A joint project by Bae Sejin and me: the plan to make Ryu Geon woo a producer.
Having passed that first step, Geon woo ended up tagging along the next morning when I went to check Kim Rae bin’s work. He’d agreed with his own words, so there was no way around it.
“We should go take a look.”
“Ah.”
I spent the morning with Rae bin, who adapted to the unfamiliar studio in an instant. All I asked him to do was chat casually while reacting to the track. But during that process, Geon woo gradually found himself focusing naturally on the music.
“As you advised, I added brass samples and created three versions!”
“They all fit, but I like Two or Three. What about you, hyung?”
“Hmm... Two?”
By joining in the arrangement selection, his own preferences were unconsciously reflected in the song. Then the next step.
“Okay, now let’s try it with the choreography draft.”
“Yes!”
I dropped the nearly finished Version Two audio into the footage of the newly filmed choreography draft and played it. That naturally carried the conversation from the song to the stage again.
“I think it suits well.”
“Right.”
“While we’re tidying formations, maybe add a back-and-forth part for pairs. Then that part would be...”
When I glanced at Geon woo, he instinctively voiced his thought.
“For that section... the bridge would feel most seamless.”
And true to his extensive stage experience, Steer Ryu Geon woo’s opinion was solid without me having to lead him.
“In my view, that works. Rae bin?”
“Oh, I also... yes. It fits the arrangement perfectly!”
Steer Kim Rae bin looked much less tense watching Geon woo. Though he’d refused to perform, emotionally he seemed genuinely excited by “his own studio.”
‘...Maybe he just feels liberated after escaping military service.’
Perhaps most people would, but with Rae bin it might be something else. In any case, the vibe was ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) good, and work progressed smoothly. And Geon woo slid through the tangled web of producing tasks like down a waterslide—handling formations, part distribution, costume accents, themes. Even giving feedback on choreography details.
“...Since I’ll be wearing gloves, maybe avoid gestures relying on friction.”
“Oops. OK.”
He’d even made comments like that after visiting the practice room. Before he fully realized it himself, time flew and they reached the end.
“Hyung, it’s time for the rehearsal shoot. Let’s go.”
That meant the stage was complete. And this time, at the official competition shoot, the moment the performance began—
“We’re starting now.”
Unlike before, Geon woo began to focus on the stage.
The dress rehearsal, with costumes, lighting, and effects fully realized. Everything from the actual stage was there—it could stand as a performance in its own right. And now.
On the lit stage, Lee Sejin, dressed in a magician’s suit, grinned and gave a theatrical greeting.
[Ladies and gentlemen!]
A burst of flashy brass instruments. Then, turning through the light, Seon Ah hyun and Cha Yoo jin took their places as Bae Sejin stepped forward center and sang the introduction.
[Between us, it’s as if
there’s a special gap]
A velvet curtain and spotlight backdrop. Finger snaps and sprightly steps. A 20th-century black-and-white film–style stage unfolded, but the song was the latest hit.
It was Mirinae’s recent comeback track—TeSTAR’s junior group. Instead of modernizing an old song, they’d done the reverse: rendered a current hit in retro style.
[We don’t yet know
how wide this space will grow
That’s true]
Stage effects and live sound perfectly matched the rhythmic arrangement. The brass erupted, and Cha Yoo jin drove the vocals with urgency.
[Take one step forward, one step
toward someone who won’t come]
Then, as if everything were swept away, the sound soared into the chorus. In the center of a formation where all four moved as one, Bae Sejin adjusted his hat, smiled, and nodded.
[Fill in the blanks,
fill this gap
beyond the space]
At the edge, Seon Ah hyun spun on a classic cane-style wooden standing mic, shifting the formation diagonally.
[Something special
even if I stumble and fall
it’s a sweet dream]
Even with the main and lead vocals absent, the live performance was solid. Plus, the dance-strong members took verses, each delivering character-rich solo parts. When the non-dance sub-vocalist came center, the other three supported with choreography, helping that member shine. A tap-dance segment mixed in to match the costumes and theme was also a nice touch.
“Wow.”
The rehearsal observers burst into laughter or, unable to spare time, focused intently on the stage. And in the very front row—
“...”
Ryu Geon woo also concentrated deeply, though not as a pure spectator like the crew. He had participated. The steps he’d gone through to complete this surfaced unconsciously in his mind:
...it couldn’t be otherwise.
‘They reflected it well.’
His feedback had been faithfully incorporated. Not every suggestion made it in, but the omitted elements had reasonable explanations and agreement. That made him feel even more at ease—convinced his involvement had only raised the quality.
[Ye-eeees!]
Lights and pyrotechnics flashed. Dazzling, joyous. And that was it—no learned resistance, no obstacle to overcome. He hadn’t been treated as a performance idol pushed beyond limits, but had been subtly immersed in this work in a different way. All that remained was the thrill of seeing the perfectly realized result.
[Fill in the blanks!]
Oooh!
As the song ended with clean, solid mid-high notes, the crew cheered and applauded. They showered praise on the elated unit members—and on the producing members seated in the audience.
“You organized it so well... it was truly great!”
Steer Ryu Geon woo smiled faintly.
“Thank you.”
He felt a small spark—that heat called achievement.
After the rehearsal. The TeSTAR members who’d been on stage moved for interviews, and Park Mundae excused himself to talk with production. So only the two Steers remained in the waiting room.
“It was an incredibly enjoyable and meaningful project!”
“Indeed.”
Kim Rae bin, in casual clothes with his hair tied back and glasses on, looked thoroughly happy—so much so he didn’t flinch when Geon woo echoed his enthusiasm. So Geon woo spoke.
“Rae bin.”
“...”
“My attitude toward you must have felt harsh many times.”
“...?”
He calmly voiced words he’d long wanted to say.
“I’m sorry.”
“...?!”
“You’ve worked so hard.”
He reached to pat his head, but worried it might seem overbearing, so he settled for a light tap on the shoulder. But Rae bin remained frozen in shock.
“If there’s anything you want to say, you can... though it might still be hard.”
Geon woo didn’t show a bitter smile. He knew that even if he could rewind time, there would have been no other way—maintaining a fractured team under hierarchy and fear was the only way he could keep the group together. But there was no need to justify it to others now. So he concluded simply:
“You can say it after I reclaim my memory. Think of that.”
“...”
Rae bin didn’t reply—he was considering whether he could speak up. His suppressed curiosity had somewhat revived.
“Um, hyung.”
“Yes?”
Finally, Rae bin cautiously asked:
“Then you still plan to reclaim your memory...?”
“That’s what I’m curious about too.”
Another voice cut in.
“...!”
Thud. The door opened as Park Mundae returned from talking with production and pitched the question. He’d given himself an excuse to leave them alone, but none of that mattered anymore.
‘Surely that didn’t work at all?’
Not a trace of change in his feelings?
Park Mundae almost questioned his own abilities, but first checked Geon woo’s expression.
“That’s right.”
Steer Ryu Geon woo looked comfortably at ease. It wasn’t resignation—change had clearly occurred.
“...”
‘Then.’
Park Mundae decided to dig deeper.
“But it seems the reason you want to reclaim it has changed.”
“Hmm, it’s the opposite.”
Geon woo rubbed his jaw.
“I realized why I hated the idea of getting my memory back.”
Unexpected, Park Mundae repeated the thought.
‘Hated the idea?’
It was as if Steer Ryu Geon woo read his mind as he answered.
“I felt like I was losing.”
“...?!”
Even Kim Rae bin gasped at the bombshell. But Geon woo continued calmly.
“I told you before, right? Watching Cha Yoo jin, he seemed so different after regaining his memory.”
Right.
‘He said he disliked it because it felt like becoming someone else.’
Park Mundae recalled that conversation.
“...”
“Yeah. He looked so at ease—happy, relaxed. It was good.”
Geon woo described Cha Yoo jin’s healthy state with the utmost positivity, smiling faintly.
“But I didn’t want that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Becoming someone else who succeeded in ways I don’t understand, then calling that person me and giving up—settling for easy comfort.”
It was a harsh aversion—perhaps a regressed pride or self-respect. But to vividly realize that, Steer Ryu Geon woo had long forgotten pride.
“So I wanted to prove I could do as well and claim that spot myself.”
“...”
“It’s rationalization too, I suppose.”
Imitation, after all.
Geon woo added calmly. Park Mundae asked:
“From the start?”
“From the moment I snapped to and assessed the situation, I reached that extreme conclusion.”
He could make that leap because he’d endured similar struggles for years as a Steer. His usefulness to himself—
—What can I actually do?
But in truth, Geon woo wasn’t the type to crave escape after gloomy self-reflection. He solved complex problems clearly and acted immediately. In the Steer era, nothing was clear, so he never had the chance to escape that torment. That made it all the more painful—a long, slow fall.
However—
“Now I don’t think that anymore.”
Steer Ryu Geon woo, with the knowing look of someone who’d seen it all, answered Park Mundae.
“Today’s stage was probably set up by you all to lift my spirits. Thank you.”
“...”
At the same time, Park Mundae realized:
‘His tone changed.’
Rather than mimicking “TeSTAR Ryu Geon woo,” he now spoke in a slightly more measured, flat tone—likely the same he used in the Steer era. And the conversation continued to deepen.
“Oh, I’ve got something I’m curious about too.”
“What is it?”
“When you were trying to persuade me to reclaim my memory, you must have had words prepared.”
“...”
“Could I hear them?”
Park Mundae smiled faintly.
“Of course.”
He spoke his prepared lines.
“You say Cha Yoo jin changed a lot after getting his memory back, but that’s just him reclaiming what was always his. The same goes for you.”
“Hmm.”
“...You’ve had many good experiences with this group.”
“Yes.”
“Those are your achievements.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
A few days ago, those words wouldn’t have resonated at all. He’d nearly forgotten what achievement felt like and couldn’t see those results as his own—they’d felt someone else’s. But this performance gave him a hint of what it might feel like. So he smiled and replied:
“I see. I’m curious.”
That night, Steer Ryu Geon woo concluded that he would reclaim himself as a member of TeSTAR.
