My name is Julien Moreau.
Ever since I was a kid growing up in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, I lived and breathed music.
While other kids spent their allowances on sweets from the local tabac, I was saving up for CDs at Fnac.
While they admired Spider-Man and Batman, my heroes were pop icons like Michael Jackson and Mariah Carey.
I wasn't a musical prodigy or some childhood genius.
But I started earlier than most.
Due to my family's financial struggles, I gave up on university. After finishing high school, I rented a tiny studio apartment near Place de la République, and poured myself into composing.
I submitted demo tracks to various agencies every time I finished a song. I never got replies. Sometimes it felt like they didn't even open my emails.
Then, one day, Maison SY, a rising entertainment agency, reached out.
One of my tracks, entered into a rookie composer contest, had won first place.
I got 3,000 euros in prize money and the chance to work as an exclusive composer.
When I hung up the phone, I screamed so loudly it felt like the walls of my tiny studio might crumble.
"Is this real!? Am I dreaming!?"
I felt like the main character of a webnovel.
I imagined a brilliant future filled with passion and hope.
I believed I could become the best composer in the world.
But that dream hit a hard wall called reality.
At Maison SY, I wasn't treated as a composer.
I was more like a helper for the "real" composers.
The entertainment world was brutal. If you didn't have connections, you were invisible.
Like many newcomers, I convinced myself it was part of the process. That it was helping me grow.
My job? Recording demos for others, arranging their songs, and copying top tracks from Billboard, the UK Chart, and the French Top 50.
These "copied" songs were used as references for others in the company.
For five long years, I was stuck repeating this cycle—arrange, record, copy.
It was soul-crushing and repetitive.
But through it, my skills improved drastically.
Still, I didn't want to be a glorified arranger—I wanted to be a composer.
So, I stayed up late, working on original songs after hours.
Finally—
"It's done!"
I'd finished an original track I'd been crafting for months. I presented it at a team meeting.
To my surprise, it was selected as the title track for BYC, the agency's top idol group.
But that small victory made me a target.
When I presented my second original track...
"Do you even have ears? You call this a song?"
"You got lucky once and now you think you're a real composer?"
"Stick to what you're good at—copying."
Every meeting, my ideas were mocked, dismissed.
I started to believe the phrase: "The nail that sticks out gets hammered down."
I wanted to quit. Many times.
But my team leader always stopped me.
"Come on, Julien. Again with the quitting?"
"I signed on to be a composer, not just a background arranger."
"Hey, hey—don't be like that. You've gotten a lot better thanks to those arrangement tasks, haven't you?"
"...Yeah."
"So what's the problem? You even wrote BYC's title track in just five years. Some don't do that in ten!"
It was true. My skills had grown.
I'd become proud of the work I did.
But that wasn't the real problem.
One day, while walking past the break room, I overheard something.
"You're not going to use that guy's track? It's a banger."
"Julien? Sure, he's talented. But we toss him a half-baked melody, he makes it shine. Why give him credit? If we praise him too much, he'll want a raise—or worse, go solo. Better to keep the golden goose locked up."
I stood there frozen.
My head spun. My chest tightened.
To them, I was nothing more than a tool.
That day, I quit.
I returned to my tiny studio.
Emotionally wrecked.
But I wasn't ready to give up.
After more than ten years, all I had left was music.
Music would never betray me, I told myself.
From now on, my songs were for me.
I started composing again.
I sent out tracks to agencies across Paris. Got positive replies. Even had talks with an international distributor.
Things were finally turning around.
Then I got a call from Claude Bernard, the executive I'd worked under at Maison SY.
He said he wanted to settle accounts and deliver my final payment.
I told him to send it by post. I didn't want to see him again.
But he insisted—said we should have a proper farewell.
I gave in. I put on a hoodie and met him at a café near République.
"Julien! Long time no see. How've you been?"
"Just give me the papers."
He handed me the documents, then asked:
"So… why'd you leave all of a sudden?"
I clenched my jaw.
"Maybe the golden goose got tired. Or maybe the 'useless arranger' finally had enough."
"Wait… you heard that?"
He flinched, then smiled slyly.
"Come on, don't take it so personally. That's just how colleagues talk. Come back, Julien. You've got over ten years with us. I can pull some strings—"
"I'm not coming back."
Going back meant admitting I was weak.
I signed the forms, stood up, and left.
But the nightmare wasn't over.
When I got back to my studio, the lock was broken.
Inside—my computer was dismantled.
The hard drive? Gone.
My backups—wiped.
Cloud storage? Empty.
Panic hit me like a tidal wave.
I called Claude.
"You took it, didn't you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The hard drive. Give it back."
"You're crazy. Accusing me? Who do you think you are?"
He hung up.
I screamed.
My hands shook. My vision blurred.
And I collapsed.
Beep… Beep…
The sound of a hospital monitor.
I couldn't open my eyes.
"How long has this patient been like this?"
"Three days. No family. Hope he wakes up soon."
So I was in a hospital.
I tried to move. Nothing.
"Who's the visitor?"
"They say it's his former boss. Comes every day."
Claude Bernard.
Why was he visiting me?
Regret? Guilt?
That day, he came again.
"Hey, Julien!"
He pulled up a chair.
"Big news today…"
And he told me horrible things.
SY had released my stolen songs.
Then sued me for plagiarism.
Even if I woke up, I'd be blacklisted.
"Oh, and I got promoted. Thanks to you. You had a lot of gold in you, Julien."
His voice burned like acid.
He admitted he was the CEO's nephew. Said he'd found a new 'talent' to raise and use.
SY was a fraud, filled with people like him.
If I had known…
Maybe I could've exposed them. Taken them down.
But it was too late.
I could only listen.
I wanted to rip his tongue out. Burn everything down.
I prayed he'd get what he deserved.
Then he said:
"This is my last visit. Thanks for everything."
He never came again.
Only the beeping monitor remained.
Until even that began to fade.
My senses drifted.
My thoughts shattered.
And the room went white.
Beeeeeeep—