Ah—this feels ominous.
Watching the flowers swaying gently in the wind, Kang Yeonhoo steadied his restless heart and started walking again.
“Oh, Yeonhoo! Hello.”
“Hello.”
As he walked through the WH building, familiar faces greeted him warmly, and Kang Yeonhoo responded with a trustworthy smile.
Everywhere he passed, trainees gasped in admiration, and staff members looked at him like a dependable partner.
Polite smile, perfect tone, ideal distance—everything about him was impeccable.
But his pace was gradually speeding up.
Still, he had to stop when he reached the second-floor railing that overlooked the WH Entertainment lobby.
—Whiiistle—
The sound made him turn his head, and the employees bustling through the first floor also stopped, their gazes all drawn to one spot.
—Whiiistle——
On the giant screen, the camera traced a pair of heavy black combat boots, sliding sensually up faded gray joggers, lingering on long fingers flipping car keys around.
Then milk-blond hair fluttered, and a man’s playful smile filled the screen.
Joo Woosung.
The idol of idols, the celebrity’s celebrity, the man who had carried Black Call to the top.
It was the teaser for his upcoming solo album.
Seeing celebrity faces around the building was nothing new, yet everyone looked completely bewitched.
Even Kang Yeonhoo almost got caught staring at Joo Woosung’s enormous face on the screen—until a voice called from behind.
“—Yeonhoo.”
He snapped back to reality.
Standing there was the senior he’d always respected—Chae Jungwoo.
“Sunbaenim!”
Yeonhoo hurried over, delighted. The man leaning against the railing, who’d been watching the screen, turned toward him.
“Wow, long time no see! Sorry for calling you out like this. Since you were at the company, I wanted to catch up face to face.”
“It’s fine!”
“How have you been?”
Yeonhoo accepted the cup Chae Jungwoo handed him—it was chamomile tea. He smiled and thanked him politely, and Jungwoo smiled faintly back.
“I heard your group’s preparing a comeback?”
Yeonhoo nodded without hesitation.
“Yes, it’s that time again.”
The comeback proposal had come from the company first.
With Black Call now beyond WH’s control, and The Dawn’s future uncertain, the remaining WH artists had little choice but to comply with the company’s decisions—good or bad.
Hiding the heat burning inside, Yeonhoo took a sip of tea.
Jungwoo smiled lightly.
“The company’s putting more pressure on you, huh?”
“—Cough, cough!”
What the hell kind of thing was that to say, right in the middle of the building?!
As Jungwoo patted his pockets saying, “Oh dear, Yeonhoo...” searching for tissues, Yeonhoo waved his hands frantically and whispered,
“S-Sunbaenim, this is the company....”
“Ah, no one’s listening. Everyone’s too busy drooling over Joo Woosung.”
“......”
Such arrogance—if it had been anyone else, it would’ve sounded ridiculous.
But since he’d invoked Joo Woosung’s name, it felt oddly believable.
Indeed, looking down at the lobby, there was no one who wasn’t mindlessly staring at the screen.
Jungwoo smiled sweetly and handed him a tissue.
“And if you say it with a smile, doesn’t it look fine anyway?”
“......”
...This senior had gotten scarier.
Suppressing his discomfort, Yeonhoo forced a smile to match.
“...No, nothing’s wrong.”
A blatant lie.
‘The company’s in turmoil.’
Last Christmas, there had been massive personnel changes.
“Relocation” was really a polite way of saying “get out.”
Office politics were nothing new at WH, but this time it was a bloodbath.
Even Team Leader Jung Seonui, who had endured for years, resigned.
Higher-ups followed.
When a typhoon passes, it leaves wreckage behind.
The teams without leadership were floundering—Yeonhoo’s included.
Whether it was indecision or internal scheming, Daepaseong’s operations had halted entirely.
They claimed the few-month hiatus was nothing, but sharp fans could tell The Dawn’s situation was off.
‘And their last PR stunt backfired, too.’
They’d leaked a rumor about group hiatus due to “Seo Hoyun’s rest,” trying to stir sympathy before the renewal period—only to get completely destroyed online.
WH had played its worst hand.
[Seo Hoyun confirmed for supporting role in new spy action film — follows his acclaimed performance in Confidential.]
After reading the article, Yeonhoo had foolishly checked the comments—then dropped his sandwich in shock.
‘Do we look stupid to you?’ ‘WH, cut the crap—our idol’s path is always right.’
The internet was blazing with Noeul fans’ fury and their unbreakable °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° unity.
Yeonhoo had quietly picked up his sandwich and closed the browser.
‘...If they make a comeback now, it’ll explode.’
Even if The Dawn were the supposed WH golden boys, in the end, at contract renewal time, they’d face the same pressure everyone did.
Should he share such thoughts with Chae Jungwoo?
“No, really, nothing’s wrong.”
What, am I crazy?
Smiling like a painted doll, Yeonhoo saw Jungwoo rub his dry lips and set down his chamomile tea.
“Yeonhoo...”
“Yes?”
“If you stay silent too long and then talk, it’s even more obvious.”
“......”
He blinked at the warmth in his senior’s gaze.
“...Phew.”
Dropping his practiced idol façade, he rubbed his forehead.
Jungwoo chuckled.
“...It’ll pass. Just stay still and the storm will move on.”
He still had time.
His contract was for seven years—there was a grace period left.
“You’ll stay healthy too, Sunbaenim.”
Though he didn’t know the details, since leaving to start his own label, Chae Jungwoo and Black Call had thrived independently.
“The Dawn...”
But idols who came in from outside?
‘...I don’t know.’
It was dangerous.
Right now, The Dawn were more popular than any group.
Including Seo Hoyun’s buzz, he might even be getting more offers than any member of Black Call.
But fame fades quickly.
Lately, he hadn’t seen Hoyun at the company at all, and Yeonhoo feared WH might quietly shelf him.
Worse, rumors said WH had even taken back The Dawn’s dorm—his anxiety grew out of control.
‘Why would they do that?’
To move agencies?
Bad idea.
WH wasn’t a benevolent company.
Even if Seo Hoyun founded his own label, he wouldn’t get The Dawn’s trademark.
The songs released under Daepaseong? Gone too.
And if they clashed with WH, it would mean blacklisting—from broadcasts to magazines.
Sure, they were popular now, but long-term? Fatal.
“...Still, they’re really popular, so The Dawn will be fine.”
Yeonhoo exhaled and noticed the silence beside him.
Turning, he found Jungwoo smiling oddly.
“Tell me.”
“...What is it?”
“When do you ever worry about yourself?”
Yeonhoo froze.
“From what I see, Seo Hoyun doesn’t need anyone worrying about him.”
“......”
...Was he implying that after all Yeonhoo had gone through at WH, he still had energy to pity someone else?
Why worry about a rival?
‘I know, I know I’m being stupid.’
But he couldn’t help it—he’d seen it.
That winter video, where a man who always seemed unbreakable looked hollow-eyed, drained, yearning desperately for affection.
After winning the award, he’d turned pale as if struck by lightning, then confessed, baring his weakness.
Yeonhoo hadn’t been able to sleep for days.
“...It’s just that there’s not much I can do.”
Even for that madman, this couldn’t be easy.
Especially with the company in chaos and blocking its own artist’s path.
“...Hmm.”
Jungwoo tilted his head.
“So that’s the atmosphere inside, huh.”
He tapped the railing lightly.
“I don’t know Seo Hoyun personally, but according to Woosung—”
He gestured toward the screen below, at Joo Woosung’s confident, untouchable image.
“He says Seo Hoyun’s nothing but guts—a corpse without it. Stubborn, bad-tempered, and a lunatic who knows how to use people.”
“...That’s harsh.”
“Forgive him. That’s just Woosung’s way of showing affection.”
It was the kind of insult that made you want to defend Seo Hoyun on the spot.
With a shrug, Jungwoo added softly,
“Woosung seems to expect a lot from him. And you... you seem to genuinely worry about him.”
Jungwoo’s eyes curved with amusement.
“I’d say that makes him a true celebrity’s celebrity.”
***
Ah—damn it.
“—Cut!”
Rain poured down over the set by the coast.
“Cut, Seo Hoyun! Perfect, perfect!”
A hundred-billion-won spy action film.
The script had taken seven years to complete, the production funded for international release, and Hoyun had landed a supporting role.
That part was fine.
But how many times had he fallen down these damn stairs already?
“Mr. Seo Hoyun?”
“......”
“Seo Hoyun?!!”
The cut had been called, and since he was already lying on the ground, he’d thought he could rest his head for a bit—but the director kept talking, ruining the moment.
Raising his head with effort, he saw the staff applauding.
“—Wow! I seriously thought you were dead! Were you possessed by the spirit of acting?!”
“...Ha ha ha.”
“You’re amazing, doing your own stunts! I was worried when you insisted, but I shouldn’t have been!”
“I’ve been good with body control since I was born a dancer.”
“Oh? ...Ah—! Right, of course!”
While the director marveled, Hoyun stood up, feigning energy.
“As expected of the young generation—you move so well!”
“......”
“Or maybe it’s not your body, but your spirit! The energy of youth! The fire of struggle! Ha ha ha!”
...He’d been running in the rain ten times and fallen down the stairs seven times already.
He was in his late thirties, for god’s sake.
If only they’d realize that much.
Swallowing back his words, Hoyun forced a polite smile.
“Now! We’ve got the scene of you running through the rain, getting hit by a box, and tumbling down the stairs—just the warehouse explosion left!”
“...Ha ha ha ha.”
For fuck’s sake.
I told you—I’m an old man.
