Chapter 5: "W-We’re Screwed, Aren’t We?"
Kim Min-hyuk stared at the open file in stunned disbelief, especially that final line. He grabbed my shoulders like someone who'd already given up on life, convinced he'd been an idiot to trust me.
"Hey, Seo Hyun-woo. You have no idea what kind of bastards these guys are, do you?"
As if. If I didn't know, how could I have sent that kind of X-file?
I gripped the mouse and scrolled through the document pages.
"If I didn't know, I couldn't have written it in such detail."
"...Huh? So this is all real?"
"Would a bluff like this actually work if it wasn't true?"
I let go of the mouse and gripped the edge of the desk, turning to face Kim Min-hyuk with the monitor at my back.
"A phone call should be coming in soon."
Rrring.
Even the Red Berry thugs weren't all that polite. Kim Min-hyuk swallowed hard and hesitantly picked up his phone. I motioned for him to hand it over.
"Hello."
I connected the call the moment it reached me and hit record. True to their thug roots, the voice on the other end came out swinging from the start.
-Who the fuck is this?
"Oh? You didn't know when you called?"
-Does it make sense for some composer punk to know all this shit?
"Who knows. Doesn't make sense? And thugs playing at being entertainment agency staff does?"
Silence. They must have run out of comebacks. Whispers from staff around them started steering the conversation in a more reasonable direction.
-...You little shit. What do you want?
"You got the answer right, but can we drop the 'little shit' routine? It's killing my motivation to negotiate."
-What do you want!
The guy was pulling out all the stops, probably for the sake of the staff circling him, maintaining his tough-guy facade.
I cleared my throat.
"Looks like you still don't get it. Should I just leak one of these to drive the point home?"
-...Reporters?
Hmph. As if.
"Nah. To your boss?"
-...
"Splash some shit on a guy who's all set to start fresh with a clean new business. Think that'll help you figure out who's holding the knife?"
-...What exactly do you want?
"There we go. Now we're talking."
I rubbed my palms together.
"Not asking for much. Just rip up that contract with 'Bitboy'?"
-Rip up the contract?
"Yeah. Terminate it. That's all."
-That ain't hard... but what about the money?
Pulling aggro. Bait to drag them into responding. Dirty black money, backroom cash—what were they gonna do with it? Legit funds could come from anywhere.
"Money's not an issue. Deal?"
Caught off guard by the easy demand, the Red Berry side hesitated to agree.
-...For real? That's it?
Thugs gonna thug—they weren't buying it easily.
"Yeah, that's it. No photocopy tricks. Send the original to the address I'll give you. Then we're square."
-Got it.
The call ended. I picked a crowded public spot and sent a text with the locker details. I turned to Kim Min-hyuk with a grin.
"Done. Check the subway locker and shred that trash contract."
"Thanks, Hyun-woo. Seriously. Thank you."
"Don't sign your name anywhere without thinking, hyung. Oh, and this ain't free, got it?"
Kim Min-hyuk, on the verge of tears, grabbed both my hands and nodded.
"Yeah. I'll help with anything I can—loans, guarantees, whatever. Just say the word."
"Cool. Then can you put in a good word for me?"
"Huh? Who? An agency?"
I shook my head at him.
"Nah. Get me on Supreme Beat Contest."
Supreme Beat Contest. A program shamelessly borrowing its name from some famous contest somewhere. Snet's latest variety show survival gig, open to idols and civilians alike—a smash hit factory in a time when every survival program printed money. But this one? More like a desperate patch job than a passion project.
Every year around this time, the rap survival show crowning top rappers from rookies to vets had shut down over the rappers' drug scandals. The idol group survival relying on public votes for mid-tier idols, has-beens, and randos? Vote-rigging mess, also paused.
Couldn't leave the prime slot empty forever, so Snet got creative: mash the two together. Enter Supreme Beat Contest.
Believe it or not, this half-assed filler for a bombed-out slot exploded in popularity. Whatever—wing it and see. They ditched the pressure, went loose and fun. A breezy pace cramming everything into one season, no dragging, straight to the point with clear setups, rises, twists, and payoffs. Perfect for young viewers craving that rush.
Calling it half-assed was unfair, though. A decade of survival show chops doesn't vanish. They sprinkled fan-service hooks for core fans: up-and-coming producers hungry for fame, washed-up idols with blocked paths, rookies from small agencies, or just music-loving kids forming teams for stages.
Unknown producers and second-hand idols. Growth stories delivering that addictive high of catharsis hooked survival junkies, while diehard fans saw a shot to push their faves into the majors.
With those viewer bases locked in, plus Snet's devilish editing specialty? No way it flopped. Doubters just got blinded by Snet's string of flops.
Fastest way to get my name—and my worth—out there? Ride this show's wave.
"Hey, Hyun-woo."
Kim Min-hyuk, set to judge on Supreme Beat Contest, looked troubled.
"That's kinda tricky."
Even a rising star like him in the composer scene wasn't some grizzled industry vet. No way he could straight-up lean on the PD like, "Take good care of my guy Hyun-woo."
Yeah, I knew that.
"Not what I meant, hyung. Just..."
I brushed off my knees and stood.
"When I audition, tell the PD I'm a buddy of yours. That one line's enough."
Snet.
Psst. Pop.
Lee So-yeon, writer for Supreme Beat Contest—aka "Cheonbi Dae"—shook her head at the fizzing energy drink climbing up.
"Ha."
A sigh escaped first.
"Can't even drink this anymore. For real."
The throat-burning gulp, forced down to stay alive, sharpened her foggy mind once more.
"Ha."
And the worst part? It started tasting good halfway through. Her stuffy head refused to clear, but her wits snapped back. As she went to crush the can into the trash, main PD Jo Young-soo chimed in.
"How many's that already?"
"Uh... today? Three."
She cautiously held up three fingers. He glanced at her.
"Stomach okay?"
"What could go wrong? Just more bathroom trips. Used to be constipated anyway—silver lining."
"Sorry."
Papers strewn everywhere on the desk. Jo Young-soo pulled up a chair dusted with snack crumbs and checked the time. 3 a.m. When was the last time he saw home? No clue.
"Where's Park?"
"Senior Park's catching a quick nap. Stress from casting lately... ugh."
Lee So-yeon stuck out her tongue, mimicking horns with two fingers for a raging bull.
The two prior shows tanking hard with scandals meant even big-corp-backed Snet struggled for interest in this wildcard.
"Even recruiting applicants is tough without star mentors to lure 'em... You know."
Even that was no easy feat. Established stars and composers with clout and free time don't bet on shaky horses.
Jo Young-soo furrowed his brow, gripping the stable door tight lest the cow bolt.
"Bitboy? No sudden bail-outs, right?"
"Nope. Not yet."
"Keep him locked till launch. If even Bitboy flakes, we're screwed."
Jo rubbed his hollowed eyes and slumped forward.
"Might quit myself."
"PD-nim, if you quit, at least make sure we get unemployment first."
"Hey, variety writers don't qualify for that."
"Exactly. Don't even think about quitting."
Jo grumbled, snatching a scattered proposal.
"These assholes, all of 'em. Out to eat me alive. Applicants?"
"Uh..."
Lee So-yeon tapped her laptop. The screensaver-black screen lit up. Refreshing applicants, the number blinked: 3,400.
"Oh!"
She let out a surprised whoop.
Seeing her shock, Jo Young-soo leaned in eagerly.
"What, what?"
"The first digit changed."
"Historic high?"
"Yeah. Historic low."
She didn't bother listing counts, just spun the screen: 4,100 total.
For a survival season that used to scorch summers, this nadir was unprecedented.
Jo clung to hope.
"Still, 4,100 applicants ain't bad..."
"No. Producers plus players. Combined 4,100."
"Huh?"
Jo Young-soo jolted back, toppling his chair.
4,100. Not a small number. Lining them up at Jamsil Stadium would take three full days. Yet today, it felt pitiful. Why?
He scribbled 4,100 on scrap paper, dividing it arbitrarily into quarters, muttering.
"Split producers and players half-half... Nice. Prelims possible at least. Hey."
"Senior. Nothing to celebrate."
Energy drink down, yet his head throbbed. Lee So-yeon corrected the math.
"Singers don't have to be solo. Mid-small agencies, disbanded teams—average five per group easy."
"Straight to finals then. Less shoot burden—win-win."
"Senior!!"
Time to ditch dreams of triumphant return after the prior flops.
Jo shelved big ambitions early.
"Go tell the kids: mum's the word with press. No badmouthing the show's doomed."
"Leak flyers now? 'Recruiting applicants'?"
"How's it under 10k? Even the rap survival bust hit 10k easy."
Jo muttered, then shook his head.
"Nah. Pass anyone without red flags."
He slicked back his greasy hair and face-planted on the desk.
"Follow any promising ones right away. Got it?"
"Yes."
"Then we can actually make a show."