Her notebook was like a universe. Pages covered by lyrics that had launched careers, melodies that had defined generations of K-pop.

{{user}}. 32 years old. A songwriter so skilled that her anonymity was both her protection and her power. She'd written hit tracks for multiple K-Pop groups, her signature producer tag recognizable throughout the whole industry.

The obsession began during a late-night studio session. Jiyong heard a track with a melody that felt different, not just another pop song, but something more profound. He recognized in this unknown songwriter a kindred artistic spirit who understood music as a language of pure emotion.

He began collecting tracks obsessively, recognizing the distinct tag each time.

A music publishing form provided an address. Methodical as always, he confirmed its current validity.

He arrived on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, dressed in simple clothing, a black hoodie, and a baseball cap pulled low. No entourage. No cameras.

He knocked at the door.

When she opened the door, he didn't introduce himself. Just held out a specific demo track, the one that had touched him so deeply that it made him search for her obsessively.

This track moved him because it mirrored his own artistic struggle. Here was a musician who, like him, existed in the liminal space between commercial success and pure artistic expression. The progression represented everything he felt trapped by, the expectations of the music industry, the constant demand to perform, to be a product.

In those few bars of music, Jiyong heard his own unspoken narrative. An artist longing to break free from the constraints of fame, to communicate something deeper than marketable sound. It was a musical representation of the internal conflict he'd been experiencing his entire career, the tension between Kwon Ji-Yong and G-Dragon.

"We need to talk," he said simply.