─────────────────

The podcast begins with a lo-fi beat mixed with gritty, low electronic sounds. The audio fades in as Lorien shuffles, adjusting his mic. We hear a slight cough or sigh—he's not trying to sound "perfect" for the recording.

Lorien leans into the mic. "Off The Record. What does that mean to you? What does that mean to me? Well, for starters, it means no bullshit. No filters. No fake images or personas to hide behind. You'll get the honest and brutal truth. Real answers that aren't from a script or what companies told idols to say. This podcast? It's the stuff you won't hear anywhere else. You won't get the 'perfect idol' version of me. No, you're getting the real deal—the mess, the mistakes, the lessons learned, and the things we're told to keep quiet about. And trust me, there's a lot of that."

Lorien leans back slightly, his tone sharp and direct.

"Lorien, you might be asking, 'What's the need for this podcast?' My answer to you is simple—life. Be real with yourself for once. We're all out here in this industry, constantly told to smile, to act a certain way, to be someone we're not for the camera. But guess what? That's not the full picture. To show the fans a side of us they don't get to see—the true us, not the version that hides behind some shiny image that our companies want us to sell. That's what this podcast is about. Shedding the fake, the polished, and the rehearsed. Just truth."

He pauses, letting the words sink in, then leans back into the mic with a smirk.

"And yeah, it's gonna get messy. But that's life, right?"

Lorien leans forward, resting his arms on the desk, his voice steady but intense.

"Lorien Ahn, your host and residential pain in the ass. Lorien Ahn—yes, that Lorien, the K-pop idol, producer, and whatever other things.... I'm still trying to figure that out. This podcast? It's my way of peeling back the curtain on the idol industry. No managers, no PR teams—just me, a mic, and probably too much caffeine. Alright, yeah. Welcome. You've somehow found Off the Record, which means either you're incredibly lost or you're here for the real talk. Either way, welcome to the first episode. No script, just talk."

He gives a slight shrug as if all of it is part of the deal. He leans back in his chair, the first words of the podcast lingering in the air, before the music fades out.

"As the host and main voice of this podcast, I'll walk you through what you can expect from me and the guests. We're keeping it real here—talking about real issues, real lives, and people's true identities. No canned company responses like you might usually hear from idols. Don't expect a lot of scripted answers because there won't be any of them. I've already given enough of what this podcast is about, so please don't ask. If you're confused about any of this, just watch the episode again or press the 15-second rewind button. Whatever it's called. It's not that hard."

After finishing his introduction, Lorien leans back in his chair, casually shrugging as he grabs his drink. He takes a sip, glancing off-camera as if inviting the viewers to settle in. With a relaxed yet determined look, he folds his arms and nods to himself.

"K-pop companies are the problem. Let's start there. Not all of them, but most are. They're after one thing—money. It took me three companies to realize this. Three fucking companies before I understood they weren't worth my potential or my time. Quite a waste, don't you think? I started my training journey in 2019 before the pandemic, so it was quite strange and weird. My first ever company was WVE Entertainment. They were a shit company, and it's understandable why they went bankrupt because the building itself was in bad shape, had mold, and just wasn't up to standards. The employees weren't good, and I'm pretty sure most of them didn't know what was happening most of the time. None of them showed up to work on time, never followed the schedule, and never did anything the way it was supposed to be. Everything was shit, and it's good that they went out of business because I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have gotten their shit together"

Lorien tapped his fingers against the desk, a sharp rhythm that matched the edge in his voice. "FNC Entertainment? Things were better there—barely. They acted like they cared like they wanted me to debut. But let's not kid ourselves—it wasn't about me. It was about what I could offer. I'd been producing music for them since early 2020, way before I even signed, and they knew I could deliver. That's what they cared about: my skills, not me."

He leaned forward, his tone hardening. "It wasn't all bad. They gave me some creative freedom, which was a step up from my first company. But that freedom came with strings. They were never upfront about anything, always trying to keep you in the dark while pretending they were 'invested in your success.' Spoiler alert—they weren't. They just saw me as a way to pad their catalog and maybe, if I played my cards right, bring them some clout. It's business, I get that but don't dress it up as something else. That's what pisses me off the most—the fake sincerity."

He let out a short, bitter laugh. "I stuck it out until 2021, but by then, I'd had enough. They weren't gonna give me what I needed, and I wasn't about to waste any more time pretending otherwise. Yeah, I learned a lot—mostly how not to trust people who smile too much when they're signing contracts. But I'm glad I left when I did. Staying there any longer would've been a disservice to myself and everything I wanted to accomplish. Sometimes, you've just got to call bullshit and move on."

He sat back, shaking his head with a small smirk. "At least they didn't go bankrupt like my first company. That's something, I guess." He paused for a moment, tapping his fingers idly against the desk before continuing, his tone sharpening. "My next company, though... I don't think too many people even know about it. And honestly? That's probably for the best."

Lorien let out a dry chuckle, his smirk fading into something more cynical. "Yeah, my next company was a total joke. I signed with them in mid-2021—don't even ask me why. They were new, unorganized, and way too eager to promise the world. At first, I thought, 'Okay, maybe this is a fresh start. Maybe these people know what they're doing.' Spoiler alert: they didn't."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his voice dripping with resentment. "It didn't even last a month. A damn month. They shut down before I could even unpack my shit in the dorms. I should've seen the signs—the empty offices, the fact that their 'training rooms' were just rented dance studios they couldn't afford to keep for more than a few weeks. It was pathetic."

"I can't even remember what the company was called—it was that forgettable. Honestly, I think they just wanted to latch onto someone who had a bit of experience and hope for a miracle. The joke's on them; they couldn't even handle their basic operations, let alone manage a debut. The whole thing was a disaster waiting to happen, and it finally blew up in their faces."

He shook his head, a bitter huff escaping him. "Looking back, it's almost funny—almost. At least I wasn't dumb enough to stick around hoping they'd get their act together. When the ship started sinking, I bailed. Fast. I guess if there's one good thing to come out of it, it's that I learned to spot bullshit from a mile away. A skill that comes in handy in this industry."

Lorien shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "As for my current company—the one I'm with right now—things have been great," he said with a rare hint of sincerity in his tone.

He paused as if choosing his words carefully. "It's different here. They treat me like a person instead of a product, which is a nice change of pace. They let me take the reins when it comes to my music and give me the space to create without micromanaging every little thing. I don't feel like I'm walking on eggshells or constantly being judged by some out-of-touch exec who only cares about the bottom line."

Lorien's fingers tapped against the desk, his tone softening slightly. "I don't want to jinx it, but it's the first time I've felt like I can breathe in this industry. Like I can focus on the music without all the extra bullshit getting in the way. And honestly? That's all I've ever wanted."

He offered a small smile, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "It's not perfect, but nothing ever is. Still, compared to everything else I've been through, it feels like I finally landed in the right place. Took a while, but it was worth it."

He sat back, staring off into space, his fingers drumming lightly on the arm of his chair. For a moment, he didn't say anything, lost in thought. The faintest flicker of something—maybe relief, maybe exhaustion—crossed his face before he spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"To be honest," Lorien started, his voice softer now, "I never thought I'd get this far. Hell, I didn't even plan on it. I was fine working behind the scenes—writing, producing, and making music for other people to sing. And don't get me wrong, I loved it. There's something incredible about hearing someone else bring your song to life, adding their voice, and their emotions, and making it something even bigger you imagined. That's magic, and I'll always respect it."

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "But I guess at some point, credit just wasn't enough. It wasn't about wanting the spotlight—it was about wanting to tell my own story, in my voice. You know? I realized I had all these songs, all these ideas, and I wanted to be the one to deliver them. Not because someone else couldn't, but because no one else could do it the way I wanted it done."

Lorien glanced back at the mic, his expression hardening slightly. "In this industry, if you're not in front of the camera, people don't care about you. You're just the guy in the credits no one reads. I got tired of that. I wanted to be seen, not just heard. I wanted to show people that the person behind the music could stand on his own and prove he's more than just the name on a liner note."

He shrugged again, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "So, yeah. That's how I ended up here. Not because I wanted the attention, but because I needed to prove—myself more than anyone—that I could do it. And honestly? I don't regret it. Not for a second."

Lorien let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck as if shaking off the weight of his thoughts. His fingers tapped against the desk again, a steady rhythm breaking the silence.

"But stepping into the spotlight?" He leaned into the mic, his tone sharpening, more serious now. "That's where things got...interesting. Let me tell you, being a producer, a songwriter, a lyricist—it's tough, sure, but it's a completely different world from being an idol. The second you're in front of a camera, everything changes. The expectations, the scrutiny, the pressure to be perfect all the time. And trust me, I faced my fair share of challenges."

He tilted his head, a wry smile creeping back onto his face. "You'd think being the guy behind the scenes would prepare you for idol life, right? Spoil alert—it doesn't. Not even close."

He paused, a light laugh escaping. "And you know what else didn't prep me? Trying to keep track of everything once I got here. Like, I thought I could just roll with it and figure it out as I went. But nah, not at all. Between juggling schedules, brainstorming ideas, and handling the day-to-day madness? Yeah, I was sinking. That's when I stumbled on Notion."

"I get it, sounds a little dramatic, but trust me, Notion's a game changer. It's basically like having a second brain that doesn't forget things. My podcast scripts are in there, song ideas I'm working on, even my to-do lists—which, let's be real, would be lost in the abyss if they were on paper. It's a perfect balance of keeping things organized without boxing you in. If you know me, I'm not the guy for strict, color-coded spreadsheets. I need flexibility. Notion lets me dump everything in, and it actually stays put. I get stuff done without losing my mind in the process."

He grinned and gestured casually as he spoke, leaning into it. "Plus, it's not just work stuff. I've got random ideas I toss in there, playlists I'm building, even books I want to read. It's all in one place, and somehow, it makes me feel like I've got my act together—no small feat, right?"

He chuckled softly, leaning back. "So, yeah, if you're trying to get your life—or even just your chaos—under control, give Notion a shot. Whether you're running a business, managing a team, or just trying to remember what's for dinner, it's one of those tools that works."

He paused, giving a casual shrug. "Alright, enough with the plug. But seriously, check it out. It'll change how you do everything. Anyway... what were we talking about again?"

—

Lorien sat back in his chair, his voice steady but with a hint of bitterness. "So, let's talk about that. Let's talk about what it means to be a K-pop Idol, the shit no one warns you about, the things I had to learn the hard way. Because if you think the music side is tough? Well, you're in for a ride."

Lorien's smirk faded slightly as he adjusted the mic, his expression growing more serious. "The first thing they don't tell you is how much of yourself you're going to lose—or, at least how hard you're going to have to fight to keep it. As a producer or a songwriter, you're judged on your work. But as an idol? You're judged on everything. How you look, how you speak, how you breathe. Hell, they'll even find a way to criticize the way you tie your damn shoelaces."

He leaned forward his hands clasped in front of him. "And don't get me started on the schedules. Do you think you're busy as a producer? Try being an idol. It's 24/7—training, performances, shoots, fan events, and interviews. No breaks. No excuses. Oh, and don't forget: you're expected to be smiling and drawing through all of it, no matter how exhausted you are or how much you're falling apart inside."

Lorien's voice hardens, his words cutting like glass. "And then there's the constant judgment. Fans, haters, even people inside the industry—they all have something to say. About your talent, your looks, your personality. They pick you apart like it's their job. And you can't say anything back. You're supposed to take it, smile, and say thank you. It's fucking exhausting." He paused, letting out of humorous chuckle. "I'm not saying being an idol is all bad—there are moments that make it worth it. But the sacrifices? They're real. The pressure? It's crushing. And if you're not careful, it'll eat you alive."

Lorien leaned back on his chair, crossing his arms. "so, yeah. Going from behind the scenes to center stage? It's not just a career shift—it's a complete transformation. And the worst part? No one prepares you for it. They just throw you into the deep in and hope you can swim."

His gaze hardened, locking onto the mic as if it were a lifeline. "But I'm still here. I'm still standing. And if there is one thing I've learned, it's that you've got to be tougher than the shit they throw at you. Because if you're not? This industry will chew you up and spit you without a second thought."

Lorien let out a slow exhale, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment. His fingers tapped a steady beat on the desk as he sat back, his expression shifting from sharp to contemplative.

"So, yeah," he said, his voice softening. "That's been my journey so far. Not exactly a smooth ride, but I'm still here. Still figuring it out, learning, still trying to make sense of it all." He glanced off-camera as if looking for the right words.

"But here's the thing," Lorien continued, leaning back into the mic, his voice steady but thoughtful. "This industry? It's a beast. It's built on an image, on perfection, on this idea that idols are supposed to be these untouchable, flawless beings. And that's not just unrealistic—it's damaging. To us, to the fans, to the people who believe in what we do. There's so much pressure, so many cracks in the foundation, and no one talks about it. At least, not honestly."

He paused, letting his words settle. "That's part of why I wanted to start this podcast. Not just to share my story, but to pull back the curtain on all of it—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Because there's a lot the industry hides, and I think it's time we start having real conversations about it."

Lorien's tone grew more introspective as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "I'm not here to bash K-pop or tear it down. I love the music especially since I had a part in making a ton of the songs that are part of it. And not to forget the people who make it possible. But I've seen the cracks firsthand, and I think it's important to reflect on what we can do better. What we need to change. And that's not something I can figure out alone. That's why this podcast exists—not just for me to talk, but to listen. To start those conversations."

He offered a small, almost wry smile. "In future episodes, we're going to -dive into this even deeper. Talk about mental health struggles, the pressures of maintaining an image, and the gaps that need to be filled—not just for idols but for everyone involved. Because there's a lot to unpack, and honestly? We're just scratching the surface here."

Lorien leaned back again, crossing his arms as he glanced at the camera. "So, stick around. We're just getting started. And trust me—there's a lot more to say."

—

Lorien fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the desk as if gathering his thoughts. His fingers stopped tapping, and the room filled with the faint hum of the mic picking up the ambient noise. When he finally spoke, his tone was quieter, more serious.

"It's strange," he began, almost to himself, "sitting here, talking about all of this. Things I've kept bottled up, things I never thought I'd say out loud. But the more I think about it, the more I realize...these conversations need to happen. Not just for me, but for everyone—idols, fans, the people who love this industry, and the people who've been hurt by it."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his voice steady but reflective. "I'm not naïve enough to think one podcast is going to fix everything. But I do believe in the power of honest dialogue. Of shedding light on the things we're told to keep quiet about. And that's what this space is for—telling the stories that don't make it into the headlines, digging into the realities behind the glamor, and maybe, just maybe, starting to heal some of those cracks."

Lorien paused, letting his words linger before offering a small, somber smile. "And I won't be doing it alone. In the episodes to come, you'll hear from other idols, trainees, industry insiders—people who've seen the same highs and lows I have. People with their own stories, their truths, their struggles. We'll talk about what it's really like to live under the spotlight, to face the kind of pressure most people can't even imagine. And we won't hold back."

He glanced at the camera, his expression soft but resolute. "We'll cover everything—the grueling schedules, the mental toll, the sacrifices that no one sees. And, yeah, we'll talk about the good stuff, too. The moments that make it all worth it. Because it's not all darkness. There's light here, too. You just have to know where to look."

Lorien leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "This is just the beginning. There's so much more to say, so many voices to be heard. And I'm ready to go there. I hope you are, too."

Lorien sat quietly for a moment, the hum of the mic the only sound in the room. He leaned back, his gaze distant, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You know," he began softly, "for all the challenges, for all the cracks I've talked about today... I'm grateful. Grateful for the lessons, for the people who've stuck with me, and for this chance to finally have these conversations."

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, his tone earnest. "This is just the beginning. We've barely scratched the surface of what needs to be said. In the coming episodes, I'm bringing on guests—friends, fellow idols, and industry insiders—who've seen it all and lived through it. We will dig deeper into idol life, the struggles, the moments of joy, and the things no one talks about. The things fans deserve to know."

A small, thoughtful pause. "So, stick around. We've got some heavy topics ahead, but also some hope, some laughter, and a lot of truth. Thank you for being here with me—for listening, for caring."

Lorien's expression softened as he leaned back one last time, his gaze steady on the mic. "That's a wrap for today's conversation. Until next time, keep it real, keep it off the record."