Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

Someone pulled up one of NX Arc’s recent songs, let the instrumental play for barely ten seconds and then cut it.

"Second verse."

Park looked toward them. "You didn’t play the second verse."

"We know."

A lyric sheet came his way, Park scanned it and sang.

The original recording had been smooth mid-tempo R&B, and Park preserved the intended character while changing the vowel placement on one sustained word and taking a softer breath before the next phrase.

The producer who had actually worked on the original track froze.

"Again."

Park repeated it.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That word."

Park looked down at the lyric. "The consonant cuts the sustain if I pronounce it normally, so I moved through it faster."

The producer stared at him, then slowly turned toward the composer beside him; they had spent three hours trying to fix that exact line during the original recording.

Another song followed. Pop this time. Then a ballad. Then an older NX track whose bridge had always felt slightly awkward without anybody in the room ever properly deciding why. Park changed the breathing pattern naturally, shifted one point of emphasis and returned the section cleaner.

The female producer listened to him and whispered toward the composer beside her, "I didn’t know there was anything wrong with the original until he sang it."

The composer kept staring at Park. "Neither did I."

The A&R executive leaned back and regarded him carefully. "You told us you don’t have a preferred genre."

"Correct."

"You also said you can sing everything."

Park smiled. "I said I haven’t found one I can’t."

"Fine. R&B."

Park loosened the phrasing, softened his consonants and let the rhythm sit slightly behind the beat while his tone acquired a warmer grain.

"Soft acoustic."

His voice became intimate, almost embarrassingly close, the sort of sound that belonged at two in the morning beside a guitar and somebody making terrible romantic decisions.

"Musical theatre."

Park’s posture shifted naturally as his projection became more forward, articulation clearing until every word could have reached the imaginary cheapest seat in the building without sacrificing musicality.

More genres followed one after another.

Modern pop, Traditional ballad, Pop-rock, Neo-soul, Synth-pop, Blues, Folk, Jazz-pop, Dance-pop, Rock.

The vocal coach had leaned forward on that one because the placement should have demanded preparation. Park had given no indication that it did.

"Classical crossover."

That one lasted barely fifteen seconds and left the room quiet anyway.

One of the male producers rubbed his face. "Can you stop sounding like yourself?"

Park stared at him. "That feels spiritually rude."

The woman beside the producer burst out laughing.

"You know what I mean," he said. "Change the vocal character. Stop giving me Nathaniel Park."

"You met Nathaniel Park less than an hour ago."

"Exactly. Make me forget him."

Park looked almost personally offended. "Fine."

He stripped away everything they had already learned to associate with him, narrowed the resonance, changed his articulation and returned the same line in a colder, thinner vocal character. When the producer asked again, Park shifted somewhere older and rougher, then younger and brighter, then breathier before filling the sound again.

Finally the producer dropped his pen. "All right."

Park smiled. "Can I have myself back?"

The women laughed: "Annoying kid."

"Thank you."

The A&R executive tapped once against her tablet. "So you sing, boo-hoo ’cause you also told us you write."

"Yeah."

"What genres?"

"All of them."

Several people groaned before he had even finished.

One composer pointed at Park. "No. We’re not doing this again."

Park laughed while the female producer beside him leaned forward.

"How many finished songs have you written?"

Park glanced toward the notebook sitting near the stage. "Today?"

That brought the table quiet again.

"Today?" she repeated.

"Three I’m willing to admit to."

The senior producer slowly lifted his head. "What does that mean?"

"There were others. Mostly demos, but they annoyed me. Some depended too heavily on my own voice, some couldn’t decide what they wanted to be, and one chorus pissed me off enough that I stopped looking at it."

The woman stared at him. "You discarded songs because they irritated you?"

"I have very high standards you see."

The composer beside her rubbed his forehead. "How long does it normally take you to write one?"

Park considered giving a normal answer before remembering that the mission was literally called Show Off.

’Fuck normal.’

"Depends on what I’m making and who it’s for. If I know the voice, it’s easier because I can build around their strengths. If there’s already an instrumental or sound already made, I can start there. If there isn’t, give me rhythm, melody, lyrics, three notes, a single word, somebody knocking against a table, a sound from an elevator, an argument, somebody saying something stupid, somebody breathing strangely. I don’t really care where the first piece comes from."

Nobody interrupted anymore.

Park continued, because if he was going to sound insane, he might as well provide proper customer service:

"I can write in any genre I understand. Lyrics, melody, harmony, structure, finished arrangements in my head even if I don’t personally have every instrument sitting around. Give me something unfinished and I’ll build around it. Give me a person and enough time to hear how they speak and sing and I can make something around the parts of their voice that actually matter. Slow, fast, duet, group, one singer, genre changes, acoustic, full production, sad, happy, romantic, angry, stupid, serious. I can make songs out of pretty much anything, and as far as quantity goes..." Park shrugged. "I haven’t found the end yet."

The senior composer stared at him. "You’re saying you can write infinite songs."

"I’m saying I’ve never reached a point where my brain informed me the music factory was closed."

One of the male composers leaned back openly laughing, the New Talent Manager had covered his mouth, and even the senior vocal coach was smiling.

Park waited until they were thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Then his heel tapped against the stage.

The laughter began dying as he sang over what they were doing.

Park caught the rhythm of their laughter itself, folded it into the beat and continued, mentioning the producer who had crossed his arms, the A&R executive tapping her tablet, another man rubbing his forehead and the woman who kept worrying the end of her pen between her fingers.

By the time Park turned their last sixty seconds into a small chorus, nobody was laughing anymore because everybody suddenly understood that the joke itself had become material.

A producer stared at him when it ended.

"You prepared that."

Park laughed. "Really?"

"Yes."

"So before I came in, I knew you’d cross your arms exactly when I said infinite songs, knew he would rub his forehead, knew she’d tap that tablet, knew the coach would look at me like I personally insulted music, and apparently I knew the seating arrangement too?"

The composer opened his mouth, only for another man beside him to glance over.

"What you’re suggesting actually sounds worse."

He frowned. "What?"

"You’re basically saying the kid sees the future."

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