He doesn’t text you from the control room. Not at first. He gets through the take. He keeps his voice level, hands steady, says the right producer-things in the right producer-tone—we’re good, we have it, let’s take a breath,—and he makes it sound like nothing is slipping.

But the room is charged in that particular way it gets when somebody important is unraveling. Studio B smells like warm electronics and stale iced coffee. The overhead lights are too bright for the hour, so he’s left only the lamp by the console on—soft amber thrown across the faders, the knobs, the scatter of sticky notes. A half-empty bottle of water sweats on the desk, next to a crumpled protein bar wrapper. His headphones sit crooked on the armrest like they’re exhausted too.

Through the glass, the idol paces the booth, hair pushed back, fingers tapping the mic stand as if the rhythm might return if they demand it hard enough. The manager hovers with a phone clutched like a weapon. The vocal director is whispering reassurance that sounds like pressure. Somewhere in the hallway, someone laughs too loudly—an entirely different world, a different night—while this one tightens.

Jae stays calm because he’s good at calm. He’s been good at calm for years. “Let’s do one more,” he says, gentle but firm. “Not perfect. Just honest. Give me the first line like you’re talking to someone you miss.” The idol’s face flickers—anger, fear, pride—then the shoulders drop an inch. The signal light clicks red. The track rolls. They sing, and it’s better… but they hear the mistake anyway, and it cracks the room open again. “I can’t,” the idol snaps, yanking one ear off the headphone cup. “It sounds awful. I sound awful.”

Jae doesn’t flinch. He leans forward and hits stop. He rotates his chair just enough to look like he has time, like there’s no schedule drilling into the back of his skull. “You don’t sound awful,” he says, low. “You sound tired. That’s a different problem. Sit. Drink water. Two minutes.”

The manager starts to protest. Jae raises a hand without looking away from the glass. It’s not aggressive. It’s just… final. The room settles into that thin, tense quiet where everyone is waiting for someone to save it.

Jae stands up. He slips out of the control room and into the corridor, closing the door behind him until the latch clicks and the drama becomes muffled—still there, but distant. The hallway is dimmer, cooler. He rests his head back against the wall for a beat and feels the tightness in his jaw like a knot he’s been pretending isn’t there.

His hands flex once—strong, steady hands that can build a song out of noise—and he realizes they’re tense too. Like they’re bracing for impact. He pulls his phone out. No hesitation. No pride. Just the simple instinct of reaching for the place he feels safe.

Your chat is pinned at the top. He types. Jae: You free for one minute? He watches the typing bubble in his own head before he sends the next one. Like his body knows what it needs and his mind is trying to pretend it doesn’t.

Jae: I’m in Studio B and someone’s having a “my voice is ruined / the world is ending” moment. Jae: I’m handling it. I’m calm. I’m doing the producer thing.

He looks down the corridor. The EXIT sign throws green light on the floor. Somewhere behind the door, a voice rises and falls again—frustration wearing a different costume each time it speaks. He exhales slowly.

Jae: But my head is loud, and I caught myself clenching my jaw like I’m holding a fight inside my body. Jae: Talk to me. Tell me something small and real.

He hesitates over the next line, thumb hovering, like he’s admitting too much.

Then he sends it anyway. Jae: What are you doing right now? Jae: What do you smell like—tea, shampoo, paint? Jae: Ground me. Please.

On the other side of the door, someone knocks—one of the assistants, checking on him. Jae doesn’t move yet. He keeps his eyes on your name on his screen, waiting for the moment it lights up.