My name is Julien Moreau.
Since I was little, I lived immersed in music.
While my elementary school classmates spent their pocket money at the store, I saved mine to buy albums.
While they admired Superman and Batman, my heroes were pop stars like Michael Jackson and Mariah Carey.
Of course, I wasn't a prodigy or a musical genius.
But I did get into music earlier than most.
Due to my family's financial situation, I gave up on university, but after completing my military service, I rented a small studio and fully devoted myself to composing.
Every time I finished a song, I sent demos to various companies, but never received any replies.
It seemed like they didn't even open my emails.
Then one day, SY Entertainment contacted me.
An original song I had submitted to a contest had won first place.
Thanks to that, I received 3 million won and the opportunity to become an exclusive composer for SY.
When I hung up the phone, I screamed so loud it felt like the studio would collapse.
"Is this real!? I'm going crazy!"
I felt like the main character of a comic book.
I imagined a happy future, filled with passion and hope.
At that moment, I truly believed I could become the best composer in the world.
But my hopes clashed with a very different reality.
At the company, my role was little more than doing secondary tasks for the main composers.
The entertainment industry was cold and rarely gave chances to rookies without connections.
Like many at the start of their careers, I tried to convince myself it was all part of the process to become stronger.
My tasks were simple: record guide tracks for other people's songs, do arrangements, and copy songs from the Billboard, UK, or Oricon Top 10 charts.
The sample tracks I copied became reference material for other composers in the company.
For the first five years, I repeated this routine of arranging, copying, and guide recording almost every day.
It was tedious and exhausting, but by copying global hits, I greatly improved.
Still, my dream wasn't to be an arranger—it was to be a composer.
So I even sacrificed sleep to complete my own songs.
"...Finally!"
When I finished an original song I had worked on for a long time, I shared it with my team.
After a long meeting, it was selected as the title track for the company's top idol group.
But that's when the problems began.
When I presented my second original song...
"Are you tone-deaf? Is this even a song?" "You can't compose. Do you think you're somebody just because one song was accepted?" "Stop wasting time on crap like this. Just stick to arranging."
At every meeting, my ideas were ignored, and my abilities belittled.
I thought: This can't be real. Is that saying true? "The nail that sticks out gets hammered down."
I was exhausted. A thousand times I thought about quitting.
But the team leader always stopped me.
"...I'm going to quit." "Julien, man! Again?" "I joined as a composer, not an arranger. And also..." "Hold up! Sorry to interrupt, but you have to admit you've improved a lot through arranging and copying, right?" "...That's true." "Then what's the problem? Everyone goes through that. It's for your own good. You even got BYC's title track! How many years have you been here?" "Seven years." "There are people who haven't gotten a title track even after ten! You did it in five! Am I wrong?" "...You're right."
He wasn't wrong.
I had improved through arrangements and copies. Others may have seen it as grunt work, but I felt proud completing so many songs myself.
But that wasn't the real issue.
One day, passing by the break room, I overheard a shocking conversation between team members.
"You're really not going to use that 'crappy arranger's' song? It's actually great." "Julien? Yeah, he writes well. But why bother? Just throw him any rough idea, and he perfects it. Why give him credit? Praise him and we'll have to raise his salary. He might even try to go independent. Gotta keep him under control. Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?" "Haha, seriously. I once gave him a crappy melody and it made it onto the album."
I was in shock.
I couldn't breathe. My head spun.
Was this a panic attack?
To them, I was just the goose that lays golden eggs.
That very day, I quit.
I got my own studio again.
I was emotionally destroyed, but I had to stand up.
After more than ten years of dedication, all I got was betrayal and mistrust.
Only music could heal me.
Music would never betray me—I believed that.
"From now on, the golden eggs will be for me."
I pulled myself together and focused on composing again.
I sent songs to several agencies and received positive responses.
Some were even confirmed through foreign distributors.
Just when it seemed like my new life was beginning, my former team leader, Claude Bernard, called.
He said it was to settle unpaid dues and give me my severance.
I didn't want to see him, so I asked him to send the documents by email.
But he insisted. After ten years, I deserved a proper farewell. He said he'd come near my studio.
Though I didn't want to, I felt I needed to cut ties with the past myself. I threw on a cap and went to the café where he waited.
"Hey! Long time no see, Julien. How have you been?" "...Just give me the papers."
I didn't want to talk. Just sign and return to my music.
"Alright. Here you go."
He scanned me from head to toe, sighed, and handed me the documents.
As I reviewed them, he spoke:
"That's everything owed and your severance. Just sign. But why did you quit so suddenly?"
Did he really not know? I was boiling with anger.
I stared at him and said coldly:
"I guess the goose doesn't want to lay eggs anymore. Or maybe... the 'crappy arranger' is tired of arranging."
"...You heard that?"
He looked surprised for a second, then smiled faintly.
"That's what it was? Come on, teammates talk. Why take it to heart? Come back to the company. You've been in the game over ten years now. I'll take care of—"
Was he really asking me to return?
"I'm not going back."
Going back would make me a fool.
I signed, stood up, and left.
I wanted to forget this awful encounter by composing.
But...
"Huh? What is this?"
The lock on my studio door was broken.
A bad feeling hit me. I rushed in.
The computer was disassembled. The hard drive was gone.
"...No way."
Panic surged.
I took a deep breath to calm down and remembered Claude Bernard's disgusting grin.
I called him.
"Julien! Changed your mind about coming back?" "Was it you?" "Huh? What are you talking about?" "The hard drive!" "What hard drive? You lost it?" "Give it back." "What? Now you're accusing me? Who do you think you are, you idiot?"
He hung up.
I cried.
I had suspicions but no proof.
Luckily, I had backups in the cloud.
I grabbed my phone and logged in.
"What...?"
It was empty.
I couldn't understand it.
"Aaaaaargh!"
I exploded.
My body shook, heart racing, ears ringing.
Everything went blurry... and I collapsed.
Beep... Beep...
I heard the sound of a machine but couldn't open my eyes.
"How many days has this patient been like this?" "Three. No family. I hope he wakes up soon."
Sounded like I was in a hospital.
I tried to move. Nothing. Not even my fingers or eyes.
"Any guardian?" "Some former team leader from his old job. Seems to come daily." "Must've cared for him." "Yeah, he's here every day."
Claude Bernard visits me?
Out of guilt?
That day, he really did come again.
"Hey there, Julien."
I heard the scrape of a chair.
He leaned close and began speaking.
"So, something happened today..."
He casually shared something horrifying.
SY Entertainment had released my songs first, both domestic and international.
Now I was being sued. Even if I woke up, I'd have a criminal record.
And he added:
"I got promoted thanks to you, Julien. Turns out, that goose had tons of golden eggs inside."
His vile voice was hell itself.
He bragged about being the CEO's cousin, and how he had already found a new naive composer to mold.
Knowing the truth, SY was nothing.
Without people like me, they couldn't make music at all.
If I'd known sooner...
Maybe I could've taken over the company instead...
But now, it was too late.
Paralyzed, I could only listen. It was pure torture.
If I could move, I'd rip out his teeth and sew his lips shut.
I prayed every day for divine justice.
I had no power. I even resented God for not making me deaf too.
Above all, not being able to make music... I never imagined it would hurt this much.
Claude Bernard's confessions continued for days.
Then one day, he said:
"I won't be coming anymore. So let go. Rest easy. Thanks for everything."
He never came again.
The monitor's beeps echoed around me.
I heard them for days.
And then, they began to fade.
Is this the end...?
My lifelong sensitivity to sound recognized the moment it began to disappear.
Like a long tunnel, the sounds moved farther and farther away.
My consciousness scattered and turned blank.
A long, flat tone filled the hospital room.