"I'm back."
"Huh? You're home early...?"
Park Juu, who’d been stretching in the living room, came over when I walked in. He even took my backpack and kindly carried it to my room.
"They said they had to clear the building to clean the Greenline air conditioners. So we wrapped up early."
If it had been any other reason, I would’ve found a way to stall and stick it out, but I couldn’t argue with air-conditioner cleaning.
An unmaintained air conditioner is no different from trash.
When the refrigerant runs low, the air turns lukewarm; when the drainpipe gets old, it leaks; you’re forever changing the batteries in every remote; and if mold grows inside, it stinks...
I can still vividly remember getting doused by water pouring like a waterfall from the ceiling and washing my hair at the mop sink. I honestly thought I’d come to a water park, not an office.
And to the executives at Hanpyeong Industry who still didn’t fix the AC after all that—may you all suffer heatstroke this year.
While I was steeped in those damp memories, Kang Giyeon poked his head out from the kitchen.
"Welcome back. Have you eaten?"
"Not yet. You guys?"
"We had chicken breast. Want me to heat one up for you?"
"No, I’ve got it."
At my answer, Kang Giyeon just nodded and went back into the kitchen.
But something was off.
I mean, just now—Kang Giyeon came out of the kitchen and...
"Giyeon."
"Yes?"
"Did you get taller?"
My line of sight wasn’t dropping as much as usual, you know?
"Me?"
Kang Giyeon pointed at himself with a finger.
He looked a little flustered, but who cares. If he might have grown, what does that matter?
"Guys! Somebody bring me a tape measure!"
"Maybe you just saw it wrong?"
"Not a chance."
How many group shots of Spark do you think I’ve retouched? My eyes are heel-lift detectors, you punk.
At my bark, Jeong Seongbin came running with a tape measure.
"How do we do this? Should we mark Giyeon’s height on the wall first?"
"This is a rental. Don’t mark it with a pen—stick an index tab."
Then Lee Cheonghyeon fetched rainbow index tabs from the stationery box we’d set up on one side of the dorm living room.
"Why in the middle of the night... You could just measure at the office tomorrow."
"You have no idea how life-or-death your height is to me, do you?"
I pressed the grumbling Kang Giyeon up against the wall and shot back.
Seizing the moment, Lee Cheonghyeon carefully stuck an index tab exactly where the crown of Giyeon’s head touched.
While Jeong Seongbin and Park Juu teamed up to pull the tape tight, I prayed to the entire universe.
Please. Please let that kid have gotten taller.
I really worked hard, didn’t I? I got him into fitness classes, made sure he took protein, carbs, fat, and calcium, and put him to bed early. Not on my dime, admittedly.
What did the Sparklers ever do to deserve having to slice their SNS headers on a diagonal because of him? And what did Kang Giyeon do to deserve having only his upper body cropped and moved up?
I already feel anxious because I’ve had to rely on this team longer than I planned, and if I can’t even get this kid taller, I’ll die of shame.
Just please let him clear 175 cm. I’ll make him drink milk five times a day from now on.
God, Buddha, Grandfather Dangun, please...
"Holy. Kang Giyeon, you hit 176."
And just like that, my desperate prayer was answered by one line from Lee Cheonghyeon.
The next day, the height machine confirmed it: 176 cm. Official growth.
And even though Kang Giyeon himself stayed quiet, I went around bragging everywhere—on the fan café, on messenger—that he’d grown.
"Is Giyeon getting taller really that great to you?"
After watching me bask for a good while, Choi Jeho tossed the question.
"Of course. If he hadn’t told me not to, I’d have even given him leg massages."
Work is something you can usually grind into shape, but height comes down to luck.
It’s the kind of thing where no matter how hard you try, results might not show—so if the effort pays off, obviously I’m proud.
There’s still time before Kang Giyeon’s growth plates close. Even if he can’t repay me with dance, he can at least repay me in height.
‘I just want him to reach exactly 180 cm.’
In a year or two, Jeong Seongbin and Lee Cheonghyeon will clear 180 cm on their own. If Kang Giyeon joins them, Spark can claim the title: everyone 180 cm or taller.
A tall group is great. Their faces are like thin ice anyway, so pushing with physique will work fine, won’t it?
Deep in thought, I was about to add five cartons of low-fat milk to the household list when something felt off.
Maybe it’s that Jeho doesn’t seem in a great mood.
The guy’s rarely in a good mood, but it’s not often that it’s this obviously bad.
He’s the tallest on the team—he wouldn’t be feeling threatened just because the youngest grew a bit.
"How’s the competition prep? Going well?"
Jeho, sprawled on my bed, paused.
He hesitated, glanced at me once, then sat up against the headboard.
"Hey."
"What?"
"Are our kids unusually good at accommodating other people?"
There he goes again—lopping off the beginning and end of the story.
What am I, a mind reader? Am I supposed to get the whole context from that?
Still, I got the gist. Sounds like things are grinding with Allover.
But I can’t be his interpreter forever, so I decided to play dumb until he actually said it out loud.
"It’s obvious. They’re good kids."
"Ha..."
"Why? Something happen?"
Jeho raked his hair hard.
"No, fuck—what kind of dance-position people can’t even follow choreography?"
"Maybe they just take longer to pick it up? Once they learn it, they might do fine."
"It’s different. Those weren’t movements from someone who knows how to use their body."
I guess a trained eye can see that at a glance. I don’t know shit about how to use a body, so I chose to listen.
"They don’t pitch ideas, and when you give one, they whine that it’s hard. If that’s the case, why have meetings and why practice at all?"
"Right. In that state you probably barely made any progress, huh?"
"It looked like it’d take them a million years just to memorize the choreo, so I wrote everything except the dance break myself."
"Rough. So group practice starts tomorrow?"
"They want three days of individual practice and—what the... Don’t you need to see the picture before writing the break? We’re not doing separate stages, so what’s the point of each person memorizing on their own, fuck. And how does learning choreo take three whole days?"
Jeho shouted, frustrated. Then he buried his head in the pillow.
"Why? You, Mr. Choi Jeho, used to not think much of group practice either."
"That was back then."
He exhaled so hard I could clearly see his shoulders rise and fall on the bed across from me.
"Did you prefer practicing with Spark?"
At my question, his back twitched.
He raised himself, and his face was bright red from the pillow pressing on it.
Shit, did it squash his nose? You are banned from sleeping face-down from now on.
"Hey, compare things that are comparable."
"They say the old you know is the best."
The way he bristled was kind of funny.
But, to be fair, this was partly a setup I intended.
It’s true that Jeho, dubbed the "center emperor," is the best center—but a team doesn’t thrive just because he’s great.
The reason he could shine up to now was that the members around him supported him properly.
Kang Giyeon kept Spark’s stage a group performance instead of the Choi Jeho solo show, and Jeong Seongbin and the others balanced him at his side.
Back then, this didn’t always come together and the stage sometimes felt messy, but not now. Now Spark looks like everyone is good, and within that, Jeho flies.
I figured he needed to realize that himself.
If he knows the value of his members, he won’t catch some dumb wind like "find yourself post-departure and debut solo."
"If something isn’t working, isn’t asking how the basics? I don’t get why they try to change the choreo the moment it gets a bit complicated."
"Maybe the choreo was really hard."
"So what, dance basics forever? Back in the day, Jeong Seongbin practiced even while crying."
"Okay, grandpa."
By now, Jeho was basically in runaway-train mode.
Tough luck on the match-up, but it looks like he’s getting exactly the experience I wanted him to.
After huffing for a good while, Jeho looked at me and asked:
"Didn’t you say ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) this before? If I’m pissed off, I can do things my way."
"When did I ever say that? I said do everything you’re supposed to do, and if there’s something you want to say, say it."
He frowned at that.
Then he went quiet, thinking, before speaking again.
"For this stage, are results important?"
"Results aren’t important, but doing well is—"
"I know—you said as long as I look good to the fans, that’s what matters."
We’d talked about that before Royal Secretariat started, and I’m impressed he remembers.
"If the ranking isn’t that important and the broadcast image isn’t that important, then I’m going to do it my way."
"What?"
"I’m doing it my way. They’re pissing me off, so I’m going to say everything I want—minus the profanity—and push the progress the way I damn well want."
I looked at him in silence.
He looked back and added, briefly:
"I’ll do my part well."
No other answer was necessary. I told him to go ahead, let out a small laugh, and left the room.
During the ensuing practice period, I sang to my heart’s content.
First, with Park Juu taking the morning shift, I suddenly had time. Jeong Seongbin took over checking the fridge.
The two of them were so in sync that all I had to do was enjoy the salads and chicken breast they handed me.
At Greenline, I’d greet the security guard—he always welcomes me, saying the young guy is so polite—and then throw myself into practice with Verion’s members and...
"Want this? Our manager just brought it back from Thailand!"
"What’s your number? Turns out we never exchanged when we first met."
"How does Spark run idea meetings?"
When did these kids... get so comfortable with me?
