“They got booked on the reboot that we’d locked down first.”
The moment we arrived on set, I saw those Ether guys making the rounds through the hall, greeting the other cast members one by one. My first thought was:
“Why didn’t we hear about this?”
Why had we not known they were appearing?
I toyed with the question for a moment, then clicked my tongue.
“It’s obvious.”
The producers had deliberately kept it from us.
“They probably figured we’d kick up a fuss.”
Anyone in our company who knew TeSTAR would have guessed they weren’t fond of Ether. And conveniently, none of the current cast—nobody from a LeTi–type company who’d double–check any late additions—was here to be a thorn in the producers’ side.
So they stalled us with “Nothing’s been decided yet.”
I wiggled my brow.
“They really took us for idiots.”
Honestly, I hadn’t expected this turn of events. Then again, I didn’t need to.
WonderHall’s calculations told them we’d never let Ether in here willingly.
We’d already had our Waterbomb incident, hadn’t we?
“If a rookie with zero experience goes head-to-head with us, they’re bound to get smashed.”
That was why we’d planted a mole in their company, dangled the bait, and figured they’d bite. But they’d come walking straight into the trap.
“Their final desperate move, huh.”
It made me grind my gears that a company like WonderHall would stoop to such cheap tricks.
“Alright, let’s go in.”
“Yep.”
TeSTAR walked into the assigned waiting room without a word. But our staff’s faces said it all—they were itching to chew someone out.
“Steer Ryu Geon woo must’ve seen this too.”
Normally, he’d pick up on the vibe and quietly figure out the situation, but he just followed along in silence.
“Hmm.”
Once inside, I addressed him.
“They’re a group called Ether. They debuted modeled after us.”
“Is that so.”
His answer was automatic.
A guy who’d dug into everything about TeSTAR ought to have known that, but he sounded so calm—like it was no big deal.
“....”
I made a mental note of his reaction, then looked away.
Our angry staff were practically breathing fire, arguing amongst themselves.
“This is downright disrespectful!”
“I can’t just let this go!”
They were seriously pissed. Of course, they might be pretending to rant even harder to brace for TeSTAR’s inevitable grilling—“You didn’t know about this?”—but some higher-ups even stormed out of the waiting room toward production to protest.
It was a futile gesture, since the network called all the shots, but better to at least put on a show than do nothing.
A few members, noticing this, gave wry smiles or shrugged.
“How could they do this? They basically lied to us!”
“Um, yeah~ that’s true, hyung.”
...Of course, some of them were legitimately riled up.
One of them came over, face tense, and asked me.
“I, um, should I—”
“It’s no big deal. Just rest. Sit.”
“Yes...”
He slumped onto the sofa beside me. It was Steer Kim Rae bin, who’d said he wouldn’t go onstage but came prepared to support the shoot.
I nodded.
“And soon you’ll get to see who it is.”
“...?”
I waited.
A short while later, a visitor arrived in our waiting room.
“Hello, sunbaenim!”
Ether.
Just as I’d predicted, the ones who’d been touring the waiting rooms and greeting everyone found us next.
And in that moment, I realized WonderHall’s real play.
“We’re counting on you!”
They greeted us politely.
In person, Ether looked like a bunch of timid kids—no slick chameleons, no streetwise types, not even one standout personality.
I swallowed.
“Damn it.”
WonderHall was banking on that.
These Ether kids had harmless, squeaky–clean reputations.
“They wanted to show them to the public like this.”
If they planned to blow all the mystery they’d built and rebalance the image here...
They were trying to soften the conflict angle with TeSTAR.
If you can’t kill the “successor” narrative, why not turn it into a feel–good story?
Of course.
A competition show that turns into a heartwarming senior–junior relationship, with Ether learning from TeSTAR’s example! Add a dash of endearing innocence, ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) and the public will forgive even the clumsiest rookie.
All the taunts about “copycats” and “riding on TeSTAR’s coattails” would fizzle out.
People only pick and choose their objections when they feel friendly toward someone.
That’s how it works.
Then Ether would act terrified of being called TeSTAR’s successor, humbly fishing for sympathy as “super rookies.”
All they had to do was not completely bomb on stage.
“Securing that rising–star image.”
Minimizing risk.
I clenched my jaw but held back.
“They really thought this through.”
The worst part was that the whole thing wasn’t a lie.
I glanced at the huddle of Ether members.
“They really are just kids.”
These were teens who’d trained their butts off to debut, oblivious to rivalries and corporate politics—model students if ever there were.
Most likely, they’d even been banned from smartphones.
“They handpick only these innocent ones to debut.”
That was WonderHall’s calculation. They’d take the heat, while these kids stood back, blameless.
“Sunbaenim, I’m Nua, our leader. We’re all huge fans and really working hard!”
Introductions continued.
The supposed leader, with silver hair, squeezed his hands and called out with earnest enthusiasm.
“We’ll give it our all!”
In a competition show, that’d be cause for conflict, right? But everyone could see they meant no harm, so the members just responded politely.
“Yep~ looking forward to it.”
“Good luck with today’s shoot...!”
“...! Thank you!”
It was just the friendly banter you’d expect from juniors.
I’d bet WonderHall planned that too.
“Let’s soften TeSTAR’s resentment by making it awkward to stay harsh.”
A producer’s cunning move.
And with cameras rolling, it’d be even harder to overreact.
“If they slip up, TeSTAR’ll look petty.”
I nodded inwardly, then offered the Ether leader a casual smile and handshake.
“Looking forward to your performance.”
“Thank you, yep!”
They even asked politely and handed us an album with a long letter attached, then left the waiting room bubbling with excitement.
I closed the album—titled “A Longtime Fan Since Park Mundae Sunbaenim Called”—
and noticed most of the other members flipping through it with the same mixed feelings.
“They really patterned this after our ‘Visiting Day’ album.”
What struck me was that they could genuinely hand it over with respect.
That gap—between our cynical approach and their sincere one—was everything.
“Well, it’s not like I’m rattled.”
I shrugged and moved the album aside.
Crazy things happen in this industry all the time.
Besides, we’d already dealt with the supernatural—that right here, the guy beside me survived for a reason.
“...”
I glanced to my left. Steer Ryu Geon woo had already tucked the album on the table in front of the sofa and sat in quiet thought, fingers interlaced.
As TeSTAR’s leader, he’d shifted seats to greet the juniors, but he showed none of the usual leadership energy.
“Hey, we start shooting in 30 minutes, right?”
“Of course. Oh, and our CEO heard about this all the way up the chain. Don’t worry—they’re gonna protest properly.”
“Oh... really?”
“Why protest? We’re strong. No need to— Wait, Sejin hyung?”
“Shut it, Cha Yoo jin.”
Amid the bustle, Ryu Geon woo kept his mouth shut like he was in another world.
“...”
I wasn’t exactly chatting either.
“It’s almost time.”
I shrugged and was about to get up when—
“I want to say something.”
Steer Ryu Geon woo broke his silence.
“Hmm.”
I froze and turned to him where I sat.
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks.”
He paused, then continued—a topic I never would’ve expected.
“My... ‘memory.’ About returning it.”
“...”
“You don’t mind if I keep it, do you?”
“...!”
Thirty minutes before shooting.
Steer Ryu Geon woo unexpectedly withdrew his refusal to have his memory returned.
“I thought about it... I think I’ve been causing a lot of trouble. I was too harsh.”
He gave a faint smile, as though he’d regained some mental peace.
But I knew better.
“There’s no reason for that.”
He hadn’t had an epiphany or come to terms with anything.
“If anything...”
I remembered his face from earlier that dawn.
After hearing everything from Lee Sejin (A).
“If you want to do well here, I’ll support you. Thanks for believing in me—and I’m sorry.”
Right after that, he definitely looked exhausted.
Burned out.
“That was... fatigue.”
The shadow of collapsing under stress flickered across his expression, then vanished.
His calm tone resumed, laced with self–interest.
“After today’s shoot, you can return it. You know, we were planning a unit stage next, right? I’m out of that.”
A unit stage.
I recalled our conversation this morning.
To break the monotony of the competition, we’d agreed to split into smaller groups occasionally.
“When you get your memory back, you might want to do it, though.”
“Maybe.”
He agreed as though it were no big deal.
“That’s on that ‘Ryu Geon woo,’ then.”
His tone was chillingly detached.
“...”
I narrowed my eyes and thought for a moment, then—
“Ah—right.”
I agreed immediately, then looked around.
“So about skipping today’s stage—you said you’d sit this one out. I wanted to hear everyone else’s thoughts anyway. Let’s get their votes.”
I summoned the members who’d been talking and seated them around the table. The staff looked a bit startled, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to waste time.
“So about the unit—let’s take volunteers and pick quickly, before the shoot.”
“Ah, good idea.”
It was a topic we’d already touched on, so nobody balked.
“Okay, hands up.”
Without hesitation, Cha Yoo jin and Keun Sejin raised their hands.
They were the ones who never missed an opportunity to perform.
“...”
Next, Seon Ah hyun raised his hand—thoughtful and diligent as always.
Finally, Bae Sejin, face set, put his up too.
That meant everyone except the two who still only had Steer’s memories.
I nodded and announced,
“That’s four. That’s a good number.”
Just then, Steer Kim Rae bin tentatively raised his hand. After getting permission, he spoke.
“Isn’t it five of us?”
“It’s four.”
“Oh—I see. You meant excluding myself. Sorry.”
“Huh?”
I flicked my head.
“I said I’m not doing it.”
“...??”
“You didn’t raise your hand.”
“...!”
I declared,
“Cha Yoo jin, Lee Sejin, Seon Ah hyun, and Bae Sejin hyung. Those four, let’s go.”
“Let’s not all jump in together.”
