No More Thug Life, I’m Playing Music

Episode 39: The Madman Above the Runner (1)

Not long ago, while organizing my desk, I found an old diary.
It was from when Kevin was nine years old.
He had started it as part of a school assignment.
There wasn’t much in it—just mundane notes like how many times he played a specific Czerny exercise, which études he practiced, or names like Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, and Liszt.
It was entirely about piano.
There were no entries about what he ate or how he played, the usual things kids write about.
Eventually, like most children his age, he stopped keeping the diary.

It was a thin notebook filled with trivial content, yet the final sentence, scrawled in Kevin’s handwriting, remained vividly etched in my memory.
That sentence was…

****

“No, I won’t.”
I spoke to the reporter.

Her eyebrows twitched. It wasn’t the answer she wanted, and she didn’t hide her disappointment.
“I see…”
She turned off her recorder and set her pen down.

Looking at me with an expression that said, Let’s have an honest talk now, she began,
“Mr. Baek.”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Are you aware that Korea has produced many world-class pianists who have won international competitions?”

“Yes.”

“Among them are several young pianists who are very active right now.”

There was Jo Sanghyuk, the most famous pianist from Korea, still on a global tour after winning the Chopin Competition.
Kwon Yeseol, who won the Tchaikovsky Competition as the youngest-ever victor, the same age as Jung Seojoon.
The twin siblings Im Hajoon and Im Harim, who tied for second place—there was no first place—at the Queen Elisabeth Competition.
“…And Yoo Ahra, Choi Woochul… The list of Korean pianists placing in major competitions goes on.”

The reporter licked her lips and continued,
“The reason I’m bringing this up is… among the rising pianists active today, you’re the only one without an international competition title, Mr. Baek. Because of this, naturally, your media exposure is limited.”

She glanced briefly behind me at Ducheol and Choo Minji, then continued,
“Forgive me for saying this, but… because of that, there are rumors…”

“Reporter!”
Choo Minji’s sharp voice came from behind me.
“This is going too far….”

“It’s fine.”
I raised a hand to stop her. Then I met the reporter’s gaze directly.

“You mean the rumors questioning whether my skills are overrated?”

“Ha-ha… Having heard you perform myself, I know that’s absolutely not true. But other pianists have strong fan bases, and results are tangible….”

“I understand.”

“Then may I ask again? Despite your undeniable talent, why don’t you participate in international competitions?”

“Hmm.”
I took a sip of the barley tea beside me and set it down.

“To be honest, I’m tired of hearing that question.”

“I figured.”

“Yes, it’s the most frequent question I get since I started—or rather, restarted—my musical career. The second is whether I’ll study abroad.”

When I smiled first, the reporter followed suit. Seeing her relaxed expression, I continued calmly.

“Recently, I found a diary I kept as a child.”

“…A diary?”

The unexpected mention of my childhood lit up the reporter’s eyes. It was one of the topics I had specifically asked her not to bring up before the interview—my childhood and the years I had disappeared from the scene.

“In that diary, every entry was about piano. I wrote about having to practice, preparing for competitions, and so on.”

“Well, kids that age are often like that, aren’t they…?”

“True, because they’re young. But do you know what I wrote in the very last line of that diary?”

“Hmm… Maybe something like, ‘Piano is fun’? Or, ‘It’s easy’?”

“I wrote, ‘I wish my fingers would break.’”

“……”

The reporter’s eyes widened. So did those of the staff nearby.

“That’s what a nine-year-old child thought.”
I spoke calmly, as if recounting someone else’s story.

“Reading that, I suddenly wondered, Was it just me? All those kids called prodigies, locked in tiny practice rooms all day, preparing for competitions. Did they all think the same thing?”

“Ah…”

“Why are we so determined to turn something as joyful as music into a competition? Why does it have to be about rankings? Reporter.”

“Yes…?”

“I can’t remember much from when I was young, but now, I play music because I want to. I perform on stage because I enjoy it.”

I took another sip of barley tea.

“But to stand on stage, I need a title? Sometimes, I wonder if it’s only in our country that there’s such an obsession with competitions. Is it because we produce so many winners?”

“Well, that’s…”

“Winning has its own problems. People focus on you at first, but their interest fades quickly. Even if you win, there’s always the next winner, and the one after that. The spotlight eventually shifts to them.”

The reporter seemed hesitant, but I didn’t stop.

“Children and adults alike, it’s all about rankings, rankings… That’s why so many performers leave the country. Because people only remember the winners.”

“Ah…”

“You mentioned many young pianists earlier.”

“Yes…”

“Are any of them still performing actively, apart from the ones you named?”

“Well… there are a few…”

“I want to make this clear through this interview.”
Looking the reporter straight in the eye, I said,

“I won’t be entering competitions for the time being.”

The reporter nodded quickly.
“Understood… It seems you’ve been holding a lot in…”

I handed her the barley tea beside me, noticing her shrinking back slightly.

“I’m sorry. I got a bit worked up. Every time I hear someone call my skills overrated, it gets under my skin.”

“Ah… I’m sorry too….”

“No, it’s fine. Just write a good article, okay? Make it sound positive.”

“Yes… But you haven’t clearly stated your reason for not entering competitions. What should I write?”

I tapped my notebook with the pen.
“Oh, right.”
I smiled awkwardly and continued.
“Because I want to have fun.”

“…Pardon?”
The reporter furrowed her brows. Behind her, I could hear the startled breaths of the staff.

“Exactly as I said. For me, music is the most enjoyable game in the world. I don’t particularly want to spend weeks abroad for competitions, nor do I want to be locked up in a practice room all day.”

“Ah… I see….”

“Yes, and school is fun too. My friends like me so much, you see. So much so that my teachers entrusted me with the important position of student council leader. Haha.”

The last part was rehearsed—something I’d prepared to refute the recent rumors online about me being a bully. Since Choo Minji cut me off earlier, I’d decided to slip it in here.
Thankfully, the reporter jotted it down.

“Ah… So you get along well with your friends… Student council leader… Right, then I suppose we’ll wrap up the interview here….”

“Please make sure to mention subscribing and liking the article in your write-up. And if you could subtly include this drink in the photos, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sorry? Oh… yes, yes. Director, could you capture this as well…?”

I heard a faint mutter among the staff: “This guy is completely insane….” But I cleanly ignored it. It wasn’t loud enough to warrant a response.

“Once again, I’d like to emphasize—I get along very well with my friends.”

****

The bustling halls of Poonggwang High School.
Students were gathered in small groups, chatting away.
The vibrant laughter of youth filled the air, as they shared common interests and gossiped about games, soccer, celebrities, dramas—who liked who, who fought and made up.
Trivial topics that they treated as the most fascinating news in the world.

Amid this lively scene, one figure walked alone.
That figure… was me.

Move aside, move aside….

“Ah, hey, Seojoon.”
“Wow, the weather’s really nice today, huh?”

A few students greeted me awkwardly, but that was all.
There was a palpable distance.

“…Damn it.”

This wasn’t the school life I had imagined. Somewhere along the way, it had become no different from my past.
But who was to blame?
This was all my doing.

I walked through the students, who parted like the Red Sea, and headed to the sports field.
The boys, who had been enthusiastically shouting and playing sports, fell silent as soon as they saw me.
I crossed the stifling quiet and made my way to the auditorium.

On the way, I passed what used to be a secluded area where students would smoke. Now, the head teacher was there, humming a tune as he tended to the flowerbeds.
When our eyes met, he gave me a wink and a thumbs-up.

Unable to ignore him, I gave a curt nod and moved on.
When I arrived at the auditorium, the founding members of the “No Redemption” group—now third-years—were waiting for me.

Their numbers had halved.
The ones who had been more academically inclined had left to focus on college entrance exams.
They were released under the condition that they’d return if they caused any trouble.

“Captain, you’re here early.”
“Can’t we just wait in the hallway?”
“Yeah, let’s head in together.”

Though their words sounded casual, they all gave me a short bow.
It wasn’t easy for kids our age to show such deference, but they seemed used to it by now.

“Is everyone here?”

“Yeah, they’ve been here for a while.”

“Let’s go in.”

I opened the tightly shut main doors, and a deep, booming voice echoed out.

“Welcome, Captain!”

About twenty boys lined up in a row bowed at a perfect ninety-degree angle.
Their hair was dyed in various bright colors, and some had tattoos on their arms.
They didn’t look like typical students, but their uniforms were neat and spotless.
Their nametags indicated they were first and second-years.

“Take your seats.”

“Yes, Captain!”

These were the new recruits in the orchestra club.
The head teacher had begged me to take them in—they were students so troubled even the teachers had given up on them.
At first, they acted out to prove their reputation, but I quickly crushed their defiance.

To maintain order, I implemented a familiar method: a hierarchy based on grade level, accompanied by a strict code of conduct.
The orchestra club became a system to unite potential troublemakers under one banner.

At first, many complained that it created tension among the students.
But once school violence visibly disappeared, those complaints vanished too.
All this had been achieved within a month of me becoming student council leader.

“Phew…”

Despite my efforts to create a problem-free school, the general student body still seemed to view me as the root of all evil.

I climbed onto the conductor’s podium and took a seat.

“Report.”

At my command, the third-years, grouped by instrument sections, stood up one by one to deliver their reports.
They succinctly summarized the week’s practices, noting where they started, what they worked on, and what needed improvement.

When the reports ended, a tense silence filled the room.
All the members sat upright, their eyes fixed on me.

“Alright. Continue as planned… Oh, is there anyone here from 2nd Year, Class 2?”

“Yes, Captain! That’s me!”

A student raised his hand. Next to him, a third-year glared sharply, as if to say, Stand up when you speak.

“Sorry, sorry!”
The student shot to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head deeply.
The glaring third-year beside him muttered in a low voice, “You’re not going to pull yourself together?”

“……”
Moments like this made me question why I was bothering with these kids.

“Enough, sit down. Anyway, a new transfer student is joining your class tomorrow. Apparently, he’s a bit of a troublemaker. Keep an eye on him and don’t start anything.”

“Yes, understood!”

“And let’s make sure to handle today’s filming with spirit.”

“Yes, Captain!”

“Let’s shout the motto and start setting up the instruments.”

I stood up, and everyone quickly followed. I lightly clenched my fist and tapped it against my chest.

“Gosari.”

The members mimicked me, striking their chests in unison and shouting with fervor:

“Thank you! We love you! We understand!!”

“Dismissed.”

“Dismissed!”

The members immediately sprang into action. I stepped down from the podium and headed straight to the second floor.

There, in a seat overlooking the first floor, sat Choo Minji, engrossed in her phone.
Hearing my footsteps, she looked up.

“Boss.”

“What.”

“Every time I see it, I wonder… do the teachers really let this slide?”

“They seem to appreciate it.”

“They’re all crazy….”

“By the way, looks like you skipped school again.”

“Boss, how many times do I have to tell you? College isn’t like high school. If I don’t want to go, I don’t have to.”

“Ah… really?”

It sounded odd, but I accepted it for now. I’d never been to college, so what did I know?

“Anyway, forget that. Let’s talk business.”

“Go ahead.”

Minji quickly launched into her updates—advertising opportunities that had come in through our channel, performance offers, and other details.
Since I didn’t have a management company, Minji handled everything herself. Ducheol, though he insisted on calling himself a manager, really only drove us around.

“The university kids are here.”

As she spoke, students from Korea University started trickling in.

“Welcome!”

The orchestra club members greeted them with utmost politeness.

“Boss.”

“What.”

“You say ‘No Redemption,’ but you’ve turned them into this.”

“Redemption? Hardly. I’ve always said people don’t change.”

“Pfft….”

Minji sighed and looked at me.

“People only believe what they see. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you feel about this content we’re creating?”

“It’s going smoothly.”

“Smooth, my foot. Honestly, it’s boring as hell.”

“……”

“When we first started Episode 1, I thought it was doomed. The kids were rebelling, the Korea University students were annoyed, and the viewers were flaming us in the comments. But surprisingly, the views were decent. Probably because everyone tuned in to see exactly that chaos.”

“Yeah, that’s why I thought this would work.”

“But now?”

“What about now?”

I followed her gaze down to the first floor. Both the Korea University students and the orchestra club members were working enthusiastically. They were teaching and learning earnestly, and the atmosphere was friendly.

“It’s too bland. There’s no tension, no drama.”

“So?”

“When does this project wrap up?”

“At the student music festival in the fall.”

“Hm… At this rate, it won’t last until then. We need something to boost the views and stir up some buzz.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m against it.”

“Ah! Why?”

“I can’t let those kids go wild again.”

Minji bit her lip slightly at my response, probably recalling just how awful those kids had been.

“Is there… another way?”

“I have one idea, but it’ll cost quite a bit.”

“Money? Speaking of which… how about we do a collaboration?”

“With who?”

“Look who just walked in.”

Right then, the auditorium doors burst open, and a cheerful voice rang out.

“Hello, everybody~!”

It was Han Yeoreum. She was wearing a sleeveless top and short shorts, flaunting her stunning figure without a hint of hesitation.

“Oh, when did she get back to Korea?”

“Yesterday. She said she texted you.”

“I must’ve missed it. Too many unread messages.”

“Wow, Mr. Popular. Anyway….”
Minji draped her hand lightly on my shoulder, smiling slyly.

“Who’s the most famous performer in Korea right now?”

“Cho….”

“Han Yeoreum. Have you seen her Instagram follower count? It’s insane.”

“Ah….”

“We’re going to leverage the rumors about you and her.”

Before Minji could even finish her sentence, Han Yeoreum, who had been scanning the room, suddenly raised her hand and shouted,

“Kevin! Keviiin~! Long time no see~!”