Free Usage Ticket?
“Did something like that exist?”
Kim Min-hyuk blew his nose.
“Hey, check this out. What do you think? I told you I’d be helpful. So, what’s this free usage ticket?”
He glanced around cautiously. Kim Min-hyuk took a deep breath, adjusting the volume as if preparing to speak.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like—a free usage ticket. A chance to rearrange the tournament bracket however you want.”
“For all the teams?”
“Nah, come on, you think the PD’s a contestant or something?”
Kim Min-hyuk held up one finger.
“Just one team. Well, actually, it ends up moving two teams in the end.”
“Yeah, two teams.”
You pick the team you want to move, but there has to be another team willing to swap with them.
Why didn’t I know about this?
The round of 16, quarterfinals, semifinals. I’d never watched a single live episode of the Supreme Beat Contest. I only skimmed the highlights circulating as memes on community sites the day after each broadcast—results, winners, losers, or whatever controversies popped up.
Thinking back, it was a miracle I even knew that much.
Still, it was weird. Those popular posts always had screenshots of key moments, ending with a three-line summary. I never remembered it mentioned there.
Maybe it just wasn’t that big a deal.
“But it’s not mandatory or anything. No real enforcement behind it.”
I nodded. Ah, that explained it. The first-round winners didn’t need to use it.
The round was already over, but now I knew something crucial.
The first-round top team was Sisyphus. Should I use it, even if it means cozying up to them? Let’s watch how things play out for now.
The secret chat wasn’t total nonsense. As it wrapped up, Kim Min-hyuk grabbed my arm like he’d forgotten the most important bit.
“Oh, right. Hey, Hyun-woo.”
“Yeah?”
“The bracket. Don’t think it’s just luck. It’s all...”
Like a wizard afraid to say Voldemort’s name, Kim Min-hyuk pursed his lips and twirled his finger toward the sky.
Jo Young-soo, the PD, rigging it for dramatic angles.
If it got out, people would scream “broadcast manipulation.” But it all disguised itself as “artistic direction.”
This whole contest was just the bottom-feeders sucking each other dry anyway. Contestants showed their faces for fame; the production team chased ratings with their cameras.
“What the hell. Aren’t you pissed? You knew?”
“If you barely knew, how would I? I just figured as much.”
I nodded toward our surroundings.
“Can’t make a scene.”
If I hadn’t known, I’d be raging. But as a viewer who’d already cursed them out once, I was numb. The thrill was gone, and my mind was already spinning on how to use this as a composer for my singers.
At Kim Min-hyuk’s nudge that filming prep was starting soon, we headed down from the rooftop.
The elevator doors opened, and the production crew greeted us warmer than anyone.
“Whoa?! Min-hyuk sunbae!”
Assistant director Shim Yu-jeong spotted Bitboy—Kim Min-hyuk—first. Weird. Their mics should be off.
Kim Min-hyuk turned to me first. If this were real acting, we’d be screwed. Looking at me first? What was the point? Denying we knew each other was pointless now.
Kim Min-hyuk might’ve dropped hints about our connection in pre-recorded interviews anyway.
Behind Shim Yu-jeong was main PD Jo Young-soo. They’d look at us funny for sure. Unnecessary suspicion could mean penalties.
No good. We had to turn this crisis into opportunity.
I grabbed Kim Min-hyuk’s arm and choked up.
“What do you think?”
“What the—about what, you punk?”
Flustered, Kim Min-hyuk struggled to shake off my grip as the elevator doors closed.
I eyed Jo Young-soo. He looked sleep-deprived, yawning nonstop. His puffy hand covered his mouth busily.
That’s the hand rigging the brackets, huh.
The opponent I wanted: Opaz. STAR. Only they could draw out full charm from such an abstract keyword.
“Hyung... pure and innocent really doesn’t suit our group, does it?”
“What the hell are you on about?”
My random line made 100% truthful Kim Min-hyuk shoot the crew an aggrieved look. He even smacked my shoulder, snapping at me to cut the nonsense.
“That’s for you to figure out. What am I, your...? Directors, don’t misunderstand. Hey, get off. I said get off!”
“H-Hyung! Our kids in Black Label! This is really our last shot. Just help us once!”
“Dude... I got nothing to help with. You can’t do it like that.”
I clung to his rejecting arm, pouring my soul into the act. Choking back sobs, I rambled about Black Label’s woes.
Finally, Shim Yu-jeong couldn’t take it.
“Um, composer-nim. There are other players here. You can’t do this.”
“...Sorry. I got too carried away... thinking only of myself. I always feel it—Black Label getting buried like this is such a waste.”
The act was all-in, but that part was real. It sucked. That’s why I hunted for the perfect prey to make Black Label shine.
I trembled my voice like a trill, rubbed my eyes as if wiping tears, and gauged their reactions.
Jo Young-soo blinked. Hooked? Maybe.
They’d probably already shot work sketches of players prepping stages. Shim Yu-jeong pulled a handkerchief from her bag and handed it over.
“Every team feels the same for their partners. I get it, but you can’t act on it directly. Right? Min-hyuk-ssi looks troubled.”
“Yes, sorry. I was too hasty.”
“Okay. Please be careful next time.”
Maybe because eyes were watching, her words were stern but her hand warm. She pressed the handkerchief into mine.
The one who should care didn’t even glance over. All he muttered was:
“Let’s go. Busy.”
Jo Young-soo PD led the other assistant director toward the control room. Shim Yu-jeong kept eyeing me warily till the end, squeezing the handkerchief into my hand before following.
Once the crew vanished, Kim Min-hyuk scowled and mouthed furiously.
What the hell was that?
“Fishing,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Need a bite, but not sure.”
I turned toward where the crew had gone.
The nameplate reading ‘Control Room’ swayed. As the main writer closed the door, she asked Jo Young-soo PD.
“What should we do?”
“About what.”
Jo Young-soo kept yawning relentlessly.
Yawn-Yawn-
He couldn’t close his gaping mouth. The main writer turned back.
The door was shut, and they’d probably scampered off like rats, but they couldn’t escape her palm.
Main writer Oh spoke confidently.
“That composer and Bitboy earlier. Shouldn’t we do something? PD-nim.”
“Those two?”
Jo Young-soo waved lazily from his slouched chair.
“Nah, let ’em be.”
“Let them? The director said it too—composers cozying up to judges.”
“Yeah, didn’t look like cozying to me.”
“Pardon?”
Jo Young-soo straightened up. Sitting properly, he spun his fidget spinner.
“Oh writer-nim, I’ve done drama assistant directing besides variety. Anyone else, maybe, but Bitboy? That Kim Min-hyuk’s eyes were pure truth.”
Spin.Click.
He stopped the spinner and spun it again. And again.
“Besides, Kim Min-hyuk’s no insider. Just a side dish among the judges. What could he spill anyway.”
“It’s not the info—it’s the act itself. Not fair...”
“Oh writer-nim, got proof?”
“Pardon?”
Jo Young-soo stood fully now, scratching his cap irritably.
“Waste of time. We’re already planning audience seating for the next shoot.”
He beckoned the youngest staffer spinning a lottery wheel in the corner.
“Kids working day and night sleepless—gonna make more work over that? No way, writer-nim.”
He scratched his cheek. Backups weren’t even solid, reality staring them down.
Jo Young-soo gestured at the ceiling.
“Think I’m clueless? Dumb composers and judge managers with mics on, plotting away. They spread my fake leak like gospel. Idiots.”
He moved to the computer in rough edit.
“I’m watching for opportunity, writer-nim. I know everything. So let’s not blow it up. Nail one team as an example now, with kids prepping stages? Mood killer?”
“Uh...”
Calculated. No one imagined Jo Young-soo, seeming oblivious, had dug traps this deep.
Oh writer bowed her head.
“Sorry.”
“Nothing for you to apologize for. What do you think of her?”
“Pardon?”
Jo Young-soo waved her over. The monitor showed Opaz practicing hard. Arms and legs flailing as they choreographed.
Embarrassing. Even clothed, they kept spreading legs wide, emphasizing torsos. Training wear now, but stage outfits would match—dizzying to imagine.
As Oh writer pondered, a line dropped.
“Practicing real hard, huh. Opaz.”
If this choreo aired, topic gold. Ratings up, image crash. Who knew—peak sexy group might actually peak.
Jo Young-soo crossed arms, staring at the monitor.
“Those kids earlier. Black Label, right? What do you think, Oh writer-nim?”
“Black Label?”
“Yeah, that composer said pure and innocent suits them? Looks like good footage to me.”