What Is That Number?

The staff member lowered the camera a beat late, looking flustered.

I shut the door on reflex. This, at least, was the one thing I absolutely could not let Kang Yiyul see.

"……Are you okay?"

Instead of answering, I scrubbed roughly at my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn't need a mirror to know.

They must be swollen up like anything.

An awkward silence hung in the hallway.

"Seongwoo."

The staff member spoke carefully.

"Why were you crying?"

My mind raced. I couldn't exactly tell the truth.

'Kang Yiyul died because of me.'

Who on earth would believe that?

"Did something happen?"

She took a step closer. I drew in a short breath.

"……It's nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I just…… my practice isn't…… going well."

Her eyes widened slightly. The moment the words left my mouth, my face flared hot.

"I want to do well, but—"

I paused, searching for the right words, then forced them out.

"My body just…… won't keep up."

In that instant, her expression changed. She glanced toward the back of the practice room, then turned her gaze back to me.

"So you stayed behind to practice even after everyone else clocked out?"

I nodded cautiously. I had practiced, so my twinging conscience was easy enough to ignore.

"……I wanted to keep watching someone who's actually good."

That part, at least, was completely true.

"That's a rare kind of friend to meet."

The staff member gave a small laugh.

"These days you hardly find anyone desperate enough to cry over practice not going well."

Then she added,

"You really wanted to be an idol, huh."

…I broke into a cold sweat on the inside.

'No, actually I just want to keep that kid alive.'

But the words wouldn't come out.

'What the hell is that?'

A new entry had appeared in my status window—not the Danger Level, but something else entirely. A number that didn't vanish no matter how many times I blinked.

"Right. Practicing is never easy."

While I stood staring blankly into space, she gave my shoulder a light tap.

"You'll be fine, though."

Her voice was full of conviction.

"Kids as desperate as you always end up surviving, in my experience."

I didn't know it then.

I had no idea that single number would become the measure by which every one of my actions was judged.

The next morning. The moment I opened the practice room door, every eye in the room swung toward me.

"Hey, it's him."

"Who?"

"The one who cried."

I started stretching like nothing was wrong, but a former producer's ears were uselessly sharp.

"He cried because his practice wasn't going well, apparently."

"Wow—"

"He's hardcore, seriously."

"You don't secretly go off somewhere and cry too, do you?"

"Go to hell."

Eyes clung to me every time I moved.

'Ha…… this is so embarrassing.'

I hadn't expected yesterday to spread this fast. I'd cried exactly once, and already the image had cemented itself.

The kid who cries during practice. The kid who'll keep going until he makes it.

…And the kid who's out of his mind to become an idol.

"Never saw that coming, honestly."

"Right?"

I took a sip of water and avoided their gazes.

'This is…… happening way too fast.'

It was the picture I'd originally planned, though. 'Short training period, but more earnest about being an idol than anyone.'

Street casting, a short trainee career. Against keywords that screamed no skill to any observer, I intended to show sheer grit and play the underdog who grew round after round—the classic 'growth arc' character.

It was the only weapon a clumsy amateur like me could claim.

And yet the stage had been laid before the survival show had even begun.

The rumor spread quickly among the staff, not just the trainees.

"Word is he locks up the practice room every night."

"Wow, so there's another one like Yiyul."

"Though I don't think even Yiyul ever cried during practice—"

And each time, the mysterious number crept up.

Every time people whispered about me.

"Shame he didn't come in a little earlier."

"Yeah. The survival show's right around the corner."

"What a waste."

Every time a gaze lingered on me.

At some point, I couldn't help but understand. The more attention people paid me, the more of something was accumulating. Good or bad, whenever anyone showed me 'interest,' the number grew.

I stood in front of the mirror. Braces that announced my presence with every bright smile. Natural black hair that had never once been dyed. A face pale and worn from sleepless nights of practice, with faintly darkened circles beneath my eyes in stark contrast to the rest.

The face of a trainee who had never debuted, exactly as advertised.

'Good.'

The corners of my mouth curled up slowly. Embarrassing was embarrassing, but you had to make use of what you could.

I set down the water bottle. Then, deliberately, I moved with even more diligence than before, making sure ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠everyone could see how hard I was trying.

Attention.

This was my weapon.

"Jaeseong, convenience store right after practice?"

"Didn't you say you were on a diet?"

A rowdy chorus of voices drifted in from outside the door. I didn't need to look to know who it was.

'Go Jaeseong and his lapdogs.'

I kept stretching. Getting tangled up with them for no reason would only end badly.

But then—

"You're Seongwoo, right?"

There was no avoiding it after all.

'Damn it—'

I smoothed my expression out quickly and greeted him.

"Yes. I'm one of the new trainees."

"Talk casually. I hear we're the same age?"

"Ah…… yeah."

The friendly tone, the soft, easygoing eyes. Even before the regression, I'd noticed it—on the surface, this bastard looked genuinely flawless.

He was like that the entire survival show. Cheerful, approachable, the picture of a likable guy.

'Which is exactly why what came after debut was so much more of a shock.'

His fans used to spin astonishing logic like, 'This was all the fault of the rotten agency and the members.'

"You're really something, you know that?"

At the non sequitur, I put on a puzzled expression.

"Everyone's already talking you up? They say your star quality is insane."

Laughter erupted around us.

"What star quality~ I just cried once."

"I might start juicing myself."

Go Jaeseong waved his hands with a laugh.

"Come on, don't be like that. Crying in front of other people isn't easy, you know?"

"Is that so?"

He gave my shoulder a light tap.

"My bad. You know how guys are—we mess around too much."

He smoothed it all over with an easy laugh. Then, naturally, he wrapped up the moment.

"Let's get along from here on out. Everyone—take good care of Seongwoo, yeah?"

His smiling face never cracked, not even once.

'Typical.'

This was Go Jaeseong. He's the one who brings it up in the first place, and he's also the one who closes it out looking like the good guy. A setup where anyone who reacts is the one who ends up looking strange.

But I couldn't care less.

'I have zero intention of debuting with you either, you son of a—'

My goal was simple: knock Go Jaeseong out of the survival show. I had no spare attention to waste on the rest of these extras.

Just then, the sound of dress shoes echoed down the hallway.

Click. Click.

Perfectly measured footsteps. As the sound drew closer, some people scrambled to their feet while others hurriedly fixed their hair.

A moment later, the practice room door opened.

A face I'd never seen before.

'Who is that?'

Then again, I didn't need to ask.

"Everyone, focus."

'Holy crap.'

That single line told me exactly who he was. That abyssal bass voice that rumbled like a cave—the 'Tiger Director' whom the Impacter members had feared so much. He'd appeared constantly from the survival show through all of Impacter's variety content, so even the fans had known him well.

'So that's what he looks like.'

Granted, his face had always been blurred out on screen.

"There are no lessons this afternoon."

Holding a tablet in one hand, he continued.

"Instead, everyone will undergo a makeover."

"A make…… over?"

The practice room began to stir.

"Wait, does that mean I can finally cut my hair?"

"Are perms allowed too?"

"I'm bleaching mine first thing, no question."

Everyone felt the same. With no idea what style they'd end up with, they'd all been forced to grow their hair out and leave it untouched. The day of escape from that suffocating waiting period had finally arrived.

"That said—"

The director swept his gaze over the trainees. Every time his eyes passed over someone, their spine straightened involuntarily.

"How you change is up to each of you to decide."

Several pairs of eyes lit up at that.

"What kind of idol you want to be seen as—you'll be deciding that today."

My grip tightened slightly around the water bottle.

'A makeover, huh—'

The survival show's first impression. The face the cameras would capture. The moment of transformation from 'Trainee A' into 'idol.'

"You'll move over in two groups."

The moment the door closed behind him, the practice room exploded into noise again.

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

I took a slow breath and thought it over.

'This is where the real thing starts.'

Cameras capture faces, but what viewers remember, in the end, is the character. I began sketching the version of myself I wanted the camera to see.

After we moved to the salon, I quietly scanned my surroundings amid the buzzing, excited trainees. Some already wore the look of people who'd made up their minds—striking colors, bold styles, the naked ambition to be caught on camera before anyone else written all over their faces.

That was when it happened.

"What are you gonna do?"

Since I couldn't even remember the guy's name, he was probably an early-round eliminee.

"Keeping the black hair."

"It's already black?"

"Yeah. I'm leaving it as is."

A ripple of snickers broke out from his group.

"Hojoon, why'd you even bother asking?"

"Called it—total hick."

"Yeesh, next he'll be walking out with those braces still on."

"Well, you gotta know something about style before you can dress up, right?"

"Enough. One of us is about to get left in the dust, that's all—"

I didn't bother responding. Instead, I turned to the mirror and tidied my hair.

'Sure. Getting left behind—that's exactly it.'

Who was leaving whom in the dust, they'd find out soon enough.

When I sat down, the designer asked,

"What would you like done?"

"Just tidy up my bangs a little. Enough that they won't cover my face when I dance."

The designer tilted her head.

"No color at all?"

"None. Instead, I'd like a treatment—the most intensive one you can do. I want my hair to look good on camera."

She smiled and murmured under her breath,

"He's got an eye, this one."

Of course, the mockery from the side came instantly.

"He's gonna win the whole thing with hair quality?"

To me, they were just nameless nobodies too.

"Forget debuting—looks like he's aiming for a shampoo commercial."

"What an idiot."

Nobody One, Nobody Two, and Nobody Three cackled happily among themselves.

'Who's the idiot here?'

The public doesn't want a 'perfectly polished image' from the start. Survival shows with male contestants were especially unforgiving that way.

The more it looked like you'd tried, the more backlash you earned. As a fan, I'd seen that reaction far too many times.

In ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a survival show, what you needed above all wasn't artificial flash—it was natural, unforced charm.

"Done first out of everyone. You really don't want anything else?"

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me in the mirror was almost unchanged. Just cleanly trimmed bangs and black hair with a healthy shine to it.

"It's perfect. Thank you so much!"

And I genuinely loved how it looked.

Then it happened.

"Ha……"

A familiar voice. Kang Yiyul, arriving with the second group, was staring into the mirror.

His expression was sour.

'What's wrong?'

I found myself worrying for no good reason.

"Maybe I…… should dye it."

'What did he just say?'

In that instant, a fluorescent-blonde Maltese sprinted at full speed through my mind.

"No!"

The entire salon fell silent in a heartbeat. Every gaze swung to me. Kang Yiyul stared back at me, startled.

"……I'm sorry, what?"

I'd blown it.

I'd shouted far louder than I'd meant to. I rushed to cover.

"You absolutely cannot."

"……Why not?"

His bewildered expression said it all.

And who exactly are you to say so?