Allaroundhim,voiceslifted in alarm. Although it was no surprise to the rest of Apollo, hearing the words come out of Eunjae’s mouth must have felt like having the decision carved in stone. The founders traded glances, speaking in that wordless vernacular so particular to sisterhood, and to brotherhood as well.
Haewon’s frosty smile had vanished. She said, “Then you'd better tell your brothers what happens next. Because you've figured it out, haven't you?”
This finally compelled Jungwoo to address Eunjae from beyond the invisible wall that had gone up between them. “What’s this about, Ari? What else have you been hiding?”What other secrets have you been keeping from me?
Eunjae didn't know where to begin. Or rather, he knew where to begin but had no idea how to soften the blow.
“There's nothing hidden about it, really,” said Haewon. “It's only that so few of you bothered to look. Did the intern make those copies I asked for, Mr. Yoon?”
“Yes, they're right here.” Yoon slid a stack of documents out of a folio in the top desk drawer. Soyeon eyed the stapled pages with cool detachment, then turned away when she was offered a set. Yoon proceeded to distribute the rest until all the members had their own.
Only Eunjae refused. He’d guessed what the documents were, by then: generic copies of the contract they'd all signed, first when they debuted and again upon their renewal with Emerald Entertainment in their seventh year as Apollo.
“Just the highlighted part, boys. You can read the rest on your own time.”
It was Jesse who finished reading first. His head snapped up, and he looked right at Eunjae. “This says… this says if one member breaks contract, the whole group has to disband. At least, I think that’s what it means.”
Max lowered his copy, eyes wide. “That can’t be legal,” he protested.
“It's not illegal, either,” murmured Eunjae. He couldn't admit it without sounding defeated. The agency could force disbandment if even one member bowed out of his exclusive contract before the next renewal. These terms were uncommon nowadays, but also violated no existing laws.
He'd done as much research as he could, sifting through the convoluted legalese, staying up too late even though Denny would be hustling him out of bed as early as 4am. Every article retrieved from Google search and every resource from the South Korean Fair Trade Commission led to the same conclusion. And when he asked Arthur to help him understand it, the contract’s restrictions only seemed even more impenetrable.
“Wait,” said Namgyu, the pages crumpled against his chest. “Just hold on a second. Ari, you knew about this? You knew and you didn’t say anything to the rest of us?”
“I didn’t know it for sure until a few days ago.”And I didn’t want to believe it.
“Maybe you never told us because you didn't care about the price we'd be paying for you.”
Kazu whipped around, hackles raised. “That’s enough, Keiichi.”
“You can’t prove that he really meant to talk to us about this. Last I checked, he ran off to California like a coward. Who’s to say he won’t bail on us like a coward? Isn’t that the logical next step?”
“He's not the one you should be mad at,” Max exclaimed. “Can't you see that? How can we be mad at him for not wanting to live like this anymore?”
“He knew what he was signing up for,” Jungwoo volleyed back, siding with Kei. “We all did.”
“Shut the hell up, Jungwoo. Did we, really? What did any of us know? We were just stupid kids.”
“No, I won’t shut up! I’ll never shut up about this!” Jungwoo balled up the contract and hurled it to the floor. “I wrote those songs. The terms say that if Emerald disbands us, they keep the rights to all of them. Even the songs I’ve written since debut that haven’t been released yet, or never will be. Are you listening to me? Aren’t these your songs too? We all chip in, don’t we?”
“That’s another thing I just couldn’t figure out,” said Eunjae, addressing Haewon. It was one of the industry’s most badly kept secrets, that she’d written songs for Jewell without even being credited. So much of her work from that era was iconic now. None of Haewon’s lyrics and compositions had been attributed to her. “After what you went through with Polaris, why would you deny the rights to our own work? Why put us through that?”
“I’m not denying you anything. If Apollo had decided not to renew with Emerald two years ago, ownership would’ve reverted to you. We keep your songs if you break our trust. You break our trust by violating contract terms. Fair enough, to me. It’s all written into that same penalty clause.”
“Even our name, though?” murmured Nick, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’d go so far as to keep the name ‘Apollo’ if we’re disbanded?”
Max exploded. “That’s petty as all hell!”
“And it’s nothing we’d have to worry about if Ari just stays.”
Max informed Kei exactly how he felt about him in that moment. The sheer number of expletives had Mr. Yoon threatening to kick him out of the room. Then Jesse remarked that Apollo would be signing contracts again in just two more years anyway, since renewals lasted for shorter durations. Could Ari just hold on until then? But Namgyu thought it was cruel to force him to wait if he was unhappy now, and Kazu was just plain incensed at the degree to which they could all be controlled by a stack of paper.
No consensus could be reached. Chaos erupted again. Mr. Yoon roared at them to settle down, but Haewon scarcely batted an eye at any of it. She didn’t react until Nick approached her.
“You’d really disband us? We’re one of Emerald’s flagship groups. Our sales have never been higher, we’ve won awards for our work, and we break records with every comeback. Apollo’s never let you down. How can you justify doing something like this?”
“No, you haven’t let us down. We’re very proud of what you’ve accomplished and we won’t deny that Apollo has majorly contributed to the agency’s success. But will Ari let you down? Isn’t that the real question, here?”
