I ended up not being able to wait for Seo Hojin to return and got ready to go back to the dorm.
I cleared the table and pulled out a fifty-thousand-won bill from my wallet at random, putting it on top. Then I grabbed a post-it and scribbled a short note to stick beside it.
Eat something tasty.
Just like that, I left the house, almost as if running away.
‘Shit, what the hell am I doing right now.’
The award — that could be taken next year somehow. Rationally, that was the conclusion. Yet only the worst scenarios floated up in my mind, anxiety rising endlessly.
Letting out an irritated sigh, I stepped into the dorm and called for Kang Ichae, who would have been left alone.
“Kang Ichae.”
The dorm was filled with nothing but silence.
I swung open his door, but only cold, empty air greeted me. I immediately turned on my phone and tried calling, but couldn’t get through.
He’s not a kid. He’ll take care of himself. Even so, before I knew it, I was shoving my feet into my shoes and heading toward WH Entertainment.
Standing before Kang Ichae’s studio, I swept my annoyingly long bangs aside once, then pressed the familiar code.
“Hey, hyung’s coming in.”
The space reeked of Kang Ichae’s tastes. Electric guitars lined up in a row in one corner, an electronic piano set beside them. On the opposite wall hung ragged posters of heavy metal bands, and candy and jelly wrappers were scattered across the floor.
In the middle of it all, a movie was projected on the screen.
Kang Ichae sat on the sofa, eyes fixed on the dim light.
Leaning against the wide-open door with my arms crossed, I asked,
“Kang Ichae, why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“Oh, hyung.”
He replied without even looking at me.
“Did you text?”
“Yeah. How about gukbap?”
“Can’t I go after finishing this?”
Normally, I wouldn’t even have gone looking for Kang Ichae. He’d be practicing on his own anyway.
But the odd attitude he’d been showing lately, the subtly deflated expression so unlike him — it was all getting under my skin. I’d thought I might as well chat lightly.
I shut the door and plopped down next to him on the sofa.
“Is the movie that good?”
“No, not really—”
He pushed a bag of potato chips lying haphazardly on the coffee table toward me as he continued.
“—It’s the one Jung Dajun recommended.”
Ah, the one he’d mentioned this morning.
After that, Kang Ichae went abruptly quiet.
With nothing better to do, I turned my head to watch the screen.
It was a typical American high-teen movie about a young boy forming a band with his friends and working hard to win the Gramophone Award.
【You can never be famous! Fuck you!】
Smashing the guitar he’d been playing while screaming during a conflict with his bandmates.
【I’m sorry, I should have believed in you.】
Going through various hardships, regaining trust, hugging and crying together.
【This is, what we call, a family.】
It was a bit weak in plausibility, but it had enough to stir the audience’s heart — probably why it had done well. It just didn’t impress me much.
Imagining Jung Dajun bawling at these scenes and lines was the only thing that let me endure the time with a touch of amusement.
Around the time I was tearing into a second bag of potato chips to fight the boredom, humming came from beside me.
I flicked my eyes sideways. Kang Ichae was softly singing along to the melody coming from the movie.
【This is moment in our life
I will never forget what you’ve said to me
(Ah- Ah- I will never forget)】
It must have been the movie’s OST, or its signature song — the one the main character kept singing all along — playing loud as the ending credits rolled.
I yawned wide and gave a short review.
“Boring.”
“Wow, harsh.”
Saying that, Kang Ichae gave a faint laugh.
It had been quite a while since I’d seen him make such a bright expression, so I smiled back and nudged his leg lightly with my toes.
“You don’t like stuff like this, do you?”
“Didn’t at first, but after watching it, I started to like it.”
“Isn’t this your first time seeing it?”
Kang Ichae rubbed his eyebrows with his thumb and looked a bit sheepish.
“After Jung Dajun’s recommendation, I’ve already watched it dozens of times.”
“Hm?”
“...There’s nothing much to do when I’m alone.”
Something about his answer felt off-key. As I stared blankly, Kang Ichae glanced at me and picked up the projector remote.
“It just came to mind when I had time... He still thinks I haven’t watched it yet.”
“...Ah, yeah? Jung Dajun would be happy if he knew. He’s been chanting Gramophone, Gramophone for ages.”
“Right.”
Then, switching off the screen, he stated flatly,
“Like you wanted that award.”
If you’re going to spin the topic around like that, at least flash a signal first, okay?
Outwardly, I acted calm and waited for his next words. Kang Ichae tilted his head slightly and asked,
“Does it bother you? Not winning the award?”
“...Well. I’ll get it next year.”
Fucking fucking fucking it pissed me off.
But I replied as if it didn’t bother me at all. It was over anyway.
Besides, since Kang Ichae had been in even worse shape after the January Korean Music Awards, there was no need to add to his worries.
I tossed out a question I’d been curious about to shift the conversation.
“What were you going to say to me at the awards ceremony?”
At that, Kang Ichae’s eyes widened slightly. After hesitating several times, he spoke carefully.
“...Do you remember the promise to grant me one request?”
He was talking about when I’d taken the penalty in Seo Hojin’s place and barged into Min Jiheon’s apartment.
A formless unease circled around me, creeping like something waiting to pounce.
Things had rarely gone well when Kang Ichae acted like this. Just like when he’d mentioned Seo Hojin and editing.
“Let’s hear what it is first.”
“...Could you just answer honestly for five minutes?”
I thought about feigning ignorance and going back to the dorm, but seeing him with his gaze lowered and eyebrows drooping, I realized it was already too late.
Kang Ichae had clearly said I could refuse if it was something I didn’t want to do.
But how could I just pass by when a kid whose ink on his ID had barely dried was sitting there like that, his usual self nowhere to be seen.
A warning bell rang somewhere in my head, but I tried to shake it off with a deep sigh. Perhaps taking that gesture as agreement, a low husky voice soon followed.
“...Hyung, are you planning to leave?”
For a moment, the warning light that had been flashing in my brain moved into my chest, pounding wildly.
“If that’s true... could you tell me why?”
Behind Kang Ichae, who had thrown a stone into my still waters, Polaroid pictures of The Dawn members taken every New Year were lined up by year.
Come to think of it, we hadn’t taken one this year.
That fact nagged at me, but I turned my eyes away and looked straight at Kang Ichae, answering flatly,
“Leave where?”
“.......”
“What, for Lunar New Year? I’m not going anywhere.”
And I stayed on edge, afraid some system error might pop up.
Kang Ichae stayed silent for a moment, then twisted one corner of his mouth.
“...You know. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
His sentences escaped like sighs.
“I’ve had a vague sense of it for a while. You were trying to make us blow up fast no matter what... and all the while you acted like you had no attachment to any of it.”
His words, flowing like a monologue, made my heart beat in ominous offbeat.
“If you really quit being an idol... it’d be a shame, but it’s okay. I could understand.”
Lowering his chin slightly, Kang Ichae looked up at me from an angle.
“But, isn’t it strange? For some reason, I’m anxious. I have this feeling that if it happens, I’ll never see you again.”
His voice, trembling slightly, flowed on without a hitch. As if he’d mulled it over countless times.
“...Ever since Mom died, I’ve never been able to let someone go without warning. But, if only you’d just tell me honestly...”
“Kang Ichae.”
I cut him off, stepping back naturally to widen the distance.
“What are you talking about? I have no idea.”
Kang Ichae lowered his head and stared blankly at the space between us.
He looked so pitiful it stung, but there was no truth I could give him.
‘I must have been too obvious.’
Thinking it was a fantasy reality where I could never be found out, I’d carelessly dropped fragments, and to Kang Ichae they had looked suspicious.
With no proof, he’d guessed that if I grabbed the award, I’d quit being an idol — and that was why he’d seemed mentally on edge.
‘To reach that conclusion just by gut feeling....’
It was impressive, and at the same time, it felt a bit embarrassing that I’d drawn this out of Kang Ichae, who usually avoided mentioning family.
I was about to soothe him, feed him a good meal, and take him back to the dorm when,
“You, lately, is there someth—”
“So in the end, you’re going to pretend not to know?”
Kang Ichae raised his eyes sharply, glaring at me, and ground out his words through his teeth.
“—Hide it forever and abandon us? That’s why you said the members would be fine on their own without you?”
And then he exhaled roughly, as if even laughing at it was beyond him.
A headache struck as if I’d hit a dead end, the conversation going nowhere.
“Being an idol, chasing that grand award! It was all that fucking—”
I was trying to figure out how to handle this when—
“—you were trying to clear the game!”
That one word pierced my ears.
‘Game?’
For a moment, the whole world went silent, as if even my heart had stopped. I couldn’t even hear Kang Ichae’s voice.
“...Kang Ichae.”
I hurried to collect my drifting thoughts and forced my lips to move as if nothing had happened, hoping there was still a chance to fix this.
“You’re too worked up right now. Calm down first—...”
“I saw it.”
But Kang Ichae drove forward, crushing even that hope.
“When you came back from the world where you were acting, letters about the ‘clear condition’ appeared right before my eyes.”
“...What?”
Kang Ichae saw the system window? And about the clear condition?
‘How much does he know?’
Did he see all the clear conditions?
Getting caught about the grand award was one thing—but the main scenario?
If Kang Ichae knew about that, completing my remaining quests would be next to impossible.
“Some of the letters were broken, but it didn’t matter much. One of the conditions said you had to win a grand award in January.”
My main quest had no time limit.
It only required becoming a first-tier idol group—one of the conditions being to win a grand award from one of the top three award shows.
Back then, the system was full of errors and instability. Somehow Kang Ichae got dragged into the mess, but it seemed he didn’t know the full contents.
“This whole month, I’ve been worried. If we won that award, you’d disappear.”
“......”
“...I thought we were going to win, but since we didn’t, I guess I should be relieved... though after that, you walked around looking like you were dying.”
Fair enough.
It made sense. I’d ruined everything myself.
“Hyung, just be honest now.”
Gone was his usual relaxed tone—Kang Ichae was agitated, restless.
So I judged that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to gloss over this.
“Kang Ichae, I—”
But then his sharp, piercing gaze # Nоvеlight # cut right through me.
“—What exactly is your main scenario?”
And with that, my fragile hope that he didn’t know shattered completely.
“I saw all the members’ names listed, except mine. You’ve already cleared the other scenarios, haven’t you?”
It was a statement made with certainty.
“...So now you get it?”
Kang Ichae ran a hand down his pale face, drained from pouring everything out.
“I knew everything, and I kept waiting—for you to tell me yourself.”
“......”
“But you never did.”
I couldn’t.
Even this, I couldn’t bring myself to say sincerely.
I stared blankly at Kang Ichae as he watched me, then let out a hollow laugh and sank back onto the sofa.
‘...How am I supposed to complete the quest now?’
This was a problem on a completely different level from whether or not I got the award.
The main scenario quest couldn’t be cleared by simply knowing the past.
I needed Kang Ichae’s genuine trust.
But now that he was aware of the concept of a “main scenario” and suspicious of me, it was impossible to fulfill that condition.
The more I denied, the more his trust would crumble.
‘So this is the dead end?’
Looking away from me, Kang Ichae’s gaze drifted over the line of Polaroid photos before he spoke again.
“...If something has to be given up for you to leave somewhere, then you’re really out of luck. So admit it. Everything depends on me now.”
I thought I’d been managing pretty well, but before I knew it, I was at the cliff’s edge.
The exhaustion I’d been avoiding hit like a tidal wave. I didn’t even have the energy to wonder why the system wasn’t flagging an error when he was saying all this out loud.
I was just too damn tired.
“...So what do you want from me?”
I gave up trying to read into his words, my voice cracking as I asked simply,
“What do you want?”
And when Kang Ichae stayed silent, I felt like a prisoner awaiting execution. My gaze dropped to the floor.
For an instant, Jeong Cheongyeon’s curse flashed through my mind—
No matter how much you beg and cry, it won’t help.
Maybe this was karma.
Maybe Kang Ichae was about to declare that he’d never grant what I wanted.
A bitter laugh slipped out.
“...I...”
Breaking the heavy silence, Kang Ichae spoke quietly.
“...I already know we’re not your top priority.”
I’d heard that line somewhere before.
“You clearly have another goal, but I don’t get how it’s so important that you’d do all this.”
Slowly, I lifted my head to look at him.
“...I went so far, putting on every bit of bravado, just to figure out why you keep pushing yourself to the brink—and now I’m saying shit like this. Fuck. You’re stubborn as hell, but I must be crazy too.”
Despite the curse, his voice stayed steady.
“I don’t know if I’m an idiot, a fool, or both, but I can’t just watch you destroy yourself like this anymore.”
Gone was the playful grin from that day in Daepaseong Entertainment’s small studio after Shining Star Season 2 ended.
And yet, Kang Ichae still told me the same thing as back then.
“—Hyung, run with me.”
“Then let’s run together.”
With desperation bordering on anger, and affection close to obsession.
“Trust me, and ask for help.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Can you breathe fine?”
“Of course.”
I couldn’t say anything in return.
“That’s what I really want.”
Kang Ichae was reaching out his hand—offering help.
