Chapter 35 - Rat-a-Tat-Tat! Jang! Jang! Jang!
Ears ringing. A refreshingly wide-open blast. Over the pounding melody, Rakwon unleashed his voice with exhilarating power.
Jay-Q, one of the judges for the Supreme Beat Contest, let out a gasp of admiration.
"This is fucking insane."
How?
"How can it slap this hard?"
He spat out profanity unfit for broadcast, but it didn't matter. They'd edit it out anyway. Even if it aired, only his dazed expression would make the cut—out of courtesy for giving them plenty of footage to work with.
No time to glance around the judges' table now. The camera directors were capturing Rakwon from every angle. The stage setup was bizarrely brilliant.
It defied explanation beyond, 'Rakwon just did Rakwon.'
No other descriptors were needed for him.
The intro hooked you—follow the beat, da-da-dang. The ear-splitting rhythm evoked Dr. Jo blasting from a '90s highway rest stop, but 350, Rakwon's producer, wasn't some clichéd throwback. The vibe flipped fast, igniting the energy.
Jay-Q glanced sideways. Bitboy—Kim Min-hyuk—was already shoulder-dancing. But the lyrics weren't light.
"Aaah~ I'll search for you, these two feet carrying me far away~ This love, my heart, how to...?"
Rakwon's mournful wail crested perfectly as he bowed his head, ending the stage flawlessly. Even the finale was impeccable.
Black Label still had to perform, but the winner seemed decided. Not just the crowd—some judges rose for a standing ovation.
As Rakwon descended, Kim Min-hyuk clicked his tongue. Not because the next act was his buddy's group.
"Viewers are gonna bail now."
This was live, not the main broadcast, with over 50,000 connected. Snet was pumping out real-time articles about the viewership record.
"Tough."
Tough indeed. Black Label's prep time or not, the audience was already losing focus. If they could leave, plenty would've called it a night, mission accomplished.
"Alright, Black Label's turn."
Black Label took the stage.
"Hello! We're Black Label!"
They peeked their faces out, greeting judges and crowd alike, but the reaction was ice-cold. Considering most were Rakwon fans, this was practically polite. No water bottles flying was a win.
"Black Label, get ready."
PD Jo Young-soo nodded once, and the assistant director called action. The studio lights, once flooding everything, now zeroed in on Black Label. Darkness fell; the audience held their breath—not in anticipation, just basic courtesy.
The judges too. Jay-Q looked over; Joo Seong-hwan had already leaned back, prepping his Rakwon commentary. No one held out real hope for Black Label.
Rehearsals and that "challenge" vid had spoiled it: trot stage incoming. Expectations dipped. Less 'How will these idols remix trot?' more 'Black Label's just bandwagon-jumping for clout.'
Jay-Q mused: Even if they dropped solid trot, it'd be a blip. Eyes were glued to Rakwon. Knockoffs could soar, but originals reigned supreme.
Ding~. Ti-ri-ri-ring~.
A brash sax cut the brief silence. Cameras panned members per rehearsal cues.
Then, the roar.
"Ha!!"
Ray grabbed a mini stand mic, stepped forward, and jumped.
"Hoo!!"
Hye-soo thrust both arms skyward, striking a tokusatsu pose straight out of kids' TV, howling.
"Hou!!"
Won Ji-min shook her arms wildly, leaping with full force.
Black Label's poses were absurdly over-the-top, but no one broke character. Pros were pros.
Fighting to prioritize name recognition over image on broadcast, their expressions were flawless.
If it were me, I'd have bolted offstage already.
Yeah, and that's why Jay-Q's idol days were short-lived.
"Impressive."
He clicked his pen. Performance, vocals, stage presence—nothing fully judged yet against Rakwon, but this shameless grit deserved points.
Smart strategy too. They nailed how Rakwon's hypnosis had the crowd zoned out.
In this streaming era where three seconds decided hits, immersing folks was hard enough—yet Black Label shattered focus.
Or did they?
Those roars yanked eyes straight to them.
Jay-Q ditched his shades in the dark. Not dumb shouts—their yells matched the concept, faces varied and fierce.
"Killing it."
Beyond snapping out of it, Black Label sparked curiosity. What was that bass? Some folk tune?
Speed screamed rise and twerk.
"Woo-woo! Baby~!"
"Only you~!! Baby~!"
Rakwon's lyrics were solemn; Black Label's were feather-light. No deep meaning—just snappy monosyllables perfect for humming. Kid to granny, anyone could join. Effortlessly stripped down.
What message? None. Black Label poured zero into substance.
"Just..."
"Huh?"
Bitboy leaned toward Jay-Q, but he muttered to himself, scanning around.
Weird. Rakwon's foe. The obstacle to crush. The blocker in his path.
The crowd who'd glared murderously at Black Label moments ago now watched with endless amusement. Some grandpa shoulder-shimmied; his six-year-old tagalong stood, wiggling to the melody.
What gives?
Jay-Q eyed Black Label. They'd never feel this heat, but he kept staring.
Suffocatingly stunning visuals. Jaw-dropping sync in the knife-sharp formations.
But not the point. Pure, simple fun. A stage for everyone to enjoy.
Black Label delivered.
Bitboy gaped at Jay-Q, whispering.
"Hyung. Live viewers at 70k now. For real?"
***
"Hooah."
Offstage. Everyone cheered their round-of-16 advance. Nothing set in stone, but Rakwon beamed. Lucky draw. Smooth finals run ahead.
Not just him. Manager Jo Seung-yong thought so too, draping a towel over Rakwon's sweat-matted hair.
"How was it, our rockstar? Solid stage?"
"Weird phrasing."
"What's weird? Rockstar from Rakwon. Like Jo Star, Lee Star. Everyone does it."
"I get it. Just odd coming from a trot guy whose genre flipped."
Rakwon chugged half a water bottle, glancing around.
"Where's O-gong hyung?"
"Who?"
"Our composer. 350."
Jo shrugged.
"Beats me. Gone."
He twisted his lips, mind souring too.
"Can't read that guy."
"What can't you read?"
"Genius thing? Do they all ghost like that? I just... no vibe."
Thud.
Rakwon slammed his half-empty bottle down; water splashed over the lid from the impact.
"Hyung. We advanced thanks to 350 hyung. Don't say shit like that..."
"Not dissing. Just... he's like that."
Round of 16, 8-strong. Finals? 350's lift mostly. And growing.
Silly talk.
Rakwon eyed the waiting room monitor. Black Label mid-performance.
"What do you think, hyung?"
"Kids are no joke, huh?"
Jo spoke, and the screen caught butts shaking, crowd digging in. Colder start than expected, now lit.
Watching Black Label, Rakwon second-guessed his heavy stage. Tough game.
"Not easy."
A heavy voice pierced the quiet, matching his sinking heart amid roaring fans.
Door opened; 350 entered.
"Hyung, where were you? Saw my stage?"
"Yeah."
Neat beard, thirty-two but midlife in fedora and suit, 350 held his phone.
"...Watched live from the bathroom."
"Huh? Not from the studio?"
"...Stomach wrecked me."
Jo tsked privately; Rakwon blinked, but hey, quirky spotlight-grabber.
350 glanced at the monitor's Black Label, muttering.
"Dangerous."
"What? Sudden danger talk?"
Rakwon fetched a drink from the mini-fridge for 350, who iced his face with the cold can, unsipped.
"Underestimated 'em. Black Label. No—Falcon."
"Falcon? Their composer?"
Rakwon pieced 350's hints; sharp Jo decoded.
"Hold up. Underestimated? We could lose? That's what you mean, composer-nim?"
350 pulled his fedora low, movie-hero style.
"We missed the fun factor. Couldn't live up to our name. Nak—Rak—won."
Meaningful words.
"They reached the truth first."
Knock knock.
Staff burst in panting, no invite.
"You gotta see this now."
He shoved his smartphone forward.