Life Is All About the Right Gear

Jack P swept his gaze over the team lineup. With the exception of Yuseongwoo at Code 6, they were all lower-tier trainees — and every single one of them had the kind of face that barely registered.

And Yuseongwoo's dancing still isn't great, either.

The song had proven itself, but dance remained an open question.

Yeesh. Looks like he'll be carrying that song alone.

And yet Yuseongwoo was the first to raise his hand.

Where does all this confidence keep coming from?

If Jack P was being honest, he was more curious about the arrangement than the stage itself. Writing a new song and reimagining an existing one were entirely different disciplines.

"Here we go!"

Ji Dongseok's voice rang out loud and clear.

Click—

Yuseongwoo and Song Wooju, standing at center, mimed popping open a can in perfect unison, followed by a crisp glug-glug sound effect.

That one brief moment of staging shifted the entire atmosphere.

"Oh—"

It was far more playful and refreshing than the original. The members in the back picked up the motion seamlessly, passing it along like a scene straight out of a commercial.

Tap, tap—

A band sound settled over the stomping rhythm — a completely different texture from the original track.

Huh, this is good?

Jack P's eyes widened slightly.

As the intro began, the judges simultaneously pulled up the trainees' profiles.

Kwon Gihyeon. Position: dance.

That voice belongs to him?

It was a surprise. The very first line hooked the ear.

Then came Sung Junwoo's rap.

"Hold on — has Junwoo ever rapped before?"

"Beats me? This is the first I'm seeing it, too—"

Whispers darted between the judges.

Song Wooju, the rapper, was singing. Sung Junwoo, the vocalist, was rapping. And strangely enough, it worked better that way.

Above all, the most astonishing thing was that Yuseongwoo had arranged every bit of it.

He's got a good eye.

The synchronization was better than expected, too. Yuseongwoo's trademark stiffness was still there, but not enough to be distracting.

Most of all, Yuseongwoo's high notes landed with certainty. His parts were few, but every time he came in, his presence was unmistakable.

He didn't get greedy.

Jack P had worried in advance when he heard Yuseongwoo had handled the part distribution himself, but that concern now seemed unfounded.

However, once the second verse began, hairline cracks started to show.

Hm……?

The beat was dragging. At first it was imperceptibly slight — but once a breath fell out of alignment, the gap widened until it was impossible to miss.

What a shame.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

The arrangement was good, the part distribution sensible, the choreography well-built. The problem was their absolute skill level.

When the stage ended, disappointment was written plainly across the trainees' faces. The judges exchanged glances with one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠another, and in the end Jack P picked up his microphone first.

"Well, this is a surprise."

"Honestly, when I first saw the part distribution sheet, my very first thought was, what is he thinking?"

The trainees' shoulders flinched.

"But it suits you all remarkably well. Trainee Junwoo's rap and trainee Wooju's vocals both exceeded my expectations."

"Thank you!!"

Sung Junwoo and Song Wooju allowed themselves small smiles.

"However."

Jack P's expression turned serious.

"It seems your practice time fell short."

The judges beside him nodded in agreement.

"Right up through the first verse, it was genuinely good — but the further it went, the more you each moved on your own."

The criticism was precise, and no one could argue with it.

"At this level of synchronization…… you might be in a bit of danger."

It was half a deliberate provocation. The truth was, he wanted to see how Yuseongwoo would respond to a jab like that.

Katin's evaluation that followed ran along similar lines — a new discovery, yes, but an endless refrain of the dancing is falling apart from the song.

"Good work out there."

"……Thank you!"

Their steps back to their seats were heavy.

"Next up, the team taking the stage is…… ah, the sexy concept team has raised their hand."

Of course. Sexy team, right after theirs. Joo Han, Go Jaeseong, and even Choi Woonjo — an Avengers lineup with three members of the provisional debut group in it.

"Wow, this team has three debut-group members?"

The faces of the refreshing team members grew stiffer by the second.

Seeing this, Yuseongwoo gave their backs a light thump.

"……?"

All four turned around at once. Yuseongwoo said nothing.

He simply tilted his chin toward the stage.

And yet, all four of them straightened their spines in unison.

It was a look they'd seen a thousand times over the course of practice.

Under that wordless pressure, the teammates wiped their expressions clean in an instant.

Of all the possible orders, Go Jaeseong's team was next on stage.

The flow he'd wanted to avoid most.

Ha. The kids are going to feel crushed.

And what irritated him even more was that the performance was genuinely good.

With Joo Han anchoring the center, the level of polish shot up. Choi Woonjo, surprisingly, pulled off the sexy concept with ease.

And Go Jaeseong—

Why has he gotten even better?

Just as before his regression, the man's skill had mysteriously improved beyond what his memories predicted. The arrangement itself was Yuseongwoo's landslide victory, but if you judged the stage as a whole? He had no choice but to concede.

It's only a mid-term evaluation.

A stage that opened with lavish praise and closed with lavish praise.

The rare Avengers team that didn't crash and burn, huh.

"With this, we conclude the mid-term evaluations. We'll see you again at the main stage!"

The door closed, and a heavy silence settled over the practice room.

"……Ha."

Someone let out a long sigh.

"The choreography's good, but we're all dancing separately, apparently."

"So, what, that means—"

"……Our skill level is the problem."

There was no need to say more. Everyone already knew.

"What do we do now?"

"There's barely any time left."

Even Ji Dongseok had started voicing doubts.

"Honestly, is it even possible in the time we have?"

No. If the mood collapsed here, it was over. What they needed right now wasn't cold analysis — it was momentum to push forward with.

And then—

"……Then we practice. That's all."

An unexpected voice cut through the gloom.

"Seems like we'd just get better if we practiced."

Everyone turned to Song Wooju at the same time. He had never been like this before.

"Whoa. Are you actually Song Wooju?"

"Don't mess with me."

He grumbled, but there was nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

"I'm with Wooju. We just keep at it until it works."

"Easier said than done. With our current skill—"

That was as far as it went. No more whining was necessary.

"So what exactly is the problem right now?"

I spread out my fingers.

"The choreography? No."

I folded my thumb down.

"The arrangement? Not that either."

I folded my index finger.

"The song structure? Nope, not that either."

The members nodded as if in a trance.

Feels like I should fold two more in there, actually.

I casually folded two fingers at once, then nonchalantly raised my index finger again.

"Exactly one thing. Our sync."

"……"

"We didn't fail because we couldn't do it. We failed because we didn't get enough practice time."

We'd poured every hour into boosting the kids' confidence, rebuilding the choreography from scratch, and overhauling the entire arrangement. Of course practice time had run short.

Song Wooju nodded too.

"Then we practice until we lock it in. Simple."

"Easy for you to say—"

"I never said it'd be easy."

The playfulness drained from Ji Dongseok's face.

"We're changing how we practice. Starting now."

"H-how?"

I clapped my hands lightly.

"We cut it into eight-count chunks."

"What?"

"If even one person messes up—"

I grinned.

"We don't move on to the next one."

"All five of us, collectively?"

"Yep."

Ji Dongseok's face went ghost-pale.

"Wait, so even if it's just YOU who messes up, all of us start over?"

This little punk.

"Yep."

"Insane."

"Then you'd better nail it every single time."

Of course, I was confident. It was time to break out a new item, after all.

"Hold on, I'm gonna hit ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the bathroom real quick—"

The moment I reached the bathroom, I pulled up my status window.

My SP had climbed even higher in the meantime.

Good.

I steadied my breathing slowly, then murmured in my head:

"Motion Editing Program."

"Please, please come out right this time……"

The instant I spoke, a burst of pale light flared, and a translucent screen materialized in the empty air.

"……Holy crap."

A timeline. Frames. A play button.

It was, unmistakably, a video editing program. Practically a dead ringer for Adope Premiere Pro.

"So this is how it works, huh?"

I pressed on a video immediately. Footage of me practicing just moments ago was already uploaded.

I sliced out the section where my beat had slipped. Over the frames with awkward movements, I pasted in motion from a different clip where the same move had landed cleanly.

And then — save.

When I hit play, my body traced the corrected movements exactly as edited.

"Huh?"

The beats fell into perfect alignment. Even the once-murky body wave flowed far more naturally.

"Whoa, this thing is straight-up broken."

It wasn't just that I'd become a better dancer.

My body reproduced, frame for frame, the movements I had edited — as if playing back a video.

It didn't even feel taxing. It was simply the sensation of copying well-executed movement and pasting it in.

I had used only half my SP, preserving the rest for the main stage.

Which meant this item's active window was exactly thirty minutes, once.

Within that window, I had to edit together the optimal movements and timing. And if it truly behaved like a real editing program, the longer the movement, the longer the render-save would take. I'd have to move with that time cost factored in.

I checked my remaining time.

"Plenty."

I headed straight back to the practice room.

"That was fast."

"Yeah. I was sleepy, so I just splashed some water on my face."

I settled into position as naturally as I could.

"Let's run it again."

The music began to flow.

"One, two, three, four—"

I moved immediately.

We must have run through it five times straight when Song Wooju spoke up.

"Hyung, your movements have honestly gotten a lot better. Your rhythm and timing are still a little…… lacking, though."

About time I actually put this thing to use.

Thankfully, ten minutes remained. More than enough to edit with.

"Gonna grab some water real quick."

There were far more usable clips now than before. I spliced together only the very best takes. Even the editing itself went faster — practice, apparently, applied to this too.

Let's give it a look……

The sense of rhythm had improved dramatically. A hollow laugh escaped me — the footage looked genuinely convincing.

"Guys, let's run it again right now. I've got a feeling about this."

"A feeling, huh?"

I hit save, then played back the footage in time with the music.

The effect exceeded anything I'd imagined.

"What the—?"

You could feel it from the very first movement: this was different from before.

The angles were precise, the beats landed on time. Best of all, the flow never broke.

My body moved freely.

Whoa, the effect is insane……

I let out a short internal gasp of admiration.

Third eight-count. The exact section where the group choreography had begun to unravel at the mid-term evaluation.

Back then, I'd stood out for being conspicuously wrong. This time, I stood out for being conspicuously right.

"Hey, hold up."

The music finally ended, and Ji Dongseok came charging over to me.

"What was that just now?"

"What was what?"

"Why did you hit every beat? How on earth did you do that?"

I gave a casual little shrug.

"Practiced, I guess."

"Dude, say something that actually makes sense."

"He's right. Hyung, you missed them all five minutes ago."

Song Wooju looked utterly dumbfounded. I answered with perfect composure.

"Guess my body just wasn't warmed up before."

Song Wooju crossed his arms.

"Then dance it again. Just you, hyung."

"Sure, sure — you're ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠all so tired you might've been seeing things, so—"

"Wow, you're the worst."

But I smiled and moved my body again.

This time, with total conviction in the item backing me up, I consumed the choreography with even more ease than before.

A different kind of silence from earlier.

"……Whoa."

A breath of sheer disbelief escaped Song Wooju.

"How is this possible?"

"Who said it wasn't?"

Kwon Gihyeon and Sung Junwoo pivoted positions at lightning speed.

"I never said a word like that."

"Me, me neither."

I pressed down hard on the corners of my mouth to keep from grinning.

"Guys."

Ji Dongseok's expression turned resolute.

"If Yuseongwoo can do it, what's stopping us?"

"……"

"That's it. My pride is wounded. I'm practicing out of spite."

"Hyung, me too."

Ji Dongseok and Kwon Gihyeon's comedy routine sent laughter rippling through the room.

But everyone's eyes had changed.

"Let's go again."

"Forget eight counts. Let's chop it into four."

"Whoa, hyung. That's a bit much."

"Time to show them what knife-sharp sync actually looks like."

Nice. The mood had tipped completely in our favor.

And that was the moment Ji Dongseok suddenly gathered everyone together.

"Hey, we've got a team chant now."

"A chant?"

His eyes were brimming with mischief. Something about it felt suspicious, but I decided to just watch what they did.

The four of them stacked their hands together.

"When Yuseongwoo does it—"

And then they roared in unison:

"I do it too!"

I quietly turned my head away.

Sorry, guys.

Life, as they say, is all about the right gear.