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# Chapter 20: Copyright Transfer Agreement
It took Sea three minutes to open the second file.
Three minutes of doing nothing at all. She left both files side by side on the table — the exclusive contract on the left, the copyright transfer agreement on the right — and just looked at them. Looked isn’t quite right. She sat in front of them. The fluorescent light in the goshiwon room hummed quietly overhead. The sound of a winter night. Footsteps passed in the hallway. Someone coughed in a nearby room. Three times.
Haneul didn’t ask anything.
That was her way — she knew how to wait. Becoming a tattoo artist had made her more that way. When clients were deciding what to put where on their bodies, Haneul never rushed them. What gets etched into skin stays for a long time. A slow decision was fine.
Sea picked up the file on the right.
Copyright Transfer Agreement. Thinner than the exclusive contract. Fourteen pages. Just a title on the cover — Agreement Regarding Copyright Transfer and Credit Correction. Sea turned to the first page.
The first clause came into view.
This Agreement is entered into between JYA Entertainment (hereinafter “Party A”) and Na Sea (hereinafter “Party B”), for the purpose of Party A acquiring the copyright to the musical works created by Party B as listed below.
Sea read that sentence twice.
Then stopped.
“Haneul.”
“Yeah.”
“This isn’t JYA buying the copyright from me.”
Haneul leaned forward.
“I’m transferring the copyright to JYA.”
Haneul took the file.
She took it from Sea’s hands — quietly, without any force — set it in front of herself, and started reading. Sea sat beside her and waited. Haneul read faster than she did. Pages turned. Then more pages.
The fluorescent light hummed.
Sea rested her hands on her knees. Her hands were cold. The goshiwon room had heating — the floor was lukewarm at best — but it was cold by the window. Sea’s room was nearly at basement level, the window sitting at ankle height. Every time someone walked past outside, she could feel the vibration in the window frame.
“Na Sea.” Haneul said it mid-read. Around page five.
“Yeah.”
“Look here.”
Sea leaned in. Where Haneul’s finger was pointing.
Article 5 (Credit Correction) — Party A shall make best efforts to correct credits on previously released works within 60 days of executing this Agreement. However, the scope and method of credit correction shall be determined at Party A’s sole discretion.
Sea read it.
Best efforts.
Best efforts didn’t mean it would happen. It meant they’d try. And if they tried and it didn’t work out, there was nothing in the contract to hold against them.
“And here.”
Page eight.
Article 8 (Independent Effect) — This Agreement shall take effect independently of any other agreements between the parties. However, if Party B enters into an exclusive contract, the provisions of this Agreement shall take precedence over related provisions in the exclusive contract.
Haneul’s finger went still.
“Do you understand what this means?”
Sea did.
“If I sign this before signing the exclusive contract — then even if the exclusive contract says something different later, this takes precedence.”
“No.” Haneul shook her head. “It’s the other way around.”
Sea read it again.
If Party B enters into an exclusive contract, the provisions of this Agreement shall take precedence over related provisions in the exclusive contract.
“So if I sign the exclusive contract first,” Sea said slowly, “and then sign this — this becomes the one that takes precedence?”
“Right. Which means.” Haneul set the file down on the table. “These two are a package deal. Sign the exclusive contract, then sign this agreement, and they say you’ll get your credits back. But the agreement only says ‘best efforts,’ so there’s no actual guarantee the credits ever get corrected.”
Sea’s hands curled into fists on her knees.
She didn’t feel it happen. She only realized it later, when she opened her hands and found nail marks pressed into her palms.
“And the copyright,” Haneul continued. “Other agencies already hold it. There’s nothing in this agreement saying JYA will buy it back from them. It only says JYA will make ‘efforts toward credit correction.’ Not that JYA will actually purchase the copyright from anyone.”
Sea took that in.
The room was quiet.
The fluorescent light hummed.
“So.” Sea said. “This agreement. It transfers the copyright on my songs to JYA. With no guarantee that JYA will buy back the copyright from the other agencies. And no guarantee of credit correction.”
“That’s right.”
“So if I sign this.”
“My songs become JYA’s,” Sea said. “And my name — is still nowhere.”
When Haneul came back from the bathroom, Sea was sitting in the exact same spot.
Things unchanged — the position of the files, the temperature of the room, the sound of the fluorescent light. Things changed — Sea’s shoulders had curved a little further inward. That was all. Haneul noticed. The back of someone who had bent. Not a new bend, but one that had always been there, only now visible — that kind.
Haneul took a bottle of water from the mini fridge. She handed one to Sea. Sea took it, twisted off the cap, and drank. The sound of it going down her throat.
“Are you going to ask Kang Riwoo?”
Sea set the water bottle on the table.
“I have to.”
“And if you do.”
“If I do,” Sea said, pausing for a moment. “And he says the contract is what it is — then I don’t sign.”
“And if he says it isn’t?”
“Then.” Sea spun the bottle cap between her fingers. “I ask him to put that in writing.”
Haneul looked at her.
“When did that happen.”
“What do you mean.”
“You used to just sign things.”
Sea didn’t answer. She kept turning the cap. Opened it, closed it. Opened it, closed it. The repetition seemed to organize something — she was the kind of person who thought better when her hands had something to do.
She went through the night in order.
Late afternoon, a call from JYA. Attorney Park In-cheol had brought two contracts. Kang Riwoo was there. Sea received them. Haneul gave her a tattoo — left shoulder, below the collarbone, a matchstick. They ate gukbap. She heard about Haneul’s friend. Came back to the goshiwon. Read the contracts.
And now.
What sat in front of Sea now was two contracts she couldn’t sign.
“Do you think Kang Riwoo knows?” Sea said.
Haneul thought for a moment.
“He might not.”
“Or he might know and—”
“Know and not say anything. Or know and not mean any harm by it. It’s his father’s contract — he might just think this is standard. That this is how it’s done.” Haneul slid the file back toward Sea. “But that’s not what matters right now.”
“What does matter?”
“What you’re going to do.”
Sea looked at the file. White cover. No text on the outside. Inside, a document with a space where her name would go.
“I’m going to sleep,” Sea said.
“Now?”
“Yeah. I can’t decide tonight. I’ll figure it out after I sleep.”
Haneul looked at Sea’s face. The hollows under her eyes. Her chapped lips. The tattoo on her shoulder would still be a little swollen — a fresh tattoo ached for a couple of days.
“Okay.” Haneul stood. “Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
“For what.”
“The gukbap. And — for reading through this with me.”
Haneul had already started for the door. She stopped. Turned around.
“Na Sea.”
“Yeah.”
“That matchstick — it’s yours now. On your shoulder.” Haneul said. “Don’t forget that. It’s yours.”
Sea didn’t answer. Haneul closed the door.
Sea didn’t sleep.
She lay down. Turned off the light. The goshiwon room went dark. Streetlight seeped in through the window — the window was at ground level, so the light fell across the floor rather than the ceiling. At eye level, the ceiling was dark. The floor glowed faintly.
Sea lay in that inverted light.
Her left shoulder ached. The matchstick tattoo. Haneul’s work. Sea pressed her right hand gently over it — over the tattoo. Pain came. It felt strangely sharp and clear. The pain of something newly etched into skin, not yet whole. Still healing.
She thought about Kang Riwoo’s face.
The look on his face when he’d slid the contracts across the table at JYA. She tried to recall that expression. Had it been genuine? She’d wanted to read it in the moment, but with the contracts right there in front of her, she hadn’t really looked. She’d been following Park In-cheol’s explanation, tracking the language.
What expression had Kang Riwoo been wearing.
She couldn’t quite hold the memory.
Sea closed her eyes.
Something else came instead — the first time Kang Riwoo had heard her sing. At the club. She hadn’t known he was there when she performed that last song. He came to her afterward. She looked at his eyes then.
What was in them.
Sea knew what it looked like when someone truly heard music — and she knew how rare it was. The look of someone who wasn’t just consuming it but receiving it. Taking it in.
Had that look been false.
She didn’t know.
But — even if those eyes had been real, the contract was still the contract. Even if Kang Riwoo genuinely wanted her music, that wanting didn’t change what was written on the page. The contract had been made for JYA. Not by Kang Riwoo — by his father, by lawyers, by the machine that JYA was.
Kang Riwoo existed inside that machine.
If someone inside that machine told her, “Trust me” —
Could she?
Sea lay with that question for a long time.
Around two in the morning — the person next door started grinding their teeth — Sea got up. She didn’t turn on the light. In the dark, she found her bag and pulled out a notebook. An old one. The cover bent and worn. The notebook she used when she wrote songs.
She sat on the floor and set the notebook on her knees.
The faint streetlight through the window fell across the page. Sea began to write in that light.
Not lyrics.
Not melody.
Just numbers. Things she remembered.
12. The number of songs she had written.
3. The number that came out under someone else’s name.
0. The number that carried her name.
After writing those down, Sea closed the notebook. Then opened it again. On the next page, she wrote something else.
What I want.
The line below that stayed blank for a long time.
Sea touched the tip of her pencil to the paper. Lifted it. Touched it again. The same motion as when she wrote songs — unable to begin until she found the exact word.
What she finally wrote.
One song with my name on it.
One line.
That was all.
Sea stared at it. One line. One song with my name on it. She didn’t know if that was everything she wanted. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there was more. But in this particular darkness, in this particular early morning, it was the only thing she could write down.
She closed the notebook.
Turned on the light.
Picked up the file. Copyright Transfer Agreement. Opened to page eight.
Article 8 (Independent Effect)
She read the clause again. Three times. Four times. Until she had it memorized.
Then she moved to the exclusive contract. Page forty-three.
In the event of any dispute regarding the interpretation of this Agreement, Party A’s interpretation shall take precedence.
She memorized that too.
Ten o’clock the next morning.
Sea had no convenience store shift. Thursday. There was a club session tonight — from eight.
Time in between.
She didn’t eat breakfast. She boiled water in the goshiwon’s shared kitchen and made one cup of coffee. Black. No sugar. The bitterness went down her throat. She stood there drinking it, looking at her phone.
There was a message from Kang Riwoo.
It had come in last night — while Sea was lying in bed trying to sleep.
Take whatever time you need to review the contracts. No rush.
Sea read it. Then set her phone on the table and drank more coffee. Then picked the phone up again.
No rush.
She turned the words over. Did it mean he could genuinely wait? Or — was it confidence, the kind that comes from knowing she’d sign eventually?
She couldn’t tell the difference.
Sea typed a reply.
Can we meet today?
She sent it, finished her coffee, rinsed the cup. Went back to her room and got dressed. A thick winter coat. A scarf. Her hands were already cold.
Her phone buzzed.
Yes. Where?
Can I choose?
Of course.
Sea thought about where. Not JYA’s office — that was his territory. Not a café either, background noise got in the way when she needed to think while she talked. Conversations that required thinking needed quiet.
The Han River. Hapjeong waterfront park. Two o’clock.
I’ll be there.
Sea arrived five minutes early.
Hapjeong waterfront park. A weekday afternoon, so it was nearly empty. Winter made it more so. The benches were vacant. An occasional cyclist passed on the bike path. The river was gray — the sky was overcast. Wind came off the water. Sea pulled her scarf up higher.
She had both files in her bag.
She didn’t sit on a bench. She stood at the railing and looked at the river. Gray water. Gray sky. Between them, two white gulls. Gulls on the Han River — she’d known about that since she was young. Growing up in Jeju. Gulls weren’t only for the sea. They lived inland too.
She thought of her mother.
The sound her mother made breaking the surface of the water. The sumbisori — that sharp exhale. Sea had been frightened of it as a child. It sounded like a cry. She learned later what it was: the sound of releasing the air held in the lungs. The sound of being alive. The breath that finally comes after holding everything in underwater.
Sea had always thought that was a kind of singing.
That was what she understood singing to be — something that builds and builds until it breaks free. Something that only comes out because it was held.
“Sea.”
Kang Riwoo.
Sea turned.
He was walking toward her. Black padded coat. Hands in his pockets. The shadows under his eyes were there again today. She noticed — it looked like he hadn’t slept either. She didn’t know why.
“You made it.”
“I made it,” Sea said.
Riwoo came and stood beside her, looking at the river. The two of them side by side. Neither speaking. The wind came. Sea’s scarf lifted. The hem of Riwoo’s coat stirred.
“Did you read the contracts?” he asked first.
“I did.”
“And?”
Sea didn’t answer right away. She watched the river. Gray water. The two gulls had vanished somewhere.
“I have questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“The copyright transfer agreement,” Sea said. “Article five. It says JYA will make best efforts to correct the credits. That’s not a guarantee the credits actually get corrected.”
Riwoo was quiet for a moment.
“That’s,” he said. “Standard contract language. When a clause is difficult to enforce, that’s how it gets written.”
“Difficult to enforce,” Sea said, still looking at the river. “Meaning if the other agencies don’t want to sell the copyright, JYA can’t do anything about it?”
Riwoo didn’t answer.
Sea heard that silence.
“And,” she continued. “Article eight of the agreement. The independent effect clause. It says that if an exclusive contract is entered into, the provisions of this agreement take precedence. Which means my credit issue would be handled under the agreement, not the exclusive contract. But the agreement doesn’t guarantee anything about credits.”
Riwoo looked out at the river.
“Where did you get that from.”
“I read it.”
“No.” Riwoo looked at her. “The way those clauses connect — you don’t catch that unless you’ve read a lot of contracts. Someone helped you read it.”
Sea said nothing.
Riwoo looked away.
“…You’re right. Reading those clauses together — you’re reading them correctly.”
Sea heard that.
She hadn’t expected it. She’d expected him to say no, you’re misreading it, or those are standard provisions, nothing to worry about. What he said instead was: you’re right.
She looked at him.
She could see the slight tension in his jaw. She didn’t know what it meant. Embarrassment, maybe. Or something else entirely.
“Then,” Sea said. “If I sign this contract as written — what do I get?”
“A contract with JYA. Album production support. Distribution. Marketing.”
“And the credits?”
“…A promise of best efforts.”
“Which is what the contract says, and what you’re telling me in person.”
Riwoo pressed his lips together.
The wind came. With it, the smell of the river — the smell of winter water. Cold and wide. Sea breathed it in as she spoke.
“When I was little,” she said, “every time my mother went into the water, I’d hold my breath and wait. She was a haenyeo. But she always came back up. So I always held my breath and waited. It became a habit — holding on and waiting.”
Riwoo turned to look at her.
“This contract feels like that,” Sea said. “Like if I just hold my breath long enough, something will surface. But there’s no guarantee it will.”
Wind moved across the river.
Riwoo was silent for a long time.
They moved to a bench.
Riwoo sat first. Sea sat beside him. A hand’s width of space between them. No table, so Sea set the file on her knees.
“Can this contract be changed?” she asked.
Riwoo looked at her.
“How so.”
“Article five. Change the language. Make it specific. Which agencies JYA will acquire the copyright from, which songs, by what date, and when the credits will be corrected. If it says that, I can sign.”
Riwoo looked at the file on her knees.
“And page forty-three,” Sea said, opening the exclusive contract. “The clause that says JYA’s interpretation takes precedence in case of dispute. That has to go.”
“…That’s a standard clause.”
“Standard means it can’t be changed?”
Riwoo didn’t answer.
Sea waited. Not holding her breath. Just waiting — the way her mother waited, not for something to surface, but simply being present beside the water.
“I have to talk to my father,” Riwoo said. “I can’t change this on my own.”
“Then can you talk to him?”
“…It won’t be easy.”
“I know that.” Sea closed the file. “But is ‘not easy’ the same as ‘no’?”
Riwoo looked at her.
His expression was different from yesterday at JYA’s office. At JYA, he had been composed. Managed. Now something was moving beneath the surface — something harder to read.
“It’s not a no,” he said.
“Then.”
“I’ll try.”
Sea heard that.
I’ll try. Not I’ll do my best. I’ll try. The difference was small — but she caught it. Promising to make an effort was promising a process. I’ll try pointed toward an outcome. Or maybe the words just came out differently and it meant nothing. She couldn’t be sure.
She decided not to judge it yet.
“Can I ask you something?” Sea said.
“Go ahead.”
“From the beginning. When you first came to me at the club. What did you want from me?”
Riwoo went still for a moment.
The winter wind crossed the river. From somewhere came the sound of gulls — somewhere out of sight.
“Your talent,” Riwoo said. “At first.”
“At first.”
“When I heard you sing — it was what I’d been looking for a long time. The ability to write. The way you build a melody. JYA needed that. I needed something I could bring to my father.”
Sea heard it.
Material.
The word hung in the air between them. Riwoo seemed to know how it sounded — after he said it, he drew his lips in slightly.
“Is that all?” Sea asked.
“Not anymore.”
“Then what now.”
Riwoo looked at the river. Gray water. Gray sky.
“Now,” he said slowly. “I think your music should come out with your name on it. What’s been happening — I think it’s wrong. And I want to fix it. Whether that’s for JYA or for you — I’m still not sure.”
“Not sure is an honest answer.”
“It’s all I can manage right now. Being honest.”
Sea sat with that.
Not sure. Not anymore. All I can manage is honesty. None of it was a perfect answer. But it was a precise one. Sea trusted precision over perfection.
“Alright,” she said.
“You’ll sign?”
“Not yet.” Sea slid the file back into her bag. “If the contract gets revised, we’ll talk again.”
Riwoo nodded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Sitting side by side on the bench. Facing the river. The wind came and went. Somewhere, a bicycle passed — the sound of its wheels thin and cold.
“Can I ask you something?” Riwoo said.
“What.”
“Did you ever hear about Berlin?” he said. “What I was doing there.”
Sea hadn’t heard anything. She only knew he’d studied abroad in Berlin and come back.
“No.”
“Then someday,” Riwoo said. “At some point. I’ll tell you.”
Sea felt the weight behind those words — someday, at some point. He wasn’t going to say it now. But he wasn’t closing the door entirely. He was the kind of person who left doors ajar when he spoke. She filed that away.
After they parted, Sea walked alone along the riverbank.
From Hapjeong toward Mangwon. The river to her left. The wind kept coming. She pulled her scarf higher. Her hands were cold. She hadn’t brought gloves.
She thought as she walked.
Riwoo had said she was right. About the flaws in the contract. He’d admitted it. That had surprised her. He’d also said he’d talk to his father. That surprised her too.
But surprise didn’t mean trust.
She knew that.
Trust didn’t come from a single conversation. Especially not when the other person was the son of JYA’s CEO, and someone who had, by his own admission, once thought of her as material.
But — he had said it. That he’d thought of her as material. That was the strange part. He’d said the unflattering truth out loud. He could have hidden it. Could have packaged it better.
People who are good at lying don’t tell unflattering truths.
She knew that much. People who are good at lying always make themselves sound good. Riwoo had made himself sound bad. At first, you were material. I’m still not sure. It won’t be easy.
Those words had been precise.
She stopped at the riverbank railing. Looked down at the water. Gray water moving. Slow but unceasing. The winter river flowed without hurry. Almost frozen, yet not.
Sea took out her notebook.
What she’d written in the early hours.
What I want.
One song with my name on it.
Below that, she wrote something now.
What it will take to get it.