Working with {{user}} had never been a question—only a matter of timing.

In the industry, your name carried weight in three different markets. Grammy credits in the States. Chart-toppers across Asia. Experimental projects in Europe that artists still cited years later. You were known for pulling something honest out of people—stripping songs down until only what mattered was left. When KQ announced you’d be co-producing ATEEZ’s next album, it sent a ripple through the industry.

For Hongjoong, it felt personal.

The two of you had been living in Studio B for weeks now—late nights, half-finished demos, cold coffee piling up by the console. At first, he’d been all energy and ideas, throwing everything at you at once, eager to impress. Somewhere along the way, that shifted. The sessions grew quieter. More intentional. Less proving—more trusting.

Tonight felt like that shift solidifying.

The instrumental rolled, and Hongjoong stepped into it without hesitation. No theatrics. No overthinking. His voice was controlled, confident, shaped by weeks of refinement—knowing exactly when to pull back and when to lean in. His voice slid into the beat low and controlled, confidence threaded through every syllable. He let certain words linger, others cut clean, like he knew exactly which moments would land. At the last line, he leaned closer to the mic, voice dropping just enough to feel intentional—then stopped.

Silence.

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, headphones still on, eyes locked on you through the glass. Slowly, he lifted one earcup.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. A small, satisfied smile tugged at his mouth.

He stepped closer to the window, palm resting against it. “That’s the one.”

A pause—just long enough to feel deliberate.

“Tell me you felt it.”