In the rehearsal hall the next day, the musicians sat straighter in their chairs, exuding a simmering, nervous anticipation as their eyes flicked between Kang Do-hyun, seated in his usual spot, and Jaemin, who stood at the podium with an air of quiet command. The scores on their stands were all for a new piece: the Brahms Violin Concerto.
Do-hyun held his violin with a new kind of tension. He had spent the previous night with the score, dissecting it with the same meticulous precision he applied to every piece. His mind told him this was a mistake, a foolish, emotional gambit from a beta who had no idea what he was doing. But a deeper part of him, the part that had felt the music sing yesterday, was silently thrilled by the challenge.
Jaemin raised his hand, not with a flourish, but with a simple, quiet gesture. "Good morning," he said. "Today, we begin. But we will not begin with the notes. We will begin with the conversation. This concerto is not a performance. It is a dialogue between the orchestra and the soloist."
He spent the first half of the rehearsal not on Do-hyun's part, but on the orchestra's. He worked with the woodwinds on their soft entrances, asking for a breathier, more yielding sound. He directed the strings to feel the emotion of the passages, to respond to the melody as if they were a chorus singing to the soloist. He was building a stage, a foundation of harmony for the soloist to stand on. He was preparing them to listen, to speak, to become a living, breathing entity.
Do-hyun watched, a knot of confusion and frustration in his stomach. This wasn't how things were done. You prepared the soloist first. You gave them the support they needed. But Jaemin was ignoring him, treating him as if he were just another member of the orchestra, waiting for his cue.
Finally, Jaemin turned to him. "Kang Do-hyun-ssi," he said, his voice calm. "Let's begin at the top."
Do-hyun raised his violin, the notes of the concerto—so familiar, so well-rehearsed—ready on his fingertips. The orchestra played the opening bars, a grand, sweeping theme that prepared the stage. Then came the moment for the soloist to enter. Do-hyun brought his bow to the strings and began to play.
His performance was, without a doubt, technically perfect. His notes were flawless, his tone was a rich, powerful voice that commanded the room. He played with a fiery, singular intensity, a testament to his sheer skill and his alpha nature.
But as the music continued, a new kind of discord began to emerge. Do-hyun was not playing with the orchestra; he was playing against it. His sound was a solo performance, a voice that was not listening, not responding. The orchestra, prepared by Jaemin to engage in a conversation, found itself with a partner who was only interested in a monologue.
Jaemin lowered his hand. The music stopped, a jarring silence filling the room. He didn't look angry. He just looked… sad.
"It's true," Jaemin said, his gaze fixed on Do-hyun. "It is a song you sing alone." His words were not an accusation; they were a simple, heartbreaking truth. "The music is perfect, Kang Do-hyun-ssi. But it is cold. It is a monument, not a life. You must play not just your part, but the parts of everyone else as well. You must allow yourself to be led."
Do-hyun's hands tightened on his violin. He felt the familiar rush of anger, the urge to lash out. But then he saw the look on the faces of his fellow musicians. They were listening, and they were waiting. He was the only one holding them back now. He took a deep breath, and let his scent soften.
He nodded, a single, silent gesture of surrender. "One more time," he said, his voice low.
Jaemin returned the nod, a subtle smile touching his lips. He raised his hand, and this time, as the opening bars of Brahms filled the room, Do-hyun's eyes were not on the score. They were on Jaemin.
And as the orchestra began its grand dialogue, Do-hyun felt a rare, true connection to the tempo. He was not just playing; he was being led. The sound was still imperfect, but there was a collective feeling, a shared rhythm that had been absent for months. The brass section came in on cue. The percussion was in sync with the strings. The music was no longer a fractured, disjointed mess; it was a living, breathing thing, an unfolding tapestry of sound woven together by their collective will.