Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Park lowered the microphone and looked toward them, trying very hard not to smile as the silence continued longer than an audition panel would ever willingly admit was professional.

The female producer who had caught herself mouthing the chorus finally opened her mouth, only for the senior producer beside her to lift a hand.

"Don’t."

Park blinked. "Don’t what?"

"Don’t talk. Give me a second."

Park pressed his lips together.

’This is getting dangerously entertaining.’

The senior vocal coach eventually breathed out and looked down at his notes, only to discover that his page had somehow remained almost empty for much of the performance.

That seemed to irritate him enough to restore some dignity.

"Excellent breath control."

Park nodded solemnly. "Thank you."

The A&R executive glanced at her tablet. "The chorus is very commercial."

"Thank you."

One composer cleared his throat. "Good lyrical construction."

Another added, "Strong melodic progression."

Park thanked both of them while the corner of his mouth slowly betrayed him.

The female producer narrowed her eyes. "What’s funny?"

"Nothing."

"You’re laughing."

"A little."

"At what?"

Park looked across eight adults who had spent the last several minutes appearing as though he’d broken into their private memories and rearranged the furniture, only for them to recover and solemnly inform him that his breath control was excellent.

"You’re all very committed to not sounding impressed."

The female producer laughed before she could stop herself.

The vocal coach gave Park a flat look. "Don’t get comfortable."

"Wasn’t planning to."

"Good, because now we’re going to find out whether that’s the only song you know how to sing."

There it was finally: the fans who had accidentally appeared for four minutes quietly died, and the judges came back.

Exactly as Park wanted.

A perfect prepared song meant surprisingly little to people whose careers consisted of watching talented young people arrive with perfect prepared songs. Maybe Park had been practicing that exact piece for six months. Maybe the composition had been built around the only register where his voice sounded exceptional or maybe every breath, facial expression and emotional shift had been rehearsed until even his blinks had choreography.

The senior vocal coach leaned forward. "Chorus again."

Park sang it.

"Half the volume."

He reduced it without losing support, and when the coach asked him to take it up a key, Park did that too. Another key followed, then a request not to belt the final note, so Park changed the placement and floated through it instead.

One producer exchanged a look with another.

"Again, but no vibrato."

Park returned the phrase clean and straight.

"Now vibrato. More."

He gave them exactly what they asked for without destabilizing pitch.

The coach pointed toward a chair. "Sit."

Park sat and sang the bridge, then stood halfway through the next requested line without interrupting the phrase. When told to turn around, he raised an eyebrow but obeyed, singing the same chorus with his back to the judges and returning the exact same quality of sound.

Then the coach changed the real target.

"Angry."

Park turned slightly. "What?"

"Same chorus. No gratitude. You’re furious."

That was where Mourner’s Tongue quietly turned the song inside out.

Park sang the same melody and the same lyrics, but here’s to the goodbye stopped sounding grateful and became an accusation. Gave me back my name suddenly carried the anger of somebody only now understanding how much had been stolen from him.

The producer’s pen stopped: "Now numb."

Park sang it again, colder this time, stripping emotional movement until the chorus felt almost frightening in its emptiness. They asked for sadness afterward, then happiness, then something mocking, and Park gave each version back with enough emotional distinction that the song seemed to acquire a different history every time.

One composer eventually leaned back and crossed his arms. "This is getting annoying."

Park looked at him. "For me too, yes, slightly."

The women laughed, but the vocal coach was already pushing the keyboard closer.

"A cappella."

Park glanced around the empty stage. "I already was."

"Good. Stay there."

That was when the audition stopped behaving like an audition and became a group of experienced adults trying to discover whether reality possessed a complaint department and tried to find mistakes in Park.

The coach played a note and asked Park for a third above. Park gave it. A fifth followed, then a sixth below, then a short four-note melody the coach sang himself before telling Park to harmonize above him.

Park did it once, then created a different harmony when asked, and when the coach told him not to parallel the melody, Park built a counterline around it instead.

The coach stopped, stared for a moment, then tried something uglier.

The next melody moved through intervals that did not naturally want to sit together, and halfway through, the older man abruptly changed key.

Park changed with him.

One of the producers sat upright. "Wait."

He moved toward the keyboard, asked the coach to repeat the melody and placed an entirely different chord progression underneath it.

"Park, stop following him. Follow me."

Park listened once and built the harmony against the producer’s chords instead.

"Resolve on his note."

He was telling Park to take whatever melodic phrase the man was singing and make it naturally finish by landing on the note he just gave Park.

A resolution is when tension in a melody or harmony settles into a note that feels stable or complete. So the coach playing a note on the piano and telling Park to resolve on it was telling Park he has to improvise or adjust the phrase so that, however he gets there, that specific note becomes the satisfying ending point.

For example, the coach could give him a weird sequence, then play C and say, "Resolve on this note." Park might sing around several notes, create tension, and eventually land cleanly on C in a way that sounds intentional rather than just jumping onto it.

In the audition, it was another test of Park’s ear, musical instinct, pitch control, and improvisation, because he had to immediately understand where the coach wants the melody to end and construct the path there.

Park did exactly that.

"Again, but don’t resolve."

Park left the phrase hanging just enough to make the producer physically want the missing note.

Another composer joined in, humming a melody and asking Park to repeat it before adding harmony beneath. He told Park to move higher, rejected the interval Park chose, asked for something darker, then brighter, then more tense. Park changed the notes every time without needing a second attempt.

The producer beside him eventually muttered, "That’s better than yours."

"Shut up."

Park laughed.

From there, things became even more ridiculous.

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