There were already three completed works inside, each one deeply scored with pen marks, the paper torn through several pages. It was clear how much force the original owner had used when holding the pen—an outpouring of disappointment, anger, and despair upon discovering these three pieces had been stolen. Yet the original owner hadn’t destroyed the notebook; in the end, he put it back in the drawer, unable to bear ruining it, as it was the fruit of his hard work.

John Foster glanced at the three completed songs. One had lyrics, the other two did not—probably intended to be handed over to the company for their lyricists to finish.

In the middle of the notebook were a few pages for an unfinished song, composed by the original owner during a breakup. He had also written a diary entry, likely intending to use it as the lyrics for this song.

The main melody was already set. The original owner had planned to prove himself in the rookie competition, then use the company’s resources to properly produce and release the song, since it held special meaning for him. He never expected the song theft that followed, and the piece never saw the light of day. Before his suicide, the original owner still regretted this.

John Foster studied the unfinished song intently, tapping the page with his finger. “You’re the one.”

On a shelf in the corner sat something resembling a folding fan. When pulled open horizontally, it revealed a keyboard, with keys like those of a piano and a satisfying touch when pressed. This was the original owner’s favorite tool for composing. The quality wasn’t top-notch, but it was definitely not shoddy.

It was John Foster’s first time using it, so he was a bit clumsy at first. However, as the memories in his mind fused and settled, his hands grew more adept.

John Foster even tried playing a few of the old pieces, though they were all incomplete and unfinished. He made sure to jot them all down, lest he forget them when things got busy later. After the rookie season ended, he would come back to perfect them. These were treasures stored in his memory, companions through countless days and nights in the apocalypse. One day, John Foster would bring them back to the world.

Once he was familiar with the tool and had integrated the memories, John Foster began to immerse himself emotionally.

He needed to truly experience what the original owner felt when composing this song. Only by bringing in those emotions could he complete it.

For several days in a row, John Foster didn’t leave the house except to go downstairs at noon to get some sun and buy food at James York’s shop. The window’s soundproofing couldn’t completely block out the nighttime clamor of Black Street, but it didn’t disrupt John Foster’s creative process.

The first two nights, John Foster was indeed unaccustomed to it. His excessive vigilance made it hard to sleep well. But by the third night, he was able to balance his alertness with the noise outside. Rapid adaptation was a skill honed in the apocalypse—many survivors could do it.

Another noon arrived. The shop owner, James York, finished sunbathing and dragged his chair back inside. Although the weather was getting hot and even people who often saw sunlight were preparing for sun protection, those on Black Street still cherished these brief sunbaths. Before entering the shop, he glanced toward the stairwell and saw John Foster walking into the building with that hairless dog.

“That kid’s been busy lately,” James York muttered to himself.

After June began, the rookie competition on the charts entered a fever pitch. Everyone in the industry who followed the rankings was discussing which contestants would make the top ten this season, and which companies they belonged to.

The higher-ups at Silver Wing were also watching the rookie chart. Alan Duke was under a lot of pressure lately—on one hand, he had to answer to his superiors, and on the other, he had to manage the interns under him. Even with three assistants, he still couldn’t catch a break.

In fact, Alan Duke only needed to follow the usual procedures: supervise their composing, schedule producers, arrange recording, upload, and promote. Most of the time, he just had to give the word and a dedicated team would handle the rest. But this year, the company’s leadership seemed to have big plans. Just look at the ten new composition interns they hired this year—normally, they only took on three to five, but this year they brought in ten at once!

What’s more, Alan Duke had heard that if all ten performed well and made it into the top fifty, they’d all be made permanent staff. He couldn’t believe the company wasn’t planning something major.

Because of this, the pressure from above was even greater. Alan Duke was running around arranging things, exhausted. Those of them in charge of rookies had it better; the agents responsible for established artists were so stressed their hair was falling out.

Still, when he thought about the last of his ten rookies, John Foster, who hadn’t produced any results yet, Alan Duke felt a headache coming on.

“This team is hard to manage!” Alan Duke sighed deeply.

He’d gone out on a limb to get that kid ten extra days, only because upper management was paying special attention to this year’s rookies. He’d managed to buy some time, but who knew if the kid would make good use of it? If he couldn’t produce a satisfactory work in ten days, he’d have to be kicked out.

Scrolling through the real-time rankings, Alan Duke stared at the top two names, his eyes practically burning with frustration.

He was furious!