The First to Raise a Hand

With Han Sangyoon as my new roommate and cleaning partner, I'd gained one more teacher. It was an unexpected stroke of luck—I couldn't cling to Yiyul for guidance through the entire survival show, after all.

"Maybe it's because Yiyul taught you?"

Han Sangyoon watched my movements for a long while, then tilted his head.

"Something about it feels…… familiar."

Sharp eyes.

Being told I resembled Yiyul made me happy, and just a little guilty.

"I don't really have a dance style of my own yet."

I laughed it off lightly.

"Still, memorizing the whole choreography already is impressive."

"Thank you."

"Dance lines can come later."

Han Sangyoon clapped his hands together lightly.

"Right now, not making mistakes comes first."

"Yes."

He really was different. Practical, precise.

No wonder he debuted.

"The part you said you were curious about…… was it here?"

"Yes. The highlight section is just so fast—"

"It is fast."

The highlight part of the signal song. A devil's stretch where your hands and feet never got a moment's rest against the pounding beat.

"C-could you show me how it's done, Sangyoon ssi?"

"……"

For a moment, Han Sangyoon just stared at me.

What? Did I say something wrong?

Then he burst out laughing.

And not just a burst. He laughed until his throat was fully exposed, a breathless wheeze of laughter that set me giggling awkwardly along with him.

"Hold on…… did you just call me Sangyoon ssi?"

"Oh."

Only then did I realize it.

"Ssi? Why would you call me that……"

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize."

Waving his hand, still fighting back laughter, Han Sangyoon said, "Just call me comfortably."

Comfortably? That was the harder option. With my regression, I'd turned nineteen again—Choi Woonjo was my same-age friend now, and Han Sangyoon had become my senior.

You punk, I'm the hyung here originally!

And by a wide margin, at that.

"Yes. Sangyoon……"

No good. I couldn't do it.

"Ssi."

I'd added it again anyway.

Han Sangyoon cracked up all over again.

"Sorry, I laughed too hard. It's only two years' difference, and you keep going 'Sangyoon ssi'—"

Only after laughing for ages did he finally compose himself.

"Okay, hold on. Let me show you properly."

He loosened up his body and slipped into the music.

"Whoa……"

Same movements, but the feel was completely different. Han Sangyoon's dancing had real dynamic range.

"Want to try it now?"

"……Yes."

The result, of course, was disastrous.

If Han Sangyoon was an elegant white swan gliding serenely across the water, I was a white swan with every frantic kick visible beneath the surface.

"Hm."

A single syllable. Somehow, that was scarier than anything.

"You look…… really busy right now."

"Ah……"

"You're rushing to show every single movement."

He'd seen straight through me.

"This isn't exercise. It's dance."

He tapped out the rhythm with his fingers.

"Exercise means using full strength from start to finish."

Tuk.

"Dance doesn't."

Tuk.

"You pour power in here—"

Swee.

"—and just let it flow out here."

It was like being struck across the head with a hammer.

So that was the difference.

Until now, I'd been throwing full force into every single movement. No wonder I kept clunking through it.

Fifty times won't cut it, will it?

"I'll go again."

No helping it, then. A hundred times. A hundred and fifty. Whatever it took.

"Good."

Han Sangyoon smiled.

"This time, try letting go of the greed a little."

I quietly clasped the hourglass.

Scritch.

Thirty seconds back.

Scritch.

Thirty seconds back.

Same movements. Same beat. Same explanation.

The identical thirty seconds repeated, endlessly.

Fifty times. A hundred times. Then a hundred and forty-seventh.

That's it.

At last, the feel of it clicked.

The timing of power flowing in and releasing, the negative space between movements.

This should do.

I tucked the hourglass away and moved to the music again. This time, I deliberately flubbed a few takes. Dancing perfectly out of nowhere would have looked strange.

Maybe five more repetitions later.

"Oh."

Han Sangyoon chuckled.

"Much better. Picking it up this fast in five tries? That's quick."

Five? It was the hundred and fifty-second.

"Thank you! Sangyoon……"

My mouth hovered.

"Ssi."

Failed again.

My legs ached like they were about to fall off, but harder than a hundred and fifty-two repetitions was that one little word: hyung.

The day of the mid-term evaluation.

All twenty trainees filed into the practice room at once.

"I'm so nervous I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

"Hey, quiet down. The mics are picking everything up."

The air was so parched that even the faintest whisper cut sharply through it.

Glancing sideways, I saw Kang Yiyul, cradling his casted arm slightly as he steadied his breathing.

That sight kept stabbing at my eyes.

……If only I'd known a little sooner.

Ninety percent. The Danger Level hadn't budged an inch, and I resented that unmoving number more than ever.

And the fact that he himself knew nothing about it pressed down on me even harder.

Which was exactly why, today, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I absolutely had to deliver.

"Let's head in too."

The practice room's atmosphere was noticeably different from usual. Two company trainers sat on the left, two external judges on the right, and at the very center sat CEO Song In-hyuk.

A heavy mood thickened the air with tension.

Not for me, though.

I've watched him on broadcast enough times.

If anything, I felt an odd sense of inner familiarity.

Once the filming setup was complete, MC Kang Sejun stepped forward.

"Welcome, everyone. Have you been practicing hard?"

"Yes!"

"Tomorrow, before we shoot the signal song, we'll be holding your mid-term evaluation."

At the word evaluation, some hands trembled, and some squeezed their eyes shut.

"You've all currently been assigned code numbers from 1 to 20, according to the order in which you joined the company."

The numbers pinned to our chests suddenly felt crushing.

"Of course."

Kang Sejun smiled.

"Those numbers will keep changing from here on out."

A soft intake of breath rippled through the room.

The number on your chest wasn't just a number. It was the most intuitive measure of where you stood here and now—the signature thrill of Boys Code, and its cruelest element all at once.

"Today's mid-term evaluation results will determine your signal song positions."

The frosty atmosphere pulled even tighter.

"And the center of the signal song—the position everyone's surely watching—will also be decided today."

In an instant, the trainees' expressions shifted.

The unwritten law of every idol survival show:

Your position decided how much camera time you could claim. That was why trainees on every idol survival show risked their lives chasing the center spot.

Because no matter how skilled you were, no matter how handsome your face, if the camera didn't catch you, it was all for nothing.

"The signal song positions are divided into Code A through Code C. A is the highest tier, of course."

He paused and swept his gaze lightly across the trainees.

"And one single trainee—the most outstanding among you—will stand at center as the one and only Code S."

The air in the practice room wavered again.

"Then."

Kang Sejun flipped his cue card.

"We'll now begin the mid-term evaluation."

He looked over the trainees for a moment, then asked, "Is there anyone who'd like to be evaluated first?"

No ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one moved.

Of course not. Going first—being the very first person evaluated in the entire run of a survival broadcast—was an enormous burden.

That was why, before my regression too, no one had volunteered readily.

Out of that silence, I raised my hand without hesitation.

"If no one……"

Kang Sejun spotted my hand and smiled.

"Ah, there's a trainee raising his hand over there."

The moment the words left his mouth, several cameras swung in my direction all at once.

The judges, who'd been skimming their score sheets, all looked up. Half of them lowered their heads again upon seeing me; the other half wore expressions of interest.

But the most shocked of all was the person right beside me—Kang Yiyul.

"Did you…… just raise your hand?"

"Yep. Better to take the hit early, right?"

"……"

"I'll do just like you taught me. Wish me luck."

I held out my fist. Kang Yiyul hesitated a moment, then lifted his hand slightly.

Tuk—that brief contact alone, strangely, loosened some of the tension in me.

"Code number 20, please come forward."

Hoo. I took a small deep breath and stepped out.

"Your trainee period is……"

One of the judges flipped through my profile.

"Two weeks?"

An eyebrow went up.

"And yet, you're first?"

He unfolded the hand propped under his chin.

"This one's got no fear."

I'd never exactly been timid, but having died once, there was nothing left to be afraid of.

"Yes. I hear that a lot."

"Whether that's confidence with a reason, or just plain recklessness—"

He set his pen down with a click.

"We'll know once we watch."

I stepped onto the center mark stuck to the floor and drew a short breath.

The signal song's intro began to play.

You counted exactly to ten in your head before entering on the opening Boom. Everyone waited for the instant the intro ended, but—

If you do that, you're late.

On the pre-regression broadcast, more than half ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the trainees had missed the timing out of nerves. This was the perfect entry I'd discovered on my own back when I ran a challenge account.

Nine, ten!

I stretched out my hand right on the beat.

"Oh?"

Someone reacted with a small gasp. My timing was that precise.

Good.

The rather gutsy opening was a little embarrassing, but this was the law of life I'd learned firmly from Yu Seong-ah: there was nothing momentum couldn't bulldoze through.

I steadied my breathing and focused on the vocals.

Back in my producer days, explaining in words the feel I'd imagined while composing was too hard, so I'd sung the guide for every track myself. I couldn't count how much the singer friends I played those guides for had teased me.

Who knew it would come in handy like this.

I hadn't worried about flubbing lyrics in the first place. I'd heard this song more times than anyone else in this room—maybe even more than Lowkey, the producer who'd made it.

The judges' gazes sharpened.

I made it safely through the first verse and plunged into the second. Not a single mistake yet. One thing at a time, step by step. No rushing myself—

Thanks to my younger body, my breathing was shallower, and all in all, things were going well.

This wasn't just a stage.

Hundreds of times, thousands of times. Rewinding, dancing again, watching again. The hours I'd clung to even while being mocked.

My breath was starting to run short. But as though the part of my brain that detected pain had simply been switched off, my movements didn't slow in the slightest.

It was the power of repetition. My body remembered Yiyul's choreography before my head did, and moved on its own.

"Ooh—"

The judges' expressions were slowly changing. Some smiled faintly; others leaned over to whisper to their neighbors.

Praying those were positive signals, I sprinted toward the highlight.

Even as I hit the high note, the choreography carried on. My breath wavered a little, but I pushed through to the end. What mattered was finishing no matter what.

What Han Sangyoon had taught me helped enormously too. Not "throwing" the movements, but expressing them small and precise—using the connecting links to buy a little room to reset my breathing.

The final line. I stamped my foot down hard and thrust my right hand toward the sky.

"Hah— hah……"

My breath tore out of me, ragged.

Tasting blood in my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouth—it had been a while. My heart pounded harder than it had back when I'd sprinted myself half to death trying to claim the front row at events.

It's over.

Objectively speaking, it hadn't been a perfect stage.

I'd flipped the hourglass hundreds of times to get used to singing while dancing. My absolute skill level still fell short.

But I had no regrets. I hadn't missed a single movement, and I hadn't dropped a single lyric. At the very least, I could say this with certainty: this stage was everything the current me had to give.

Because this time, I hadn't turned back the hourglass at all.