Chapter 59: The Numbers Climb Endlessly
The four screens on the electronic scoreboard all showed the same thing—the leading digit flipping over and over. It kept changing, climbing higher and higher. Two of the screens finally stopped, their new leading digits frozen in place. The hundreds place: 8. Now the tens place started spinning endlessly.
Choi Jeong shot them a glare. Jang Hana and Black Label had blown right past the hundreds and even added a thousands place. Only two screens were still frantically ticking away in the tens: Kim Won-sam and Kickkick Band. It was as good as a death sentence for both teams—they were out.
What pissed him off even more was that Kickkick Band's score had stopped first, below Kim Won-sam's. Fourth place. The ranking he'd thought might reach the top had plummeted to dead last. Straight to hell. No, it felt like they'd been dragged down kicking and screaming.
The future he'd dreamed of—where he'd be up there, sobbing and snot-nosed like Black Label, giving a victory speech. People could be so cruel. If it was a victory speech, why not just let them say it and move on?
"Then, Black Label, a word for the other contestants who've given us such a great show."
Just shut up and end it already. Black Label hesitated, glancing around awkwardly, but Won Ji-min stepped up as their rep and quickly got through Joo Seong-hwan's sappy routine.
"We could only achieve this result because of everyone here. Thank you all."
Because of us? What the fuck? Are we your EXP? Your stepping stones? Who the hell are you to climb over us?
But Choi Jeong kept his mouth shut tight. Good thing. He'd barely held back the curse bubbling up.
He ground his teeth. When unbearable rage surged, he finally got why they called it gnashing—"adruk, adruk." Yeah, it actually sounded like that. He clenched so hard his gums ached, like his teeth were grinding down to nothing.
The camera had stopped focusing on Kickkick Band's Choi Jeong. It only caught him now as background filler to pad out the finale's stars. After three months of living together, when Joo Seong-hwan asked for their thoughts, they quietly passed the mic. As if their emotions were too overwhelming for an interview, they dumped it on their composer partner.
The live broadcast ended there. Nothing more to say or do. He'd clamped his mouth shut too tight.
Composer Han Tae layered some regret onto his statement. "We wanted to show a new side of Kickkick Band. But we gave it our all, and we're grateful to the fans who got us this far. Honestly, the result stings. But no regrets."
No regrets, my ass. Like hell you don't. You were probably daydreaming about what car to buy with the prize money. Lies from a fucking moron.
Only back in the waiting room, where he could finally speak freely without the stench of bullshit, did he explode.
"Fuck!!"
Like a robbed athlete venting after a rigged game, he grabbed a folding chair and slammed it down hard. The leg rest shattered, the opposite leg bent—but his rage didn't cool.
It was a done deal; anyone could see that. A silver medal by a hair would have been fine. But fourth? Fourth? No matter how he turned it over, it didn't make sense.
"Fuck, is this for real? Is it?"
"Jeong, calm down."
The Kickkick Band manager rushed over, trying to grab his arms, but stopped when he raised the wrecked chair. Approach denied. Terrifying. Even the stylist shrieked in fear.
"J-Jeong oppa, your eyes are totally bloodshot. S-someone, stop him!"
The stylist turned to the manager. "Yeah. Fuck. Can you see my eyes? They're rolled back. Rolled all the way!"
Everything he saw pissed him off now.
"What the hell's your problem?"
Kickkick Band's composer, Han Tae. Yeah, him. Choi Jeong's grip tightened on the chair, hoisting it like he might hurl it any second.
"Jeong, what the hell? 'What's your problem?' Out of nowhere?"
He chucked the heavy chair. It crashed into the concrete tile floor with a deafening clang that rattled eardrums. Everyone winced.
"What'd you say earlier? 'We gave it our all'? Put your hand on your heart and be honest. Did you really? Really?! Fuuuuck!"
"Fuck? What the hell are you doing?"
Choi Jeong slapped his own chest. "Answer my goddamn question. I asked if you really gave it your all. If you did, this shit result doesn't happen. Makes sense?"
He whirled on the manager. "Am I the only one thinking this is fucked? Think about it. A singer leading fandom votes right up to the finale drops to first? No, second? Last place? Makes sense?"
His lips curled inward; Han Tae trembled. Choi Jeong shoved close and shouldered him.
"Come on, say something if you've got a mouth. Makes sense? Did you really try your best? I'm not saying this 'cause I doubt your skills. You were on fire before. So why choke today? Oh, I get it."
Realization dawned. Choi Jeong grinned wide.
"You didn't try your best. That's why we're dead last. Right?"
Han Tae shook like a washing machine in spin cycle. He couldn't let the misunderstanding pile up. Rinse complete—now drain. Words spewed out like sopping laundry.
"It's 'cause you brought that stupid concept."
"What?"
Han Tae fired back. "If we'd stuck to our usual sound, yeah—we were topping fandom votes. Black Label went nuts today, but at least this fucker Choi Jeong! We wouldn't have bombed last like you say. But what'd you tell me?"
He jabbed the same spot Choi Jeong's finger had dug into earlier. Flesh yielded. Han Tae pressed hard.
"We had to keep innovating like Black Label? Bullshit. I opposed it from the start. Fuck, you think Kickkick Band's actually good at music?"
He shook his head. "Nah, you idiot. Our fanbase is tiny, so the face we show looks decent by default. Rockers who can't even digest the genre properly? No amount of 'effort' fixes that. Huh? Can't play to your strengths, then suddenly belt some random ballad like a pro—think the audience buys that shit?!"
"You... you can't say..."
"Not done. And acting like you're hot shit now..."
Han Tae eyed him up and down. "You're pathetic, honestly. A total nobody trying to pull rank? Lame as fuck. Why didn't I try my best? I did, asshole. You're the nobody trying to boss me around right now. Right?"
Han Tae raised a hand toward Choi Jeong's cheek, ready to slap—then froze. A deep sigh.
"Sigh, fucker. Waste of my hand. Too good for you."
"You... think you'll get away with this?"
"Look at you, hilarious. Who the fuck are you to pull rank? Go ahead. Try it."
He thrust out his gut. "What can you do to me, Choi Jeong? Huh?!"
Han Tae turned to the manager with a warning. "Don't call me again. I barely held back from badmouthing you composers to the crew. Fuck."
He hawked a thick loogie and spat it. Then stormed out.
With Han Tae gone, Choi Jeong's legs buckled. He collapsed right there. His palms, propping him up, landed in the glob of phlegm.
"Ugh... fuck."
Only curses came. He'd raged, but it didn't help.
"Hyung. This can't go on."
"...What?"
"We gotta call out the production team."
The manager's head drooped. He caught it with his palm on his forehead.
"What do we even have to call out? Jeong, it's over. If you're gonna talk, think first! Huh?!"
"No, I'm not crazy. It's real. For real. The director funneled everything to Black Label. You didn't feel it?"
Choi Jeong stood, wiping his palms with wet wipes.
"From last week's episode—no, the one before. Black Label's screen time spiked weirdly. Think about it. Yeah, that too."
He clapped. "Why give that group so much focus on 'figuring out their role'? Should've done that ages ago, right? And rap. A kid who couldn't rap at all suddenly kills it? They got lessons for sure. And why!!!"
The manager gave up. No response. He ignored Choi Jeong like a rabid dog had wandered in. Easier that way.
No one acknowledged him, so the mad dog barked louder.
"Why shove in that sudden backstory? It's biased editing!"
"...Is it?"
The first attention came not from the manager. The open door, hallway commotion drawing a crowd—PD Shim Yu-jeong, there for closing greetings, looked down on Kickkick Band endlessly.
"Didn't know you felt that slighted. We edited fairly... Sorry if it came off wrong. Guess closing greetings are done."
Shim Yu-jeong turned and walked off. The manager sighed deeply and ripped into Choi Jeong.
"Hey, Choi Jeong! What the fuck are you doing?!"
"Mooooom!!!"
"M-me too... Daaaad!!"
He hadn't imagined this vibe—stifling. It was over. After victory speeches, Black Label descended into an unending flood of celebrations. Dancers tried a light shoulder dance but got stopped—ceiling too low or something. They linked arms, reveling in the win.
Everyone laughing, joyful—or so he thought—until Black Label families arrived, turning it into a tearful reunion. Even the manager prepped tissues early. Like a family separated by war.
Ray and Hye-soo were already buried in parental hugs. And way back, Won Ji-min flashed an awkward smile his way, glancing over.
What... the hell?