The 'Vinyl & Plastic' music library in Itaewon was less a store and more a temple for the devout music lover. Four floors of meticulously curated records, CDs, and music books were arranged with an almost reverential aesthetic. The air smelled of old paper, clean vinyl, and expensive coffee from the minimalist café on the ground floor. The patrons were all chic, serious-looking individuals who browsed the collection with the quiet intensity of scholars in a library. It was the perfect hunting ground.
Han Yoo-jin felt deeply out of place. On the outside, he tried to project an air of casual sophistication, dressed in a simple black turtleneck and dark jeans—an outfit he hoped made him look more like a music enthusiast and less like a desperate CEO on a covert mission. But on the inside, his nerves were a tangled, screaming mess. He had been browsing the 70s rock section for nearly an hour, his fingers tracing the spines of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd albums, his eyes darting towards the entrance every thirty seconds.
In his bag, he carried his arsenal: his phone containing the precious demo of "My Room," a high-end portable DAC (Digital-to-Analog Converter), and a pair of audiophile-grade open-back headphones. Each item had been carefully selected for this operation. This wasn't just about the music; it was about signaling that he was part of the tribe.
Finally, he spotted him. Simon Vance walked in, looking exactly as he did in his videos, only more imposing in person. He wore a well-tailored grey coat, had a pair of expensive Sennheiser headphones draped around his neck like a stethoscope, and carried an aura of intellectual arrogance that seemed to repel idle conversation. He moved with a quiet purpose, heading directly for the second floor, toward the vintage jazz section. The hunt was on.
Yoo-jin gave him a five-minute head start before following, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. He couldn't just walk up to him; the direct approach was suicide. He needed a pretext, a plausible reason for their worlds to collide. He needed to manufacture an organic moment.
He saw his opportunity near the listening stations at the far end of the floor. Simon was deeply engrossed, meticulously examining the pressing quality and sleeve notes of a rare Miles Davis album. Yoo-jin moved to a nearby station, a sleek white console with a built-in turntable and headphone jack. With deliberate, almost theatrical movements, he set up his own gear. He took out the Chord Mojo DAC—a small, black brick with glowing, marble-like buttons that was an object of desire for serious audiophiles—and connected it to his phone. He plugged in his own headphones and pretended to become absorbed in his music, waiting for his moment.
As Simon finished his inspection of the record and began to move down the aisle, passing directly behind Yoo-jin's station, Yoo-jin executed his plan. Feigning a moment of clumsiness as he went to adjust a setting, he "accidentally" knocked the DAC off the console. It clattered onto the polished concrete floor with a sound that seemed shockingly loud in the quiet room.
Simon Vance stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes, which had been dismissively scanning the record spines, flicked down to the small black box on the floor. A flicker of recognition, of surprise, crossed his otherwise stoic face. He looked up at Yoo-jin.
"Careful with that," he said, his English accent as crisp and sharp as a new vinyl needle. "That's a Chord Mojo 2. Not a toy."
Yoo-jin looked up, feigning embarrassment and surprise. "Oh! You know it?" he replied in fluent English, a skill he had honed dealing with international partners at Stellar. "I'm surprised. Most people here just use whatever cheap earbuds came with their phone."
"Most people don't actually listen to music," Simon replied dismissively, a hint of disdain in his voice. He was about to turn and walk away, his brief moment of shared interest already expiring.
"I couldn't agree more," Yoo-jin said quickly, seizing the opening. He was feeding Simon's own philosophy back to him. "They just consume content. Especially here in Seoul. The entire industry is so… manufactured. Soulless."
That stopped him again. Simon turned back, his head tilted slightly, studying Yoo-jin with a new, analytical curiosity. "You're a producer?" he asked, his tone skeptical but engaged. "You have the look of one."
"I run a small, independent label," Yoo-jin admitted, keeping his tone humble. "Trying to do something different in this city."
A look of profound weariness crossed Simon's face. A sigh escaped his lips. "Ah. I see. And let me guess," he said, his voice flat with condescending boredom. "You have a 'different' and 'special' artist, and now that you have my attention, you want me to listen to her song. Don't waste your breath. I'm not interested."
"No, not at all," Yoo-jin lied, his delivery smooth as silk. This was the most critical part of the gambit—the reverse-psychology pitch. "You'd hate her. Honestly."
Simon's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "Excuse me?"
"You would," Yoo-jin insisted, meeting his gaze directly. "The song is raw. It's unpolished in its emotion. It's a debut track from a complete unknown who was kicked out of the trainee system for having a 'bad attitude.' It's too dark for the radio, too emotional for the clubs. It's the absolute antithesis of everything that's popular in K-Pop right now. Commercially speaking, it's probably a failure waiting to happen."
He was painting a perfect picture, using every keyword he knew would appeal to Simon's elitist, anti-establishment ego. He was presenting him not with a product to be reviewed, but with a potential discovery, a hidden gem that only someone with his superior taste could appreciate. He was baiting the hook with Simon's own arrogance.
Simon stared at him, a complex mixture of suspicion and intrigue warring on his face. He was being challenged, his famous discernment questioned. "You have a remarkable amount of nerve," he said slowly. "To stand there and tell me what I would and would not like."
"You're right. I apologize," Yoo-jin said, dipping his head in a gesture of deference. "But I stand by it. This song isn't for everyone. It requires… active listening. A certain palate."
He had thrown down the gauntlet. Simon stared at him for a long, silent moment, then let out another sigh, this one of grudging acceptance. "You've got ninety seconds of my time before I lose my patience and walk away," he said, calling Yoo-jin's bluff. "If I hate it in the first thirty seconds, and I assure you, I probably will, I'm leaving. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Yoo-jin said, his heart hammering in his chest so hard he was sure Simon could hear it. He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he unplugged his headphones from the DAC and offered them to the critic.
Simon took the headphones, his movements deliberate, and placed them over his ears. He leaned against the console, his face a perfect mask of cynical boredom, already prepared to be disappointed. Yoo-jin took a deep breath, said a silent prayer to whatever gods governed music and madness, and pressed play on his phone.
The next ninety seconds stretched into an eternity. Yoo-jin watched Simon's face like a hawk, desperately trying to read every imperceptible twitch, every flicker of his eyes.
The first ten seconds, as Ji-won's cold, dissonant piano chords filled the headphones: Nothing. No reaction at all. Stone-faced.
Twenty seconds, as Da-eun's raw, breathy, almost fragile voice entered with the first line: A slight, almost microscopic furrow of his brow. It was the only sign he was even listening.
The thirty-second mark came and went. He didn't take the headphones off. He didn't walk away. A tiny spark of hope ignited in Yoo-jin's chest.
Forty-five seconds, as the beat dropped and the song's dark, aggressive energy swelled: Simon's eyes, which had been scanning the room with detached disinterest, closed. It was a small, simple gesture, but it meant everything. He was no longer just hearing the song. He was inside of it.
The ninety seconds were up. The song continued to play, but Simon didn't move. He didn't open his eyes. He let the entire first verse and the powerful, defiant chorus wash over him. Finally, as the song faded into a brief instrumental break, he opened his eyes. His expression was completely, utterly unreadable. There was no flicker of pleasure, no hint of disgust. Just a deep, analytical stillness that was more unnerving than any obvious reaction.
He took off the headphones and handed them back to Yoo-jin. He looked him directly in the eye, his face a perfect poker mask.
"You were right," Simon said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion.
Yoo-jin's heart sank into his stomach. Right that I'd hate it? It's over. I overplayed my hand.
"I've never heard anything quite like it in this country," Simon continued, his tone still impossible to decipher. He gave Yoo-jin a final, long look, then turned and began to walk away, leaving Yoo-jin frozen in a state of agonizing uncertainty.
Then, just before he rounded the corner of a towering shelf of records, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, his expression still unreadable.
"Send me the lossless WAV file," he said. "My email is on my channel's about page. And Han Yoo-jin? Don't ever ambush me like that again."
He disappeared into the labyrinth of vinyl, leaving Yoo-jin standing alone at the listening station, his body trembling with a massive adrenaline crash. His audacious, insane plan had worked. He had hooked the unhookable fish. But as he stood there, his heart pounding, he had absolutely no idea if he had just found his company's savior or handed the public executioner his axe.