Peerless Perverted Actor Has a Celebrity Harem?!

By the time they cleared recoupment, audits, inactivity, material breach and anti-bypass protections, several hours had disappeared.

Park understood the important parts well enough:

NX could recover clearly agreed direct music costs, not decorate half its headquarters and send him the bill. Music debt couldn’t raid acting income. Acting losses couldn’t eat music royalties. NX couldn’t own every creative thought that escaped his skull merely because he worked there.

If it materially shelved one of his careers, it had 120 days after formal notice to fix the problem before exit rights began opening. And if NX introduced Park to a studio, spent months developing a deal and Park later tried slipping around them simply to avoid commission, Evelyn’s beautifully vicious contract would protect NX too.

Fair was fair.

When they reached music, somehow everything became worse.

NX wanted two full days every two weeks.

Park looked up. "For recording?"

"Not your recordings."

The A&R executive explained.

Creative sessions:

Selected producers and composers could bring him unfinished tracks, difficult arrangements, problematic lyrics or recordings that simply weren’t working. Park would listen, diagnose problems and help improve them.

Of course, this was because of what he’d showed them on his audition:

They had handed him finished songs and troublesome material, and he’d cheerfully pointed out harmonies fighting the singer, transitions that sagged, lyrics sitting badly against melodies, production burying voices and several choices that technically worked but sounded worse than alternatives he could hear almost immediately.

They hadn’t forgotten a damn thing.

"Is this separate two days time paid?" Park asked.

"Obviously. Session compensation, and where your contribution warrants it, credit for the song and additional participation, or we pay you money."

"Actually no."

Several faces turned toward him.

Park shook his head. "If I’m fixing something that wasn’t mine from the beginning, I don’t want credit or money."

The A&R executive frowned: "You don’t?"

"If I move a harmony, tell somebody their bridge sucks or fix three lines, that’s not my song. You’ll pay me for the session and leave my name alone." Park shrugged.

That answer produced considerably more interest than Park expected.

He smiled.

"But I want something else not money."

The suspicion returned.

"What?"

"CJ."

Noah’s eyes shifted toward him.

Park continued before anyone developed stupid theories: "I want to be allowed into her recording and production sessions when it’s reasonable, assuming she agrees. And if her vocal team agrees, I want to sit in on some of her training too."

"Why CJ?"

"Her voice."

Nobody looked satisfied.

Park sighed, unlocked his phone and opened one of the files he’d been working on.

"I heard her sing a verse. That’s it. I went home and ended up with about five songs because her voice wouldn’t leave my head."

He tilted the screen enough for them to see.

The A&R executive leaned forward.

So did one producer, Park immediately pulled the phone back.

"No."

"What?"

"I know that look."

"We haven’t said anything."

"Your eyes did."

Noah covered his mouth.

Park locked the screen. "Those are mine I’m not giving them to anyone, not even her."

The A&R executive exhaled through her nose and eventually agreed they would speak with CJ, her producers and vocal team. Park couldn’t contractually invade another artist’s studio, which he considered annoyingly reasonable; but he wasnt exposing his deal with CJ, in a way he was using this opportunity to be there when she was in studio, do all the things they’d just asked him to do for them on other artists and sessions but for CJ’s session as the payment.

Then finally came ownership:

The thing Park had learned was apparently capable of ending friendships, marriages and entire bands; a song and the recording of that song were not the same property.

The composition was the lyrics and music underneath.

The master was the finished recording people actually streamed, bought, licensed or blasted from speakers at two in the morning while their neighbors reconsidered violence.

NX’s opening position had given Park twenty percent ownership of company-funded masters.

Park had wanted forty; they got stuck there long enough for coffee to become necessary.

Eventually: 30% to Park on fully NX-funded masters.

50% where Park substantially funded the master himself.

The one line the System would never allow them to cross was 25%, and since Evelyn considered thirty a strong rookie result, Park finally let it live.

His writer’s share was simpler.

100% was all for Park.

The underlying songs he wrote remained his writer property. NX could administer publishing for an agreed fee, collecting, registering and chasing money across an Empire far too large for Park to personally hunt every radio station and streaming platform with a knife.

Administration was not ownership.

That distinction had become sacred.

Performance royalties, reproduction money, artist income, master income, publishing income. Park had spent three days learning that one successful song could apparently possess more pockets than a thief’s coat.

And if he both wrote and recorded it, things became even sweeter.

A game wanted his song in a trailer? It might need the composition.

If it wanted his exact famous recording too? It needed the master.

Park had stared at Evelyn when she’d explained that earlier.

"So they can pay me twice?"

"For two separate rights."

"I heard twice."

By late afternoon, both contracts looked less like agreements and more like survivors.

NX had won plenty.

Good commissions. Strong internal access to his creative ability. 30% on live music. Anti-bypass protection. Real publicity rights. Reasonable exclusivity. Seventy percent of masters it fully funded.

Park had kept what mattered to him; his choices, team, his songs, a meaningful piece of his recordings, his face, voice and digital self.

Exit doors.

Transparency.

And enough room to become much more expensive later.

The NX lawyer finally closed the music agreement and rubbed two fingers against her temple.

"We’ll need final drafting."

Evelyn nodded. "So will we."

Park looked around the table.

Nobody was bleeding.

Disappointing, considering how lawyers talked about negotiations.

Still, he’d survived.

More importantly, Nathaniel Park had somehow enteredNX Arc as an unsigned rookie and spent most of the day arguing over how much money people were allowed to make from a future he hadn’t even built yet.

That was absurd; it was arrogant and also becoming increasingly difficult not to enjoy.

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