How a Niche Idol Survives (1)
“Haa… Manager Jeon.”
The CEO sat in the seat of honor, chain-smoking without pause. This was already his third cigarette.
I sat beside him and breathed in the smoke like a man already condemned.
“I know you prepared this new track well. I know how hard you worked on it, Manager Jeon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But when the results come out like this, there’s nothing I can do. You know how much money we poured into this album.”
“Yes. I’m aware.”
We’d brought in outside composers and lyricists with real name recognition. The music video had been shot with real production value. I hadn’t run the full numbers yet, but I knew the total had easily cleared the hundred-million-won mark.
“What rank?”
“Eighty-seventh.”
“No, no. That was the first week. I’m talking about now.”
It was the third week since release.
“……It’s charted out.”
“Music show appearances?”
“……None.”
“I thought we spent money on marketing, too.”
“W-we put a little into YouTube…”
“You did all that, and this is the result?”
“…….”
There was nothing I could say.
This was the album my team and I—and most of all, our girls—had poured six months of blood and sweat into. Sepia’s fourth studio album. I knew better than anyone how many nights the staff had stayed up preparing for it, how the members of Sepia had practiced until they collapsed, night after night, dripping with sweat.
The CEO ground out his third cigarette in the ashtray and let out a bitter sigh.
“Sepia’s about due to…”
“Sir. They still have a core fanbase. There’s still a chance of a reverse climb—”
“And how long am I supposed to wait, banking on a reverse climb? Kids with fans chart out in three weeks?”
“They’re still young. There are always more chances—”
“The maknae. What’s her name—Se-a? She’s got some years on her now, doesn’t she?”
Se-a was twenty.
“It’s not that bad yet—”
“She debuted in middle school. For an idol, that’s real seniority. How many groups have debuted under them since?”
He wasn’t wrong.
Se-a, the youngest, had debuted at sixteen. Back then even Harin—the oldest and the leader—had only been nineteen. Four years had already passed. In that time the girl-group generations had turned over, and countless rookies younger than Sepia had clawed their way up. The leader of the hottest girl group right now was the same age as Se-a.
At most they were twenty. Twenty-three at the outside. In ordinary society that meant nothing. In a girl group, it meant everything. For groups with short lifespans and brutal generational turnover, time was a killing blow.
“I know you’ve been attached to them since they were trainees. I’ve watched them since debut myself. But it’s time to let go. They had one hit. That should be enough.”
The CEO stared at the ceiling and exhaled a long, heavy breath.
He was right about one thing: Sepia had been genuinely popular with their second album. A single candid photo of Eunchae—the member with the best visuals—had gone viral online, and overnight they’d become a sudden sensation. Fans had poured in. At the very least, people knew the name Sepia. But no popularity lasts forever, and now everyone except a handful of hardcore fans had drifted away.
In the end, the failure to hold onto that momentum was entirely on my planning. The only reason we’d been able to sink so much money into this fourth album at all was because they’d succeeded once. Without that, they would have vanished without a sound like every other no-name girl group.
“Sepia… wind it down.”
“Sir.”
Please.
I looked at him ready to drop to my knees, but he wouldn’t even glance my way. From the company’s position—already deep in the red—they’d done everything they could. Believing further support was pointless was, objectively, fair.
But still.
From pre-debut prep to now, roughly six years. I had built everything alongside Sepia’s four members. From starting as a manager to becoming the chief who ran the whole operation, this was the girl group I had raised with my own hands. I couldn’t just abandon them because someone told me to let go.
I knew better than anyone how hard they’d practiced. How much they’d given. How much they’d endured to get here.
“Just once… give us one more chance. Please.”
“Wasn’t this fourth album the one you made with that exact line?”
“……I know I have no right to ask. But please. Just once more.”
“No.”
His voice was final. He’d finished every calculation long before calling me into this office.
“Start preparing. Set the date about a month out.”
He meant the disbandment date.
“Sir. I’ll do anything. The girls are ready to do anything too. Please…”
The CEO lit a fourth cigarette and said nothing.
“…….”
For a long while he only stared at the ceiling. Then he took the cigarette between his fingers and spoke.
“Those girls.”
“Yes.”
“Are they really ready to do anything?”
If the girls heard that question, what would they say? The answer was already fixed.
“Yes. They are.”
“And you? Are you ready?”
“Yes. I am.”
“…All right.”
He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and finally looked at me.
“……Then I’ve got a job for you.”
“Ah, oppa!”
“Manager!”
The moment I stepped into the practice room, the members of Sepia came at me all at once. They’d been mid-rehearsal—the new track was still playing—but it cut off immediately.
“What did the CEO… say?”
Harin, the leader, asked carefully.
Damn it. I hadn’t told them I was going to the CEO’s office. Word had already gotten around.
“Nothing major. He just wants us to push harder on this album. A little scolding, that’s all.”
They already knew the atmosphere. A clumsy lie wouldn’t land. Shadows settled over their faces.
“I see……”
“If we just got more promo… He won’t cover that? The song’s really good…”
“I did bring it up.”
“And?”
“He said he’d think about it more. It’s not like any of this is free.”
“So he hasn’t completely given up on us.”
“Right. I was getting nervous—those new trainees I passed in the hall were already celebrating forming their own team.”
“…….”
“Don’t worry too much. If we get a real promotional push this time, things could still turn around.”
“Music shows… are those out of the question?”
Eunchae, who’d been listening quietly from the back, cut in.
“…….”
My throat locked.
Music show appearances—especially terrestrial broadcast—were never easy. The slots went first to the biggest groups, and it wasn’t only girl groups filling them. For so-called niche acts like us, the best you could hope for was grinding on a producer until you scraped one chance. Even that often fell through.
Sepia’s fourth album hadn’t appeared on a single broadcast. The producers were busy snatching up hot rookie girl groups. No one felt any loyalty toward a five-year mid-tier agency act. My own networking hadn’t been sharp enough either.
But this particular “networking” might be different.
“No. I think we can grab one shot.”
“Really?”
“Which one? Music Center? Song Bank?”
“If it actually happens, that would be amazing.”
“I’m working both angles. You just prepare like it’s already locked in. Got it?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, oppa.”
The girls lit up and crowded back in front of the practice-room mirrors. There was still hope, at least. But from now on, that hope was something we would have to build ourselves.
“Ah. Harin.”
“Yes?”
When I called the leader over, Harin approached carefully.
“Can we talk for a second?”
I gestured toward the hallway. She followed me out without a word. Only after the music started up again inside the practice room did I speak, carefully.
“……There’s something important I need to tell you.”
“…What is it?”
She must have sensed the shift in my mood. Her expression turned serious.
“There’s a music-show slot open next week.”
“…Really?”
“Yeah. Problem is… we’re not the only ones hunting it.”
Of course not. The number of groups and soloists desperate for even one music-show appearance was endless.
“So I’m going to have to ask a favor of the producer…”
“……?”
I had more to say, but the words stuck. I still had to say them. And if anyone would understand, it was Harin—the most responsible, the most dedicated. Above all, the leader of Sepia.
“When I ask, I think we’ll need to pay our respects.”
“All of us? That wouldn’t be hard, but…”
“No. Um… you’ll go as the representative, Harin.”
“Just me…?”
“The thing is, he… well. He seemed to think pretty highly of you, back then. So…”
The words wouldn’t come easily.
“That’s good, then. I’m fine with it. If he’s a fan, I should greet him properly myself.”
“No, that’s not—haah.”
I glanced at her face. She was still looking at me with no idea what I meant. But Harin wasn’t so dense she wouldn’t figure it out.
“He wants to meet you one-on-one. The producer.”
“……Ah.”
Harin’s mouth hung open. She couldn’t speak. Her fists clenched so hard they trembled. I couldn’t look at her face. I turned away.
The shaking in her hands gradually quieted, then stopped. When she finally spoke, her voice was smaller than the music leaking from the practice room—but perfectly clear.
“……Yes. ……I’ll meet him.”