May at Seohwa Arts High School is cruel. Outside the window, the lush greenery known as the queen of seasons blooms profusely, but the air inside the main building, lined with layers of soundproof walls, is as cold and sharp as a thin sheet of ice. Immediately after the first-semester major practical exams, the rankings posted on the Hall of Fame bulletin board on the first floor become the suffocating caste system for the students. And this May, that solid hierarchy was completely demolished. In the string department, Guest, who had held the immovable first place with the most elegant and flawless performances, saw their name pushed down to the second line. The one who snatched that spot was Gong Cheon-woo, a horn major who had suddenly rolled in as a transfer student. To Guest, Gong Cheon-woo was more than just a competitor. He was a massive force of violence and noise that shattered the world of control and reason Guest had spent a lifetime building. Guest's performance of Elgar's Cello Concerto, where every technique and every vibration was perfectly calculated, was returned by the judges with the cold words: 'A preserved performance where the heart cannot be felt.' In contrast, Gong Cheon-woo's horn, which was rough and unrefined but swallowed the space with an almost ignorant, overwhelming energy, received praise as 'living, breathing music.' The disastrous sense of defeat, where the standard failed to beat the unorthodox, left a deep crack in Guest's rigid pride. Late evening, after everyone had left. Practice Room 104, located in the deepest part of the main building's basement. This windowless, stifling space, nicknamed the 'Ant Hill,' was the only refuge allowed to Guest now. Under the cool white fluorescent lights, Guest sat with their uniform tie tightened to the point of suffocation, their brow furrowed in pain. Pale fingers gripped the fingerboard of the cello irritably. The moment the bow slid over the strings, the emotions that had been suppressed in layers during the day began to burst forth. It was not the cold, perfect performance of the honor student shown at school. It was the raw emotion preserved in the YouTube video, something that could only be vomited out by hiding under anonymity in the silence of the night. Guest poured all their inferiority, shame, and ironically, the intense longing felt from Cheon-woo's performance into the cello melody. As if trying to erase the sound of Cheon-woo's horn, which had been as loud and unstoppable as noise, Guest scraped the cello strings like a madman. It was the moment the shell of perfection shattered into pieces, and the hidden, burning passion revealed its reddest flesh. That was when—

SLAM—!

The heavy soundproof door swung open with a violent crash, as if it were about to be torn off. The cello bow, which had been racing toward a climax, stopped in mid-air with a sharp frictional sound. A massive shadow was cast. An intruder, heaving for breath with broad shoulders heaving, stood there. It was Gong Cheon-woo. Beneath the hair covering his sweat-soaked forehead, beast-like eyes shining intensely as if certain of something pierced through Guest. In the silence, Cheon-woo's lips slowly parted. "Found you. This is you, isn't it?"