46. Daylight (2)

Before I could even process the verbal one-two punch, Lee Doha unleashed a rapid-fire barrage of critiques—the kind I'd never seen from him before.

"Hajin, you've got a wide vocal range and you're good at belting high notes. I don't know if it's your vocal technique, but your tone sounds much more appealing when you dynamically shift between chest voice and head voice rather than just hammering high notes. And since you've got good rhythm sense, you'd kill mid-low range melodies that require looser timing to bring out the groove."

"Wait, hold on—"

"Daylight's Section A starts with high notes and keeps building higher. Parts like this usually go to members who can naturally hit those notes without strain or those who can sustain high notes with proper technique. In our team, that'd be Haruna or Siwoo. You'd sound better handling Section B that comes after—it suits your singing style more."

...This guy's better ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠than the System.

[System Alert: Excuse me?]

Ugh, stop reading my thoughts. But Doha's machine-gun critique wasn't done yet.

"You got the ad-libs for verse 3, right? If I were assigning parts, I'd have given you the main vocal part for verse 3 instead, or had you layer harmonies. The third verse needs powerful, confident delivery—which suits your strong vocal projection. For your ad-libs to work, the main vocal needs to match your intensity, but from what I know, no Feather-tier trainee has that kind of vocal power. Your ad-libs might overpower them. Also—"

"Got it! I get it, so stop beating me up, man."

"...? I haven't laid a finger on you."

It's my bruised mental state I'm talking about. No wonder he's a rapper—his enunciation and delivery are lethal. If this continued, I felt like I'd lose my already tenuous grip on sanity. I made a "calm down" gesture with one hand while pressing my throbbing temple with the other.

"Saying I can't handle my part is the same as hitting me."

"No? That's completely different."

Doha scratched the back of his neck—a telltale sign he was about to drop a bombshell. I instinctively raised my guard.

"Hajin."

"Yeah, go ahead. I'm braced for impact."

"You gave ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the others their parts first again, didn't you? The ones they'd do best."

"......"

...The silence confirmed he'd hit bullseye.

"I noticed since last month's evaluation—you always take the leftover parts. You distribute what others can do best and take what's left—the parts they can't or struggle with."

"......"

"I don't know if this is what Senior Seo Taeil meant by 'not being greedy'...but from where I stand, you don't seem ambitious. Why don't you go for what you'd excel at? It's not like you don't know your own capabilities."

"...M-maybe I don't. Right now you seem to know me better than I do."

"No. From what I see, you understand these trainees as well as our development team staff. You knew I could handle the dance break when you assigned it to me. How can you claim not to know your own abilities? That doesn't add up."

Doha stared at me with unsettling certainty. Why was he so worked up about this? I wanted to run. His words kept dragging out things from within me that I wasn't ready to face.

"...I'm just curious."

"......"

"Whether you actually have confidence in yourself or not. Whether you're ambitious or not."

Then came the knockout punch:

"Do you actually want to debut?"

I couldn't answer that question—not to the end.

When does a person first experience true frustration in life?

ㅡHajin got first place again? How does he do it without even going to cram school?

ㅡHe's good at sports too. Remember how he turned things around in the relay race at the sports festival?

It might sound obnoxious, but I'd rarely experienced genuine frustration growing up.

A kid who excelled at everything despite our poor financial situation—athletics, academics, even trivial things like beating adults at holiday card games.

I surpassed most peers, achieved most things, succeeded at whatever I tried.

ㅡMom, I passed the audition.

When I got that trainee acceptance call from my first company, I wasn't even surprised—some part of me had known I'd make it. Happy, but not astonished. It felt expected. After all, I'd succeeded at most things I'd set out to do.

But when you achieve so much so young...

And when a bright child becomes aware of their own competence—do you know what happens?

ㅡHajin, aren't you going to practice?

ㅡI should... Ugh, I'd rather die.

ㅡLeave him be. He never practices until he feels like it's worth his time.

Laziness born of tasks being too easy for one's abilities.

ㅡSeriously, why can't you guys get this? Maybe ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I should just do it alone.

ㅡ...Did you have to say it like that?

ㅡSigh... Then do better. If you can't outperform someone who only practiced for a day, what's the point? Should we just scrap everything?

Lack of consideration for those less capable.

ㅡHey, Kang Hajin. Think you're so special? That only your opinion matters? You always think you're right.

ㅡWell, am I wrong? Honestly, I am right. Maybe you should do your job better, sunbaenim.

Arrogance and conceit.

ㅡThird place in monthly evaluations? Could've been first if you tried harder. What a waste.

ㅡMom, I barely practiced because I was studying for exams. Isn't this good enough? Can't you just say I did well?

Intense need for validation despite downplaying one's efforts.

And the self-justification for all of it.

Not that I never worked hard. But—

ㅡHajin...you could do so much better. Why do you always stop at 'good enough'?

I always stopped at what I knew I could achieve—to leave myself an escape route if results turned sour.

ㅡHajin got cut from debut lineup again.

ㅡHe's talented—why does he keep getting passed over?

ㅡYou think he's the only one with hunger here?

So when "good enough" stopped being enough, I ran.

Too terrified of shattering if I gave my all. Too afraid to experience total failure after pouring everything into something.

ㅡMom, sometimes...

ㅡ.......

ㅡI'm scared of my mediocre future. That I'll disappoint you.

Not wanting to fail parents who sacrificed everything despite our poor circumstances, just to support their children's dreams.

ㅡIf I can't achieve anything when you believe in me this much, that failure would be entirely on me.

ㅡ.......

ㅡSo I'll do something else. Not what I could excel at—just what I'm decent at.

Even after quitting as a trainee and taking a different path, I'd occasionally wonder—

ㅡIf I hadn't given up then, if I'd seen it through—would things be different?

ㅡIf I could go back to that time, could I stake everything and go all out?

Only after losing all motivation and endlessly self-censoring before my regression did I understand why I couldn't forget that moment. Why every failure made me recall it.

That was my first escape.

My first frustration—one even I hadn't recognized.

'What about now?'

Floating atop these memories, I asked myself:

Was I running away again now?

Mentor evaluation day arrived.

"Hyung. What's on your mind?"

"Huh?"

"You keep spacing out today."

Kim Wonho's back pat snapped me back. I shook my head, saying it was nothing.

"Nothing? You look like a deposed crown prince who lost his kingdom."

The oddly specific analogy made me snort.

"Thanks for making me a crown prince at least."

"Honestly, Eunchan fits that look better than you."

"He's more like the Northern Grand Duke type. Rumored to be a tyrant but secretly warm to his woman."

"...The only part of that I understood was 'warm to his woman.'"

Ah, damn. Shouldn't say that to a muggle.

"Never mind. Didn't sleep well—must be losing it."

Not entirely a lie—I deflected by patting Wonho's shoulder.

"You ready?"

"Me? I...just worked hard like you said. Think Yu-geon can win?"

"Dunno. But neither of us got many parts this time."

"Why?"

"I'm on rap but we have Doha hyung. And Yu-geon...his live vocals aren't great, apparently. Siwoo hyung didn't give him many lines. He's not complaining though. For dance, Seo Taehyun and Joo Eunchan have center."

Ah, right. Recalling our Wings-tier members, it made sense. Yu-geon's vocals were indeed weaker than his dancing.

"Han Seongwoo?"

"That hyung? Well...actually he got all the killing parts. 'Hello My Youth'—he's doing that."

"Surprising. Thought they'd give it to Seo Taehyun."

With Doha the brutal truth-teller around, how did Seongwoo get it? As if reading my mind, Wonho shrugged.

"Well...it's a battle. He's leader and has many parts—said he wanted one surefire standout moment."

"Taehyun just accepted it? Didn't fight for it?"

"Hmm...Doha hyung originally suggested giving it to Taehyun."

Wonho rolled his eyes recalling it.

"But Taehyun ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠said any part he takes becomes the killing part anyway, so it didn't matter."

"Can't even argue—that pisses me off."

"Yep. Doha hyung and Siwoo hyung just went 'okay' and gave it to Seongwoo hyung."

Unlike me, Seo Taehyun had absolute confidence in his abilities—something I couldn't laugh about. I'd been like this since that walk with Doha.

'Get it together, Kang Hajin. Mentor evaluations are today.'

The personal flaws Doha exposed wouldn't affect this mission. Even if the parts didn't suit me, with evaluations two days away, changing assignments out of personal ambition was unthinkable.

'I'll think about that...gradually in the next mission.'

Then—

[Really?]

"...What?"

"Huh? What's wrong?"

The normally blue System window glitched, turning crimson. Then it spoke differently than usual.

"Hyung! Hajin hyung!"

"Hyung, emergency!"

Before I could process the System's message, our team came rushing over, their alarmed expressions saying everything.

"Jaeyoung—Jaeyoung's being taken to the ER!"

"What?"

"He's got a 39°C fever! PDs and managers are looking for you!"

"What about our mentor evaluation?"

The System window vibrated again.

[If given the chance, won't run away this time?]

I had no answer for the System's question.