Episode 11: Shadows Return

The shop’s fan buzzed lazily overhead, its rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Dust swirled in the slanted light filtering through the blinds, turning the air into a soft amber haze.

Ji-yoo leaned over the mixing console, her reflection faint on the glass surface — tired eyes, lips slightly parted, a ghost of someone who once lived louder. The headphones rested around her neck, still warm from use.

The final mix of Time Stains looped in the background.

“You were the clock, and I was the crack—We kept moving, but never went back.”


Her voice trembled in the recording. Not because of the melody, but because every lyric was cut from something she’d tried to forget.

Ji-yoo closed her eyes, letting the last notes fade into silence. “That’s it,” she murmured. “That’s the one.”

From behind her came Marco’s voice, low and distracted. “The compression’s off on your second chorus.”

She looked back. Marco was half-buried in wires and mic stands, sweat on his brow, his gray shirt streaked with dust and coffee stains.

“You always say that when you don’t want to admit it’s done,” she teased.

He smirked. “No, I say that when it’s almost done. You know—like every other song before this one.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you love that.” He reached for a cable. “Gives you something to scold.”

She leaned against the counter, watching him fumble with the mic stand that had seen too many nights and too few replacements. “You really think this one’s different?”

He paused, straightening. “Time Stains? Yeah. It sounds... heavier. Like you’re finally saying something you meant to say years ago.”

Ji-yoo looked down at the console, her fingers tracing one of the faders absently. “Maybe I am.”

Before Marco could reply, the bell above the door chimed.

She turned automatically, expecting the usual—a student looking for old vinyl, a curious kid wanting to record a demo.

Instead, a man stepped inside.

He was Korean—mid-thirties, clean-cut, a little too polished for the cracked-tile aesthetic of Loop Record Shop. His blazer was crisp, shoes spotless, hair neatly styled in that professional Seoul fashion: corporate but charismatic.

His eyes scanned the space quickly — the posters, the clutter, the dust — then fixed on her.

“Kim Ji-yoo?” he asked, voice calm, assured. The syllables rolled naturally, but his English carried the distinct edge of a Seoul accent.

Her muscles locked before her mind caught up. “Who’s asking?”

The man smiled, practiced and confident. “Kwon Taemin,” he said, offering a small business card. “A&R for Horizon Sound.”

She stared at the card but didn’t take it.

Taemin didn’t seem bothered. “We’re scouting new artists in Southeast Asia,” he continued, glancing around. “Your name came up more than once.”

Ji-yoo’s jaw tightened. “You’re scouting me?”

He nodded. “We’ve seen your independent uploads — Looped Hearts, Mixtapes and Memories, even this one…” He gestured toward the speakers. “Time Stains, right?”

Marco looked up from the back. “You’ve heard that already?”

Taemin turned toward him, offering a courteous nod. “Hard not to. It’s been floating around indie forums for weeks. Beautiful work.”

Marco’s grin spread. “Hey, thanks, man. We’re still polishing it, but—”

Ji-yoo interrupted sharply. “How did you find me?”

Taemin turned his attention back to her. “We track trends, regional charts, social traffic. You’re gaining traction again, Ji-yoo. Quietly, but steadily.”

The air around her thickened. “I’m not interested,” she said flatly.

“Not even in what I came to offer?”

She crossed her arms. “You’re wasting your time.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You walked away from an entire industry. That doesn’t mean it walked away from you.”

Her fingers curled into her palms. “That industry almost killed me.”

Marco frowned. “Wait, what’s going on?”

Taemin ignored him gently, his tone softening. “We want to reintroduce you. Not as the idol who fell—but as the woman who survived. A new image. A new sound. Creative freedom. Ownership. This time, you’d write your own story.”

Ji-yoo’s breath caught. “Rebranding,” she muttered bitterly.

He smiled faintly. “If that’s what it takes to bring you back, yes.”

Silence fell. The hum of the fan filled it. Outside, a jeepney honked twice and rolled by.

Marco finally stepped forward. “Hey, man, she already has a project. We’re building something here. She doesn’t need—”

Taemin held up a hand. “I’m not here to argue. Just to offer a door. Whether she walks through it or not is up to her.”

He set the business card on the counter, the white rectangle stark against the stained wood. Then, before either of them could say another word, he bowed politely and walked out.

The door closed with a soft chime, the sound lingering longer than it should have.

Ji-yoo stared at the card.The text gleamed in the light:

“Horizon SoundExecutive A&R – Kwon Taemin”


Beneath it, in neat handwriting:
“You deserve a second first chance.”


Marco glanced at her, brow furrowed. “What the hell was that about?”

She exhaled, forcing a faint laugh. “Just another label scout. Happens sometimes.”

He studied her face. “You sure? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Maybe I did,” she said quietly.

Her voice was so soft he didn’t hear the tremor in it — or see the way her hand slipped the card into her pocket like it was something dangerous.


The night wrapped around Loop Record Shop like a soft, unbroken loop.The only light came from the glow of their equipment — soft blues and greens blinking in rhythm with their latest track.

Ji-yoo sat cross-legged on the floor beside the mic stand, notebook open, pages filled with half-erased lyrics and crossed-out verses.Marco was at the console, one headphone pressed to his ear, adjusting levels with surgical focus.

“Okay,” he said, leaning back. “Run it again from the bridge. Try not to look like you’re dying this time.”

She laughed under her breath. “I am dying. Of exhaustion.”

“Good. That’s the mood we’re going for.”

She shot him a glare. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said with a grin, “you still show up every night.”

She stood, walking up to the mic, the wire brushing against her arm.“Don’t make me regret it.”

The track started — a faint pulse of bass and lo-fi drums. Ji-yoo closed her eyes and let the music swallow her thoughts.She sang quietly at first, then with more force as the melody climbed, every line trembling between vulnerability and control.

When the final chorus faded, the silence felt like a held breath.

Marco turned from the console slowly. “That was it.”

She looked at him, panting lightly. “You mean that?”

He nodded. “Yeah. That one felt true.”

She smiled, faintly. “It’s supposed to.”

For a moment, there was peace. Just the hum of the fan, the faint smell of coffee, the comfort of creation.But it didn’t last.

Every time Ji-yoo glanced at the counter, she could still see the ghost of the business card. Horizon Sound. Kwon Taemin. Second first chance.

She’d tucked it away, but it kept surfacing in her mind like a splinter she couldn’t dig out.



They took a break around midnight.Marco sprawled on the couch, strumming his old acoustic guitar — one string missing, the rest slightly out of tune.Ji-yoo leaned against the counter, sipping cold coffee that had gone bitter hours ago.

“Hey,” Marco said without looking up, “you ever think about how weird it is that we’re here?”

She blinked. “Here where?”

He gestured vaguely around the shop. “Here. Making music. Again. You could’ve left this scene years ago. I mean, you were—” He hesitated. “You are Kim Ji-yoo. The Kim Ji-yoo. And I’m just a guy who runs soundchecks and burns toast.”

She smiled weakly. “You’re also the guy who mixed a single in one night and made it sound like a heartbreak I hadn’t admitted yet.”

He chuckled. “Flattery. Dangerous tactic.”

“I’m serious.” She placed the coffee down. “You’re the first person who didn’t treat me like a headline.”

He shrugged, eyes still on his guitar. “You stopped being a headline the moment you walked in here. Now you’re just Ji-yoo. My co-writer who complains about humidity and sings like she’s bleeding.”

She let out a soft laugh. “You make that sound poetic.”

“It is poetic,” he said, glancing up with a half-smile. “You just don’t see it.”

Their eyes met for a moment too long. Ji-yoo looked away first.

“Marco…” she began. “If—hypothetically—someone offered me a chance to… go back. To bigger shows. Bigger stages. Would you think I’m selfish if I took it?”

He set the guitar aside, his tone shifting. “Go back? To Korea?”

She hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He leaned forward, studying her. “Depends. Are you running from something, or running toward something?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe both.”

Marco ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “If it’s about fame, I get it. You didn’t exactly leave that world on good terms.”

“It’s not about fame,” she said quickly. “It’s about… proving I’m not the wreck everyone thinks I am.”

He nodded slowly. “Then you don’t need a contract for that. You already did it. Every song we make here, every gig we play — that is your comeback.”

She smiled faintly. “You really believe that?”

He grinned. “Belief’s all I’ve got. Well, that and a busted amp.”

She laughed, but the sound cracked. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nah,” he said softly. “Just trying to keep up.”



Later that night, they climbed up to the rooftop, their nightly ritual after long recording sessions.The city below was alive — neon flickers, distant horns, the chatter of nearby streets. The air smelled of rain, though the clouds hadn’t broken yet.

Marco handed her a can of soda. “For the star of the night.”

She tapped her can against his. “We both know you did all the work.”

He smiled. “You sang the truth. I just pressed buttons.”

They sat side by side, feet dangling over the ledge.

For a long while, they didn’t speak. The city hummed beneath them, a restless lullaby of lights and sound.

Then Marco broke the silence. “You ever wonder if this—what we’re doing—will actually mean something to anyone?”

Ji-yoo looked at the glowing skyline. “It already does. To us.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But I mean… what if it could mean more?”

She turned to him. “More how?”

He shrugged. “Like... something bigger. Something that changes people. Maybe we could tour. Record properly. Make an album.”

Her heart twisted. He’s still dreaming, she thought. And I’m about to wake him up.

She forced a smile. “You think people would listen?”

“They already are,” he said. “You just don’t see the numbers. But one day soon, you will.”

Ji-yoo took a sip of soda to mask the lump in her throat.

“What if,” she said quietly, “one of us gets the chance before the other?”

He tilted his head. “Then one of us runs the soundboard, and the other goes on stage.”

“Would you really be okay with that?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “As long as you don’t forget where you started.”

Her gaze drifted down to the street, where a bus rolled past with a billboard glowing faintly — an ad for Horizon Sound’s new artist program. Her heart sank.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I’ll remember.”

He caught her tone. “Hey.”

She looked up.

“You okay?”

She nodded too quickly. “Just thinking.”

“About the festival?” he asked, teasing.

She smiled weakly. “Yeah. The festival.”




When they went back downstairs, Marco fell asleep almost instantly on the couch, arms folded across his chest.

Ji-yoo stayed up, the lights dimmed, the hum of the equipment steady like a heartbeat. She stared at the mic — their mic — and then at her phone.

She opened her voice recorder, hovered over the button, then stopped. Not yet.

Instead, she glanced toward Marco and whispered to the empty air,“I wish you’d tell me to stay.”

He shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling something that sounded almost like her name.

Ji-yoo turned off the lights.

In the dark, the silence pressed closer than ever.

Ji-yoo didn’t sleep that night.

The city outside her apartment never truly went dark. Headlights and streetlamps carved slow-moving shadows along the walls, flickering over the small desk where her laptop glowed faintly.

On it sat the business card.

 Horizon Sound – Kwon Taemin“You deserve a second first chance.”


Her fingers hovered over it, tracing the embossed logo. It was a strange thing — how a single rectangle of paper could feel heavier than the past three years of survival.

She remembered her last night in Seoul. The rain pelting down as she walked out of the building, her reflection distorted in every puddle, security guards pretending not to look at her. Cameras flashing even as she begged them to stop.

That was the night she stopped singing.

Until Loop Record Shop. Until Marco.

Now, Horizon wanted her back.

Her laptop pinged with a new notification — an email draft she’d opened earlier, addressed to Kwon Taemin.Subject: Re: Horizon Proposal – Kim Ji-yoo.The cursor blinked, patient and silent.

She didn’t type a single word.

Instead, she opened her voice memo app.

Her reflection flickered in the screen as she hit record.
“Dear Marco,” she began softly, her voice trembling slightly.“If you ever hear this, it means I left before I could say everything.”


She paused, taking a shaky breath.

 “But I didn’t leave to run. I left to carry you further than your body would let you go.”


A faint laugh escaped her.

 “That sounds dramatic, huh? But it’s true. You gave me music again, Marco. You gave me me again. Every chord we played, every off-key rehearsal, every dumb argument about EQ levels — I needed all of it.”


She looked toward her small window. The skyline shimmered faintly through the haze, Manila wrapped in neon quiet.

 “I used to think I lost everything when I left Korea. My voice, my purpose, my name. But now... now I think I was just waiting for a new song. And maybe Horizon can’t give me that. Not like you did.”


She stopped the recording for a moment, swallowing hard. Then pressed record again.

 “But I’m not leaving yet. We still have one more stage. One last beat. And I’m not wasting a single second of it.”


She saved the file. Title: If I Go – Draft One.Then she stared at the screen until her eyes burned.



The next morning, sunlight spilled into the Loop Record Shop. Dust motes floated lazily, catching in the warm air as the door creaked open.

Marco was already there — headphones around his neck, tapping a pencil against a notebook.

“Morning,” he said without looking up.

“Morning,” she echoed.

“You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“Did you?”

He grinned. “Barely. The mix was haunting me.”

She laughed quietly and set her bag down. “You and your ghosts.”

He gestured toward the booth. “Speaking of — want to record another take? I think we can make Time Stains hit harder if we layer your bridge twice. You up for it?”

Ji-yoo hesitated at the doorway to the booth. “Yeah. I’m up for it.”

As she slipped the headphones on, Marco’s voice came through the intercom. “You good?”

“Always.”

“Then let’s make it count.”

The track began — her own voice from last night echoing back at her.

“You were the clock, and I was the crack—We kept moving, but never went back…”


She sang again, matching it, doubling it, her tone sharper, clearer, stronger. Every lyric hit like a confession she was finally ready to let go of.

Through the glass, she saw Marco watching her — smiling, proud. And for a moment, she thought: Maybe this is enough.

When the last note faded, the silence was softer this time.

Marco leaned into the mic. “Perfect. You nailed it.”

She smiled, lifting the headphones off. “Guess I finally caught up to your standards.”

He chuckled. “Nah. You’ve been ahead for a while now.”

She stepped out of the booth, walking past the console, where her reflection flickered faintly against the dark screen.

“Hey, Marco?” she said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“If someone offered me a chance to go back... not to what I was, but something new — would you tell me to take it?”

He frowned. “Depends. Would you be happy there?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t know yet.”

“Then stay until you do,” he said simply.

Her breath caught. Simple words — but they hit harder than any offer ever could.

She smiled, the kind of small, tired smile that felt like hope. “Okay.”



That night, after they closed the shop, Marco fell asleep again in the sound booth — slouched in his chair, hand still on the console, faint snore under his breath.

Ji-yoo walked in quietly, sitting beside him on the floor. The room was filled with the faint hum of the equipment and the distant echo of their latest track looping on low volume.

She looked at him — the lines of exhaustion, the faint bruise on his wrist from carrying gear, the unspoken loyalty in every late night they’d shared.

“Idiot,” she murmured fondly. “You keep saving me, and you don’t even know it.”

She rested her head on her knees, listening to the hum of Time Stains.

Because no matter what Horizon promised — creative control, relaunches, rebranding — none of it could recreate this.This messy, fragile, beautiful thing they’d built between vinyl dust and sleepless nights.

And if the world ever came knocking again, she’d open the door on her terms this time.



The city outside was alive with distant music — karaoke echoes from a nearby street, a motorbike humming past, someone laughing under neon light.

Inside the shop, two dreamers slept — one on a couch, one on the floor — as their song played softly into the dawn.

For the first time in years, Ji-yoo wasn’t afraid of the morning.

Because she wasn’t running anymore.She was home.



End of Episode 11—”Shadows Return”