The Hourglass That Turns Back Time

Kang Yiyul no longer found Yuseongwoo uncomfortable — he found him fascinating.

He was slow, yes, but somehow he always caught up.

And his endings were always precise.

"Um……"

Yuseongwoo opened his mouth hesitantly.

"Would it be okay if I watched you practice from behind and copied you?"

What difference would watching from behind even make?

Still, a debt was a debt. He'd pay it back properly in one go and be done with it.

"……Sure."

"Great!"

But something felt off.

Yuseongwoo didn't just step in behind him.

One step. Then another.

Measuring his stride, carefully choosing his position.

Yiyul could roughly guess what was going on.

He's trying to look good on camera, I suppose.

Yuseongwoo was no fool. He'd joined a survival show the moment he became a trainee, and he'd already made an impression on the judges.

Decisively, Yiyul had seen it — the way his eyes flicked to check the camera positions.

That was no coincidence.

He's cunning.

But in this industry, that was hardly a flaw.

That's how you survive.

Then it happened.

The moment Yiyul was about to step forward, Yuseongwoo grabbed him.

"What is it?"

"You've, uh, gone too far back. Could you come back one step?"

"……Sorry?"

It was a single step. What did he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mean, too far?

"Sorry, it's just…… my eyesight isn't great."

What nonsense. Kang Yiyul narrowed his eyes.

From the guy who'd been checking camera positions that nimbly?

Don't tell me……?

Yiyul swept his gaze around the room. One camera was pointed directly at them.

Oh—

He immediately stepped back.

One step. Just that one step changed the entire frame.

His instincts, honed through years as a trainee, were telling him: listen to this guy.

A composition where the two of us would naturally land in the same frame. I'd slipped out under the pretext of a bathroom break, checked the monitor feed, and picked out this spot.

The music started up again.

Yiyul repeated the choreography in front of the mirror. He'd already danced it dozens of times, yet he moved with the same energy as the first run.

I followed along behind him.

The tips of his feet, his waist, his shoulders, even the angle of his hands — my body naturally traced his movements. That was the second reason I'd asked Yiyul about choreography I already knew.

I'd copied this dance thousands of times. I'd never formally learned to dance, so I'd studied every move by watching Yiyul's signal song fancam over and over.

So it was embarrassing to even call it a "dance line," but every movement I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠made naturally resembled his.

Still, it had been quite a while since I'd deleted my account, so I had to practice like my life depended on it. The moment the music ended, it started again; ended again, started again.

Sweat poured down, my thighs burned — but I didn't stop.

Whenever I felt like I couldn't go on, I looked at the cast on Yiyul's wrist. And I remembered that final moment — the one I never wanted to recall.

I had to survive. And I had to save him.

How much time had passed? The practice room had gone quiet. Everyone must have gone to dinner — only the two of us remained. Along with the cameras, still rolling, of course.

"Haah……"

I collapsed onto the floor. My breath tore out of me in ragged shreds. It wasn't just my lungs — my whole body felt like it was expelling hot air.

Yiyul, meanwhile, was still in front of the mirror.

Not even a full day had passed, yet his choreography was already complete. Thanks to his long, long trainee life, no doubt. Yiyul had started training in elementary school, and he was famous for coming from a major agency.

Watching him, I realized something.

This isn't enough.

Right now I "knew" all the choreography. But knowing it by heart wasn't enough. Time was limited, and I had only one chance.

The mission songs coming up wouldn't be choreography I already had memorized like the signal song. Which meant that whenever an opportunity like this arose, I had to make a proper impression.

The survival show wouldn't wait for me.

Granted, practicing all day had made me better. The more I moved, the more my body seemed to remember the past.

So what I needed right now was—

Time.

More of it than anyone else. Time to get things wrong, fix them, and carve them back into my body.

The moment the thought crystallized, my status window began to glow.

I stared at the number for a moment, then slowly opened my mouth.

"Right."

Now I understood. Why the item wouldn't form last night, no matter how hard I tried.

Back then it had all been vague. I'd just wanted "something useful" — anything — without knowing what I actually needed.

But now was different.

"Gonna use the bathroom real quick."

I murmured it casually and slipped out of the practice room.

The bathroom — the only place without a camera. Just in case, I locked the door too.

Can't be too careful.

Standing in front of the sink, I slowly gathered my breath.

My whole body throbbed. Every muscle was screaming, and the soles of my feet burned.

But what I needed now was clear.

"Item Creation."

The status window appeared.

This time I didn't hesitate.

Simple, clear, an item whose effect was obvious from the name alone.

"An Hourglass That Turns Back Time."

A beat of silence. Nothing happened.

Failed again?

Then—

My palm grew warm. A faint light began gathering at my fingertips.

The light slowly took shape. Transparent glass, and fine sand trickling down inside it. A small but exquisite hourglass appeared in my palm.

I gripped the hourglass. But the mirror reflected nothing.

"So only I can see it."

Thank goodness. I didn't want to become the lunatic who flips an hourglass alone in a bathroom.

"……Okay."

Feeling considerably lighter, I opened the practice room door. As expected, Yiyul was still at it, endlessly repeating the choreography.

I watched his movements for a moment, then asked carefully.

"Yiyul, is this how I danced it just now?"

I moved while recalling Yiyul's movements as best I could.

"Mm, a little stiff. Rather than tensing your whole arm—"

I took in his movements with my eyes — and flipped the hourglass behind my back.

Shk—

A sound only I could hear.

A moment of strangeness washed over me. Like rewinding a video, frame by frame, Yiyul and the room around us slipped back to moments ago.

Whoa—

Exactly thirty seconds back.

Remembering the days I'd dissected Yiyul's fancam frame by frame, rewinding it over and over, a hollow laugh escaped me.

"Mm, a little stiff. Rather than tensing your whole arm—"

Same words. Same movements. Same timing.

I took in his movements again.

And flipped it once more.

Shk—

Thirty seconds back again. Same movements, same explanation.

Yiyul's reactions never changed. Apparently, while the hourglass was running, he was trapped inside the time loop.

The first time, I simply copied him.

The second time, I watched the timing.

The third time, I noted where the tension gathered.

The tenth time—

Ah.

It clicked.

The squeak of sneakers against the floor, the tremor of muscle, the feel of running out of breath.

It all accumulated.

After about fifty repetitions, something faint but real — something you could actually call a "dance line" — began to emerge.

Is this enough?

I flipped the hourglass one last time.

"How's this?"

Much smoother movements. This time, I didn't flip the hourglass.

"……That's much better."

So this is what it feels like to be full without eating. All that, just to hear one sentence — I repeated the same movements dozens of times.

At the same moment, my legs wobbled. The muscle soreness hit all at once.

"Ugh."

My whole body ached. Only time had rewound — the fatigue remained.

Figures nothing's free.

Naturally, it wasn't an item I could use without limit.

"……Shall we move on?"

Still blunt as ever, yet he never let anything I needed to learn slip past.

"Oh— so I'm ready to learn the next move now?"

"……"

That joke's still too soon, huh.

Didn't matter. For a trainee in an era of employment instability, this much made him an angel.

The next sequence was even more complicated than the last. But now anticipation outweighed worry. The last move took fifty tries, so a hundred should be plenty, right?

Yiyul asked me again.

"……Shall we try?"

"Let's go!"

Shk— I flipped the hourglass behind my back once more.

I wanted to keep practicing.

But—

"Everyone, we're moving to the dorms now!"

Filming came before practice.

We had to shoot the dorm move-in scene first.

"Wow……"

"We get to use this place?"

Gasps of awe erupted all around.

A sleek, newly built building, a lobby maintained like a hotel. Filming equipment was already set up at the entrance.

"Wow, it's huge……"

"How many to a room, I wonder?"

Nyx Entertainment had short-term leased an entire residence-style officetel solely for this survival show.

That was also why Boys Code was filmed on such a punishing schedule.

How much did all this cost?

"Four to a room. Just confirm your name and head in."

A staff member pointed to the door.

"Then we'll move in pairs, naturally."

That sentence itself wasn't natural—

I silently prayed that at least one of the pairs would include an IMPACTER member. Go Jaeseong excluded, of course.

And the heavens were on my side.

Yes!

Han Sangyoon, of all people!

One of the few adult trainees, and the member who'd played the "gentle leader" role throughout the broadcast. He'd ended up as IMPACTER's leader too, and after debut he was famously dubbed the "Meet-the-Parents Free Pass Award" winner.

And there's something even more important.

If I could win Han Sangyoon over, I'd be one step closer to debut. Through years of training, he'd mastered the fundamentals of dance, vocals, performance — everything — making him an "all-rounder," and to the company executives he was "the trainee you can trust with anything."

I opened the door in high spirits. And then—

"……Whoa."

I came, I saw, I was shell-shocked.

Suitcases sprawled across the floor, clothes strewn everywhere. The two who'd arrived first — friends, apparently — were sitting on the lower bunk, snickering. While dragging snack powder across the floor!

I stopped at the entrance.

"What are you doing? Come in."

"Ah, there's a lot of stuff stuck on the wheels."

"C'mon, we're all guys here. Who cares."

And with those words, another puff of snack powder scattered.

"Ah…… so Sangyoon-ssi is in the same room too."

At that one remark, the two of them burst out laughing simultaneously.

"Sangyoon-ssi? Dude, Sangyoon-hyung is super nice~"

"For real."

Sangyoon's nice, huh. Sure, sure.

But would that hold true in this pigsty?

As I was meticulously wiping down the suitcase wheels with the wet wipes I'd brought, the door opened again.

"……Wow."

A low, suppressed exclamation. No — not an exclamation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠so much as the sound of a soul leaving a body.

Han Sangyoon froze in the doorway, unable even to close the door. The bright, lively light in his eyes dimmed for the first time.

Right. Your hobby is cleaning. Pathologically so.

Han Sangyoon was a cleaning maniac. His stress relief was deep-cleaning and laundry.

He was also the guy who, at a fansign, when asked what birthday gift he wanted, answered without a moment's hesitation: cleaning supplies.

Back then I genuinely thought he was insane.

"Everyone's…… freer than I expected."

A soft voice. But somehow it sent a chill down my spine.

"You left it like this on purpose, didn't you?"

There it was. Han Sangyoon's trademark: the smiling jab.

"To show the 'realness' of a trainee dorm?"

One moment I wondered if this was a scolding; the next, faced with that gentle smile, I found myself utterly confused.

"Ah…… hyung, we're sorry."

"We were gonna rest a bit first……"

"No, no. You were thinking about the broadcast, right?"

The corners of his mouth lifted one degree higher. Hidden inside was the barb: unless you were angling for the cameras, there's no way it'd be this dirty.

He nodded as if he understood, then turned toward me. Naturally, the two of them scrambled to tidy their suitcases at the same time.

A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠man who could move everyone with a single sentence — that was Han Sangyoon.

"……Seongwoo."

"Yes?"

"Are you…… wiping down the suitcase wheels?"

"Yes. I didn't want to dirty the floor."

In that instant, his eyes lit up — like a man who'd found the only hope amid the chaos.

Well, of course.

The man everyone said was the hardest to get close to. The man they all agreed was kind, yet seemed to have an invisible wall around him.

Getting close to him, it turned out, took nothing more than a single wet wipe.