Ryu Geon woo remained lost in his own mind.
Suddenly changed circumstances and conditions. The days he’d spent doing his best to adapt. And that final chance, the obsession that flared up like a blaze.
“Geon woo?”
But even that had ended.
“Geon woo!”
Ah.
Ryu Geon woo lifted his head.
It was an unfamiliar manager calling him. The man, whose name he’d only recently learned, was the new manager TeSTAR had hired. And the first manager, he’d heard, had gotten into a car accident...
Now that fact barely mattered. Merely recalling it sank his spirits. Yet he gave no sign, responding evenly.
“Yes.”
“I’m thinking of grabbing some drinks—what would you like?”
He knew this manager brought drinks every morning, at lunchtime, and again between two and three. But right now this was neither of those times. The practice room was in the middle of filming.
“Um, thank you. Then a latte...”
He heard the production staff asking other employees what they wanted. After glancing dispassionately at the crew filling the outer room, he spoke.
“Surprise me with whatever’s easiest to order.”
That was enough.
Thus began Steer Ryu Geon woo’s final period.
Originally, the day he’d said “I’ll take back my °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° memory,” he’d planned to disappear—or rather, to “recover” it—as soon as his schedule ended. But it didn’t go according to plan.
“That would be difficult.”
Park Mundae—the unfamiliar member who’d once been his cousin—expressed reluctance. He cited the “risk of variables.”
“If you regain your memory, you might get confused. Isn’t it dangerous while we’re on a competition show? There’ll be cameras on you a lot.”
It was a logical point. So Ryu Geon woo sat there meaninglessly. He could have retorted “Why do you care?” but he didn’t.
“I’m not even on stage.”
If he was just filling in an empty seat for days, it was merely waiting time. Tiring, but waiting nonetheless.
Ryu Geon woo sipped the drink assigned to him—a hot Americano.
“It’s actually decaf.”
“...”
“It’s Sejin hyung’s.”
The one who approached with a blank expression and spoke was someone else hidden from the camera spotlight—another member who, like him, sat out this competition: Park Mundae. He held his own drink and watched the TeSTAR unit’s practice scenes under filming.
“...”
Silence flowed.
“Thanks—oh, coffee!”
“Is this my cake? Wow.”
Then the practice room erupted. The TeSTAR unit, having paused their choreography once filming was done, smiled as they received drinks and snacks.
At that moment, Park Mundae rose, as if his cue had come.
“Shall we get moving? We’re all set.”
“...Set?”
“For the shoot.”
“But I said I wouldn’t do the stage.”
“What shoot?”
Yet Park Mundae looked at him as if puzzled—almost incredulous.
“Saying you won’t do the stage doesn’t mean you’re absent from the program. You need to help build the stage. Completing it involves more than performing.”
Ryu Geon woo realized something felt off then. Before he knew it, he found himself doing an interview with Park Mundae and Kim Rae bin.
“Ta-da. The three one-episode contract producers for this competition.”
...?
“We’ll do our best.”
Applause. Park Mundae at center, Kim Rae bin caught off-guard, clapped.
“....”
Should he join applause? But before he could think further, Park Mundae launched into an explanation—Kim Rae bin’s arrangement, Park Mundae’s theme selection.
“As a self-producing group, we wanted to show that aspect. As you know, we’re the top three producers in this group.”
“Truly?”
“Of course. Absolutely true.”
Even the cameraman stifled a laugh at Park Mundae’s brazen honesty in response to the producer’s teasing question.
“And.”
All eyes turned to him.
“Ryu Geon woo hyung will handle the overall visuals and reviews—feedback.”
Whooosh. The production staff responded enthusiastically.
“...Thank you.”
Thus Ryu Geon woo received his role.
—Overall Producer.
In name only, he realized immediately there’d be nothing to do but watch the stage. For days after, no further requests came his way. The title “producer” was purely nominal. Thinking that, he stayed uninvolved and let time pass.
Doing nothing, time flew by. He wondered if he’d ever experienced anything like this. His life had been a whirlwind of peak achievement through extreme training followed by steep falls.
“Maybe when I quit archery was closest.”
But even then he didn’t feel this drained and adrift. Pain makes time crawl. Now, with no pressing pain to occupy him, the next shoot day arrived in an instant. Remarkably, they already had a performance concept in three days.
“They said they need our reactions while watching the performance, so we’ll film together.”
They moved to a conference-style company space.
“How’s it coming?”
“Great~”
The TeSTAR members, smiling, stood on an impromptu stage made by removing the central podium, while Park Mundae, chatting casually, sat front and center.
“Rae bin... your song was amazing!”
“...Really?! Thank you!”
Even Kim Rae bin conversed with unfamiliar members, likely due to close collaboration during arrangement work.
“Was that truly a natural adjustment?”
Ryu Geon woo chuckled to himself and sat. It didn’t sting. The stage began after minor tweaks.
“Oh, but now that we’re standing like this... um, the balance feels a bit off~”
They’d formed a unit of three dancers and one vocal. The three dancers’ tall heights created an odd gap.
“...Me?”
He nodded. When Bae Sejin—the “one remaining”—gave a sullen query, they rearranged positions.
“Center~!”
“Oh! Center!”
“...!”
At the members’ cue, Bae Sejin grudgingly moved to the middle.
And once he stood center, the balance was perfect.
“Ha ha!”
“You’re smiling?”
“...”
The writers desperately covered their mouths. Seon Ah hyun’s face went red, as though stifling laughter. Bae Sejin’s irritation wasn’t genuine anger but the frankness of a close-knit team.
“...”
He could’ve fit into this vibe. He felt a faint flash of impulse, but it vanished.
“So! Please consider that our positioning is temporary~”
And the performance began. A bright, upbeat band accompaniment unveiled a retro, musical-style theme. Part distribution, accounting for individual strengths, was cleverly executed.
Did he get professional baggage? Ryu Geon woo gave a wry smile. But that was all.
[Between us, it’s as if
there’s a special gap]
The music played. The performance continued. Without the fierce, exhausting worry about meeting a certain standard, watching the stage was... relaxing.
[We don’t yet know
how wide this space will grow
That’s true]
For the first time in a long while, Ryu Geon woo watched a rival’s stage with no thoughts.
[Yes!]
The one-minute demo performance ended in a flash.
“That’s it~ Thank you!”
Just then, as if on cue, Park Mundae’s indifferent voice cut in.
“Hyung, feedback please.”
“....”
Ryu Geon woo felt a twinge of reluctance and awkwardness. He hadn’t expected them to actually ask for feedback.
“Didn’t they only give me the title?”
But Park Mundae looked casual, as if he simply needed something to say on camera.
“I see.”
Realizing he didn’t need to deliver harsh, precise feedback, Ryu Geon woo nodded slightly. Park Mundae jumped in.
“First, tell me what you liked.”
Without overthinking, Ryu Geon woo replied,
“The movements were light.”
“That’s true. I thought a live band would suit it more...”
At that moment, Ryu Geon woo briefly recognized the same impression in his own mind, a faint spark of pleasure.
Park Mundae didn’t seek agreement and smoothly continued.
“Anyway. What did you think of the choreography?”
“It was fine.”
“Yes. It was well chosen, but what was lacking?”
He hadn’t thought that deeply. Yet he found a connection to his earlier comment.
“The moves were too flashy for the music.”
“Right. The song isn’t finalized.”
Park Mundae nodded, glancing at the performers sipping their drinks, then pulled out his smartphone.
“This is the version Rae bin is working on now. Rae bin, mind if we play it?”
“Yes...!”
Startled, Kim Rae bin readily agreed. Park Mundae tapped play and handed him a wireless earbud. Ryu Geon woo, swept along by the natural gesture, found himself listening.
...?
It wasn’t extreme enough to refuse. He listened without realizing.
“A bit flashier, right?”
“It is.”
“I’d like more strings in this part.”
“Oh.”
“Or brass, maybe.”
Strings and brass.
Hmm.
Ryu Geon woo focused on the music.
...
Park Mundae watched him closely, reaffirming his judgment—just as he had when Ryu Geon woo declared he’d reclaim his memory.
—That’s not it.
Even if he regained his memory in a burned-out state, it wouldn’t end well. Especially since he’d always been mentally strong and inscrutable.
Why then had he burned out so completely in the past?
The answer was clear.
—He’d worked too long on unrewarding tasks.
Continuing something that didn’t suit him and brought no joy inevitably breeds contempt. Even more so if it yields no result.
The real problem was that Ryu Geon woo’s strong willpower had let him endure far too long.
Bae Sejin agreed.
—Also... hearing the victory news from my past self bothered me.
Witnessing the outcome of what drove him into that work. It wasn’t satisfying—it felt hollow.
—That likely extinguished Ryu Geon woo’s motivation entirely.
So after consulting Bae Sejin, Park Mundae solidified the future plan: “Change the pattern.”
First:
—Free him from the typical role patterns of an idol member and group leader.
And the next step was crucial:
—Ensure he still feels the efficacy of his work.
—And he’s already on that path.
Park Mundae recalled this, glancing at Ryu Geon woo, who was speaking.
“Brass is better.”
Proposal began to flow.
—Exactly.
Park Mundae smiled inwardly, then without showing it added,
“Right. Rae bin will continue tomorrow morning; let’s check it then.”
“Mm, okay.”
Thus, as though soaked by a gentle rain, Ryu Geon woo began steadily participating in completing the stage.
Yes.
Park Mundae truly intended to make Ryu Geon woo the overall producer.
