I never figured out what the countdown was before the day the number finally vanished.
“Like anything’s actually going to happen...”
I just thought it to myself as I dusted off seat cushions for the production staff up on the roof.
How many crises can a just-debuted idol really face? The controversy had already blown up, and the workload had been the same as before debut—constant.
Wait. Doesn’t that mean every day is a crisis for me? A sudden wave of existential dread hit.
In case something ridiculous happened during filming—like a nosebleed and a collapse—I carefully checked my accumulated fatigue from the morning.
I even went down the line and kneaded everyone’s shoulders to check their condition. They all got uncomfortably shy, but no one looked particularly sick.
Thinking maybe something would blow up at the office, I showed up at dawn and loitered, but there was no sign of that either. In other words, perfectly normal.
I did everything I could in the areas I could check, and nothing pinged?
Then it’s not on me anymore. Whatever pops out and ruins things, I can say my piece.
“Hyung, the directors say they’ll arrive in ten minutes!”
Since I couldn’t punch the system, I kept punching the cushions. At that moment, Kang Giyeon brought the breaking news.
With no time to dwell on the cryptic number, I grabbed an armful of cushions and headed for the stairs.
I’m running today’s meeting.
I wanted to stop showing up on camera, but my position is producing member, so here we are. Next job, I’m transferring to something without even a P in the title.
Still, I prepped hard for this one.
It’s time to collect all the bait Spark has scattered so far.
“Before we discuss the final performance, let’s revisit our past concepts.”
Up to now, what Spark has shown on Royal Secretariat has moved in step with history.
The fresh rookie-idol vibe of our self-PR stage mirrored the founding of Joseon.
The sports match in Round 1 echoed the factional strife that ran long through Joseon history, and the Milky Way stage in Round 2 nodded to science and technology, including the Cheonsang Yeolcha Bunya Jido star map.
So what remains?
“Everyone remembers the name of our program, right?”
“Royal Secretariat!”
“Correct. If Spark has been recreating historical flows and events up to now, it’s time to leave them as [N O V E L I G H T] a record.”
Told you. Spark would become the identity of Royal Secretariat.
I flipped the slide: old illustrations of historiographers and photos of the Annals of the Joseon Dynasty appeared.
“You all know the Annals are a comprehensive record of myriad facts from the Joseon era, which makes them deeply significant. So for the final performance, as court chroniclers, we’re going to convey—without embellishment—what we’ve seen and learned on the Royal Secretariat stage to the public. Any objections?”
“None!”
“Nope.”
Everyone agreed without fuss. Of course—this meeting exists because of filming, but from the start Spark planned to build stages with this idea.
We’d been workshopping it even before Royal Secretariat began, so nothing here was new to the members.
We did, however, need to lock details. From here, the meeting went full serious.
“For the final, we’re wearing hanbok, right? What style?”
“Instead of full scholar-official, a student’s robes might look nicer...”
“That’s fine, but depending on the design, dance lines can show—or not—wildly differently. We should check that in advance.”
Leader Jeong Seongbin flagged the points to discuss, and Park Juu and Kang Giyeon each chimed in.
“We need to invest real effort in the final, right?”
“...?”
“To avoid wasting time on references, I sketched the big frame already. If we agree, let’s shortlist a final set today and hand it to the production team.”
I opened the shared sheet I’d prepared.
I usually share a folder, but since we’re filming, I put everything in one file with separate sheets—wardrobe, props, lighting, media art, and so on. One of the cameras swung to face the projector.
“We’ll pick color at the end off a color sheet. We’re moving fast, so please decide quickly.”
“No second-round voting or anything?”
“No. Pick what grabs you the first time. If it stands out at a glance, that means it’s a strong option.”
At that, Lee Cheonghyeon shook his head with a little laugh.
For someone who asked about a second vote, the vote wrapped in a flash. In the past they’d have ordered five dishes off a Chinese menu; now they were weighing multiple factors and zeroing in on best choices.
What do you call that. It felt like watching juniors I’d raised well.
“Good work, everyone!”
“Thank you for your hard work!”
With the writers’ thanks, the meeting shoot ended. My blood sugar nosedived.
Is this really an idol’s daily life? It’s no different from Onepyeong Industries. Maybe a highly evolved idol is just an office worker.
“Hyung, you look exhausted.”
“Yeah? Was it obvious on camera?”
“Not during the shoot, but now that the cameras are off, a bit.”
Lee Cheonghyeon pointed under his eyes. I really should get under-eye filler as soon as Royal Secretariat ends.
I rubbed under my eyes and answered,
“It’s probably the back-to-back meetings. I’m crashing.”
“Meetings aren’t the problem—you don’t sleep.”
Choi Jeho scolded as he slid his chair back into place.
Like any of us wanted to sort materials after retreating together and practicing. I love a long, lazy nap too.
I was tragically wronged, but I couldn’t show it. The crew hadn’t cleared out yet.
I held the door so it’d be easy for them to move equipment, and a writer walked up.
“Iwol, who comes up with your ideas?”
“Our members make them together!”
“No, I mean the main idea. Setting the flow from your self-PR stage on—what department handles that?”
“We really build it ourselves. The company mostly checks feasibility.”
“You guys make it? The company doesn’t?”
“Yes!”
At my answer, the writer’s expression went... ambiguous.
Do they not believe me? Is Spark going to get labeled “concept freaks” as a group and get an evil edit?
Panic swept me.
If it’s come to this, I’ll have to hand over Spark’s weekly minutes and prove our innocence...
“I see. We’re probably doing a Season 2 next, and I think we’ll need to change quite a bit from this format.”
“Is that so?”
I played dumb, but it makes sense.
There’s a big difference between a slapdash survival pilot piggybacking on a trend and a show that’s shifting to seasons. Something has to change.
“So we wondered if UA had variety writers or a planning team we could get intros to... guess not?”
“Planning teams usually help around comebacks. We just wanted to try handling the competition ourselves.”
It would’ve felt more secure if accounting helped, but oh well.
The writer sighed, then suddenly lifted her head. After a quick look around, she lowered her voice.
“Right—PD Yu Hansu is here, right?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Is he really not handling idol projects anymore? No active projects now? There’s been so much talk...”
I’d heard rumors rip through the industry, but wow. So “Yu Hansu is toast” has spread beyond UA.
I’d noticed we barely saw him at the company lately—guess he was lying low while the story snowballed. Should’ve kept it moderate from the start.
From her tone, she didn’t sound like she wanted to hire him... just curious.
What I wanted to say: at this point, his problem isn’t assignments—he should hope the company doesn’t sue him.
But I shouldn’t. I’m an idol, an adult, a professional. Getting him blacklisted in the industry is plenty.
“Ha... I’m not sure.”
“Ah, no, I shouldn’t have asked that. Hard to answer, right? Sorry.”
Thankfully, she understood. She even smiled awkwardly and said, “You’re too nice, you know that?”
She probably thought I was being considerate to him. When I’m the one who sank him.
“And your Round 2 stage—blew up, huh?”
“Really?”
“Went super viral. Doesn’t UA monitor?”
“I usually do, but we couldn’t right away because of the retreat shoot.”
“The response is wild. The visuals were great, so even the thumbnail and the fancams came out gorgeous.”
The praise poured in. I felt embarrassed.
“That’s a relief. Everyone worked hard.”
“Still, they say you’re the producing member, right? People keep saying kids these days are scary—in a good way. Tons of praise for your sense.”
“You’re too kind. We still have a long way to go.”
No matter how sharp I get, I won’t beat seasoned pros. And I’m not about to hoard credit for the idea either.
I hurried to see her out—then locked eyes with someone at the end of the hall.
Yu Hansu, the subject of our conversation.
Speak of the devil.
From his route, it looked like he’d been coming our way, but either he spotted someone he knew or heard his name and stopped.
He stood there, unmoving. Quietly watching me and the writer.
“Iwol, what are you looking at?”
“Oh, I thought someone was passing by. Guess not!”
I sent the writer on her way. When I turned back, Yu Hansu was already gone.
Just seeing the crew off took ages. With all the people and gear, the Royal Secretariat cars were coming and going half the day.
Still, once we got them out safely, the tension finally unspooled.
I stretched and headed down toward the practice room when a voice called to me from a distance.
“Iwol!”
“Yes, Assistant Manager.”
It was an Assistant Manager from General Affairs.
They don’t usually call for me, so I wondered what was up.
“Did you do any prop-making activities during your meeting today?”
“No. You mean the Royal Secretariat meeting they filmed?”
“Yeah, that one.”
Prop-making? Out of nowhere?
Catching my puzzled look, the Assistant Manager added,
“It’s nothing big—I went to the storage to grab the tool box, and a few items were missing.”
“We didn’t use anything, but if the Royal Secretariat crew asked, a staffer might’ve lent them out. Should I check?”
“Think you can find out...? For now, can you ask through Chanyeong at least? If they’re gone for good, we’ll need to buy new ones.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.”
She said she’d also double-check the meeting room, then headed off.
