Crises always come out of nowhere.
It was the same in rehearsal. Half the stage—the portion we’d planned for me—had been easy in practice, but in rehearsal it drained me.
That’s when the pain started ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) to swell out of control. If Spark had caught on, they would’ve pulled me even right before we went live, so I kept a straight face, but I was foggy the whole time I waited in the wings.
Three minutes. I can stand anything for three minutes.
And I really did it. No mistakes, I clocked the slogan fans had brought to cheer us on, and we nailed the final image.
I guess that was my limit. My head knew causing a broadcast incident was the worst thing, but my body wouldn’t move.
Everything after that is patchy. When I came to again, I was back in a hospital.
I opened my eyes as the hard part of the story was ending.
“Um...”
“Iwol, you’re awake!”
Manager must’ve been sitting by the head of the bed; he stood up at once.
I caught my breath and asked the first thing that mattered.
“Manager, did Royal Secretariat end?”
“Royal Secretariat? They’re probably tallying the votes.”
“Then... can I watch the broadcast?”
I’d pushed myself to this state to see it through somehow to the end.
He put on a stern face and said no, but he knows how serious I am about Royal Secretariat.
After a few more pleas, I got to watch the live show on his phone.
All the contestants were onstage for the ranking announcement.
On the little screen I could see the Spark brats huddled together.
“The time has come to put a period on this long history. Right now, we reveal the rankings that will enter the Idol Annals of the Dynasty!”
I heard Yur’s voice in my ear, but my eyes were fixed on one spot.
“Did they handle the interview okay?”
It hasn’t been long since they saw me coming out of surgery. That made me worry more.
Could those mentally fragile idiots hold it together to the end on a live broadcast, on a huge stage?
Could they keep their faces in check enough that, even if their final vote rank crashed after a strong run all season, it wouldn’t spark controversy?
In their heads they all must know. Parte will win.
In past seasons, the online vote totals mapped cleanly onto debut seniority, and Parte took a commanding share.
Anyone who watches or has even once been inside a survival program could predict the result.
All the more the contestants themselves. They’d quietly compared how much budget their companies were putting up; of course they had.
They’ll feel bitter. They still can’t show it.
“Sixth place, thank you for your hard work—Verion.”
Knowing how hard Spark worked, how guileless they are, my insides were noisy.
As fifth, fourth, and third were called, Spark offered sincere congratulations. At the same time, they looked flustered when only they and Parte were left.
People might say their show of humility was perfect, but at least I know the truth. Their modesty is real, and while they expected Parte to win, they didn’t expect themselves to rank this high.
But don’t show regret. The attacks will come from all sides.
When your turn comes, thank them then, put fans first, and say you’ll keep working hard...
“First place... congratulations to Parte!”
With a bang, paper confetti billowed. Yur walked over with the trophy to Parte, who were in a pile of hugs. Of course—the flower of a contest program is the final ranking, and first place.
“Winning group Parte, please share a few words.”
Through the confetti coating the screen, I saw it.
Park Juu, standing near Han Gaun—when the rank was announced, he lit up and gave Han Gaun a quick hug.
And Jeong Seongbin, gathering the members and smiling from the heart.
Onscreen, all five smiled without a single quibble to be made and applauded Parte.
I stared, blank.
What on earth is so good for them?
They must know. We did every stage well.
After pouring out that much, it’s only natural to feel a sting.
So why do they look so... relieved?
Heat pooled under my eyes. Just a little.
...If only we hadn’t rushed onto Season 1 of Royal Secretariat because we were desperate to get our first music-show win fast.
If we’d waited until the name value ticked up a little more, if we’d put out a few more albums and gone on a different program.
Then we could have delivered the rank you deserved.
I should’ve toughed out the headache. I should’ve held on a little longer on stage.
Then I could’ve at least clapped your backs and said you worked hard.
I couldn’t keep watching.
I covered my eyes with the arm that didn’t have an IV in it. My eyelids felt heavy, pressed down.
“I’m sorry...”
I said it quietly. I meant it.
When I opened my eyes again, thank goodness, I saw the familiar wood ceiling.
Whoever lugged a 183-centimeter lump of a man back to the dorm—my thanks. I hope it was one of the many healthy beasts who overflow in this place.
I checked the date on the phone by my pillow.
It was the day after Royal Secretariat ended. Felt like I’d slept just the right amount.
“Don’t think we had a schedule... maybe I should nap more.”
Yesterday wrung me out; my mental state was a little worn. I needed rest.
But in shared living, privacy is a luxury.
No sooner had I shut my eyes again than someone opened the door and slipped in. In a very small voice, he called me.
“Hyung, are you sleeping?”
“I’m not.”
“Whoa—jeez, you scared me.”
Lee Cheonghyeon flinched back.
“Are you feeling any better?”
“Yeah. Sleep helped.”
“For real? Your color’s a bit better.”
For once, Cheonghyeon didn’t pick at my words. He only checked my face.
“About yesterday—”
“If you’re about to say sorry for missing the ending with us, don’t. I don’t want an apology from someone who was in pain.”
“...”
“And don’t say it to the others either. You’ll just give the hyungs frown lines.”
Quick little brat.
But there was no bite in his tone. He’s soft to the core.
“PD Yang said we should all grab a meal together later.”
“Why?”
“To make up for skipping the wrap party. We didn’t go.”
One of the members got carted off, so they must’ve come straight back. It would’ve been their first wrap party—sorry, guys... No. Nothing good comes from learning company dinners early.
“If you’re up, come eat.”
“Nah, I’m going back to sleep. You guys eat.”
“Yeah? Okay.”
For once, he backed off easily.
Then he shouted toward the living room,
“Mom! Iwol says he’s going to sleep more!”
...Mom?
“What do you mean, Mom—do we have a guest?”
“Seongbin’s mom is here. She’s making ginseng chicken soup—says we need a tonic.”
“And you tell me that now!”
So that’s what that boiled chicken smell was.
You can’t broadcast, “This hyung is snoozing instead of eating the meal your mother cooked for us~!” to the kind soul following the slapstick idol life of me and Jeong Seongbin!
I scrambled into clean casuals, smoothed my poofy hair with my hands, and dashed out of the room.
“Ma’am, you’re here?!”
“Iwol, you woke up? Did I wake you with all the fuss?”
“No way. Have you been well?”
“This is no time to worry about other people. Look at you—weight gone already. Since you’re up, eat and then sleep, okay?”
Before I could say anything more, she headed back to the kitchen. I took the chance to splash my face in the bathroom and came out. At the table, the kids each had a black clay pot in front of them.
I sat down, a little awkward, and she set a steaming pot in front of me in no time.
“Iwol, do you eat ginseng chicken soup? Seongbin said you’re not picky.”
“Absolutely—I love it!”
In truth, I don’t. If I’m precise, I don’t like those herbal whole-chicken stews you eat with office folks by a mountain stream. The setup is so uncomfortable you don’t know whether the chicken’s going up your nose or into your mouth.
“But this...”
Two ginseng roots. Two legs, still on the bird, not separated.
Not something you have to awkwardly share spoonfuls of—food prepared entirely as my portion.
“Did you all get ginseng too?”
I looked at a few bowls without ginseng and asked. Cheonghyeon answered.
“We each had one. You got two because you’re the patient, right, Mom?”
“Right—eat up so you heal fast. Iwol, there’s sticky rice stuffed inside, okay? Finish it. I put some effort in today.”
“Yes, thank you...!”
She headed out early; she had plans. Even after we saw her off, steam still curled up from the pot.
I drank the broth in slow spoonfuls. I picked the meat clean, and I didn’t leave a grain of rice. For the first time, I thought that boiled chicken was delicious.
Fresh from a wash, I found—of all people—Choi Jeho in the living room.
The guy whose natural habitat is his room, earbuds in, scrolling his phone.
A glance said the habitat had merely moved to the couch, so I didn’t bother talking.
I left him and went back to the bedroom—and there was Jeong Seongbin, standing in an awkward pose between the beds.
Even Seongbin, who never barges into other people’s rooms, was doing this. Suspicious as hell.
I looked at him—what’s up?—and from the upper bunk, where he’d apparently been talking with Seongbin, Lee Cheonghyeon said in a creaky tone,
“Right. I said I’d game with Giyeon, didn’t I?”
Then he scrambled down and dashed out. The kid can’t tell a lie to save his life.
The door shut behind him. Seongbin’s gaze wandered somewhere on the floor. A long silence stretched.
What could our leader possibly want to say to me badly enough to chase out both hyung and dongsaeng?
Towel-drying my damp hair in small pats, I asked,
“Want to sit and talk?”
