The phone buzzed against the nightstand like an insect trapped against glass. Andrew surfaced from sleep in stages—first the sound, then the gray-blue light of early morning bleeding through the curtains, then the unfamiliar ceiling above him. For a split second he forgot where he was. Then the skyline registered through the window, all those towers he'd only ever seen in dramas and YouTube videos, and memory clicked back into place. Seoul. His first morning in Seoul.

The phone buzzed again. And again. Persistent in that particular way that meant it had been ringing for a while before he'd surfaced enough to hear it.

He reached for it blindly, knuckles brushing the lamp, fingers finally closing around the cold glass. The screen glowed with a name that made his chest tighten.

Appa.

Not a text. Not a missed call notification. His father was calling him. Right now. At—he squinted at the corner of the screen—7:42 in the morning. Which meant it was mid-afternoon in LA, and his father had probably been pacing for hours, waiting for the call Andrew had never made.

The guilt landed before he could brace for it. His mother had called yesterday. He'd talked to her, let her fuss, let her warn him about Krystal Jung and the entertainment world. But his father—he'd put off calling his father. Told himself he'd do it after he unpacked, after he ate, after he'd settled in. Then the melody had found him, that strange half-remembered thing, and he'd drifted off with his phone still in his hand.

He swiped to answer and brought the phone to his ear.

"Appa." His voice came out rough, sleep-thickened. He cleared his throat. "I was just about to—"

"Min-Seok-ah." His father's voice cut through the distance, warm and familiar and edged with something Andrew couldn't quite name. Relief, maybe. Worry, definitely. "You landed safely. Your mother said you arrived."

"Yeah. Yesterday afternoon." Andrew sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist. The apartment was quiet around him, still unfamiliar, still smelling faintly of new paint and the lemony furniture polish the cleaning service must have used. "Sorry. I should've called. I meant to, I just—"

"It's fine. You're fine. That's all that matters." A pause. Andrew could picture his father exactly—standing in the kitchen of their LA house, one hand braced against the counter, the other holding his phone, his tie already loosened even though it was barely past noon. The man never fully relaxed. "How's the apartment?"

"Good. Bigger than I expected." Andrew looked around the room, taking it in with fresh eyes. The floor-to-ceiling windows. The minimalist furniture his mother had chosen remotely, every piece expensive and understated. "You didn't have to—"

"We wanted you comfortable."

"I know. Thank you."

Silence stretched between them, filled with the low static of an international call and all the things neither of them was saying. Andrew's father was not a man of many words. He communicated in actions—in trust funds and apartment leases, in phone calls made at 7:42 in the morning because he couldn't wait any longer to hear his son's voice.

"So," his father said finally. "Your mother mentioned you met someone on the flight. Krystal Jung."

Andrew's grip tightened on the phone. Of course his mother had told him. Of course she'd framed it however she'd framed it, with whatever warning she'd decided was necessary. "Yeah. She was sitting next to me. We talked for most of the flight."

"And she gave you her number."

"She offered to show me around. Said she knows Seoul well." Andrew hesitated. "She was... nice. Normal, actually. Not what I expected."

"Good." His father's voice carried something Andrew couldn't quite parse—approval, maybe, or caution dressed up as approval. "It's good you're making friends. That you're putting yourself out there. Your mother was worried you'd spend your first month in Korea locked in that apartment, writing songs no one will ever know are yours."

The words landed with a weight his father probably hadn't intended. Writing songs no one will ever know are yours. Andrew's eyes drifted to his carry-on, still half-unpacked in the corner, the USB drive hidden in an interior pocket like always.

"I'll be fine, Appa. I know how to take care of myself."

"I know you do." A pause. When his father spoke again, his voice had dropped—lower, more serious. "But Min-Seok-ah, listen to me. I need you to be careful. Especially now that you're meeting people in that world."

"Which world?"

"The entertainment world. Krystal Jung. Anyone else you meet who's connected to it." His father's voice was steady, deliberate—the voice he used when he was about to say something important. "It's not all sunshine and roses. You know that. You've seen enough of it from the inside to know exactly what I'm talking about."

Andrew did know. He knew better than almost anyone his age—knew about the contracts that trapped young artists for a decade, the grueling schedules that broke bodies and spirits, the executives who saw talent as a product to be optimized and discarded. He'd written songs for some of the biggest names in the industry, watched them climb the charts, watched the machinery of fame chew up and spit out the people he'd written for. He'd seen it all from a safe distance, protected by his anonymity, his pseudonym, his family's money.

"I know," he said quietly. "I've always known."

"I'm not saying this because I don't trust you. I trust you more than anyone." His father's voice softened. "I'm saying it because I know you. You see the best in people. You always have. And that world—it'll eat that kindness if you let it."

Andrew stared at the ceiling, at the smooth white expanse of it. "I'm not a kid anymore, Appa."

"No. You're not." A pause. "You're eighteen now. An adult. Which means—" His father hesitated, and Andrew heard something shift in his voice, something careful and deliberate. "Which means if you wanted to stop being some anonymous composer, that wouldn't be a bad thing."

The words hung in the air between them, across oceans and time zones.

"What do you mean?" Andrew asked, though he knew exactly what his father meant.

"I mean you've been hiding in the shadows since you were twelve years old. Writing songs that make other people famous. Watching your work top the charts while your name stays buried in a pseudonym and a trust fund." His father's voice was gentle but unrelenting. "You're talented, Min-Seok. More talented than most of the people whose names are on those songs. And I've never pushed you to step into the light because I wanted you to choose it for yourself. But you're in Korea now. You're starting fresh. And if you wanted to—"

"Appa—"

"Let me finish." His father's voice firm, but not unkind. "If you wanted to claim your work. If you wanted to be known. I would support you. Your mother would support you. We have the resources, the connections, the—"

"I know." Andrew's voice came out quieter than he intended. "I know you do."

"Then think about it." A pause. "That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Andrew closed his eyes. The city hummed beyond the window, distant and indifferent. Somewhere out there, the songs he'd written were playing on radios and streaming services, filling stadiums and soundtracking millions of lives. And no one knew. No one had any idea that the eighteen-year-old business student lying in a Sinchon apartment had shaped the sound of K-pop itself.

He'd always told himself he liked it that way. The anonymity. The freedom. The ability to create without the weight of expectation, to let his work speak for itself without his face attached to it.

But lying there, listening to his father breathe on the other end of the line, Andrew wondered if that was still true. Or if it had ever been entirely true.

"I'll think about it," he said finally.

"That's all I ask." His father's voice warmed. "And Min-Seok-ah—if you have any problems. Any problems at all. School, the apartment, people—" A meaningful pause. "I will take care of it. You understand?"

"I understand."

"I mean it. You're my son. Whatever you need, whenever you need it—I will handle it. You don't have to face anything alone."

Andrew's throat tightened. He'd spent so many years building walls, protecting himself, keeping his secrets close. But his father had always been there, a silent force behind him, ready to catch him if he fell.

"Thank you, Appa." The words came out rough. "Really. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just take care of yourself." A pause. "Oh—and I almost forgot. I have some news for you."

"News?"

"I spoke with Park Jin-Young last week." His father's voice was casual, but Andrew felt his body go still. Park Jin-Young. JYP. The founder of JYP Entertainment. The man who'd built TWICE and ITZY and so many of the artists Andrew had written for. "He mentioned he'd like to meet you. Face to face."

Andrew's heart stuttered. "He—what?"

"He knows who you are, Min-Seok. He's known for years—he's one of the few people who does. And he's been impressed with your work for a long time." His father paused. "He wants to meet you properly. Talk about the future."

"I—" Andrew's mind raced. Park Jin-Young wanted to meet him. Park Jin-Young, the man who'd shaped Korean pop music for decades, who'd discovered and trained some of the biggest stars in the world, wanted to sit down with him. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll visit him sometime. That's all he's asking for now." His father's voice was patient. "And Min-Seok-ah—Lee Soo-Man called me too."

Andrew's breath caught. Lee Soo-Man. The founder of SM Entertainment. The man whose name was practically synonymous with the Korean entertainment industry itself.

"He also wants to meet you," his father continued. "He's been following your work for years. Said he thinks you have a unique voice, something the industry needs more of."

Andrew stared at the ceiling, his thoughts scattering like startled birds. Two of the most powerful men in K-pop wanted to meet him. Not the pseudonym. Not the anonymous composer. Him.

"I don't—" He swallowed. "Why now?"

"Because you're eighteen. Because you're in Korea. Because—" His father's voice softened. "Because they see what I've always seen, Min-Seok. You have a gift. And gifts are meant to be shared."

Andrew was quiet for a long moment. The city hummed beyond the window, morning light spilling across the floor. Somewhere out there, the songs he'd written were filling the airwaves, touching lives he'd never see. And two of the most powerful men in the industry were waiting to meet him.

"Okay," he said finally. "I'll visit them sometime. When I'm ready."

"That's all I ask." His father's voice was warm with approval. "I'll let them know. And Min-Seok—"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of you. Whatever you choose to do with your gift, whatever path you take—I'm proud of you."

Andrew's eyes stung. He blinked hard, staring at the ceiling until the feeling passed. "Thank you, Appa."

"Take care of yourself. Eat well. Study hard." A pause, and Andrew could hear the smile in his father's voice. "And call your mother more often. She worries."

"I will. I promise."

"Good. I love you, son."

"I love you too, Appa."

The line clicked. Andrew lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen. The apartment was quiet around him, the city's distant hum the only sound.

He lay back against the pillows, the phone still clutched in his hand, and stared at the ceiling.

Park Jin-Young wanted to meet him. Lee Soo-Man wanted to meet him. The two men who'd built empires out of music and dreams, who'd shaped the very industry Andrew had been hiding from for years—they wanted to see his face, hear his voice, talk about the future.

His father's words echoed in his mind. You've been hiding in the shadows since you were twelve years old. You're talented, Min-Seok. More talented than most of the people whose names are on those songs.

Andrew closed his eyes. The melody from last night drifted back to him, that strange half-remembered thing that wasn't his own. It weaved through his thoughts, elusive and tantalizing, a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

The city hummed beyond the window. The morning light crept across the floor. And Andrew Kang—known to the world only as a pseudonym, a ghost in the beat—lay still, the weight of his father's words and two powerful men's interest pressing down on him like a held breath.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if he was ready to step out of the shadows, to claim the work he'd poured his soul into for years.

But for the first time in a long time, he thought maybe—just maybe—he wanted to find out.