We will try to make the name BTS sound as cool as The Beatles.

Host: The city lights bled into the night, shimmering over the Han River like spilled gold. A soft wind carried the echo of distant music — faint bass, a ripple of laughter, the pulse of youth humming against the heavy darkness.

On the rooftop of a modest recording studio, Jack sat with a beer can in one hand, his eyes on the sprawling city below. Jeeny leaned against the rail, her hair whipping across her face, her voice quiet but burning with the energy of someone who still believed.

Behind them, a poster peeled slightly on the concrete wall: “BTS — Love Yourself Tour.” The edges fluttered like a flag in the wind, half worn, half defiant.

Jeeny: “You know what J-Hope once said? ‘We will try to make the name BTS sound as cool as The Beatles.’”

Jack: (chuckles) “That’s ambitious. Comparing yourself to The Beatles? That’s like climbing Mount Everest in sneakers.”

Jeeny: “But that’s what makes it beautiful, Jack. The audacity. The dream itself. You have to want something impossible before you create something timeless.”

Jack: “Or before you make a fool of yourself.”

Host: Jack’s smirk flickered in the neon glow of a nearby sign. Jeeny’s face caught the same light, but her eyes were full of something else — not the glow of fame, but the faith in what it means to reach for it.

Jeeny: “The Beatles weren’t born legendary either, you know. They were just boys from Liverpool with guitars and heartbreaks. People mocked them too — the haircuts, the noise, the hysteria. But look what they did. They redefined cool.”

Jack: “Yeah, and they had timing on their side. The world was hungry for something new — post-war optimism, social change, rebellion. They became the soundtrack to that shift. That’s not just art; that’s history.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t BTS the same? The world’s falling apart again — pandemics, loneliness, digital alienation — and here come these seven Korean boys talking about self-love, healing, hope. They’re not repeating The Beatles; they’re answering them.”

Jack: “Answering them? Or monetizing them?”

Jeeny: (sharp) “That’s unfair.”

Jack: “No. It’s realistic. Everything gets packaged now — rebellion, sincerity, even hope. You can’t tell if it’s art or marketing anymore.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the difference isn’t in the product. Maybe it’s in the intention.”

Host: The wind picked up, rattling a loose metal sign. Somewhere below, a car horn echoed, fading into the hum of the river traffic. Jeeny’s voice, though soft, cut through it like a note held too long, trembling but unbroken.

Jeeny: “You think sincerity can’t exist inside success. But maybe it’s the only thing that can. Do you know what J-Hope meant by that quote? It wasn’t arrogance. It was a promise — to make their name as meaningful as The Beatles’ was for their generation.”

Jack: “Or as profitable.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. As impactful. As a symbol of change, not just charts.”

Jack: “But what makes something iconic isn’t the message — it’s the mystery. The Beatles had mystique. BTS livestream every breakfast.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why they’re revolutionary. They dismantled mystique. They let people see the struggle, the failure, the sweat behind the smile. They made vulnerability cool. That’s not the end of art — that’s its evolution.”

Host: A plane passed overhead, its lights blinking in the clouds, like a slow heartbeat in the dark. Jack tilted his head back, watching it fade, his expression unreadable, the kind of look men wear when something they don’t want to believe starts making too much sense.

Jack: “You sound like one of those fan documentaries.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe I am. But the thing about fandoms — they’re made of people who still believe music can matter. That’s rare now.”

Jack: “Music matters to everyone. It’s just... different now. It’s algorithmic. It’s disposable.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s emotional. It’s personal. You think those kids screaming at concerts are hypnotized? They’re seen. That’s power, Jack — to make millions of strangers feel seen.”

Jack: “That’s not new. That’s what Elvis did. What Lennon did.”

Jeeny: “And now J-Hope does. Don’t you see? The form changes, but the fire doesn’t. The Beatles taught us how to dream. BTS taught us we were still allowed to.”

Host: The wind carried the last syllables away, scattering them into the night. Jack’s fingers drummed against the can, his thoughts moving like quiet traffic. He looked at Jeeny, really looked — the way one might look at a city after a storm, seeing both the ruins and the light.

Jack: “You know, I used to hate all this idol stuff. The choreography, the PR smiles, the fake gratitude. But I watched one of their interviews once. J-Hope said, ‘We don’t just want to be famous — we want to be remembered.’ And he said it like he meant it.”

Jeeny: “He did mean it.”

Jack: “Maybe. It made me think of Lennon’s line — ‘We’re more popular than Jesus now.’ Except one came from ego… and the other from hope.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Still, the Beatles had revolution. BTS has relatability. It’s not the same.”

Jeeny: “But it’s the same soul. One sang for a world waking up; the other sings for a world trying not to give up.”

Host: The sky cracked faintly with thunder, a distant promise of rain. Jeeny’s eyes gleamed — not with idealism, but with conviction, as if she carried the weight of every lyric ever written about believing in something impossible.

Jack: “You think they’ll really make it? Fifty years from now — people still humming their songs?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think that’s the right question. The Beatles became a myth because they reflected their time. BTS might do the same — not by being immortal, but by being immediate. They’re the sound of now.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Not everyone needs to last forever. Some just need to matter while they’re here.”

Host: The rain began, soft and shimmering, dappling the rooftop with tiny silver rings. Jeeny tilted her face upward, letting the drops hit her skin, a small, reckless act of joy. Jack watched her, the corner of his mouth twitching, a rare, unguarded smile breaking through.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what J-Hope meant. To sound as cool as The Beatles — not to copy them, but to echo their courage.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To take the same risk: to believe the world can still be moved by music.”

Jack: “And you believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what are we doing here — just surviving?”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe surviving is overrated.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Now you sound like an artist.”

Host: The rain thickened, cloaking the city in a silver mist. The lights of Seoul blurred into liquid constellations — red, white, gold — each one a heartbeat, a name, a dream.

Jack set his empty can down, hands folded, gaze turned toward the river, where the reflections of the towers rippled like melting stars.

Jack: “Maybe one day, someone will quote BTS the way we quote The Beatles — not because they were perfect, but because they made us feel less alone.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real cool, Jack. Not fame. Not glory. Just the ability to make the world feel a little less lonely.”

Host: The rain softened, the air warm and electric. Jeeny’s laughter drifted up like a song fading into memory, and for the briefest moment, the city, the music, and the two of them felt stitched together by something bigger — something as reckless, as human, and as cool as hope itself.

And somewhere below, from a passing car radio, a voice rose — half English, half Korean, but all heart — whispering to the night:

“We don’t need permission to dance.”

And for once, even Jack didn’t argue. He just listened, smiling, as the world kept singing.