The leather interior of the sedan smelled of lavender and money. It was a sharp contrast to the smell of my own anxiety.
We had been driving for ten minutes in complete silence. Chae-rin was scrolling through her tablet, her face illuminated by the blue light, looking like a CEO checking stock prices rather than a high school student.
I cleared my throat. The sound seemed deafening.
"So," I ventured, gripping the handle of my guitar case. "Is G-Dragon-sunbaenim actually waiting for us? Like... right now? Should I have prepared a speech?"
Chae-rin didn't look up from her screen.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said flatly. "G-Dragon is a global icon and a business mogul. He doesn't sit around waiting for high schoolers to finish their little quarrels."
I blinked. "But you said—"
"I lied," she interrupted, finally locking her tablet and turning to me. A small, cruel smile played on her lips. "I just needed an excuse to drag you out of there and wipe that arrogant smirk off Park Jin-hyun's face. The 'little scumbag' thinks he runs the school."
"You guys really don't get along," I noted.
"We get along fine," she corrected coolly.
She checked her watch.
"We're going to Rehearsal Hall C. According to the internal schedule, it's empty until 8 PM. A company vocal trainer is meeting us there. She's going to help with your breath control. You gasp like a dying fish when you transition to falsetto."
I muttered. "Fair."
The car pulled up to the back entrance of the YG building again. We swiped in—or rather, Chae-rin swiped in, and I followed like a lost puppy—and took the elevator down to the basement levels.
When the doors opened, we walked down a corridor that vibrated with heavy bass from behind closed doors. Chae-rin stopped at a door marked Hall C and swiped her card.
We stepped inside.
My breath hitched.
I knew this room. Every K-Pop fan on earth knew this room. The blonde wood floors. The mirrored wall. The specific acoustic paneling.
"No way," I whispered, spinning around. "This is... the room. The Bang Bang Bang dance practice room. The 2NE1 room."
"It's just a room, San," Chae-rin said, tossing her bag onto a leather sofa. "Try not to lick the floor."
A woman in her forties, wearing a sleek black tracksuit and holding a water bottle, was already waiting by the sound system. She had the posture of a ballerina and the eyes of a hawk.
"Chae-rin-ssi," the woman nodded, her voice warm but professional. "Punctual as always."
"Teacher Kang," Chae-rin bowed respectfully—a perfect 90 degrees. I hurriedly copied her.
"And this must be the 'diamond in the rough' you mentioned," Teacher Kang said, looking me over. "The one G-Dragon-nim took an interest in."
"That's him," Chae-rin said. "He has tone, but no discipline."
"Well," Teacher Kang clapped her hands. "Let's see what we can do."
For the next hour, I was put through hell. But it was a useful hell. We didn't even touch the song for the first thirty minutes. We just did breathing exercises, diaphragm pumps, and scales that made my face vibrate. Teacher Kang poked my stomach every time I slouched.
"Support the sound!" she commanded. "Don't sing from your throat! Sing from your feet!"
By the time we actually ran the song with the backing track Chae-rin had produced, I was exhausted, but my voice felt lighter. Cleaner.
"Better," Teacher Kang nodded, checking her watch. "The rasp is controlled now. It doesn't sound like damage; it sounds like texture. Keep practicing that placement."
She bowed to Chae-rin and left the room.
We were alone in the iconic practice room. The backing track was still humming low through the massive speakers.
I walked over to the corner and picked up my guitar case.
"Hey, Chae-rin," I asked, unzipping the case. "I've been meaning to ask. Why did you make me bring this? You made a full orchestral backing track. The guitar isn't even in the mix anymore."
I pulled out the acoustic guitar.
"Is it just a backup? In case the speakers explode?"
Chae-rin was leaning against the mirror, drinking from a bottle of water. She capped it slowly, her eyes scanning me as I held the instrument.
"It's not for the sound, San," she said. "It's a prop."
"A prop?" I frowned. "I'm a musician, not a model."
"In this industry, you are both," she said, walking toward me. She reached out and adjusted the collar of my shirt, then tilted my head slightly to the left.
"The vocals are secured. The song is good. But to win the Autumn Festival, we don't just need to be good. We need to be..."
She paused, searching for the word.
She looked me right in the eyes, her expression unreadable.
"Tell me, San," she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you know what high school girls find most attractive in a boy?"