S—.
I was the one who pushed for Royal Secretariat, and now because of me we might not be able to perform. I have no idea what just happened to my head.
“If it’s an eight-week total-recovery injury and my accumulated fatigue hit ninety-five percent... did I actually almost die?”
Lines from the system that had been getting on my nerves a little while ago flashed back.
▶ Assistant Manager Kim, why are you doing things I didn’t assign? Nothing to do? Should I give you more?
[SYSTEM] A work instruction has arrived from “Manager.”
▶ Assistant Manager Kim, you really make work hard. Why do you keep doing what I told you not to?
[SYSTEM] A work instruction has arrived from “Manager.”
▶ Assistant Manager Kim, in society, standing out isn’t always a virtue.
“Who dies if Spark goes on Royal Secretariat? Is the flow of heaven going to change?”
—right?
Turns out I really almost died. The countdown was a warning, a heads-up to be careful.
Taken on its own, it shows the system has some corner of goodwill toward me. At least it didn’t leave me to face the crisis alone. It even had follow-up measures like the four major insurances ready.
And judging from what just popped up, the penalty attached during Royal Secretariat seems to have been aimed at stopping this incident.
Suddenly the puzzle snapped together.
The abnormally shrunken budget, the surge in negative reactions—even accounting for malicious edits—and the recent “drop him” character scandal.
It didn’t say it outright, but by penalties and countdowns it kept nudging me to withdraw.
So should I just not do anything the system doesn’t tell me to?
If so, why was there no assignment or restriction for Do.Life? Not everything splits neatly into “allowed” and “forbidden.”
“And when do we take first place if we only do what we’re told?”
I don’t even know how many KPIs I have left. I can’t freeze.
All I know for sure is that avoiding what the system forbids is good for my health. Finding the loopholes is a new assignment.
Why go this far to make me an idol?
My head was a mess. Thoughts tangled until I felt like I would burst.
“F—.”
I hate chewing on a problem with no answer. I just shut my eyes.
If only that would flip the switch in my head off with a click.
Unsorted thoughts drifted «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» like oil on cooled bone broth across my mind.
I don’t know. For now I should just be grateful I’m not dead.
There would be time to think later, and plenty of it—but the Royal Secretariat finale was right in front of us. Miss now, and this chance would never come again.
“Didn’t the industrial accident insurance notice have something else under it?”
When it first appeared I was in a panic and only read what my eyes could catch, but thinking back, there was more at the bottom.
I pulled up the industrial accident insurance notice again.
.
.
.
▷ During the “Industrial Accident Insurance” coverage period, “Subordinate” may choose one of the following: ① relief from pain caused by a work-related injury, or ② accelerated recovery from a work-related injury (varies by severity).
▷ The chosen benefit can be changed once.
If it’s two weeks with an open head wound, now that surgery’s done it should be even faster.
“The final was delayed anyway. I’ll go up calling it a miraculous recovery.”
Since I was at it, I wanted some muscle gains too, so I turned off the Work Support Service.
With that on, I never put on muscle. I figured I’d flush my fatigue and be reborn with a new body.
As I stared at the “change allowed” line, new text appeared.
▶ You can’t double-dip benefits, okay? Just because the surface looks glossy doesn’t mean it’s fine—mind the substance too. Then, good luck!
the same splitting headache from a few hours ago came roaring back.
“F—, my body’s wrecked and that’s why they worry, damn it, damn, damn...!”
All I could think were curses. I haven’t felt like this since CBR training.
The next day, Jeong Seongbin came to the room with Choi Jeho.
I greeted them looking gaunt.
“What happened to your face?”
This guy’s picking a fight with his face. We get it—you’re handsome.
“Are you in a lot of pain? You look really pale.”
Look at Jeong Seongbin. Same point, but calm and kind.
“I’m fine. Thanks for coming, both of you.”
I wasn’t fine at all, but if they noticed, they’d circle me and bury me in nagging. I threw myself into the role.
“I wanted to discuss today—”
“Sorry to cut you off, but I have something to say.”
Rare for him, Seongbin interrupted. When I told him to go ahead, he hesitated, then spoke firmly.
“We’ll handle the final performance ourselves.”
I didn’t see that coming at all. They were taking a step toward being a self-directed five-member Spark.
To keep Spark from dropping out mid-season, I’d thought I had to prove I was recovered and get onstage somehow.
But the brats—impressively—were telling me they’d perform on their own and I should rest.
I almost cried for joy, but held it back. My head already hurt so much that tears were about to spill. If I relaxed, my tear ducts and my stitches would both pop.
“Can you really do that?”
“Is that your call to worry about? If we tell you to rest, rest.”
Even Choi Jeho gently talked me down.
A banner day. I’ll call this my second birthday.
“Thanks for the consideration. You’ll look even better doing it yourselves.”
“...Huh?”
Bad planning aside, the Spark kids have always done their parts brilliantly. This time I’d spoon-fed them the item; they’d do fine.
“So this will be our first true five-member Spark stage?”
If they nail just this one, the impact when I later leave will soften a bit.
By then people will say, “Looked like they didn’t need Kim Iwol anyway.”
“It’s important, so do it well. Maybe this is for the best. If you need help with anything else, say so.”
Instead of wasting time cramming choreography I suck at, maybe I should work from the laptop here. That’d be better for a klutz like me.
And they won’t have to factor in my level. Cut my share of costume and prop budget and they’ll have more to spend.
I was about to ask Seongbin to bring the shared laptop when I noticed his face looked off.
“For the best—what do you mean by that?”
“If you do it yourselves, the quality will be higher. At the last position battle I was right to sit you and Juu out. Or we give more parts to Giyeon—”
“Hold on. I don’t understand why you think that. Why do you think it’s better without you?”
“I told you this already. Do I have to say it twice?”
His face hardened.
“So, if there’s a spare laptop, can you bring me one? And my planner. It should be by my pillow.”
“...No. While you’re inpatient, please just rest.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll think of a way for you to participate, even briefly. You just focus on getting better before the final.”
I didn’t know why he suddenly flipped, but he was adamant. I could see his mood drop.
“They said eight weeks. He can’t be discharged before then.”
Choi Jeho cut in, but Seongbin didn’t budge.
“There’ll be a way for six to stand onstage. So let’s not talk about you sitting out.”
With that, he bowed and left the room. I motioned to Jeho to hurry after him.
“System, can’t you show me a video of five-member Spark onstage?”
If he saw it once, even Seongbin wouldn’t say that.
But the system was ruthless.
▶ Try saying something that makes sense. Assistant Manager Kim, you really have a knack for trying to game the system, don’t you?
It hurts this bad, there’s no paid sick leave, and Seongbin scolds me. Miserable, miserable.
“You want to add Iwol’s part in the second half?”
At Seongbin’s notice, Lee Cheonghyeon was aghast. Park Juu and Kang Giyeon looked much the same.
“What happened? Did things go badly when you talked to him...?”
“That’s not it.”
It was the only answer Seongbin could give to Juu’s question.
They’d stood for ages outside the OR before they finally got to see Kim Iwol. But none of them could speak when they did.
A face so blood-smeared it was hard to recognize, lips scabbed from being chewed, the back of his hand full of needles.
Even the word “weapon” carries weight; standing before him, death crossed everyone’s mind.
Park Juu, who’d been holding it in, cried nonstop until he heard Iwol was stable. Lee Cheonghyeon, who kept starting and stopping, broke into sobs the second Iwol opened his eyes.
They were relieved to leave him past the worst and head back to the dorm, each lost in thought.
The next day, Seongbin called them together.
“Manager said yesterday that if it’s too hard, we can withdraw from Royal Secretariat.”
“Yeah...”
“I want to hear what you all think. Say whatever you want.”
He’d had a direction in mind. He’d even stayed up planning how to persuade them if they disagreed.
But the worry was pointless.
“This is the show he persuaded us to join, step by step. He’s not the type to like dropping out midway. I think we finish.”
Everyone agreed with Kang Giyeon. Unanimous.
“It says eight weeks, but even after discharge he’ll be in treatment. The stage will have to be just us five—are we okay with that?”
He checked again. The others, who’d wrestled with it just as much overnight, agreed.
They wanted to lighten his burden now, to let him focus on recovery without worrying.
“‘It’s important, so do it well. Maybe it’s for the best.’”
Why did that make him so angry.
In that moment, Seongbin saw overlaid on the present Iwol the image of Iwol caught practicing alone late at night.
“I’m doing this because I’m so much worse than you.”
He remembered those words exactly.
Words so absurd anyone at UA would call them ridiculous.
It also bothered him when Iwol told Kang Giyeon, “Thanks for thinking that much.”
Isn’t that the minimum? They’re bandmates, they’ve lived and worked side by side, and he relies on that man more than anyone.
“About Iwol.”
Seongbin finally voiced what he’d been carrying alone.
“Doesn’t it feel like his self-esteem is strangely low?”
