The next day, we went to her label to talk with their producers and executives about our collaboration.
Thankfully, Daeun's arrangement with them was more of a distribution deal than a full idol-style contract. More creative freedom, less people pretending they controlled art just because they owned a meeting room in Gangnam and wore watches more expensive than my outfits.
And with my numbers climbing, I felt confident walking in.
Still, the room felt like a battlefield masquerading as an office—new generation laptop, scattered files, everything looking like it's given up on being organized.
"...And so this is the situation," Daeun finished explaining, while I realized I zoned out halfway through.
The producer— a guy in his 30s, black hair glued in place with enough gel to survive a natural disaster— looked between us, unsure how to react.
I didn't wait for him.
"Look, I know J-pop and K-pop are different worlds," I said. "But I'm not a pop artist. I'm a rapper."
I leaned forward slightly.
"And honestly? I'm not aiming at Japan. I'm not even aiming at Korea." I smirked. "My target is the world. Europe, the States, Latin America."
The producer's expression barely changed, but his eyes narrowed like a vulture sizing up a wounded animal.
"Global expansion is…" he paused carefully, "…an ambitious objective. Especially through a cross-country independent collaboration."
Translation: You're either a fucking genius or completely delusional.
"Since we don't directly manage Daeun's image or promotions, the restrictions are lighter," he continued professionally. "But we still need to consider how this reflects on the label itself."
I opened my mouth, but Daeun jumped in first.
Smoothly, too.
"Forsaken has already worked with artists overseas," she said calmly. "His biggest track is with an American rapper."
She glanced briefly toward me before continuing.
"And, honestly, we're both stuck at the same numbers. I think this collab could be good for both of us."
Good save.
I leaned back in my chair slightly, feeding into it immediately.
"Exactly," I said. "Nobody's really doing Japan-Korea collaborations like this outside corporate industry plants. Something this different could bridge our audiences and pull in a much bigger one."
The producer raised an eyebrow faintly.
"If your objective is simply audience crossover," he replied, "you could simply upload it on your own channel. We can recommend collaborations, but Daeun maintains full creative control over her releases. That applies to all artists under distribution partnerships."
Of course. Play it safe. Kill anything with actual vision...
Typical label shit.
I shrugged casually.
"Sure. But that's thinking too small."
That made him pause.
"The project we're planning could pull tens of millions of streams. Our content's already touching millions separately," I continued, unbothered.
Now the room actually went quiet for a second.
Not because they fully believed me.
Because they realized I believed it.
The producer folded his hands together.
"…That is still a very ambitious project," he said carefully. "So let me ask directly. What exactly do you expect from us?"
There it is.
The real negotiation.
I smirked.
"We want the music video uploaded to your YouTube channel," I said. "I'll pay for the shoot myself. You provide equipment, upload it, and promote it across your platforms—for a 25% cut of all revenue."
With the manager's 15% and Daeun's share, I'd still walk away with 30%.
Still more money than washing dishes behind a yakuza counter.
The producer stared at me for a moment.
Probably wondering whether I was an idiot teenager with delusions of grandeur…
…or the kind of idiot teenager that accidentally becomes profitable.
"It's… interesting," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "But what if the collaboration fails to meet expectations?"
Good. We jump into the fun part: the actual psychological war.
"Oh, I've got bigger plans if that happens," I replied with a faint grin. "But realistically? You guys have almost nothing to lose here."
Before he could reply, Daeun interjected smootly.
"Producer, I've never asked for anything unreasonable," she said, voice calm but carrying a quiet edge. "This deal works for everyone."
He sighed, conceding.
"I hope your international crossover project succeeds, Miss Yoon. I'll make the necessary arrangements."
Then he looked at me—longer than necessary.
"Remember, kid. Your project reflects on our image now. We reserve the right to revise the script should we find any concept that could damage the label."
I shrugged.
"Fair enough."
And that was it.
The first victory.
The collaboration got approved. The video concept got approved. The song got approved.
For once, a door in my life opened instead of slamming shut in my face.
So we wasted no time and got straight into the studio.
And honestly?
Hearing Daeun in the studio was something else entirely. People forget how different real artists sound outside layers of autotune, compression and studio reverb.
I remembered being captivated by Suzuki's voice in that empty classroom when I realized she was SIX STAR's Ai‑chan.
Daeun was even better.
She wrote the hook herself and delivered it higher than I expected, slicing cleanly across my melodic rap verse.
She sang it once, clear and steady:
"I break you, just to pull you in again
I hate it but I love the way it ends
I can't help it, you're poison in the air I breathe
And I love it, but I still cannot give in"
When she finished, she stepped beside me. I hadn't blinked in a while.
She elbowed me.
"Hey. Earth to Forsaken. You spacing out on me?"
"Sorry. Your voice is amazing without effects."
She laughed—amused, not awkward.
"Don't say things like that so casually. I might actually believe you."
I did mean it.
There just wasn't much point in saying it twice.
By the third day, we filmed the music video. The concept was mundanely simple. Moody apartment scenes. Me breaking things while staring at a photo on the desk: a selfie we took together after dinner — which, by the way, absolutely destroyed my Instagram engagement.
Daeun's scenes were filmed around clubs near Itaewon. Strangers dancing around her while she played the role of the upset girl pretending she was over someone she clearly wasn't over.
Then came the rest: the photo shattering, me running through Seoul streets with a red rose, and the final shot — me handing her the rose, her tearing it apart with tears in her eyes before shoving me hard to the ground.
She didn't hold back on the push.
"You don't fucking hold back," I groaned from the pavement.
"You wrote the scene, genius," she said with a small laugh, offering her hand. "I'm just committing to the role."
"Yeah, okay. I'm a shitty scriptwriter," I muttered while taking it.
We both ended up laughing.
By the fourth day, we wrapped everything and just wandered Seoul like normal people instead of artists obsessing over numbers and algorithms.
Daeun showed me around the city properly this time.
Cafés. Side streets. Underground shops. Random places she liked near Hongdae.
Did I mention I really loved Korean BBQ, by the way?
Anyway.
We were eating at a restaurant, in the afternoon right before my flight back to Japan, when Daeun suddenly looked up from her food.
"So… that girl. The one who's not really your girlfriend." She tilted her head slightly.
"What's the situation?"
I blinked.
Unsure if I should even tell her the whole story or just keep everything to myself.
"It's complicated," I said. "She's an idol. We can't exactly go public."
Daeun looked at me for a long second, then pointed her chopsticks at me lightly.
"And I'm guessing she treats you like you're beneath her, right?"
…Yeah.
That was painfully accurate.
Not openly. Not in the way Suzuki acted sometimes... But if I actually read between the lines?
Yeah. The gap was definitely there.
"Kinda," I admitted. "Why?"
Daeun shrugged lightly.
"I dunno," she said. "It's just... the lyrics feel like they're for someone. Girls can usually tell."
I exhaled quietly and looked away for a second.
Then I decided to redirect the conversation before my mental state started collapsing onto the table.
"What about you, Billie Eilish?" I asked. "Anyone you like?"
Daeun immediately narrowed her eyes.
"Billie Eilish? Seriously?" she deadpanned. "At least pick a Korean artist if you're gonna roast me."
Then she sighed softly.
"No," she admitted. "Nobody right now."
She played absently with her drink straw before continuing.
"I'm more focused on music than relationships. I barely have enough energy to manage myself, let alone babysit somebody else."
That sounded depressingly relatable.
"I had a thing or two before," she added calmly. "Didn't really work out."
Well, at least you got the freedom to date. If Suzuki, Kurumi, or any of the other SIX STAR girls tried taking that luxury and the media caught wind of it, they'd get crucified for it.
It's funny. Actually meeting idols dulled my hatred for them a little.
But that was exactly why I liked Daeun more than the rest. She had the guts to chase music without completely turning herself into a product. Yeah, every artist lives with restrictions.
But idols — in Japan, in Korea — they sell an illusion first, themselves second. Fans don't just consume the music, they act like they own their favorites.
Independent artists had more room to breathe. The possibility to blend much more of their own personalities in their public image and craft.
I glanced at Daeun beside me, keeping the thought to myself. No point dragging her into the graveyard in my head.
"I see."
After that, we mostly ate in silence.
Not awkward. Just comfortable enough not to force conversation into every empty second.
By around 5 PM, we left the restaurant together. Daeun offered to come with me to the airport because, according to her:
"I'm bored anyway."
I didn't expect that.
But honestly?
It felt nice.
We grabbed my stuff from the hotel first before taking an Uber toward Incheon International Airport.
The airport buzzed with movement. Korean. English. Japanese. Chinese. Voices blending together into that strange international noise only airports seem capable of creating.
My flight back to Tokyo was in about an hour.
Daeun looked at me while we stood near the security check entrance.
"So," she asked, "how was Korea?"
"It was good," I said honestly. "Still chasing America though."
She smiled gently. "Well, I hope you make that dream come true, rapper boy."
"It was fun working with you. Unexpected, but fun." She lightly bumped my shoulder.
"Maybe next time... I'll fly to Tokyo instead."
"That'd be crazy. I laughed. "My little sister would lose her mind trying to meet you."
"Maybe one day."
As the time got closer, I said, "It was a pleasure working with you, Daeun. Good luck with everything."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Don't say it like you're disappearing forever," she muttered. "Text me when you land, idiot."
"Aight, I will."
She looked at me for a second longer.
"See you around, Takumi."
Not Forsaken. Takumi.
For a moment, I just stood there as she turned around.
Watching Yoon Seoyeon's back disappear into the crowd. And that's part of what made the weight of returning to Japan settle over me like a shadow.
'Cause for the first time, I thought...
Maybe I'm worth more outside my own country.