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# Chapter 26: Silence Behind the Contract
The clock read two in the afternoon when Seo-ah arrived at the convenience store.
The fluorescent lights at GS25 burned with the same steady brightness they always did. Seasons changed, weather shifted, day turned to night—it didn’t matter. Seo-ah loved that consistency. Even when the world kept shaking, this convenience store remained unchanged. Or so she’d believed. Today felt different. The lights seemed brighter. Or maybe her eyes had grown more sensitive.
Jong-ho stood behind the counter. Twenty-five years old, her high school classmate. He worked part-time at the convenience store now, but in six months he’d be drafted into the military. That’s why he always looked a little sad—the melancholy of someone who knows what’s coming. Seo-ah understood that feeling.
“Hey, Seo-ah. Why didn’t you come yesterday?”
“I was sick.”
It was a lie. But Jong-ho didn’t press her. People usually didn’t. They knew when someone was lying but rarely demanded the truth—especially when that lie seemed designed to protect them.
“Yeah, you looked off. You feeling better now?”
Seo-ah picked up her apron. Gray polyester with the GS25 logo stamped over the left breast. Her name was reduced to an employee number above that logo. In this place, she wasn’t Na Seo-ah. She was #2847.
“Better now.”
As she tied the apron, she thought of Kang Ri-woo’s words. Just keep singing. Keep going. Like you are now. But what did like you are now even mean? Continuing while terrified? Or singing without revealing yourself? Seo-ah couldn’t parse the difference.
Two to five in the afternoon—the convenience store’s quietest hours. Lunch crowds had returned to their offices. Evening customers hadn’t arrived yet. A gap in time. Seo-ah loved these gaps. Time to stand by the register and touch her phone. Usually she did nothing, but the possibility itself mattered.
Her phone screen lit up. Kakaotalk messages. Hae-ul’s name sat at the top. Three unread messages from yesterday. Seo-ah opened them.
[Hae-ul] Hey what are you doing. Did you submit the contract?
[Hae-ul] Answer me… seriously
[Hae-ul] Fine. I’m gonna ask you later what you’re up to anyway, so let me just say this now—I don’t care. Do whatever you want. But you’re not actually trusting this Kang Ri-woo guy, right?
Seo-ah didn’t reply. To answer would mean telling the truth. To tell the truth would mean explaining Kang Ri-woo. To explain him would mean justifying her choice. And she couldn’t justify it.
She scrolled down. Her mother’s name appeared below. A voice message from yesterday afternoon.
[Mom] Seo-ah, honey. Doh-hyun’s academy registration fee is due soon. Will this month be tight?
She couldn’t listen to the voice message again. Once was enough. Her mother’s voice always carried apology—sorry that her daughter had to work to support them. Every time Seo-ah heard it, she felt certain that signing the contract had been right. Two million five hundred thousand won could cover Doh-hyun’s academy fees, buy her mother better medicine, let her eat something other than convenience store meals for once or twice.
But Kang Ri-woo had said: Don’t submit the contract.
How was she supposed to understand that? Did it mean she wouldn’t get the money if she didn’t submit it? Then what about Doh-hyun’s fees? Would her mother’s apologies never end?
Seo-ah set the phone down. The screen went black. In that darkness, her own face reflected back—more exhausted than it had looked under the subway’s fluorescent glow.
“Excuse me, could I get a ramyeon?”
A customer had entered. A woman in her seventies. She came in every day around three, always buying one ramyeon, one egg, and one carton of milk. Seo-ah had memorized her pattern. She liked remembering people’s routines.
“Of course. Which one would you like?”
“Shin ramyeon. It’s really spicy, but I love it that way.”
Seo-ah grabbed an egg from the cooler and pulled a pack of Shin ramyeon from the shelf. The motions were automatic. Her body remembered what her mind didn’t have to think about. How many times had she repeated this? Enough to make it second nature.
“Anything good happening lately?”
The woman asked. Seo-ah paused. Good things. She couldn’t define that.
“Yes, actually. Something good.”
“I can tell. Something’s different about you.”
Seo-ah began ringing items up. Ramyeon, egg, milk. 7,800 won. But the woman always handed over 10,000 won and never took the change.
“What’s this?”
The woman pointed at the tattoo below Seo-ah’s collarbone. A matchstick shape that Hae-ul had drawn. Seo-ah smiled slightly—barely perceptibly.
“A friend drew it for me.”
“It’s pretty. Does it mean something?”
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Explaining the meaning would require explaining too much. The little match girl and flames and the strange beauty of extinction. And the fire still burning inside herself.
“Hope that good thing keeps happening.”
The woman left, words trailing behind her. They reached Seo-ah’s ears but seemed not to reach her brain—just background noise, like the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Four in the afternoon. Seo-ah leaned against the counter. Jong-ho was organizing the drink section, his movements automatic like hers. Fingers gripping cans, lifting, rotating, placing. A machine’s work performed by human hands.
Her phone rang.
She reached to silence it without looking at the screen. But her hand froze. The caller was Kang Ri-woo.
“Hello?”
“You at work?”
“Yes.”
“When do you get off?”
“Ten o’clock.”
Kang Ri-woo went silent. It was the silence of someone making plans. Seo-ah knew him well enough to recognize it.
“I’ll pick you up at eleven. Wait outside your place. Alone.”
“What are you doing?”
“I talked to my father. For two hours. And something came out of it.”
Seo-ah’s hand trembled. The phone felt heavy. Kang Ri-woo must have felt that tremor.
“It’s not bad. Actually…”
“Actually?”
“Better than expected, I’d say. But I need to tell you in person. So let’s meet at eleven.”
Seo-ah didn’t respond. Kang Ri-woo continued.
“And you have the original contract, right?”
“Yes. I have it.”
“Good. Make sure you bring it.”
The call ended. Kang Ri-woo was the kind of man who set the time, made the demands, gave the orders. It felt natural. As if it were his nature. But Seo-ah didn’t want to resist that right now. Not resisting felt like peace.
Jong-ho asked, “Who was that?”
“No one.”
Another lie. But Jong-ho didn’t ask.
Eight in the evening. Customers began trickling in. People finished with dinner, buying beer and snacks. It was Friday. The energy of those waiting for the weekend flowed into the convenience store. Seo-ah didn’t match that energy. She just kept calculating. Barcode scan, amount entered, change handed over. Repeat.
9:50 PM. Seo-ah untied her apron. Jong-ho had already finished his closing tasks. He looked at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
“This late? Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Jong-ho didn’t ask further. He understood that people sometimes had the right to keep secrets. Seo-ah was grateful for that.
Ten o’clock. Seo-ah stood outside the gosiwon.
By the stairs at the semi-basement entrance. From here, she could see the street. Hapjeong-dong’s nighttime glow. Neon signs from live clubs flickered in the distance. Blue, pink, yellow. Those lights stimulated her eyes like they were calling her to sing.
Seo-ah looked at the envelope in her hand. The original contract. What Kang Ri-woo had requested. She didn’t know exactly why she’d brought it. Because he wanted it. That was enough.
11 o’clock sharp. A black Mercedes arrived.
The window rolled down. Kang Ri-woo’s face came into view. Under the night lights, his features were sharper. The fatigue from that morning café had vanished. Something else had taken its place instead. Determination? Or desperation?
“Get in.”
Seo-ah got in. The car was warm, heat blasting. But Seo-ah felt cold. Not her own cold, but something else’s. The cold of premonition about what was coming.
Kang Ri-woo started driving. He didn’t speak. Just repeated the sequence of actions—waiting at lights, turning, accelerating. Like a planned route. Or one he’d driven many times before.
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
“Your place?”
“Yeah. My father’s ill. He won’t be coming in today. So we’re talking at my place.”
His voice was calm, but his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly. Bloodless fingers. White knuckles.
Gangnam at night was different from the rest of Seoul.
Buildings rose higher. Lights multiplied. Cars cost more. Every time Seo-ah came here, she felt like she’d entered another world. Another chapter in a book. Or a dream.
The car descended into an underground parking garage of an officetel near Gangnam Station.
They took the elevator. Floor 35. Kang Ri-woo still didn’t speak. He just rode upward with Seo-ah beside him. In the elevator’s mirror, their reflection appeared: a wealthy man and a poor woman. Together, they looked wrong. Like an error in a painting.
The doors opened. A hallway. Then Kang Ri-woo’s apartment.
When Seo-ah stepped past the entrance, she couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t the size. It was the high ceilings and wide windows. Beyond them, Gangnam sprawled out at night. Every light in the city had gathered here. Like stars fallen to earth.
“Wow.”
Seo-ah murmured. Not admiration. Just reaction.
Kang Ri-woo removed his coat and sat on the living room sofa. He gestured for her. Come sit beside me.
Seo-ah sat.
“Did you look at the contract?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read it?”
“Not completely…”
“That’s fine. Either way, you caught that something was off, right?”
Seo-ah nodded.
Kang Ri-woo raised his hand. In it was paper. Not like a contract. Thinner, more unofficial-looking.
“My father gave me this. A legal analysis of the contract. He had a lawyer look at it. And the conclusion is…”
Kang Ri-woo paused. His eyes met hers.
“Page three, section seven. The copyright transfer clause. It’s blatantly illegal.”
Seo-ah’s hand trembled.
“Illegal?”
“Yeah. Korean copyright law says creators can’t waive their moral rights. And copyrights can’t be transferred without explicit consent. This contract violated both.”
Kang Ri-woo handed her the paper. It was filled with legal terminology. Seo-ah couldn’t read it.
“What does it mean?”
“It means you did the right thing not submitting it. If you had, you’d have become a lawsuit target. Not just you—JYA too. For attempting to enforce an illegal contract.”
Seo-ah tried to understand. But understanding wouldn’t come. A contract she’d signed being illegal felt wrong. Then why had the company presented such a contract?
“Why?”
“Why did they present an illegal contract?”
“Yes.”
Kang Ri-woo laughed. It was a sad laugh.
“Because most rookie artists don’t know the law. They just sign, submit, and realize later. By then it’s too late. The company pays a fine. But your music is already in their hands. You can’t get it back.”
Seo-ah understood. It was fraud. Fraud wearing a legal disguise.
“So what now?”
“You don’t submit this contract. And I told my father that if he wants to sign you again, he needs to prepare a legal one.”
“He agreed?”
“He agreed. Because I explained the lawsuit risk to him.”
Kang Ri-woo paused again. His face changed. Like something heavy had settled on his shoulders.
“And I told him I’m leaving the company.”
Seo-ah’s heart stopped.
“What?”
“Leaving JYA. The A&R position, the company—all of it.”
“Why?”
Kang Ri-woo looked out at Gangnam’s night. The city lights reflected in his eyes. But it was only reflection, not feeling.
“Because I can’t do this anymore. Turning music into money. Turning talent into product. And looking at you… I realized I was doing exactly what my father does.”
“So what will you do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
His voice was steady but his hands trembled slightly against his thighs.
“But I’ll do something. Actually protect your music. Protect other artists’ music. Whatever it takes.”
Kang Ri-woo took her hand. Different from before. Not the grip of someone claiming ownership, but something else. A promise. A hand to hold while enduring something together.
“You’re free now. From the contract. From me. If you want to be.”
Seo-ah didn’t answer.
Because she still didn’t know if what she wanted was freedom, or if what she wanted was Kang Ri-woo.
# The Truth Behind the Contract
Seo-ah watched Kang Ri-woo’s lips move, but the words didn’t reach her brain. Like looking through thick glass at the outside world—everything felt distorted and far away. She traced the wood grain on the table with her fingertips, trying to find her grip on reality. The cool wood’s texture transmitted through her fingertips, but it wasn’t enough.
“What did you say?”
Her voice was low and trembling. Muffled, like something speaking from underwater. She looked back at his face. His expression was serious. This wasn’t a joke.
“What I’m saying is… you did really well not submitting it.”
Kang Ri-woo spoke slowly, like explaining to a child. Exhaustion clung to his voice. The voice of someone who’d carried something heavy for a long time.
“If you had submitted it, you’d have faced a lawsuit. Not just you—JYA too. For attempting to enforce an illegal contract.”
Illegal contract.
Those words repeated in Seo-ah’s mind. Illegal. The contract she’d signed? The document she’d handled so carefully, read over and over all night?
She looked out the window. The night sky was black, but Gangnam’s buildings sparkled with a thousand lights. All those lights suddenly looked like lies. An elaborate illusion. Like the contract she’d signed.
“I don’t understand.”
Seo-ah murmured. Her throat was dry. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She wanted water but couldn’t move.
The simple fact that a contract she’d signed could be illegal felt impossible. If it was illegal, why had the company presented it?
Kang Ri-woo seemed to read her confusion.
“Why?”
“Why present an illegal contract?”
“Yes.”
Behind that simple question lay deeper dread. Seo-ah’s chest dropped. If the company had deliberately presented an illegal contract, what did that mean? She was a naive rookie, and they knew it. So she had been… deceived?
Kang Ri-woo laughed.
It was sad. No—sadness wasn’t even the right word. It was despair mixed with pity and anger. The laugh of someone who knows all the world’s unfairness. His lips lifted, but his eyes stayed dark. Darker still.
“Because most rookie artists don’t know the law.”
His voice was clear now. Like a judge’s. Or a doctor’s. The voice of someone making a diagnosis.
“They just sign, submit, realize later. By then it’s too late. The company pays a fine. But your music is already gone. You can’t get it back.”
Seo-ah’s cheeks went pale. She tried to imagine what would happen to her music. The songs she’d composed and arranged and recorded day and night. Music with her soul poured into it, transformed and commercialized in other hands. It felt like having a part of herself stolen.
Fraud.
The word came from her lips. Barely audible.
“It’s fraud. Fraud with a legal appearance.”
Kang Ri-woo nodded. Relief flickered across his face. As if he was glad she finally understood the truth.
“So what now?”
Her voice was small. She already felt exhausted. She wanted to go back to before all this. Before contracts, before illegality, before Kang Ri-woo.
“You don’t submit this contract.”
Kang Ri-woo spoke with clarity. Authority rang in his voice. Like it was law.
“And I told my father that if he wants to sign you again, he needs to prepare a legal contract.”
Seo-ah’s eyes widened. Kang Ri-woo’s father was JYA’s chairman. The company’s highest power. And Kang Ri-woo had gone against him?
“He agreed?”
“He agreed. Because I explained the lawsuit risk.”
Kang Ri-woo answered. His voice was measured, but beneath that measure flowed tension. Like someone maintaining calm while skydiving.
“And… something else.”
Kang Ri-woo paused again. This silence was different from the last. This was deliberate. Something significant lived in it.
Seo-ah studied his face carefully. Kang Ri-woo’s expression shifted. Like someone had placed an enormous stone on his shoulders. His jaw tightened. The lines around his eyes deepened. He looked far older than his years.
“I told him I’m leaving the company.”
Seo-ah’s heart didn’t stop so much as lurch—speeding up wildly before freezing like a car slamming its brakes.
“What?”
Her voice was barely audible.
“Leaving JYA. The A&R position, the company—everything.”
Kang Ri-woo repeated it, more clearly this time. As if he needed to hear himself say it to confirm his decision.
Seo-ah’s mind couldn’t process this information. Kang Ri-woo was JYA’s A&R director. That was his identity. His career. His future. And he was throwing it away?
“Why?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
Kang Ri-woo looked out the window. Gangnam’s night sky reflected on his face. City lights caught in his eyes. But it was only reflection—no emotion. Like a black mirror, Kang Ri-woo reflected nothing.
“Turning music into money.”
He spoke slowly.
“Turning talent into product.”
His voice dropped lower.
“And looking at you, I realized I was doing exactly what my father does.”
This landed on Seo-ah like a physical blow. Like someone had pressed on her chest. She had to breathe deeply. Kang Ri-woo’s father. That man was someone Kang Ri-woo avoided discussing. She knew how complicated his feelings were about him.
And he thought he was becoming his father.
“So what will you do?”
Seo-ah asked. Her voice overflowed with anxiety.
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
Kang Ri-woo answered honestly. That honesty carried fear. The fear of someone standing at a cliff’s edge.
“But I’ll do something. Really protect your music. Protect other artists’ music. Whatever it takes.”
Kang Ri-woo took her hand.
Not like before. Before, when he took it, he’d held it like an owner holding property. This was different. This was a promise. A hand to hold while enduring something together.
“You’re free now. From the contract. From me. If you want to be.”
Kang Ri-woo said it.
Seo-ah didn’t answer. Her lips tried to move but no sound came. Her eyes fixed on his hand. It was warm. And it was trembling.
Because she still didn’t know whether what she wanted was freedom, or whether what she wanted was Kang Ri-woo.
Or more accurately—she knew but wouldn’t admit it. If she had to choose between freedom and Kang Ri-woo, what would that mean? Would she have to let him go to protect her music? Or would she have to abandon freedom to choose him?
His hand rested on hers. She felt its weight. This wasn’t just physical contact. This was choice. And that choice couldn’t be unmade.
“Can I say anything?”
Seo-ah asked quietly.
“Yeah. Anything.”
Kang Ri-woo answered.
“Then… could you give me more time?”
She asked.
Kang Ri-woo laughed. Not a sad laugh this time. Just tired.
“Yeah. I can give you time. But you should know—I’ll wait. As long as it takes. That’s the only promise I can make.”
Seo-ah looked into his eyes. Only truth lived there.
And that was the most frightening thing of all.