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Chapter Text

After betraying Gwi-Ma and the other Saja Boys by offering his soul to Rumi, Jinu never expected eternal rest. No heaven, no hell, not even a parallel version of anything. With his soul surrendered, he assumed his body would simply vanish. Or fall into an eternal, mute sleep, endless and still.

He was surprised when he opened his eyes… and the first thing he saw was a ceiling he didn’t recognize.

“Am I dreaming?” he muttered, sitting up abruptly. “Where the hell am I now?”

He looked around. He wasn’t surprised not to recognize anything. The room was completely foreign. A small, gloomy, dirty, and old studio apartment, barely standing, everything in disarray as if no one had cleaned in weeks, maybe months.

“Guess I made it to hell… I expected a little more heat, but I won’t complain,” he said ironically as he looked around.

Everything indicated only one person lived there. He found the bathroom behind a badly closed door. When he looked in the mirror… he froze.

For four hundred years, Jinu had grown used to seeing himself the same way. His adventure with the Saja Boys gave him a break for a while, his skin stopped being purple, but even then, his reflection remained the same: a tired-faced twenty-seven-year-old.

But the boy now looking back from the mirror… wasn’t exactly him.

He was younger, smoother skin, lighter dark circles, less hurt expression. Twenty, maybe. As if he’d been rebooted.

“What in all that is demonic and horrible is going on..?” he whispered, stepping back. “I’m starting to get scared.”

He ran out of the bathroom and began rummaging through the place desperately, searching for anything that could help him understand. He quickly found three objects on a table: an empty pill bottle, a wallet, and a crumpled letter.

He grabbed the wallet first. Inside, an ID.

“Do Jinu. At least I’m still me… would’ve been terrible to learn a new name,” he muttered sarcastically.

He checked the rest. Birthdate: twenty-three years ago.

He found a photo.

“No way…” It was his mother and sister, alive and smiling. “I guess no matter what timeline we’re in… we never escape poverty,” he murmured, putting the photo back with trembling hands.

His eyes returned to the pill bottle. He picked it up.

“Sleeping pills… what happened here?”

Finally, he took the letter and opened it. Folded sheets, handwritten in a careless scrawl.

“Mom… Jiwoo…

I don’t know how to write this without it sounding like an excuse. Maybe it is. Maybe everything I do lately is.

Ever since you died, the house is silent. Sometimes I turn on the TV just to hear voices. I tell myself I’ll go look for a job, that I’ll try one more audition, but in the end I sit, staring at the door. Waiting for you to come in.

The neighbors stopped visiting months ago. I don’t blame them. I couldn’t stand being around me either.

I tried, I really did. But some days I don’t know how to breathe without it hurting. Everything hurts. Being awake hurts.

I wanted to be strong. For you. But I’ve got nothing left.

This isn’t anyone’s fault. Don’t worry about me.

Sorry for not being enough.

With love,
Jinu”

Jinu lowered the letter without knowing what to feel. He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but for a moment he believed he’d see them again. That this universe, twisted as it was, was giving him a second chance.

But no.

His mother and sister were dead here too. And he was still alive.

As always.

As punishment.

Because he didn’t deserve to be happy, not after everything he did.

He let himself fall to the floor, back against the wall, hands cold, throat dry, chest tight.

The guilt burned like Gwi-Ma was still inside him, whispering with disdain.

Why him?

Why him again?

He looked at the letter once more. The words were clear. There was no room for misunderstanding.

That other Jinu wasn’t so different from him.

The only difference was that the other had the courage to give up.

Jinu closed his eyes and stayed still. For the first time in a long while, he felt no anger, no fear, no hate.

Just a deep, hollow exhaustion.

For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself to cry. It was incredible how, no matter the universe, he would never be free. Maybe the only thing he could do was the same as the other Jinu. Disappear. Maybe then, finally, everyone would be happy.

But then…

What about Rumi? Had she also returned? The question shot through his chest like electricity, and against all odds, something inside him lit up with a strength he didn’t know he still had.

Jinu stood up.

If he was going to die, at least he wanted to see her one last time.

Rumi.

One last time.

The air hit him when he left his new home. It was colder than he remembered, maybe because he was finally fully human again. There were no whispers from Gwi-Ma, no constant pressure from the marks. For the first time in centuries, he could see clearly.

It wasn’t a great view, but even so, seeing it without the weight of curses in his head made it a thousand times better. The smoke from cars, the noise of the city, daily life.

It was a brutal contrast.

Jinu walked aimlessly, hoping the weight in his chest would lessen. Everything felt unreal, like his feet touched the ground but his body wasn’t really there. Each step moved him further from the echo of that letter, but not from the knot in his throat.

He stopped in front of an electronics store. Several televisions showed the morning news, a monotonous voice reciting the day’s headlines, while a blue ticker at the bottom ran the date:

July 2, 2020.

His eyes fixed on it.

“2020…?” he murmured, voice trembling. “I’m three years in the past…”

His chest flipped.

Not only had he returned… he had gone back.

And if that was true, if he was before everything, before his debut with the Saja Boys, before the Idol Awards…

Then where was Rumi?

Did she even remember him? Was she already a member of Huntr/x?

Jinu started walking again, faster, almost without realizing it. He didn’t know where to go, what to do. The only thing he knew was that he couldn’t stand still. Without noticing, he was running. He needed to stop, to breathe and think. He ended up in a random cafe, ordering a tea without knowing what else to do.

The cup arrived quickly.

He didn’t touch it.

Outside, people came and went, smiling, talking on the phone, carrying bags, taking pictures. The city buzzed with an energy he no longer felt as his own.

And in the middle of that constant movement, the memory of her appeared uninvited.

Rumi.

He remembered all the nights they met. He remembered the bracelet she gave him and how it gave him hope for the first time in his life. He remembered the look in her eyes the last time he saw her.

He could only wish that the Rumi he loved, the Rumi who remembered him, wasn’t too sad.

He wiped his face with his sleeve, not wanting to cry in public, but it was impossible not to break. Everything hurt: the past, the present, the possibility that in this world she didn’t know him.

“What if she doesn’t remember me?” he whispered, voice trembling. “What if we never met here?” The thought made his chest tighten.

The idea hit hard: to her, maybe, he was just a stranger.

A boy with the same face as someone who never existed.

And if he tried to approach her… how could he explain everything without sounding insane?

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t ruin her life. He couldn’t confuse her.

If in this timeline she was okay, if she was still in Huntr/x, if she was smiling… then he had to stay away.

He got up before anyone noticed his state.

He left the tea untouched.

Outside, the afternoon began to turn orange.

The world kept spinning.

But inside Jinu, everything stood still.

He walked through the streets with his head down, no direction, no destination. He passed by a giant screen showing a new music video from Huntr/x.

There she was.

Smiling, radiant, dancing with a confidence that hurt to watch.

He stopped.

His heart pounded so hard he thought it might break.

Rumi was alive. She was okay.

And she didn’t know him.

He swallowed hard.

Held back tears.

And kept walking, with his soul in pieces.

Somehow he made it back home. He didn’t know how, or how long he had walked, only that when he came to, he was at the door, fingers numb, soul shattered.

He entered, slammed the door, and let himself fall onto the bed like his body had no will left, like even gravity had given up on him.

He was exhausted. Not physically. Just exhausted from existing.

He was supposed to see her one last time, just once, a silent goodbye, a distant glance. Nothing more. But not even that seemed allowed. Not even that sliver of happiness.

He covered his face with both hands, pressing hard, as if he could suffocate everything he felt.

“Why me?” he murmured, eyes closed. “Why, out of all the people who died, did I have to come back? And in such an absurd way?”

While preparing to debut with the Saja Boys, he had studied idol and Korean culture, stumbling across many comics and novels about people waking up in other worlds, reincarnations, systems, absurd missions in magical places.

He remembered how they all started, more or less like him, waking up in an unknown place, usually possessing the body of someone dead.

“What did they always say…? Status window?”

He said it almost mockingly, a bitter joke thrown to the air, like he could laugh at fate. And then the air around him vibrated.

A soft hum, like a distant bell, and a blue glow, faint but undeniably real.

In front of him, suspended just inches from his face, floated a translucent window, electric blue, edges trembling like it was about to vanish.

Jinu froze, body tense, mind blank.

“What… the hell…” he whispered, barely audible, as if the words couldn’t fully escape his throat.

Turns out, fate still wanted to mock him, but this time, it did so with holograms floating before his eyes.

The status window remained in the air, slightly tilted toward him, as if watching him. It was slim, soft blue, pulsing at the edges, with perfect white letters detailing impossible information: his name, level, attributes… and a highlighted trait that said “Centuries of Experience (S).”

Jinu blinked repeatedly, confused.

He’d seen something like it before.

Not this exact window, of course, but similar things. In novels, in manhwas, in all those ridiculous stories about people reincarnated or trapped in systems.

They all had status windows.

But this one…

“How weird,” he muttered, “these look like stats for becoming an idol…”

No sooner had he said it than a second window popped up in front of him with a sharper sound, louder than the first.

This one wasn’t blue.

It was red. A deep red, like dried blood glowing in the light. Jinu instinctively stepped back, the frame pulsing as if alive, the letters not calm or clean, but sharp, twisted, like they had been carved in.

[WARNING]
Status effect activated
Debut or die!
If you do not debut as an idol within the designated period, you will die.

Time remaining: 365 days

Jinu felt a chill down his spine.

He wasn’t dreaming.

He wasn’t free.

He hadn’t been saved.

He had been thrown into a game. A cruel, silent one, with rules disguised as flashy tech.

And for the first time since opening his eyes in this world…

he felt truly trapped.

Chapter Text

After a night of a horrible dream, Jinu found himself staring for the thousandth time at the screen floating in the corner of his vision, like a sentence suspended between time and his head.

[Debut or die]

A threat, a mockery, a reminder that his life, if it could still be called that, already had an expiration date. Jinu stayed lying down, unmoving.

He could do it. He could end it all right there. There were still pills in the bottle the other Jinu used. No one would miss him. No one would remember him.

Rumi probably wouldn’t even know he ever existed.

He clenched his eyes shut.

Rumi…

He didn’t want to live if it meant hurting more people.

But dying without seeing her one last time, that was probably the worst punishment. To die without regrets, he needed to know she was okay. He didn’t plan to speak to her, or get close.

He didn’t want to get entangled in her life, or burden her with a memory that no longer belonged to her.

He just wanted to see her from afar, without bothering, without existing.

He took a deep breath.

“I’m going to die,” he whispered, “but not yet. I refuse to be as pathetic as the other Jinu.”

After deciding to live a little longer, Jinu dressed in the same clothes he had found yesterday in the apartment: a shapeless jacket, some worn-out pants, a random t-shirt. He left without looking back. No headphones, no wallet. Only one idea keeping him upright: if he wanted to see Rumi one last time, even if it was from the furthest crowd, he needed money. And for that, as much as he hated to admit it, he had to work.

He walked through the city like a stranger, observing everything with tired eyes, stopping every so often in front of a “help wanted” sign only to move on without asking. It wasn’t fear, he just couldn’t accept the idea of begging the world for something as basic as being allowed to exist. But when hunger started to hurt in his stomach, he knew he didn’t have many options.

He entered a mini-market, asked if they needed someone. They said no. Did the same at a bakery, then at a clothing store. Rejection after rejection, uncomfortable looks, empty words. They didn’t treat him badly, they just didn’t see him. He was invisible.

After a few hours of wandering, he stumbled upon an old coffee shop on a side street. It wasn’t pretty or particularly eye-catching, but it had lights on and people working inside, which was enough. He walked in, and the smell of cheap coffee hit him immediately. In the back, a girl was scrubbing a machine. She didn’t look up at first, but when he approached the counter, she raised her eyes with the weariness of someone already having a bad day.

“Are you hiring?” Jinu asked bluntly. His voice wasn’t particularly cheerful, but not defeated either.

She looked him up and down, as if evaluating whether he was trouble or just sad. Finally, she sighed and nodded slightly.

“Have you cleaned storage rooms?”

“I’ve cleaned worse things,” he answered without thinking, with the dry tone of someone telling the truth.

She didn’t laugh, but she didn’t kick him out either.

“You can sort the back room. There are expired boxes, dust, and a bunch of crap. If you don’t leave within an hour, we might let you come back.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no. Enough to survive another day.

They handed him a t-shirt with the cafe’s logo, wrinkled and with a stain on the sleeve. He didn’t ask how much they’d pay. He put it on over his clothes and followed the girl down a narrow hallway to a metal door that creaked as it opened. The smell of humidity was overwhelming. The storage room was dark, with flickering lights and boxes stacked haphazardly. The floor was dirty, the walls stained. The kind of place where things rot without anyone noticing.

They gave him a broom, a rag, and a handwritten list of expired products to throw out.

And he did.

He started moving boxes carelessly, separating torn bags, tossing empty jars. He did it without thinking much, because thinking hurt more than moving his body. Physical work wasn’t so terrible when you wanted to stop feeling.

At some point, without realizing it, he started singing. It was soft, barely a murmur, a familiar melody that lived in his memory without being called. It was a Huntr/x song, one of the first Rumi had taught him in their early meetings. Remembering it hurt, but not enough to stop. He kept humming while organizing coffee bags and empty bottles.

His voice didn’t sound happy or sad, just empty, robotic, almost perfect.

He sang like someone who had nothing.

And because of that, unintentionally, he sounded like someone who had everything.

The day had ended. Jinu still had dust on his sleeves and smelled like coffee. His fingers were numb from the storage room’s damp cold. He didn’t know that someone from the staff had noticed his little concert. A barista had seen it, not in person, but through the store’s cameras. She was captivated by Jinu’s voice. And as if it were a cruel joke from fate, which always seems to go against all of Jinu’s plans lately, the barista didn’t think twice before sharing the video with her aunt, who, by chance or because of that same fate, just happened to be looking for singers for a new idol survival show.

The producer, Ryu Seorin, who barely replied to her messages and almost never opened the links she sent, opened this one. She was bored, waiting for the subway, with no data to watch dramas. The video her niece sent was loading slowly. She watched it without headphones, with the volume low. She didn’t need more. It was surprising and pleasant when she found a guy singing. He was the kind of guy born to be an idol: good form, nice voice, and a wonderful face. And yet, what caught Seorin’s attention the most was something else. Jinu had something.

A messy honesty.

A wound that wasn’t fully closed.

And that is the best thing one can show on television.

Seorin sat up, grabbed the phone, and hit play again.

Then again. And again. Eventually, she called her niece.

“Who is he?”

“Hi aunt, I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“Hi Ryumin, glad you’re fine, now tell me who he is.”

“His name’s Do Jinu, I think. He doesn’t talk much. He’s my new coworker at the cafe.”

Seorin nodded slowly. She looked exhausted, as always, but her eyes were awake for the first time in weeks.

“Can you get me five minutes with him?”

“For what?”

“To see if he sings like that knowing someone is watching.”

Ryu Seorin wasn’t the best producer in Korea. She worked at TNET, caught up in a show that never quite took off. Idol Incorporated was an idol show that never achieved much. After a moderately successful first season with a girl group, they tried to replicate the formula by launching a second season aiming to debut a co-ed group. But one of the participants ended up pregnant, and the second season turned out to be a complete failure. She didn’t understand what would be different in the third season they were about to launch—until she saw Jinu.

Two days later, Jinu was leaving work with the uniform shirt folded under his arm when Ryumin intercepted him halfway.

“Hey, someone wants to talk to you.”

“Why? I didn’t steal anything.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about the video.”

Jinu frowned.

“What video?”

She didn’t answer, just nodded toward a table in the corner of the store, where a woman with tied-back hair and a brown jacket was sitting with a glass of water and an expression that mixed boredom with lack of sleep.

When Jinu approached, she looked him over like someone inspecting a garment with a hard-to-ignore stain.

“Do Jinu?” she asked without standing up.

“Depends on who’s asking,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. Sarcastic, but without energy.

“I’m Ryu Seorin. I work in production at TNET. I saw a video of you. You sing well.”

Jinu tilted his head.

“What video?”

“One where you thought no one was listening. Do you always sing like that?”

“Why do you ask?” Jinu asked cautiously, defensively. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“I’m looking for talent for the third season of a survival show, Idol Incorporated. I’m interested in you joining,” she said, pulling a slightly wrinkled card from the back pocket of her jeans and extending it without even sitting up straight. “If at any point you decide you want to do it, call me.”

Jinu didn’t respond. He didn’t ask anything. He didn’t make eye contact. He just stood there with his hands in his pockets and his head slightly lowered, as if the words had fallen on him with the weight of the whole world. She didn’t wait for confirmation, or a reaction, or politeness. She just left the card on the table and walked away, leaving him there.

That night he returned home dragging his feet, with the work shirt in his hand and the smell of coffee clinging to his skin. He closed the door without turning on the light and collapsed on the worn-out couch, exhausted. The card was still there, on the table, exactly where she had left it, as if it were waiting for him. He looked at it without touching it, frowning, as if just by looking he could guess what decision to make.

He shouldn’t do it. He had promised to stay away for Rumi.

He thought of her laugh, her eyes, the bracelet she gave him when he had no hope left, how she looked at him with a mix of sweetness and determination, as if she believed in him even when he didn’t. He remembered the last time he saw her, that final look that hurt more than any goodbye.

He clenched his teeth with anger, a huge rage at himself. He couldn’t understand why he felt the need to go on that show.

But then he understood. His goal wasn’t to relive the past or hold onto the impossible. He just wanted to see her. To confirm once and for all that she didn’t remember him. That in this world, in this absurd timeline, he was just another face among millions.

And if that was the case, then he could leave in peace. Not without sadness, not without emptiness, but without unanswered questions.

He could do it like he had originally thought, admiring her from afar, praying that, with some luck, their eyes would meet even just once. But no, he was selfish.

He didn’t want to be just another one. He didn’t want to be another forgettable face in the crowd. He wanted to leave a mark, an impossible-to-ignore trace. He wanted that, at the end of the path, she would remember him. Not as just another fan.

But as an equal, as an idol who reached the top, who managed to surpass her cleanly on her own turf. He wanted to become that thought that returned to her again and again, even when he was no longer there.

Because if he was going to disappear, as he always should have, at least this time, he would leave something behind.

He picked up the card with a completely renewed determination.

“Alright then, it’s time to change this industry again.”

Chapter Text

Twelve days.
That was what they gave him.
Twelve days from the moment he dialed the number. They told him there would be an initial interview, a routine check-up, and that he should prepare his audition as soon as possible. Filming would begin in less than two weeks. If he wanted to secure his debut, he needed to make a strong impression from the start.
And he knew it.
His body still remembered what it was like to sing without breathing, to smile without meaning it, to keep dancing even when his legs were shaking—but that was in another life. Now he was a stranger. No one knew where he came from. No one expected anything from him, and that was his advantage.

Twelve days later, Jinu arrived before the sun rose, his heart beating slow and heavy, as if every step pulled him farther from himself. The sky was gray, and the cold seeped into his bones, but he ignored it, because it was nothing compared to what he felt inside. He walked through the building’s doors with his head down and his thoughts a mess, trying to convince himself that this was just a formality, just another stage in his plan, just another way to see her without touching her, without staining what was left of her with all that remained of him.

Upon entering, he was surprised to see so many people gathered. Young faces full of nerves and ambition, all talking, laughing, warming up their voices, or practicing choreography. And in the middle of that constant and frantic noise, Jinu stood still, silently observing, because he understood it instantly, those 76 people weren’t teammates or colleagues. They were obstacles. Each and every one of them was the distance between him and Rumi, the pieces he had to surpass to get closer without crawling, to see her without hiding, so that his name would not be a forgotten echo but a presence impossible to ignore.

A staff member entered with a folder under his arm and announced that it was time to begin the roll call. The room filled with movement, quick steps, nervous murmurs. They guided the participants down the hall, and the auditions began.
Jinu would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. After all, this would determine whether he’d see Rumi again—or even live. But the latter mattered far less.

Before he realized it, they called his name.

“Next participant, please come to the stage,” one of the assistants announced.

Jinu stood up, walking forward with forced calm, even though his pulse trembled inside. In front of him, the four judges were already watching: Mewdy, vocal coach; Jeok Taesong, dance trainer; and Youngrin, the show’s MC and one of the most prominent idols of the moment.

“Good morning,” Jinu said, standing with his hands relaxed at his sides. His hair fell slightly over his eyes, but his voice was clear and steady. “I’m Do Jinu. I’ll be in your care today.”

One of the judges tilted their head.

“That’s all you have to say to us?”

Jinu gave a small smile, a mischievous spark in his eyes. He turned to the camera without losing his composure and replied:

“Sorry if I leave this song stuck in your head all day.”

A soft silence fell. Then, the track began to play.

Echo wasn’t an explosive or famous song. It was a deep ballad, a B-side from Huntr/x’s first album, one they almost never performed live. The kind of song that went unnoticed… until someone sang it well.

From the first note, the room shifted.

Jinu’s voice didn’t enter with power, but with vulnerability, a soft tone, almost broken, as if he were walking on glass.

“Even if you don’t hear me, I’ll keep shouting your name
Even if you’re gone, you still live in my flame
I reach for you in the dark, but it’s never the same
The silence grows louder, I whisper in shame”

The lyrics came out with devastating clarity. He wasn’t just singing them… he was living them.
His eyes didn’t move much, didn’t search for anyone. He stared ahead, into the void, as if singing to someone who wasn’t there.

“My voice returns, but it’s not the same
You’re not the one echoing back
If I disappear, leave this echo behind
Even if you never send one back”

The judges stopped taking notes. Even Jeok Taesong, the most rigid of them all, narrowed his eyes, focused.

Jinu didn’t embellish or overact. His voice was technical, yes, well-tuned, trained… but not perfect. There was something broken in it, a tremble that turned melody into confession.

“I scream in silence, I call your name
No one replies, but I love you the same
If I disappear, leave this echo behind
In my echo… there’s still you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed, not for show, but because he needed it.

Then it ended. No vocal tricks, no applause yet. Just a soft close. Silence.

Jinu kept his eyes down for a moment longer, not from insecurity, but because his body needed to return. He had sung with his bones, with memory, with everything that still hurt.
It wasn’t a performance. It was a carefully contained outpouring wrapped in three minutes of melody that he could barely hold without breaking.

When he looked up, he saw their faces.
The judges weren’t speaking yet, but they weren’t moving either.
Youngrin was the first to react. She clapped softly, as if she didn’t want to break the moment.
Mewdy followed, with a barely curved smile, more surprised than satisfied.
Taesong didn’t applaud right away. He simply nodded, as if still digesting what he had just witnessed.

Even the staff, usually distracted with papers, lights, and cameras, had stopped moving. A few watched from the back, arms crossed, lips slightly parted, like they hadn’t expected to feel anything today.

Jinu felt like he could breathe again.

“It wasn’t the song,” Mewdy said at last, her voice calm. “It was you.”

Jinu didn’t respond.

“If this is what you show in your first performance, I want to see how far you go. Participant Do Jinu, rank 1.”

Jinu blinked, disoriented for a second as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Then he nodded, offering a small bow and began to walk.
The other participants watched from the sides, some in silence, others exchanging glances as if trying to make sense of what had just happened.

The path to the chair was short but felt eternal. Each step seemed heavier than the last, like he was dragging centuries behind him.
When he arrived, he stood before seat number one. It was an ordinary chair, just like the others—but it didn’t feel the same.
It was symbolic.
It was visible.
It was a promise of something more.
And Jinu didn’t know if he was ready for that.

He sat down slowly, with a straight back and his hands folded on his knees. He breathed through his nose—slowly, deeply. The room murmured behind him, but his mind was already somewhere else.

This is just the beginning, he thought.
He didn’t feel triumphant. He didn’t feel proud.
He felt exposed, like someone had finally heard him for real.
Like his voice, for the first time in centuries, had reached somewhere that wasn’t the void.

And as he settled into seat number one, he wasn’t thinking about the competition, or the other trainees, or even the judges.
He was only thinking about her.

Rumi.

He wondered if maybe, just maybe, she had seen him.

Meanwhile, life kept moving forward, and other trainees stepped up to take their place.
Jinu ignored most of them. They weren’t competition to him.
That is, until he heard a familiar voice.

“Hello! We’re Abby and Ming Sarang from ReVerse Entertainment. It’s a pleasure to be here with you all.”

There they were.
Abby and Romance.
Well… Sarang, now.

Jinu blinked, frozen in place, he hadn’t expected it.
He shouldn’t have expected it, when the homoon was sealed, when the demons were locked away and the Saja Boys disbanded, he thought that was the end. That their story had ended there.

But no.
There they were.
In flesh, bone, and professional makeup.

“What the hell…?” he muttered, barely audible.

For a moment, he felt the weight on his chest lighten.
If they were here, maybe everything would be easier.
Maybe this new beginning didn’t have to hurt so much.

And then… they sang.
And it was a disaster.

Their voices were off, the choreography wasn’t synchronized, and although their smiles shined, the energy just wasn’t there.
It was like watching a blurry copy of a cherished memory.
One that hurt because it had once been brilliant, and now only sparkled on the surface.

Their performance wasn’t terrible
They were simply a shadow of what they once were.
But Jinu had been through this before.
He was the one who trained, from scratch, the first demons who didn’t hate the idea of becoming a boyband.
He could do it again.
This time with their human versions.
After all, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.
Their dynamic worked. Their chemistry was real.
And in another life, they had already gained millions of fans.

“Something good happening to me in this life… thank you, God,” he murmured, glancing up as if waiting for a divine reply, which, of course, didn’t come.

“Participant Abby, rank 40; Participant Sarang, rank 36.”

Well, that was worse than expected.
Much worse.
And Jinu knew it.
He had a lot of work ahead if he wanted to debut again with the Saja Boys.
Because these two were far from what they used to be.

And that wasn’t even considering the fact that he didn’t know how Mystery look like or whether Baby would even be in the program.

Because Baby had always been the most resistant.
The one who hated being part of the group the most.
The one who only agreed to it because he was bored of the demon world.

“Aaaah, dear God, is this a second chance or a cruel joke?” he muttered to himself, crossing his arms with a grin he couldn’t hide. “They’re handing me these two on a silver platter again, like fate saying, ‘Go on, train your demons again.’” He shook his head, amused. “This is going to be a mess… but at least it’ll be my mess.”

As soon as he finished speaking, a new group of trainees was called to the stage.

“This is heaven,” he whispered. “I’m in heaven and God is trolling me in high definition.”

And for the first time in days, he allowed himself a genuine smile.

Five people, all of them looking like they knew what they were doing, at least on the surface.
Good stage presence, decent coordination, no one was horribly off-key, in fact, some movements were even sharper than the previous group’s.

But Jinu didn’t pay much attention to the dancing.
Because among them, in the back row, looking uncomfortable, slightly crooked in the lineup and not really facing the audience… was him.

Baby.
Now called Kim Baeho.

The person who named them in this timeline clearly had no imagination, Jinu thought with a dramatic sigh as he watched his former teammate dance on stage with an expression like, “Please don’t notice me.” Which was hard, considering it was literally Baby, even if he now wore normal clothes and had no horns.

Jinu felt a jolt in his chest. His laugh froze mid-breath.
He didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or run on stage and hug him while yelling, “You too, my child?!”

“No way…” he murmured, a mix of shock and emotion in his voice. “Baby! But with normal hair… and without homicidal tendencies. Who are you, and what did you do with last time’s demon?”

He observed him carefully. Unlike the rest of his group, who moved with a certain ease, Baeho looked tense, slightly off.
Not because he couldn’t dance, but because he just… wasn’t comfortable.

And then Jinu understood.

Baeho didn’t rap.
He only sang.
And singing… was never his thing.

“Participant Kim Baeho; rank 27”

Jinu pressed his lips together to hold back a laugh and ended up biting his fist.

“What an irony…” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “In the last life, he nearly burned down the Gwi-Ma palace just to avoid singing, and now they’ve got him doing only that. The karmic justice in this universe is beautiful.”

Now, with Abby, Sarang, and Baeho all in the same program…
The pieces had started to move on their own.

And if that wasn’t a sign Jinu didn’t know what was.

“Okay…” he said to himself, rolling his shoulders like someone preparing for battle. “Let’s see if I still know how to build an infernal boyband.”

And with that, he settled into his seat, back straight, eyes gleaming, and a smile that very clearly said:
No one’s going to see this coming.

Chapter Text

Finally, it was over.
Ten hours locked in that room, swallowing other people’s performances, lukewarm applause, awkward silences, and more nerves than any human should endure.
Jinu stretched for the first time in hours, bones cracking audibly. Was this how normal humans felt after a workday? If so, he finally understood why everyone hated Mondays.

A staff member came in and explained what they were all waiting for: the transfers to the dorms.
The transportation was divided by rank.
The dorms were ten minutes from the set, but after the first season’s success, TNET had built a whole dorm complex up a mountain behind the studio.

But of course, walking wasn’t enough, not for television. They needed drama, narrative, emotional weight.
Top 10? A limousine.
Ranks 11 to 50? A fancy bus with tinted windows.
Ranks 51 to 77? You’re walking, sweetheart.

Jinu barely reacted. Of course he was in the first group. Not out of arrogance (well, a little), but because after what everyone else had done… there was no mystery. No one managed to push him from first place.
He walked out calmly, though a bit uncomfortable at the stares.
Many watched him. Some with envy, others with respect, and others with that weird gleam, the one you’re never sure is admiration or “I hope you trip down the stairs.”

Turns out four of the five former Saja Boys were in this very program.
To be honest, he still didn’t fully understand how the show worked. He’d been too buried in his own misery to actually read the rules in recent days, but seeing the guys had lifted his mood a bit, not that he’d admit it.
He was pretty sure Mystery was also here. The real issue? He never actually saw his face.
Never bothered to change his hairstyle either. He looked fine even with all that hair covering him.

He climbed into the limousine without much thought, knowing he was being filmed, knowing every movement could be edited into dramatic slow-motion or slapped with goofy sound effects.
If he wanted to win this show, if he truly wanted to win over the audience, the fans, be bigger than Rumi, brighter, more unforgettable, he needed to build a character on camera.
One that wasn’t a lie, but sharper.
The story that would be broadcast didn’t depend on him, but on the editing team. Still, he had some control. He had to think carefully about how he wanted to be seen.

Cold and lethal.
Sweet but determined.
A loner, talented, the kind of idol who doesn’t need friends, but wins them anyway.

Hmm. Decisions. That was a problem for Future Jinu.
He smiled while lowering the limousine window.
The breeze messed up his hair, and for a second, he felt… okay. Not happy, not hopeful, just less tired. Which was already a lot.
Cameras swarmed around, and Jinu knew exactly how the shot would look: handsome guy, mysterious, first place, absent gaze, soft smile. Perfect for slow-mo editing with emotional music.

“Please use a flattering filter,” he murmured into the air, not looking at anyone. “Let’s not show I haven’t slept in two days.” The trainee on the other side of the limo gave him a puzzled look. Jinu met it with total ease and an expression that screamed: yeah, I said it out loud, so what?
He knew he was playing a role, but it wasn’t completely fake.
He was going to win.
Not by luck, not by the system, not even by sheer talent (though he had plenty of that).
He would win because he knew how to.
And because, deep down, if he debuted… maybe she’d see him.
Rumi.
Just thinking her name tightened something in his chest, but it didn’t hurt as much as before.
There was a clear goal, a path. And for now… that was enough.

The limousine rolled forward.
And Jinu, elbows resting on the window, heart a little lighter, let himself drift.

The limousine stopped in front of a wide entrance, golden letters on tempered glass reading IDOL INCORPORATED - TRAINEE RESIDENCE.
Too much luxury for a building where they’d basically be living under surveillance 24/7, but well, TV needed sets.

Jinu stepped out first, stretching like he’d just left a spa and not spent ten hours locked in a windowless room.
Immediately, he felt the eyes. Not just the cameras, but other contestants too.

Among all those gazes, one held a little longer than it should have.

“Hey,” said a voice to his left. “You’re number one, right?”

Jinu turned his head. A tall guy, slim but with presence, looked at him with a lopsided grin and crossed arms. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and his energy was… annoying, calm on the surface, but soaked in that fake confidence only people who think they’ve won something they don’t understand yet carry.

“And you’re number two,” Jinu replied, not stopping. “How does it feel?”

“Coming second?”

“No. Being so close to first place and still missing it.” The guy laughed, not offended, but like he actually liked the answer.

“My name’s Yu Haon,” he finally said, offering his hand. “I’m from FCG Entertainment.”

Jinu shook his hand really stopping, just turned slightly while walking toward the building.this guy seemed awfully familiar.

“Jinu,” he replied simply. “Independent.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Min Haon, walking alongside him. “Didn’t look like you needed it.”

Jinu raised an eyebrow, somewhere between amused and resigned.
Right, he remembered him now. One of the guys who’d performed with Baeho (aka Baby) he was the rapper in the group. Decent. Good enough to rank second, but nowhere near Baeho’s level.
And that was after Jinu had only trained him for two weeks before dropping Soda Pop.

He understood his type. Too much charisma for his own good.
Too focused on himself to notice Baeho shone brighter, or maybe he did notice, and that’s why he dimmed him.

“You flirting with me, or is that your way of declaring war?”

“Which would you prefer?” Haon shot back, still smiling.

Jinu let out a short laugh, not because he liked him, but because he’d dealt with guys like this before, competent. Confident. Overbearing.
The kind of energy that filled the room but never really warmed it.

He was going to be a problem.
Not a big one. Just… annoying.
But nothing Jinu couldn’t handle.

He brushed past him, almost bumping shoulders, and walked into the dorms.

The dorm was bigger than expected. Bunk beds lined up neatly, half-unpacked suitcases on the floor, and discreet cameras installed in every corner.
A sign by the door read Room 1 – Rank 1 to 10. Not a bad location. Big window, decent ventilation, and, unfortunately, Haon, who had already jumped onto the first bed he saw like he owned the place.

“I’m taking the top bunk,” Jinu announced before Haon could argue, tossing his jacket onto the upper bed, not even fifteen minutes passed before they were called through the speakers.

“Participants, please head to the main training room for your skill evaluation. Wear the uniform found on your beds.”

Jinu found his: black sweatpants, a white t-shirt with the show’s logo and his name printed on the back, plus a surprisingly cute blue hoodie with the same logo. He put it on without much complaint. At least it was comfortable.

The hallway leading to the training room buzzed with whispers, floating cameras drifting from group to group, and trainees murmuring names they recognized.
Some looked at Jinu like he was already a celebrity. Others like they were waiting for him to trip.

The training room was huge, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a stage at the back.
The two vocal and dance mentors were already there, looking spotless as if they hadn’t spent hours filming.

“We’ll be dividing participants into classes based on your current performance,” one of them explained clearly. “There will be four levels: Gold, Silver, Bronze, and… Empty.”

An awkward silence followed.

“Yes, ‘Empty.’ The group that needs… considerable help. Vocal and dance will be evaluated separately. You can be Bronze in vocals and Silver in dance, for example. You’ll be called based on your ranking.”

Jinu didn’t know what to expect. He was ranked number one here.
He’d spent four hundred years surviving off only his voice and dance moves to distract himself from Gwi-Ma voice
He had debuted already.
He had actually fought with a group that LITERALLY HAS MAGIC VOCAL CORD THAT SAVE THE WORD.

And yet.
He had
Only
One gold sticker.

Vocals: gold.
Dance: silver.

Silver? Excuse me?

Turns out performing a slow, emotional ballad while mentally wrecked might not have been the best move.
Not like dancing was his strong suit or anything.
Still… he was supposed to be number one, right? Why did he have a silver sticker? Why?

He immediately turned to find Haon.
Oh, thank God. He had a silver one too.

Jinu exhaled with more relief than he cared to admit.

Being worse than Haon would’ve been… traumatic.
Literally. He wasn’t emotionally stable enough for that.

Although, well, some people were doing worse.
After a long while (seventy-seven people was no joke) everyone finally had their stickers, some, with poorly hidden shame, walked to the Empty group.

One person in particular caught Jinu’s attention.
He was too pretty. Too perfect.
His face was made to be an idol.

Jinu must’ve had a huge dumb look on his face because Haon spoke without even looking at him.

“That’s Park Minwoo,” he commented, arms crossed. “Used to be a child actor, but he quit in middle school. Not sure what he’s doing here.”

“When did I ask that?” Jinu replied, slightly flustered, this ‘Minwoo’ looked… familiar. Or maybe Jinu’s brain was just melting at this point.

“They’re starting training now,” said Mewdy, the vocal coach.

“It’s something called customized movement class!” Youngrin, the program’s MC, announced with way too much energy to be real. “Scores and classes were decided by all the judges, including me, based on your preliminary evaluations!”

“There are high, mid, and low groups within each rank,” added Taesong, the dance coach. “Each group and level is designed to gradually push your skills. Also, you can change classes at any time depending on your effort and performance.”

For example, if you’re in Intermediate Silver but improve and get a high score in the next test, you can move to Advanced Silver.
Of course, that also means if you do poorly, your class will drop.

Suddenly, the studio lights went out.

A giant screen descended from the ceiling like they were about to show stock market numbers instead of music.
The stage transformed without warning, and a song far too cheerful for the atmosphere began blasting from the speakers.

Jinu frowned.
“What is happening?”

No one answered.

Youngrin appeared in the center of some presentation he hadn’t even noticed had started, surrounded by rotating lights and artificial smoke.
Her voice, amplified and sparkling, had that tone that gave people toothaches.

“Time to reveal the official song of Relisted! Idol Incorporated!”

A digital animation took over the whole screen.
Colorful visuals, empty slogans like “Invest in the future of K-pop,” “Your investment, your idol,” “Will you bet on the next star?” flashed by, while stock photo models smiled too wide next to growth charts and dancing silhouettes.

“What kind of…?” Jinu muttered, confused.
He’d been in shows before, even in a group of literal soul-devouring demons, but this… this felt like a trailer for a trainee NFT marketplace.

And then it got worse.
The song started.

“Level Up”, the title flashed in massive letters.
The beat was energetic, some EDM track recycled from a 2013 mobile game.
The lyrics didn’t help:

“Climbing the charts, I’m not looking down
Buy my dream, let’s go to town
Vote for me, I’ll never fall
I’m your number one investment call!”

Jinu blinked.

“Buy my dream?”
“Investment call?”

He looked at the others, hoping someone else looked as horrified as he did.
No one did. Some even smiled like they totally got it.

“Did I miss a meeting?” he whispered, the song continued, the rap part was even worse:

“Riding trends, going crypto
Fanbase stacked like portfolio”

Jinu covered his face.

When it ended, Youngrin clapped like they’d just witnessed the birth of pop’s new golden era.

“Did you like it?” she yelled.

No one answered.

“Perfect! You’ll have 10 days to learn the choreography and the lines for a second evaluation, and in two weeks we’ll film the performance video, which will be used for the official trailer and the first episode!”

“Sure,” Jinu muttered, still processing the lyrics. “Because nothing says idol like sounding like a fintech commercial.” next to him, Haon let out a small, incredulous laugh.

“That’s how Idol Reincorporated seasons always are. This one’s going to be even worse, probably to make up for the disaster last time.”

Wow… Jinu really had no idea what was going on. He should’ve read the contract. Or at least googled the show beforehand.

Before he could ask what Haon meant, the choreography video started playing. It was fast, ridiculously fast. Full of forced smiles and over-the-top youthful energy, clearly engineered to imprint itself in the viewers’ brains like an annoying notification you can’t swipe away.

He turned to make a snide comment, but his gaze stopped mid-turn. A few meters away, Minwoo was staring at the screen where the choreography looped silently. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just watched.

And suddenly, a strange feeling ran through Jinu.

He looked too familiar. Not his face, he’d remember a face like that. But the way he moved his hands when nervous, the tension in his shoulders… it all felt too familiar.

“I know him,” Jinu thought, frowning. “I have to remember, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

A second later, he shook his head.

“Nope. Don’t know him at all.”

And with that, he decided it could wait. There were more urgent things to worry about. Like why the hell that song mentioned “personal brand growth potential” in the pre-chorus.

Chapter Text

Jinu woke up under the crushing weight of three truths:
1. He was in an idol survival show.
2. There were cameras recording him from angles no human had ever consented to.
3. Min Haon was still breathing in the same room as him.

All that before he even fully opened his eyes.

He blinked several times, trying to remember in what universe he had signed that contract. He had no idea. But he did know his neck was stiff, his eyes puffy, and his energy level just barely enough to remain upright.

The room was spacious and well-lit, with neatly aligned bunk beds and a camera in the corner that had probably captured his corpse-face all night long. Someone in production was going to edit that with either melancholic piano or clown music.

“Morning, starshine,” Haon called from the other side, adjusting his hoodie in front of the mirror. “Did you sleep as badly as you look, or worse?”

“I’m deciding whether to answer you or bite an electrical cable,” Jinu muttered, crawling out of bed at the emotional speed of a depressed tortoise.

It wasn’t a real threat. He was too tired to electrocute himself with any flair.

He got dressed in silence, slipping into the program uniform that would soon become an extension of his identity: black pants, white t-shirt, blue hoodie. As he combed his hair with his fingers, he could hear Haon still talking to the air, probably thinking his voice was charismatic enough to justify its own existence. It wasn’t.

When Jinu left the room, he didn’t look back. Not out of pride. Just for the sake of his mental health.

Somehow, he managed to find the cafeteria without getting lost. It was fairly crowded. He lined up for breakfast and noticed that Abby and Sarang were standing in front of him, completely immersed in conversation. He wanted to say hi. He wanted to help them improve so they could debut together as the Saja Boys.

He just didn’t expect talking to human versions of his old group would make him this nervous.

Gathering his courage, he spoke up.

“Hi! Lovely morning, right? I mean, not lovely like ‘wow, sunshine and birds,’ because we’re locked in a building with no windows and… people smell kind of weird here. But you know… metaphorically lovely. Not that I believe in metaphorical mornings. Or maybe I do. Depends on the day. Anyway… good morning!”

That was… awkward.

Abby and Sarang were both trying to process, first, how he’d said all that without stuttering, and second, why exactly he was talking to them.

Abby blinked a couple of times.

“Was that… a greeting or an existential poem?” he asked, tilting his head in genuine confusion.

Sarang squinted at him, evaluating.

“Dramatic. Unexpected. A little chaotic… promising,” he declared, like he was judging an audition. “Are you number one?”

Jinu opened his mouth and then closed it.

“Uh, yeah. But I’m not as weird as that just sounded. I mean, I am. But not always. Just forget it.”

“No, no, it was fun,” Abby said, nodding very seriously. “Though I’m still not sure if you’re happy to see us or just half-asleep.”

“Why not both?” Jinu replied, shrugging slightly. His voice came out a bit strained, like someone trying to sound casual and ending up more nervous instead.

Sarang smiled.

“I like you. You’ve got that vibe like… ‘I’ve been through a lot but still have glitter in my soul.’”

Jinu blinked.

“Thanks, I guess.” No one said anything for a second.

“Want pancakes?” Abby asked, like it was the logical next step in the conversation.

Jinu nodded. Not for the pancakes, but for his mental peace.

And so, they stayed in line.

Eating breakfast with Abby and Sarang hadn’t been part of Jinu’s plan. Then again, he didn’t have a plan—yet. But still, he appreciated it. They were… tolerable. Even fun. Not that different from their demon versions, he thought with a hint of melancholy.

Turns out they were both 19 and from the same company, ReVerse Entertainment. Abby was from California, had been living in Seoul for three years, and spoke like the world was always about to become a punchline—or collapse entirely. Sarang, on the other hand, seemed to live in a romantic K-drama only he could see.

Jinu wasn’t sure if they were adorable or potentially dangerous, but he felt surprisingly at ease around them.

When they finished eating, they waved goodbye with casual gestures and went off to their respective classes. Jinu had barely managed to stand up when Haon popped up beside him, summoned by his diminishing sense of inner peace.

“You really need a media etiquette course,” Haon said without greeting, wearing the same permanent look of annoyance on his face. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Jinu stared at him without blinking.

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“You can’t just go around hanging out with anyone. Do you not know how survival shows work?”

He didn’t. He had never bothered to look it up.

“Please, enlighten me” he muttered dryly.

“You have to protect your image,” Haon went on, like Jinu had begged him for a masterclass. “If you’re seen with the weak ones, you’ll get grouped with them. Then, when the group fails, and they will, you’ll be blamed. People feel sorry for underdogs. Guess who they’ll blame for not saving them?”

Jinu stared. Haon had that infuriating ‘I’m doing you a huge favor by explaining the obvious’ look in his eyes, and Jinu wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh in his face or hit him with a tray.

“Thanks for your wisdom, ‘Sensei’. I’ll make sure to only interact with idols certified by the National Association of Appropriate Talent.”

“Don’t get sarcastic. I’m serious,” Haon snapped. “Thank God they don’t film here. But if I see you with them again…”

Jinu raised an eyebrow.

“What are you gonna do? Tell me more things I don’t care about?” Haon scoffed and walked off. Jinu stayed there for a moment, staring at the exact spot where the other boy had vanished from sight.

He headed to vocal class, stewing in his thoughts. Who did Haon think he was, talking about his boys like that? Once he trained them and they were fully in sync, they were going to wipe that smug look off his face. One humiliating performance at a time.

The class was exactly what Jinu expected: seven people, a room with too much echo, and an electric keyboard slightly out of tune. They started with awkward introductions, which wasn’t a disaster, but definitely wasn’t fun either. Jinu couldn’t tell if the others were giving him weird looks because they hated him or because he was projecting too hard. Either way, both were valid options.

The class lasted an hour and a half, and all they did was sing “Level Up” over and over. To his surprise, he was starting to like the song. It had that annoying charm, catchy nonsense that got stuck in your head like a persistent app notification you couldn’t turn off. It had a vibe.
When he left class, the last thing he wanted was to run into Haon again. He wasn’t ready after their lovely chat that morning, so he turned on his heel to avoid him.

He didn’t expect, however, to run straight into Baeho, who was walking out of his own class at that very moment.

They nearly collided.

“Ah, sorry!” Jinu stepped back quickly, hands raised. “Didn’t see you there… uh… hi.”

Baeho looked at him. One eyebrow lifted. Then his gaze slowly drifted down from Jinu’s head to his feet, as if inspecting damaged goods.

He didn’t respond. Just adjusted the headphones hanging around his neck and stepped aside.

Jinu scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortable.

“I’m Jinu, in case you didn’t know. Well, of course you do. Because… you know. Number one and all that.” He laughed nervously. “Not that I go around saying that all the time, just… anyway… hi again.”

Baeho stared at him for another second.

“I’m not interested in greetings. Or in you.”

And with that, he walked away.

Jinu blinked.

“…Well, that was direct.”

It didn’t hurt. Not really. Just a little. Like an emotional kick from someone wearing soft sneakers.

“He’s probably a Haon fan,” he muttered to himself, as if that explained everything, then continued in the opposite direction, hoping the universe would finally cut him a break.

It didn’t.

Because as soon as he turned the corner, he ran into Minwoo. Not literally, but emotionally, it was worse. Destiny clearly had a sick sense of humor.

Minwoo was in a practice room, singing alone, unaware that he had an audience. His voice was soft and fragile—too honest to be faked—and Jinu couldn’t understand how someone like that had been completely ignored by the judges.

He stood in the hallway pretending to just… exist there. Not eavesdropping. Because he wasn’t nosy. Nope. Not at all. It was just… Minwoo sang so well. That kind of honest vulnerability that couldn’t be faked. And Jinu didn’t get it, why someone like him didn’t even have a bronze sticker. Not a single one.

“Sometimes I wish I could see other people’s status windows,” he whispered, mostly to fill the silence.

And then, it appeared.

A floating screen materialized right in front of him, bright and detailed, with Minwoo’s name at the top and his full profile displayed, like someone had summoned it with a cheat code.

Jinu stumbled back with a sound no human should ever make. It wasn’t a scream. It was… a vocal manifestation of a cosmic event. That’s all.

“Don’t scream,” he told himself, adjusting the collar of his hoodie like cameras were on him. “It was contemporary sound art under pressure.”

A startled Minwoo poked his head out of the practice room, only to find Jinu on the floor looking like a ghost had just whispered tax advice in his ear.

“Are you… okay?” he asked cautiously, like talking to a stray animal on the verge of a breakdown.

He didn’t sound alarmed, just… silently concerned, the way you are when you find someone talking to themselves on the floor.

“Yes, totally. Definitely. Just… checking something,” Jinu said, way too fast to be believable. He tried to get up with some dignity, tripped over his own foot, and fell again as if gravity had personally beef with him.

He got up in silence, visibly embarrassed, and brushed off invisible dust like it would erase what just happened. Then he gave a formal bow like that would fix everything.

And no, obviously he didn’t fast-walk out of there without looking back. That would’ve been ridiculous.

After catching his breath and recovering a tiny piece of his dignity, Jinu noticed the window was still there. Floating innocently, like nothing had happened. Like it hadn’t just scared him into the floor like a low-budget horror movie.

He frowned and leaned in.

“…What even is this?” he muttered, squinting. Not because of bad eyesight, but because his brain still wasn’t convinced this was real.

[STATUS WINDOW ]
Name: Park Minwoo
STATS:
Vocal: A- → B- (S)
Dance: C+ → D+ (A)
Visual: A+ → B+ (Ex)
Talent: B- → C- (B+)
STIGMA:
Low self-esteem
User doesn’t believe they are good enough. All stats reduced by 3.]

He stared at it. Transparent. Floating. Rectangular. Like a PowerPoint that had gained sentience.

Inside: letters. So many. Too many.

And numbers.

And arrows.

And letters again.

And what looked like a smiley face trapped between parentheses.

Jinu squinted harder.

“What am I even looking at?” His eyes darted from line to line. Was this algebra? A therapy report disguised as a stat sheet?

Why were there letters inside parentheses?

He looked lower.

Stigma: Low self-esteem.
Effect: User doesn’t believe they are good enough. Stats reduced by 3.

Jinu tilted his head.

“Ahh… so that’s why the arrows.” It started to make more sense now.

He read “low self-esteem.” Then looked at the stats. Then back to “low self-esteem.”

And in a whisper, half scandalized, he muttered:

“…With that face?” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. “You have low self-esteem with that face?!”

He turned slightly to glance at Minwoo, who was still inside the room, adjusting his headphones. Looking like he hadn’t just shattered aesthetic logic.

Jinu stared at him like a disappointed mom.

“With that jawline? Those tragic high school K-drama eyes? That skin that looks like it’s sponsored by natural lighting?” He crossed his arms, still glaring at the screen with a mix of judgment and awe. “I don’t know if this is self-sabotage or clinical-level facial dysmorphia. Either way, it’s offensive to the rest of us.”

He sighed. And then, like the universe wanted to add some poetic drama, something in that voice hit him.

Not literally. Emotionally.

That voice.

That way of ending notes.

That way of not claiming space, even when it clearly belonged to him.

Jinu narrowed his eyes.

“…I know that voice.”

A second passed. Then another.

And then a bitter laugh escaped, soft and tired.

“Of course Mystery’s the prettiest in the group. Obviously.” He ran a hand over his face, exasperated. “The one who always kept his face hidden turns out to be the prettiest. Ironic.”

The screen disappeared. Just like that. As if it had been waiting for its dramatic exit cue. Jinu stood there for a second longer, staring into the void.

Then, finally, he returned to his room.

Jinu collapsed onto his bed like the weight of the recent discovery had buckled his knees, thank God the room was empty, if anyone saw him now with this “I just unlocked the secrets of the universe and have to do something about it” face, they’d probably mock him. Fair enough.

He pulled a notebook from his bag. The same one he thought he’d use to write lyrics or vent his emotions.
Now it would be his strategy notebook. His domination log. His rescue manual for pulling his boys out of chaos.

On the first page, he scribbled in large, uneven letters:

“Saja Plan (tentative)”

Underneath, he added:

Objective: Make them debut. ALL of them.

1. Improve their stats.

Now that he could see their status windows, the work would be easier.
In theory.
The hard part was how.
He couldn’t exactly go, “Hey, your self-esteem is so low it’s tanking your score—wanna talk about it?”
Well… he could.
But he absolutely shouldn’t.

2. Earn their trust.

He wrote that in all caps and underlined it twice. Then looked up at the ceiling.

“Because nothing says trust like delivering an awkward metaphorical morning monologue or falling twice in thirty seconds,” he muttered.

He had no idea how to actually execute the plan.

3. Baeho.

Jinu stared at the page for a while. He didn’t write anything at first.

Then slowly:

Complicated.

Baeho seemed to hate him.

Not in a dramatic or passive-aggressive way, it was more like silent disdain paired with “Don’t come near me unless you want to be ignored into oblivion.”

Jinu sighed.
Talking to him directly might backfire.
Maybe… Haon?
They were from the same company, right?
They showed up together.
He didn’t love the idea, but if he could get even a shred of context…

“Ugh,” he scribbled next to Haon’s name.

And then:

4. Minwoo.

He circled it with a small, neat loop.
And left it at that.

Not right now.

Just thinking about Minwoo gave him a physical sense of discomfort.
He was not emotionally available for that right now.
Not tomorrow.
Maybe never.
Or at least not until he could look him in the eyes without reliving the sonic trauma of his “performance art under pressure.”

He dropped his head onto the notebook as if that could mute his shame from the universe.

He had a plan.
Sort of.
Maybe.

But it was better than nothing.

And that was a start.

Chapter Text

Jinu chewed on autopilot, his eyes fixed on the other side of the cafeteria.

Sarang was speaking with his hands. Abby watched him like every gesture was a cosmic revelation. Together, they looked like the leads of their own spin-off: a poorly produced romantic comedy, but one with heart.

“…and that’s why you can’t trust the rankings. It’s pure manipulation,” said Haon next to him, waving his fork like he was giving a TED Talk on K-pop conspiracies.

Jinu wasn’t listening. Or rather, his brain had activated that survival mode where all annoying background noise is filtered out as ambient decor. He only picked up words like “marketing,” “strategy,” and “useless,” thrown around with the same care one might toss a toaster into a pool.

He kept watching Sarang and Abby.

Another bite. And another.

“If they stand up, I’ll go after them,” he thought. “Today’s the day. The plan. The reconstruction. The emotional comeback.”

“Are you even listening to me?” asked Haon.

Jinu nodded without taking his eyes off the scene, perfectly trained to fake attention while building silent domination strategies.

He decided to check their status windows first. He just needed confirmation of what he already suspected: they weren’t that bad.

As if summoned by his thoughts, two floating windows appeared before him with a faint blue glow.

He didn’t scream this time. Just flinched slightly, like someone finding a pigeon inside the supermarket.

[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Ming Sarang
STATS
Vocal: B+ → B-
Dance: B → C
Visual: A → B+
Talent: B → C+
STIGMA: Delusional Protagonism
The user believes he’s living in a romantic k-drama where everything revolves around him. Stats -2 during teamwork.

Jinu pursed his lips as he read, like someone trying to solve an emotional equation without a calculator.

“…that explains a lot.”

Visual A. Valid. Sarang had that “I get sponsored without trying” face.
Vocal B+. Talent B. All reasonable. All recoverable. All… tanking thanks to the stigma.

And there was the real problem: during teamwork. Exactly where they’d be needed most.

Abby’s window wasn’t any better.

[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Abby
STATS
Vocal: A
Dance: C
Visual: B+
Talent: B+

Jinu blinked.

Abby had an A in vocal? Yes. B+ visual? Puppy charisma. Dance C? Confirmed at breakfast. B+ in Talent? Interesting. And yet…

“He’s in 40th place?” he muttered. Those were more than decent stats. Even if he wasn’t a stage genius, anyone with that voice should be at least twenty spots higher.

He looked at Abby again. So focused on Sarang’s words, he didn’t even notice the lonely pancake in front of him. He laughed sincerely, like nothing worried him. And that, Jinu thought, was precisely the problem.

Both windows flickered and disappeared at the same time.

Jinu took it as a threat.

When he snapped back to reality, Abby and Sarang were gone. Only a glass and an abandoned pancake remained.

“First day as a mentor and I already lost my students.” He rolled his eyes. But then, he noticed someone else.

Baeho. Sitting alone. Eating with the expression of someone who would genuinely prefer a medically induced coma.

Jinu slid behind the only fake plant in the cafeteria and activated the system with a discreet gesture.

[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Kim Baeho
STATS
Vocal: C+
Dance: A-
Visual: B+
Talent: A
…

Jinu blinked again.

Vocal C+. Fine, he’s a rapper. A- in dance. Logical. Visual A. Confirmed. Talent A. No complaints.

“And he’s in 27th place?”

He looked again. Baeho chewed as if each grain of rice was telling him a tragic story. He didn’t look like someone with elite stats. He looked like a civilian.

“It doesn’t make sense. Either the system’s broken… or this kid’s self-sabotaging at an Olympic level.”

Jinu returned to his seat, frowning.

Haon looked at him like he had just returned from another plane of existence.

“What was that? Took a tour of the buffet?” Jinu ignored him. He had more urgent things to process.

Four boys. Four possibilities. Four walking disasters.

Abby had a voice. Sarang had charisma. Minwoo was a project. And Baeho… Baeho had finalist stats and the aura of a potted plant.

“Who do I start with?” he thought, crossing his arms.

Haon eventually left after being ignored for the thousandth time. Jinu remained at the table, body slouched like the chair back was optional and his soul was leaking out through his eyes. Baeho’s window had already vanished, but the confusion lingered.

“Twenty-seventh place…” he murmured, dragging his fork across the empty plate like it was a Ouija board.

“H-Hi… Jinu?” The voice startled him. He looked up. There, with a tense expression and clenched hands like he had just exited an interrogation, stood Minwoo.

God. Is that you?

“Hey…” Jinu replied, with a neutral smile that hopefully didn’t say, “I’m remembering that I faceplanted in front of you two hours ago.”

“I just… wanted to say sorry. For earlier. If I made you uncomfortable or… if it was weird. I didn’t mean to.”

Jinu blinked. The apology caught him off guard. He was the one who tripped. Why was this tiny being apologizing?

“Don’t worry. That was entirely my fault.” Minwoo nodded, but didn’t move. He stayed standing there like he was waiting for something else. Like he was stuck in an emotional line of code and didn’t know whether to run or reboot.

Jinu tilted his head slightly.

“Wanna sit?”

“Can I?”

“At this point I already fell in front of you, Minwoo. Not much dignity left to lose.”

Minwoo let out the tiniest laugh, like he was scared it might echo and betray him. Then he sat down carefully, like the seat was borrowed and his presence came with a timer.

Jinu didn’t look at him directly. He toyed with the remaining grains of rice on his plate, nudging them around like puzzle pieces that didn’t belong anywhere.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said suddenly. “The fall. It was a hundred percent self-inflicted. Or cosmically orchestrated. But definitely not your fault.”

“I still wanted to say it,” Minwoo replied, eyes dropping again. “It happens a lot. I say things and then they come out weirder than I meant.”

“Welcome to the club,” Jinu said with a tired smile. “I’m the honorary president. Also the treasurer. And the guy who cleans up after the meetings.”

Minwoo looked up, visibly more at ease.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It was the kind of silence you could fold and put in your pocket for later.

Jinu watched him for a moment, calibrating something invisible. And thought… maybe starting with him wasn’t such a bad idea.

After lunch, they each went to their assigned classes. Jinu to the Silver group, Minwoo to the Void—where instructors spoke slower and repeated steps with infinite patience.

Before parting, Jinu turned toward him, still holding his empty tray.

“Wanna practice later?”

Minwoo nodded, small and unsure, like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“Yes… yes, I’d love to.”

Jinu smiled faintly, then walked off without another word.
The plan was still in motion.

Dance class was… intense.

The instructor didn’t yell, but he had that energy. The kind that said, “I’ve trained idols with fevers and fractured ribs. I will not hesitate to make you repeat a choreography for two hours if your ankle so much as twitches.”

Jinu didn’t complain. In fact, he was the best in his group, even with sweat dripping down his face and his thighs screaming for mercy. His body remembered how to move, even if his soul wanted to file a lawsuit.

As soon as they were dismissed for break, he yanked off his soaked shirt in one swift motion, wiped his neck with a towel, and practically sprinted out of the studio—ignoring the free water bottles and curious glances from classmates.

Please let Minwoo not have chickened out, he thought, jogging through the hallway.

And then, just as he turned the corner on the second floor, he saw him.

Minwoo. Standing by the vending machines, with the same oversized backpack and perpetually confused expression. Jinu stopped dead in his tracks. Took a deep breath. And smiled.

They practiced for the rest of the day, and when Jinu finally returned to his room, he let himself fall backwards onto the bed as if the mattress were an emotional safety net.

His feet ached. His back ached. And a part of his soul he didn’t know could get sore was also aching.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around him… until his stomach let out a truly ominous growl that reminded him he’d only had half a banana between rehearsals.

“Perfect,” he mumbled, unmoving.

He thought of Minwoo. Of how his eyes lit up every time he got a step right. Of how he thanked every correction with a tiny bow, like Jinu was teaching him magic.

He wasn’t the easiest trainee. But he had something. And for now, that was enough.

Jinu opened his eyes, exhaled, and rolled onto his side.

“It’ll be him. For now, just Minwoo,” he whispered, as if making a promise or placing a bet with the universe. “My routine is simple: train, don’t think about anything else, and let the universe do its thing.”

He pulled the blanket over his head.

And, for the first time in days, fell asleep almost instantly.

Ten days later, it was time for the evaluation.

Jinu would lie if he said he wasn’t nervous. They’d been woken up at five in the morning, and now everyone stood around, waiting to be called for their personal ranking assessment. This test wasn’t just about current ability—it was about potential: growth margin, pressure tolerance, and possible star power. Based on those factors, trainees would be divided into four tiers: Bronze, Silver, Gold, and Platinum. The last one was practically a divine prophecy—“You’ll debut. Eventually.”

Jinu had no doubt. He was destined for Platinum. Not out of arrogance—just facts.

Luckily, the evaluation was supposed to be private. Minwoo wasn’t ready for a full stage yet. Not now.

“Hmm, don’t you think the ceiling looks… suspiciously high?” Haon said beside him, speaking for the first time since they entered the studio.

Jinu looked up. He had a point. They were surrounded by four walls that didn’t even come close to reaching the ceiling. Like someone had started building a set and given up halfway through.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Jinu muttered.

“Alright, everyone,” said a voice from the speakers—amplified and far too cheerful for such an ungodly hour. “Let’s begin the ranking evaluations!”

And then the walls that didn’t reach the ceiling… started to rise.

Literally.

There were many gasps. One or two dramatic shrieks. Abby shouted something that sounded like “aliens” in three different languages.

Jinu, for his part, stayed silent. Not because he wasn’t shocked—he was just too busy clinging to his imaginary dignity (and absolutely not Haon’s arm. That didn’t happen. At all.)

Once the clattering stopped, it became clear they weren’t being abducted or thrown into a gladiator pit. The walls had simply lifted like theater curtains… revealing, on the other side, a perfectly styled group of adults lit by strategically placed spotlights.

“Are those…?” someone whispered.

“Mentors,” Jinu said, his voice quiet, like he was invoking a deity. Or a particularly painful ex.

And just then, one of them stepped forward.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Bet the sudden change caught you off guard.”

Jinu gritted his teeth.

“Obviously,” he muttered under his breath.

“The first challenge of Idol Incorporated: Season 3 is… a full-scale, public evaluation!” the host announced with way too much excitement for five in the morning. “All 77 participants who practiced this season’s theme song will now be evaluated… from the audience’s point of view!”

“What?!” someone blurted, the emotional equivalent of being punched by a spoiler.

“It was private last season…” another whispered, stunned.

“We’ll be determining your final rankings based on this open evaluation,” the host went on, completely ignoring the chaos brewing—“And as for the order of performance… we’re flipping it! Starting with rank 77. Chu Seonggu, please come on stage!”

A horrified silence swept the room.

“Me…?” said poor Chu Seonggu, probably for the last time we’ll ever hear his name.

“Yes! The evaluation starts now!”

Jinu blinked. Twice. Then buried his face in his hands.

“This is going to be a massacre,” he muttered. “An open evaluation, and they’re starting from the bottom. They’re determined to wreck everyone’s mental state.”

“I’m sorry… I don’t remember the choreography.” The poor guy really looked like he was going to cry.

“…Next up, rank 76, Kim Yeongdo,” the host announced with the same tone one might use to say “The volcano just erupted, good luck.”

“I’m sorry…” muttered the next one, bowing before even stepping into position.

The pattern repeated. One after another, they walked up to the stage only to forget the lyrics, miss their cues, or freeze under the spotlight. It was like they all instinctively knew this wasn’t an evaluation—it was a ritual sacrifice to entertain the gods of reality television.

The audience was waiting for that one “main character.” The narrative savior. The emotional turning point of the episode.

“Next, participant number 64, Park Minwoo.”

Something inside Jinu slid off a cliff.

There it is. Plan Saja is officially dead.

But then, with trembling steps and shoulders curled in like he was carrying the weight of childhood trauma and a backpack full of bricks, Minwoo walked up to the stage.

He introduced himself. Took a deep breath.

And sang.

It was shaky, a little off-key, and for a second it looked like he might bolt offstage—but he didn’t. He made it through. Full lyrics, full choreography. No exits. No tears.

Jinu stared, frozen.

My little pigeon, he whispered internally. You flew. On wings made of anxiety and stage fright… but you flew.

“To be honest, that was far from perfect,” Mewdy, the vocal coach, began with a neutral but attentive voice. “Still, I want to give you a high score for completing the performance with the correct lyrics and choreography. You did it. Good job.”

Minwoo looked happy. Radiating relief. Like for the first time in years, someone actually believed in him.

“Thank you, I’ll do my best!” he said, bowing with both hands clasped.

“Seriously, how did you improve so much?” Taesong, the dance mentor, cut in with a laugh. “Last week I was two seconds away from quitting over your two left feet.”

Minwoo swallowed. Hesitated. Looked at the floor.

“…Someone helped me,” he said softly, his voice disarmingly honest.

Taesong raised an eyebrow, curious.

“Who?”

Silence. And then:

“Do Jinu.”

The reaction was immediate. Some sat up straighter, others whispered to each other. A few heads turned to where Jinu was sitting.

He tried to keep his face neutral, but his cheeks twitched against his will.

Next to him, Haon shot him a sideways look full of disdain and irritation. Like Jinu had just adopted a stray dog after being explicitly told not to touch trash.

“Jinu helped me,” Minwoo added from the stage, with a kind of sincerity and nervousness that made him look even smaller than he was.

“Hey! If you put it like that, what does that make me?” one of the mentors joked, earning a few laughs.

“Anyway, congratulations again,” the host jumped back in, smoothing the flow. “Let’s call the next participant…”
More performances followed.

Abby was the first to go. He walked to the center of the stage with a big smile and steps that lagged slightly behind, like his body was always half a second out of sync with the world. He greeted the crowd with energy, said his name with a thick accent, and then… sang.

Jinu didn’t know how to feel.

Because yes, Abby had a good voice. Powerful, even. But he didn’t know how to use it. He climbed and dropped through the notes like someone riding an escalator for the first time—awkwardly, hesitantly, clinging to the railing. The choreography didn’t help either. He seemed one millisecond behind every beat, as if his legs were waiting for simultaneous translation.

“He’s singing on unstable Wi-Fi,” Jinu murmured, without any meanness.

Then came Sarang.

The moment his feet touched the stage, it was like he was on a red carpet. He greeted with an exaggerated bow, smiled like he was signing autographs, and then started to sing. His voice was sweet, nicely placed at first, but quickly unraveled. By the second chorus, he was throwing in unnecessary riffs, his own steps, and eye contact with the audience that nobody had asked for.

It was like watching a very elegant parody. The talent was there… buried under a mountain of stylistic confusion.

Jinu rubbed his forehead.

“They’ve got voices, yeah. But they don’t know how to use them. Or don’t want to. Or no one taught them how.”

He looked over at the mentors. Some were taking notes. Others just exchanged neutral glances—the kind that said, “There’s potential… but we might need sedatives or divine intervention.”

Jinu bit his lip.

The problem wasn’t that they were bad. It was that they were lost. No compass. No map. And for some reason, they were landing in his hands.

“I’m going to need more hours in a day,” he muttered.

Then, the moment he’d been waiting for.

Baeho.

He walked onto the stage with such calm that no one even noticed him until he was already at the center. He introduced himself in a low voice, with no emotion, no rush—like he was reading his name off a grocery list.

And then… he danced.

Jinu crossed his arms. He’d seen Baeho in class, of course. They were in the same group. He knew he was good. But there was a difference between repeating steps in a mirrored room and moving on stage with that kind of control. Every gesture was precise. The A- in dance? Fully justified.

When the dance portion ended, Baeho transitioned into the vocal section.

And that’s where things got shaky.

Nothing tragic, but his voice wavered on the long notes. Some entries came late, like his throat needed extra loading time before each line.

Jinu tilted his head.

“It’s fine…” he murmured. “Not perfect, but fine.”

Singing clearly wasn’t his strong suit. Not like this. But what puzzled Jinu the most was that, in all this time, he hadn’t heard Baeho rap even once.

“Why aren’t they letting you rap?” he muttered to himself, quietly, but not quietly enough.

Just then, Haon, who had been watching with polite disinterest, tensed.

He didn’t say a word. But Jinu noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes normally restless, locked on Baeho with sharp, silent focus. Not angry exactly. Something older. Quieter. Like a grudge buried in sand and watered with resentment.

Jinu didn’t comment.

But mentally, he scribbled in his imaginary Saja Plan notebook.

Note: Weird relationship between Haon and Baeho. Suspected soap-opera-grade hate.

Baeho finished his performance, gave a brief, reluctant bow, and walked off the stage with the same energy he came in with. Like it was all just some annoying task to cross off his to-do list before crawling back into emotional hibernation.

Jinu watched him go.

There was talent there. A lot. But it was buried under something—disinterest, fatigue, or chronic frustration. He couldn’t tell.

“He’s rank 27,” Jinu murmured. “But he shouldn’t be.”

The rest of the performances blurred together. Jinu didn’t care anymore.

When number 2 was called, Haon stood up smoothly, like the evaluation was nothing more than a casual formality. He walked up with the same confidence other people use to breathe. His performance was flawless: no missed notes, no sloppy steps. Applause. Praise. Everything expected.

Jinu didn’t watch.

Not because he wasn’t interested, but because he was too focused on what was coming next.

“Participant number one, Do Jinu,” the voice announced through the speakers, echoing through every corner of the set.

Silence fell instantly. Jinu stood. Walked to the front.

And for the first time in a very long time… everything around him felt exactly in its place.

Being at the center of the stage felt different now. In his first life, he’d sung to survive. With the demons, he sang because it was the only thing left to do. Then, as a Saja Boy, singing had been his last priority after meeting Rumi.

And now—yes, he was singing because a blue screen was following him around and threatening to kill him in a year—but this time, it felt like he had a purpose.

Seeing Rumi again.

With that thought, he began his performance.

The lights wrapped around him like they’d never gone out.

Jinu took a deep breath. The stage was smaller than he remembered, but the air… the air still tasted the same. Of dust and spotlights, of other people’s nerves, of suspended expectations right before the track started.

And then, it played.

Climbing the charts, I’m not looking down / Buy my dream, let’s go to town…

The lyrics rolled off his tongue with certainty—clear, firm, not a single waver. His body moved with millimetric precision, with that kind of grace that can’t be trained, only remembered. Every step, every turn was pure muscle memory. No hesitation. No fear.

Halfway through the song, when the choreography became more intense, the mentors leaned forward.

Mewdy crossed her arms, genuinely interested. Taesong began nodding unconsciously to the beat. One of the choreographers smiled. He wasn’t just meeting expectations—he was making it obvious why he was ranked number one.

Jinu closed his eyes for a second, holding a high note. In his mind, there was no audience. No program. No system. Just a long, white hallway—and at the end of it, a figure waiting for him.

Rumi.

Then he opened his eyes again.

The ending was clean, powerful, almost defiant. Jinu held the final pose like he owned the place. The blue screen flickered at the edge of his vision, almost like it was applauding too.

Silence.

Then, applause.

Not many. Just the mentors. But it sounded like a standing ovation.

“Wow…” said Mewdy, with a tone far more serious than usual. “If this is just your rank evaluation, I don’t even want to imagine what you’ll do when it’s time to fight for debut.”

“That song isn’t easy to dance to,” added the choreographer. “It’s fast and explosive. But you made it work. Style, control, presence. Congratulations.”

Jinu just nodded, still catching his breath, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down his neck. But he smiled. A real smile.

Because for the first time since he came back… he felt like he was moving forward.

The host spoke again.

“And with that… the rank evaluations are officially complete!”

Jinu stepped off the stage. His heart was still pounding. But not from nerves. It was something closer to hope.

As he reached the last step, he was immediately met by Minwoo, practically bouncing in place, eyes sparkling like he’d just witnessed a miracle.

“You were amazing! Seriously, amazing! I thought I couldn’t admire you more and now—now I want to applaud with my feet too!” Minwoo was speaking so fast he seemed to forget to breathe.

Jinu laughed, still recovering. He was just about to respond when Haon suddenly appeared beside them, placing himself subtly but firmly between the two with a gesture that felt almost territorial.

“Okay, okay, calm down, number one fan,” he said with a tight smile, placing a hand on Minwoo’s shoulder and gently nudging him aside like someone moving a cat off their keyboard without trying to offend it.

“I just… admired it a lot, that’s all…” Minwoo mumbled, still too full of awe to take offense.

Haon ignored him and turned to Jinu, studying his expression with a single raised eyebrow.

“Well. You didn’t screw it up. I guess that’s something,” he said, like he was offering a compliment under protest.

Jinu smiled without replying. No one was going to ruin his moment.

“Thanks for coming to greet me,” he said, voice sounding polite but edged. Then he gave Minwoo a light pat on the shoulder and started walking toward the backstage. “Come on, dove. Time to celebrate.”

Minwoo followed instantly.

Haon watched them walk away, arms crossed.

He made a note of it. Every word. Every gesture.

The Saja Plan notebook just gained a new entry.

About thirty minutes later, they were called to receive their categories. Each of them was handed a small, sleek black box with the show’s logo stamped in the center. Jinu held his without rushing, aware of the cameras circling like hawks waiting for the perfect shot. He opened the box.
Inside, a silver medal with golden edges gleamed under the studio lights: Platinum.

It wasn’t a surprise. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth celebrating. Jinu lifted the medal just enough for it to catch the light and allowed a carefully measured smile to form on his face. Not out of vanity. Out of strategy. Let them all see. Let it be recorded.

He scanned the crowd. Sarang and Abby: gold. Baeho, gold. Minwoo… gold too.

Things moved quickly after that. By the time they finished handing out the medals, it was already 9 a.m. They barely had a moment to breathe before being led to a new filming set—larger, brighter, with a stage wide enough to fit all 77 of them without stepping on each other (too much).

“Hello everyone, I’m the main PD of the program.”
Oh. Seorin’s back.

The woman smiled with that neutral expression that said “I’m watching you but not necessarily impressed,” and raised a tablet like it was some kind of diplomatic weapon.

“We’ll now begin filming the ‘Level Up’ performance.”

Jinu was already at the front of the group. Stage positioning was simple: the higher your rank, the closer to the front you stood. And he was number one. Of course he was at the front.

“After the practice run, you’ll change into your stage outfits for the camera test,” the PD announced, her tone firm and face unreadable. “Those in Platinum will film an additional take for their solo parts. This performance will be broadcast for the first time on Friday’s Music Bomb, which means your faces will be revealed to the public for the first time.”

A small dramatic pause. No one breathed.

“On Saturdays, weekly episodes will air on the TNET channel. The first will include the auditions and the rank reveal.”

She finished speaking, and without further ceremony, the filming began.

Jinu, in his optimism, truly believed he wouldn’t get tired. He had faith, in his body, in his experience, in the momentum of being back on stage.

But by the end of the second day, he was wrecked.

It took two full days to film everything. Group choreographies, individual shots, close-ups, retakes for angles, for mistakes, for “safety.” All under bright lights, constant sweat, and makeup that dried out his soul.

He returned to the dorms on Thursday night, head throbbing, voice nearly gone.
He just wanted to see his performance.
Hopefully, they edited it well.

Chapter Text

There was always a song playing in her head.

Sometimes it was real, one she had recorded or rehearsed that week. Sometimes it was just noise with rhythm, an excuse to keep moving. As if stopping were dangerous.

But that morning, the song was slow, almost sweet. A soft loop floating through the air while the kitchen smelled like toast and melting butter.

“Is that chicken at eight in the morning?” Rumi asked from the hallway, tying her hair into a high ponytail.

“Breakfast of champions!” Zoey shouted from the kitchen, mouth full. “Besides, there’s rice. It’s brunch.”

“It’s cold meat with rice and spicy sauce,” Mira muttered, sitting at the table, eating her toast with jam like a very tired queen.

Rumi grabbed a toast too, but she topped it with avocado, scrambled eggs, and a handful of seeds only she seemed to understand. Zoey stared at her in horror.

“Is that… healthy? On purpose?”

“It’s delicious,” Rumi said, sitting down. “And balanced. And look at this.”

She held up her coffee like a trophy. The mug said: “Main character energy.”

“Did you buy that yourself or was it your ego?” Mira asked.

“I gifted it to me. Isn’t that the same?”

Zoey laughed so hard she nearly choked on her rice. Rumi passed her a glass of water without stopping her smile. These were the best moments: before the day really started, when it was just them and the food.

“What’s on the agenda?” Mira asked with a yawn. “Another apocalyptic rehearsal?”

“No idea. Bobby hasn’t messaged yet,” Rumi said, checking her phone.

As if summoned, two sharp knocks echoed at the door.

“Coming in!” Bobby shouted from the hallway before anyone answered.

“Why does he keep doing that if he lives three doors down?” Zoey asked.

“Born dramatic,” Mira replied.

Bobby appeared with his coat half on, two tablets, and a look that said “this will hurt, but it’s for your own good.” He stood in front of the table like he was about to announce the end of the world.

“What are we doing now?” Rumi asked, amused.

“What you’ll be doing next week, to be exact,” he replied, unlocking his tablet. “It’s confirmed, Rumi. You’re going to be the guest MC on Music Bomb. All week.”

The three of them were silent for half a second.

“Ehhh!” Zoey screamed, raising her arms. “My unnie!!”

Mira clapped once, with exaggerated dignity.

Rumi smiled, lifting her mug.

“MC Rumi, reporting for duty.”

“And get ready,” Bobby added, “because they’re dropping the trailer for the new survival show that same day. Idol Incorporated. They’re closing the episode with it. It’s supposed to be the big finale moment.”

“They’re still making new seasons of that? Wasn’t the last one… a total disaster?” Mira asked, frowning as she buttered another toast. “Pretty sure it ended with a class action lawsuit and a trainee crying live on air.”

“It was, honestly,” Bobby said, sitting down with his coffee and a sandwich that was barely holding itself together. “But this time, they’re going all in. New format, celebrity mentors… and apparently, the trainees are interesting too.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a horror movie,” Zoey chimed in, stirring her rice enthusiastically. “Like, ‘The Cursed Academy’ kind of vibe.”

“Or the end of someone’s career,” Mira added with a shrug. “Still, I’d watch the first two episodes just to make fun of it.”

“Do you have to preview the performance?” Zoey asked, turning to Rumi with her mouth full. “Like, for live commentary or something?”

“Maybe,” Rumi answered with a relaxed shrug. “Sometimes the MC has to improvise, but I prefer knowing what I’m up against.”

“I’ll help you figure out the weird names if you want,” Mira offered, stretching in her chair like a cat. “There’s probably someone named like… Moonlight Galaxy or something.”

“Or BangBang Cutie,” Zoey added very seriously, like it was a vital piece of information.

Rumi burst out laughing.

“If someone shows up with that name, I’m leaving the set.”

“I would do a whole intro with confetti and neon lights,” Zoey said, lifting her arms like she was about to perform it then and there.

“You would be BangBang Cutie, admit it,” Mira said without even looking at her.

Zoey opened her mouth to argue… then paused.

“…okay, yeah.”

“Knew it,” all three of them said in unison.

“Well, now that we’ve finished destroying aspiring idols,” Bobby said, checking his watch without subtlety, “are you coming down now, or should I tell the team you’ll be down in ten?”

“Ten,” they all replied at once.

“Five,” Bobby corrected.

“Nine and a half,” Zoey shot back.

“Five,” Bobby repeated, already standing again, tablet in hand. “Wash your faces, don’t show up in pajamas, and please try not to scare the new choreographer. He hasn’t signed the contract yet.”

“We have a new one?” Mira asked.

“Yeah, he’s young and apparently ‘innovative,’ which could mean two things: either he’s brilliant… or he’s going to make us dance on spinning chairs blindfolded.”

“Perfect,” Mira said, turning away with half a toast in hand. “My specialty.”

Laughter, jokes, scattered movement. The kitchen fell silent a few seconds later as each of them went off to prepare for the day.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another morning at home.

The rest of the day was filled with new choreography, a vocal rehearsal that ran longer than promised, and a last-minute outfit change for an interview no one remembered scheduling. Nothing unusual. Zoey tripped twice, Mira argued with the new choreographer about the difference between “dramatic fall” and “actual injury,” and Rumi kept up the pace without a single complaint, as always.

They finished later than expected, but with the job done and smiles intact. Just how they liked it.

The apartment was quiet.

Zoey had fallen asleep on the couch with her phone on her face, and Mira had vanished after her shower, muttering something about watching “just one more episode” of her K-drama. Rumi, on the other hand, was getting ready for bed with the lights off and the window cracked open. The warm summer air drifted in through the curtains, brushing across the room with the scent of clean night.

As she lay down, a melody circled in her head.

She didn’t know where it had come from. It wasn’t something she had rehearsed that day. Or that week.

But it was there, clear as if someone were singing it right in the next room.

“I was a ghost, I was alone…”

She hummed the opening without realizing it, her voice low, barely audible.

There was something about the lyrics, the rhythm—it felt… old. Or familiar. She couldn’t explain it. It was one of those songs that felt like they had always been there, just waiting to be remembered.

She liked it.

Or maybe it hurt. She wasn’t sure.

She closed her eyes.

“Now I’m shinin’ like I’m born to be…”

The voice in her mind wasn’t hers. It wasn’t Zoey’s or Mira’s either.

It was someone else’s.

Clear, powerful, cracked just at the edge.

The melody blended into her breathing. Sleep crept in slowly.

And then, without warning, the room vanished.

The stage was gold.

Everything—absolutely everything—shone like polished crystal. There were lights, smoke, thousands of people screaming—but no sound reached her. Like she was trapped behind glass.

Rumi—or someone who looked like her—stood in the center, holding a mic.

She wanted to sing.

She knew the lyrics.

She felt them vibrating in her chest.

But she couldn’t.

Her throat wouldn’t open.

Nothing came out.

And the pain… was unbearable.

Not physical. Not real. But there.

She tried to move. To lift her arm. To scream, cry, run. Nothing responded. It was like her body was made of stone.

And then, she felt it.

A dull, wet burn crawling slowly up her arms. Something familiar.

The patterns.

She had forgotten them. Or wanted to forget.

From her shoulders to her elbows. From her elbows to her neck.

Dark. Glowing. Alive.

Climbing. Climbing. Climbing.

When they reached her throat, the voice that couldn’t escape became a silent scream.

The image shattered.

And Rumi woke up.

She was sweating. Sitting up. Her breath ragged. Her cheeks wet. She didn’t know if it was from the heat… or the tears.

Her hand flew to her neck.

Nothing.

Just skin.

Just silence.

She collapsed back onto the pillow, eyes open.

The song still looped in her head.

“Gonna be, gonna be golden.”

The next day, the alarm rang before the sun came up.

Rumi was already awake.

She hadn’t slept well after that dream. She couldn’t remember everything clearly, but something had clung to her skin like dried sweat: a stage, a song, a voice that wouldn’t come out. A weight in her chest that wasn’t physical but still made it hard to breathe.

She stayed in the shower longer than necessary. Let the water run until her fingers wrinkled, until she felt like she could move again without thinking about anything. Then she got dressed in silence, her movements precise, mechanical. She didn’t even play music—something very unlike her.

While she did her eyeliner in the mirror, she noticed she was pressing harder than usual. Not out of anger. Not sadness either. Just… tension. The kind she couldn’t place.

When she stepped out of her room, she found Zoey in the kitchen, legs crossed on the chair, eating a giant bowl of cereal like it was her only source of energy.

—Morning —Zoey greeted, mouth full, raising her spoon like a toast.

—Hi —Rumi replied. Her voice came out softer than she expected. She went straight to the coffee machine.

Zoey peered over her bowl like an alert cat.

—Are you okay?

—Yeah —she answered, too quickly.

—I mean… “yeah” like, actually fine, or “yeah” like when you say stress gives you energy so you don’t need sleep?

Rumi opened the cabinet. Grabbed a mug without looking.

—I’m fine, Zoey —she repeated.

—Okay, okay —the younger girl shrugged, still watching her—. Just asking. Not because I care or anything. Just don’t want you to die on air. That would traumatize me.

Rumi let out a short, dry laugh. Not entirely fake, but not full either.

Mira appeared just after that, wrapped in a blanket she seemed to have kidnapped from her bed, with half a sheet mask on her face and her phone held up like a torch.

—Is the survival show trailer out yet? I want to laugh early today.

—They haven’t posted it yet, drama queen —Zoey replied—. And you should wear pants if you’re going to step out of the apartment.

—I am wearing pants… metaphorically —Mira deadpanned.

Rumi made toast but left it untouched on the plate. The coffee was too hot. She didn’t care.

Bobby showed up as always: no knocking, no warning, with two phones, a tablet, and Rumi’s extra coffee in hand.

—Morning, galaxy stars. Ready to shine? —he asked with the kind of energy that clearly did not match the hour.

—Zoey’s eating cereal like she owes it money —Mira muttered, flopping into a chair—. Rumi hasn’t said more than three syllables, and I haven’t technically opened my eyes. So no.

Bobby gave her a “fair enough” look, then turned to Rumi, this time with real concern.

—You good?

—Yeah. —The response was automatic, just as fast as before. But this time, she said it with a smile, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

—Rumi, if you don’t want to do this today, I can—

—I’m fine —she said again, softer—. Just tired. I’ll be perfect once we get there.

A pause.

Bobby nodded. Not convinced, but not about to push either.

The day went on like any other.

Interviews, fittings, last-minute rehearsals. Rumi handled it all with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times: she answered questions gracefully, smiled for promo photos, reviewed names and schedules, and even laughed once or twice when Zoey tried to choreograph with a broom. On the surface, everything seemed normal. And if something hurt, Rumi tucked it away with the same care she used when lining her eyes: without flinching.

She arrived on the Music Bomb set just before sunset, escorted by her staff, Bobby reading through the script order for the fifth time as they walked through the narrow hallways. The studio lights were already glowing, bathed in golden and blue tones, the stage perfectly prepped for the broadcast.

Rumi wore a tailored high-waisted suit with a cropped jacket embroidered at the shoulders, all in a pearly ivory tone that caught the light like it belonged on stage. Her makeup was subtle and elegant, with a hint of shimmer on her eyelids—the signature sparkle she always requested when she wanted to feel invincible. Her hair was left loose, soft waves cascading down her back like the wind was scripted to follow her.

She held the mic in one hand, her name glittering along the side. The weight felt familiar, almost comforting, like holding it anchored everything inside her.

At her side, Siwon smiled with the boundless energy that had made him a crowd favorite, and in front of them, beyond the blinding lights, a sea of producers and cameras moved in synchronized silence—like the entire universe had been choreographed.

It was the final segment of the show. The last performance of the night. And the atmosphere, though professional, had that extra spark reserved for when something big was about to air.

The screen behind them flickered, ready to play the most anticipated video of the evening.

Rumi straightened her posture. Smiled.

—The explosive excitement of the weekend! Music Bomb! —Siwon exclaimed, with just the right amount of energy to hype the crowd.

—Siwon, did you enjoy Solwen’s electrifying performance? —Rumi asked, turning toward him with a radiant smile that hid all signs of exhaustion.

—Of course, of course! Siwon’s heart feels refreshed by that amazing stage! —he replied with an adorable exaggeration that made some of the staff chuckle.

—By the way, Siwon… have you heard the news? —Rumi said, lowering her voice slightly for dramatic effect.

—What news?

She held his gaze for just long enough before continuing.

—The very offices all our shareholders have been waiting for! It’s…

—Idol Incorporated: Season 3 —they announced in perfect unison.

The audience erupted in applause. The background music shifted, the lights dimmed just a little.

Rumi turned gracefully toward the LED screen behind them, her voice still projected but slower now, more intentional.

—Let’s take a look at a message specially prepared for us by Youngrin.

The image faded to black.

And Rumi, still smiling, lowered her microphone.

The audience kept clapping as the lights dimmed further, and the massive LED screen began to glow, ready to play the most awaited teaser of the show. This wasn’t her segment. She had no lines. Nothing to do.

So she stepped quietly off to the side of the stage, where the crew moved in silent efficiency with earpieces and hand signals. She found her phone in the coat pocket a staff member had handed her, and without thinking much of it, opened Tnet.

Not because she was especially curious.

Just professional curiosity.

Idol Incorporated: Season 3 already had its own section on the forum. The top posts were speculation, rumors, memes. One thread stood out in all caps:

“YOUNGRIN SAYS SHE’S SORRY?!”

She frowned.

Lifted her eyes to the screen just in time to see Youngrin appear.

She was alone. Wearing a dark blazer, no visible mic. Standing in front of a white background with the show’s logo floating next to a rising stock graphic.

The camera didn’t move.

—Shareholders… —Youngrin began, glancing downward. Her voice trembled slightly, but she didn’t seem unsure—. I… I’m really sorry.

…What?

Rumi blinked.

Was that scripted?

Youngrin looked up again, and her tone had completely changed. No longer fragile. Now firm. Determined. Almost militant.

—To prevent the same disaster, the production team will make the right decision for all future shareholders —she said, standing straight—. Members, group size, even mission combinations! Shareholders will decide it all!

The image glitched slightly, like it had been compressed in a rush.

—Don’t like a team? Let them go! —Youngrin continued, her smile ice-cold—. The life of our company depends on you, our investors!

No one clapped.

The silence in the studio was almost uncomfortable. As if no one was sure whether this was real… or part of a parody.

Rumi slowly lowered her phone, still showing the forum. New posts were exploding by the second.

Rumi frowned. Looked up just in time to see Youngrin finish her speech.

—This year is not just a show. It’s an investment.

And you, shareholders… you decide who’s worth it.

The screen faded to black for a few seconds.

This time, the applause was forced. More like a reflex. Some crew members whispered among themselves. No one seemed to know whether what they’d just seen was a stroke of marketing genius… or a complete mess.

And then the screen lit up again.

The trailer.

IDOL INCORPORATED: SEASON 3

The sound was cold. Synthetic. A digital piano playing clipped, simple notes.

The voiceover entered with a calm, almost clinical tone.

—A new generation of investment.
—A new way to build idols.
—Transparent decisions, efficient results.

Quick cut:

77 contestants from behind, standing in a wide room, all dressed in the same pale gray uniform. No expressions. No introductions.

—Zero talent evaluations.
—Zero biased judges.
—One hundred percent shareholder decision.

The company logo hovered over market graphs. Below, fake stats updated in real time.

Stock value: ▲3.2%

The next scenes came fast:

A trainee stumbling during choreography.
A boardroom of older executives arguing.
A boy with a pixelated face tearing a sheet of paper.
A screen reading: “VOTE LOSS: 9.3%”

—Don’t like their attitude?
—Think their voice isn’t up to par?
—Not profitable enough?
—Fire them.
—Replace them.
—Invest in someone else.

Black screen.

Then, in golden letters:

Your money. Your group. Your decision.

Final shot: a figure at center stage. Face unseen. Holding a microphone. Lifting his head.

Cut to black.

Rumi blinked, confused.

Was that… the trailer?

The performance began the moment the teaser ended.

The logo for Idol Incorporated: Season 3 appeared in metallic effect over a black background, followed by a visual countdown. The intense beat of “Level Up” filled the studio, vibrant, sharp, edited to perfection.

Rumi was still backstage, coat draped over her shoulders, phone still in hand. She scrolled absentmindedly through the Tnet forum, reading the comments under her breath while the video played on the screens.

She smiled to herself, eyes still on the screen.

And then the music shifted. A stronger beat hit, right as the camera zoomed in.

A male face.

A boy.

The most handsome guy she’d seen in years.

Rumi lowered her phone without realizing.

She froze. Mouth slightly open.

—…Wow —she whispered.

The boy’s face was fully lit, no filters, no odd angles. Just him, looking directly into the camera, calm expression, strong brows, well-shaped lips, and a dangerously photogenic aura. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t posing. He was just existing. With intensity.

The shot lasted maybe two seconds.

But it was enough.

Rumi blinked.

—Who is that? —she asked, mostly to herself.

She checked her phone, looking to see if anyone on the forum had posted a screenshot. Two new threads had already popped up:

She looked back at the screen. The choreography had already started. The other boys were slowly coming into frame, all well-trained, perfectly synchronized. But Rumi couldn’t stop thinking about the first one. The one from the opening shot. The one with no name. The one who hadn’t said a word.

She could still see him in her head, like a cologne ad on the side of a skyscraper.

—He can’t be real —she muttered.

And she looked back at the screen, just to be sure.

No, he hadn’t been a hallucination.

He was real.

There he was again, center of the group.

Definitely rank one. He had that leader posture that didn’t need announcing. It didn’t feel forced, he wasn’t even trying to find the camera… but the camera found him anyway.

His presence anchored the entire choreography, as if the rest adjusted around him by instinct. Even the song —which Rumi had mentally classified as “catchy but shallow”— sounded better when it was his voice. There was confidence in the way he performed, no showiness. Just clarity.

And then came the final note.

A high one, held with strength and precision, rising above the beat with a smoothness that didn’t seem real. Clean, direct, not overly adorned… but it stuck in your chest.

Rumi raised an eyebrow.

—Okay. He’s not just pretty.

The staff nearby kept watching quietly, some taking notes, others just enjoying the production. No one seemed as affected as she was, which was odd. Had no one else noticed the center guy just sang like he’d been doing this for years?

She looked at her phone again. More posts were rolling in.

Rumi couldn’t help smiling. She agreed with all of them.

She closed the forum, crossed her arms, and kept watching the credits of the video.

And even though his name didn’t appear anywhere, she already knew one thing for sure:

She was going to remember that face.

Back home, hours later, she was still thinking about the boy.

The teaser had been weird on its own, but the performance… that had been genuinely surprising. Not in a dramatic or scandalous way. Surprising in its simplicity. In how effective it was. In him.

She took off her earrings, her jacket, her boots. Zoey was talking in the other room with someone on a video call, and Mira had locked herself away to watch her drama. Everything felt normal.

Except the fact that Rumi, against her own rules, was still checking her phone.

She’d learned a long time ago not to go on social media after recordings. The rule was clear: don’t read comments, don’t search your name, don’t go into forums.

But this time… she wasn’t searching for her name.

She slid her finger across the screen like she always did. But she knew exactly what she was looking for.

She opened Tnet.

The first thing that came up wasn’t a fan theory or a meme, but a formal reaction post, with a tone that was almost sarcastically elegant:

“Saint U Yeongrin, who has committed a grave sin against the shareholders… What is this new production of Idol Reincorporated?”

Just below it, an article link was auto-expanding:

[Tnet News] – Industry Update

Saint U Yeongrin, who has committed a grave sin against the shareholders…

What is the new production from Idol Reincorporated?

Reincorporated, a program produced by the company Idol Joint Stock, reveals its first stage performance this Friday on Music Bomb.

Idol Joint Stock (also referred to as IJoCo) returns with the same slogan from previous seasons:
“The 77 participants of IJoCo’s company, perfectly presenting their song titled ‘Level Up’ on a Pentagon stage!”

Rumi raised an eyebrow.

—“Pentagon stage”?

The article went on, filled with corporate language that sounded more like a business proposal than a music program. It talked about “long-term vision,” “visual asset management,” and something about “talent optimization through direct elimination.”

Not exactly the kind of content an idol wanted before bed.

But she kept scrolling.

More screenshots. More discussion threads.

And then—again—him.

A still from that opening shot. That perfect light on his face. The serious expression. The entire production centered around him.

Rumi paused.

She didn’t like the post. She didn’t save it. She just stared at it a few seconds longer than she probably should’ve.

She closed the article, but not the thought.

Turned off the screen.

Set the phone aside.

And laid back in the darkness, eyes on the ceiling, as the echo of “Level Up” kept looping in her head.

Maybe she’d learn his name tomorrow.

Maybe she wouldn’t.

But it was already too late to pretend she didn’t care.

Chapter Text

On the day of his TV debut, after a few hellish weeks in Idol Reincorporated, Jinu collapsed onto his couch. He was in his apartment living room, wrapped in a blanket, with a half-eaten bowl of ramen on his lap and the TV playing Music Bomb. He’d left the channel on without much thought, just to have some background noise while scrolling through forum comments on his phone.

He wasn’t expecting anything.

Then he heard the voice.

Clear, strong, perfect.

Like someone had opened a window into the past.

“Did you hear the news, Siwon?”

Jinu blinked.

He looked at the screen.

And there she was.

Rumi.

Live. In HD. Smiling like she hadn’t just stabbed him straight through the chest.

He froze so completely the ramen started sliding off the bowl. He didn’t notice.

“No no no no no no no no no.” His hands were shaking so much that his phone slipped from his fingers.

He shot up, the blanket falling to the floor.

“Rumi is the MC this week?! Since when?! SINCE WHEN?! And today of all days—today when they’re showing the trailer?! When I’m singing that thing that sounds like a jingle from a 2000s educational video game?!”

The worst part—by far—was Youngrin’s entrance. The Tner forum had gone absolutely insane. The trailer didn’t help. Thankfully, they hadn’t shown it all…

But during the stage performance, his face appeared right at the beginning, they zoomed in for the high notes only he could hit, and for the fairy ending he got for being platinum ranked—he looked awful.

“THAT’S the shot they used?! I look like I just crawled out of a parody of myself!” He grabbed his hair, pacing the living room like it could somehow undo the fact that his ex—what, ex-girlfriend? eternal love? the person who shattered him without even knowing?—had just watched him sing a song called Level Up, with a chorus that literally went “Level up, buddy!” shouted by 76 people.

“This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. I’m going to puke.”

The screen blinked. A soft blue interface projected from his watch like the universe had just been waiting for the moment to kick him again.

System notification:
1,000 people remember you.

Jinu screamed.

“WHAT?!” He swatted at the interface like he could erase the memory. He tripped on the blanket and stubbed his pinky toe against the table. He cursed in at least three different languages.

“No, they can’t remember me! Not now! And especially not HER!”

The notification hovered, glowing.

1,000 people remember you.

And among all of them, one mattered more than the rest.

Rumi.

He sank back into the couch, defeated.

“I’m dead. Literally. The system’s going to kill me. The audience is going to kill me. And if they don’t, I will when I see that jingle online again. Oh god.”

He picked up his phone with trembling hands.

“I’ll check what they’re saying about me. If it’s good enough, maybe I can survive the cringe,” he muttered without hope. But the moment he opened the forum, a breathy laugh escaped him.

“Whoa… they loved me. It’s full of comments about me.”

For a moment, everything was okay. Excited comments, memes, jokes, wild theories. The fandom was exploding. They were calling him “the center,” talking about his high note, the fairy ending—even his messy hair was being called “intentional.”

And then he saw it. A post pinned to the top of the page.

He clicked.

It was a screenshot. A close-up of Rumi’s face. Her mouth slightly open, eyes fixed on the screen, completely absorbed. She looked shocked. Vulnerable. Human.

Jinu fell silent. Electricity ran down his spine.

The comments were even worse. Or better. Or… something in between.

“What…” he whispered. He blinked, trying to process.

Then he smiled.

“She… remembers me. She must remember me.”

The smile stretched until it hurt. His eyes filled with tears, not of sadness—but of relief. Of something close to hope.

“She remembers me!” he giggled, giddy, curling up on the couch like a lovesick teenager. “The fans ship us too… When I debut, I’ll ask her to do a stage edit. A performance. Something to make the fans love us as a couple.”

Euphoric, he scrolled through comments until he found one about the gif. His heart raced. He wanted to frame the image. Save it forever. Watch it again and again.

And that’s when everything started to shift.

The Rumi in the gif didn’t look happy—at best, she looked surprised.

“What’s going on…?”

He straightened on the couch, heart pounding, and stared at the gif again. Then again. Slower. He replayed it in slow motion, analyzing every microexpression, every blink, every twitch.

“She frowned…” he whispered. “Does she really remember me? Why would she react like that if she didn’t…?”

His eyes didn’t move from the screen. He wanted to believe. He had to believe.

“Maybe… she hates me,” he whispered, and the thought hit him like a punch. He swallowed. “No, no. She stepped back because she’s the same Rumi who knew me… who sang with me… right?”

The soft blue light of the system hovered nearby. A cruel reminder. A silent witness.
“1,000 people remember you” shone like mockery.

“She probably doesn’t remember. She doesn’t hate me. She doesn’t—doesn’t hate me!” His voice cracked as he squeezed the phone until he hurled it at the wall.

The crash echoed like a gunshot. Jinu stood still. Then turned to the system projection.

“YOU!” he shouted. “All you ever do is ruin me!”

He tried to punch the hologram. His hand went straight through. He lost his balance and hit the floor.

“Why are you doing this…? Why me?” The sob came without warning. His chest was tight, his hands freezing. He could barely move.

“Please stop…” he whimpered. “I just wanted to be good one last time before dying…”

He buried his face in his hands.

“Why did you bring me back… if all I’ll ever be is miserable?”

His sobs were quiet. Shaky. The kind of crying that doesn’t want comfort—just emptiness. He curled into himself, knees to chest, as if he could make himself small enough to disappear.

Then, with a soft chime, the system popped back up. The blue glow lit up his tear-stained face like it didn’t understand—or worse, didn’t care.

[FAME UNLOCKED!
1,000 people remember you. You can now gain a special trait!
[Special Trait] Click!]

“What the hell is wrong with you…? Why do you think I’ll keep playing your game after this? After she—” Jinu pulled himself off the floor. Slowly. Like his body was made of lead.

“This ends today. I’m not letting you toy with me anymore.”

His voice wasn’t loud. He didn’t have the strength to shout. But it was steady.

That dangerous kind of calm that comes right before the storm.
He staggered toward the door, not really knowing what he was doing. He just knew he had to move. Had to get away—from the apartment, from the system, from the screen, from himself. He left with no coat, no destination. Just pajamas and the night air holding him like a last embrace.

He ran.

Or something like it.

His legs barely responded, his lungs burned, and his eyes were still numb from crying. City lights blurred around him, flashes of color and sound. But all he could hear was that voice in his head: it’s over, it’s over, it’s over.

He had no idea how long it lasted. Minutes? Hours? Everything felt suspended outside of time.

Until he found it.

The Han River.

Vast. Still. Silent. As if it had been waiting for him.

Jinu stood there, panting. His arms were frozen, his face wet, his eyes so swollen he could barely keep them open. His legs were numb, but that wouldn’t matter soon.

There was a fence. Nothing he couldn’t climb.

It wasn’t particularly high or sturdy. All he had to do was place his foot right where the rail curved, push up, and let himself fall over the edge.

The wind slapped his skin. The city lights blinked behind him, indifferent.

It was cold. Around seven p.m. Almost no one was left in the park by the river. Most people were hurrying home. People with destinations. With purpose.

Everyone… except him.

Jinu stepped closer.

He placed one hand on the fence.

The metal was freezing.

Perfect.

And then he heard a voice.

“Are you the guy from Idol Reincorporated?”

He turned around like he’d been shot.

A little girl. Couldn’t have been more than nine. Next to her, her mother held her hand tightly, eyes wide with worry. Not just for him. For her daughter too—for what she had almost seen.

“Yes…? Do you know me?” Jinu asked, slowly letting go of the fence. He didn’t want to scare them any more than he already had.

“Yes! I liked your song. Tomorrow’s my birthday. Mom says I can buy shares for you. I want you to win.”

Jinu looked down. His breath was still shaky.

“Ah… You shouldn’t spend your money on me. I’m not worth it.”

The girl frowned, like she didn’t get it.

“You sang really well today. You made me really happy.”

It was a simple phrase. A small truth, spoken with total honesty.

And it was the most devastating thing anyone had said to him in weeks.

Jinu looked away, swallowing hard. The cold didn’t sting as much as that.

She hadn’t said it with sarcasm, or pity. It wasn’t a critique, or a joke, or a demand from an impossible system. It was just a girl. Seeing him. Hearing him. Telling him that—just by singing—he had done something.

His hands—the same hands that had clung to the fence like a last resort—fell to his sides, empty.

For a moment, just one, he thought he could breathe again.

But the pain didn’t go away. It just had a name now. A face. A voice.

Which somehow made it even harder.

“Thank you…” he whispered, not sure if he was saying it to her, her mom, or the universe that had kept him from jumping.

“Can we take a picture?” the girl asked, smiling brightly in a way that didn’t fit the moment, or the tremble still running through Jinu’s fingers.

“A picture…?” he murmured, still not quite processing.

She nodded, looking up at her mother. The woman, still holding her daughter’s hand, raised her phone cautiously, like it was something fragile. She looked at Jinu with care—but not fear. Her eyes were sad. And something else. Quiet tenderness.

“Only if you’re okay with it,” she said softly. “It’s for her birthday. She really liked your song.”

Jinu nodded on instinct. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe properly. But he forced himself to smile as the girl stepped closer and posed cheerfully beside him. Her mother took the photo. The click felt distant, like it happened in another world.

“Thank you,” the girl said, grabbing her mother’s hand again. “We’ll be cheering for you!”

Jinu barely managed a nod. That was all he could do.

The woman didn’t walk away right away. She took one step closer and, after looking at him for a long second, spoke just above a whisper:

“Thank you… for not doing it.”

Jinu felt his chest tighten.

“I don’t know what you’re going through, and I won’t ask. I just… I want you to know there are people out there who care about you. Even if you don’t see it yet.”

And then, without another word, she hugged him.

Jinu stood frozen for a second, his forehead resting on the woman’s shoulder. The world kept moving around them—blurry lights, distant footsteps, the river’s murmur—and he just breathed. He didn’t think. He didn’t speak. He let the cold and the silence wrap around him, like the weight of the night was melting away in her arms.

When they pulled apart, Jinu stayed there, watching them walk away. The girl turned back once to wave at him. He couldn’t lift his hand.

He sat down on the ground, in silence.

He didn’t cry right away.

He just felt hollow. Throat tight. Vision blurred. His whole body still cold.

And then, in that darkness, he started crying.

Not out of shame. Not out of weakness.

But because, for a second, he had truly believed there was nothing left.

And someone had stopped to say: there was.

He walked in silence.

He didn’t know how long he’d been walking. He didn’t know what street he was on, or when the night had turned so cold, or how far he was from home. He just kept going. One foot in front of the other, as if the motion alone could keep him from falling apart.

The city around him was still alive: cars passing, lights glowing, distant voices. But to him, everything was muffled. Like he was walking inside a bubble no one else could see. One no one dared to touch.

His arms were crossed over his chest. His pajamas were too big, and the only thing resembling a coat was the blanket draped over his shoulders. His eyes were swollen, his cheeks frozen, his throat dry. But he didn’t complain. He couldn’t.

He kept thinking about the girl.

How she’d looked at him. How she’d smiled.

How she believed in him without even knowing him.

And how her mother had looked at him with a tenderness he hadn’t seen in a long time.

When he turned the corner onto his street, his body began to ache. His muscles were tight, his feet sore, his neck stiff. Every step grew slower. His soul felt heavy.

The front door of his building appeared in front of him. He climbed the stairs without thinking. He didn’t even turn on the light.

The door clicked shut behind him, a soft sound that felt thunderous.

Jinu stood still in the entrance, like he didn’t know what to do next. His socks were wet, his clothes wrinkled, his cheeks still numb from the cold.

He set his keys down on the table and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, sitting on the hallway floor without even taking off his shoes. He took a deep breath. Then another. He didn’t cry.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because there were no tears left.

He looked around. The place hadn’t changed: still messy, still silent, with the half-eaten bowl of ramen on the table. The TV was still on, playing some unimportant late-night show. He walked over and turned it off with the remote. The silence that followed wasn’t worse.

It was almost… right.

He checked his phone. The screen had a crack in the corner, but it still worked. He closed the forum. Closed everything.

Then he went to shower. The water was ice-cold at first, but he didn’t move. Let it soak him, forehead pressed to the wall. He breathed slowly. Maybe too slowly.

He thought of Rumi.

Her expression.

The little girl.

The mother’s words.

“Thank you for not doing it.”

What if…?

He shook his head. He couldn’t think. Didn’t want to.

When he got out, he dried off poorly and went straight to bed, still in the same clothes. Curled under the covers, blanket pulled up to his chin, he held himself like that might be enough to put himself back together.

Maybe tomorrow things would be different.

Maybe tomorrow would hurt a little less.

But for now, there was only silence.

He woke up with his face stuck to the carpet.

Sunlight was already coming through the windows, straight into his puffy eyelids, and his mouth was dry, his lips cracked. His body ached like he’d run a marathon the night before. In a way, he had.

He sat up slowly. The blanket was still thrown over the couch, and the bowl of ramen on the table had completely dried out.

He didn’t know how many hours had passed since he got back. Or how long he’d been lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, doing nothing, thinking nothing.

But he had to get up.

Not for himself.

Not for Rumi.

He had to get up because someone, somewhere, was waiting for him.

A girl who was going to buy shares for him with her birthday money.

A mother who had thanked him for staying alive.

Some unknown fans who said his voice had made them cry.

A stage that still hadn’t seen him shine for real.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water, and looked at himself in the mirror. Dark circles, messy hair, a lost stare. And still, he took a deep breath.

He could keep going.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it didn’t make sense.

Even if the only person who had ever given him strength now thought he didn’t deserve a second glance.

He would keep going.

Because maybe he wasn’t enough yet, but he was still alive.

And as long as he was alive, he wasn’t giving up. Even if it was just for them. Even if it was just for that little piece of hope that refused to die.

That day, Jinu had to return to the program’s dorms.

He didn’t feel okay, but he didn’t feel awful either. He hadn’t slept much, but the memory of the girl by the river still gave him a faint spark of drive. As he stepped outside, he looked up at the sky and murmured, “Happy birthday,” hoping that wherever she was, she was still thinking of him with a smile.

The way to the set felt short. When he walked into the main studio, he was greeted by the bright stage and the voices of his teammates already in their seats. All 77 were back, arranged in front of a wide and glowing stage. The cameras turned on, and the host appeared with his usual energy.

“Welcome to Idol Reincorporated!” he cheered, his smile wider than the set itself. “Gentlemen, did you rest well these last few days?”

Not at all.

But everyone responded in chorus:
“Yes!”

“Haha, glad to hear it. Now tell me, what did you think of yesterday’s Music Bomb performance?”

Jinu tuned out. He felt like if he listened even one second longer, he’d start crying on camera. He stayed still, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, trying not to fall apart.

He didn’t snap out of it until he heard his name.

“Let’s begin organizing for the first evaluation!”

The host walked toward a transparent box in the center of the stage.

“Before that, each participant will come forward—in rank order—to draw a numbered ball from this box.”

Jinu was the first to stand. He walked forward feeling every pair of eyes on him. He reached into the box and pulled out a white ball.
39.

He held it a moment longer than necessary, then returned to his seat.

One by one, the others stepped up to draw their numbers. Some laughed. Others whispered, already trying to form alliances.

Finally, the host returned to center stage.

“Great. Now that everyone has a number… let me explain the first mission!”

A screen lit up behind him, revealing five shiny, golden logos.

“Behind me are the names of five world-renowned K-pop agencies. In this round, you’ll choose one of these agencies to train with and perform as a group. Each agency has a max capacity of 16 trainees.”

Dramatic pause.

“If more than 16 of you choose the same agency, one trainee with a higher medal rank will be allowed to eliminate someone with a lower medal!”

The screens lit up with tense background music. Some trainees glanced nervously at each other. Jinu stayed silent. The only thought in his head was: Please, don’t let me be with Haon.

“Thirty-nine?” said a voice way too close.

Jinu didn’t react right away. His gaze was still fixed on the white ball in his hands. The red number looked like it was mocking him.

“Dude, what a mediocre number.” Haon dropped into the seat beside him uninvited, flashing a grin that didn’t match the tension in the air. “I got forty-two. That means I’m technically your hyung. Just three ranks, but still counts.”

Jinu said nothing.

Haon glanced at him, waiting for a quip, a joke, some sort of sarcasm. Nothing. Just silence.

“Have you thought about which agency you’re joining?” he pressed, spinning his ball like it was some worthless coin.

Jinu shook his head. Slowly.

“We could go in together,” Haon suggested, like he hadn’t noticed the invisible wall between them. “You do the high notes, I do the best rap.”

Not even a twitch. Not a blink.

“You okay?” he asked, his tone dropping slightly. But it felt more like habit than real concern. Like a line he knew the other wouldn’t respond to anyway.

Jinu squeezed the ball.

“I’m fine.”

Haon stared at him a moment longer, then sighed and stood up with the same careless attitude he came with.

“Whatever. If you pick an agency, just don’t go for the one full of losers. Bye.”

Jinu didn’t think.

It wasn’t calmness. It was just… emptiness. Like his brain had shut down for maintenance and left a shell behind, running just enough to breathe and stay seated.

The host said something. Laughter. Murmurs. A new instruction. Then, his number.

“Thirty-nine, step forward.”

He didn’t react right away. The voice repeated. Someone beside him nudged him gently.

He stood.

His legs moved from memory. He walked with the ball between his fingers, crossed the stage without looking at the audience or the agency panels. He didn’t read names, didn’t register trainer faces.

He just walked.

And then, he looked up.

Sarang.

Abby.

Baeho.

Abby and Sarang looked up at him from inside, sitting on the floor in various stages of chaos. Abby waved both hands excitedly. Sarang smiled like they’d been waiting for this moment all day. Baeho… didn’t look up.

Jinu blinked. For the first time in hours, something stirred in his body that wasn’t just inertia.

He didn’t say anything.

But inside, a tiny crack formed in the shell. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t hope. It was something else. Something warm, barely there, slipping through the sadness like a thread of fresh air.

Haon showed up shortly after. Hands in his pockets, scowl on his face, like someone had ruined his breakfast.

“I asked for one thing,” he said the moment he stepped inside the agency’s circle. “Don’t hang out with the losers. Why do you never listen to me?”

His voice had that mocking tone he always used to hide everything else, but Jinu didn’t even lift his head.

Abby waved enthusiastically. Sarang threw him a finger heart. Baeho looked away.

Haon flopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh.

“Seriously… this was the plan? You tripped and fell into the agency? Because I refuse to believe this was strategic.”

Jinu didn’t respond. Still empty.

Haon glanced at him, then at the others.

“Great. Emotionally unstable agency. I’m stuck with you guys. Fantastic.”

Time passed. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it just crumbled around them.

People came in, chose, talked. Jinu could barely follow the conversations among the trainees, let alone the background chatter from the audience or the host’s ongoing instructions.

Once the last person picked an agency, a brief silence fell.

“Alright,” the host announced from the stage, still with that perfectly TV-ready smile. “Now that all the balls have been distributed, we’ll begin segmenting for the first group mission.”

Everyone looked up. Jinu didn’t.

“The first person to pick an agency, please touch the screen in front of you.”

“You’re up, Abby. You’ve got the lowest number,” someone said from behind.

The boy nodded eagerly, stepping up to the screen without hesitation. Abby was like that—impulsive, cheerful, unafraid to touch what sparkled.

Jinu watched from a distance, as if it weren’t even his life. Abby’s finger touched the screen.

An animation unfolded in the air. The group split immediately: to the left, Abby and Haon. To the right, Sarang and Baeho.

Jinu ended up with them. Alongside four other boys. He didn’t know their names. Didn’t care.

Their names appeared in two floating lists. Triumphant music played, way too cheerful for his mood. Then, the agency logo appeared, golden and glowing with a trailing light like a descending constellation.

Solstice Entertainment.

Jinu blinked. That name wasn’t one you could mistake.

Solstice.

Rumi’s agency.

“Dear participants! Had time to get to know each other? Now it’s time to choose a song! Did you notice the monitor in front of you changed? A representative, please step up and touch it!” The host’s voice rang out, chipper and bright—but to Jinu, it sounded like a sentence.

He didn’t see who stepped up. Didn’t matter. All he knew was that the moment the screen lit up, fate punched him in the gut with a glittering grin.

“Wait… didn’t this mission use to have girl group songs?” Sarang asked, frowning. His tone wasn’t flirty, wasn’t playful. It was serious. Like he had finally grasped the weight of what was coming.

Jinu looked up.

And there it was.

In the center of the screen, surrounded by vibrant visuals and bright colors, was the title. A name impossible to ignore.

“Starfire” – HUNTR/X

Jinu read the title and for a moment, he felt nothing.

Then, everything at once.

Rage. Pain. Irony. A weariness so deep he nearly floated out of his own body.

Life hated him. That was the only explanation. It hated him creatively. With a sense of humor. With perfect timing.

Of course it was that song. Of course the universe—or the system, or whatever was pulling the strings—would make him start over from there.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t cry. He just lowered his head, took a deep breath, and gave in.

“It’s fine…” he muttered, barely audible. “If I’m going to stay alive, I’ll play by your rules.”

It wasn’t what he wanted. But it’s what he had.

He raised his head. The resignation was gone. Only fire remained.

He looked his team in the eyes—Sarang, on the verge of a fashion-induced breakdown. Baeho, stiff as a board. The other four, pale as blank sheets. All waiting for someone to speak.

So Jinu did, he didn’t feel like a leader. But maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe what mattered was pretending until it became true.

“We’re going to destroy this song.”

Silence.

“We’ll take every beat, every note, every damn ‘star’ in those lyrics, and we’ll make it ours.” His voice was steady, clear, like he hadn’t spent the night before wanting to disappear. “This time, it doesn’t matter where the song comes from. Doesn’t matter if it was written by a legend or if it was a global hit.”

“What matters is that we’re the ones singing it. And when we’re done… no one’s going to be thinking about anyone else.”

And for the first time, Jinu believed his own words.

Because if he couldn’t live for himself anymore, then he would live to win.

Chapter Text

Starfire
That was the debut song of HUNTR/X.

Before solidifying the girl crush style that now defined them, the group had experimented with all kinds of concepts. Starfire was their first bet: a sweet, melodic, and bright song about first love. That warm, uncertain feeling that sparks suddenly and threatens to consume everything.

And now, that was the song Jinu’s team had to perform to pass the first round of the show.

The seven of them were sitting on the floor of the practice room, each with a printed sheet of lyrics in their hands. The speaker hadn’t started yet, but the title alone was enough to make Jinu’s chest tighten.

It wasn’t hate. It wasn’t fear. It was something far more uncomfortable. As if the universe was reminding him, once again, that there was no escape.

Sarang read in silence, brows slightly furrowed. Baeho, for his part, hadn’t said a word. He didn’t seem uncomfortable. Just… observant.

—“Do you all know the song?” —one of the guys finally asked, breaking the silence.
—“I started listening to HUNTR/X after their second album,” —Sarang replied, his smile tinged with apology.
—“Never thought I’d have to sing this,” —murmured another.

Jinu said nothing. He just looked up.

And he knew what he had to do.

—“Well, let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Do Jinu, rank 1. It’s a pleasure to be on a team with you.”

Silence.

A guy in the back cleared his throat awkwardly. Another lowered his eyes like he wanted to disappear.

Jinu smiled, still waiting for something else. Nothing. Of course.

—“And you?” —he insisted, still polite.

The first to speak was a slim guy, fringe covering part of his face, voice trembling.

—“Lee Minjae. Rank 41.”
Next came a more stocky boy, trying to hide inside his hoodie.
—“Park Hyunwoo. Rank 55.”
—“Kim Dowon, rank 53,” —said another without looking up.
—“Kang Taesung, rank 46.”

Finally, Sarang raised his hand as if they were in class.
—“Ming Sarang. Rank 36. And I’m also the team’s self-proclaimed visual.”

Jinu blinked.
—“Perfect,” —he said slowly—. “Kim Baeho, right?”
The mentioned boy nodded without looking at him.
—“Rank 27.”

Jinu kept smiling, though he could already feel his composure starting to crack on the inside.

Seven boys. None above rank 27. And they had five days to sing a sweet love song, coordinated, harmonized, choreographed.

They were screwed.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Finally, Jinu picked up the tablet. He didn’t look at anyone as he turned it on, as if the gesture wasn’t really his own—just something inevitable.

The file opened, and instantly the song began to play.

“Starfire.”

The instrumental filled the room with a bright, bouncy, almost childish rhythm. Sweet synths, cheerful percussion, playful strings in the background. It all sounded like the opening of a magical girl anime.

—“What… is this?” —murmured Baeho, eyes fixed on the screen as if it had personally insulted him.
Sarang let out a nervous giggle.
—“This sounds like we have to sing while making heart signs with our hands.”
—“Wait, wasn’t this a HUNTR/X song?” —Minjae asked, confused.
—“I thought they were more… badass.”
—“It was their debut,” —Jinu explained, looking down at the lyrics—. “Before their girl crush concept.”

He said it flatly. The only thing he could think was that the universe was bullying him with a fake smile.

Taesung read a line aloud:
—“When I saw you, my world spun and caught fire, it was so bright it scared me.”
Then he looked at them, horrified.
—“I can’t sing this.”
—“Me neither!” —Dowon jumped in—. “I don’t even have enough vocal range to say ‘I saw you’.”
—“We’re going to get destroyed,” —Park Hyunwoo said, throwing himself flat on the floor—. “They’re going to massacre us. Can we lip sync? Is that legal?”
—“Shut up,” —Baeho growled—. “No one’s lip syncing.”

Jinu kept reading. The second verse was even worse.
—“You are my flaming sky, I want to dance until the moon smiles at me.”
He nearly had a heart attack.

Sarang was spinning in circles, desperate.
—“Who can sing this with a straight face?! We’re going to get edited like clowns!”

Jinu shut the tablet with a loud snap.
—“That’s enough.”

The silence was immediate. Everyone turned to him.

Jinu raised the tablet again, this time with determination. His voice was still calm, but his gaze froze them all.

—“We’re going to sing this song. And we’re going to do it well. Not because we like it. Not because it’s easy. But because we have to. Because if we don’t, we’re out. So yes, it’s ridiculous. Yes, it’s sugary. Yes, it feels like pink confetti will explode every time we open our mouths… But it’s our song now. And we’re going to crush it.”

No one answered right away.

Until Minjae muttered, half resigned, half annoyed:
—“Easy for you to say. Even if we do badly, you’ll still win. You’re pretty, you sing well… you’ll always stand out.”

Jinu looked at him. So directly that Minjae lowered his eyes.

Then he spoke. Not angry. Not hurt. Just clear.

—“Do you really think I want to win alone? You think that would be a real victory?”

Silence again.

Jinu stepped toward the center.

—“I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if you think I’m here to take your spot. But if we’re going to do this together, then we’re doing it for real. All of us. If someone falls, I’ll pick them up. But no one gets left behind.”

No one moved.

Then, slowly, Sarang nodded. Then Baeho. Then Taesung. Like a chain reaction.

—“So…” —Hyunwoo said, half raising his hand—. “Do we rehearse?”

Jinu smiled, for the first time that day.
—“We rehearse.”

And hell began.
It was the first rehearsal, and everything was a disaster.

Minjae couldn’t hit the notes. His voice trembled so much it sounded like he was singing from a free-falling elevator.
Baeho, stoic as always, recited his part with a solemnity so intense it felt like he was declaiming an epic poem at a funeral.
Sarang tried to move with a mix of forced aegyo and stage panic. Sometimes he looked like he was flirting with the mirror, other times like he was begging for mercy.
Dowon didn’t open his mouth except to apologize.
Taesung messed up his position three times.
Hyunwoo forgot the lyrics halfway through the chorus.

And Jinu… Jinu just watched. Sitting at the edge of the mirror, arms crossed and tablet on his lap, he barely moved his lips. He didn’t sing. He didn’t correct. He just observed.

Until suddenly, a window popped up in front of him.

[FAME UNLOCKED!]
A thousand people remember you. You’ve earned the right to a special ability.
[Click to activate]

Jinu blinked, momentarily disconnected from the chaos around him. Without thinking too much, he tapped the screen.

The interface changed. A wheel began to spin.

“Celestial Voice,” “Alpha Presence,” “Hypnotic Charm,” “Perfect Choreography,” “Born Idol”…

It spun once, twice, three times.

And stopped.

[ABILITY ACQUIRED: “Pack Rhythm”]
When you take on a leadership role in a group, your teammates increase their willingness to follow you. Boosts team morale, increases learning speed, and reduces practice errors. Cumulative effect. Requires emotional bond with team members.

Jinu raised an eyebrow.
—“Pack rhythm?”

He almost laughed. Almost. But the laugh didn’t come.

He read the description again. “Minimum emotional bond.”

Fantastic. As if emotional connection was something you could force. As if he hadn’t spent the last 400 years avoiding exactly that.

He sighed and closed the window. Then stood up.

—“Five-minute break,” —he ordered, firmly.

Everyone looked at him, surprised. But no one objected.

While the others scattered like defeated soldiers —some drinking water, others collapsing to the floor with resignation— Jinu sat in a corner, back against the wall, and for the first time since they arrived, allowed himself to feel the weight of it all.

Five days. An impossible song. A team of boys who didn’t know each other, didn’t trust him, or even themselves.

And now… this absurd ability that required emotional bonds.

—“Of course,” —he murmured—. “Emotional bonds. Naturally.”

He said it under his breath, like a private joke between him and the universe.

Then he heard soft footsteps.

—“Can I…?” —a timid voice asked.

Jinu looked up.

It was Dowon. He clutched a folder like a pillow, eyes downcast, nervous.

—“What’s up?” —Jinu asked, not harshly, but not warmly either.

—“I wanted… to thank you,” —Dowon said, staring at his shoes—. “For earlier. When you cut off the crisis.
I… I get overwhelmed easily. I thought I was going to faint today. But I calmed down a little when you spoke. It felt… safe.”

Jinu didn’t say anything. But his eyebrows lifted slightly. He hadn’t expected that.

Dowon hugged the folder tighter.
—“Also… I don’t want to ruin it for the team. I know I’m not a good singer, but if you tell me what to work on, I’ll do it. I swear.”

A notification flickered in his vision:
[Emotional Bond: initializing…]

Jinu let out a sigh. This time, a softer one.

—“Bring the lyrics,” —he said, making space beside him.

Dowon smiled —small, sincere. He sat down next to him, legs crossed, and began going over his verse. His voice still trembled, but with each repetition, it got a little steadier.

And for the first time since this all began, Jinu thought that maybe, just maybe… they weren’t as screwed as he thought.

The others had returned, the room quiet now, broken only by the sound of bottles opening, towels hitting the floor, and the occasional muffled groan between breaths.

One by one, they gathered near the center again, sitting on the floor without being told. No one said anything, but no one left either.

Jinu stood up, still holding the lyrics in his hands.
They weren’t a team yet, but at least they moved like one.

—“I think it’s time we divide roles,” —Jinu said, while the seven of them sat in a loose circle, panting between towels, water bottles, and crumpled sheets of paper.

The silence didn’t last long.

—“You should be the main vocal,” —Sarang said without hesitation.
—“Obviously,” —Minjae added—. “Is that even a question?”
—“Yeah, you’re literally the best singer in the program,” —Taesung murmured.

Even Hyunwoo nodded silently, like it was so obvious it wasn’t even worth discussing.

Jinu swallowed hard. He wasn’t used to getting that kind of praise. Not without sarcasm or strings attached. It made him a bit uncomfortable. But he didn’t argue.

—“Alright. I’ll take the beginning, the bridge, and the high notes. The last chorus is stronger —I think Sarang should sing that one. Can you handle it?”

Sarang’s eyes went wide, then he nodded quickly.
—“Yes! I can try. I’ll practice until I get it perfect.”

—“Perfect,” —Jinu nodded—. “Minjae and Dowon, you’re on the harmonies. Taesung too. Hyunwoo, I’ll give you the spoken verses. You’ve got a good tone for that.”

Everyone seemed on board.

Jinu looked down at his sheet and murmured, more to himself than to them:
—“And the rap… will go to Baeho.”

The silence was instant. This time, heavy.

Baeho, who had been quietly watching from his corner with arms crossed and a deep scowl, lifted his head. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

His expression said everything.

Eyes narrowed. Jaw clenched. Fingers curled into fists on his knees.
It wasn’t explosive rage. It was disdain. Frustration. Maybe even pain.

Jinu met his gaze.
He didn’t look away. Didn’t ask permission. Just held it.

Baeho looked down first.

—“So…” —Hyunwoo began, like he needed to cut through the tension with anything—, “do we practice with those roles?”

Jinu nodded, barely.

—“Let’s rehearse.”

At 2 a.m., the music finally stopped.

Jinu glanced at the time on his tablet with a mix of exhaustion and stubbornness. The walls were sweating the echo of their voices, his feet ached, and no one even tried to pretend they had energy left.

Taesung had fallen asleep sitting up. Sarang was using his jacket as a pillow. Minjae was mumbling nonsense into the floor. Hyunwoo had started snoring. Dowon, still awake, stared at him like he was some kind of natural phenomenon.

Jinu looked at them.

Almost all of them.

One by one, he had made something happen. A word, a laugh, a shared look in the middle of chaos. Tiny moments. But enough. The bond —that absurd thing the system required— was starting to take shape.

All except Baeho.

—“That’s enough for today,” —he said at last—. “Go to the dorms. Five hours of rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

A collective murmur of relief and thanks followed the command.

They dragged themselves toward the door like jelly-limbed survivors. Some waved. Dowon smiled at him —tired, but grateful.

Jinu didn’t move.

He waited until the room was quiet, save for the faint sound of a bottle rolling across the floor.

Baeho was still there, shoving his sweat-drenched shirt into his backpack. His movements were fast, methodical, like he wanted to vanish before anyone tried to talk to him.

Jinu approached. His voice was dry, but not tense.
“Got a minute?”Baeho didn’t even turn around.
“What for?”

“To talk,” —Jinu said simply, sitting down a few steps away—. “About the team. About you.”

The silence was so thick it almost hurt.
Baeho finished zipping his backpack, dropped it on the floor, and crossed his arms, still not looking at him.

“I did everything you wanted,” he muttered. “I’ll keep practicing. There’s nothing else to talk about.”

“There is. I want to know if it bothered you that I assigned you the rap.”

Baeho tensed. One second. Two. His jaw clenched hard.

“What does it matter if it bothered me or not? I’ll do it anyway. Isn’t that what matters?”

“No,” Jinu said firmly.

That word actually made Baeho look at him. Not curious. Suspicious.

“Look, you don’t have to like me. But if there’s something holding you back from giving your best, I’d rather know. I’m not going to force you.”

“And what if I told you it did bother me?”

Jinu shrugged.
“Then we’d figure out another option. Or not. We’d decide together.” Baeho let out a humorless laugh. Low, dry.
“Do you always say the right thing, or only when you know someone’s watching?”

Jinu didn’t answer right away. He looked at him —at the exhaustion, the distrust, the clear barrier that wasn’t asking to be broken down, just respected.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a cliché with talent and a pretty face,” he said finally. “But if we’re in the same group, I at least want you to know I didn’t come here to step over anyone.”

Baeho looked away again.
Almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders dropped half a centimeter.

—Nice try,” he muttered.

And left.

That night, Jinu couldn’t sleep.
Not because something was eating at him. Not even because he was deep in thought. It was simpler than that.

He was tired. Physically wrecked, vocally dry, emotionally… the usual. But his mind wouldn’t turn off. Like his body had given up, and his brain didn’t know what to do with all the silence.

He stared at the ceiling for hours.
In the darkness, he could hear the disjointed breathing of his teammates. A soft snore. A buzzing outlet. The creak of the ceiling fan. The kind of details you only notice when you’re too awake to ignore them.

He should’ve felt something by now, he thought, eyes dry.

Dowon had been the first. Then Minjae, Taesung, Hyunwoo, even Sarang with his unbearable but genuine energy. Each of them had responded in their own way. A look. A word. A crack in the wall.

And Baeho?

Jinu frowned in the dark. Baeho was a wall. A cold, contained presence that always looked at him with the same silent judgment: You’re one of them.

The ones who wield their talent like a weapon. The ones who trample to rise.

Jinu didn’t know if he hated him… but he understood why he didn’t trust him.

And still… he thought, finally closing his eyes, if the system wanted him to build connections, it would have to wait a little longer with Baeho.

p>Because if he’d learned anything that night, it was that connections can’t be forced.

They have to be earned.

And tomorrow, he’d have to start doing just that.

The next day was vocal practice.
They were scheduled to meet with their mentor, who would give them feedback.

“Good morning, boys!”

Jinu stood up immediately, followed by the rest of the team.

“Good morning, sunbaenim,” they greeted, somewhat clumsily.

“You can call me Mewdy,” she smiled. “Coach Mewdy if you want to sound formal, but it’s not necessary.”

She set her folder on the upright piano in the corner, grabbed a bottle of water, and turned toward them with a strangely maternal energy.

“So these are the famous trainees from the butterflies-and-hearts song?”

Sarang nodded with tragic flair.
“The very same. But with dark circles now.”

“Perfect. I love a challenge,” she replied with a warm grin. “Alright, everyone in position, I want to hear the whole song. From the top. A cappella.”

The group froze.

“A cappella?” Hyunwoo whispered, pale.

“Exactly,” Mewdy confirmed, settling next to the piano. “I want to hear how you sound without relying on the track. Just your voices and the lyrics. Don’t worry if you mess up, I won’t kick anyone out for a flat note… yet.”

The joke echoed awkwardly.

Jinu took a deep breath.

“Let’s start from the top,” he said, and stepped into the center with the others.

The beginning was a barely contained disaster.

Minjae came in half a tone too low. Sarang jumped ahead in his line, then sang two words like someone had force-fed him sugar. Hyunwoo kept falling behind, while Dowon clutched the lyrics like they were his last will and testament.
Baeho didn’t miss a note —but he sang with zero intention, like he was reading a washing machine manual.

Jinu was the only one who held pitch and emotion, but even his voice felt… hollow. Precise, yes. Beautiful, even. But empty.

When they finished, Mewdy didn’t clap. She watched them for a moment in silence, then walked slowly to her folder.

“Thank you. You’ve got a solid base. It’s clear you practiced,” she said, kind but direct. “But I’ll be honest with you: you don’t sound like seven boys in love. You sound like seven inmates begging for sentence reduction.”

A wave of nervous laughter spread through the room.

“Is it the pitch?” Jinu asked, voice more controlled than he felt—. “We dropped it half a tone so everyone could reach the high notes.”

Mewdy nodded gently.
“Yes, I noticed. Vocally it’s more comfortable this way. But lowering it took away part of its brightness. Starfire works because it sounds like someone’s heart is exploding. You can’t sing it afraid of going off pitch. It has to feel like you’re falling in love in real time.”

Dowon muttered something that sounded like a tiny “help me.”

“I’m not going to ask you to raise it again,” Mewdy clarified, “but I do need you to start finding a way to connect with what you’re singing. You can’t be embarrassed of this song. You have to dive into it completely, or it’ll fall apart.”

She moved to the keyboard, tapping a soft note with one finger.

“We’re going to work section by section. We’ll find that emotion. You don’t need to be in love, but you have to remember what it feels like to really want something. Can you do that?”

The session with Mewdy ended with a timid round of applause and lots of downward stares.
No one said a word as they walked down the hallway in a loose single file, heading back to the assigned practice room. Some carried the sheet music under their arms. Others just dragged their feet.

Once inside, they settled like always: on the floor, in a lopsided semicircle, surrounded by water bottles, open backpacks, and the lingering echo of collective vocal humiliation.

No one spoke.
The only sound came from the hum of the air conditioner and the faint crinkle of a plastic bottle in Hyunwoo’s hands.

Until Dowon, eyes fixed on the floor, muttered:

“I think we should raise the key.”

Everyone looked at him.
Sarang sat up a little straighter, curious.

“What do you mean?”

Dowon shrugged, frowning, like he was forcing himself to speak.

“The key. We lowered it because it was easier, but… now it sounds too soft. Like the song’s shy. I think if we go back to the original pitch, it’ll feel more like… like it’s supposed to.”

Silence.
Taesung shifted awkwardly.

“But what if I can’t reach it?”

“Then we train until we do,” —Jinu said, quiet but certain.

Minjae blinked.
“That easy?”

Jinu looked at them one by one.

“Mewdy’s right. This song works when you sound like your chest’s about to explode. Right now, it sounds like we’re hiding behind the melody. If we’re gonna do this… we can’t hide.”

Another silence.
But this one was different. Heavier, yes—but full of something else. Decision.

Sarang let out a long breath.
“Okay. I’ll just scream prettier.”

—“I’ll work on my falsetto,” Hyunwoo added.

“We can try harmonizing to cover each other,” —Minjae offered.

Dowon looked relieved, even if just a little.
Taesung gave a small, decisive nod.

Baeho didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t protest either.

Jinu smiled. Just barely. But it was there.

“Then let’s do it. From the top.”

And so, they sang. Again. And again. And again.
Raising the key made every note harder. Every mistake louder. Every breath shorter. But with every run, they were getting closer.

Not to perfection. But to something real.

And this time, Jinu could feel it.
Not just in his voice, but in his chest.

A spark.

Starfire.

While Jinu and the others were still nervous, outside the set, the story was different.
Mission performances were always held in front of an audience, and the tickets were raffled among the shareholders. Today we meet Jelly—or that’s what they go by online.
Not a fan; they stopped caring about idols a while ago. Right now, they’re here to take pictures of trainees and see if they can sell them later.

When they finally got in, they were met with a sea of signs, LED lights, and handmade banners. Most were for Jinu.
“Jinu my Top 1”
“Center since the womb”
“My angel of the season.”
Jelly rolled their eyes but still got their camera ready.

Then the lights went out. A spotlight lit the stage. And the MC appeared, wearing a practiced smile and holding a golden folder.
—Welcome to the first concert of Idol Reincorporated! —he announced, loud and cheerful—. Tonight, you’ll see ten performances: two from each of our five participating agencies.

Pause for the screaming.
“Each team will perform a song from their own company’s catalog, and at the end of each battle, you, our shareholders, will vote for the group that impressed you the most”.

The lights panned over the crowd, and an excited murmur swept across the room.
The first performances were fine. Not boring or anything, but it was clear they were still trainees.
Everything changed when it was time for the agency.

Solstice.
Known worldwide for HUNTR/X, but every group under their label had at least one hit.
“From Solstice Entertainment, presenting Eclipse with “HITMODE” by Vortex.”

The crowd went wild.
HITMODE, the song of the moment, number one on the charts for weeks. An explosion of aggressive beats, complex choreography, and arrogant vibes that only a few could pull off.
The shareholders screamed even louder when Haon appeared on screen. Rank 2. His name alone was enough to ignite the room.

He had a fandom that followed him everywhere. Glowing signs with his face lit up the arena.
And then… silence.
The screaming stopped the moment the music began.
And not out of respect.

That’s the downside of performing a popular song. Everyone knows how the original sounds. Every note, every pause, every breath. They’re not comparing you to your rivals—they’re comparing you to perfection.
And from the very first line, it was clear this… wasn’t it.

”They’re not sound like Vortex” a girl whispered next to Jelly.
“Not even close” another replied.

The performance continued without issue—they did well.
Haon stood out. Maybe too much. He was both rapper and vocalist, and he dominated every inch of the stage like it belonged to him. His moves were sharp, his attitude confident, his gaze razor-sharp.
But the more he shone, the dimmer the others became.

Jelly barely blinked when their lens focused on Abby.
He was one of the trainees on their radar—not because he was popular, but because his face was expressive, photogenic, and he usually moved like the stage was his playground.

But tonight… that spark was gone.
No signs of his usual hyper energy. No bright smiles. He looked dim. His lines were few, his expressions flat.
Like he didn’t want to be there.
Like the stage didn’t fit him anymore.

”Next up, our final performance of the night, also from Solstice. We present “Starfire” by HUNTR/X, performed by Orbit”

The screen at the back lit up in pastel tones, and the stage went dim.
Only a soft light bathed the seven Solstice trainees, all dressed in white outfits with silver accents. The contrast with the previous performance was total. No aggressive poses, no flashy effects. Just silence… and anticipation.

The instrumental began.
It wasn’t the song the audience expected.

The melody was no longer an anime opening for magical girls. It was now a ballad—sweet, but full of emotion. The tempo was slower, the notes drawn out, almost floating.
Like a whispered promise.

Jinu stepped forward, took a breath, and opened the song:

“When I saw you, my world spun and caught fire…”
“It was so bright… it scared me.”

His voice was clean. Clear as crystal, but not fragile.
There was a wound beneath the tone—something that made the crowd hold their breath.

Jelly lowered their camera for a second.
“What…?” they muttered. This wasn’t what they expected.
It wasn’t what anyone expected.

The spotlight followed Jinu as he sang.
The rest of the group stood aligned behind him, still, breathing in sync. The choreography was minimal, almost nonexistent, but their bodies spoke.
Every move, every head tilt, was charged with intention.

Dowon followed with a lower, shaky line—but it was filled with emotion:

“It bloomed too fast… and left me chasing shadows.”

Hyunwoo and Minjae joined in with soft harmonies.
There was a bit of awkwardness, sure, but also a raw sincerity that hurt.

The audience leaned forward.
It didn’t feel like a performance.
It felt like a confession.

Then came the first chorus.
Jinu, Taesung, and Sarang at the front:

“You are my sky on fire, lighting up every night.”
“I wanna dance until the moon smiles back at us.”

The tone climbed.
The vibrato in Jinu’s voice was barely noticeable—but it felt like electricity under the skin.
Sarang, with his softer tone, added an unexpected tenderness to the ending.
He didn’t look nervous.
He looked… real.

The second verse began with Minjae—more confident now, though his voice still shook on the sustained notes.
Not perfect. But alive.

“The dreams I hid behind my eyes…”
“They woke up the moment you smiled.”

Taesung took over.
It was clear he wasn’t a natural vocalist, but he was in sync with the group.
His voice didn’t stand out for technique, but for the care he put into every word—like he was afraid to break them.

Then the track shifted.
The beat paused for a second. Only a deep bass note marked the rhythm.

Baeho stepped forward.

The audience held their breath.

With a deep, dry tone and almost no backing, he delivered:

“I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“I don’t fall for shooting stars.”
“But then you smiled and for a second—”
“I thought maybe I could burn too.”

A murmur spread through the crowd.
The kind you can’t hold back.

No one expected that from Baeho.
His voice had an edge. Contained rage. Vulnerability hidden in sharp lines.
He didn’t rap like an idol.
He rapped like someone who needed to get something out.

Jinu and Dowon returned with a soft harmony that eased the tension:

“Even if we fade like sparks…”
“At least we burned.”

The lights shifted. A golden glow enveloped them.
The instrumental soared toward the final chorus.

Sarang stepped forward, alone.
His hands trembled slightly—but his voice didn’t.

“You are my sky on fire…”
“And I’ll dance until the moon smiles back.”

And then they all came in. Perfect synchronization.

“Starfire, starfire—let me burn in your light.”
“If I disappear, let it be while I shine.”

The choreography came down to a single gesture:
One hand on the chest, the other reaching toward the sky. Nothing more.

Jinu took the final note.
Held the vowel with flawless clarity.

But what hurt wasn’t the power.
It was the emotion.

A heavy silence filled the room when it ended.

And then, the applause exploded.

Jelly had forgotten to take a single shot.
Their camera still hung around their neck, untouched—while the image of Jinu, eyes closed, still burned behind their eyelids.

Then came the cheers.
It hadn’t been the most polished performance.

But they would win.
There was no doubt.

Chapter Text

He didn’t even hear the applause.

It hit him like a wave, but barely registered. His ears were ringing, his chest still tight from the final note, and his heart—God, his heart was trying to crawl out of his throat.

Not because he’d done it perfectly. Not because the stage lights had hit him just right at the key moment. Even if all that was true.

It was because of the faces.

Dozens, maybe hundreds of them, down there in the audience. Lit up by pastel screens and trembling cameras. Some screaming, some crying, some holding signs that said “my angel of the season” like they really meant it. Like they saw him. Really saw him.

And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Jinu remembered exactly why he loved this.

Not for the fame. Not for the status. Not for the sparkly edits and praise.

It was for the connection.

For that raw, beautiful chaos of singing something honest and seeing it land.

He loved the fans. Every ridiculous, intensely emotional, obsessed person standing there. He loved them with that kind of fierce, desperate love that made you want to keep living. For real, this time.

And tonight, they’d heard him.

He opened his eyes.

And smiled.

[AN AMAZING PERFORMANCE!]
You’ve impressed the majority!
Audience count: 143 people (new record)
Impressed rate: 92%
[NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED] Click!

Jinu glanced at it for barely a second, blinking at the blue glow floating in front of him.

“I’ll check it later,” he muttered to himself, closing the window with a flick.

Not now. Not while the crowd’s voice was still pounding in his ears. Not while the memory of the boys singing still burned in his chest.

He loved the fans.
Every ridiculous, intensely emotional, obsessed person out there.
He loved them with that kind of fierce, desperate love that made you want to keep living.
For real, this time.

And tonight, they’d heard him.

After the song ended, still breathless, they waved goodbye to the audience as they headed backstage.

“Watch your step on the stairs!” someone from the staff yelled.

“That was insane…” Dowon murmured, still panting.

“That was… actually fun,” said Jinu, wearing the biggest smile in the world.

“You got tha—” Sarang started to say, but a sudden roar from the crowd cut him off.

“Encore! Encore!”

The chant rose like a heartbeat, a sea of voices echoing through the venue. Jinu instinctively turned. The stage lights were already dimming, but the faces in the crowd still glowed.

A camera zoomed in on them, probably to catch their reactions for the broadcast.

“We did it. We crushed that song,” Jinu whispered, still not quite believing it.

He didn’t know why he was this happy. He could pretend it was just part of the act, just to keep the image for the camera. But that would be a lie.

During all those days, forming bonds and teaching the others, he never once thought about how he’d look at the end. He just wanted it to work. He just wanted them to shine.

At some point, Hyunwoo grabbed his arm and pulled him into a group hug.

“It was all thanks to you, self-proclaimed leader,” Sarang joked, his voice still shaky with emotion.

“Let’s make sure we’re a team next time too,” said Minjae, with a tired but genuine smile.

Jinu wrapped his arms around them all and thought, for the first time in a long while, that maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

The host gave a final closing remark, then called both teams—Eclipse and Orbit—to the front.

“Shareholders, now it’s time to vote for the team you liked the most,” the host announced as both group names appeared on the screen. “Press one for Eclipse… and two for Orbit.”

The vote count was quick. And the result? Overwhelming.

76 to 44.

They had won.

It was pure joy and complete surprise. Jinu’s special skill helped a lot—everyone’s stats had gone up by at least one point.

The one he cared about the most was Sarang. He still couldn’t remove his stigma, and wasn’t working at full potential, but at least he had a starting point.

As for Baeho…

Nothing.

Zero bond. Zero improvement.

Jinu sighed inwardly. Too stubborn to be real.

A couple of hours later, they were FREE again. Their phones were returned and they could finally go home to rest.

Or at least, that’s what Jinu thought.

Until he was cornered in the hallway by an overly enthusiastic Sarang, which was impressive, considering the time.

“Give me your contact info!” he demanded, pulling out his phone like it was a weapon. “Orbit NEEDS a group chat. It’s actually illegal for us not to have one.”

“What if I prefer to maintain an air of mystery?” Jinu tried, half-smiling.

“You already have plenty of mystery. And aura. And stage presence. Don’t be antisocial, Leader.”

Jinu rolled his eyes but agreed.

Maybe… maybe a group chat wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

“If you find Baeho, add him too. I can’t find him,” said Sarang, already pocketing his phone. Then he ran off, waving enthusiastically as he dashed toward his waiting parents.

Jinu stood in the hallway, watching him leave.

“Alright, I guess… he won’t listen to me anyway. But since when has that ever stopped a desperate leader.”

He walked slowly toward the bathroom, half-praying Baeho would be there and wouldn’t tell him to get lost for trying again.

Luck—or maybe the universe’s script—seemed to be on his side today.

Baeho was there. Facing away from the door, washing his hands.

Jinu opened his mouth to greet him… and then heard another voice. One he didn’t expect. One that froze him in place.

“So you decided to rap again,” Haon’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. He was leaning against the bathroom mirror, arms crossed, smirking. “How brave. I guess having Jinu in your group gave you wings.”

Baeho didn’t turn around. He was splashing water on his face, like he was trying to erase the last few minutes.

“Don’t get too excited,” Haon continued, taking a few steps closer. “We all know that without someone dragging you along, you wouldn’t even make it past the first verse. And I’m not saying that just because I think so. Your three years of irrelevance say it for me.”

Baeho clenched his jaw. His reflection was a statue—still, but about to crack.

“Do you really think it’s going to be different this time?” Haon lowered his voice, like he was sharing some venomous secret. “It doesn’t matter how much talent you have if no one can stand you. And you… you’ve got a pretty face and a shitty personality. No one wants someone like you in a group.”

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

“And this time, you’re not home. You can’t hide. You’re going to fall—alone.” Haon’s voice dropped into a whisper, dry and cold.

And just before walking out, he turned one last time:

“Hope they got some good pictures of you. ’Cause the only thing you’ll leave behind is a pretty face.”

He left.

And Baeho… didn’t move.

Jinu, hiding around the corner, felt something boiling inside him. Not just anger. Not just helplessness.

He stepped into the bathroom. He wasn’t sure if he should tell Baeho he’d heard it all. It might only make him angrier.

But he didn’t have to say anything. Baeho spoke first.

“You came too…” he muttered, not looking at him. “I don’t know why I expected you to be any different from him.”

Jinu swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know if he should say anything.

“I… I didn’t mean to overhear,” he mumbled without raising his head. “I just… heard it by accident.”

Baeho didn’t answer. The silence felt so cold it bordered on punishment.

“And I don’t believe any of that, just so you know,” Jinu added, words rushing out. “What he said. I don’t believe it.”

Nothing.

“I just came because… I don’t know. I thought maybe—”

He thought maybe they could talk. But he didn’t finish the sentence.

“You thought what?” Baeho cut him off, voice dry. “That you’d say something and fix it all?”

Jinu finally looked up. He wanted to explain. Wanted to say he didn’t have a speech prepared, that he came because he cared. That he knew what it was like to feel like a mistake.

But the words wouldn’t come out. They got stuck right where they always did—in his throat.

“Forget it,” Baeho said, turning away. “The last thing I need is another guy with talent and a pity face hovering over me.”

And he left.

Jinu stayed behind in the bathroom, hands in his pockets, mouth slightly open, with that awful feeling of having done everything wrong even with the best intentions.

But this time, he didn’t stay still.

He ran after him.

He caught up in the hallway. Baeho didn’t stop walking, so Jinu spoke from a few steps behind, voice tense:

“Sarang wants to make a group chat for Orbit! He asked me to add you.”

Baeho stopped.

And laughed.

A broken, bitter laugh.

He turned slightly, eyes red. He wasn’t shouting, but every word hit like a slap.

“A group chat? Seriously?” he scoffed. “After this? After what you heard? You think I can be in a group with you guys like nothing happened?”

“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t hurt,” Jinu said, softer now. He took a step closer. “But we’re not on Haon’s side. I’m not—”

“Better worry about your foreign little buddy,” Baeho spat. “Sounds like Haon talked to him too.”

Jinu froze.

Abby.

What the hell was Haon doing?

When had things gone so far off plan?

And the worst part was… in the middle of all that chaos, all he could think about was that he wanted Baeho back.

His Baeho.

For a moment, up there on stage, he saw him. Enjoying it. Rapping with fire in his voice.

Maybe not everything was lost yet.

But it wouldn’t fix itself.

The walk back home was quiet. Not that he usually talked much on other days, but today felt different.

He was deep in thought.

Empty.

This whole situation had shaken him.

He thought about Haon.

Annoying? Absolutely.

Obnoxious? Even more.

Competitive, egotistical, unbearably full of himself? Check, check, and check.

But he never imagined it would get this bad. Never thought Haon would be that cruel to Baeho. That he’d hurt him like that. That he’d say those kinds of things.

The conversation he overheard still echoed in his mind.

Not just because of how harsh Haon had been, but because of how Baeho reacted.

Or rather, how he didn’t react.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t defend himself.

He just stood there, swallowing every word like he deserved it. Like he was used to it.

And that… that was the worst part.

Jinu kicked a small rock on the sidewalk as he walked. The streets were mostly empty at that hour, but his head was a mess.

Baeho and Haon were from the same agency.

They had shown up together for the initial ranking auditions, if he remembered correctly.

And even though Haon always introduced himself as the charismatic rap star...

Baeho was better. A thousand times better.

Jinu knew it. The trainers knew it.

Haon probably knew it too.

And maybe that was the whole point.

It had been personal.

Calculated.

As if Haon had spent years figuring out exactly what to say to break him.

And Baeho didn’t even flinch.

Not a word.

Not even a “shut up.”

No glare of anger.

Just that cold expression, that way of shrinking in front of the mirror like he deserved every goddamn word.

Jinu took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable.

What the hell had they done to him?

Because that wasn’t a spontaneous reaction.

That was a pattern. An open wound that had gotten used to being punched without flinching.

And that made him angrier.

At Haon. At himself.

Because he hadn’t noticed sooner. Because he hadn’t done anything sooner.

And now, when he finally tried to reach out, when he tried to say something—anything—to show he cared, Baeho pushed him even further away.

"The last thing I need is another guy with talent and a pity face hovering over me."

Jinu clenched his teeth.

He wasn’t giving up.

Because he had seen it. There, on stage.

He had seen Baeho enjoy himself. Just for a second.

A single line. A single look. A single verse that sounded like he actually meant it.

And if that Baeho still existed…

Then Jinu was going to find him again.

If it was the last thing he did.

Jinu had barely made it home when his phone buzzed with a vengeance.

[New group created: ORBIT’S SLAY GC 🌠🔥]

The notification popped up alongside a barrage of messages exploding one after another like fireworks across the screen.

Sarang: WELCOME KINGS

Sarang: This is the most talented, gorgeous, and chaotic group in the entire competition

Sarang: And yes, the name is non-negotiable

Minjae: …couldn’t we just call it “Orbit”?

Sarang: You’re free to start your own subunit. Orbit But With Anxiety

Dowon: LMAO I’m in

Hyunwoo: Is this mandatory?

Sarang: ONLY IF YOU HAVE A HEART

Hyunwoo: Ok I’m leaving then

Jinu dropped onto his couch, smiling as the conversation spiraled. He hadn’t even had a chance to reply before another message came in.

Taesung: Does anyone have pics of us? I need to change the group photo, we look like a 2000s boyband

Dowon: I don’t have pics, but I do have one where my eyes are closed, if that helps

Minjae: Send it

Sarang: DONE. NEW PROFILE PIC ✨

The image changed instantly. All of their faces crudely cut and pasted over a burst of PowerPoint stars, with “The Future of Kpop” in Comic Sans across the top.

Jinu covered his face with one hand.

Jinu: …is this legal?

Sarang: NO, IT’S BETTER

Jinu: I see why no one wants to work with you

Sarang: EXCUSE ME, I AM BELOOOOVED

Taesung: hey but where’s Baeho

Minjae: has anyone seen him?

Dowon: Maybe he’s actively ignoring us

Sarang: That’s sad. Jinu, you’re the leader, go get him. Use us as an excuse.

Jinu: I already tried. He hates me.

Sarang: Even more reason to insist 😌

Jinu sighed, but couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. It was chaos.

Glorious chaos.

And for the first time, that chat full of scuffed icons and caps lock yelling felt… kind of like home.

The three days off felt like a divine blessing. Jinu spent them eating things with way too much sugar, watching mediocre dramas with needlessly messy plots, and letting his body—for once—not follow any rhythm but his own.

He slept in late. Replied to the Orbit group chat with vague emojis. Even recorded himself singing a line of Starfire in the voice of a sick cat, just because Sarang said he missed him. (The audio was instantly turned into a sticker. Sarang has no mercy).

It was nice. Weird, but nice.

Of course, all good things come to an end.

On the fourth day, they were summoned back for an “informative conference and official welcome” at the set. It sounded important, but turned out to be a PowerPoint presentation with sound effects and a show director who seemed to be at war with the concept of charisma.

When they were finally released, Jinu figured at least he’d get fresh air and a little peace.

Spoiler: nope.

The second he stepped out the front doors, he hit a wall of sound.

Screaming. Signs. People with banners. Cameras. Phone lenses pointing at him from every angle. One of the signs read “Jinu 4 ever” with a heart so poorly drawn it honestly looked like a kidney, but the gesture still warmed his chest.

“Jinu! We love you!”

“Leader-nim!!”

“Main character of the seaaasoooon!!”

And in the middle of all that sea of voices, the loudest one came from someone with a pro camera hanging around their neck and a sign in the other hand:

“Jinu, a photo! Jinu, look here! JINU!”

Jinu had no idea who it was. Just another fan, he thought. But we know better.

It was Jelly. Yes, *that* Jelly. The one who “wasn’t an idol fan.”

Sure, babe.

Jinu could barely hold back a laugh.

Chaos. Pure chaos.

And for some reason, it felt good. Like that noise, that energy, that glitter-covered, semi-hysterical love was exactly what he needed.

Jinu laughed. He didn’t think twice before starting to pose.

A half-smile, one hand raised, then a finger heart.

At first, it was automatic. Like riding a bike. Like breathing. But then—he felt it for real.

He was happy. He was proud.

And when the shouting didn’t die down, when people kept chanting his name and asking for more, he spun on his heel, looked around, and shouted:

“SARANG! ABBY! Come pose with me!”

Sarang showed up instantly, already doing finger hearts and blowing kisses to the crowd before he even reached Jinu’s side.

“Born ready for this! We ARE the fanservice, baby!” he yelled, throwing his arms up like he was greeting an entire nation.

Abby took longer. First, he hid behind Hyunwoo. Then behind Taesung. But Jinu caught him anyway.

“No! I don’t want to die pretty!” Abby protested as Jinu dragged him by the sleeve.

“Too late,” Jinu replied, not letting go.

In seconds, the three of them were posing in front of the avalanche of flashing lights.

Hearts, peace signs, silly faces, ridiculous poses.

Sarang stole a fan’s sign. Abby acted like he was the lead in the most dramatic K-drama of the year.

And Jinu? Jinu just let himself enjoy it.

For a few minutes, it was just them and that sea of happy voices.

They were together.

Chapter Text

Ever since that day hosting Music Bomb, Rumi had been dreaming more and more.

Sometimes, they were simple things: a performance on a stage she didn’t recognize, a song that didn’t exist in her discography, an outfit she’d never worn. Other times, they were intense, visceral. She dreamt of fights. Of Mira screaming. Of Zoey looking at her with a mix of fear and disappointment. Sometimes, she even saw herself running down endless hallways, looking for something—or someone—she couldn’t quite see.

Rumi wasn’t the type to scare easily, but something about those dreams stuck with her during the day. As if they weren’t just dreams. As if her mind was whispering something she didn’t fully understand yet.

She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Mira. Not even Zoey. She figured, well, the Golden Honmoon anniversary was coming up. It was probably just stress. Her body remembering something important in its own way.

Besides, she had other things to think about today.

It was the official premiere of Idol Reincorporated: Season 3, and Mira had been announcing all week that she was going to watch it on the living room’s big screen.

“I want to witness this season’s disaster in cinematic quality,” she’d said, adjusting the TV like she was prepping for surgery. She already had the blanket, the popcorn, and a notepad ready for morally-charged commentary.

Rumi, of course, planned to stay in her room. Maybe rehearse a new song. Maybe sleep. Maybe just lie face down staring at the floor like a functional human being.

But then Zoey burst into the apartment like a solar storm in unicorn pajamas, took three steps, and flopped onto the couch shouting:

“COOOOUUCH!!!”

“You wanna watch it too now?” Mira asked, not even looking away from the screen.

“Duh! You think I’d miss this? There’s drama, tears, people falling while dancing. This is culture!”

Rumi blinked. She had an escape route planned, but between one’s excitement and the other’s judgmental stare, her chances of fleeing were basically zero.

“I’m not watching anything if you two start screaming,” she tried.

“We won’t scream. Probably,” said Zoey, already grabbing a blanket. “Go get something to eat and stop asking questions.”

Rumi sighed.

Social pressure, she thought. Damn social pressure.

She plopped down on the couch with them like someone accepting their fate.

Who would've thought her peaceful afternoon would end up like this: surrounded by friends, snacks, and a ridiculous dose of idol reality TV.

The first episode aired in a special three-hour format.

The three girls were sprawled across the couch, surrounded by snacks, staring at the glittering logo of Idol Reincorporated: Season 3 on the screen. The tension was nonexistent, the juice was cold, and Zoey’s leg had been resting on Rumi for the past twenty minutes.

The screen immediately cut to a rapid-fire montage of screenshots from the Tnet forum, the favorite hangout of people with no filter and no inner peace:

“Oh my God,” whispered Zoey, her mouth full of chips.

“They really dropped those comments uncensored,” Mira said, laughing in disbelief. “Where’s the PR team?”

“In jail, probably,” murmured Rumi.

The screen shifted to the recording set. A pyramid of 77 chairs sparkled under artificial lights, with number one at the top and 77 at the bottom, like a visual punishment. The crowd started screaming. The auditions for ranking were about to begin.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Mira said.

“I’m ready,” declared Zoey, hugging a pillow with dramatic flair. “I want to see people cry.”

All three of them lay on the couch, snacks scattered around, faces lit only by the television.

Rumi wouldn’t say it out loud, but among all those auditions, there was one name she was waiting for. Just out of curiosity. Nothing more.

But the avalanche of confused trainees and failed choreographies had her completely lost.

Until Zoey shrieked.

“LOOK! He’s totally my type!”

Rumi blinked. Mira sat up straighter. On screen was a visibly nervous boy who barely managed to say his name before tripping over the mic. He introduced himself as Minwoo, and his performance was adorable chaos: he forgot part of the lyrics, spun in the wrong direction, and ended with a heartfelt “thank you for your patience.”

Zoey was ecstatic.

“He’s so cute, I’m buying all his shares,” she announced, phone already in hand.

“Since when do you invest in anything that isn’t glitter nail polish?” Mira asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Since now,” Zoey replied, downloading the Tnet app at lightning speed.

“Wait—does it work like that?” Rumi muttered, a bit more intrigued. “Whoever has more shares debuts?”

“Exactly,” said Zoey, eyes glued to the screen. “It’s emotional capitalism at its finest. I love it.”

Rumi stared at her like Zoey had just declared she was a fan of taxes.

“Emotional capitalism…?”

“Shhh, the next one’s talking,” Zoey whispered, hugging the pillow like it was a licensed plushie.

Then, a new figure appeared on screen.

The background was plain, the stage just like the others, but something about the boy’s posture made Rumi pay closer attention. He walked to the center with calm steps. Bowed his head. Greeted. And then, in a steady but quiet voice, said:

“I’m Do Jinu.”

That was it. Two words. But to Rumi, they sounded like déjà vu she couldn’t place.

“Oof, he’s hot,” Mira whistled, nudging Zoey. “Was that your type too?”

“Shut up, I want to hear him sing,” Zoey snapped, uncharacteristically serious.

But Rumi didn’t hear anything else.

She was too busy feeling something in her chest leap slightly.

As if, in some corner of her memory, she had heard that voice before.

And then, without warning, she saw it.

For a split second. Maybe less.

An image that didn’t belong to this moment. Or this place.

A boy—the same boy— singing a cheerful song, something like “Soda Pop,” surrounded by fans in the middle of a street.

And his arm.

His arm was covered in glowing purple patterns. Demon markings, pulsing as if alive.

Rumi blinked.

The image vanished.

“Rumi?” Mira asked, turning to her.

Rumi didn’t answer.

She just stared at the screen.

The boy was still there, greeting the audience, like nothing happened. Like he hadn’t just dragged her through a memory she didn’t know she had.

Rumi stood up abruptly.

“He’s a demon!”

Zoey, mid-bite into a cookie, choked.

“Excuse me?”

“What did you say?” Mira asked, frowning.

“That boy! The one who just introduced himself! He has marks on his arm, demon patterns, I saw them!” Rumi was speaking fast, pointing at the screen like it was a live threat. Her eyes were wide, her heart racing.

“Rumi…” Mira began, careful. “Are you okay?”

“I swear! I’m not making this up! It was real! They were the same patterns from— from— you know which ones!”

Zoey looked at her like she’d just claimed the couch was sentient.

“You’re saying the random trainee with the pretty voice… is a demon? On national TV?”

“YES!!”

Silence. Only the background music of the show was audible.

“Rumi,” Mira said diplomatically. “We sealed the Honmoon. Remember? Golden barrier. Hundreds of cameras. Fans. All of that.”

“Exactly!” Rumi shouted, more agitated now. “What if it failed? What if it wasn’t enough? What if he—”

“What if you need to lay off the sugary coffee?” Zoey said, grabbing the remote. “Or the drama. One of the two.”

Mira sighed, but leaned in gently.

“Maybe it was just a bad dream. You’ve been having a lot lately, right?”

Rumi didn’t answer. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen.

The boy—Jinu—was no longer on stage. Only the echo of his voice remained in her head.

And that image.

That damn image.

His name appeared on screen in a burst of sparkly effects:

Do Jinu.

Applause. Epic music.

The boy calmly climbed to the top of the pyramid, as if it weighed nothing. As if he didn’t care.

Rumi remained completely still.

Her jaw tightened. Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. She didn’t blink.

Zoey was still on the couch, one hand over her mouth and the other on her phone.

“Wow, rank one!! He’s so handsome!!”

“No,” Rumi spat, in a voice she didn’t recognize.

“What?” Mira turned to her.

Rumi didn’t answer. She stepped toward the screen like it could look back at her. Like she could shatter it just by staring hard enough.

“He shouldn’t be there,” she muttered. “He’s not supposed to be there.”

“What’s wrong with you now?” Mira asked, frowning deeper.

Rumi turned to them, eyes burning.

“He’s a demon.”

Silence.

Zoey stared at her with raised eyebrows.

“A demon? Rumi, are you okay?”

“We sealed the Honmoon, Rumi!” Mira said more firmly. “There are no demons. You sealed it.”

Rumi didn’t reply.

She looked back at the screen. Jinu, from his throne at the top, was waving at the camera with a half-smile.

That smile unhinged her.

Something in it twisted her up inside.

Like an echo of a wound she didn’t know she had.

And for the first time in a long while, Rumi felt hate.

Not mistrust. Not discomfort.

Hate.

Cold, sharp, and nameless.

“It’s not possible,” she whispered, but it no longer sounded like doubt.

It sounded like a threat.

Rumi said nothing else.

She simply turned around, walked to her room with firm steps, and slammed the door shut.

Zoey and Mira stared at each other.

“Was that… an existential crisis?” Zoey asked, raising a brow.

“That was Rumi in end-of-the-world mode,” Mira said with resignation. “Haven’t seen her like this in years.”

On the other side of the door, Rumi collapsed onto her bed without even taking off her shoes.

The TV still echoed in her head.

That face. That voice. That smile like he didn’t owe the universe a thing.

Do Jinu.

She stared at the ceiling in absolute silence. Then, suddenly, rolled over, reached under her pillow, and pulled out an old black notebook.

She opened it furiously.

On the first page, with red marker, she wrote in all caps:

PLAN: KILL JINU

Underneath, she started a list in rushed, cramped handwriting:

WHAT I KNOW:
• Name: Do Jinu
• Rank 1 (ugh)
• Pretty face. Unbearably pretty.
• Really good voice. Too good. That’s suspicious.
• Made me remember things.
  ↳ Was singing something called “Soda Pop” (??)
  ↳ Had demon markings on his arm
  ↳ Looked like he was enjoying it
• The public loves him

Rumi clenched her jaw.

Who the hell was that guy, really?

Why had she seen his face in one of those weird dreams?

Why did her whole body recognize that voice before her brain did?

And then, with more pressure than necessary:

HE HAS TO DIE.
Or at least, be stopped.

She stared at those words for a while. Then rested her head on the notebook, sighing.

“Great. I’ve gone insane.”

She sighed again, longer this time. More resigned.

Then she rolled onto her back and, without getting up, reached for her nightstand.

Grabbed her phone, unlocked it, and opened Tnet.

Because if she was already in paranoid mode, she might as well do it properly.

She searched “Do Jinu” in the main forum, where Idol Reincorporated shareholders held nothing back.

And of course. There he was.

[FEATURED POST – “Do Jinu debuted in my heart and in my immune system”]

Rumi clenched her jaw.

“Great. They’re turning him into the internet’s emotional heritage,” she muttered.

She reread one of the comments. “Literally my type.”

Apparently, literally her type too.

Because even her reptilian brain had recognized him before she did.

She turned off her phone, tossed it onto the bed, and went back to the notebook.

HE HAS TO FALL.
Good voice or not.
Pretty face or sobbing fans on Tnet.

The silence in the room was broken by a soft knock on the door.

“Rumi…” Zoey’s voice sounded cautious, like she didn’t want to intrude too much. “The commercials are almost over. If you want to watch the rest, we can pause it.”

Rumi didn’t answer right away.

She closed the notebook firmly and slid it back under the pillow.

She knew Zoey wouldn’t insist much more—but she wouldn’t leave either.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she finally said.

“Perfect. But if you take too long, I’m shouting spoilers,” Zoey warned cheerfully, though her tone had that familiar forced brightness meant to make Rumi laugh.

The footsteps faded away.

Rumi sat at the edge of the bed for a few more seconds, staring at the door.

She needed to keep it together. Think.

If she wanted answers, she had to watch more. Observe.

She had to stay calm.

She took a deep breath.

And left the room.

She returned to the couch like nothing had happened.

Slumped down between her friends, crossed her arms, and fixed her gaze on the screen with an intensity that didn’t match her neutral expression.

She didn’t say anything.

But she was sure of one thing.

That boy—Do Jinu—was not getting away from her.

On screen, the show was introducing the next group.

A duo from ReVerse Entertainment.

Rumi didn’t catch their names. Or their ages. Or their roles.

She arrived just as the camera did a criminal close-up on Jinu’s face.

The crowd screamed.

The subtitles weren’t helping:

Rumi clicked her tongue.

“They’re probably demons too,” she muttered, low enough that it wasn’t clear if she was joking or not.

Zoey didn’t hear her. Or chose not to.

But Mira glanced at her sideways.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Rumi replied, eyes still glued to the screen. “Just observing.”

While the mentors rambled about irrelevant things like “stage presence” and “natural tone,” Rumi scrolled through her phone, biting her thumbnail with frustration.

She opened Tnet, hoping to find something useful, but the forum was drowning in… adoration.

Rumi blinked, as if the screen was mocking her.

“Seriously?” she whispered, glaring at her phone. “Did they see the same guy I did?”

The same guy who, in her head, was singing nonexistent songs while demon patterns slid down his arms.

But sure.

Pretty face. Soft voice.

Apparently, that was all it took for the Internet to surrender.

She kept scrolling and stumbled across a slow-mo edit of Jinu poking his head out of a limousine, sparkles in his eyes, dramatic music in the background, and subtitles like “humble prince from another world.”

“Where the hell did they get a limo?” she asked the air, as if logic still had any place in this universe.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was concern. Social anxiety. Strategic caution. Hunter’s instinct, maybe.

But that didn’t explain why she was scowling, curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow like a shield against the collective stupidity.

“Now it’s personal,” she muttered, and went back to biting her nail.

Zoey tossed a chip at her.

Rumi caught it without looking.

“Put the phone down! We’re having a sacred moment of group bonding,” Zoey said.

“Fine, fine,” Rumi muttered, setting the phone aside.

The screen went black for a second, then showed a slow-mo montage:

First, Jinu stepping out of the limo, wind messing up his hair, face saying “speak to me and I bite.”

Behind him, Haon, charming smile and confident stride, as if the world was his runway.

The editors froze the frame right as their eyes met and slapped on:

Zoey shrieked from the couch.

“FIRST CONFLICT OF THE SEASON! I LOVE THIS!”

Rumi grabbed a chip without looking away from the screen.

“They haven’t said three words and they’re already being edited into a fight.”

“This is art,” Mira declared, arms crossed. “The montage. The music. The unsolicited drama.”

Cut to a close-up of Jinu walking into the dorm with a completely neutral expression.

Immediately followed by a ridiculous montage with cartoonish sound effects:

➤ Haon throwing his backpack onto a bed.
➤ Jinu slowly taking it down and placing it on the floor.
Text: [First blood]
➤ Haon stealing the mirror.
➤ Jinu sanitizing his toothbrush with alcohol.
Text: [OCD Wars: Begin!]

“I’m dying,” said Zoey, hugging a pillow with tears in her eyes from laughing so hard.

“They’ve done nothing and they’re already a soap opera,” Mira added.

Next scene: the following morning.

Jinu, looking dead, tries to brush his hair while drinking coffee.

Haon, from his bed, throws him an orange.

“Cheer up, superstar!”

Jinu doesn’t flinch. Just drinks his coffee in silence.

“They’re selling this like an enemies-to-lovers arc,” Rumi murmured, sunken into the couch.

Zoey gave a thumbs up.

“I’d buy it.”

Mira nodded seriously.

“We need a ship name ASAP.”

“HaJin? Jinon?” Zoey suggested.

“No,” Rumi said without hesitation. “White Noise. One makes noise, the other wants peace. And because both are messing with my heart rate.”

All three burst out laughing just as the screen showed Haon opening the window singing and Jinu putting on unplugged headphones just to block out his existence.

The laughter still echoed in the room when the screen changed without warning.

A fade to black.

Silence.

Strobe lights. Glittery graphics. Rotating logos with unnecessary sound effects. A digital animation of a casino chip landing on a trainee’s profile card.

And then…

BAM.

The title exploded onto the screen in massive, aggressive font that looked ripped from a shooter video game:

LEVEL UP
(The Investment Anthem)

The stage lit up all at once. LED screens everywhere. A generic EDM beat began to play, filled with synths, electronic drums, and what suspiciously sounded like a cash register sample.

The choreography started.

Or more accurately: it detonated.

Fast footwork. Unnecessary jumps. “Confident” gestures clearly designed for promo gifs. Smiles from choreographers who didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or sue production.

The lyrics began:

Then came the rap.

Oh, the rap.

One choreographer did a dab. Another pretended to sign a contract in the air. The background showed a stock chart with green candles rising to the beat.

“What… is this?” Mira asked, unable to contain herself.

“An identity crisis,” said Rumi, completely serious.

“A masterpiece,” declared Zoey, eyes sparkling.

The song continued.

The chorus was catchy. Violently catchy. The kind of hook that latches onto your brain like an ancient curse:

The ending was even more ridiculous: all the choreographers in pyramid formation, pointing to the center where an animation turned them into golden bars. The lights flashed. Smoke exploded. And in the final second, a digital voice announced:

“Level Unlocked.”

Silence.

The trainees didn’t know whether to clap or cry.

The rehearsal room was lit only by the monitors.

In the back, a hand timidly raised.

“Are we supposed to… sing that?”

Silence.

A dry, ruthless voice from staff:

“You have five days to learn it.”

Cut to Jinu, sitting in front of the camera. Gray neutral background. He’s wearing the program’s uniform, hair slightly messy like he just came from practice. He doesn’t smile. He just looks… like he’s still processing life.

“I don’t think I read the contract,” he says.

He blinks. Speaks in the flat tone of someone who has accepted their fate.

“I thought this was an idol show. You know? Singing, dancing, smiling.”

Split screen. On the left, Jinu staring at the LED screen that says “LEVEL UP” with visible trauma. On the right, Haon doing finger hearts to the beat with pure devotion.

“And then that happened.”

In the background, Level Up plays distorted, like someone put it in an emotional blender.

“I heard ‘buy my dream, let’s go to town’ and… I froze.”

He pauses. Narrows his eyes.

“It’s a song about investment with video game aesthetics. I didn’t know whether to rehearse or open a brokerage account.”

Quick cut. Jinu in vocal class, staring at the ceiling as if hoping for divine intervention. Everyone else is rehearsing.

“And you know the worst part? It’s stuck in my head.”

His voice lowers, defeated like someone who lost a war inside his soul.

“I’ve been muttering ‘being iconic has a price’ while brushing my teeth for three days straight. This is the closest I’ve ever been to insanity.”

The clip ended with the program logo spinning, followed by an aerial shot of the set, but no one in the apartment was watching.

Because all three of them were dying of laughter.

Zoey had collapsed on the floor, one hand on her stomach and the other covering her face like she’d just witnessed a masterpiece of accidental comedy.

“I can’t! The brokerage account line! WHO SAYS THAT?!” she shrieked.

Mira was covering her face with a pillow, laughing in complete silence, like her body couldn’t keep up with how funny it was.

“‘I thought it was an idol show,’” she repeated in a trembling voice. “Dude! You’re literally trapped in a marketing song with choreography!!”

Rumi couldn’t breathe.

Her face was red, her neck tense, her eyes watery from laughing so hard. She couldn’t speak—just slapped the couch repeatedly like she was calling for help.

“He’s falling apart on camera and they’re editing it like premium content,” she managed to say, in half-sobbing laughter. “They added soft background music! SOFT MUSIC!”

Zoey crawled back onto the couch.

“Did you see his face when they said five days? FIVE DAYS to learn *Level Up*! I saw his soul leave his body!”

“And they say it like it’s normal!” Mira added. “‘You have five days.’ Period. No water. No mercy.”

Rumi shook her head, still laughing.

“It’s too funny… even if he’s a demon.”

“You’re still on that?” Mira asked, raising a brow. “Why did you think that in the first place?”

Rumi shrugged, hugging a pillow to her chest.

“I don’t know. I just… saw him, and during the performance I saw the patterns on his arm, but… it felt like a memory. I’ve been dreaming things lately…”

Mira and Zoey went quiet.

“What kind of things?” Mira asked, more serious now.

Rumi lowered her gaze.

“I don’t always remember well. But there are screams, and songs we’ve never released. It’s like… seeing the future.”

Zoey blinked.

“Okay, now it sounds like a mid-budget horror film.”

“I mean it,” Rumi murmured. “Sometimes I’m on stage. Sometimes I’m… somewhere else. Like everything’s happening again, but in a different order. Like I’ve already lived it.”

Mira shifted in the couch, more attentive now.

“Are you saying you dreamed about that guy?”

“I don’t know if it was him. But when we watched his performance I had one of those visions again, except… I wasn’t asleep. It was short. We were in the street, with him ahead, singing with other guys. At the end, I saw the patterns. Just a little.”

The silence stretched a bit more.

Mira sighed.

“You might be projecting, you know? You saw him, he impacted you, and your brain filled in the blanks. It happens. There’s a name for it.”

“Yeah,” Rumi said, not lifting her head. “But there’s also a name for when demons show up in dreams before crossing into the real world.”

Zoey raised her hands.

“Okay. Okay. It’s happening. We’re officially in prophecy mode.”

Mira made an exasperated gesture, but said nothing.

Rumi pressed her forehead to the pillow, eyes closed.

“I’m not saying it’s him. Just that… if it were… I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They all sat quietly, watching the program logo reappear on screen.

Upbeat music started playing.

No one laughed this time.

“Do you guys think the Honmoon could… disappear?” Zoey asked quietly, with a sadness she rarely showed.

Mira turned to her immediately.

“No. That’s impossible. Celine told us a golden Honmoon seals forever. It’s the highest level. It can’t be broken.”

Silence returned. Not uncomfortable—dense.

Like something had cracked just by saying the question out loud.

Rumi hugged the pillow tighter.

“There was never a golden Honmoon before…”

The other two looked at her.

“We don’t know if it can be broken,” she said, almost whispering.

On screen, the stage lights flared. Jinu appeared, receiving his platinum medal.

Mira stared silently.

“Then we’ll keep an eye on him,” she said, not looking away.

And none of them said anything else.

Chapter Text

The first episode was HORRIBLE. They aired it while Jinu was out buying groceries. He found out how it went thanks to Sarang, who wouldn’t stop sending him messages.

“I hope they edited me well, I wasn’t that ridiculous back then… I think,” he muttered, a bag of rice dangling from one finger.

As soon as he got home, he dropped the bags on the floor, collapsed onto the couch, and unlocked his phone.

There were notifications everywhere. Messages, mentions, screenshots—even a sticker with his pixelated face floating on a background of pink hearts. He didn’t know whether to feel flattered or issue an official statement.

He checked Sarang’s messages first:

[SARANG]
jinu
JINU
you’re on
i’m crying
why do you look like that when you talk
my mom loves you
my dad thinks you’re a fallen angel

[JINU]
did i look okay?

[SARANG]
you’re gorgeous
but you look confused
like you’re wondering what a camera is

[JINU]
i was*

He checked Tnet. Bad move. His name was trending. So was his face. And a clip where someone had added dramatic music as he walked down the entrance hall looking like “I just resurrected and I don’t trust anyone.”

“Who edits these things so fast?” he whispered, hitting “like” anyway. It had good timing.

And then… came his greatest humiliation.

One of the top posts was titled:

“A summary of episode one in a single image”

And it was.

The scene.

The shot where he fell. Twice. In front of Minwoo.

Jinu didn’t even remember falling with such full-body commitment. The looped replay didn’t help. And sure, the lighting hit his hair nicely. But it didn’t make up for the fact that he looked like a newborn deer learning how to walk.

He scrolled down. The comments were worse.

* “i’d fall too for that angel face”
* “what kind of marketing strategy is this? because it’s working”
* “i saw him trip and immediately wanted to hug him and hire a choreographer”
* “i believe everything he says. even if he can’t walk in a straight line”
* “clumsy, brilliant, mysterious. a legend is born”

Jinu sank deeper into the couch.

* “i see him fall and think: yes. that’s my bias”
* “it’s like his body doesn’t know it’s being filmed”
* “what matters is he still looks good even when he’s collapsing”

He closed the phone.
Opened it again.
Watched the clip one more time.
And thought, please, let no one see this…

While he was still lamenting on the floor, the system popped up again.

Jinu didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just muttered,

“Now?”

The box flashed brighter. Blinking, like it was in a hurry.

As if the system were impatient and he wasn’t a human being with accumulated exhaustion.

He sighed, sat up slowly, stretched out a finger, and pressed “Click.”

The system didn’t show him a new power immediately.

Instead, it brought up two spinning wheels at once. One on the left. One on the right. Both spinning, glowing, and sounding like they belonged in a carnival.

Jinu stared at them.

“Ahh…” he muttered, emotionless. “I forgot to open the feature from the last performance.”

The left wheel stopped first.

“So I can feel when someone’s drowning?” he muttered. “Wonderful. I’m a suffering radar.”

The right wheel stopped.

Jinu read the text without blinking.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know.

He was fully aware that he had to help Minwoo, Baeho, Sarang, and Abby improve if he wanted to debut with them.

There was no way shareholders would choose mediocre people.

He had already decided to give them everything he knew.

He just… hadn’t expected the system to help him too.

It was a bit unsettling.

That out of all possible abilities, the ones he got were exactly those made for teaching, for lifting others up, for seeing the inner rhythm of a group, for pushing without pushing.

As if the system already knew what kind of leader he was.

“Okay…” he muttered, running a hand over his face. “What’s next? A third wheel that teaches me how to breathe so I don’t murder them when they slack off?”

He decided not to think about it too hard. As long as the system kept helping, he wouldn’t complain.

He rested for the next three days.

Or at least he tried. Sleeping was still hard when you had the consciousness of a past life and an existential deadline hovering over your head.

Then, unfortunately, he returned to Idol Reincorporated.

According to his thorough research—also known as “he asked in the forum”—every season had some kind of mass livestream halfway through the competition.

All the participants would go live for fifteen minutes at the same time on Tnet’s main channel.

Each season did it differently. Hopefully this time it wouldn’t be too embarrassing.

More importantly: it was a chance for more people to get to know him.

And maybe, if he played his cards right, to buy his shares.

So he sat down, made a list, and wrote at the top in large letters:

“WHAT DOES A NORMAL PERSON DO IN A LIVESTREAM?”

Below, in smaller writing:

• —I can’t cry.
• —I can’t do yoga.
• —I can’t talk about ghosts.
• —I can’t accidentally summon demons.

He stared at the list.

He stared at it again.

He underlined it twice.

And muttered,

“I’m screwed.”

When he arrived at the dorm conference room, already dressed in uniform—white jacket, black pants, face of “what am I doing with my life”—he ran into Sarang, who burst out laughing the moment he saw him.

“Bro!” he said, pointing at him like he was a disgraced celebrity. “You fell in front of Minwoo! And then you fell again!”

Jinu stared at him silently.

Sarang kept laughing.

“I watched it like twenty times! It’s like modern art. Ego deconstruction. Experimental cinema. Performance. You’re redefining what walking is!”

“Please tell me you didn’t see it in slow motion.”

Sarang raised his index finger solemnly.

“Three different versions. One with school drama music. One with duck sounds. And the best one? The one with the Sailor Moon opening in the background. It made me cry.”

Before Sarang could keep laughing, the door opened.

And Haon walked in.

His jacket was immaculate, his smile straight out of a variety show, and that natural confidence made everyone notice him without saying a word.

Jinu noticed immediately.

And so did his body. It tensed on instinct.

He still couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened with Baeho.

Haon scanned the room with a quick glance, gave a vague wave, and walked straight toward them.

“Can we have a second?”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He slung his arm over Jinu’s shoulders with that practiced familiarity that made it seem like a warm gesture.

He gently nudged him to the side, just a few steps. No need for more. Just enough so no one could hear.

Then he lowered his voice.

“You got lucky last time,” he said, still smiling. “It won’t happen again. Be careful with the useless ones ranked under 20, they’ll drag you down.”

Jinu looked at him.

He didn’t reply.

But something in his jaw tightened.

Hard.

Haon walked away with the same smile he’d walked in with, as if nothing had happened.

And Jinu, for a moment, wondered what the exact penalty was for punching someone during a live broadcast.

“Hello everyone!” The host walked in with a smile so bright it looked LED-powered. “How have you all been?”

“Great!” shouted the crowd in return, a mix of nervous and overly cheerful voices.

“I think many of you already know what we’re doing today…”

“The self-intro livestream,” Haon whispered to Jinu.

“That’s right!” the host continued, not missing a beat. “Today at 8 PM, through Tnet Global, you’ll meet the main shareholders from around the world.”

A murmur ran through the room.

Jinu swallowed.

He hadn’t prepared anything.

Absolutely nothing.

His list of “things I can’t do” didn’t leave him with many options.

And then, the host smiled even wider.

Which was already a bad sign.

“But, this season…” he paused dramatically, as if announcing world peace, “we’ve decided to make it more interesting.”

You will promote various T1 products during your livestreams.

Jinu blinked.

Excuse me.

Haon, of course, was right beside him.

And as if waiting for the moment, he leaned toward him.

“T1 is Tnet’s parent company,” he said in a low voice, using that tone of “I already knew this, obviously you didn’t.”

“They sell everything: home appliances, cosmetics, frozen food, snacks, detergent, pressure cookers, cherry-scented tissues…”

“Woah,” Jinu muttered, unsure whether to laugh or faint.

And then the host kept going, as if he hadn’t just dropped the most absurd bomb of the day:

“Don’t be disappointed just because this is about promoting products! Depending on how you use the T1 items, the product might even make you look more attractive!”

Jinu looked at him like he’d just claimed a blender could heal childhood trauma.

They just wanted them to promote their stuff for free.

It was like being in a commercial—without pay, without dignity, and on a timer.

“And now, to decide the collaboration items…” the host paused so long someone in the back clapped by reflex, “a fifteen-minute treasure hunt!”

Silence.

Jinu blinked.

A what?

And then chaos broke loose.

Like a store alarm had gone off during Black Friday, over seventy trainees bolted toward the main exit.

They shoved, shouted—one tripped over a chair.

Another yelled “For the matcha snacks!” and disappeared around a corner.

Jinu stayed still, watching the human tornado pass in front of him.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispered.

“The time limit is fifteen minutes!” the host shouted into the mic. “Return with one of the hidden treasure balls from the dorms!”

Jinu squinted.

Dorms. Treasure balls. Fifteen minutes. Live TV.

No, thank you.

He wasn’t about to compete with a herd of unhinged teenagers over a box of cereal or, worse, the chance to promote a panda-shaped microwave.

Haon had already bolted the second he heard “treasure hunt,” like he’d been training for this his whole life.

But Jinu was smart.

And too tired to break another bone for the sake of capitalism.

So he turned around and headed toward the back exit. Quieter, calmer. Fewer people. Fewer cameras.

And that’s when he saw him.

Baeho.

He was also heading in that direction.

Not rushing, but with purpose.

That serious expression on his face, like he was on a confidential government mission.

Jinu paused for a second.

He could’ve taken a different route. Gone alone.

But his feet were already moving.

He decided to follow him.

Not for strategy.

Just because he wanted a chance to talk to Baeho.

And because deep down, Jinu trusted that if things went south, Baeho would be the kind of guy who knew how to escape through a window without getting caught on camera.

He walked until he caught up.

“Do you have a plan?” he asked quietly.

Baeho glanced at him.

“I’m not ending up promoting kiwi-scented fabric softener.” He kept walking.

Jinu thought for a second, then nodded.

They moved in silence, quietly avoiding the cameras buzzing down the hallways like Wi-Fi-connected flies. While everyone else ran and yelled through the dorms, they slipped into the small janitor’s closet behind the kitchen. No one else seemed to think of that place. Between a pile of boxes taped shut, Jinu found a golden ball wedged between two packs of toilet paper. He said nothing. Just pulled it out, held it up, and Baeho nodded like that solved something.

A few minutes later, Baeho found another golden one behind an industrial soap dispenser. He grabbed it without a sound and, without even looking, handed it to Jinu like it was obvious. It wasn’t, but to Jinu it still felt meaningful.

They spent the rest of the time carefully snooping around. In a corner, between a bunch of bent metal trays, Jinu found a bronze ball.

With three minutes left, Baeho crouched to check under a low shelf and pulled out the last one: another bronze ball, half-covered in dust but valid nonetheless. They made eye contact again. Jinu smiled at Baeho. He didn’t smile back, but he spoke.

“Let’s head to the conference room.”

Inside, everything was CHAOS. Trainees were trading balls, begging for balls.

The chaos intensified.

Screams, desperate deals, live betrayals.

One trainee literally tried to steal a ball from another with a fake bow.

Jinu clutched his tighter, like they might vanish any second.

He glanced around on instinct.

And then he saw him.

Minwoo.

He was across the room, alone, eyes wide and looking like he was about to cry. Jinu rushed over.

“What’s wrong, Minwoo?” he asked, gently rubbing his back. “Are you okay?”

Minwoo shook his head, biting his inner cheek like it would stop the tears.

“Yeah, it’s just… I didn’t find anything.”

Shit.

Jinu looked down at his hands. He was holding one gold and one bronze ball.

Without thinking, he held out the gold one.

“Are you sure…?”

“Shhh. Just pretend you found it yourself,” he whispered, right as the stage timer hit zero and the host shouted,

“Time!”

Minwoo hugged the ball like it was actual treasure.

“The treasure hunt is over! Participants with their treasure balls, please step forward!”

The reactions were immediate.

The forum exploded.

And at exactly 8PM…

77 livestreams began simultaneously.

Jinu kept the bronze ball.

“How bad can it be,” he wondered.

He got a set of adhesive tapes and a T1 automatic dispenser: the “SilentPro Tape Buddy – Limited Cherry Edition.”

Jinu stared at it for three seconds.

Then three more.

He almost started crying.

But he persevered.

Now he was sitting in front of a folding table, the lapel mic already clipped to his uniform, the tapes perfectly aligned by color (pink, sky blue, neon yellow), and the Tape Buddy in the center, glowing under the spotlight.

All he wanted was to not make a fool of himself.

A staff member motioned at him from behind the camera.

“You’re live,” she whispered.

“What?”

“You’re on! You’re live!!”

Jinu blinked. He turned to the camera.

A counter showed five thousand viewers.

Five thousand.

In less than ten seconds.

A wave of heat hit him so hard he considered faking a nervous breakdown. But no. He had a job to do.

He straightened up. Leaned toward the mic.

And with all the dignity he had left, whispered,

“Good evening. This is… adhesive tape.”

He picked up the first tape (the pink one), opened it in front of the automatic dispenser’s sensor.

Snick.

Silence.

Snick. Snick. Snick. Snick. Snick.

The comments exploded.

“Let’s start with the pink tape. It has strong adhesion, but the good thing is it doesn’t leave residue when removed,” he murmured, holding it gently near the mic.

More and more people started joining.

Jinu picked up the blue tape and held it carefully to the mic.

“Now the blue one. It’s firmer than the pink. Has character,” he whispered.

He slid a finger along the edge, letting the tape crackle softly.

“Perfect for sealing boxes, securing ideas… or unstable hearts.” He paused, serious. Then added, almost laughing, “Not a medical guarantee, just in case.”

The Tape Buddy turned on with a soft click. Jinu inserted the tape with precision.

“This dispenser is the SilentPro Tape Buddy – Limited Cherry Edition. Not only is it beautiful, it has silent automatic dispensing. I can talk while using it. Or whisper. Or conspire. No one would know,” he whispered, lowering his voice even more.

He pressed the button. The tape came out with a subtle, almost elegant sound.

“Perfect for wrapping gifts without waking a sleeping demon… or your manager.”

Just then, the counter blinked. It kept rising.

“…Ten thousand?” he whispered, staring at the camera like the number was staring back.

“Wow. Thanks for tuning in. I hope you’re enjoying the broadcast.”

“And if not… well, at least now you know which tape to use when you want to impress with elegance and adhesion.” He finished as he peeled another tape with the precision of a stationery surgeon.

Beep beep beep interrupted the calm.

Jinu blinked. The timer in the corner of the screen read: 00:00:20.

“What? Already?” he whispered, startled. The tape dispenser forgotten to the side as he straightened up.

He leaned toward the mic.

“Hello, I’m Do Jinu.”

Dramatic pause.

“And if you want to see more… please buy my shares!”

He didn’t have time to say anything else because, at that moment, a timer started beeping somewhere in the studio.

Jinu blinked.

“What…?”

A countdown discreetly appeared in the screen’s corner: 00:20.

“I have twenty seconds left?” he leaned toward the mic, panicked.

“Hi! I’m Jinu. I’m twenty years old. I’m one… eighty-three. I like singing, dancing, and premium-quality adhesive tape. I’m here to debut, not to fall on camera, though I’m pretty good at that too. Support me! Orbit united will never be defeated!”

The clock hit zero.

But before he could assume it was over, his phone vibrated.

Jinu blinked.

“Thank you… I’ll try not to.”

“That was a good pun.”

Jinu stared at the screen, overflowing with messages that kept coming one after another.

He sighed, swallowed, and spoke calmly:

“My name is Jinu. I’m twenty years old. I like singing, dancing, and apparently, doing ASMR with office supplies. Thank you for watching this. Really.”

He stood up, careful not to knock over anything on the set. He bowed deeply toward the camera, as if wrapping up a concert at the Tokyo Dome, not an absurd broadcast about adhesive tape.

The red recording light turned off. Silence. No applause. No one shouted his name. But for some reason, Jinu felt like somewhere in the world, someone was buying tape while thinking of him.

Terrifying.

They handed him his phone and the bag with the promotional products. He thanked them softly, with his “yes, I’m fine” smile, and walked toward the exit. The studio hallway smelled like reheated food and anxiety.

Once outside, the city at night felt too bright for what he had just lived through. He pulled up his hoodie. Put on music.

He couldn’t face the world as “tape boy” without at least a sad song playing in the background.

He arrived at his small apartment. Took off his shoes, placed the products on the table with the reverence of someone setting up an altar, and collapsed onto the couch.

Stared at the ceiling. Then closed his eyes.

“In less than a month, I went from a dead ex-idol to an adhesive tape streamer with his own fandom,” he muttered.

His phone vibrated. It was a message from Sarang.

[SARANG]
URGENT!
Emergency meeting of the Orbit squad to watch episode 2.
Tomorrow. At my place. Snacks, drama, and screaming guaranteed.
If you don’t come, we’ll assume the tape swallowed you and build a shrine in your honor. 🕯️🕯️🕯️

Jinu snorted.

[JINU]
Can I bring my SilentPro Cherry dispenser?

[SARANG]
Only if you put googly eyes on it and make it talk. Confirmed. See you there.

Jinu sighed… but it was a good sigh.