Comforting the Lost Lamb
“Let’s keep the center as is.”
Park Na-gil swept a resolute gaze over the team members and rested a hand on Jeong Ui-tak’s shoulder.
Hot-tempered Kim Su-young had already laid the groundwork, and even Kim Ju-young had climbed onto that stage. Park Na-gil could easily have pretended to be swayed by the two of them and made a play for the center position himself. Instead his stance remained firm.
Just as Ye-chan had judged, the guy was capable of seeing the bigger picture and doing the math.
“Na-gil hyung, but…”
“Like Ye-chan said, Ui-tak is the center we all discussed and chose. The result came out that way, so it doesn’t matter who voted for him or who didn’t.”
Park Na-gil added one last line while looking straight at Ye-chan.
“It was every member’s choice, just like Ye-chan said, and every member will take responsibility for it.”
Kim Su-young bit his lip in frustration but offered no further protest.
Pretty reliable, actually.
Even the closest groups had their share of friction. In a personal survival show that simply threw complete strangers together, conflict was inevitable. They were only sharing a single stage, yet once someone took the leader’s seat he needed the backbone to cut problems off before they festered. Ye-chan found himself looking at Park Na-gil with a little more respect for how cleanly he had handled the duty.
Practice after that proceeded in silence.
Jeong Ui-tak seemed to be doing his best in his own way, yet he kept repeating the same mistakes. The rest of the team let them slide without comment.
I know he’s not messing up because he doesn’t understand it in his head, so there’s nothing useful I can say.
Still, Ye-chan had no intention of sitting on his hands and simply waiting for Jeong Ui-tak to pull himself together.
If I just trust the “I’ll try harder” talk, we could lose every last benefit. He wants to overcome this himself, so I’ll drag him out for a short walk before bed and help him get his head straight.
Ye-chan had claimed a seat in the cafeteria packed with trainees and was mechanically working his chopsticks while watching Jeong Ui-tak do the same, still choosing his words, when a familiar voice cut in.
“Whoa, right next to Ui-tak.”
Ye-chan looked up to find Beom Se-hyuk smiling brightly, tray in hand.
“What? Where’s the rest of your team, Se-hyuk?”
Having shared a practice room, Park Na-gil had already broken the ice; he greeted Beom Se-hyuk warmly.
“Not enough seats, so just me and Sae-byeok came over.”
Bae Sae-byeok, who had been standing quietly behind Beom Se-hyuk, set down his tray and gave a polite bow.
In this day and age, the “take off the glasses and he’s a handsome guy” concept…
His bangs hung shaggy over thick frames, but Ye-chan knew perfectly well how polished Bae Sae-byeok’s bare face really was.
If I leave him alone he’ll end up an actor instead of an idol.
Only son of Bae Hae-seon, CEO of the powerhouse actor agency Ove Entertainment, Bae Sae-byeok had been eliminated from Chumaf the previous year and then burst onto the film scene like a comet. From rookie awards onward he had greedily swept up trophies and roles. In a later interview, asked why he had even appeared on Chumaf, he admitted he had always admired the idol profession—and still did.
Ye-chan’s eyes lit with purpose.
This time I’ll make that dream come true.
He looked across the table at Bae Sae-byeok quietly alternating his spoon and chopsticks and made the silent vow.
“By the way, I overheard you guys practicing—‘Erased’ is a really good song. How did I not know it until now?”
While Ye-chan’s thoughts had drifted to Bae Sae-byeok, Beom Se-hyuk and the others had been chatting about this and that. Whether their relationship was good or bad was hard to tell, but having a familiar face nearby seemed to ease Jeong Ui-tak; his expression looked noticeably lighter.
“Hyung only listens to dance tracks, so of course you wouldn’t know.”
“Haha, busted. Especially that part—‘Erased, if only I could erase it!’—that’s the good bit. Is that the center part?”
Beom Se-hyuk sang Jeong Ui-tak’s part as naturally as breathing. So well that Ye-chan wanted to drag him straight into a recording booth.
Ye-chan nearly dropped his spoon.
…Of all times, he has to sing that part right now?
Beom Se-hyuk had never seen Jeong Ui-tak’s midterm evaluation, so there was no malice. But the fact that he could nail the very section Jeong Ui-tak had spectacularly botched—without any real practice—set off a whole chain of thoughts.
The entire Vocal Team 5 seemed to share the same feeling; no one could speak, and every eye flicked toward Jeong Ui-tak.
Oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, Beom Se-hyuk looked around, puzzled by the abrupt silence.
And Jeong Ui-tak… looked like he had just crawled out of a coffin.
“W-wow. Se-hyuk, you’re a dance member but your singing is, uh, really good.”
Unable to bear the sudden quiet, Kim Ju-young offered an awkward compliment.
“If you like that part, it means Ui-tak’s singing must have been solid.”
Ye-chan fought the urge to punch Beom Se-hyuk on the spot and instead casually gilded Jeong Ui-tak’s face with praise.
“Right! That’s Ui-tak’s part, isn’t it? It suits his voice so well that while we practice I keep finding my ears drifting that way without meaning to.”
“Y-yeah? I think Ui-tak sings it really well too!”
“Of course, of course. Ui-tak’s great.”
Seizing the opening Beom Se-hyuk had created, Kim Ju-young and Park Na-gil piled on the praise. It was so transparent it practically glowed.
Then:
“Well, that skill still has to show up when it counts.”
Kim Su-young’s cold-water remark dropped the mood even lower than before.
“Su-young.”
Park Na-gil issued a low warning.
Jeong Ui-tak showed no reaction and simply began clearing his tray. Before the shattered atmosphere could shatter further, Ye-chan stood.
“If everyone’s finished, let’s get up.”
In moments like this, changing locations worked better than sitting still. Kim Ju-young glanced around and suggested,
“Th-then shall we head to the practice room?”
Just as the group prepared to move, Ye-chan lightly tapped Beom Se-hyuk’s sneaker under the table, drawing his gaze.
You—just don’t say another word.
Their eyes met; Beom Se-hyuk understood the head-shake and clamped his mouth shut with an apologetic look.
“That’s enough for today. See you tomorrow.”
Practice ended under the still-heavy atmosphere.
The moment Park Na-gil finished speaking, Beom Se-hyuk hurried over from the far side of the room. The dance team’s group practice had finished long ago; he had apparently stayed behind alone waiting for Jeong Ui-tak.
Ye-chan watched Beom Se-hyuk say something to Jeong Ui-tak as the latter packed his things, then slipped out of the practice room first. The faint words that reached him mixed “condition” and “are you okay.”
We’re roommates, so I’ll check on him later and talk then.
If a conversation with Beom Se-hyuk improved Jeong Ui-tak’s state, perfect. If not, Ye-chan could step in afterward.
Jeong Ui-tak’s mood, however, stayed sour for a long time.
Even after showering and returning to the room, his face still looked terrible. Ye-chan lay on his bed thinking.
First let him sleep off the fatigue, then talk. What do I even say? “You’re doing fine”? That would sound like a bald-faced lie… Ugh, boosting the ego of a complete stranger is hard.
Ye-chan had been tossing for ages and was just drifting into a light doze when the blanket rustled.
A careful creak of the ladder followed.
What the…
Ye-chan forced his heavy eyelids open and saw the door open and close in the distance.
…The door?
Sleep vanished in an instant.
Ye-chan sat bolt upright. Beside him, Woo Hwi-gyum slept motionless in perfect posture.
That left only one person who could have left.
Jeong Ui-tak.
A chill ran through his blood.
It had never been officially announced, but every reset the internet whispered the same rumor: during Chumaf’s dormitory period, a trainee had run away from the facility. The story never once appeared on broadcast, and Ye-chan had always dismissed it as common gossip—until the person in question became his own teammate.
If he actually runs, we’re finished.
The moment Ye-chan entered Chumaf, the past had already diverged. Knowledge from previous loops could be referenced, but never trusted as certainty. What had once been a minor incident could now easily end in voluntary withdrawal.
I don’t care who drops out of other teams! But not from mine—absolutely not!
Ye-chan jammed his feet into shoes and rushed out after Jeong Ui-tak.
Everyone else was asleep; the dark corridor lay silent.
Outside the building? Or the rooftop?
He glanced between the stairwells, then chose.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Yeah. What am I doing?”
At Ye-chan’s answer, Jeong Ui-tak gave him an incredulous look and twisted the cap off the water bottle he was holding.
In the open lot behind the dormitory, Jeong Ui-tak wore a light windbreaker, training pants, and a towel around his neck—anyone could see he had come out for an early jog. Ye-chan, by contrast, still had pillow-flattened hair, pajamas, and mismatched shoes.
Not the roof—outside was right.
He was grateful for the half-remembered comment from some previous loop that Jeong Ui-tak had acrophobia.
“…Do you sleepwalk?”
“No…”
After racing around in a panic since dawn, the anticlimactic ending left Ye-chan’s legs weak. He simply slid down the wall and sat.
Still better to check properly than keep fretting…
Ye-chan steeled himself. Looking down at him, Jeong Ui-tak’s face clearly showed he was debating whether to just walk past.
Fine, just go.
But the hologram window’s heart once again diverged from Ye-chan’s.
Please comfort the heart of the lost little lamb!
― You thought I’d jumped this wall and came running in a panic.
― Is something wrong? Just spill it all to this hyung.
― You hate Beom Se-hyuk. It’s obvious.
<10> <9> <8>
Look at these choices…
Ye-chan listlessly tapped one.
“Y-you thought I’d jumped this wall and came running in a panic.”
“What?”
Jeong Ui-tak echoed him in disbelief, but Ye-chan shamelessly laid a hand against the dormitory wall.
“Lucky you didn’t climb it.”
“…If you jump that during filming, you’re finished in the industry.”
“Exactly.”
Like it or not, an idol could not run from the stage. Even if his mental state was in pieces, Jeong Ui-tak still held the basic mindset of an idol firmly in place; Ye-chan felt a measure of relief.
Jeong Ui-tak sighed and plopped down beside him.
“Do you always work out like this in the morning?”
“Yes. It’s become a habit—if I skip it I feel all stiff.”
“So yesterday too?”
“I did.”
“I had no idea.”
“Hyung left at dawn yesterday to work on the arrangement. When I woke up and the bottom bunk was empty I got a scare. Hwi-gyum hyung sleeps so deeply someone could carry him off and he wouldn’t notice.”
Come to think of it, Ye-chan had left early the previous dawn. He searched his memory.
“What about the day before?”
“I tried resting that day and my condition was awful, so I started again yesterday.”
Wiping sweat with the towel, Jeong Ui-tak answered obediently—far more compliant than the way he usually treated Beom Se-hyuk.
“…Even though we share a room, this is the first time we’ve really talked.”
“True. We just go straight to sleep once we’re in.”
Looking after people who weren’t Lee:Spirit members was something Ye-chan hadn’t done in a long while.
Maybe that was why he lightly voiced a question he normally would have kept inside.
“You’re different when you’re with Beom Se-hyuk.”
The name alone made Jeong Ui-tak’s face crumple.
“I’ve known that hyung a long time. …And honestly, he’s got zero life skills. Watching him makes something bubble up so I end up nagging, and if I leave him alone he causes accidents, so I helped a few times and now whenever something goes wrong Se-hyuk hyung and everyone else looks at me first!”
Whether the quiet of dawn gave him courage, Jeong Ui-tak clenched both fists and poured out his true feelings in a rapid-fire burst—then suddenly deflated like a punctured balloon, shoulders sagging.
“What… does an idol even need life skills for? It’s ridiculous that I’m like this. I’m a vocal position yet I sing worse than dance-position Se-hyuk hyung, and I still have the nerve…”
Using Beom Se-hyuk as the standard is way too harsh.
Having known Beom Se-hyuk so long, Jeong Ui-tak’s bar was set impossibly high.
In Ye-chan’s estimation, the only people in the dorm who sang better than Beom Se-hyuk were himself and Woo Hwi-gyum. Ye-chan’s own stats were similar; he simply held a slight edge through experience and technique.
Watching Jeong Ui-tak hug his knees and sink into genuine gloom, the choice that had just popped up floated back into Ye-chan’s mind.
— You hate Beom Se-hyuk. It’s obvious.
The option had clearly framed it as dislike, yet
“Do you want to debut with Beom Se-hyuk?”
Ye-chan’s thought was different.
Jeong Ui-tak’s pupils trembled as if he had been struck dead center.