Once everybody knew his name. Once he danced before kings and queens, Presidents and Secretaries-General, a dance which commanded throngs in foreign lands to his mercy. Once his face beamed from a million billboards, smiled from a billion screens. High school students studied his every move, talk show hosts bowed to him, and pop superstars treated him as a peer. Once he held the world in thrall to his velveteen voice.

But that was nine years ago. Now PSY sat alone in his Seoul flat, pouring himself a convenience store lager. You get one magical summer, and that’s it. Now the world has moved on. Sometimes no-name journalists call you up every few months and you’ll wax lyrical to them about your newest singles and then they’ll run vapid articles with vaguely insulting titles like The “Gangnam Style” Singer: Where Is He Now? What, like you’ve died? No! You are PSY! You are PSY from the Psycho World, and you are going to burst back onto the world stage with a glorious comeback single! You just need the spark.

The spark! When is it going to come? It’s been four years since your last album. Maybe the sparks just don’t come anymore. You’re in your mid-forties. Face it, you’re an old man now. The world has moved on. You’re a washed-out one-hit wonder.

“To the one-hit wonders,” PSY muttered, to no one in particular as he downed his lager. Neither the empty wooden chairs nor the air ducts ventured a response.

A knock on the door! Probably another condescending journalist. PSY arose and tiptoed over to the door, the kind of dazed tiptoeing that you do when you’ve had a few lagers, and peered through the peephole. No one in the field of view. Some prank?

PSY opened the door and glanced down the hallway, his gaze landing on a figure in silhouette. The silhouette was frozen in a Michael Jackson pose, his face averted from the light spilling from PSY’s flat and covered by one hand like a visor.

“Who are you? Did you knock on my door?”

The figure removed his hand from his face and turned to face PSY, a gesture that exuded choreography. Hair dyed blond and parted down the middle, laurels crowning an impossibly svelte face.

“SUGA? From BTS?”

“The one and only,” whispered the Bangtan Boy. “Come on, old man, let’s go for a ride.”

Fifteen minutes later they were speeding down a Seoul highway.

“But enough chit-chat,” SUGA said. “Let’s talk shop. Working on your next comeback single, eh?”

PSY blushed. “What do you know of that?”

“Oh, just everything.” SUGA was preternaturally confident. “You know, I do read the tabloids.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“You’re looking for your spark, eh? Your next killer idea, the one that will make the world fall back in love with you?”

“I mean, uh—”

“Yes you are. Don’t be embarrassed. Every one-hit wonder is plotting their comeback.”

“Yes,” PSY sighed. “I am plotting a comeback. I just need the right hook.”

SUGA smiled. “Well, strictly speaking, nobody knows we’ve met yet. But I think I can help you with your hook.”

The silence that descended over the car was electric.

“I’m very touched,” PSY began. “But what do you get out of this?”

“Just the chance to make a new friend. When you become superstar famous, you have a lot of fans, of course, but how about friends? You must know this.”

Was SUGA genuine? Was this some sort of ploy? It could very well be. But perhaps it was also time for PSY to make a new friend.

“Yes,” PSY said at last, “I accept your offer of friendship. But how do you think you can help me with a hook?”

“That’s easy,” said SUGA. “Jang, turn on the radio!”

The chauffeur turned a few dials, and silence gave way to static gave way to a burst of pounding club beats. I’m Charli, baby, a woman drawled over the beats. Tonight we’re going OUT OUT.

“What’s this song?” SUGA yelled over the noise.

“OUT OUT,” read the bodyguard sitting shotgun, from the centre console display. “By Joel Corry and Jax Jones feat. Charli XCX and Saweetie. It must be the new hit song from the West.”

“What kind of a song name is that?” yelled PSY. “OUT OUT?”

“Listen, Pudgy Cheeks,” replied the bodyguard, “I don’t make the song names.”

“Hey, that was uncalled for! I’ve lost weight.”

“PSY, the point is, that’s what we’re up against,” said SUGA. “OUT OUT.”

“That name doesn’t even make sense!”

“Nope. You think you can do better?”

“I know I can do better. You know what, SUGA?” A sparkle gleamed in PSY’s eye for the first time in years. “I think we’ve got it!”

Rebecca was already sleeping when I came into the room. I tossed my dry-cleaned dresses over the back of my chair and collapsed onto my bunk. I’d had a long day, an exhausting downtown runaround, and it was time to call it a night.

Well, maybe not. One silly YouTube video, and then time to call it a night. I extracted my phone from my purse and opened YouTube. Okay, what’s trending?

PSY - ‘That That (prod. & feat. SUGA of BTS)’ MV - YouTube