Han Yoo-jin took a slow, deliberate breath, the sound unnaturally loud in the tomb-like silence of the office. His team was gathered around him, huddled close to the laptop screen as if for warmth. Ahn Da-eun stood just behind his right shoulder, her arms crossed tightly, a mask of forced indifference failing to hide the tension in her jaw. Go Min-young was on his left, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with a terror that was almost prayerful. Even Kang Ji-won had abandoned his fortress of synthesizers, looming behind them all like a wary gargoyle. Yoo-jin's finger, trembling almost imperceptibly, moved to the trackpad and clicked the play button.
The video opened. The familiar, severe face of Simon Vance filled the screen. He was sitting in his usual chair, a minimalist grey background behind him, a cup of steaming tea at his side. He stared into the camera for a few seconds, his expression as severe and unreadable as ever, letting the silence build.
"I have a rule," he began, his crisp British accent cutting through the speakers. "A very simple, very important rule. I do not listen to unsolicited music submissions. My channel is a journal of my discoveries, not a platform for aspiring artists to seek free promotion. It is a rule I have maintained for seven years without exception."
He paused, taking a deliberate sip of his tea. "This week, that rule was violated. I was… accosted, for lack of a better word, in a public space by an overly confident, and frankly, rather manipulative rookie CEO of a so-called 'new label.' He cornered me with a story and a piece of audio equipment."
The team's faces fell in unison. Min-young let out a small, wounded sound. Da-eun's expression hardened, her worst fears being realized. He was framing Yoo-jin as a pest, setting them up for a public execution.
"This happens from time to time," Simon continued with a world-weary sigh. "And ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, the music that is being pushed is derivative, soulless, committee-driven trash. It is, to put it mildly, auditory pollution."
"I knew it," Da-eun muttered under her breath, a bitter note of vindication in her voice. "He's going to destroy us."
"However," Simon said, and his tone shifted, just a fraction. It was a subtle change, but in the hyper-focused silence of their office, it felt like a seismic event. "This particular CEO did something unusual. Before he played me the song, he handed me a printout of the lyrics. And I must admit… they were not trash."
The video cut to a high-resolution image of Min-young's neat, handwritten lyrics on the screen. Yoo-jin could feel Min-young gasp next to him.
"The poetry here is stark and surprisingly mature for a debut," Simon's voiceover began as the camera panned over the words. "It avoids the typical romantic clichés and saccharine affirmations that infest modern pop music. Instead, it tackles a far more interesting and complex subject: the psychological armor of the performer. Lines like, 'You look right through me with your X-ray eyes,' and 'There's a space behind my ribs, a hidden room'… this is not the work of a songwriting committee aiming for mass appeal. This is the work of a singular, empathetic, and deeply observant voice."
Min-young's hands flew to her mouth, and a sob, thick with relief and disbelief, escaped her. Tears of pure validation streamed down her face. She had been seen. Her words, her soul, had been understood.
"Of course, lyrics are nothing without a sonic landscape to inhabit," Simon continued, the video cutting back to his face. "And the production on this track, credited to a producer known only by the moniker 'Ghost,' is deeply impressive."
The audio of the video suddenly shifted, the clear, isolated instrumental of "My Room" beginning to play. It was just Ji-won's work, naked and exposed. Ji-won, who had been scowling at the screen, went rigid.
"Now listen to this," Simon instructed his audience. "The main chord progression is deliberately dissonant. It never fully resolves in a predictable way, creating a constant state of underlying tension that perfectly mirrors the lyrical anxiety. The producer makes a fascinating choice here, blending a warm, analog-sounding sub-bass that feels organic, with a cold, sharp, digital drum pattern. This juxtaposition of textures is masterful. It creates a soundscape that is both claustrophobic and expansive. It is the sound of the song's lyrical theme. It's intelligent. It's deliberate."
Ji-won sat down heavily in the nearest chair, a look of stunned pride on his face. It was an expression no one, not even Yoo-jin, had ever seen before. For years, his complex, layered work had been dismissed as 'too weird' or 'not catchy.' Now, it was being praised as 'intelligent' and 'masterful' by one of the most respected critics in the world.
"But the centerpiece," Simon said, his voice drawing them all back in. "The element that ties the poetry and the production together and elevates this track from 'interesting' to 'truly extraordinary'… is the vocalist."
The screen displayed a simple, elegant text card: Ahn Da-eun. Da-eun's breath hitched in her throat.
"Her name is Ahn Da-eun," Simon's voice continued. "And her performance here is a masterclass in vulnerability. Her tone is not 'perfect' in the polished, auto-tuned sense that has become the industry standard. There's a fragility here, a breathiness in the verses that lesser producers would have immediately tried to 'fix' in post-production. But that fragility, that imperfection, is the entire point. She is not singing at you, like a diva demanding your attention. She is singing for herself, allowing you to witness a private moment of defiance. And the shift in her delivery when she reaches the chorus—the power she summons—is utterly captivating. It's a performance that is not just heard, but felt."
Da-eun stared at the screen, her cynical armor completely gone, her eyes wide and glistening. For her entire life, her voice had been judged on its technical merits, its flaws pointed out, its power constrained. Simon Vance hadn't just heard her sing; he had understood why she sang the way she did.
The video cut back to Simon's impassive face. He picked up his teacup and took a final, long sip. The instrumental faded out.
"So, to answer the question posed by the title of this video: is 'My Room' by Ahn Da-eun a diamond in the rough?" he asked, looking directly into the camera. He paused for a beat that stretched for an eternity.
"No," he said flatly.
The flicker of hope in the room died instantly. Yoo-jin's heart plummeted into his stomach.
"It's not a diamond in the rough," Simon clarified, and a rare, small, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips. "It's a finished, polished, black diamond. It's dark, it's rare, and it cuts deep. It is the most exciting, emotionally resonant, and artistically courageous debut I've heard out of the Korean music scene in at least five years. It is a desperately needed antidote to the poison of manufactured pop. It is, in short, a piece of art that deserves to be heard."
He set his teacup down. "Therefore, I am awarding it the first 'Audiophile Seal of Approval' for a debut track. Ever."
The video ended, the screen fading to black.
For a long moment, the four of them stared at the dark screen in stunned, euphoric silence. It was too much to process. They hadn't just gotten a good review. They had gotten a coronation. They had been knighted.
Yoo-jin, his hands shaking with adrenaline, clicked on the video details. In the ten minutes since it had been uploaded, it already had over thirty thousand views. And the comment section was an avalanche of praise and frantic questions.
"OMG, I need this song NOW. Where can I listen to the full version?"
"This gave me chills. Who is Ahn Da-eun??"
"The production sounds insane. A producer named Ghost? I need to know more."
"Simon has NEVER done this before. This must be incredible."
The small, insignificant, blacklisted Aura Management had just been put on the global map by the one man whose opinion couldn't be bought. Yoo-jin looked at the faces of his team—at Min-young's joyful tears, at Ji-won's stunned pride, at Da-eun's wide-eyed, disbelieving awe—and he knew, with absolute certainty, that the game had changed.