There was some risk people might wonder:
But it never became a real controversy—because I already knew how to flip cause and effect.
[“All donations collected during the concert will be given in full to long-term pediatric patients.”]
By theming the charity around long-term hospitalization, I became the perfect fit.
‘Because I was the one hospitalized the longest after the ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) accident.’
It wasn’t that I shoehorned a charity concept into my solo concert, but rather that this format suited me best. Naturally, people assumed I was made host to highlight the charity mission.
[“TeSTAR to Hold Online Charity Concert for Child Patients”]
[“‘I Had a Lot of Time to Reflect While Hospitalized...’: TeSTAR’s Meaningful Charity Concert”]
With press releases focused on “TeSTAR” the group, the whole structure fell into place:
Charity is widely embraced—older audiences included—and it was a strong signal for audience draw. Yet as the event began to look more like a benefit than a concert, nitpicks surfaced:
But the rebuttals were clear:
└ “Whoa....”
└ “They’re giving up 2 billion won to do this? lol”
In capitalism, “forgoing revenue” quantifies sacrifice perfectly. Fans circulated heartfelt posts about how meaningful the concert would be, while also gushing:
Fans had endured fear and worry for over two weeks, then witnessed a miraculous recovery, an agency scandal, and now a triumphant return. They were fully invested in TeSTAR’s story, though concerns lingered:
└ “I worry they’re under pressure to perform; T1’s probably using the boys to rebuild their image.”
As a performance-intense idol group, TeSTAR’s setlists often include high-energy choreo—fans debated whether I could handle consecutive intense stages right after recovery. Public opinion soon shifted:
└ “You can only suggest changes before the setlist is out.”
└ “Why revise a setlist the group made? lol.”
Given how long it’s been and the broad positive buzz, fans wanted to ride the wave. To ease further worries, promotional banners appeared:
[“TeSTAR’s Talk Concert ‘Follow Your Heart’”]
[“♡We Welcome Your Participation♡”]
The poster showed seven stools under spotlights—talk-style, not their usual performance setup.
└ “No, probably just lots of chatting with some songs—common for solo acts.”
└ “Ah, got it.”
Because it seemed so different from their usual high-energy shows, worried fans relaxed. But the platform’s audience-pulling strategy wasn’t over—just when people thought they’d heard everything:
[“Oseong Delivers!”]
[“We’ll donate as much as the peak concurrent audience for TeSTAR’s ‘Follow Your Heart’!”]
(※Based on real-time peak viewers)
Sponsorship posts flooded out one week before the concert:
└ “Don’t jinx it.”
Corporate pledges tied to viewership—and the laughably small per-person amount—piqued netizens’ interest. The result was another round of promotional buzz:
[“Free TeSTAR concert plus free charity lol”]
[“TeSTAR concert crazy ad.jpg”]
[“☆★TeSTAR Talk☆Con★☆ Free admission + 100 won per viewer donation ★Legal chance to hog corporate funds★ Sat 14:00”]
Even non-fans joined in for the humor. With no hint of ulterior motive, public opinion remained positive. Thus the final lingering question was also gently dismissed:
└ “Heh, that might be cute.”
How could idols—no professional hosts—carry a talk concert with no live audience? Of course I had prepared the answer with Cheongryeo when striking the platform deal. Yet at that moment, he was wrestling with another concern...
“Ten-minute break~”
“Phew!!”
I needed more bulk—my stamina wasn’t keeping pace. I gulped lukewarm sports drink, panting.
‘...Still sucks.’
No Bacchus meant about four fewer hours of usable time. To balance monitoring, practicing, and planning, I had to sleep to maintain condition.
Time flew. Without sleep, stamina flagged and efficiency cratered—back to square one.
‘...Should I increase training?’
I’d gained some muscle, but not enough—I want my college-level fitness. But I’ll think about that after the concert. If this online show goes well, I can clear the status-debuff period, then focus on other goals.
‘The promotion’s working.’
Judging by the internet momentum, we’re good. If needed, I’d even delay the lawsuit, perform repentance prostrations, and briefly tour Japan early next year. It should work out.
...And now that everything was running smoothly, another problem caught my eye.
“Break’s over—back to full group!”
“Yes!”
I grinned, watching Cha Yoo-jin tap someone on the back after a dance move.
“.......”
I still sat, watching him. Big Sejin flinched, then resumed his genial smile and asked:
“...Want more rest?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay~”
He’s smooth with words, but his attitude had definitely shifted. The boundary-pushing pranks and annoyed expressions were gone—he was like a reaction robot.
‘He wasn’t like this at first.’
In short, it was extremely uncomfortable. He seemed to either be buttering me up or silently protesting. And it’d been this way ever since he apologized in the hospital.
‘Fuck.’
I couldn’t tell if he was upset or sorry. Communication broke down whenever opinions clashed.
Was he backing down, or expressing stress indirectly? Either way, every time this happened, it proved something was off. He loves steering situations his way—but with me, he always abandons his choice.
“......Sigh.”
When the concert’s over... I don’t know. There’s no real conflict here. I worry that poking it might spark a fight.
‘Maybe time will heal it.’
“All done! Great job!”
“Yahoo!”
“Perfect, no mistakes!”
Finishing the final choreography, I started stretching to shake off useless thoughts. A voice spoke behind me.
“...Mundae—your back okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Seeing that, it seems he does want to get along. I turned: Big Sejin wore that ambiguous smile, then collected his towel and left the studio.
“.......”
Fuck. What am I supposed to do? After three years prepping for civil service and a second youth, now I’m dealing with interpersonal drama I never faced even as a teenager.
I sat in a corner chair staring at the ceiling. No answers.
Then:
“M-Mundae.”
“...Why?”
“Um... maybe I’m saying something pointless, but...”
Seon Ah-hyun sidled up and suddenly struck to the heart of the matter—though slightly off-target.
“When the accident happened, Sejin really... he tried so hard...”
“.......”
“At the company, at the hospital—visiting constantly, talking about surgery... he really gave it his all! Even couldn’t eat properly...”
His description lacked detail, but the emotion came through: Sejin’s desperate efforts and sorrow when I wouldn’t wake up.
And it hit me.
“When you woke up, even in the car, Sejin was crying so much... everyone was, but he especially worried about you.”
More than I’d thought... these guys cared about me deeply.
I was speechless.
“So... could you think about that too, in a good way? I want you to feel at ease...”
“.......”
I struggled to reply.
“...Alright.”
“......!”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Uh-huh!”
Seon Ah-hyun smiled faintly, then, at Cha Yoo-jin’s call, staggered up to gather his things.
“Hyung! I’ll eat this!”
“Huh? Wait...”
I sat a moment, then made a decision. That evening—
“Big Sejin.”
“Yeah?”
I asked Bae Sejin’s permission and temporarily switched rooms. He happily packed his stuff from the living room and moved in.
“...Mundae?”
“Yes.”
In other words, today, I became Big Sejin’s roommate.
