The message glowed in the dim corridor, four words that turned the hum of SM's fluorescent lights into something distant, almost irrelevant. From JYP. Available now? Andrew read it twice, then a third time, his thumb hovering over the screen.

He didn't know this number. But the name attached to it—Park Jin-Young—was one of the most recognizable in Korean entertainment, and the message itself was casual in a way that felt almost surreal. Got your number from your dad. He said you'd be open to meeting. It's not too late if you're free.

Andrew's father. Of course. The man who'd spent eighteen years curating Andrew's invisibility was now apparently curating his introduction into the industry he'd been hiding from. He could picture his father in his LA study, phone pressed to his ear, that particular tone of voice he used when he was making things happen—the one that never asked, only arranged.

He typed back before he could overthink it: On my way.

The JYP building was a different beast from SM. Where SM's corridors felt like a museum of legacy, JYP pulsed with something younger, more restless—walls covered in neon signs and platinum album frames, the air carrying the distant thump of a practice room bass. Andrew pulled his mask up as the taxi dropped him at the entrance, the black fabric settling over his jaw like armor.

The receptionist looked up as he approached, her smile polished and professional. "Welcome to JYP Entertainment. Do you have a scheduled visit?"

"I'm here to see—"

"He's with me."

The voice came from behind him, warm and unhurried. Andrew turned to find Park Jin-Young walking toward them, dressed in a casual black turtleneck and slacks, looking exactly like every variety show appearance Andrew had ever half-watched in hotel rooms. Up close, there was a sharpness to his eyes that the cameras softened—an assessment happening behind that easy smile.

"Kang Min-Seok," JYP said, extending his hand. "I've been looking forward to this."

Andrew shook it, his palm slightly damp. "Thank you for having me, sir."

JYP laughed, the sound carrying through the lobby. "Sir. I like that. But your father and I go back a long way—you can call me uncle." He clapped Andrew on the shoulder, steering him toward the elevators. "Come. Let me show you around properly."

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them into a space that smelled faintly of cologne and coffee. JYP leaned against the railing, studying Andrew with an openness that felt almost disarming.

"You know," JYP said, "I've been trying to figure out who you were for three years. Every time one of my groups released a song with your signature, I'd ask around, and no one knew anything. Just a name on a credit sheet." He shook his head slowly. "A ghost."

Andrew's throat tightened. "That was the point."

"I figured. But ghosts don't usually get their fathers to call in favors." JYP's tone was light, but his eyes were sharp. "So either you're ready to be seen, or something changed."

Andrew considered the question. He'd been asking himself the same thing all day—first with Lee Soo-Man, then with Taeyeon in that recording studio, her voice wrapping around his suggestions like she'd been waiting for someone to hear her properly. Now here, in an elevator with one of the most powerful men in Korean music, the answer felt less clear than ever.

"I'm not sure yet," he admitted. "But I'm here."

JYP nodded, as if that was exactly the answer he'd expected. "That's enough for now."

The elevator opened onto a floor that looked like the inside of a creative director's fever dream—exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs strung across the ceiling, framed album art in sleek black frames. JYP walked with the unhurried confidence of someone who owned every inch of the space, pointing out recording studios, writing rooms, and the occasional idol who bowed quickly as they passed.

"This is where the magic happens," JYP said, gesturing to a room filled with keyboards and monitors. "Or the chaos, depending on the day."

Andrew's fingers itched. The piano in the corner was a Yamaha, the same model he'd learned on as a kid in LA, and for a moment he imagined sitting down, letting his hands find the keys, showing this man exactly what he could do. But that wasn't why he was here. Not yet.

"You've written for a lot of my groups," JYP continued, his voice dropping slightly. "ITZY. TWICE. Even some of the older stuff, back when I was still figuring out the formula." He glanced at Andrew. "The DALLA DALLA demo you sent—I still have it. The way you structured that drop wasn't like anything I'd heard before."

"I was seventeen when I wrote that," Andrew said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

JYP stopped walking. Turned to face him fully. "Seventeen."

"Yes, sir."

For a long moment, JYP just looked at him. Then he laughed, a low, wondering sound. "Your father wasn't exaggerating. I thought he was being a proud parent. Turns out he was underselling it." He resumed walking, shaking his head. "Come on. There's something I want you to see."

They passed through a set of double doors and into a corridor lined with practice rooms, each one sealed by soundproof glass. The first few were empty, their mirrors and ballet bars gleaming under fluorescent light. But the third room was alive.

Andrew stopped walking.

TWICE was mid-practice, nine bodies moving in perfect synchronization, their reflections multiplying in the wall-to-wall mirrors. The song was unfamiliar—something new, a demo he hadn't heard—but the choreography was sharp, precise, every movement landing on beat like a single organism breathing together.

JYP didn't say anything. Just stood beside Andrew, watching through the glass, his expression unreadable.

Andrew's eyes moved across the room without his permission, catching on one figure, then another. There was a tall one near the center—Tzuyu, he recognized her from album covers and variety shows—her movements so fluid they looked almost effortless, like water finding its level. Beside her, a woman with dark hair and a dancer's precision—Mina, her name surfaced from somewhere in his memory—moved with a grace that felt more like ballet than pop choreography, every line extended, every angle deliberate.

On the far side of the room, Sana caught his attention with the sheer brightness of her presence, her smile wide even mid-move, like she was having the time of her life. And there was Dahyun, pale skin glowing under the lights, her energy different—sharper, more playful, but no less captivating.

Andrew realized he'd stopped breathing.

The music hit its final note. The nine women held their ending positions for a beat, then collapsed into laughter and heavy breathing, reaching for water bottles and towels scattered across the floor. JYP waited a moment, then pushed open the door.

"Good work," he said, his voice carrying easily across the room. "That's coming together nicely."

The members straightened immediately, bowing in unison. "Park Jin-Young sunbaenim."

JYP waved them off. "Relax. I'm not here to critique—I brought a guest." He gestured to Andrew, who hovered in the doorway, suddenly very aware of his mask. "This is Kang Min-Seok. He's a—" JYP paused, the tiniest beat of hesitation. "—a colleague. Someone I've been wanting to introduce you to."

Nine pairs of eyes turned to Andrew. He felt the weight of them, the collective curiosity of women who'd spent their careers being looked at and had learned to look back with equal precision.

He bowed, keeping it shallow. "It's an honor to meet you all."

"The mask stays on?" Sana asked, tilting her head. Her voice was bright, teasing. "Are you a secret idol or something?"

"Sana," Mina murmured, a gentle warning.

"What? I'm just asking." Sana grinned at Andrew. "You have the build for it. Very mysterious."

Andrew felt heat creep up his neck. "I'm just a student," he said. "I'm not—I don't perform."

JYP stepped in smoothly. "Min-Seok is a songwriter. A very talented one." He glanced at Andrew. "Go on. Tell them what you thought of the routine."

Andrew's stomach dropped. He hadn't expected to be put on the spot, not like this, not in front of nine of the most famous women in K-pop. But JYP's gaze was steady, expectant, and Andrew realized this was a test—not of his knowledge, but of whether he'd use it.

He took a breath. Let his eyes drift back to the mirror, replaying the routine in his head.

"The formation changes at the second chorus," he said slowly, "where the two lines split into a V—there's a half-beat gap before the center steps forward. It's subtle, but it breaks the visual flow." He paused, his composer's brain already mapping the fix. "If the center moved on the and-of-three instead of the downbeat, it would land cleaner. The eye would follow without the lag."

Silence.

The nine women stared at him. Tzuyu's eyebrows had risen slightly, her expression unreadable. Dahyun had stopped mid-drink, water bottle frozen at her lips. Sana's smile had faded into something more thoughtful.

"He's right," Chaeyoung said finally, her voice carrying a note of surprise. "I've been feeling that gap all week. I thought it was just me."

"It's not just you," Andrew said, the words coming easier now. "The choreography is strong. It's the transition that's muddying it. If you shift the weight transfer—" He stopped himself, suddenly aware of how much he was saying, how far he'd stepped past the line of polite observation. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep."

JYP laughed, the sound cutting through the tension. "Overstep? Min-Seok, that was the most useful feedback I've heard in a month." He looked at the members, his expression warm. "You heard him. Let's run it again with the adjustment."

The members exchanged glances, then moved back into formation. Andrew stepped out of the doorway, pressing himself against the wall as the music started again. He watched as they hit the second chorus, saw the moment Tzuyu stepped forward on the and-of-three, the movement landing like a key clicking into a lock.

It was perfect.

The song ended. The members looked at each other, then at JYP, who was nodding slowly.

"Better," he said. "Much better." He turned to Andrew, his eyes glinting. "You see what I mean? This is why I wanted to meet you."

Andrew's heart was pounding. He'd given feedback to idols before, but always through intermediaries, always through the safe distance of a demo file or a written note. This was different. This was his voice, his ear, his name—well, a name—standing in a practice room and being heard.

"Thank you for having me," he managed. "I didn't mean to—"

"You already apologized," JYP said, cutting him off. "Stop apologizing for being good at what you do." He clapped Andrew on the shoulder again, steering him toward the door. "Come on. Let me walk you out."

Andrew glanced back once, catching Tzuyu's eye in the mirror. She held his gaze for a moment, her expression unreadable, then looked away.

The elevator ride down was quieter. JYP didn't speak until they reached the lobby, and when he did, his voice was softer, more personal.

"I meant what I said earlier. Your father and I go way back—he helped me out of a tight spot years ago, before JYP was JYP. I've never forgotten it." He looked at Andrew, his gaze steady. "So if you ever need anything—advice, access, a sounding board—you call me. Understand?"

Andrew nodded, his throat tight. "Thank you, uncle."

JYP smiled at the honorific. "That's better." He held out his hand, and Andrew shook it. "Welcome to Seoul, Min-Seok. I have a feeling you're going to do great things here."

The night air hit Andrew as he stepped out of the building, cool and clean after the recycled atmosphere inside. He pulled his mask down, letting the breeze wash over his face, and stood there for a moment, letting the evening settle into his bones.

He'd walked into SM that morning as a visitor. He'd walked out of JYP tonight as someone Park Jin-Young called family. And somewhere in between, he'd stood in front of TWICE and told them how to fix their choreography—and they'd listened.

His phone buzzed. A message from his father: How was it?

Andrew stared at the screen for a long moment. Then he typed: Good. Uncle says hi.

He pocketed the phone and started walking, the city lights blurring around him. Tomorrow he had classes. There was a USB drive in his apartment with a decade of his work on it, and a decision waiting in the wings about whether to claim any of it.

But tonight, he let himself feel it: the strange, electric thrill of being seen by people who mattered, of having his ear validated by the very artists he'd spent years writing for in secret.