[Re-update Complete!]
– First Adjustment
A popup similar to the one I’d seen before appeared. Then another followed.
[‘■■■ (ver.2.1 Beta)’ Applying]
[Complete!]
A system update complete notification.
“.......”
A single question echoed in my mind:
‘Why?’
Last time, it finished early when Steer Cha Yoo jin’s condition recovered. Right now nothing has been resolved—Ryu Cheong woo’s position remains firm: he doesn’t want his memories back.
Could it have completed because he performed so cooperatively on stage? But this wasn’t even our first performance. What, then, triggered this early completion...?
‘Wait.’
I took a deep breath. I’d been overthinking.
‘No more clutter.’
At last I reclaimed my composure and, with a cool head, reached a rational conclusion.
Completion before a deadline?
‘There was no deadline.’
This time, unlike before, there was no “D–30 until completion” notice. This wasn’t an upgrade by absorbing fragments to a higher version; since I haven’t used it, the system has simply been re-tuning itself.
‘It’s ver.2.1, not ver.3.’
In other words, it completed because its time had come—the system finished itself.
Ding.
As if in response to my conclusion, another popup appeared:
[Would you like to ‘Preview’ the company view?]
‘...Preview.’
Questions flooded my mind again. A preview means it’s not a full system reboot? And the earlier notice said “First Adjustment.” So perhaps through this “Preview,” they want to gauge my satisfaction and, if needed, apply further updates?
What about Ryu Cheong woo’s memories? Will they restore them for testing? Or since it’s only a preview, leave them unrecovered?
If I refuse to press it, what penalty awaits? Might the system act on its own again?
Which scenario is most likely? Which criterion should I use...?
Oh, damn it.
I buried my head into the bed’s headboard.
Thud.
‘Fuck, fuck...!’
I couldn’t reach a conclusion and felt like shit. How many times must I endure this? Why does the update process demand this nonsense?
“Hyung, are you okay?”
“.......”
“If you’re dizzy or have a headache, I can get an ice pack....”
“I’m fine.”
I lifted my head slowly. My roommate, Kim Rae bin, looked at me with worry on his face, cold sweat beading on his brow—he probably thought I’d accidentally hit my head on the bed.
That guy must be worn out from preparing for the last stage.
“You’re resting properly, right?”
“Yes! I’m following orders to rest until the next shoot.”
“Good.”
“Hyung, is your head really okay...?”
It felt like it might crack—though not from banging it.
“That’s fine.”
I stared at the popup again, then finally spoke:
“I need to say something. Let’s gather everyone, including you, in the living room.”
Hiding or delaying any longer was pointless.
One hour after Park Mundae’s call, at the TeSTAR dorm—
In the room shared by Seon Ah hyun and Lee Sejin, both the same age, the two were quietly talking. Their topic was this: what Park Mundae had told them when he summoned them after seeing the popup.
“...The update has completed.”
He shared almost verbatim what he’d seen. For those who hadn’t experienced the system directly, he even used examples and analogies—surprisingly thorough for Park Mundae.
Yet he looked utterly exhausted.
“If I press it... honestly, I ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) don’t know what will happen. But I’ll think more and find out, so don’t worry too much.”
So Seon Ah hyun confided in a friend he’d trusted for years. Sitting on the bed with his long legs folded, he murmured anxiously:
“Mundae worries me.”
“.......”
“He seems to be pushing himself too hard....”
And Lee Sejin didn’t argue. He’d thought the same when he first heard Mundae’s briefing:
‘This could go very badly.’
Of course, he worried how the memory-less Ryu Cheong woo would react—everyone did. But it was impossible they hadn’t noticed how drained Mundae looked. His eyes were nearly lifeless.
‘He’s been overdoing it for longer than just a day or two.’
Lee Sejin frowned. Normally he’d offer soothing words, fearing that voicing his anxiety would only worsen the situation. But this time was different. A solution was needed.
“...Yeah. Anyone can see he’s overdoing it.”
Seon Ah hyun might be socially awkward, but he was earnest and meticulous.
‘Worth discussing.’
He wouldn’t delude himself that empty words would fix things. So Lee Sejin spoke frankly:
“I don’t think Cheong woo actually wants to get his memories back. That would be a huge burden. Among us, only Mundae can see that status window thing.”
“Mundae.”
Seon Ah hyun bit his lip.
“If Cheong woo refuses until the end...won’t you just refuse to press it?”
Lee Sejin already knew the answer.
“No. He’d press it.”
If it was the rational choice, Mundae would do it, no matter how much it hurt him. Perhaps that’s why TeSTAR has powered through controversies since debut.
But Big Sejin knew the fallout:
“He’d suffer terribly afterward.”
“.......”
“Mundae always tries to take responsibility himself.”
He remembered the chaos during the summer package shoot, when Mundae nearly broke under trauma yet forced himself to carry on filming.
He clenched and unclenched his fists.
‘...How did things get this far?’
Becoming an idol felt like a dream; these events were so surreal that a realist like Lee Sejin found them bewildering.
He never expected a friend so devoted, only to find such absurdity falling on him. As Lee Sejin sat in silence pondering solutions, Seon Ah hyun spoke up:
“Let’s...talk more.”
“Hmm?”
Seon Ah hyun spoke with resolve:
“To the other members, and to Cheong woo again. We’ve been so busy practicing, and after the Yoo jin incident...everyone’s been too cautious to have a real conversation, I think....”
Lee Sejin felt struck:
‘That’s right.’
They’d avoided upsetting Cheong woo, never seeking to persuade him. They’d subconsciously excluded him, fearing another Yoo jin disaster.
Seon Ah hyun paused, then continued thoughtfully:
“Cheong woo’s kind to us now, but he must feel anxious. That’s why he might not want his memories back...We need a deeper conversation.”
“.......”
Lee Sejin listened closely as Seon Ah hyun’s words sped up:
“If we don’t, Mundae will suffer more. Without answers, no one can help him.”
“You’re right.”
Lee Sejin immediately agreed and stood. He knew Mundae wouldn’t be offended by a sudden conversation.
“Let’s talk now.”
“.......”
Seon Ah hyun nodded and rose. They left together.
And one hour later:
“Park Mundae.”
They called softly to Mundae, who sat like a mouse on his bed with his eyes closed. When he opened them, he realized his roommate was gone—and saw all the other members outside.
“What....”
“We discussed it among ourselves and decided we need to tell you something.”
Lee Sejin announced like a decree. He thought:
‘No more “do as you wish.” We can’t just offload this responsibility.’
So:
“Press Preview now.”
The decision fell to me.
“What?”
I hardly believed my ears.
“Do you know what we’re talking about?”
“Of course.”
Lee Sejin was calm, despite barging into my room with half the members. They all nodded agreement.
“This was decided by majority vote among members.”
“.......”
“You said this system was for all of us. We used it when making the album too.”
Lee Sejin shrugged:
“Then surrender to the majority vote and press it.”
It was absurd. Even more so as a few nodded in solidarity. But their message didn’t end there.
“We’ve already talked with Cheong woo, too.”
“.......”
I turned reflexively. Steer Ryu Cheong woo stood calmly behind them—no sign of resentment under majority pressure.
“I heard if you delay, something dangerous might happen. And the chance of memories returning is slim.”
“.......”
“I trust you. I know you didn’t need to lie to me. You could’ve restored my memories without explanation. But you didn’t.”
He smiled faintly:
“...During stage prep, I felt you all are trustworthy teammates.”
“Hyung....”
Even the other members reacted. His words were touching—he trusted us just weeks after losing his memories. It shook me.
Yet I felt a faint dissonance:
‘What is it?’
But before I could pinpoint it, it passed. What was certain were the eyes around me: everyone had agreed and told me to press ‘Preview.’
“.......”
Oddly, I felt calm—almost relieved.
‘Crazy.’
Keeping choice is ideal, yet having it taken by majority somehow eased my burden.
‘...Alright. It’s less stressful.’
I summoned the popup again:
“Alright. I’ll press it.”
“Go ahead.”
[Would you like to ‘Preview’ the company view?]
I selected “Yes.”
Immediately, the popup transformed busily—colors returned, holographic lights flickered:
[Executing Preview]
I considered possibilities: the system reboots without restoring Cheong woo’s memories; a survey feature activates; or—unlikely—his memories return. But none was correct.
“......! Ugh—”
“Rae bin?”
I saw Kim Rae bin collapse, stunned, surrounded by shocked faces. Then I realized: “Preview” meant the next batter. This time, Cheong woo would be held in reserve.
