Bullshit. For Real.
“What bullshit. Seriously.”
“Jung-hyun!”
I couldn't help but shout. G&X Entertainment's Acus. Not exactly red-hot newcomers, but a boy group entering their third year. With the idol market exploding and agencies churning out groups left and right, even third-year idols couldn't hold their heads high in music show waiting rooms. The grace period to prove success or failure had lengthened accordingly, but it was hardly a good sign.
Any mid-tier agency might overlook it, but G&X had endless replacements ready. Capital at their disposal. As the market grew, the break-even window shrank. A group floundering in year four or five could flip everything with one global hit. That was the situation now.
Black Label, teetering on the brink in their fourth year, had transformed. They hadn't gone fully global yet, but in Korea, they stood tall. True to the K-pop name, Korea led the idol industry. Name recognition at home meant global success was just a matter of time. Management shifted gears—more attentive, like now.
Acus's lead rapper, Lee Jung-hyun, was right on that knife-edge of rising fame, and he was losing it.
“Black Label's fourth? Rigged, right?”
“How could it be rigged? Jung-hyun, think before you speak. Tens of thousands are watching—not hundreds or thousands. What rigging?”
“Haa... fuck...”
Unbelievable. What was supposed to be a casual neighborhood stroll to show face had turned into a full schedule. Acus manager Jeong Young-sik tried to soothe him.
“Jung-hyun, don't feel too hard done by. You're not the only one. You know that, right? Cha Na-hee’s coming today too.”
“So what? I don't know how Cha Na-hee’s getting here, but I lost rock-paper-scissors. What do you want me to do?”
Time to go up. Jeong Young-sik killed the engine and slowly raised his head. No lurking sasaengs around. Six years as a manager—he knew how to handle kids like this. A mindset shift.
“Remember when you threw a fit for an exclusive one-take at music shows? Just do that.”
“Huh?”
“Cha Na-hee’s one thing, but they'll film you all day. The camera director said so. Why didn't you think of that? So... Jung-hyun, you too...”
Jeong Young-sik grabbed a few items and turned. Lee Jung-hyun was already out of the car.
Lee Jung-hyun snapped back instead. “Hyung, hurry up. We're gonna be late. Gotta cheer for our Black Label sunbaes.”
Jeong Young-sik shook his head.
“Then let's have Black Label draw for the gong.”
Joo Seong-hwan shoved a black velvet box at Ray. She steadied her breath.
“Haa. Hoo.”
It wasn't exaggeration to say this one draw decided the finals victory. Think about it. Choi Ray. The bomb slots called 2 and 3—one mine already detonated.
“Just not 3. Anything but 3.”
Joo Seong-hwan overheard, cracking jokes to ease tension, but the pressure piled on.
“The other teams are in the same boat, right?”
No answer. Superstition kept negativity at bay. Ray regulated her breathing, fiddling with the three balls. Clack. She felt each one stuck together. Remaining numbers: 1, 3, 4. 33.3% odds. Avoid 3.
And the bumpy engraving on this one's surface...
Huh? Wait. If she played it right...
Blind, but she could pick by feel? Tape or sticker numbers, each unique. 1 was straight lines. 2 curved like 3, but already out. So curves here meant 3 for sure.
Tracing the 3-ball, her index finger probed the others. No curves. Straight lines—but broken. Not 1. Found it. 4.
First stage was fine, but finale? Unbeatable. Joo Seong-hwan eyed her—taking too long?
“So, Ray-ssi? Nervous? Can't pick?”
“Hahaha... yeah.”
She brushed it off. 4 secured, no need to drag. Manager oppa wanted rapper image here, but Choi Ray was cast as trainee actress. She hammed it up.
Fumbling desperately, then lifting like pure luck. Feigning ignorance, she handed it to Joo Seong-hwan.
He peeked discreetly, eyes widening before hiding it. Highlight early? Regret flickered, but solid pick. Voice boomed.
“Yes, Black Label draws...”
Thud thud. Cameras caught Black Label drumming knees, mouth-drums firing. Ray's act held—nervous as hell. Eyes widened to his tempo; he amped the reveal.
“Number 4—the final finale stage!”
That line split the teams. Kickkickband scowled, crushed. Jang Hana + Digdag smirked, like bring it.
Kim Won-sam's 3 locked Jang Hana + Digdag for first. Chaos ensued; Ray returned smug.
“Saw that? That's me.”
High-fives with seated members, bragging. Deul Team Deul—bloom or bust, nailed it.
Last hand-clasp: Seo Hyun-woo asked, “Expect the same later?”
“Of course.”
Just draw done, but halfway to victory already. They could win. No reason not to. Ray nodded, eyes closing. Time flew.
Opened them—on stage already. Not rehearsal.
-Black Label, shoot incoming.
In-ear standby. Inner count: one, two, three. Go.
Intro hit perfect. She spun front first. Won Ji-min pierced between Ray and Hye-soo, parting like Moses.
What finale song fit? Ji-min unnie said: our story. Not just Supreme Beat Contest entry—from Black Label's birth, debut, grinding entertainment hell.
Ji-min unnie opened, Hye-soo unnie filled:
“Stubborn like weeds!”
Stepped on endlessly—unless yanked out, we keep going.
Weed: cliché, overused. But nothing fit better. Weeds bloom too—pretty ones, at that.
Seasonal flowers halt passersby; weeds? Trampled.
Many did that to us. Born under idol powerhouse G&X, yet pelted with hate-stone comments, vanishing.
At first, we loved it—attention, even hate. Like top girl groups flipping debut backlash. Thought Black Label's bud would captivate.
No—weeds mimicking flowers. We held the path silently. Notice us, even if you uproot. Thrust faces forward.
This Supreme Beat Contest? Last shot.
First verse ended, chorus rolled. Idol-mandatory dance break. Won Ji-min camera-teased, then Ray's 16 bars.
“Not far. Till this head's yanked.”
No win chase—just announce Black Label exists. Top 10? Huge win. No? Tragic girl group label, repeated airtime—free promo.
Work harder after. Then weed-pullers arrived: G&X Entertainment. Our debuters.
Ray gripped mic—not rap, her story. Precise pronunciation over rhymes, beats over ad-libs.
Last four bars spat, camera-glanced, turned. 16 done—song unfinished, but applause erupted.
Typical idol fare. Why? Survival finale—tearjerker backstory sellout.
At first, that's what I figured.
“What do you think?”
Jang Hana slung off guitar like a defeated swordsman sheathing blade.
“Good, right?”
I nodded unwittingly. Had to, like her.
“Uh...”
Black Label's last draw. Eerily perfect fit. Everyone starring them as protagonists. Song sank deeper, heralding triumph. I scanned crowd—all locked on Black Label.
“Destined winners for real.”
Stars succeed at anything. Black Label: puzzle snapping into place. All aimed their way.