“...What did you just say?”
I glanced up and down at Kang Yeonhoo, then shifted my eyes to the side. There were two drinks neatly placed on the table—looked like the same coffee we’d seen him order at the café earlier.
“...Anyway, before that.”
I sluggishly got up, walked over, and picked up one of the cups. I caught the slight flinch on Kang Yeonhoo’s face before he quickly masked it.
I chuckled under my breath, brought the still-warm coffee to my lips, and asked,
“I’ve got a question.”
“...What is it?”
“Does WH Entertainment’s audition include a personality interview?”
Joo Woosung, who’d stubbornly clung to me with a long speech about not giving up; Kang Yeonhoo, who came all the way here to “consult” me out of concern for a rival group’s member—
“They’re all so damn kind.”
And it wasn’t just the two of them.
Most WH Entertainment celebrities I’d seen were uncharacteristically polite and softhearted for this industry.
How do they manage to pick out only the gentlest, most delicate human beings? I genuinely wanted to know the secret. But Kang Yeonhoo must’ve taken my words as sarcasm, because he gave me a dry look.
“...There’s no such procedure, but maybe you feel that way because, in this field, you can’t survive without at least enough empathy to ask after your twisted coworkers’ well-being.”
“Ah, so locking yourself in the practice room with me was part of checking up on a coworker’s well-being?”
“I know I’m being nosy, so stop being so damn snide....”
He looked a bit tired, but not to the point of coming all the way here to see me.
“Was I really looking that miserable? Enough to make His Highness personally pay me a visit?”
“...There you go again with that ‘His Highness’ crap.”
Normally, Kang Yeonhoo would’ve run off by now, but though he grumbled, he stayed put and kept talking.
“Haah, don’t take this the wrong way. I know it probably doesn’t apply to you, but... it’s been bugging me. You’ll think I’m being ridiculous, but still...”
What’s he cushioning all this for?
I sipped the bitter Americano, waiting for what would come next. After rubbing the back of his neck, Kang Yeonhoo finally added slowly,
“...You look scared.”
...Who? Me?
It was such an alien opinion I froze, unable to respond.
“...Since the start of this year, maybe. Or rather, after the awards season ended. I wanted to talk to you about it back then, but the timing never worked out—”
“Excuse me, Kang Yeonhoo.”
I cut him off and scratched at the goosebumps running up my arms.
“What kind of creepy nonsense are you spouting right now?”
“I’m already regretting saying it...”
“Then why’d you bring it up in the first place?”
We were rivals from different groups, barely even ran into each other at the company, and weren’t anywhere near close enough to talk about private matters.
“I just... thought there’s a one-in-a-million chance I might be right.”
It was strange—he always kept his distance, and now suddenly wanted to “look out” for me? He must’ve realized how weird it sounded, because he sighed and ran his fingers through his wavy hair.
“I saw a lot of people make that same expression back when I was a trainee.”
And what the hell did that have to do with me?
When I tilted my chin for him to go on, Kang Yeonhoo blinked slowly and continued,
“You know how our work is. We’re always restricted, our range of action gets smaller, and even when it’s not failure, it’s treated like one. You get so afraid of stepping on landmines that you only ever take the safe path, until you forget what you even wanted in the first place.”
“Pretty detailed description. Almost like you’ve been through it yourself.”
“I haven’t.”
“Oh, really?”
Whenever someone says it’s ‘someone else’s story,’ it’s always their own.
Kang Yeonhoo went quiet for a moment, then shook his head and pressed his palm to his forehead.
“...So, yeah. It’s about this friend of mine who was a trainee at WH for a really long time.”
“Uh-huh.”
“They got put in a group and disbanded over and over. They even filmed a music video once, at the very beginning. It got scrapped in the end, though.”
“Why?”
“The concept leaked. Bad luck, really. After that, nothing went right. People said the lineup was weak, that there were already idols like them, all kinds of reasons. Anyway, after that, they hated the leaked photo. Looking back, they were such an airhead—smiling so stupidly without a care in the world.”
Kang Yeonhoo lowered his hand from his forehead and played with his disposable cup, laughing faintly.
“But later, fans said that photo was really beautiful.”
There was a faint trace of bitterness in his tone.
As if recalling something, he dropped his gaze and spoke quietly.
“And, well... apparently, some higher-ups saw that photo by chance and liked it, and that’s how they debuted in the end. So, yeah, that leaked photo ended up helping.”
He muttered that it had turned out well, that they’d actually looked good in it, then looked back up at me.
“So...”
“......”
“...Don’t fear what’s coming before it even happens. Sometimes it helps instead.”
After finally saying his piece, he trailed off awkwardly.
“...That’s all. My friend’s story.”
How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?
I just stared at him for a while as his face flushed red again, still stubbornly insisting it wasn’t about him, then finally opened my mouth.
“I hope that friend’s doing well.”
“...They say they’re doing fine.”
“I see. So is that who’s calling you right now?”
“...What?”
“Your pocket.”
Startled, Kang Yeonhoo twisted his neck side to side, spotted the phone bulging in his right pants pocket, and hastily tried to shove it deeper.
Watching his phone light up nonstop with the incoming call, I smirked.
“You two must be really close.”
“......”
“Why don’t you open the door and let them in?”
Before Kang Yeonhoo could even stammer out a reply, the practice room door suddenly burst open.
“Hoyun hyung-hyung-hyung~~!!”
Jung Dajun came running in, raising a donut box above his head, followed by Kim Sunghyun, who kicked the doorstop down to keep it open.
“I fought tooth and nail, but we finally decided lunch is gonna be hot~ hot gukbap like you like, so hurry up and come ea— huh?”
“Oh? Senior Kang Yeonhoo, what are you doing here?”
What else? Giving a heartfelt pep talk to his junior, obviously.
Flushed bright red, Kang Yeonhoo jumped up and muttered under his breath,
“...I’ll get going.”
“Ah, sunbae!! Want a donut?!”
“I’m fine...”
I grabbed his arm as he started to move past me.
“Hey, that first concept—do you still have the photo left?”
Then I leaned in with a sly smile.
“I’m curious. They said you looked prettier back then.”
“You crazy bastard, seriously...”
Unable to hold back anymore, Kang Yeonhoo cursed, shook off my hand, and stormed out.
Kim Sunghyun clicked his tongue, mouth flattening into a straight line.
“You bullied him again, didn’t you?”
“He started it.”
Stretching my neck with a few cracks, I looked at the members.
“Kang Ichae’s still in the studio?”
“Probably. Said he’s eating alone, told us to go without him.”
“Then I’ll pass too. You two go eat.”
Ignoring Dajun’s sulky “you’re ditching lunch again?” face, I pressed down on his head, grabbed a donut from the box, and left the practice room.
After swinging by the studio to grab my portable charger, I plugged in my phone and called a taxi to head back to the dorm.
I stared out the window for a moment, then opened the browser and searched for Kang Yeonhoo’s “friend” whose debut had been canceled because of a leak.
“Is this it?”
It didn’t take long to find.
A quick search with ‘leak,’ ‘debut,’ ‘canceled,’ and ‘WH’ brought up the result almost instantly.
“...Hm.”
In the photo, scattered among pearls on a lake where green lotus leaves had just begun to sprout, lay a young Kang Yeonhoo—smiling softly, looking a bit more boyish than now.
I blinked, a little surprised.
“...Well, damn. It’s true.”
I only looked it up so I could tease him later, but Kang Yeonhoo’s own words turned out to be surprisingly accurate.
I studied the photo more closely until the {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} taxi came to a halt, and only then realized I’d arrived. Quickly slipping my phone away, I thanked the driver out of habit and made my way briskly to the dorm. I unwrapped a candy from the pile on the living room table, popped it into my mouth, and stepped into Kang Ichae’s room, collapsing into the computer chair. Rolling the candy from cheek to cheek, I idly glanced around and then opened the notebook lying on the desk. It was filled to the brim with notes—Kang Ichae’s meticulous work records.
“...Tch.”
Flipping through a few pages, I closed it again, turned on the computer, and typed in the password with practiced ease. Inside our shared drive, I saw the neatly backed-up song files. The titles were still random as always. I clicked one at random and let it play.
The lyrics that poured out were carefree, full of hope, like nothing in the world could touch them.
“......”
Honestly, I was still hesitating a little.
With smooth highways laid out in every direction, why insist on trudging down the long, rocky road?
“...Haaah.”
But I wasn’t about to repeat the same mistake that had cost us the grand prize before.
Rubbing my face roughly with both hands to shake off the mood, I got up and went to my own room. From the drawer, I pulled out a spare phone I’d kept, thinking I might need it someday, then returned and plugged it in to charge. While it powered on, I swiftly revised my plan.
I remembered some murmurs among the reactions to Song Camp—complaints about the disproportionate weight of the judges’ scores. I woke up the computer from sleep mode, went online, and searched for ‘QBS’ and ‘judges.’
〈“Find the King of Singers” judges’ scores receive ‘high praise’〉
〈Rising influence of QBS’ judges in award shows...〉
〈Audition program “Be My King” reveals judging criteria〉
Without much interest, I scrolled through the mouse wheel, checking whether anything had changed since my PD days. I gathered data on how far each show disclosed information about their judges, and how the public reacted to it.
Once I’d collected enough material, a system window popped up in front of my monitor.
[...What are you doing?]
[Why are you suddenly looking up those articles?]
[I’m getting a really bad feeling right now?!]
Ignoring the pest floating in my view, I picked up the spare phone—its battery about one-fifth charged—opened a paid VPN app, and started typing out a message.
Ding!!
[Wait wait wait wait!!]
[Why are you pulling that out?!?!! You’re not— you’re not actually planning to bribe the judges or anything, right?!!]
[I strongly oppose this!!! The risk of getting caught is way too high!!!!!]
“What the hell. I don’t even have their contacts right now, so I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
I glanced toward the blue window and replied calmly, and larger, bold text immediately flashed across it.
[Seo Hoyun, you memorize them!! You just memorize phone numbers!!]
“I’m not doing it. I don’t do things that can get me caught.”
I’d learned my lesson from the grand prize incident.
The system window shrank slightly, as if calming down, and then displayed another line after a pause.
[...Then what are you doing?]
“Just throwing a stone.”
To ride the ripples of the uproar it would cause.
Unless a huge scandal forced a shake-up, QBS always recycled the same pool of judges. Song Camp would be no exception.
Even when I was a PD, people used to call it a “stagnant swamp” behind their backs. Some of those judges had even taken bribes and still been rehired, thanks to their cozy ties with the QBS director.
I drafted a post for an online community—vague enough not to get reported, but suggestive enough to sound credible. The gist: “There are rumors that a judge with questionable past conduct from a recent show is on the panel for another popular program.”
I phrased it as if written by an insider—someone in the know but not directly involved.
Despite having zero proof, the post looked convincing enough.
“When the wave hits, I’ll leak a follow-up saying the judges’ scores make up 40% of the total, meaning no matter how hard the public votes, the results could easily be swayed.”
I set the spare phone down on the desk and leaned back in the chair. The system window, quiet until now, spoke again.
[...It probably won’t go the way you want. They might just replace the obvious judges and move on.]
“QBS is sly like that. Call it shrewd diplomacy—they’ll ignore it if it stays hidden, but once a blemish shows, they purge it completely.”
That’s what my old workplace did best—cleaning house.
And when they cleaned, they burned everything down until nothing remained.
How many people had been swept away by those flames?
“And of course, they’ll make a show of it.”
[...Meaning?]
“They’ll announce, ‘Our broadcasting station is fair and transparent. From now on, the winner will be chosen 100% by the public’s vote.’”
That alone would be enough to quiet the noise for a while.
Of course, I wasn’t naive enough to think one anonymous post could set all that in motion by itself.
If they tried to dodge it, I’d throw a bigger stone. If they ran, I’d send a wave after them.
I tapped my fingers against the armrest, mapping out possible scenarios and countermeasures as they came to mind.
“...In the end, it’ll all come down to a blind vote.”
[...You’ve completely lost it...]
Your mouth’s getting a bit too loose, asshole.
Clicking my tongue, I waved away the window. I grabbed the spare phone again and was just about to post my anonymous message when another system window popped up, blocking my view.
[...Even if things go exactly how you want—are you sure you won’t get caught?]
[Anyone who knows your past behavior would definitely find it suspicious if something this big suddenly happened.]
“Is that so?”
The list of QBS judges wasn’t disclosed to contestants or even agencies—it was strictly internal.
“If someone suspects me...”
That information was known only to a few: the director, a handful of executives—
“...Then they should set up their fortune-telling mats.”
—and QBS PDs.
Now that I was an idol, there was no way anyone could find proof that I knew or used that information. I calmly pressed the “Post” button.
[...Oh god.]
[...What the hell is wrong with you?]
[...This guy’s actually insane...?]
I didn’t bother replying. Leaning my head back, I stared up at the ceiling.
If the judges’ scores vanished, only the blind vote would remain.
And that part... was out of my hands.
“...Good song.”
Kang Ichae’s competition track was still playing on repeat.
Fitting, for a guy who said he’d win through music alone—it really was good.
‘Yeah, Ichae. You keep doing things your way.’
I can’t give you everything you want...
But I’ll build you the stage that reaches the highest place.
‘And I’ll do what I do best.’
Through agitation and fabrication.
