Two weeks ago.
Just as Park Mundae had finished filming TeSTAR’s own content.
Cheongryeo was in the midst of wrapping up his comeback preparations.
“Next is the interview, right?”
“Yes!”
Everything was proceeding smoothly.
LeTi’s staff moved as if ensuring Cheongryeo’s every activity proceeded without error were their highest virtue.
“You’ve been waiting for a while now. Could we get you in as quickly as possible...?”
“Oh! Yes.”
Cheongryeo was famously meticulous about self-management.
Though businesslike yet gentle—and never prone to impulsive irritation—he still wasn’t someone people felt entirely at ease with.
‘Hmm.’
Cheongryeo knew this, but he never altered his demeanor merely to reassure others.
‘People listen more when you stay slightly distant.’
That rule had been honed through countless trials and inductive reasoning.
Cheongryeo wasn’t the type to feel comfort or belonging just by sharing everyday life.
He might have wanted to talk about his dog Kongyi, but that, too, would require a receptive listener.
Cheongryeo checked the time and called that ‘listener.’
But this time, unlike his usual texts, he wasn’t sending a photo of Kongyi.
“......”
After a brief ringtone, the other party answered.
“Did your own-content filming finish well?”
– Yes, senior.
It was Park Mundae.
Oddly, this junior always used honorific speech in their calls and texts, despite having spoken casually before. It was a habit, meticulously maintained.
‘That’s not so bad.’
An ever-vigilant attitude never leads to losses.
Cheongryeo found it mildly satisfying. Working with such a reliable collaborator was a pleasure.
Soon Park Mundae’s flat congratulations came through.
– Congratulations on your solo album comeback, senior.
“Thank you.”
Cheongryeo brushed off the familiar well-wishes and got straight to business.
“It’s about time we prepared for what we agreed on.”
– ......
“As I mentioned before, you’re not featuring on a track in my album.”
– Yes.
Cheongryeo almost laughed remembering how flustered Park Mundae had been, but kept his expression neutral and continued.
The plan he’d proposed:
“There’s a show I’m going on. Let’s go together.”
– ...!
“I think you’ll like it too.”
Cheongryeo had done the math.
“The show’s name is....”
<Nice to meet you!>
A variety show on MBS airing Saturdays at 5:40 p.m.
One of the few long-running competition programs on terrestrial TV that actually features singers.
By its title, you’d expect a typical broadcast showcase for unknown talents or masters from non-pop genres?
‘That’s right.’
Yes, that broadcast-favorite style.
But that’s only half the story.
‘That alone won’t pull ratings.’
What’s needed to sell?
The answer is simple.
‘Bundle-selling.’
Not only non-mainstream artists but also established stars—hoping for album or concert publicity—appear as contestants.
Pair two cast members for a stage, and you get all sorts of storylines.
That’s how this show has lasted until season 7.
The guest lineup was still impressive, though the core audience skewed ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ older, giving it an old-school vibe...
‘But is he really on it?’
I glanced at Cheongryeo.
VTIC didn’t belong on such a crowded program.
He was famous enough to warrant his own special, yet here he was—just appearing?
‘Huh.’
Of course, there must be a strategy.
I recalled his candid answer when I asked why he chose this show.
– Because I have something I want to show.
So today we were at the pre-production meeting.
By the way, the main PD had taken over in season 3 and, despite seven seasons, neither handed it off to a junior nor launched a new show...
After talking with him, I understood why.
“Aigo, good to see you, Mundae. My niece is a fan—could you sign an album for her? A fresh one, please, not an already-signed copy.”
“Of course.”
Classic old-timer move.
He wasn’t doing it from a sense of mission but because the cost-benefit ratio was perfect.
Still, it was amusing how a broadcast PD could wield such power even after elevating an idol this far.
At least they didn’t push too hard—but they treated VTIC, whose overseas recognition was insane, with extra deference.
“And our Hallyu star VTIC! It’s an honor you’re on the show. Please take care of us.”
“Ha ha, thank you. Please take care of me, too.”
‘So the answer really is nationalistic pride.’
For typical senior types, that was the highest praise.
I nodded inwardly. ‘Let’s see after the next album release.’
Aiming for that cultural medal, you know.
Anyway, the fan who wanted the autograph was blameless. It was nice they could come in via family.
I carefully signed an extra album I’d brought, and the PD took it, then finally moved on to show details.
“So, you two will perform together... But how did you two become close?”
“Oh, Mundae and I did a variety show together when he debuted. That was also on MBS.”
“Oh! I remember now!”
‘I don’t.’
He really knew how to play the corporate game.
To secure success on terrestrial TV, that was the way.
“In any case, we’re thrilled to have you both.”
And instead of naming the variety show, the PD trailed off, then slipped in his concern.
“But since you two share a profession and similar images... I worry it might be hard to build a climax segment. Are you okay with that?”
Sure. I am.
Once two top-tier idols team up, the buzz is already explosive.
Climax? What climax?
‘He wants to extend ratings by splitting airtime.’
He was angling to feature each separately in different episodes.
‘No way.’
And Cheongryeo, the person in question, answered immediately.
“Yes. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Oh, okay.”
He sounded confident.
I didn’t need to speak, which was convenient. Working with someone seasoned was pleasant.
“And I heard our director briefed you earlier. About this...?”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
From there, there was no more baiting.
We spoke with the show’s writers and sub-PDs, and the meeting flowed smoothly. I nodded along, thinking, ‘So what exactly does he want me to do on stage?’
That question was answered immediately after the meeting.
At the LeTi headquarters conference room, twenty minutes from the station.
“First, I’ll show you the music video.”
Cheongryeo turned on the projector and dove into stage design discussion.
Normally, you’d include scenes planning concepts for show filming, but with rehearsal time tight, those are often re-enacted.
‘It’s all scripted.’
I understood that.
“It’s a rough cut—just missing the intro and credits. You shouldn’t have trouble grasping the album concept...”
“Wait.”
Something felt off.
“Why are you showing your music video when we’re not performing an album track?”
“Hmm?”
I meant, we’re here to plan a stage for a non-album song, so why boast about the unreleased MV?
But Cheongryeo answered as if the question were obvious.
“This is a stage aimed at album promotion. Of course, you watch it so my title track comes to mind instantly.”
“......”
“That title track is the base concept for our stage. Study it well. I can’t send you the pre-release file.”
Alright.
‘He’s sharp.’
I stifled a sigh and nodded.
I wondered if I’d been foolish to agree to follow his plan unilaterally.
But with such a clear vision...
‘I hope I’m not just a high-note shuttle.’
Actually, I’d rather not do a mismatched concept.
I clicked my tongue and watched the MV still playing.
A marble floor turned to ashes.
In the center of that ruined, classical gallery floor, a spot where paint had burst in chaotic swirls.
Lying there alone was Cheongryeo.
[...]
That contrasting image drifted slowly in an aerial shot.
Wind could be heard.
Then.
[The devil is in the details]
A cryptic phrase appeared, and the song began.
[Ash]
The title of Cheongryeo’s solo album.
– Oh maybe we’re just in pain
A wistful, minor medium tempo.
With jazz-style accompaniment.
– Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
In the charred ashes
The same story
And love is dead
From the intro, it delivered a highly addictive chorus.
Then, before the verse, a slowly descending hum. And off-beat choreography.
Barefoot, in a turtleneck and black slacks, dancing on ash felt charged with power, pulling and pushing the camera angles.
His proportions and physique—maintained to the extreme—made the minimalism most striking.
‘Damn.’
He never loses form.
I almost bit my tongue.
A perfect fusion of easy-listening melody and impressive choreography.
And this choreography...
‘Anyone can mimic the moves, but nailing the vibe is hard.’
It meant plenty of people would try the challenge, and ranking them would be easy.
I could already picture the comments:
└ “Stop outsourcing lessons.”
└ “Ha ha, burn.”
Such challenge videos would flood in.
‘Perfect for a dance-confident solo artist.’
If you could engineer it, it was the ideal outcome.
Even if TeSTAR members delay military service, some would have to enlist eventually. Cha Yoo jin and Ryu Geon woo would need solo or unit stages.
Could they plan such a refined product? A competitive spirit ignited.
“......”
I stayed silent and watched the rough cut to the end.
As backgrounds and costumes grew more extravagant, it ended minimally with the ashes again—masterful tempo control.
– And love is the end.
The screen cut to Cheongryeo standing on black water in darkness.
Only after the rough MV ended did Cheongryeo smile and speak.
“Do you like it?”
He skipped objective feedback, jumping straight to a personal question.
‘He’s confident.’
Is that so?
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
“......”
“It’s well made.”
Why the surprise?
‘Give credit where it’s due.’
There was no point in a pride battle when we had to work together.
‘Our comebacks aren’t overlapping anyway.’
But still.
“I can’t capture this choreography’s vibe.”
“Hmm?”
“Just so you know, don’t plan on me nailing a similar choreography vibe in two weeks.”
Advice for stage quality.
‘Only top-tier dancers could match this.’
Besides, this is a show for established artists.
Viewers are forgiving if they see growth, like in a debut survival story—that narrative would feel ridiculous here.
If I did something similar, I’d have to be good enough not to break his concept.
But that wasn’t cost-effective.
‘I’ll end up just hitting the high notes, damn.’
Yet Cheongryeo burst out laughing.
“Ha ha, I think we agreed you’d do it your way, didn’t we?”
“......”
Are you serious?
“I’m joking.”
He grinned, tapping the table like he was counting.
“Each of us should do what we do best... Then our agreement holds real value.”
Right.
“But we still need to cover the basics.”
“...?”
Cheongryeo asked lightly.
“How many hours have you practiced in a day?”
And the idea of practice at the level of hit me like a hammer.
