Chapter 9 — Music Without Chorus

An unplugged the network cable before opening the computer room door. The data drive does not record user names, only one access session lasts eighteen seconds. No files were deleted, but the “transfer” folder was opened. Visitors know exactly what to look for.

Vy arrived immediately after the call, bringing a new signal transmitter. She looked at the screen and asked: "Do you have backup?"

“Three copies.”

“Fourth edition?”

“I don't want to make too many copies without control.”

“When it comes to copyright, too many controlled copies is better than one lost copy.”

An does not argue. She backed up the access log to Vy's drive, then moved the entire project offline. The Water Circuit is no longer a normal office. Any plug can become a gateway.

In the afternoon, Gia Linh came with Nam. An told Nam not to come, but he stood outside the door, not entering until she nodded. That gesture upset her because it showed that he could respect boundaries when he wanted to.

“The company has distributed a demo,” Linh said. “They say the album is the story of Khai Nam coming back after a loss, and you are the voice continuing Le Chi's legacy.”

“They used the name Le Chi?” An asked.

“In the post, there is the sentence ‘inspired by a legendary singer.’ No name listed, but everyone can guess.”

Nam put the phone on the table. “Quang said it was just a teaser.”

“Teasers are also public information,” Vy said. “If the copyright is not clear, they are creating evidence that the project already belongs to the studio.”

An plays Linh's recording. She wanted to listen with Linh, but not through loud speakers. The two of them placed their hands on the table, Nam stood opposite, Vy sat behind the machine. The music begins with the sound of woodwinds and loose drum beats. Linh sang the first verse, then Le Chi's blurred voice appeared like a shadow walking across the hallway.

Linh shivered. “I've never heard this version with that voice.”

“They cut it in after I left the studio,” Nam said.

“So your voice is just a cover?”

“It seems so.”

Linh took off her headphones, her face turned white. “I don't want to sing anymore.”

“You have the right to stop,” An said.

“They will sue.”

“We have saved the evidence.”

“Proof of not paying rent to my parents.”

The words made An silent. She used to think people only needed to know what was right to be able to choose it. Linh reminded her that right and wrong always come with a bill.

Nam pulled the chair. "If you continue, we will separate your voice from the unauthorized use. Make a new version without Le Chi's voice layer, only use the part you recorded."

“The company will not allow it.”

“So we work outside the contract.”

“Easy for you to say.”

"I know."

“You can always go back to the agency if you fail.”

Nam did not respond. Linh looked at him, then at An. “Do you believe him?”

An said truthfully: "Not completely."

Linh laughed briefly, unhappy. “At least you didn't lie.”

They agreed to do an independent, unpublished trial. Linh sang the first verse again in a natural voice, not trying to imitate Le Chi's feeling. An kept his breaths and momentum, abandoning the compound voice layer. Nam plays the electric piano, but every time he leads the melody to a repetition, An interrupts.

“Don't look for the chorus.”

“I'm looking for support.”

“The fulcrum can be the beat, it doesn't need to be the verse.”

Linh began to understand. She lets the second verse go lower, changes the final consonant, and doesn't return to the same note. The song becomes difficult to remember in the usual way, but after turning it off, An still feels the lyrics like a road just passed by.

Nam looked at the control panel. “Do you think the listener will be able to follow along?”

“If they can hear it once without being forced to love it immediately.”

“The market is impatient.”

“Listeners also don't owe the market patience.”

At the end of the session, Linh recorded that she voluntarily participated in the trial and was not allowed to use her voice outside the scope of the agreement. Hanh sent the form via email, asking everyone to sign electronically. An read each line before signing. Same goes for Nam.

When Linh returned, An asked Nam about the key. He said his mother had to have an emergency surgery and insurance didn't pay enough. He borrowed from Quang, then was asked to hand over a warehouse key as security. Nam thought it was just a key that had changed the lock. After repaying the debt, he did not get it back.

“Have you told Le Chi yet?”

"Not yet."

"Why?"

“Because she will ask me why I borrowed from Quang.”

“And I don't want to answer.”

“I don't want her to see that I've become someone the company can use.”

An leaned against the table. “You can't choose how others see you by hiding the parts they need to know.”

Nam nodded. "I know."

“Are you going to meet Le Chi?”

“Yes, if she agrees.”

"Mrs. Diep said she received the letter. Let's send a copy to her first."

Nam agreed, but his expression showed that he was thinking about the trip. An did not stop.

That night, Hanh called to report that the company had sent an urgent request to Linh's lawyer, saying the independent recording was property developed from the Milky Way project. They demand every file within twelve hours. Hanh asked if she should prepare a response or not.

“Prepare,” An said. “But don't send it until there's a joint statement.”

“Are you going to make a statement?”

"Not yet. I intend to let Gia Linh decide."

Linh sent a text message later: "I will not sign a new annex. But I don't want to make it public yet. Give me a day."

An replied yes. She turned off the computer and returned to the computer. In the project folder, a new file appears, named “final_master”. She did not create. The file is only three minutes long, with Linh's voice, Le Chi's voice and a male voice saying: "Everything will be resolved if Mai An withdraws her name."

An immediately turned off the power. But before the screen went dark, she saw one last line of data: the internal IP address of the Milky Way and the login account name “K.NAM”.

The first recording session outside the field took place in the old market yard. An comes first, measures the background sound and chooses the microphone position. The market is not quiet when it comes to autumn: fish sellers call customers, strollers grind on the floor, a child cries because his mother pulled him from the toy stall. Those sounds are not allowed to turn into beautiful backdrops; they must keep their lives intact.

Linh stood next to An, wearing headphones on one side. “Is it okay if I sing in the middle of this?”

"You don't need to win the market. You just need to stand in it."

Men check the wires, don't turn on the music first. He let Linh choose his own distance from the microphone. The first time she recorded, her voice was swallowed by the sound of a motorbike. The second time, she stood closer and lowered her voice. The shout in the background becomes an extra beat.

“Hold,” An said.

Nam looked at her. “All the advertising?”

“If we delete everything that doesn't go according to plan, the article will only be about the plan.”

Linh sings the second verse, changing the words at a consonant. She stopped mid-sentence, turned to the salesperson who was looking at the microphone. The woman laughed and asked what songs they recorded. Linh answered truthfully: "It's about sounds people don't usually hear."

The woman returned to selling. Linh continued singing, this time more naturally.

Male look at the clock. “Do you need a break?”

“I can speak for myself.”

He nodded. "Sorry."

An looked at the two people and realized that Nam was learning not to ask questions on Linh's behalf like he did with An. The change is small but valuable.

After the market, they went to the hospital hallway where Lam once recorded the sound of carts and nursing steps. They do not record sick people, only record in public areas with management's permission. Lam's younger sister, Linh, appeared in a nursing uniform. Mrs. Diep introduced her as Lam Linh.

Linh looked at Nam for a long time. “Do you still remember me?”

Nam nodded slowly. “I remember you holding the file bag at the theater.”

“I miss you leaving.”

No one said anything. An does not step in the middle. Lam Linh gave them a small box, which contained Lam's name tag and a piece of old cable.

“He kept the records on this machine,” she said. "I took it out of the theater because I was afraid the company would take it. I didn't understand the sound, I just knew my brother's name must be there."

Nam asked: "Why didn't you give it to your family sooner?"

"I gave it. But everyone was afraid. When my mother got sick, I had to choose between medical money and keeping a bandage."

An sees that Linh's story has the same shape as Nam's story, but is not the same. Both were subjected to a system that placed a premium on the truth, but each chose a different path.

Lam Linh agreed to record the hallway sounds, but did not want her voice to appear. She only said one sentence to set the stage: "Now everyone hears footsteps, but no one knows who is walking."

An keeps that sentence in the recording, clearly stating the right to use it.

In the evening, they returned to Leu Nuoc to combine data. The sounds of the market and the hospital are not easy to mix. Nam tried to set the drum to the rhythm of the cart, but An cut it.

“Don't force them to go at the same speed.”

“If not, the cards will fall apart.”

"Departure does not mean broken. Listeners can connect."

Linh sat behind the desk, listening through a speaker. "I like the part where the speed is not the same. It's like when I'm at the hospital waiting for my family."

Nam looked at her and lowered the beat of the drum. He didn't ask more about the hospital.

While trying to publish, the system reported that a strange file was accessed. The account name “K.NAM” appeared again. Tung checked and discovered someone was using a computer in Mach Nuoc's living room, where Nam sat reading the contract. The machine is not in the South; Someone plugged a USB into the rear port before they arrived.

Vy closed all the outside gates. “This person was able to enter the room when the door was open.”

An looked at the camera. Three minutes of the recording were lost, just when people went down to buy food.

Nam stood still. “I will leave the studio.”

"Are not."

“My account was used twice.”

“So we have to find the user, not delete him from the data.”

Tung recovered a blurred frame: a person wearing a hat, a mask, and a blue employee ID card of the Milky Way around his neck. Not enough to identify, but enough to suggest they were being watched from close by.

Linh looked at the mix on the screen. “The company wants this article to stop.”

An said: “Then we will make it clearer, not bigger.”

She separated the tracks, recorded the code and sent a copy to Hanh. Nam personally wrote a record of the time the account was used. He didn't wait for An to remind him.

Before leaving, Lam Linh stood next to Nam. “You don't need to apologize to me today,” she said. “But don't ever say you don't know.”

Nam nodded. “I will remember.”

An heard the sound of a cart fading away in the hallway. The song starts from that sound and does not return to the previous verse. In file new, a layer of strange sounds appeared at the end—the sound of a warehouse door opening and closing.