Mask Singer 5-Time Champ? (Part 2)
“Uh…”
“Hmm…”
At the writers' request, we suddenly dove into personal talent practice. I whipped up a patchwork dance medley on the spot and showed it off, only for their faces to twist into awkward expressions.
“You dance way too well…”
“Uh… is that a problem?”
“Big time. It'll scream 'idol' right away.”
“We only told you a couple hours ago—not even days ago—and you pull off this quality…?”
“You don't have to go this hard. We just wanted a little MSG sprinkle for the talk segment…”
Listening to their flustered reactions, I finally got what went wrong. Normally, if they want a personal talent, they give you a heads-up before filming. So hitting us up out of the blue on shoot day like this? Straight-up rude.
“So you asked for choreography, but I went and prepped a group routine instead?”
“Y-yeah…”
“Hmm…”
Who knew dancing too well would backfire? Easy fix—just switch to solo choreo. The real issue?
“Wouldn't it be a shame to scrap this?”
“Yeah, true.”
It was a killer dance medley, too good to toss. Even I thought I'd put real effort into it. The writers were convinced it'd blow up online. Too good to ditch, too risky to use. In the end, it got kicked up to the PD.
“You're a real jack-of-all-trades. I held off telling you on purpose 'cause I figured you'd overprep.”
A rookie idol has to hide their identity, so they didn't tip me off early—turns out my skills were so sharp I cranked out pro-level medley in two hours flat.
“PD, isn't it a waste to bin this? No one's clocked you yet—might as well go all out.”
“That medley? It'll be huge.”
No one here forgets: buzz equals ratings. To these broadcast pros, the risk of getting outed was small potatoes if it spiked viewership.
“The White-Haired Prince on His Black Steed is trending 'cause netizens can't pin you down.”
“We'll get busted eventually. We were gonna drop hints anyway.”
“Hmm.”
“Your skills alone could promo you plenty, in my book.”
The medley I'd slapped together in hours was insane. And my singing? Even stronger than last King of Mask round.
“If word got out the White-Haired Prince is an idol? Total riot. Male idols don't have the best rep— it'd be one hell of a twist.”
The PD caved to the writers' pitch.
“Haesol, can you nail that first medley for real?”
“I'll make 'em think I'm a pro dancer, not an idol.”
“!!”
My bold claim had the PD and writers grinning ear to ear.
“Then we're counting on you, Prince!”
The crew filed out, beaming. Manager Noona patted my back, proud as hell.
“How do you talk so smooth?”
“Did I? Clear the couch—practice time.”
“Got it! Anything else? Comfy clothes might be better?”
The production team was bending over backward. Kings usually sit on the throne from round one, but they let me chill in the green room till round three. Plenty of time to polish the medley. I'd claimed pro dancer status, so I cranked it up a notch.
A few hours later, round three kicked off. The challenger who'd clawed through rounds one to three was “Sunflower Fairy King,” a female contestant with killer vocals—totally qualified for king status. Her rock-solid tone and chills-inducing dynamics? Pro singer for sure, even if her identity stayed masked.
“Now, only the defending king's stage remains to face the challenger.”
The MC teased the crowd with a knowing vibe.
“The explosive high notes that captivated everyone from Challenger Sunflower Fairy King! Versus the buzz-making king who breezed to two crowns, the White-Haired Prince on His Black Steed. Before we start, King, thoughts on Sunflower Fairy King's stage?”
“She owned that song completely. 'Fading Night' from round three? Brutal to sing. Emperor fits better than king.”
Woooaaah!!!!
“The king gives high praise! Sunflower Fairy King, your take? Think you can win?”
“Gotta try, but yeah—I've got this.”
Helium-high voice, brimming with challenger swagger.
“Oh ho, challenger's confident! King, your thoughts? Can you hold?”
“Prepped hard for three crowns. Fans loving my songs gave me fire. Not losing easy now.”
“Whoa~! King's confident too. Thrilling stuff. Let's kick off the king's stage!”
Woooaaah!!!
“Quick break here! Audience, back in seats in 30. Bathroom's left exit!”
Breather before my turn. Staff? No rest—they prepped my stage.
“Nail it.”
“No worries.”
“Right. You're my guy! Need anything?”
“Water's out—grab some?”
“On it!”
Water run? Cake. Noona dashed off. I pulled my silenced phone. Missed checks during round three—now messages piled up.
“Jeonghwa?”
Five missed calls from Jeonghwa, plus texts. She'd never blown up my phone like this—bad vibes hit hard. I checked the message.
I shot up.
“Fuck.”
Due date was two weeks out, I thought. Health buffs should've kept Jua safe—no way this bolt from the blue. I bolted from the throne, dialing Jeonghwa.
—Haesol!
“What happened?”
—Morning belly aches. Guess it was labor.
“Jua? She okay?”
—Fine. At hospital, not time yet—waiting. Shocked you? Mid-shoot?
“On my way.”
King of Mask who? Not now.
“Haesol! Why're you out? Where to? Shoot's starting!”
Shit—face-to-face with Noona.
Jeonghwa overheard, gasping.
—Oh, shooting? My bad calling. Jua's good—focus, come after. Babies take 1-2 hours sometimes. Or 10-hour waits. Or not today.
“How can I? Which hospital? Heading there.”
“Hey hey! Shoot's now—what hospital? What's up!!”
Noona blocked my path.
“Noona, let me go.”
“Speak first! You bail, we're all duck eggs in the Nakdong!”
“……”
—Hey, Jin Haesol!
Part of me screamed run to Jua. But Noona was right too. Gut-wrenching bind—then Jua's voice cut in. Hearing her calmed my pounding heart a bit.
—Ditching your shoot? I'm dying here—no bandwidth for you too. Hustle over after everything's done. Show that responsible dad vibe. Blessing's birthday—you want me seeing you trashed?
“…Hah. Fine.”
Jua's words cooled my head. Noona sweat-drenched, clutching my arm desperate.
“Sorry, Noona.”
“What happened? Not going, right? Please save me. Can't let you bolt— you'd be screwed!”
“Not now. But talk to PD for me? Sing and I'm out.”
“Just sing? What about talent?”
“Talent… fuck, gotta do it?”
“Duh! You prepped hard. Serious? Hospital sounds like someone got hurt bad…”
“Yeah.”
Our kid's coming—my blood.
Couldn't spill truth—had to swallow it down.
“Got it. I'll kill the talent. Sing and bounce. Editing'll cover. Hit three crowns? Prep harder next shoot. Deal?”
“Yeah.”
Noona shooed me back, charging off like a general. Throne-bound, I schemed fastest win. Audience trickled back post-break. Noona MIA till stairs—hero mode, spilling the tea.
“PD's good.”
“Talent scrapped?”
“Yup. Next time. But slay that song. Three crowns or bust. Fast results promised.”
I clenched my fist.
They bent for me—I'd deliver.
“I'll crush votes so quick, no lag.”
“Good.”
“Sorry for the hassle today, Noona.”
“Friend in hospital? Shit happens. Sigh—but next time, no rash moves. Think straight. I'd have missed you, you'd be gone. Can't clean that mess.”
“Yeah, Noona. Proper apology post-stage.”
“Just kill it. That's enough.”
“Will do.”
Overwhelm 'em, audience votes fast—no dwell. Then bolt to hospital after all done, like Noona said. I cracked the tossed water, sipped, fixed my mask—shoot rolled.
Huge stage. Solo felt weird at first, unlike usual. But now? No unease, no crowd glare weight.
Milk powder-roid?
Blessing's coming soon. Duty to raise 'em right weighed heavy.
Intro flowed. Mic to lips, I poured out the inexplicable feels.
This moment?
No one in the world sings better than me.
Lyrics spilled.