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# Chapter 28: The Promise of Gangnam
Kang Riyu’s call came at 11:57 p.m. Se-ah had been working the night shift at the convenience store for less than an hour. His name appeared on the screen. Plain, unadorned. Kang Riyu.
“You good right now?”
His voice was calm. Like someone who had already planned everything.
“Yeah. I’m at the convenience store.”
“Good. Meet me at Exit 11 of Gangnam Station tomorrow at 8 p.m.”
“Why?”
“I have something to show you. And… I talked to your father.”
Se-ah’s breath stopped. The fluorescent lights of the convenience store still shone bright, and the refrigerator next to the counter hummed softly. But everything felt distant.
“What… happened?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. This isn’t something to discuss over the phone.”
“But Dohyun’s academy fees…”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t submit the contract yet. Just meet me tomorrow.”
The call ended. Thirty seconds. After hanging up, Se-ah gripped the counter with one hand. Her legs were shaking. As if her body wasn’t obeying her commands. The fact that Kang Riyu had talked to her father. She didn’t know what it meant, but it meant a decision had been made. And that decision would likely change her life.
11:58 p.m. Jonghoon emerged from the break room next to the counter. He was the other night shift employee. A high school classmate, but someone she barely spoke to anymore. His expression always suggested that all relationships were temporary because he had to enlist in six months.
“Se-ah, what’s wrong? Your face looks really strange.”
“I’m fine. Just… tired.”
“That’s a lie. You don’t blink when you lie.”
Se-ah looked at Jonghoon. He was right. She didn’t blink when she lied. It was a habit she’d learned in Jeju as a child. Holding her breath while her mother was underwater, keeping her eyes wide open, staring at the surface. That habit had followed her whole life.
“Yeah. Sorry. Just complicated stuff going on.”
“Still, you should rest tomorrow. You’ve already done enough.”
Jonghoon didn’t seem to realize how much depth his words held. Done enough. It wasn’t just about the convenience store job. Over the past few days, Se-ah had poured everything into this. Lied, read contracts, decided to trust Kang Riyu, absorbed Haneul’s worries, carried Dohyun’s academy fees in her heart. It all made her smaller and smaller. Like a match girl feeling warmth each time she lit a spark, while simultaneously disappearing.
The next day, time moved strangely from afternoon onward. Se-ah started work at 2 p.m. Calculating, stocking shelves, attending customers. Everything seemed to happen automatically. Her hands moved, but it didn’t feel like she was moving them. At noon, her phone rang. It was Haneul.
“Hey, what’re you doing?”
“Working.”
“Until what time?”
“Seven.”
“Then what?”
Se-ah hesitated before answering. Should she tell Haneul about meeting Kang Riyu? Or keep lying?
“Meeting Kang Riyu.”
The silence on the other end was long. Very long.
“Where?”
“Gangnam Station.”
“Ah, seriously…”
Haneul didn’t continue. Everything was contained in that silence. Disappointment, worry, resignation. Se-ah couldn’t bear it.
“Haneul, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Get your head straight. Do you know what Gangnam is? Where JYA is. And where Kang Riyu lives too. You’re entering that man’s world. And…”
Haneul breathed.
“And?”
“And you’ll definitely lose there.”
The call ended. It wasn’t that Haneul hung up first, but rather it ended naturally because Se-ah couldn’t say anything. Behind the counter, in front of the register, under those cold, bright fluorescent lights, Se-ah was left alone.
7 p.m. exactly. Se-ah took off her apron. Gray apron. GS25’s logo was pressed into her left chest. She thought about it while looking at the logo. When she wore this apron, she wasn’t Na Se-ah but #2847. And when she went to meet Kang Riyu, she’d be someone else again. She didn’t even know how many people she was.
Gangnam Station was one of Seoul’s most glamorous subway stations. Exiting at Exit 11, the street was filled with large advertisements from luxury brands. Louis Vuitton, Hermès, Chanel. Se-ah had never walked this street before. The 1,500-won convenience store coffee in her hand suddenly felt embarrassing.
Kang Riyu was already waiting near the exit. Black cashmere coat. No cigarette in his hand, but his fingers curved as if holding one. He nodded when he saw Se-ah.
“Hey. Good, you’re on time.”
“Yes.”
After that greeting, they didn’t speak. Kang Riyu simply walked forward, and Se-ah followed. The Gangnam street was evening rush hour but still crowded. Women carrying shopping bags, men in suits, teenagers staring at their phones. Everyone looked like they had a destination. Only Se-ah followed behind Kang Riyu without knowing where they were going.
After about fifteen minutes of walking, Kang Riyu stopped in front of a building. A modern structure with gray reinforced glass. A small sign at the entrance read: “RW MUSIC STUDIO.”
“What is this?”
“My company. Or rather, the company I was going to create.”
Kang Riyu pulled out a key card. The building’s entrance gate opened. They took the elevator up. Fifth floor. When the doors opened, Se-ah’s breath caught.
It was a studio. A music studio. Soundproofed rooms in black. A main studio with large glass windows. It was filled with professional-level equipment. Microphone, mixing board, synthesizer, piano, drums. And Kang Riyu slowly entered it. He gestured for Se-ah to follow.
“When did you make this?”
“Bought it six months ago. Without my father knowing.”
Kang Riyu sat at the piano bench. His hands rested on the keys. But he didn’t play. As if his fingers were frozen in place.
“When I was studying in Berlin, I had a plan. Create an independent label, make real music. Music without any influence from agencies. Pure music only. And…”
He stopped. His fingers began trembling slightly on the keys.
“And?”
“And I couldn’t play piano.”
Kang Riyu’s voice was low. Like it came from deep underground.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. From some point on, my hands froze. When I’d place them on the keys, I couldn’t move them. So I gave up in Berlin, came back to Seoul, joined my father’s company. And I made this studio. I can’t play myself, but I can listen to others play.”
Se-ah looked at his hands. Long, thick-knuckled, warm hands. But now they were shaking.
“But when I saw you…”
Kang Riyu slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes were still warm, but there was desperation in them.
“When I saw you, for the first time, I thought those hands might move again. I thought if you made music, my hands could come alive again.”
Se-ah couldn’t say anything. Was that why Kang Riyu wanted her? Not for her music itself, but to use her music to heal his own hands? Then Haneul was right. In Gangnam, you always lose. Against his desires.
“So… what about the contract?”
“I talked to my father. About how to get your copyright back. Legally.”
Kang Riyu stood up. He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. A printed email.
“A lawyer said that even if the contract is valid, they can’t release your song without your consent. And if you don’t submit it now, my father can’t legally force an extension. It’s not possible.”
Se-ah read the paper. It was full of legal terms. But the core was clear. She could still buy time.
“Then… what about Dohyun’s academy fees?”
“I’ll pay for it. Don’t worry about it.”
“But…”
“Instead, you make music here in this studio. In your name. And I’ll help you make your songs. Until we can nullify your contract. That’s my plan.”
Kang Riyu looked around the studio. The black soundproofed walls. All the machines inside.
“Here, you’re Na Se-ah. And you sing. In your name.”
Se-ah felt something strange hearing those words. Kang Riyu’s words were too perfect. Too planned. As if he’d prepared everything before even meeting her. But at the same time, it was what she wanted. To sing in her own name. To make her own songs, not someone else’s, and release them under her own name.
“Will you promise me something?”
“What?”
“That you won’t use me. That I won’t become a tool for healing your hands.”
Kang Riyu looked at Se-ah for a long time. As if trying to read something in her face. And slowly, he nodded.
“Alright. I won’t lie to you either. You’re not a tool for healing my hands. You’re something much bigger than that.”
Se-ah couldn’t understand what that meant. But in that moment, music came from somewhere in the studio. A song Kang Riyu had turned on. A classical piano piece. Very beautiful, very sad. And as Se-ah listened, she thought:
Is this sacrifice or a deal?
Kang Riyu led her to the main microphone in the studio. He put headphones on her. The music drew closer. Louder.
“Sing here. Anything. Whatever you want. In this studio, you don’t have to sing someone else’s songs.”
Se-ah stood before the microphone. She prepared for her voice to come out—a voice she’d never sung with before under her own name. And in that moment, she remembered a song she’d written at 2 a.m. in her room. A song for Dohyun. A song for her mother. A song no one had ever heard.
Se-ah opened her mouth.
And she sang.
This is how the story begins. In a studio in Gangnam, singing for the first time in her own name. That song could only be heard by one person. Only that man with warm hands. And Se-ah realized in that moment that she had already traded something away.
But it was too late.
The flame had already started to burn.
# The Beginning of the Flame
## Part 1: The Proposal
Se-ah exited Exit 11 of Gangnam Station and checked her phone screen again. The address was correct. Kang Riyu’s message was clear. But her footsteps kept slowing down.
Is this really the right choice?
The late autumn air brushed against her cheeks. Seoul’s streets were always busy. People pouring out of the subway, cars waiting at traffic lights, hurried footsteps heading somewhere. Se-ah looked lonelier than everyone. The trot music flowing through her earbuds—a song by the singer her mother loved—made that loneliness even deeper.
If I can pay for Dohyun’s academy fees, I can get better medicine for Mom…
Se-ah touched the bankbook in her bag. The thin booklet was nearly empty. Money accumulated over three years. Drama filming fees, CF appearance payments, music show appearance allowances. All of it was gone. For Dohyun’s academy fees, for her mother’s medical bills, for jeonse deposit interest.
Kang Riyu will pay for Dohyun’s academy fees…
She’d first seen that man yesterday. Or rather, she’d really seen him properly yesterday. Before that, she might have passed him on the street a few times, but Se-ah didn’t remember it. He was just one among many people.
But yesterday was different.
It was the day of contract termination negotiations with JK Entertainment. Under the cold fluorescent lights of the conference room, the lawyers kept repeating the same thing.
“Breach of contract will result in damages.”
“You’re still a minor, so a legal guardian’s signature is required.”
“You must either continue the contract for three more years or pay 500 million won in penalties.”
Se-ah’s mother was lying in a hospital bed. Stage 4 uterine cancer. The doctor said she’d be lucky to last six months. In that room, medical machines cried endlessly. Beep-beep-beep—rhythmic but desperate sounds. Se-ah was living in sync with those sounds.
500 million won. More than her mother’s intensive care fees for six months.
That’s when the conference room door opened.
“Excuse me.”
That voice was low and calm. The temperature in the conference room seemed to drop. The lawyers all lifted their heads at once. That man—the one named Kang Riyu—stood in the corner of the room with a quiet but definite presence.
“Park Seo-ah is a minor. The legal procedures during the establishment of this contract were not properly followed. Particularly, minor contracts must proceed with the guardian’s thorough understanding, but at that time, the guardian was hospitalized due to illness.”
His fingers pointed at the table. Se-ah looked at those hands. Delicate but strong-looking hands. They looked like a pianist’s hands. Or more precisely—scarred hands. The ring and pinky fingers on his left hand were missing.
“Additionally, there are portions of the contract that impose unfair working conditions on a minor. Should this matter be brought to court, your company would not be in a favorable position.”
The lawyers’ expressions hardened. Kang Riyu continued without emotion.
“If you agree to terminate the contract, further negotiation won’t be necessary.”
Thirty minutes later, the contract was terminated.
As Se-ah left the conference room, she followed Kang Riyu. In the elevator, they faced each other for the first time.
“Why… did you help me?”
Kang Riyu looked down at the scar on his left hand. His eyes moved. Deep, dark eyes. As if calculating something.
“I’ve seen you before. On the street. Walking alone, humming music to yourself. I thought then, ‘That kid is being oppressed by someone.’ ”
The elevator descended slowly. So did Se-ah’s heart.
“So… I looked you up later. About you. Park Seo-ah. Under JK Entertainment. Debut for three years, three dramas, two films, more than twenty music show appearances. But not a single song released under your own name.”
His voice grew quieter.
“You were singing songs written by others, reading lines written by others, dancing to music composed by others. You weren’t yourself.”
Tears gathered in Se-ah’s eyes.
“So I thought. What if someone helped you? What if they gave you a chance? You could become a really great artist. In your own name.”
Kang Riyu’s studio was on the fourth floor of a building in the heart of Gangnam.
When Se-ah opened the door, she was greeted by deep black. The walls treated with soundproofing material were black, the floor was black, the ceiling was black. It felt like entering some deep mine.
“This is…”
“My studio. I made it a few years ago. Before I lost my fingers, I used to compose and play piano here.”
Kang Riyu pointed to the grand piano in the center of the studio. The instrument looked like a black bird. Beautiful, but dangerous-looking.
“Now… I’m using it for a different purpose.”
Se-ah looked carefully around the studio. On one wall, dozens of audio equipment were lined up. Microphones, mixers, amps, speakers. And inside a soundproofed booth sat a recording microphone. All of this was professional, expensive equipment.
He bought all of this… for me?
“Dohyun is in fifth grade of elementary school, right? Academy fees in Seoul are about 2 million won a month. I’ll pay for that. And you…”
Kang Riyu placed a hand on Se-ah’s shoulder. His hand was warm. As if trying to pass something to her.
“… you’ll make music here. In your name. I’ll help you. Until we make your songs and release them. And in the meantime, I’ll nullify your contract.”
Se-ah’s throat tightened.
“But… why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”
Kang Riyu didn’t speak for a long time. His eyes turned toward the piano. His expression looking at that black instrument was very complex. Sadness and anger, and something like resignation, all mixed together.
“I was once a musician. A famous one. I played piano from childhood, graduated from music school, competed in international competitions. And… I really loved music.”
When she looked at his left hand again, Se-ah could understand for the first time just how deep the wound was. It wasn’t just missing fingers. Part of the hand was burned, and scars held that evidence.
“There was an accident. A fire. My hand burned, and I lost two fingers. The doctors said I’d never be able to play music again.”
Kang Riyu’s voice trembled.
“At that time, I… wanted to die. I couldn’t imagine a life without music. So I spent a lot of time in despair.”
Se-ah wasn’t breathing. This man was opening up to her for the first time. It was like breathing air from deep underwater—suffocating, but necessary.
“But as time passed, I realized something. That there wasn’t just one way to make music. There was a way to help someone else make music. To help them create their music. That’s also the same as making music.”
Kang Riyu looked at Se-ah.
“You were born to make music. I saw that. So… I’m going to help you. I’ll turn my music into your music. Because that’s the music I can make.”
Se-ah cried. The first tears were for his story, the second tears were for her own guilt.
Please don’t let this man become my tool…
“Will you promise me something?”
Kang Riyu lifted his head from where he sat in front of the studio console.
“What?”
“That you won’t use me. That I won’t become a tool for healing your hands.”
It was a brave question. So brave that Se-ah herself was surprised. But it was something she had to ask. Because Kang Riyu was a man with a purpose. Even if that purpose wasn’t bad, it was still a purpose.
Kang Riyu looked at Se-ah for a long time. As if important letters were written inside that face. His black pupils moved. Up, down, left, right. Like reading a book.
And slowly, he nodded.
“Alright. I won’t lie to you either. You’re not a tool for healing my hands. You’re… something much bigger than that.”
“… What does that mean?”
“You won’t understand yet. But you will as time goes on.”
In that moment, music echoed from somewhere in the studio. Kang Riyu had picked up headphones and turned on the speaker. A classical piano piece flowed out. A very beautiful, very sad song.
This song is…
Se-ah thought while listening to the music. This wasn’t the soundtrack from some movie she’d seen. It wasn’t background music from a drama she’d heard. This was music as if someone’s soul had directly struck the keys. Music from a deep place. Music from the dark night of despair.
Is this sacrifice or a deal?
That was the only question that came to Se-ah’s mind.
Kang Riyu took Se-ah’s hand and led her to the center of the studio. There, a main microphone was installed. A professional microphone. The kind singers used when they were singing something truly important.
“This is…”
“It’s a good microphone. A microphone where your voice will come out best.”
Kang Riyu placed headphones over Se-ah’s ears. The music came closer. Louder. Like a heartbeat.
“You can sing here. Anything. Whatever you want. In this studio, you don’t have to sing someone else’s songs. In your name. With your emotions.”
Se-ah stood before the microphone. The music from the headphones grew louder and louder. The music seemed to be reading her heart. Sadness and hope, despair and anticipation, giving up and challenging—all mixed together.
Whose music have I been singing all this time?
Se-ah thought. Every song she’d sung in the past three years. Drama OSTs, movie theme songs, music show stages. All of it was someone else’s. Songs by famous composers. Lyrics by famous lyricists.
But what about hers?
At 2 a.m., in my room, songs I made alone…
Se-ah suddenly remembered. Last winter, when her mother was first hospitalized. She couldn’t sleep at night. So she secretly made songs. For her mother. For Dohyun. Songs no one had ever heard.
Those songs rose in Se-ah’s throat now.
Kang Riyu pressed the recording button.
The red light came on.
Se-ah opened her mouth.
And for the first time, she sang in her own name.
That song was very small. It wasn’t made to echo on a big stage. It came from deep in the heart, for only one person. A song for Dohyun. A song for her mother. And a song for herself.
There were no lyrics. Only melody. That melody was as soft as raindrops falling on water. And at the same time, sharp like a blade.
Kang Riyu sat motionless before the console, listening to that song. His expression was completely frozen. Like a statue. But something was flowing in his eyes.
When the song ended, Se-ah was breathless. Like coming up to the surface after swimming deep underwater. Her heart was beating fast, and her hands were shaking.
“Good?”
Kang Riyu asked.
“Yeah… good. Really good.”
“Then keep going. Keep singing, keep creating, keep growing. In your name.”
Kang Riyu pointed to a framed photo on one wall of the studio. There was a young Kang Riyu in it. A boy sitting at a piano. His fingers were on the keys. Whole fingers.
“My dream died…”