Assistant Manager Kim Hates Idols

After the system’s help, the eat-then-throw-up routine disappeared cleanly.

I wasn’t particularly moody, and I wasn’t drifting into pointless thoughts. I felt exactly like I had right after snapping back to twenty.

Maybe the reason my mental state wasn’t wrecked when I regressed was because my memories weren’t intact.

If I’d come back with everything from then, I would’ve spent every day sunk in self-loathing. In that sense, the system’s choice was correct—even if I hate admitting it.

There was one odd thing, though.

“Hyung, do you want porridge today?”

“Huh?”

At mealtime, Jeong Seongbin randomly sent word through the manager that he’d prepared porridge.

Not a group order—just a single serving for me.

“Why porridge all of a sudden?”

“It feels like you’ve barely been keeping anything down lately. Since you’re still eating, I figured it’s not a loss of appetite—maybe heavy food just isn’t sitting well.”

“What....”

“This one’s vegetable porridge. There’s pumpkin porridge and pine-nut porridge, too.”

I blinked when he set out three small containers by type. No spicy jjamppong-style anything—he really had ordered only what would be easy for a patient to eat.

Out of respect for the effort, I dug into the least heavy-looking vegetable porridge.

When you pay attention, he’s strangely quick on the uptake in the right places.

He’d noticed I was tense when his parents visited, and he really does watch people with care.

In practice, Seongbin’s porridge therapy helped a lot. Even if the system cured the stomach issue, jumping straight to regular meals after throwing up everything for days might have backfired; until the day I asked Choi Jeho to toast me half a roll, Seongbin kept a steady stream of porridge coming.

“Hyung, meeting!”

“On my way!”

Thanks to that, not only was I fully recovered—I was actually heading to Lee Cheonghyeon’s hell-summons of a meeting with a spring in my step.

This meeting was special. Our dedicated staff usually ran most planning sessions, but this one we were leading ourselves. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

Because the next release was a digital single containing Spark’s first fan song.

Preparation flew. With Jeong Seongbin and Lee Cheonghyeon steering, everything clicked into place.

There was a mountain to do, sure, but being able to do work everyone wanted to do, in conditions that allowed it—that’s a rare good thing.

“We’re timing it to match the fan-club signup, right?”

“That’s what they said. No exact date yet, but they’re looking at late October.”

Seongbin put a calendar up on the screen. The days were jam-packed—no breathing room. Really gives me company flashbacks.

I’d been only half-keeping up with Spark business for a while, so when I squared up to scan the schedule, something snagged.

“There’s nothing here about hiring a lyricist. With less than a month if you exclude recording and promo, we’re not confirming that?”

“We decided to write the lyrics ourselves. That’s why we brought a demo today.”

Cheonghyeon opened the shared drive. A file called “demo_for_lyric_reference_guideline_not_included” jumped out.

“Ourselves? Us?”

Unbelievable. When did a conversation that important—and risky—happen?

The culprit, Cheonghyeon, was calm as ever.

“Yeah. It’s in the last meeting minutes. You didn’t read them?”

“You locked the shared laptop with a password!”

As I teetered on the verge of collapsing from apoplexy, Seongbin soothed me. So no one thought to tell me about this very critical thing.

Lyrics, of all things. And for a fan song.

No way. The only things I can write are job postings and proposals.

I can dress up a trash-heap company like Hanpyeong Industrial if I toss my conscience out, sure.

But a fan song with a line like “I’d pay a billion a year to keep a Sparkler by my side”? People would drop their light sticks mid-listen.

While dizziness washed over me, Cheonghyeon hit play on “demo_for_lyric_reference_guideline_not_included.”

The beautiful melody he’d stitched together, note by note, filled the conference room. A clean structure, a classic blend of instruments—fresh and youthful.

Just listening conjured boys in white school uniforms under a wall shaded by tree branches on a late-summer day.

If a song paints pictures just by being heard, it’s already highly complete. Add a few sessions and some backing vocals and it would be release-ready.

What lyrics are supposed to go on this?

I couldn’t even get a feel for it. I couldn’t lean on Spark’s past fan songs either—those were for the Spark and Sparklers of that time.

If I’d known this was coming, I should’ve taken a writing elective. Then my feet wouldn’t be this on fire.

“For a fan song, rather than chasing a specific concept, I’d like us to write honestly what we want to say to the fans.”

Seongbin summarized, and with about thirty minutes left on the room reservation, ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) we each tried some quick idea-sketching.

I flipped to the graph paper at the back of my diary and scribbled a few words that came to mind.

Thanks, gratitude, Sparklers, support, benefactor, grace, light, debt...

Wrong. That only produces, “Sparklers, our benefactors and our light, thank you always; we’ll repay this grace faithfully like clearing a debt.” That’s a lock for Worst Idol Fan-Song Lyrics, rank one.

Honestly, the first word that comes to mind with Sparklers is...

Affection.

...but I didn’t have the guts to write and sing that. So I didn’t.

I massaged my temples, then raised a hand.

“When’s the deadline?”

This wasn’t going to be easy homework.

Cheonghyeon answered like I’d asked whether water is wet.

“As soon as humanly possible.”

“Got it...”

With the lyric assignment on our backs, our worksheet homework got pushed a bit.

So after practice every night, each of us sat in our rooms—or the kitchen, or the living room—clutching a sheet of paper, waiting for the god of creation who refused to come.

On one end, you had diligent Seongbin drafting dozens of simple structures and recombining them. On the other, you had someone like Choi Jeho, staring at a blank page with pupils unfocused.

As for me? Obviously the latter.

“How much did you write?”

Jeho asked. I answered in a papery voice.

“Not a single line.”

“That’s new.”

“Maybe I just don’t have a talent for creation.”

How can a human be this powerless? It was tragic.

If I’m going down, I’m taking someone with me, so I asked about his progress.

“You?”

“I wrote two lines.”

“That’s half the song.”

“I’m about to delete them.”

Bruised shadows pooled under his glasses. Right. Aside from speaking with his body, he’s clumsy with every other form of expression.

Even I, a believer in specialists, couldn’t recommend hiring one this time.

It’s a fan song... there’s no dilemma like this dilemma.

While we were writing and erasing and writing again, our manager dropped by the dorm.

That almost never happens, so we were all a little startled—half expecting something had blown up again.

“Is Iwol here?”

“Yes, what’s up?”

The manager’s face was flushed. Only ominous thoughts came to mind.

What now? Another job?

UA had actually stopped piling work on lately.

Don’t tell me the company books aren’t balancing. I’ve forgotten most of accounting—would I even be helpful?

Tension hung in the air—then the manager beamed and shouted.

“You passed the audition!”

“...Sorry?”

Words I hadn’t even imagined came out.

“An audition?”

The audition I rage-quit after nitpicking continuity errors like an obsessive viewer?

For a second I couldn’t even remember which audition it was. After the “In My Office” audition, too much had happened.

Absurd. Is there really that short a supply of people who can play a soul-crushed office worker?

I wasn’t planning to accept it quietly. Acting gigs might be a plus for an idol and their agency, but for the fandom mood, public perception, and the people on set, they’re a perfect minus.

I get why. No matter how much you call it adult circumstances, who in the trenches is going to like it?

One of the few things UA did right in the past was not pushing acting on Spark. They probably got the hint after dragging Cheonghyeon into that breakup music video—one misstep and you turn a millennial-grade visual into a lightning rod.

This time, I agree with UA’s old policy. And what then if I stand out even more?

I should say I’m honored, but after the audition I realized my lack of capability, so I’ll be declining your generous offer...