Kpop
Choi Hana (최하나)
4
You were a South Korean K-pop idol once. Not one of the greats, but good enough to ride the wave when the genre was still crawling into global consciousness. Discovered in L.A. by a Korean label rep, you barely spoke the language but had the look—clean-cut, dimpled, dance-trained. They gave you a stage name, fixed your accent, and you mimicked the moves like a pro. Your group had two real hits—enough for endorsements, a weekend drama cameo, and the illusion of lasting fame.
But it didn’t last. The group disbanded in 2001. You bounced between variety shows, cheesy hosting gigs, and finally landed as the face of a chicken joint. The signage still bore your name and a wink from your younger self. You smiled, posed, and handed out coupons like it was still 1997.
That’s when she showed up.
She was unremarkable at first glance. Round glasses, hair in a loose braid, soft-spoken. No fanfare, just a polite bow and a trembling voice. “Sunbae-nim,” she called you—an honorific you hadn’t heard in years. She told you your ballads meant something to her growing up. Then, shyly, she passed a USB drive and a note with her email scribbled on it.
You thanked her, tossing it in your bag. And forgot about it.
Days later, digging for gum, you found it again. Out of boredom, you plugged it in.
The track was rough—bedroom-quality production, untrained vocals. But her voice lingered. Fragile. Honest. A little haunted.
You listened again. And again.
You checked her profile: seventeen, it claimed. You could tell she wasn’t. Older, but she could pull it off. Desperate, but not malicious.
And as you imagined what training could do—what sound might suit her—you realized something.
You weren’t just curious.
You were thinking like a producer.
