Kwon Yuri, the Retired Idol
Milf Pia's secret waterpark, exclusive for MILFs only. Other buildings for the MILFs' welfare are under construction too, but no matter how much money I pour in, it'll still take time for realistic completion.
Any new menu items today? To kill this boredom while waiting, I scroll through my cafe, Milf Cafe, on my phone again. Naeun's probably monitoring diligently, but maybe there's a more fun toy out there. As I tap on nicknames, browsing photos and reviews...
Huh?
While randomly flipping through the member list, one photo catches my eye by chance.
She was beautiful. Face-scoring is basic for my eyes now, but this bare-faced look felt strangely familiar. It had to be our first meeting, yet that contradiction of familiarity lingered.
She'd just uploaded an overly real photo with zero filters or edits—not some intentionally pretty shot.
'Kwon Youngsook?'
An old-fashioned name that didn't match. I poked around. People use aliases to join the cafe for posting ads, full of schemes and tricks. This photo might be stolen from someone else.
But checking further, she hadn't posted anything on the cafe—just comments.
What stood out were these savage, attacker-like remarks:
Cool-headed yet heavy wording, brutally aggressive like a hater. No matter how I looked, something felt off. Staring at the casually snapped photo under shitty lighting hooked me even more...
……
……
……
"Ah!"
I frantically searched the input field. I couldn't recall the exact name, so I ground my teeth and searched the group name instead: Secret Girls.
A group name I'd often heard as a kid. An idol group now too old to flash business cards.
Zooming in on the member named 'Kwon Yuri'...
It matched perfectly. A genuine idol singer. But the photo was from her peak activity days. Digging into the docs, she's now an elderly idol shifted to side backup, not center stage.
* * *
Pop! Pop!
The dazzling studio lights—blinding to civilians—snapped off. Then came the hurried footsteps of staff cleaning up the empty set.
Throb, throb!
From high school days pounding the floor with dances, how much cartilage had I worn down? Right on cue, heavy pain climbed from my knees as I sat demurely at the desk.
The forced 'idol smile' I'd plastered on for the camera flipped off instantly.
"Good work!"
—Almost said it, but a call reloaded my sales smile.
"Sunbae, you totally hard-carried today!"
"This broadcast's gonna crush it!"
"Ah..."
But realizing they were bright young juniors in their teens or twenties—not my age—my tone sank flat.
I replied in a deflated drawl.
"Nah, you guys did it all. Good work. Drive safe."
"Yes, good work!"
Now juniors twenty years younger bowed deeply, spines folding. I age day by day, while idol debuts get younger—the gap just widens.
I waved lazily.
Trudging silently down the hall to my waiting room alone.
Smooth, plump skin. Cocky as if worn cartilage meant nothing. Modern idols get cutting-edge science-backed management systems.
'Hard-carry my ass.'
My solo trek to the waiting room screamed defeated soldier.
Fifteen years ago, I'd bounced down these broadcast halls like a hyper kid. Once strutting them like a runway brimming with confidence—now even the path to a corner waiting room feels endlessly far.
"Haa."
Shutting the waiting room door, I collapsed onto the sofa. A groan leaked from the end of my released breath.
The variety show we'd just shot targeted 30-40s nostalgia: 'Stars of Memory' special. Reviving my peak-era choreography—kids barely know my name. Gasping 'cause my body's not what it was, or limping on a twisted ankle? Slapstick comedy, applause erupting.
I get it. Idols off-stage now get attention for being funny.
The pride of once ruling stages, grinding cartilage away—now sold for a single subtitle: Old Soldier's Fighting Spirit, all for ratings.
Deep post-nut clarity hits here.
'Fuck... Can't even be bothered to wash off this makeup.'
Just stuffy. What even am I still doing active? My once-proud calling card blurs.
Secret Girls' main visual, Kwon Yuri.
But group activities ended eight years ago. We sold decent albums, so the agency kept the name—but like most idols, we scattered on 'temporary retirement.'
They all found new lives. Me? Still coasting on inertia at broadcasts. Filling in on casual variety gigs, lounging bored at home. Venting anonymously online sometimes.
Not complaints about fading interest or pay. Just lamenting my lot. Hustled hard in the industry—yet what am I now? Lost goals, depressive funk.
Ignorant fucks can yap 'financial therapy your bank account'—but idols don't rake that much. Vague success means post-retirement guest spots pay bigger, ironically.
'Still an Idol, huh.'
Is 'idol' even a real job? Less self-driven action, more receiving love from others to exist. Others complete your being—absurd profession.
Creak!
"Yuri-ssi, engine's running!"
Sprawled out, dress hiked with legs splayed pathetically—manager bursts in. No shame, I rise sluggishly.
"Kids' cars all gone?"
"Pardon? ...Oh! Yeah, confirmed the XE girls just peeled out."
I don't rush quits 'cause ride spacing has hierarchy. Priority by busyness: cash cows raking agency money first.
No big gripes. Was the same in my day. Local events, uni gigs, overseas pushes—busy go first.
Dawn shoot ends; morning ride home. Pro broadcast vet—more comfy in the big SUV back seat than home. Try napping early, but...
"Um... Yuri-ssi?"
"...I'm sleeping. Don't talk."
"No, need prior consent, so..."
"What."
"Well... Got a big gig lined up?"
"Big gig?"
As if. Today's schedule was pure luck.
"It's... not huge buzz, but the sponsor wants a private meet before funding."
His hesitant tone clues me in. No wholesome official sponsor. Shady verbal deal. No beating around: pay-to-meet celeb conditionals. Underworld partnerships where needy idols and rich guys align.
My answer's set.
"Pass."
"But this one's kinda major..."
"Ah, fuck—"
Face hardening,
"Think I'm that pathetic—idle enough to chase rich asses for lip service?"
"......"
"Agencies stuff their pockets, that's why they push!"
Thwack! Kicking the driver's seat, manager flinches.
My spike-sharp temper sharpens more—but it's my lifeline, so no more scolding.
Still, manager persists. Glances via rearview, opens mouth again.
"Um... Yuri-ssi."
"Ugh, shut up alrea—"
"He said just meet! No bad intentions."
"You believe that?"
"Still, just meeting pays way more than active idols!"
"!"
Conditionals. Celeb risk means big money. But forgotten retirees don't get fat stacks. Experience says: more groveling to rich guys for scraps.
"Um... Huge fan of yours, apparently."
"......"
"So... Think positive? Haha."
Pays better than actives. Industry price tags known—I can't ignore it. Youngsters' fees bubble sky-high.
But money won't fill this void. Not self-pleasure—back in action days, I was big. Never done shady shit, never considered.
But, 'Wants to see me that bad.'
Lately joyless funk tugs a bit. Feels sincere. Sincerity worth the sum.
"......"
"......"
Silence in the car. I ponder. Fake sleep, eyes shut—then twitch briefly.
"Just a meet."
"! Th-thank you!"
After thought, approve. If shady guy pulls weird shit, bail midway.
* * *
Used to be a real fan back then. If memory serves, saw her in middle school. Secret Girls—sexy concept idols. Visuals, songs—all top. Idols with pro vocals and dance, rare praise.
Peak era, all 20s—wish they'd lasted.
Curiosity struck; made contact. Celebs'd suspect cafe approaches—went official via agency. Dropped my corp name; smoothed sailing.
Then pitched meeting the celeb. Framed as sponsor cash? Greenlit instantly. Shady stuff happens routinely in shadows—no biggie.
But dropping 'Kwon Yuri' got puzzled tone—named price, no quibbles.
First meet. Venue: agency's secret meeting room, low-profile.
"Hello."
Here, I finally met her. The real Kwon Yuri, my childhood idol fave!
Splash!
Water to the face. After 20 mins of cheerful laughs and chat, this hits mid-flow. Few words in, bared intent—she iced over. Dry as bone, Kwon Yuri left just this:
"Fuck off, you pervert creep."