Chapter 10 — Music Without Chorus

An didn't call Nam right away. She opened the anti-static box, took out the second backup drive, and then used Tung's computer to check the "final_master" file. Hanh requested not to work on the original before making the record. Tung sat opposite, reading each line of the diary.

“The K.NAM account logged in at two thirteen,” he said. "But the computer address is not Nam's computer. Someone faked the login information."

“Maybe he does it remotely.”

"His phone was at Mach Nuoc at that time. Vy's camera recorded it."

Vy opened the recording, showing Nam leaving the room at one fifty and not returning until three o'clock. The file is created after two hours. The account name was used to push responsibility onto him.

An felt anger rising, but she did not let it turn into a conclusion. Tung checks the data signature. "The file has two layers. One layer is Linh's song, one layer is Le Chi's voice spliced. The third layer is a threat. The creator knew An would open the file because they intentionally placed it in the project folder."

“They want me to withdraw my name.”

“Or want you to denounce Nam before they have a chance.”

Nam called. An picked up the phone on speakerphone so Vy and Tung could listen.

“I know that file,” Nam said. “Quang just sent it to me.”

“You know it has your account?”

"I know. I didn't create it."

“Have you ever given anyone your password?”

"When I was still working at the company, my password was saved on a shared computer. After I left, I changed it twice."

Tung asked: "Do you still have a device to log in to your old account?"

"There's a backup machine in the warehouse. But it's locked."

“Who has the right to open?”

“Duc Minh and Quang.”

An heard how Nam said Duc Minh's name. It's not fear, but a long-standing fatigue.

“Did you send the file to Quang?” An asked.

"Are not."

“So why did he send you?”

“He wanted to prove that the company gave me a chance, and I was ruining the project.”

“How do you answer?”

“I told him to send the notice through his lawyer.”

Tung nodded. “The right way.”

An turns off the speaker. “I need to see you.”

"Where?"

"Mach Nuoc. Do not enter the engine room."

Nam arrived half an hour later. An placed the screen displaying the data signature in front of him, without playing the file. He read, then sat down.

“I didn't create it.”

"I know."

Nam looked up. “You know?”

"Tung knows from the diary. I still need to hear you say it."

He was not relieved. "I once heard Duc Minh say he would make a sample with Le Chi's voice to keep the right to negotiate. I didn't stop him."

"When?"

“After Lam died.”

An stood up. “You knew they were going to use her voice?”

"I knew they wanted the sample. I didn't know they used the old record."

“I still let them do it.”

“I think it was just an internal test.”

“I always think things will stop before hurting someone.”

Nam looked at her, not objecting. “It was my fault.”

“Not an apology.”

“I will write a report.”

An turned away, trying to suppress his trembling voice. She doesn't want to turn Nam into a bad person who is easy to hate. Such a person will make everything simple. But he was the one who chose to stay silent, and such choices don't disappear just because people regret it.

Hanh suggested that they organize a closed listening session with a number of journalists and lawyers, to record the original version before the company created a new story. Gia Linh agreed to attend but did not want to speak. Tung invited two independent journalists who did not receive funding from the Milky Way.

The listening session took place in a small conference room of the library. No stage, just There is a long table, a generator and a paper copy of usage rights. An presented each version: tape number 07, Nam's demo version, the label version with Linh's voice, the independent version without Le Chi's voice. She doesn't call them good or bad versions. She only pointed out the time, source, and cutout.

A journalist asked: "Why don't you restore the missing melody to make the song complete?"

"Because the missing part belongs to the person who created it. I have no right to change their words."

“But the audience wants to hear a complete song.”

“The audience also has the right to know what is original and what is edited.”

Gia Linh sat in the back, her hands on her knees. When a journalist asked her if she knew Le Chi's voice was in the song, she looked at An before answering.

"I know after the recording was finished. I kept singing because I didn't understand my rights. I'm working on that part."

Nam did not speak. Hanh asked him to only answer questions about data. When asked why his account appeared in the threat file, he said: "I used to let others use my silence. Now I am responsible for verifying it."

The listening session lasted nearly three hours. In the end, no one posted right away. Tung recorded the minutes and backed them up in three places. Thinking everything was okay, Quang Vu appeared in the hallway. He was not accompanied by a lawyer.

“You did this session without telling the company?”

“We do not disclose your assets.”

“She uses the room and equipment sponsored by the company.”

"The room belongs to the library. The equipment belongs to me."

Quang looked at Nam. “Are you participating too?”

“I am a project person.”

“You were the one who broke it last time.”

Nam did not avoid his eyes. “This time I won't let you call silence cooperation.”

Quang returned to An. “Do you think a song without a chorus will save anyone?”

“No. But it might make the listener realize who they are listening to.”

He smiled, then left. An's phone vibrated immediately afterward. A text message from an unknown number sent a photo of the old contract between Nam and the company. The last entry reads: “If Nam continues, Le Chi will be sued on his behalf.”

An gave the photo to Hanh. Hanh read, her face serious.

"The contract has a guarantee clause. If a dispute arises from the recording, the first signer must bear it."

Nam said: "It's me."

“Not just you,” Hanh replied. "Le Chi's name is in the appendix, but the signature was scanned. We need to determine whether it is real or not."

An looked at Nam. “Do you have the original?”

“Maybe in the spare engine warehouse.”

“Then we have to go to the warehouse.”

Nam shook his head. “I no longer have the right.”

Tung closed the book. “From now on, no one will come in on their own. We submit a legal request.”

An heard the sound of a ceiling fan in the hallway. The rotation is steady, but on the fourth turn there is a small noise. She wrote it down in her head, like a punctuation mark.

“We're not going to save the album by breaking the rules,” she said. “But also don't let the law be used as an excuse for someone who erased someone else's name.”

Nam looked at her. “Do you still want to work with me?”

An did not answer immediately. She looked at the recording without a chorus on the screen, at the empty part that they didn't know what to fill with.

"I want to do the sound. As for whether you're worthy of standing next to it or not, you have to prove it yourself."

Nam nodded. "Okay."

In the evening, the label sent an official announcement: the album project was paused because of an "internal dispute". At the same time, a new teaser appeared online. In it, Le's voice The part that sang the entire verse was cut off, with the name Gia Linh written below.

An asked everyone not to release the new demo until the final sound layer was determined. But an incomplete copy can still become a target. Milky Way sent a notice that they were not responsible for the leaked files, and hinted that An's group had deliberately set up a campaign to attract attention.

Linh wants to answer immediately. Hanh suggested waiting. Finally, they agreed on a communique with only documents: the contract, collection time, Le Chi's rights and Linh's declaration of independence. Don't use An's accident photo, don't use Nam's old photo, don't describe Duc Minh with unproven words.

An wrote the technical part. She explained that Le Chi's voice in the teaser was split, sped up and merged with the new song; She clearly stated what could be confirmed and what was awaiting assessment. She reread each sentence, deleting words that sounded too strong.

“You're making the test harder for yourself,” Vy said.

“If you exaggerate, they will just find a fault.”

“If you say less, they will say you have no evidence.”

“So let the data do the rest.”

The announcement was sent simultaneously to journalists who attended the listening session. Milky Way responded within an hour, saying the group “is exploiting an old dispute to market an unfinished product.” Some articles repeat exactly that sentence.

An doesn't read comments. She went to room B with Hanh to receive the files back according to the temporary decision. The company asked to sign a minutes, which stated that the group was not allowed to make further copies outside the scope of inspection. Hanh edited each sentence, adding a clause that all existing copies must be sealed and not copyrighted.

Quang Vu appeared at the end of the hallway. He didn't look at An, just told Hanh that the company was willing to make an agreement if Nam withdrew from the project.

Nam stood behind the glass door, listening through the text system. He wrote on the board: "Don't use me as a condition."

An returned to Quang. “You can negotiate rights, you can't ask a person to disappear.”

“Do you think Nam is irreplaceable?”

"No one is irreplaceable. But you don't get to decide who gets to speak."

Quang stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You don't understand what is protecting you. If I want, I can ask for compensation because you used the company's rooms and equipment during the trial period."

"I use the room according to the contract. If you want to make a request, please send it in writing."

He smiled faintly. “She really likes writing.”

“Because human memory is often convenient.”

After Quang left, Hanh received the court's decision to accept the file. The case will be considered in two weeks. Before that, the team must submit a description of the data source, list of participants and all related contracts.

Nam looked at An. “Is two weeks enough?”

“No. But we have two weeks.”

Linh asked if she should continue recording. Hanh said it's possible, as long as it doesn't use disputed data. An scheduled five sessions in the field, one session with Le Chi if she agreed and one private listening session.

In the evening, Nam stayed in the studio to edit the music. An placed her hand on the table and realized he had changed the way he did it: the bass was lower, not pushing her into the uncomfortable frequency range of her left ear. He didn't ask, just took notes.

“You fixed it my way?”

“I corrected it according to the data you gave me.”

“Sounds like a contract clause.”

“I'm trying to be precise.”

An sat down next to him. The two of them looked at the chart together. Class The sound at the end is still the sound of the warehouse door, but there is an additional breath. Not An, not Nam, not Linh. One person was standing very close to the recorder.

“What if it was Duc Minh?” Nam asked.

“Don't know yet.”

“What if it was someone else?”

“We look.”

Nam placed his hand on the table, imitating the way An listened. He didn't close his eyes, just focused on the vibrations.

“I don't feel it,” he said.

“You don't have to feel the same way I do.”

“But I want to understand.”

"Understanding is not taking over someone else's experience. You just have to ask the right questions."

Nam nodded and withdrew his hand.

Hanh's phone reported a new file from the court system: a list of people allowed to access the southern warehouse. Lam Linh's name appeared, the card issuance date was the same day Lam died. She does not work in the Milky Way, but is authorized as an "artist's family member".

An called Lam Linh. She said she went into the warehouse once and brought out the last recorder, but didn't know the rest of the tapes. She also said that there was a man waiting at the back door that night.

"Who?" An asked.

"I only saw a shadow. But he called Mr. Nam."

Nam looked at An. The sound of the warehouse door in the recording repeats at the end of the string, like a sentence without a subject.

Lam Linh sent an address: her family's old warehouse. “If there's anything left, it's there.”

An closed the machine. “Tomorrow we will go with the lawyer.”

Nam nodded. “I won't go alone.”

Before turning off the lights, An played the song again without the chorus. The last part stops just before the breathing sounds become words. She notes: "No recovery. Find someone to talk."