The Expiration Date of Attention
So that was it. That one word explained everything.
SP, Spotlight Point.
Points made from the gathering of people's attention.
And attention never lasts.
"Ha—"
[S: SP is retained for a maximum of 7 days from the moment it is generated.]
[S: Depending on the type of attention, it may dissipate even faster.]
"A week?"
I felt hollow.
Just one week. Even if you clawed every pair of eyes onto you, that was all you got. A world where a name that blanketed the news feeds yesterday could vanish without a trace a few days later.
The system had captured the entertainment industry's ecosystem with brutal accuracy.
"Well, that's on me, I guess."
I'd been spending SP the moment it accumulated. Spinning the Hourglass over and over, until I'd even passed out from it.
It never occurred to me to save any up.
Which was why I hadn't known. No—I hadn't thought about it. That attention had an expiration date.
A hollow laugh escaped me.
What the hell is King Yama even doing?
At this point it wasn't a roulette-game addiction, it was an entertainment-industry addiction.
"You could've told me a little sooner, you know?"
I tossed it out casually, but the status window stayed silent. Normally it would've fired back some quip, but today it was unnervingly quiet.
That silence irritated me even more. I slumped back against the bed.
My carefully laid plans had completely unraveled.
"This is giving me a headache."
It wasn't hopeless. Even without the item, my mid-evaluation performance hadn't been bad.
The problem was the real thing.
I was a producer and an idol fan—but I had never been an idol.
I'd been someone who watched from below the stage, not someone who stood on it.
"I'm going crazy……."
The moment I closed my eyes, the stage rose up in my mind.
Nyx had staked everything on this survival show. They'd scraped together every last drop of capital they could pull from anywhere and everywhere.
Maybe that was why—even before my regression, I'd felt it—the stage had been absurdly massive from Round 1 onward.
Filling that enormous stage alone?
"……"
Just imagining it made it hard to breathe. No matter how strong your nerves were, there was no way you wouldn't be tense.
That was why I'd planned to use the item. So that even if I made a mistake, only my strengths would remain in the judges' memories.
What if I mess up?
What if I get nervous and fall apart?
What if I get a 'None' rating?
The anxieties chased each other in circles.
And then it happened.
An old memory surfaced out of nowhere.
My older sister, Yu Seong-ah.
A dancer and famous choreographer, that woman had been different from everyone else since she was little. School festivals, talent shows, local events—anywhere with a stage, she never once walked past.
And she always dragged me along by the wrist.
A total lunatic from the cradle, that one.
That day was no different.
I was only in third grade. It was the day of the school talent show, the whole student body watching.
I thrashed and protested that I didn't want to go on stage, and Yu Seong-ah hauled me up anyway.
The result was devastating. The moment the lights came on, I burst into tears.
All the kids staring, the teacher panicking.
[Hey, I cried my eyes out and still hit every single move, didn't I?]
I didn't want to admit it, but it was true.
Brainwashing education is a terrifying thing—tears and snot streaming down my face, I faithfully executed the choreography.
It's a wonder I still haven't forgotten it.
And the funnier part—
[Hey, I was the one who nailed the dance without a single mistake, but YOU were the one who went viral, remember?]
That's right. Fourth-grader Yu Seong-ah took the stage like a fish in water and tore the place up. But the one the audience actually buzzed about was me.
The video her teacher posted to WeTube even got fairly famous.
An elementary school boy, being dragged along bawling beside a suspiciously talented little dancer, yet executing the choreography flawlessly.
People focused on me instead.
Years later, when Yu Seong-ah got famous and the video resurfaced, the reactions were exactly the same.
I didn't understand it then, but I think I do now.
People marvel at the perfect.
But they root for the one who falls short and endures to the very end anyway.
And that support turns into attention.
In that instant, my mind lit up like a struck match.
"That's it."
The item I'd been trying to create.
[A perfume that leaves only your strengths in memory]
The answer was already written in that very sentence.
For only the strengths to be remembered……
"There have to be flaws."
Light is only visible against darkness, and perfection only reveals itself through imperfection.
And all this time, I'd done nothing but try to hide that.
Trying not to make mistakes, covering up my weak points as much as possible.
But that was the producer's approach.
The players on stage were different. Survival shows, especially so.
It's not the person who's perfect from the start who survives—it's the one whose flaws keep drawing your eye.
People go wild for growth, not results.
I never needed to hide anything in the first place.
I replayed the mid-evaluation stage in my head. Clean, well-executed.
The only hook had been the twist—nobody expected that kid to perform an original song. That alone made it a surprising stage.
But it had worked because it was the first time.
Strip away the twist element, and it was a "too safe" stage. Even more so compared to the other contestants flinging themselves into dances and tumbling passes.
What beats flashiness has always been story.
A protagonist who's perfect from page one? No affection there. Watching an underdog newbie grow bit by bit—that's the whole charm of a survival show, isn't it?
Which meant I had exactly one weapon.
Show everything, hide nothing.
Walk onto the stage in my anxious state, exactly as I am. Then build it up, bit by bit. Pull the audience in, and finally detonate everything at the climax. Create transformation within a single stage.
I wasn't an idol—I was someone who watched idols.
Which was exactly why I could be confident. I knew, properly knew, what kind of stage made people go wild.
"……This'll be fun."
It would probably come out as a stage completely unlike the other trainees'. Because I was the bottom of the bottom, the authority on newbies, the king of amateurs.
Shoot day.
The air inside the bus was heavy. In their seats, everyone loosened up their necks or worked through their limbs, running the choreography in their heads.
"Oh, Seongwoo. Over here."
Han Sangyoon waved.
"Coming!"
As I made my way to the seat, gazes clung to me. The reactions had definitely changed since the mid-evaluation.
Too bad it wasn't right next to Yiyul, but it was next-next to him. The seat beside Yiyul was occupied by a huge bag.
……He guards his seat better than a person.
"Did you prep a lot?"
"Yeah, more or less."
"Ugh, why am I so nervous."
Choi Woonjo poked his face out from the seat in front.
"Ooh, hyung. Are you jangjang-ing too?"
"Not jangjang—nervous."
"Right! Nervous!"
Choi Woonjo grinned.
"And you, Seongwoo?"
"A little?"
I acted tough for no reason. Honestly, I felt like throwing up.
Glancing over, I saw Yiyul with his earbuds in, lightly running through the choreography. Maybe because he was out of his cast, even his hand movements were on another level.
As expected.
Since he'd spent most of the prep period in the workroom, I'd barely seen him practicing this time.
Not that I was worried about Kang Yiyul.
"We've arrived. Please exit the bus—"
"Yes!"
We poured out at a massive filming studio somewhere in Seoul. Even from the outside, the scale was anything but ordinary.
"Whoa, no way."
"Wow, it's huge."
The trainees' mouths all hung open. Mine included.
They really dumped money into this.
No wonder people called them a poor-value group after debut.
"Is everyone here? Hair and makeup, this way please."
We followed the staff to the waiting room.
"We meet again?"
At the familiar voice, I spun around.
"Wow, I was literally hoping you'd be here on the way over."
"Really? Then I'll have to do a good job today too—"
She asked with a smile.
"What kind of feel are we going for today?"
"Something understated again, like the profile shoot."
For this stage, flashy styling would be poison. I'd set my concept as 'an amateur's growth,' after all.
"That's why I prepared this too."
"What is it?"
She pulled a glasses case from her pocket.
"No prescription in these?"
"Nope."
Of course not. Real glasses that halve your looks are called 'X-glasses' and exist purely as meme material.
Granted, you could wear those and still be adorable—but only after debut. Only once a certain level of fan-goggles had set in would it be tolerated.
"And for the hair, just a light perm, please."
"……A perm?"
"Yes. A light one, please."
She stifled a laugh.
"You're nineteen, right?"
"Yes!"
"Your speech is sometimes thirty-nine."
It was too grand a word for what I wanted, so I'd just said "light perm."
"It's just that my noona and I have a biiig age gap."
"Ah—"
God, please let this conversation not make it to broadcast, even by accident. If Yu Seong-ah saw it, she might replay her dream of square-dancing to 'Am I really that old? Anyone would think we're twelve years apart?'
The styling came out perfect again.
"How is it? Do you like it?"
"Yes."
Lightly permed hair and rough horn-rimmed glasses. Even the braces that peeked out when I smiled. Exactly the look I'd wanted. Jeans and a plaid shirt. And with the guitar added on, an unmistakable nerd.
"But will you be okay?"
"What do you……"
"The other kids are all super flashy."
I looked around, and she was right. Intense makeup was the baseline—one guy even had a crop top and a choker.
How badly does everyone want to succeed……
It was a shame, but a bad choice. All it would earn them was hate comments asking if they were baiting attention with outfits instead of skill.
"This mission is about showing 'me,' after all."
I shrugged.
"For who I am right now, this is right."
She nodded as if she understood.
"Good."
Styling done, we headed straight to the set. Positions were assigned by Code order—the lower the number, the closer to the camera.
"Filming will now begin—"
Clap!
Recording started with the slap of the slate. The lights dimmed, and a grand backing track swelled.
Kang Sejun's outfit was outrageous again today.
"A pilot this time……?"
It was obvious he'd resolved to wear every uniform in existence over the course of this show.
He's basically running his own KidZania.
But this, too, was a ratings element of the survival format, so I had nothing to say. A week after week of that gorgeous face in sharply tailored uniforms—what woman wouldn't love it?
"Hello. I'm Kang Sejun, MC of Boys Code—find the boy who will open your heart."
"Waaaah……!"
Cheers and lights erupted at the same time.
"Today, we have a stage prepared where the boys will knock on the hearts of our Code Makers—their very first self-introduction stage."
"Yes. Shall we meet Code 20's stage first?"
Code 20.
Code 19.
With each person stepping forward, the atmosphere heated up a little more.
Someone missed a beat from nerves. Someone took the stage with a blade-sharp glint in their eyes.
And every time one of those stages ended, my turn crept closer.
"Next, please prepare Code 8."
My fingertips went cold. I slowly clenched the hands resting on my knees.
My heart was pounding absurdly loud.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
The sound of my heartbeat echoed all the way into my ears.
Don't be nervous, don't be nervous……
I'd run the simulation countless times already.
The timing of walking up with the guitar. The first strum, where to look. Breathing.
I'd thought of everything.
And still, my throat was bone dry.
"Next is Code 7's stage."
I picked up my water bottle and took a sip.
And in that moment—
The stage lights blazed on.
It was blinding.
There was really almost no time left now.