Paganini’s Caprice

Having impulsively dived into Alive Entertainment, Lee Hae-jun’s first day passed without a moment to breathe.

A class of about thirty people trained for eight hours a day. They were all people who had honed their skills with the dream of becoming idols, from elementary school students to those in their early twenties. Hae-jun had been scouted and brought in, but he was labeled a “preparatory trainee.” He had to pass the first end-of-month evaluation to become a full trainee, so there was no room for any other thoughts.

His body and mind were tossed around by the overwhelming practice load. The amount of assignments to learn or submit each day was enormous. He had to submit reports on performances, fashion, and artists every day, and since he had to learn dance from the basics, he gave it his all. Time flew by as he immersed himself in practice, and soon the end-of-month evaluation arrived.

****

“Wait.”

Hae-jun, who had been performing a solo, stopped at the low voice. The music cut off, and all eyes turned to the front. Recognizing the person who had filled the previously empty seat, Hae-jun’s tension spiked. He had heard that sometimes “higher-ups” attended evaluations, but he never expected the CEO himself to come.

As the large evaluation room fell silent, Hae-jun nervously twisted his fingers. His pitiful body, lacking both talent and basic skills in dance, even lacked flexibility, creaking awkwardly. The thought that he had shown such a mess in front of that man made him feel incomparably more embarrassed than ever before.

“Lee Hae-jun, yes? You’re the preparatory trainee who just joined?”

Unlike the staff, who had all addressed him informally from the start as if by some agreement, the CEO’s words began with polite honorifics. But that made it even more uncomfortable.

“Yes, it’s been three weeks.”

“I see.”

With a simple affirmation, Mujin picked up the documents in front of him, then soon lifted his head.

“Now I see why Lee Hae-jun was picked up. Even when you’re mixed in with others, you catch the eye—the atmosphere is quite unique. To put it simply, you’re a handsome man with a refined aura.”

A bad feeling crept in. If taken at face value, it sounded like praise, but would anyone use that tone for praise?

“Thank you for the kind words, CEO.”

“However.”

Mujin tapped the documents with the end of his pen, then tilted his head, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes were cold and icy. The heat that had risen in Hae-jun’s body from dancing seemed to freeze under the man’s gaze.

“Your expression is awkward, and you lack quick reflexes. We’re not looking to recruit a bland idol who only draws attention with their face. Especially, that terrible excuse for a dance wouldn’t even work as comedy.”

In a room full of people, Mujin’s voice mercilessly tore apart Hae-jun’s weaknesses.

Something was wrong. The manager had said that preparatory trainees were just about seeing potential, that hard work was enough.

“Well, I’ve only been here three weeks, so—”

“From your performance, I don’t see any desperation. I can tell you’re thinking about other things.”

Hae-jun couldn’t make excuses for the cold criticism. The shock of a reality he still hadn’t adapted to was ruining his concentration in everyday life. Even as he moved his body diligently, a corner of his mind always harbored the grim reality.

But to think that was read so easily… How could that be?

“Everyone here is staking their one and only life on this. If you’re not desperate, there’s no need to waste time.”

“……”

“You may leave.”

At that final pronouncement, the strength drained from Hae-jun’s legs. The cold way he was cut on the spot without any discussion made the faces of the other preparatory trainees and full trainees harden with tension.

Hae-jun bit his lip. He had nowhere to go. If this was his last bastion, he had to endure.

“I learn things quickly. I speak five languages, including English, at a native level. I can get good at dance soon too. Give me a chance, and I’ll work hard.”

He appealed his strengths with an earnest expression, but the CEO interlaced his fingers with a nonchalant look.

“Being good at foreign languages is an advantage, but it’s uncertain whether you’ll even make it to the domestic stage, let alone the international one, so there’s an issue of utility.”

The cold answer left no room for any leeway. From a corner, a stifled laugh was heard. The CEO, looking as if asking if he had anything more to say, drove the final nail.

“We have preparatory trainees here who are ready to go on broadcast at any moment. Can you convince me that it’s worth investing time and effort in Lee Hae-jun?”

“I majored in violin. I can play any string instrument as a soloist. That strength can help in performances, and since I’ve studied classical music, I think my sense of pitch is good.”

In response to the desperate answer, Mujin leaned back as if thinking, staring at Hae-jun for a moment. Receiving no response, Hae-jun’s eyes shook with anxiety. Being stared at by everyone made it hard to breathe from tension.

“Alright. Then let’s hear that confident performance of yours, at least.”

After a beat, the answer made Hae-jun’s face stiffen. The arrogant reply, as if he were doing him a favor by listening to something that would surely be terrible, stung his pride. He might not know dance, but his performance was not to be disparaged like that. The trembling feelings from before were pushed back, and a fierce defiance surged up.

“Thank you, CEO.”

Hae-jun replied with a slight smile, and the anxious look from earlier was nowhere to be seen. He turned with a confident expression, and Mujin, brushing past him indifferently, touched the documents piled in front of him as if there was no need to watch. Amid the curious silence of the people, Hae-jun tuned his violin, took a pose, and steadied his breath. Soon, his hand began to move boldly, picking up the melody.

Paganini’s 24 Caprices, the last one, No. 24. It was a piece that was a culmination of Paganini’s characteristic high-difficulty techniques. Without advanced skill, completing it was nearly impossible—a terribly intricate yet beautiful piece that all violinists in the world love and hate.

As the murmuring ceased, Mujin, who had been looking at the documents, raised his head.

With his eyes gently closed, Hae-jun’s bow moved dazzlingly, and his hair, disturbed by the playing motion, seemed to cut through the air. His light, cheerfully dancing dark brown hair caught the light, and his pale face, strangely captivating, drew everyone’s gaze.

Grabbing a fingered octave as if singing, Hae-jun slowly opened his eyes, his gaze clashing head-on with Mujin, who had underestimated him. Having started the brilliantly flashy introduction, Hae-jun began to play a lyrical part, wholly different, his thick lips slightly parted with a confident expression, then curving into a provocative smile.

Mujin’s gaze wavered as if caught off guard in that instant. Smiling as if singing with his eyes, Hae-jun cut off the gaze that clung to him and turned away coldly.

He executed techniques of harmonics and pizzicato so dynamic they shook his body, then moved to another variation. A tremendous triple stopping that spanned chords followed in succession. Until the explosive climax, the gazes chasing Hae-jun seemed to be sucked in, fixed on him.

At that moment, the phone placed on the table began to vibrate violently, as if to wake its owner, but no one answered.

****

“Whoa, man, that was insane. Hey, you’re freaking amazing at the violin!”

Hae-jun, who was packing his bag, turned around at the words thrown from behind. The person speaking, rubbing their arm as if they really had goosebumps, was Joo Tae-rok, one of the more standout trainees.

They had combined classes with full trainees for etiquette lessons, so his face was familiar, but he had never even returned a nod before. Why was he suddenly acting friendly?

Hae-jun smiled and thanked him, blurring his answer. Don’t take compliments at face value—a small life skill learned from the territorial grudges and power struggles of the art world. Tae-rok frowned as if seeing a strange reaction.

“What’s with you? You don’t know me? We’re the same age. You’re 22, right?”

He hadn’t known. He simply replied, “Yes,” but Tae-rok again looked dissatisfied.

“Drop the formal speech. It’s break time; cameras aren’t rolling.”

Tae-rok plopped down on the floor with a bored expression. Though the staff who had left could return at any moment, everyone else looked tense and couldn’t rest, but Tae-rok didn’t care.

“I heard you came from classical music, but I thought it was piano.”

He had mentioned majoring in violin when he first greeted, but apparently Tae-rok hadn’t listened.

“The ones who are good there usually don’t look at pop music. I thought you were some rich brat with no talent trying to sell your face and intrude on others’ turf. You were stammering and your hair was standing on end earlier. Damn, what a pain.”

Tae-rok spoke with a smile, inserting “pain” at the end of every sentence. If the etiquette teacher, who repeated until it was ingrained to habitually use polite words because bad habits can slip out unconsciously, heard this, they would be mortified.

“I hate those who rely on their faces. I got in on skill, but in this industry, face comes first. Plastic surgery has limits. I was so relieved when the CEO cut you down without mercy.”

…It was ambiguous whether he was being honest or just didn’t care about others’ feelings.

“Let’s be close since we’re the same age. But this kind of talk is only for break time. In class, watch your mouth and actions. Everything is recorded. If the higher-ups see you cursing, you could get fired overnight. For misconduct.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I think I’m already fired.”

“No? Who said that? Otherwise, why would I be introducing myself? You have no clue.”

The scolding face was so earnest that Hae-jun let out an awkward laugh out of place. The CEO had left without a word; it was only natural he was fired.

“Manager Song got a call, glanced at you, and then left. You passed. Trust me.”

That couldn’t be. From the CEO’s expression when he harshly criticized him, it didn’t sound credible. But a part of him couldn’t give up the last hope, and as he hesitated, the door opened and Manager Song entered with a broad smile.