#UG.SOLO

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Hwang Mido Pseudonym: Luce Pronouns:  She/her Age: 24 Occupation: Fortune Teller Canon: SOLO_04

TW / parental death, bullying, suicide, drug and alcohol use, infidelity.

I.

she remembers spending long mornings at the dining room table separating seeds that were shaken off the sansuyu trees; the tips of her front teeth weakening and loosening due to the activity she’s learned to love. her grandmother used to supervise her all the while, ensuring that her little one’s doing a proper job and keeping her vivid imagination at bay. its had a vice grip on mido since she was old enough to form memories, and while her thoughts have done well by creating a girl with a sense of whimsy and a passion for mysticism, its also had a hand in how accident prone she is. after all, according to her, it’s hard to talk to fairies in the woods and keep track of the placement of her limbs all at once. so, it goes without saying that, because of this supposed “quirk” of hers, her guardians had to keep a close eye on her at all times.

when she wasn’t assisting her grandparents with the festival season, she was a constant front-row occupant at their pansori performances; all three of them piling into their beat-up old car to travel from their home in gurye to namwon on show nights. she’ll never, ever forget watching the two of them on-stage. her grandmother’s voice alone carried so much magic in it, and the beat of her grandfather’s drum reminded her of the pitter-patter that hearts make. the stories told always captured her, no matter how many times she’d heard them in the past, and it was in those moments that she earned an admiration for those who choose to entertain others. over time, she decided that she wanted to do the same thing.

by the time she was eight years old, her grandparents taught her all they knew about singing and music—acting not only as parental figures, but also mentors; nurturing these interests as best they could. money was never abundant, so they couldn’t afford proper instruction for her, but they did their best with what they had, and it only made the three of them grow closer.

however, despite how happy her childhood seemed, mido often noticed how people looked at her. she’d recognize the sadness and hurt in the eyes of family members, and even some passersby in town, whenever she was around. no matter how many times she would ask what was wrong, no one would ever be honest with her. it didn’t stop there, though. inquisitive as ever, whenever she would inquire about a certain mystery woman that’s present in old photographs, she would also be rejected. that bothered her more than anything else because, even though she had no idea who she was, she bore a striking resemblance to her, and in some way, felt a connection with her that she couldn’t exactly explain back then. kept in the dark, she learned not to ask about her anymore... but the curiosity never fully dissipated.

II.

on the cusp of her entrance into middle school, her family was visited by a sullen-faced man. he wore disheveled clothing, had wild hair, and despite arriving in hopes of seeing mido, he wasn’t allowed to. she watched from the kitchen window as he spoke with her grandfather outside, and when he turned and happened to catch a glimpse of her observing them, he offered a smile—leaving a few gifts behind for her before walking away. after inspection from her grandparents, they were handed over to her, and in truth, the contents left her a bit gobsmacked. not only was a gorgeous ( and clearly well-loved ) six-string acoustic guitar sitting in its case, but there was a collection of cassette tapes, too. what she didn’t get to possess yet was a polaroid of a couple bathed in the neon lights of the city and a handwritten letter providing insight on what all of this meant. sadly, her family remained tightlipped in regards to all her queries despite her older age, and at that point, she was beginning to accept the mystery as merely that, and nothing else.

with fresh equipment and large sources of inspiration, she began to work hard at learning the ins and outs of her new instrument; opting to be her own instructor. it took her an entire summer of practice, but little-by-little, she was making improvements; pairing the strum of the strings with the silken voice her grandmother helped craft. much like her elders, music still alighted a deep passion inside of her, and she didn’t know it then, but it’s also something that moved both her mother and her father, too. however, the discovery of that didn’t come sweetly, nor did it occur in a manner that her guardians were anticipating. instead, it happened at school.

turns out, kids stop being kind as they get older, and the instant that she was transitioning from childhood to adolescence, there was a target imprinted onto her back; one that her peers loved to strike with petty judgments, lame rumors, and derogatory monikers. most commonly, they’d refer to her as a witch or a demon. she was the type of person that would twirl her way through campus sparking conversations with others in somewhat peculiar fashions—asking nonsensical questions, offering whimsical comments, and laughing at seemingly nothing. not only that, but around this time frame, she developed an interest in divination. she’d bring knapsacks full of crystals she’d collect, tarot cards she’d practice readings with, and it wasn’t unlike her to offer to read strangers’ palms for more experience. at first, she thought that may have been the only reason as to why she’s received such a negative reaction from them all of the sudden.

however, without anyone’s knowledge, a schoolmate’s mom ( one who the hwang family ) let it slip that mido’s mother suffered a mental break postpartum, and it sadly only took a couple of months before she ended her time in this dimension, in search of the next. when all of this got whispered around school, everyone was dumbly convinced that she was a cursed person, so they mocked and alienated her. friends had already been hard to come by due to her eccentric flare, but now, it was even worse. when word inevitably got around to her, she suffered her first ever heartbreak—one that began to mar the naïveté she’s forever possessed; one that was at the hands of her own household. maybe if she had been able to take the much-needed time to digest it she would’ve handled it better. she was stripped of that, and now, the biggest enigma in her life became her worst nightmare.

III.

the songs she wrote became sadder, and the loneliness she felt swallowed her whole. she felt betrayed and exposed; violated even. at once, she was facing all of the symptoms of grief head on, despite the fact that she doesn’t remember her mother at all. with everything broadcast, her family finally unveiled the truth, but it seemed like it was all coming too late. she spent all of her time in high school feeling so resentful towards them. it took her a long while to feel better, and music became her only distraction from the chaos. she poured herself into her craft; writing and creating a sloppy catalogue of tunes that she felt proud of. she didn’t have a great set up, nor access to a studio, but slowly, mido gained enough confidence to showcase her best material on soundcloud, and there, she was introduced to a brand new community of people that truly opened their arms to her. for the first time in years, she felt like she belonged somewhere.

with that said, she knew that she couldn’t stay living in gurye for much longer, and as soon as she was able to, she took up a part-time job to save money. she told her grandparents that she needed cash to buy a new set-up for better recording, but in truth, she needed it to fund her getaway plan. pals online had convinced her that running away to the city would benefit her in more ways than one, and being as easily-swayed as ever, she wholeheartedly agreed. it’s not like she had anything tethering her to her hometown anymore. those days had long passed.

a few weeks after her nineteenth birthday, she ensured her bank account was where it needed to be, and in the dead of night, she left—guitar strapped to her back, her luggage hauled over to the train station by hand, and the photo of her parents stowed away in her handbag. school wasn’t important enough for her to complete, she left a note behind for her grandparents, and started life as a starving artist—which she personally believed was a romantic concept in itself. according to her, all the best musicians were dirt poor and homeless before their careers took off. all this makes sense for her, though. being that her world has sort of turned into the mess it is now, mido’s become addicted to the melancholia; the blueness feeling safe and familiar.

IV.

sleeping in bathhouses, offering curbside tarot and palm readings, and busking on busy street corners was how she made things work. it was arduous, but she truly enjoyed learning about the lives of the people who utilized her services. the capital city offered a wide array of colorful personalities, their lives full to the brim with constant motion and modest confusion. she felt important in that they came to her for spiritual guidance. she’s always been able to sympathize with others easily—hell, sometimes even a little too much. then, in the midst of all this, she met an intriguing someone who took her under their wing; who introduced her to the wild nightlife and indie music scenes in places like hongdae and itaewon; who helped her out when she had nothing. not used to being so doted upon, mido dissolved into them; eliminating any boundaries effortlessly in a way that wasn’t helpful or healthy. for the remainder of her youth, they became her world, and allowed her to be wholly herself.

she became a wayward soul that did whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. at twenty, she started to frequent the variegated bars and clubs in order to better infuse herself into the community she desperately wanted to be apart of. for the first time, she felt a sense of freedom that she didn’t have back in gurye; one that she wanted to explore fully. she accepted any drink or substance offered to her—indulging in the sweet highs and finding solace in the bitter lows; using the crashes as sources of inspiration to create melodies. becoming a musician was still the end goal, after all, even if it was harder for her to record given the circumstances. however, at age twenty-one, the tragic end of the most important relationship she had in seoul occurred, but this time, she wasn’t the victim of misfortune. instead, her capriciousness and her fierce need to be accepted led to her infidelity.

to her, saying yes is dramatically simpler than saying no, and when the vibe is right and all feels magical, she’s quick to give into temptation; unearthing layers of herself that she’s never seen before; sides that veer uglier than the others. when everything came crashing down, mido was beside herself. she caused all of these problems and had no on else to blame. she made her bed and now she has to lie in it, and it was harder because her lover’s friends had become her friends, and because of what happened, no one fucked with her anymore. it was like high school all over again, but this time, she deserved to be “targeted.” it’s like she missed the feeling of being alienated and made the choice to inflict it on herself again. deciding to take a step back, she accepted a job offer at a saju café to be a fortune teller. she spent the next few years writing, composing, and working; investing all her time and money into paying rent, buying equipment, and making improvements—both musically and personally.

V.

she became a ghost in seoul until the dawn of 2020. she remained quiet, focused on her music ( as that’s the sole reason she relocated to the city anyway ), and felt like things were slowly, but surely, falling into place. lots of changes had to be made in order for her to pick herself up from the cold ground, and it was hard for her not to fall into self-deprecative spirals, but she made it through somehow. of everything, her signature sound, sonically, is what experienced the most dramatic makeover. she bought a used synthesizer and upgraded her online software to give herself a more diversified edge, and the result is something that captures all the best parts of her. it’s dreamy, soft, and heartfelt; comprised of simplistic melodies and poetic lyrics. she’ll dabble in quirkiness once in awhile, but for the most part, it exudes a lightness; an easiness. that in mind, she decided to give herself a stage name, luce, the italian word for “light,” as she felt it matched her work in an honest way.

in the beginning, mido’s modest following was mostly found in cyberspace. those on instagram and soundcloud warmed up to her nicely, and though she wanted to try and book herself a few gigs, she was a little nervous given her past in hongdae. she had no idea who was still around, and above all, she didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable—including herself. she laid low and did her own thing for awhile, and in doing so, amassed 35k followers on social media. it’s something she’s still proud of to this day, especially since she considered herself a nobody and still does. however, in the spring of 2021, she released her first mixtape—one chronicling her life since arriving in seoul. with a whopping eighteen self-produced, self-written tracks, it created buzz in the indie scene; lauded for its honesty and intimacy, as well as its vintage pop concept. the ripples were enough to almost force her into performing live, and when she eventually did, she was terrified, and still is even now, but she’s adamant on swallowing her anxieties and reaching her goals; no matter what.

bit-by-bit, she’s getting back into the swing of things, and while it feels like life is finally giving her some wins, all of them may end up slipping through her fingers. being back in the clubs feels like home in a way, and like before, she’s tempted to say fuck it and give into her vices—the work she put into herself at risk of vanishing even though she’s only just getting started. mido still doesn’t know what she wants to do, but one thing’s for sure: drugs, sex, and alcohol are all around her, and being that she’s never been the type of person to say no to simple pleasures, things aren’t looking very promising.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Im Hyunwoo Pseudonym: ASH Pronouns: He/him Age: 26 Occupation: Part-time at Streetwear Boutique Canon: SOLO_03

Freeform:

there comes a point when song devolves into sound, and sound into oblivion. when lyrics become meaningless because he can't help but to slur his words, let alone sing them. his eyes are fiercely reddened, though it's unclear whether that's by way of overwhelming emotion, too many hours boring into the monitor, or the devilish toxin coursing through his blood now. it’s evident that he’s well into losing his voice, and he wonder if it’s possible to lose it forever. maybe that would take him out of his misery. the last ten takes all sound exactly the same, by the way; the same utter shit.

im hyunwoo has no clue how to really write good songs. they say the best songs are written of love or something like that. he's not sure that's true but doesn't have much of a way of knowing. he's not the best acquainted with love, in whatever shade in comes in. he's born to a mother who’s too young and too strained with the bitters of reality to really love a child, and he doesn’t have a father around who could even try.

he doesn’t love his friends growing up. they share nothing in common, minus the way other people veer away when walking by on the street, sneaking in looks of disdain with the slightest dash of fear. that, and the fact that they’re all good for nothing – a similarity if it counts for anything. it’s almost as if petty crimes and communal substance abuse don’t do too much in fostering true affection or trust. his friends don’t know that he increasingly sneaks away to do the only thing he really finds fulfilling: music. they only know that im hyunwoo is pretty neat at karaoke; kind of how he’s also neat at finding girls to take home. they joke that it’s all really only thanks to his face, and that’s not a real talent.

one of these friends asks him one day: 'damn, did you write this?' hyunwoo regrets inviting the bum over, more deeply regrets not putting a password on his laptop. he rushes over to turn it off and ends up slamming it shut altogether when he struggles to find the pause button. and so he responds as any self-proclaimed musician would after devoting the last six months on his first mixtape.

'oh, hell no.'

but he did. he doesn't know why he so adamantly said no then, doesn't know why it was such an easy lie to tell or where the accompanying scoff came from. maybe he found it embarrassing to be ‘soft’ like this. maybe he felt some actual shame for once, for being such a hypocrite. crooning about love and heartbreak when he stopped saying ‘i love you’ in real life as soon as he realized he didn’t have to in order to get others to say it to him.

---

for years, he doesn’t think much of it. occasional pangs of shame and cowardice when he recalls the fleeting interaction, but that’s not new. he falls out of touch with this ‘friend,’ much like he falls out of touch with most everything in life minus his music. but he never thought he’d ever make it this far. sure, maybe he hasn’t made it that far, but it’s far enough where he starts to wonder how the rumors have spread so wide. you'd hope people would learn to remember the things you actually want them to remember and not the things you don't. unfortunately life never worked that way.

sometimes it pisses him off. sometimes it strokes his ego. mostly he’s bewildered by why people even cared. nobody used to care.

‘yeah, i saw him play last weekend. he’s okay. but did you hear he doesn’t really write his own shit anyway?’

‘fine, i guess he’s kind of cute. i think he hooked up with my friend or something. yeah, i'd say she’s pretty hot. why do you ask?’

‘okay, but i heard he used to be in a gang. yes, i know he’s skinny as fuck. you think i could take him in a fight?’

he meets with agents from record labels a couple of times. mostly out of novelty, partially because perhaps an extra buck or two couldn’t hurt in the long term. each meeting goes down the same way. polite nods and smiles from a corporate puppet across the table, a half-hearted ‘yes, we’re very interested in your music’ before they eventually wind up at what they really wanted to get to. ‘but we have heard a few things about you that are a bit more… personal.’

maybe the thin smile pressed onto his lips tips them off that he’s not willing to apologize, nor does he intend to sit and make up excuses for himself. ‘oh, of course we’re not concerned or anything! i mean all buzz is good buzz. for someone like you looking to break out of the underground, it really is. we can work on cleaning up the rest together.’

funny how they think that’s the motive here. he gets up and leaves, take a business card because they insist. he doesn’t call them back.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Kang Mun Pronouns: He/Him Age: 28 Occupation: Vape Shop Attendant Canon: SOLO_02

Freeform:

ABOUT

TRACK 01 — YOUTH ft. the family “It’s not fair.” Moon whines it out plaintively, but it builds in emotion the longer he’s ignored. He dallies in mournful, in dejected, until he decides that it will no longer work. Calculation in play, as much as a nine year old can scheme anyway, and it reads behind his eyes as he watches his family move around their small house. They look like actors in a play. From point A to B his mother wanders the kitchen, stops by the table to dote on his brother, back again to stir the stew simmering away on the burner. His father set to the side, glasses balanced at the edge of his nose, pours over a newspaper. Occasionally his eyes spill past an article, but it’s only to land on his brother too. That’s how it seems. That’s how it’s always seemed. Everything revolving around him, Jun. This exalted main character as Moon loiters the edges, hands balled up into tight, angry fists. An audience member forced into his seat, conned into a ticket. “It’s not fair,” this time it strikes up angry and hot, the volume pitched up. He won’t be ignored. Moon hates it. Hates it more than near anything else. His mother blocks her way back to point A, mixes with the same tired push of an elbow. It bubbles up in a bright red before she sets the lid back on. She’s started to get used to it, this tactic, where Moon pitches himself forward into a fit. They’re all used to it, visible in the way they all do their best to uncomfortably ignore him. Stiff shoulders and gazes trained pointedly in front of them, pupils wobbling around in their heads, fighting that impulsive urge to glance over. But that’s the mistake they’ve learned not to make, because as soon as Moon’s fed that scrap of attention he bites and shakes and refuses to let it go. “I said it’s not fair. Why does only Jun get lessons? I want to play the guitar too.” A sigh, weary and hollowed out. His parents had only ever had the energy for one child, it seemed. They started their family too late in life. His mother’s eyes stick to the pot, the only one that bothers to look up is Jun. But he hates that more, that makes it all worse. Moon lashes out, a foot jammed in at the edge of the table, an avalanche of books clattering with heavy spine-cracks to the floor. That makes everyone look. That makes everyone just as angry as he is. His mother yells, his father shoves himself up, and Moon clenches his muscles with such a tight fury that he forces himself into a shuddering sort of tremble, molars fit together hard enough to make his skull ache. His skin burns, it matches the stew leaking out from under the pot lid, an oily ooze as his mother’s attention is yanked away. A mess. There’s always a mess. But it soothes over some part of him, that part where he feels like he’s set back from the stage. Forced to observe, written out of the script. A lonely sort of onlooker as he watches the life of his brother grow out into a story. Anger is better than nothing, and so is disappointment. He’d rather feel his father grab too hard at his shoulder in reprimand than to stare at him in profile as he reads, the eighth page of the paper more intriguing than a second son. A mess, that way they all match him. It’s the only sort of solution that Moon’s figured out works. Not streamlined, or even particularly enjoyable. But being difficult gets him what he wants. A guitar to match his brother, lessons to keep him out of the house. He tries his best to become Jun, a clumsy imitation. Shadows along behind him, equal parts annoying and sad. But he’s smaller, every part of him. He never matches stride, can’t seem to find the same end points. Can’t keep up with his accomplishments. He can’t become Jun, he’s not his brother. He can’t find a way to steal and keep all that attention his brother receives so freely. He doesn’t regret his outburst. He never does. TRACK TWO — ADOLESCENCE He wants to be Jun and he wants to be himself. He plays guitar, but not as well. He has friends, but not as many. Following his brothers footprints a size too big doesn’t help him become his own person. It all fits wrong and uncomfortable. He drowns in these self-induced expectations, but he forces it anyway. His brother likes music, so Moon does too. He learns the guitar, and he learns piano. His brother takes English classes and likes to read, and so does Moon. A fraying interest he only continues to uphold out of a stubborn, forced drive. His brother thinks he’s annoying, his mother’s tired, and his father looks at him like he’s constantly making too much noise. Alone in his room and all that anger has time to seep out from him. A full-bodied drain of emotion that always leaves him feeling a little too empty. Like he should find all those holes inside and plug them up. Anger is better and anger is familiar. He hates the emptiness that comes packaged with being alone. Being Jun is tiring, difficult, and eventually Moon gives up. He stops pretending he can keep up, it had never gotten him that affectionate sort of attention he’d always been chasing anyway. Locked in his room and Moon fixates on a new brand of attention. The musicians that bounce and bobble around on stage, guitar in hand and voice projected loud, impossible to ignore. It must feel powerful, like acceptance. He’s starved for it, starts running after a new unattainable target instead. He wants that. Wants that undivided attention. Hero worship. At sixteen, the tips of his fingers are rubbed raw and broken guitar strings snapped off in coils decorate the corners of his room. He writes songs between gnawing at the back end of his pen, until the ink smears across his lower lip and betrays an anxious hobby. They’re not good, the lyrics. Not right now. Misshapen experiences and raw emotions that he tries to force into the shapes of sentences. Chase your dreams, a saying they sell to youth. Something pretty and dissolvable, powder-soft cotton candy that slips beneath the tongue and disappears. It’s sweet, addictive, and it makes Moon hungry for more. It makes him want to chase and to hoard. That singular, pin-pointed focus that only a sugar-crazed child can obsess upon. Chase your dreams, but adulthood comes with clauses. An adulthood that Moon doesn’t comprehend fully. Not when he’s a mess of gangly limbs and a teenaged disposition of rebellion. Those dreams melt into a sticky-puddled mess. And it tastes too sweet by the time you’re old enough to figure it all out. TRACK THREE — TEEN SPIRIT The summer makes him want to shed his skin; a fat snake coiled up and uncomfortable in shifting layers. Baking in an unending humid heat. An itching desire to shrug out of himself. Leave a shredded impression of who he was underfoot, an identity he could walk away from. “What if we trade parts, near the ending?” Moon doesn’t like the sound of his band mate’s voice, it’s too nasally. Every time they open their mouth to sing, it scratches away at his patience. He’s starting to wonder how they even have fans. They repeat themselves, and Moon slides his tongue back behind a tooth to keep himself from snapping. Then they repeat it a third time, like a parrot latched onto a new phrase. Moon bites. “Don’t you already have enough fucking parts?” It’s not fair, that mantra from his youth. He writes their songs, he feeds those lyrics into his mouth for them to regurgitate back up. Vomits out all his hard work and earns back the wobbly attention from the small clusters of their fans. It should be Moon’s; that’s what he convinces himself. Anger wells up as easy as water within the marshlands of his body. Familiar, reliable. It matches his envy well. An unwieldy emotion, destructive and violent. The band fractures apart, and Moon slips out of that stifling old skin. Sheds away that persona, those people, leaves them behind. Keeps searching for that attention, that affection, the value he’s now convinced he deserves. Two years later with a new guitarist and they blow up. They’re still using the same sound he’d produced for them in the beginning, his lyrics torn apart and co-opted out into different songs. He pretends it all doesn’t matter. He pretends that he never wanted all that fame, that it had never been his singular goal. Not that he would have fared well anyway. The front man’s the one with all the attention, and Moon can’t cope with anything less. TRACK FOUR — GROW UP A new band, a new start. Young in formation, and sloppy still. They all fit time for practice around their university schedules or part-time jobs. He sings at first, with his feather-light voice layered across their low grind of instrumentals. He sings until they all sit down one day like they’re having an intervention. “Your songs are great, we love them. You know that, we just…” The start to a conversation that reads like a mauling. Their drummer’s voice rises like teeth to the throat. This is the fifth time Moon’s wanted to punch him in the face since they’d started playing together. “Your voice doesn’t really fit what we’re going for, you know? We’ve all decided that we should find a new vocalist.” Their necks snap up and down like bobble heads as they all agree with each other, conspiratorial and done without him. Moon presses nails to his palms like an anchor, keeps himself from screaming and yelling and pitching a fit that he’s long outgrown. When he answers, it’s snide. “Fine,” is kicked out bitter and coated in bile, stalks out with an overdramatic slam of a door. It’s a flimsy cardboard-wood, and it doesn’t sound like it should. He writes songs and pretends he likes the sound of their new singer. Moon lasts half a year before that jealousy inside him starts growing heads. Eating away at flesh and desire until it’s all he can feel. Snakes under his skin, a writhing mass of them now. Too big for their own bodies, too big for his. He tries to soothe it over, to placate his hunger in vindictive pieces. Steals the lead singer’s girlfriend out from underneath him and sees her in secret. Moon doesn’t even like her particularly, but he likes that he can use her as a tool to hurt him through. He likes the way she looks at him like he might be better. Likes the way she touches him, nails like claws and marks ripped down his back in evidence. Irrefutable, that someone had wanted him. Picked him, even when it wasn’t allowed. Attention is cruel and wicked and lovely. He’s never satiated. The snakes keep writhing, and summer comes. He swelters and rips at those peeling layers. When he leaves, he takes with him all his half-finished songs, still seeped thick in the sound of the band. He tells them who he’d been sleeping with, and he hopes it’ll shatter them all apart. They get Moon back by becoming famous too. He pretends again that he doesn’t care, pretends that he likes perpetually almost making it. TRACK FIVE — LOOK AHEAD “Stop drinking, you’re next.” The glass finds Moon’s lips anyway, and the liquor slides strong and thick down his throat. He likes the feeling, and how his skin fizzes like pop-rocks are embedded underneath. Likes that he’s the headline act of this tiny, cement-cube club. Likes that it’s only his name splashed across the poster, that he’s not sharing with four other people knocked together to make some frankensteined act. It’s him. They’re there for him. They look at him, with those big, round eyes. They take pictures of him. Want him. It’s still not enough. He’s a fool to ever think it would be. But he pretends, because he has his pride. He has all that brash anger. Pretends he hadn’t wanted that fame. Pretends that walking away from it all hadn’t stung, hornet-bitten memories of a past he’d stepped away from. It’s shameful isn’t it, that secret? That acknowledgement? That he’d walked away from fame because he couldn’t be square in the middle of it. Like a child pitching a fit. But he’d never learned to correct that behavior. Moon takes and takes, an effort to find his fill. Steps out on stage and demands for that attention. They give, but it’s not enough. It never will be.

[undergroundrpg]

[ CONT’D... ]

Name: Nam Seoyun Pronouns: He/His Age: 26 Occupation: Rapper Canon: SOLO_05

Freeform:

seoyun is born on an american military installment in south korea to a korean/american father, sargent in the army, and mother, a school teacher from seoul. he grows up being raised on a military base and going to international schools in seoul. with a very back and forth cultural experience, he’s raised both in the american culture of the military base and also the surrounding korean culture of the area. he speaks both english and korean fluently and is comfortable with both (meaning he has no preference as to which he speaks).

as a kid he does well in school even with a slight learning disability that makes it hard for him to read and write. because of his dyslexia, he is challenged to do better by both his parents and teachers and once he learns how to better cope, he trades in his resentment for a loyal outlet, writing down the things he can’t always say out loud. (though his journals remain hard to read to this day.)

seoyun is also interested in music and art at a young age and his parents encourage him to take piano lessons and community art classes as extracurriculars.

he finds that listening to music makes it easier to focus while he writes, so he begins to write to lyrical poems, especially to more rhythmic instrumentals. a lot of it is freeform poetry and he spends a lot of his time in school listening to music and writing in his journals, jotting down ideas and phrases that get stuck in his head and reworking them into more structural pieces. he is usually seen humming and tapping during class, doodling and writing down random series of words, focusing on rhythms and word flow.

by the time he discovers classic hip hop, he’s an unusually proficient lyricist for someone his age, though his rapping and style is very much still in its beginning stages.

he’s fourteen when he goes to his first underground korean hip hop show and he falls in love with the scene, the low lights, the noises, lyrics, and various voices and distinct dynamics in flows of his favorite rappers. he becomes obsessed with listening to as many different types of rap and rappers as he can.

because of his frequency to shows, he finds himself hanging out with groups of people who are interested in the same things as him. he begins to figure out how to make his own beats come to life, not just relying on random soundcloud bits anymore. most of it is fooling around with music programs on his laptop and cheap microphones.

the rumors are true, his first posts online were all (sometimes crude) jokes. the lyrics mostly of shock value (not at all how he’d describe his style now), provocative, or just straight up so bad it’s good. eventually he earns a good amount of praise and critique, so much so that there’s a decent following around him, people discussing his music, and more and more people recognizing him on the streets. finally, there’s a moment where it becomes serious for him, actually thinking of making a career of this whole rap thing.

what he doesn’t expect is the jump to popularity, thanks to social media and word of mouth in the underground. he becomes synonymous with his rap persona and is almost referred to exclusively by “grim”. but his personality is anything but grim. seoyun is charming and handsome, he knows how to interact with a crowd and put on a good show. he’s a perfect frontman, if nothing else.

as more music companies slide him their card, the more he worries that he’s going to lose himself in a bit of the cloud and smoke. on one hand he’s known for his proficiency in lyric writing and a mastery of rhythm and flow, and on the other he is known for his mostly young female fanbase. a lot of times he writes the criticism off as misogyny, girls can think about rap too, but then again there is some merit to it.

most of the times instead of being asked about his lyrics or inspirations for his albums, he’s being asked about his love life or being heckled by fans living with him in a parasocial realm. not to mention the amount of suits calling his name and pushing about contracts and legal bindings, some of his long time friends side eye him with the potential of selling out, ready to lay their judgement.

seoyun tends to avoid questions about both and tries to keep his focus on his music, getting better at producing, writing, and trying different styles. however he can’t help but feel the pressure to sign to a big label to escape some of the reputation that comes with his fanbase, hoping that it’ll give him some more recognition from bigger name rappers.