Whoa, That's Insane.
"Whoa-. That's insane."
I raised my camera. I knew Snet was putting some real effort into this, but I didn't expect it to be this big.
I started snapping shots right from the studio entrance. Photos need a story too. The idol photo resale scene is flooded with flippers. There are so many homegrown fans who collect anonymous pics and pass them off as their own to boost their rep.
"Can't let 'DongPali' Park Jin-seon stand for that."
It was bad enough when they tanked prices to flip, but now they're trying to buy their way to credibility with cash? Time to serve some justice.
"Fucking crazy."
I posted on SNS that I was here to shoot in person.
Before I could even reply, the board lit up. Another team's performance must've just wrapped, 'cause posts were flying in fast.
After verifying himself, Park Jin-seon found his spot inside the studio. Diehard fans who charge straight in don't clash with other fandoms, which is great for them, but shutterbugs like Park Jin-seon were seeing their income drop.
"Dropped off a cliff. A total cliff."
He had to go all-in like this. His tags kept pinging with notifications. No reason to leave potential buyers hanging.
Park Jin-seon dropped his reply.
It blew up.
The first-round stages were solid, but he'd clocked the PD's push on the unannounced reveal. These girls were the real deal from the jump. And this stage? Two birds with one stone.
His niche "My Little Group" Opaz shots had a buyer base, slim as it was. No competition meant he could jack prices if he matched sellers right. Not a bad play for a one-timer.
Park Jin-seon settled in and checked his angles.
"Maybe upgrade to a bigger lens?"
He needed one that captured every pore. Rocking the safe beast combo: Sony A1 + 100-400mm. Pores? Post-process fix.
Loosened up his hands. Gotta stay loose for that one killer fast-action shot.
With split lineups, stages flew by. The assistant director took the mic.
"Opaz up in five minutes."
Five? He framed the stage—bam, Opaz locking in their paths. Click—nailed one right as the melody kicked in.
Opaz fans erupted with the EDM intro.
"Whoaaa-."
Hooking eyes from the first choreo ain't easy. All members dropped to their knees, writhing on the floor. Park Jin-seon's arm blurred. Snap, snap. Close-ups, group shots—eyes on Opaz, ears and mouth humming the melody.
The song hooked hard. Familiar vibe. Not brand-new; festival fuel. And the choreo? Straight festival heat.
"What the hell! Insane!"
"Whoa-. This……."
Screams or cheers? High-pitched chaos filled his ears, decibels climbing. Intensity ramped with the noise.
Opaz clustered upfront, knees down, clutching chests. Fine, standard pose. But then tongues out, half-lidded eyes.
"Insane. Fucking insane."
Park Jin-seon stuck his tongue out too, muttering "insane," but his hands flew faster than anyone's, stacking shots. Aggro pulled, concept nailed. No mid-tier idol went this hard on sexy. Parents cupped kids' eyes pronto.
Highlight hadn't even dropped. Backup dancers wheeled out squirt guns, aiming and blasting Opaz. Stage turned slick and sticky.
Opaz slithered on the slip 'n slide. Then it hit him.
"Whoaaa-. Insane."
Park Jin-seon whistled. That ain't water—it's oil.
***
Fireworks, confetti, poppers—whatever. Fans hyped, you could spritz water bottles too. No biggie.
But at least consider the next act. Water's risky enough; straight-up oil? Begging for slips. Falls.
And worse.
"Black Label, what're you doing?"
The 'Cheonbihoe' stage director tilted his head.
"Not performing?"
"Director-nim. This... this is ridiculous."
Black Label's manager waved frantically, face screaming trouble.
"Stage is soaked in oil. Our girls'll slip."
I backed him up.
"Not asking for spotless, but make it so they don't wipe out."
"Haa-."
Director sighed deep, eyes down, cratering the ground.
"Look, Black Label manager-nim. Composer-nim. No time. See that?"
He pointed—judges huddled, scoring Opaz.
"They gotta hit C Studio next. Start scrubbing oil now? Whole shoot delays. Wanna try?"
Hands on hips, he bluffed big.
"Black Label so epic the crew skips cleaning, delays everything?"
"D-Director-nim."
Manager stepped up.
"Not that—just no slips for the kids. Right now. Uh. There."
A staffer slipped mid-cleanup, flailing before crashing.
"Can't dance or sing on a stage you can't stand on?"
"What, you want me to fix it?"
Director shrugged.
"I order it? I greenlight Opaz's oil? News to me. We're victims too. Ain't helping cleanup later anyway."
Every second counts on set—you know it, but damn, too far.
I strode toward the director.
"Want cleanup? I'll help. But wiping oil might wipe blood too—scary thought."
"Uh...? What the hell's this guy...?"
"Right?"
I eyed the staff-cleaned stage.
"Looks solid, but crack a skull? Blood everywhere. Ambulance, witnesses galore, headlines. We'll say: 'Warned risks repeatedly, director forced the show.' Cool?"
"Fuck. Seriously."
Director whipped around, radio up.
"Time to next stage?"
> About 5 minutes spare!
"Can push 5 more?"
> Huh? Next is right up...
"Hey. Oil slick city. Gas station, not venue. Accident? Your ass."
> Ah! Yes. Push back max.
Director pocketed the radio, to manager:
"10 minutes. Beyond me after."
"Th-Thank you. So much."
Manager bowed nonstop, but stage? Still trash. 10 minutes or 5, that oil ain't budging. Looked like all-day scrub. Extra 5? Still slips. Kids'd perform shaky, confidence shot. We felt it from afar; performers? Worse.
"Uh......"
Won Ji-min speechless, Ji-soo clapping to rally.
"We got this. We do."
No dice is no dice. Not retiring on this stage.
Won Ji-min and crew checked paths, reviewing choreo to dodge bumps. I glared at the doomed stage—a staffer barefoot-mopping in frustration.
So I tossed out:
"What about barefoot?"
"Pardon?"
Won Ji-min turned; stylist gaped. Prettier shoes needed, not bare feet—shock.
Doable. Even Ji-soo's dance leveled up on morale boost.
"Feels solid?"
Won Ji-min bit her lip, then kicked off heels and socks. Better test than think.
She hit the stage, flowing through moves.
"How's it, unnie?"
Ji-soo asked; Won Ji-min nodded.
"Manageable."
"Yeah?"
Ji-soo followed barefoot. Extra time dulled the splash—tolerable.
Time up; director rushed, checked stage and Black Label's feet.
"Barefoot plan?"
"Problem?"
"Not really, but... standby now?"
I glanced at Black Label; they nodded.
"Yes. We're good."
"Standby sign incoming."
Radio sent; Black Label positioned. Lights out. Manager and I took spots below.
Crisp intro hit—pop! Spotlight solely on Black Label.
Bright beam hit Ji-soo; she stepped up, belting intro. Clear but simple melody—her wheelhouse.
180 from Opaz's vibe.
I turned to judges; they scooted chairs forward.
First verse wrapped; Ray burst in. Slight wobble on dash, but centered quick. Steady core, belted lyrics clean—crowd roared along.
Atmosphere? Not bad.
No, actually good.