“Everyone ready? Starting the recording!”
Lee Cheonghyeon said it as he worked the laptop.
From the head of the table, Jeong Seongbin spoke up.
“Today’s agenda, as shared in advance, is ‘item planning for Royal Secretariat’s second competition.’ Everyone saw the notice, right?”
“Yes.”
The writers doubted their ears for a moment.
Agenda? Had any idol ever called a meeting topic by that term?
For a second, they mistook this for a product ideation meeting rather than a shoot.
Even the PPT on the screen—white background, only the necessary points—screamed practical office meeting.
“If we want to buy props, we need to submit an approval form beforehand, so we probably have to lock the item today. Iwol, by when do we need to file the approval?”
“If we flag it as urgent, it’ll get approved right away, but it’s safest to submit within this week.”
“Can I copy what we filed when we bought the patches for the self-PR stage? If a copy-paste is fine, I’ll do it.”
After the smooth talk about the approval flow between Jeong Seongbin and Kim Iwol, Kang Giyeon raised his hand—and then jotted something in a black planner.
Only then did the crew really notice that each member was holding a planner.
All different shapes and colors, all bearing the marks of heavy use. They’d assumed it was just for ambience; who knew they actually used them.
“So the final candidates are Challenger and Astrophysicist, those two, right?”
“Yes. Both items fit the song, so maybe we should choose the one closer to our planning intent.”
Listening to Choi Jeho and Jeong Seongbin, Kim Iwol cut in.
“Hold up. Before intent, let’s look at appeal points. Seongbin, did you organize the proposals when you collected them?”
“Yeah, I’ll pull it up.”
A few clicks and a new slide hit the projector.
Attached reference photos made the concepts instantly readable, and the descriptions were short and clear.
Then the members started pitching their takes on the two items.
“The ‘Challenger’ keyword could get loose... The theme ‘dreaming of a win’ from the first competition and ‘challenging for the win’ feel pretty similar.”
“You’ve got a point, but if we set a clear rival and have the six of us band together to take them on, that narrative is distinct, isn’t it?”
“In that case, the planning intent should come first. We want to have fun and craft a new goal, right?”
As Park Juu and Kang Giyeon traded lines, Jeong Seongbin brought the priority back into focus...
“I get ‘scientist,’ but if we have to be specific—what kind of scientist is it? Mad scientist? Research-nerd type?”
“Mm, let’s lock that part for sure. Depending on the reference, the feel changes completely once we rearrange.”
“Given the theme we want to show, I think it should lean toward a calm, intellectual vibe. I’ll shore this part up.”
When Choi Jeho and Lee Cheonghyeon pointed out gaps, Kim Iwol offered alternatives.
The exchange flowed without a hitch. You don’t get that unless this kind of talk is familiar.
It was striking enough that everyone could keep up with the rapid-fire discussion; in the middle of it, Kim Iwol was even checking whether alignment was holding.
While Team 2 sat there feeling like they were eavesdropping on another department’s meeting, Spark’s meeting had already moved to schedule checks.
“Juu, can you compile today’s notes?”
In response to Kim Iwol, Park Juu opened the monthly calendar spread.
He tapped the paper with the tip of his pen.
“We’re going without rearranging the schedule...? I’ll leave the choreo deadline blank. Cheonghyeon, the rearrangement has to land before that—can you make it?”
“Yeah. I’ll convert the recording to text later and send it to you. Iwol, by when can you develop the references?”
“I’ll do it ASAP. When we share progress, do we CC A&R too?”
“No. Just forward the final after approval.”
Division of roles from Park Juu to Lee Cheonghyeon to Kim Iwol—the meeting wrapped perfectly.
“These kids are good at their jobs...”
Someone on Team 2 murmured. No one disagreed.
The meeting shoot wrapped smoothly.
While the crew were packing up their gear and we were putting the hidden branded products back where they belonged, a writer spoke to me.
“Iwol, are you doing okay lately?”
“Me?”
“Spark, I mean. There’s... a lot of talk right now. Because of Royal Secretariat.”
Maybe the preliminary research had been thin, but they’d clearly been monitoring. Given they’d pulled off a sudden extra shoot and had a handle on viewer reactions.
Broadcast people always care about viewer reactions, but this felt more like...
“They seem to feel guilty about the negative edit.”
It didn’t matter to me. The editing was definitely spicier than the original Royal Secretariat, but compared to other survival shows, it’s been pretty tame so far.
It’s not like they bleeped random words just to fan flames. We wouldn’t have joined a show like this without expecting at least this much.
“I’m fine.”
I smiled brightly.
I almost added that I appreciated the concern, but held back. Humility is a virtue in Korean society, sure—but if you live as a yes-man, you turn into a pushover fast.
“I didn’t think we’d be getting this much mention this early, though.”
“We didn’t expect this level either. Weirdly, there’s been a lot of chatter this time.”
That was a line I couldn’t let slide past.
I’d also felt there were way too many posts nitpicking Spark over nothing.
I’d tried not to over-focus, chalking it up to main-character syndrome.
But if someone more of an expert is sensing the same thing...
Then maybe this wave of gotcha posts wasn’t just a natural phenomenon.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Usually—can I put it this way?—you need someone with that anti-fan/clout-chaser energy to get buzz going. But our show doesn’t have anyone like that yet. So the current reaction’s a bit unexpected.”
In an era when a single issue can make a program wobble, variety shows now vet whatever can be vetted before casting. The so-called “report cards,” life-records stuff.
With that first filter, they likely picked rookies with no notable scandals on record—so they’re surprised it got this loud so fast.
“Don’t go repeating that I said this anywhere, okay? Promise?”
“Sure, don’t worry.”
Was this mess made by the system, or by people?
If I had my way, I’d prefer it be the system—so a few rounds of ridiculous humiliating chores could put it to sleep.
“Seongbin, what do you think of this design?”
“It’s pretty. Are we all using it?”
“As if. Do you know the ‘flower language’ of bland, copy-paste styling?”
“That has a flower language?”
“Of course. It means ‘insincerity.’ Memorize it.”
I dropped two vintage-looking eyeglass frames that had cleared Seongbin’s aesthetic sense into the cart. From the look of them, they belonged to that old-school vibe.
“Hyung, two got selected. You should cancel one.”
“I need both. I want to split one and try it like a monocle; if it doesn’t work, we’ll use the normal one.”
“Are you sure about the cost? You said we didn’t have budget last time...”
“It’s fine. My part-time pay came in.”
When I said I was looking for a side job, our manager lined up an office-assistant gig at UA.
Since then, whenever I had time, I helped clean raw data and update the HR system. Two days ago, a much-needed paycheck arrived.
If I’d had to sell stock again, I was seriously going to just put everyone on burlap and call it a day. The timing worked out.
I let out a relieved breath—then Seongbin practically jumped.
“You’re using your own money?!”
“Yeah. We saved plenty on the self-PR and up to now, but who knows what variables the final will throw at us. I’d rather save where we can.”
“This isn’t right, though. I’ll go to the company right now and—”
“It’s money I got from organizing UA files anyway. Zooming out, it’s still company money.”
He said he’d try the company, but he knows it too: squeezing more money out will be hard.
Especially since this stage will lean a lot on the production team’s hands, it’s better to keep our mouths shut on other fronts as much as possible.
“I’ll buy the cheapest stuff that doesn’t look cheap, so don’t feel °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° too bad. More importantly—what about these suspenders?”
“Cute. You’re pairing them with shirts, right?”
“Yeah. You all have white shirts, right?”
“Someone probably doesn’t.”
“You’re telling me grown working men don’t have a single white shirt?”
Have you ever. Then we have to buy clothes too.
I clawed at my hair and searched a men’s shopping site.
I was about to switch the sort from popularity to price when Seongbin grabbed my wrist.
“Hyung, wait.”
“Why?”
“I think I can get the clothes.”
He said it with dramatic resolve. I almost got emotional at the dependable-leader vibe, but I’m not going to shake down a high-schooler’s wallet.
“White shirts are cheap. They’re basics—whoever wants one can—”
“Not that. There’s someone at my house who’s obsessed with buying clothes. They probably have a few dozen of these shirts.”
“You don’t mean Mr. Jeong Seongjun?”
At the name of my dumpling-butcher younger brother, Jeong Seongbin let out a laugh loaded with meaning.
“He loves clothes, but don’t force it. Everyone’s build is different, so we’ll still have to buy some.”
“Don’t worry about that. He doesn’t care about fit. He’s got pretty much everything.”
“So he’s a fashionista, Mr. Jeong Seongjun.”
“He’s also got tons of things he’s never worn once... And he wears my clothes a lot. Put a hole in one recently, too.”
“Oh, those pants with holes at the ankles? That was Mr. Jeong Seongjun’s work?”
No wonder a tidy kid like Jeong Seongbin showed up with ankle vents.
“Start practice without me tomorrow. I’m raiding his closet.”
With a sunny smile, Jeong Seongbin said something terrifying. Looked like he was set on avenging the pants.
