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# Chapter 17: Gukbap and Contracts
The gukbap place was as far as Haneul had said it would be.
They walked from Hapjeong toward Mangwon, turning down two back alleys along the way. Seah’s shoulder kept throbbing the whole time — the tattoo site pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. The ice pack Haneul had placed there was still tucked inside her jacket. Cold caught between warm things. She focused on that sensation as she walked.
The file was in her bag.
“Here we are,” Haneul said.
The sign was small. Handwritten script, nothing but the words Sundae Gukbap. The door was frosted glass, and light bled through from the other side — not fluorescent, but something warmer, more yellow. Seah looked at that color for a moment.
Haneul pushed the door open.
The smell hit them the second they stepped inside. Bone broth, fermented cabbage, sundae, all of it simmered down to something deep and ancient. Six tables. Two of them occupied — a man drinking soju alone, two middle-aged women deep in conversation. From the kitchen, an old woman looked up.
“Welcome.”
Haneul took the table by the window. Seah sat across from her. The chair creaked under her weight. The tablecloth was vinyl. Seah rested her elbows on it.
“What do you want?” Haneul asked.
“Whatever.”
“Pick something. It’s sundae gukbap or bone broth hangover soup.”
“Sundae gukbap.”
“Same.” Haneul raised her voice toward the kitchen. “Auntie, two sundae gukbap, please!”
The old woman called back a quiet yes. The sound of a pot clanking. Seah listened to it as she reached into her bag and pulled out the file. Set it on the table. White folder on vinyl tablecloth. Nothing written on the cover.
Haneul looked at it.
“I asked earlier,” Haneul said. “What is that. You didn’t answer.”
“Contracts.”
“JYA’s?”
“Two of them.” Seah opened the folder. “One’s an exclusive contract. The other is an agreement for JYA to acquire my songs.”
Haneul crossed her arms.
She didn’t say anything. Seah watched her — when Haneul crossed her arms, she was either angry or working something out in her head. Right now it was impossible to tell which.
“What does ‘acquire’ mean, exactly.” Haneul said it slowly. “JYA is buying up copyrights from other agencies?”
“Yes.”
“And in exchange they give you your name back?”
“That’s what they said.”
“’That’s what they said’ — is that in the contract, or did someone just say it out loud?”
Seah paused.
Haneul read the silence.
“Na Seah. Again.”
“I didn’t finish reading it.”
“Seriously.” Haneul closed her eyes and opened them again. “Seriously. When are you going to break that habit of not reading contracts?”
“I’ll read it this time.”
“’This time.’ How many times have you said that. You said it when you sold your first song. The second time you claimed you read it, but you didn’t understand the copyright clause.”
Seah didn’t argue.
Because it was true. All of it. She had read contracts — but only on the surface. Skimming the words. Pretending to understand. Because admitting she didn’t understand would have stalled the negotiation, and stalling meant no contract, and no contract meant no money, and no money meant Dohyeon’s tutoring fees would be late that month.
That was Seah’s logic.
And the result of that logic was sitting on the table in front of them.
“Read it,” Haneul said. “Right here, right now. I’ll go through it with you.”
The gukbap arrived.
The old woman set down two bowls along with kkakdugi, perilla leaf banchan, and salted shrimp. The earthenware crocks were still bubbling. Seah breathed in the smell. She was hungry — she didn’t know when the hunger had started. She’d had a triangle kimbap from the convenience store earlier, but she couldn’t say whether that had counted as a meal or just eating.
Haneul picked up her chopsticks.
“Eat while you read. The broth’s going cold.”
Seah pulled the bowl toward her. She picked up a piece of sundae and ate it. Warm. A spoonful of broth. The seasoning was exactly right — not too salty, not too bland, the kind of balance only someone who had been doing this for years could achieve. Seah felt it.
“How long have you known about this place?” she asked.
“Apparently the grandmother’s been here over twenty years. She almost got pushed out during the gentrification wave, but the building owner had a conscience, so she stayed.”
“Twenty years.”
“That’s why it tastes like this.”
Seah drank some broth and opened the file. The first one — the copyright transfer agreement. She started reading from page one. Slowly, this time. When she hit a word she didn’t understand, she pressed a finger to the page and held it there.
Across the table, Haneul ate her gukbap and kept craning her neck to read Seah’s pages upside down.
“What does it say?” Haneul asked.
“Page three. Give me a second.”
Seah read page three.
Article 4 — Assignment and Transfer of Copyright. She read the clause twice. Three times. The language was dense, legal terms looping back on each other in circles. She traced each sentence with her finger.
“Article 4, clause 3,” Seah said. “It’s about the transfer of copyright ownership. It says the original author verification process must be completed within 180 days of the contract signing date.”
“180 days is half a year.”
“Yes.”
“And what happens in the meantime?”
Seah kept reading. Clause 4. Clause 5. Clause 6. She stopped at clause 6.
“’During the original author verification period, all usage revenue generated by the relevant works shall be assigned to the contracting party, JYA Entertainment, and retroactively distributed to the original author according to the agreed settlement ratio upon completion of verification.’”
Haneul set her chopsticks down.
“What does that mean.”
“For six months, JYA makes money off my songs. Then after six months — once my authorship is confirmed — they settle retroactively according to the ratio.”
“What’s the ratio.”
Seah turned to the next page. Addendum B. Settlement ratio table. She looked at it.
There was a number.
She read it once. Then again.
“Five percent,” Seah said.
Haneul didn’t react.
“Upon recognition of original authorship, five percent of copyright revenue is to be settled to Seah.”
“Five percent.”
“Yes.”
“JYA keeps ninety-five percent and just puts your name on it?”
Seah closed the folder.
The bowl of gukbap was still in front of her, half-finished. Steam rose from the broth. She watched it rise.
“That’s what getting my name back means,” Seah said. “The credit carries my name. But JYA keeps the money.”
“That’s giving your name back? That’s what this is?” Haneul’s voice climbed slightly. The other customers glanced over. Haneul didn’t notice, or didn’t care. “Credit with no earnings — what is that worth? They’re just using your name as a billboard.”
“You could look at it that way.”
“Is there another way to look at it? How?”
Seah didn’t answer.
She tried to find another way — the way Park Incheol had framed it. You get your name back. The songs are officially yours. That becomes your portfolio. Your portfolio opens the next door. She tried to follow the logic.
But it stopped at the number five percent.
“The second file,” Haneul said. “The exclusive contract. Read that one too.”
Seah opened the second folder. JYA Entertainment Exclusive Contract. The first page had a summary of terms.
Contract duration: 3 years (with auto-renewal clause).
Seah found the auto-renewal clause. Page twelve. If no notice of termination is submitted within ninety days of the contract’s expiration date, it automatically renews for two additional years.
“Three years with a two-year auto-renewal,” Seah said. “Five years, effectively.”
Haneul’s brow tightened.
Seah kept reading. Page five. Artistic activity clause. No outside music activities without JYA approval during the exclusive period. Session work included. No uploading original compositions to personal social media. She read the sentence.
Session work included.
Her eyes stopped there. Session work. That was what made her nights livable — the house band at the Hapjeong club. Without that, one hundred fifty thousand won would disappear from Dohyeon’s living expenses this month.
“Page seven,” Seah said. “Creative works ownership clause.”
Haneul leaned forward.
“’All musical works created during the exclusive period shall be primarily owned by JYA Entertainment, and the composer shall receive settlement as stipulated by this contract.’”
“And what’s that settlement?”
Seah found the addendum.
“Seven percent. For new composers.”
Haneul picked up a piece of kkakdugi and chewed it. Chewed it for a long time. It looked like how she controlled her temper.
“Na Seah,” Haneul said. “You can’t sign this.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you bring it here?”
Seah thought for a moment.
“I didn’t want to look at it alone,” she said. “If I looked at it alone — I thought I’d probably just sign it.”
Haneul looked at her.
Seah could feel Haneul weighing what she’d just said. That I thought I’d probably just sign it alone wasn’t a simple thing to say. It was Seah acknowledging, out loud, what kind of decisions she made when no one was watching.
“You.” Haneul said it slowly. “Have you shown this to Kang Rieu?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not.”
“It’s his company’s contract.”
“So?”
“So…” Seah didn’t finish the sentence.
There were too many reasons. Either Rieu had made this, or he knew about it, or he didn’t. None of the three possibilities felt safe. If he knew — she didn’t want to think about what that would mean. If he didn’t know — she didn’t want to see his face the moment she showed him.
“Are you scared?” Haneul asked.
Seah didn’t answer.
“Not answering means yes.”
“A little.”
“What are you scared of.”
Seah took a spoonful of broth. It was warm. Everything that had been simmered down from the bone was dissolved into it. She held it in her mouth for a moment and thought.
“That he knew about this from the beginning,” she said. “That hearing my song at the club, sending Park Incheol, meeting me at the café — that all of it was to get me to sign this.”
Haneul said nothing.
“If that’s true,” Seah continued, “then he wasn’t really listening to my music. He didn’t come to see me. He came to get a signature.”
A brief quiet settled over the restaurant.
Only the sound of broth simmering in the kitchen.
Then Haneul spoke.
“Here’s the thing, though.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought the same thing at first. The son of JYA going out of his way to find some unknown indie kid’s songs? Does that make sense? There has to be an angle, I thought.” Haneul set her chopsticks down on the table. “But I was at the club. I watched him listen to you.”
Seah looked at her.
“There’s a difference in someone’s face when they’re using music versus when they’re actually hearing it. I’m a tattoo artist. I read faces for a living. That guy — he wasn’t just listening.”
“Still.”
“Still what.”
“The contract still exists.”
Haneul went quiet.
Because that was true. However Rieu’s face had looked while he listened, the contract from his father’s company was sitting on this table. Five percent. Five years. No session work. Creative works assigned. Those things were here.
“Finish eating,” Haneul said. “It’s going cold.”
Seah started eating again. Cold, but still good. Haneul ate too. For a while neither of them spoke. The man at the other table refilled his soju glass. The two women burst out laughing. The old woman chopped something in the kitchen.
Seah drank her broth and listened to all of it.
They left the restaurant a little past eight.
The night was colder than the day had been. People drifted through the alleys of Mangwon in clusters — couples, friends, solitary walkers. Someone smoked in front of a bar, the smoke dissolving quickly into the cold air.
Seah’s shoulder started throbbing again. The tattoo. The ice pack had worn off.
“How’s your shoulder?” Haneul asked.
“Fine.”
“It hurts, doesn’t it.”
“It hurts.”
“Then don’t say fine when it hurts,” Haneul said. “That’s another habit you need to break. Hungry means hungry. Hurting means hurting.”
Seah heard her. Didn’t argue.
“Has Kang Rieu messaged you?” Haneul asked.
Seah checked her phone. KakaoTalk notifications. Two from Dohyeon, one from the convenience store part-time group chat, and — an unsaved number.
She tapped it.
Can we meet today? I heard from Park Incheol — I’d like to talk in person. Let me know if you’re free.
It was Rieu. She hadn’t saved his number but she knew anyway. The phrasing. Short and direct, with a slight uncertainty at the end.
Seah stared at the message.
“Is it him?” Haneul leaned over to look. “What’s it say.”
“Wants to meet.”
“Now?”
“Not right now. Sometime tonight.”
Haneul thought for a moment.
“Na Seah,” she said. “Go. And bring the contract.”
“Show it to him?”
“Show it to him. You need to see how he reacts. Whether he knew about this or didn’t. If he knew, how he explains it. If he didn’t, what his face does.”
Seah looked at her.
“Even though I’m scared?” she asked.
“Even though you’re scared,” Haneul said. “Actually — because you’re scared. You avoid the scary thing, and you spend the rest of your life collecting five-percent credits.”
Seah looked back at her phone.
She opened the message input.
Where are you.
Three words. No question mark.
The reply came fast.
Hongdae. A café near the river — I’ll send the address. Is it okay if you come now?
Seah read it.
Yes.
Sent that too.
Then she put her phone away.
“I’m going,” Seah said.
“Be careful,” Haneul said. “And Seah.”
Seah turned back.
“Your music is good. Genuinely. Don’t forget that. Whatever he says, however his father’s contract reads — your music is yours.”
Seah heard her.
She didn’t answer. She just walked.
The address Rieu sent was a café near Hapjeong station.
Somewhere between Hongdae and Hapjeong, on the road that sloped down toward the Han River. Seah didn’t know the place. She pulled up the map and walked. As she walked, she was aware of her shoulder. The match shape was there, on her skin. She couldn’t feel it through her clothes, but she knew. It was there.
She pushed open the café door.
It was small. Maybe ten tables. The lighting was low. Vintage record posters covered the walls. Behind the counter, a record was actually spinning — playing, not for show. Seah heard it. Bill Evans. Piano trio. Old sound, recorded without reverb.
Rieu was sitting at the window table.
He stood the moment he saw her.
“You came,” he said.
Seah sat down across from him. Kept her bag on her lap. The file was inside it.
Rieu sat back down. Looked at her for a moment, then dropped his gaze.
“Park Incheol told me you met today.”
“Yes.”
“How was it.”
Seah didn’t answer right away. She thought about whether answering directly was the right move here. How was it — how do you answer that. Do you say you were offered a five-percent credit? That you were handed a five-year contract? That you found a clause banning you from session work?
“I got the contracts,” Seah said.
“I know.”
“I read them.”
“What did you think?”
Seah opened her bag. Pulled out the folder. Set it on the table. Rieu looked at it. She pushed it toward him.
“Have you read this?” she asked.
Rieu picked it up. Opened the first page. It was the second file — the exclusive contract. He started reading. Seah watched him.
His eyes moved across the page. She watched the movement. He was reading — but whether he was reading it as if for the first time, or confirming something he already knew, she couldn’t tell.
He turned a few pages.
Then stopped.
Page seven. The creative works ownership clause.
His fingers stilled on the page. Seah watched them. Fingers resting on the text. A pianist’s hands — the way Haneul had described, knuckles thick and joints long. Those fingers, stopped on page seven.
“This,” Rieu said.
Seah waited.
“This is different from the contract I saw.”
Seah’s breath came half a beat late.
“Different how,” she said.
“The standard rate for a new composer — this says seven percent, but the version I saw said fifteen.”
“Fifteen percent.”
“Yes.” He kept reading. Found the session work prohibition clause. Stopped again. “No session work. This — this clause isn’t in the standard contract.”
Seah heard him say it.
“What do you mean, not in the standard.”
“JYA’s standard exclusive contract doesn’t prohibit session work. External album releases for competing agencies, obviously — but for sessions and features, it’s supposed to be handled through negotiation. This clause — someone added this.”
“Who.”
Rieu closed the folder.
His expression was unreadable. Seah watched it. Not because there was nothing there — it looked more like something being actively erased. Like teeth being held together. The surface flat. But his fingers were slightly curled against the folder.
“Did Park Incheol give you this contract?” Rieu asked.
“Yes.”
“Park Incheol doesn’t have the authority to alter clauses,” Rieu said. “Which means — someone above him gave the directive.”
“Above him.”
Rieu didn’t answer.
But Seah understood. She knew who above him meant. JYA Entertainment. CEO Kang Minjun. Rieu’s father.
Seah reached into her bag and pulled out the first file. The copyright transfer agreement. She slid it across to him.
“Look at this one too.”
He picked it up. Opened it. He found the page with Addendum A almost immediately. A list of three songs. He read it.
Seah watched his face.
Something passed through it. Not an expression — something moving behind his eyes. She couldn’t name it precisely. But she knew it was the reaction of someone seeing this for the first time.
“When was this drafted?” Rieu asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What did Park Incheol tell you about it?”
Seah repeated what Park Incheol had said, word for word. That she could get her name back. The original author verification process. 180 days. And five percent.
Rieu found Addendum B.
Settlement ratio table. Five percent.
The moment he saw it — for the first time, his expression cracked. Just briefly. His jaw pulled inward, almost imperceptibly. His eyes dropped and came back up.
“Five percent,” he said.
“Yes.”
“This isn’t what I saw either,” Rieu said. “This isn’t JYA’s standard composer contract.”
Seah heard him.
“Then what is it,” she said.
Rieu laid both files side by side on the table and looked at them in turn. Seah waited while he thought. The Bill Evans album kept spinning. The piano pressed down on a low note. A repeating motif — the same phrase played slightly differently each time.
“Na Seah,” Rieu said.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how you’ll take what I’m about to say. But I’ll say it straight.”
Seah waited.
“These contracts — my father made them.” Rieu said it plainly. “Park Incheol is just the messenger. My father saw you, decided he wanted you locked in on these terms.”
“Locked in.”
“Sign you to JYA, cut off your outside income by banning session work, make sure everything you write from here on belongs to JYA through the ownership clause, and hand you a contract that says seven percent but is actually five percent.” He paused. “All under the premise of giving you your name back.”
Seah listened to each word. All the way to the end.
“Is that wrong?” she asked. “What he did.”
Rieu looked at her.
“You’re asking me?”
“Yes.”
“Whether it’s wrong.”
“I don’t judge my own situations well,” Seah said. “I never know if I’m being too sensitive or if something’s actually wrong. That’s why I’m asking.”
Rieu looked at her for a moment.
Then he spoke.
“It’s wrong.”
Short. Direct.
“Five percent borders on exploitation. Banning session work eliminates your means of survival. The three-year auto-renewal effectively removes any exit. And taking the copyright on these songs while listing your name in the credits — legally it recognizes you as the original author while structurally ensuring JYA keeps all meaningful rights and revenue.”
Seah sat with those words.
“Did you know?” she asked. “From the beginning.”
Rieu met her eyes.
“No.”
“Is that a lie?”
“No.”
“How would I know that. You saying you don’t know.”
Rieu was quiet for a moment.
A phrase of music moved through the café.
“I can’t prove that I didn’t know,” he said. “Whether you believe me is your call. But if I had known about this contract — if I had known Park Incheol handed it to you today — I wouldn’t have sat here reading it in front of you and reacted the way I did.”
Seah heard him.
“How did you react.”
“Like I’m angry,” Rieu said. His voice dropped lower. “I’m angry right now. Not at you.”
She saw it. His jaw was set. His fingers curved slightly against the folder. They had been like that for a while — she had noticed, but hadn’t said anything.
“At your father?” Seah asked.
Rieu didn’t answer.
But the silence was an answer.
Wind shook the windows from outside.
Rieu ordered coffee. He asked if Seah wanted something to drink. She said anything warm. He went to the counter and came back. While he was gone, Seah put both files back in her bag. She didn’t want them on the table anymore.
“Na Seah,” Rieu said as he sat down.
“Yes.”