“YSH.” she murmured. “YSH Music. Independent composer agency. In Gangnam. Seocho-gu, Seoul.”
Sea-a heard the name.
YSH Music.
That was the company that had been the go-between when Sea-a sold her first song. Back then, she barely knew the name. There had been a middleman — a drummer she’d done session work with at a club. He’d told her, There’s a place where people who write songs get connected. Sea-a had called the number he gave her. The person on the other end was a YSH Music employee. Sea-a had sent him her songs, received a contract, and signed.
She hadn’t read that contract either.
“So YSH Music has my songs.” Sea-a said.
“And JYA is buying them from YSH.”
“Yeah.”
“Which means you sold your name to YSH.”
Sea-a didn’t answer.
She already knew. She’d known all along — but seeing it now in documents, in code numbers, in printed text laid out before her. Knowing it didn’t change what it was. She understood that too. But there was still a difference. Between knowing something vaguely and seeing it precisely.
She almost expected to smell burning matches. Sea-a’s nose twitched. There was nothing. Only the smell of a winter goshiwon room — dry air, the faint scent of thin blankets, the cold white light of a fluorescent bulb.
“Na Sea-a.” Haneul said.
“Yeah.”
“Where’s your contract with YSH?”
Sea-a thought for a moment.
“…Should be on my laptop. As a PDF.”
“Pull it up.”
Sea-a reached for the laptop on her bed and powered it on. She opened the file explorer. Finding the right folder took time — her desktop was a mess of folders. Sheet music files, demo recordings, lyrics. Named every which way. Some by date, some by abbreviated song titles, one just called this.
“Clean up your folders sometime.” Haneul said, staring at the screen.
“Later.”
She found a folder labeled contracts. Inside were three PDFs. YSH_contract_1.pdf, YSH_contract_2.pdf, YSH_contract_3.pdf.
Sea-a looked at them.
Three.
She had sold songs through YSH three times. Three contracts. Somewhere inside those contracts was Sea-a’s name — or wasn’t. Whether it had been there and disappeared, or had never been there at all.
She opened the first file.
It was past one in the morning.
Haneul had slid down to the floor, back against the bed. Sea-a sat on the edge of the mattress, eyes on the screen. Reading all three contracts had taken another hour and a half.
The first YSH contract. Seven pages. Short. It stated that Sea-a was transferring the copyright of the songs she had written to YSH. The compensation was a one-time flat fee. Seven hundred thousand won. Sea-a looked at that number. Seven hundred thousand won. That month, her mother’s hospital bills had been seven hundred thousand won. She remembered — she didn’t want to, but she remembered.
The second contract. Same structure. Eight hundred fifty thousand won.
The third. Nine hundred thousand won.
Total: two million four hundred fifty thousand won.
The price of everything Sea-a had sold to YSH. Three songs with no name on them. Two million four hundred fifty thousand won.
“Sea-a.” Haneul said.
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the copyright transfer clause?”
“Page 3. The section on vesting of economic rights.”
Haneul pulled the laptop toward her and read. Page 3 of the first YSH contract.
“Read it out.” Haneul said.
Sea-a read.
Article 4 (Vesting of Economic Rights in Copyright) ① The economic rights in any musical works created or provided by Party B (Na Sea-a) under this contract shall vest in Party A (YSH Music) upon execution of this contract. ② The moral rights in copyright shall be reserved to Party B; however, Party A may alter the arrangement, title, or method of attribution of the works without Party B’s consent in the course of using said works.
Sea-a read to the end of the clause.
The moral rights belonged to Sea-a. Under this contract, at least. Moral rights — the right to claim authorship of a song. The right to have her name on it. That wasn’t something you could sell. Not legally.
But the method of attribution — how her name was displayed, or whether it was displayed at all — that was YSH’s call. Without her consent.
“Here.” Sea-a said.
“Show me.”
“’Method of attribution.’”
Haneul read it.
A brief silence fell.
“So.” Haneul said slowly. “YSH removing your name — that’s not a breach of contract?”
“Not under this contract.”
“Hey.” Haneul said.
That single syllable held a lot. Anger. Disbelief. Things she wanted to say to Sea-a. And the knowledge that now wasn’t the time to say them.
Sea-a heard all of it.
“Yeah.” Sea-a said.
“So when JYA showed you this contract. When Park In-cheol told me you could get your name back. How is that even possible. Does buying the rights from YSH let them re-credit you?”
“That’s what he said.”
“But it’s not in the exclusive contract.”
“Right.”
Haneul pulled her knees up and rested her arms on them. She closed her eyes. She was thinking.
Sea-a watched her. The tattoos on Haneul’s arms caught the fluorescent light. Layers of images across her skin. Sea-a looked at them one by one. A bee. A wave. Some letters. Small stars.
“How’s your shoulder.” Haneul asked, eyes still closed.
“…Fine.”
“Liar.”
Sea-a reached up and touched her shoulder. Over the fabric of her jacket, she pressed the spot where the match was. The tattooed skin still pulsed. The ache hadn’t fully gone away.
“It hurts a little.”
“Then say that. Don’t say you’re fine.”
Sea-a sat with those words.
Don’t say you’re fine.
Why does that land so hard.
She thought about it. Thought about how many times she had said fine today. This morning when the convenience store manager asked, Can you cover a late shift? Fine. If Ryu had asked how she felt when he handed her the contract, she probably would have said. Fine. When Haneul asked over the gukbap, Were you starving? I was fine.
Sea-a was always fine.
“Haneul.” Sea-a said.
“Yeah.”
“What do I do with this?”
Haneul opened her eyes. Looked at her.
Sea-a realized she had said it out loud for the first time. The question that had been living in her head all day. There since the moment the contracts were handed to her. As long as it stayed unspoken, it could almost not exist. The moment she said it aloud, it became real.
What do I do.
“I don’t know.” Haneul said. “But I know one thing.”
“What.”
“Don’t sign today. Not today.”
Haneul left at two in the morning.
After the door closed, Sea-a looked at the two folders on the table. The exclusive contract and the copyright transfer agreement. She put them in her bag. Pushed the bag under the bed.
She was alone in the room.
The laptop screen was still on. The YSH contract file still open. Sea-a closed it. The screen went dark.
The room went dark.
She lay down on the bed and looked at the ceiling. The goshiwon ceiling was plain — white paint and nothing else. The afterimage of the fluorescent light lingered for a moment, then faded.
Her shoulder pulsed. The tattooed skin throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Sea-a felt it. A steady rhythm. Four beats. She counted them. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.
A match burns at its own pace.
Fast at first, then slower, then out.
Where am I in that?
She closed her eyes. Sleep didn’t come. She had expected that. Sea-a had never been a good sleeper — especially not on nights when her head was full. Tonight her head was very full.
Her phone buzzed.
She picked it up. Looked at the screen.
KakaoTalk. Dohyeon.
Dohyeon: noona you awake?
Dohyeon: i know you’re not sleeping lol
Dohyeon: something happened at school today
Dohyeon: oh nvm it’s nothing
Dohyeon: but i kind of want to tell you
Sea-a sat up with her phone.
Sea-a: I’m awake. Tell me.
She waited. The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Dohyeon: so we have a band club at school
Dohyeon: they were holding auditions for a vocalist
Dohyeon: i tried out
Sea-a read the message.
Dohyeon: i was scared to tell you
Dohyeon: but not saying anything felt weirder
Dohyeon: lol you can be mad
Sea-a: I’m not mad.
Dohyeon: for real?
Sea-a: Yeah. Did you get in?
Dohyeon: lolol don’t know yet results are tomorrow
Dohyeon: i think i did okay though lol
Dohyeon: i knew you were gonna ask what song i did so i’m telling you first
Dohyeon: i sang one of your songs noona
Sea-a’s grip tightened around her phone.
Dohyeon: oh like that demo recording you made a while back, the home recording one
Dohyeon: i took the melody from that lol wrote my own lyrics though
Dohyeon: oh wait is that a copyright thing lol
Sea-a read the messages again. And again.
Dohyeon had sung her song. Her melody. With lyrics he’d written himself. From a demo recording Sea-a hadn’t even known he’d found. He had thought the melody was good enough — good enough to walk into an audition with.
Sea-a’s eyes went hot.
She hadn’t meant to cry. They just went hot. Like something burning behind them. She pressed the back of her hand against her eyes. Her hand was cold — it always was. The heat and the cold met somewhere near her face.
Sea-a: The copyright’s mine, so it’s fine.
Sea-a: Let me know if you get in.
Dohyeon: lol noona you’re so chill
Dohyeon: oh but this is a no-emoji question
Dohyeon: noona are you doing okay?
Sea-a looked at the message.
A no-emoji question.
He’d written that. No emojis. It meant he was asking for real. Not hiding it behind a joke. Sea-a knew. Dohyeon had moments like this — rare, but precise.
She thought for a moment.
I’m fine.
She started to type it. Stopped.
Don’t say you’re fine.
Haneul’s voice.
Sea-a stared at the empty text box. The cursor blinked.
Sea-a: I honestly don’t know.
She sent it.
Dohyeon: ok.
Dohyeon: then you can just stay not knowing.
Dohyeon: you don’t have to have it all figured out noona.
Dohyeon: i’m going to sleep. good night.
Sea-a read the messages. She hadn’t known Dohyeon could say things like that. She had, but hadn’t let herself see it. He was growing up. While she looked elsewhere. While she was busy looking somewhere else.
You can just stay not knowing.
You don’t have to have it all figured out.
She set down her phone. Lay back down. Looked at the ceiling.
The pulse in her shoulder kept going. One, two, three, four.
When Sea-a woke up in the morning, there was a text on her phone.
An unknown number.
She opened it.
Hi Sea-a, this is Kang Ryu. I sent over the contracts yesterday — hoping we can talk after you’ve had a chance to look them over. Please reach out whenever you’re free.
Sea-a read the message and set her phone on the table.
She looked at the window. Goshiwon windows sat at semi-basement level — outside was visible from ankle height. Passing feet. Sneakers, boots, dress shoes. Winter. Thick soles moving past.
Ryu had texted her.
She remembered his face when he’d handed her the contracts. A complicated expression. Sea-a had always been good at reading faces — she’d had to be, writing music for people’s feelings. His expression had been layered. Conviction and uncertainty at once. Something he’d started to say and swallowed back down.
She didn’t know if Ryu genuinely believed this contract was good for her. Didn’t know if he genuinely liked her music. Didn’t know how much of what he said to her was real and how much was the job.
There was no way to know.
But she knew she needed to find out.
Sea-a picked up her phone. Opened the message thread. Ryu’s number. She started typing a reply.
Tomorrow morning works for me. Where would be good for you?
She sent it.
The reply came quickly.
I can come to you if there’s a café in Hongdae. Your side of town.
Sea-a read it. He said he’d come to her. To her neighborhood. Not the JYA office.
Sea-a: There’s a café in Hapjeong. Let’s meet there.
She sent the name and address. A place in the alley just outside Hapjeong Station exit 5. Somewhere she went sometimes. Small and quiet. If you sat by the window, you could see into the alley.
Ryu: Perfect. See you at 11.
Sea-a put down her phone.
Not today. Tomorrow. She had today.
She pulled the bag out from under the bed. Opened it. Took out both folders. Set them on the table.
Then she opened her laptop.
Her convenience store shift started at three in the afternoon.
Sea-a sat in her room all morning. In front of the laptop. Next to the open contract PDFs, she had another document running — something she’d started writing herself. No title. Just notes.
The first line read:
Things I need to know.
Below it, she listed her questions.
1. The attribution clause in the YSH contract — does “method of attribution” mean they can remove my name entirely, or only change how it’s displayed?
2. Moral rights — can I still claim authorship of these songs? Separate from the economic rights I already signed away?
3. JYA contract page 43 — does “Party A’s interpretation shall take precedence” apply to verbal promises too? Or are verbal agreements binding separately?
4. During the exclusive contract period, am I completely prohibited from independent composition, or can I do it with JYA’s approval?
5. Revenue split — after the initial two-year 70/30 period, what happens? Is it specified in the contract?
As she wrote, she thought. Who could she ask these questions to. Park In-cheol would answer from JYA’s perspective. Ryu — she still didn’t know whose side Ryu was on.
She needed a lawyer.
One who was on her side.
She turned it over in her head. She didn’t know what lawyers cost. What a single consultation ran. What retaining one over time would mean. Her bank account had thirty-eight thousand won. When this month’s pay came in from the convenience store, it would be around eighty thousand. Her mother’s medication was twenty thousand. Dohyeon’s transportation was five thousand. The goshiwon rent was forty-five thousand. That left barely ten thousand.
Could a legal consultation fit inside that.
She did the math. Then stopped.
She picked up her phone. Typed into the search bar: music copyright free legal consultation.
Results came up. Korea Copyright Commission. Copyright consultation hotline. Korea Legal Aid Corporation — free consultations.
Sea-a looked at the results.
There were free options.
She hadn’t known. She’d never looked before. She’d never thought to look — because it had never occurred to her that she could claim anything. She’d simply lost what she’d lost. That was just how it was. That was what she’d told herself.
Sea-a saved the Korea Copyright Commission number.
Then she added a sixth item to the list, below the fifth.
6. Schedule a free consultation.
She finished her convenience store shift and stepped outside at ten o’clock.
Walking toward Hapjeong Station, Sea-a stopped. She was in front of Club Roof — the place where she did session vocal work. She wasn’t scheduled tonight. But there was sound coming from inside.
Drums. Guitar.
Sea-a stood and listened.
A practice session. Some band she didn’t know, running through something. The drums held the beat while the guitar cut through with a riff. No vocals. Either a band without one yet, or the vocalist just wasn’t there tonight.
She stood there listening.
The drum rhythm synced with the pulse in her shoulder. The tattoo. The match. One, two, three, four.
Music without a voice is still music.
But a voice changes it.
She knew that. It was why she did this work. Session vocals. Songwriting. Without her name. When her voice entered a piece of music, something shifted. The change was real. She had felt it enough times to know.
The wind came. It scattered her hair. A winter wind, cold and sharp. Sea-a felt it — and noticed she was feeling it, without turning away from it.
Her phone buzzed.
Haneul.
Haneul: hey. how was today.
Sea-a typed back with the club sounds still around her.
Sea-a: I made a list. Found free legal consultations. Meeting Ryu tomorrow.
Haneul: na sea-a are you serious right now
Sea-a: Yeah.
Haneul: shoulder?
Sea-a: Still hurts.
Haneul: good answer.
Sea-a pocketed her phone.
Inside the club, the drums stopped. A moment of silence. Then they started again — different tempo, faster than before.
Sea-a listened to the new beat. A melody rose over it in her head, automatic, unbidden. It just arrived, the way it always did.
She took out her phone again. Opened the voice memo app. And hummed the melody, softly, alone on the street.
For a moment, her humming and the club’s drums wove together.
She recorded it. Saved it.
Gave the file a name.
hapjeong_night_hum_1219.m4a
Then she walked. Toward the goshiwon. Toward the café where she would meet Ryu tomorrow.
When she got back, she didn’t sit at the desk.
She sat on the bed and opened the notes document again. The six questions were still there on the screen. She read through them.
Then she typed a seventh.
7. Whose side is Ryu on?