The Encore of a Bizarre Club
The term encore exists in those strange adult games. When a magnificent play or a flawless concert draws to a close, people applaud with lingering regret and shout toward the performers. Show us that beauty one more time. That is what an encore is.
Then, what happens when a terrible play or a disastrous performance ends? I came to understand the answer in this very moment.
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
“······.”
We weren’t in the middle of a mafia game. Nor were we playing the silent version of rock-paper-scissors. But everyone had fallen into complete silence at the same time.
Art truly is a powerful thing. It had made people of different ages, genders, and backgrounds share the exact same thought.
And in that silence, I was being forced to take responsibility.
Thump. Thump.
Lee Harin was desperately trying to hide her expression while repeatedly jabbing me in the side. It was a silent protest begging me to somehow fix this awkward situation.
I wanted to ignore that plea and pretend I hadn’t noticed, but in the end, I was the one who had dragged everyone into this catastrophic club. There was no escaping the burden.
“So… what the hell is…”
Of course, I trailed off as the absurd play flashed through my mind again, leaving me speechless. Still, my intention seemed to get across.
“S-sorry.”
The male senior who had introduced himself as Ahn Gyeongmin apologized to us with a face that had turned the color of a malfunctioning traffic light—now completely pale blue.
“Hmm…”
The female senior named Kim Yeonwu, who appeared to have planned the play, tilted her head in thought.
“Was it because Yujin, who was supposed to play the role of Snow, was absent?”
She had fallen into a strange monologue all by herself.
“…Yeah. Even if a character seems unimportant to the plot, sometimes they act as the perfect seasoning. That must have been the problem.”
No one could bring themselves to interrupt the frenzied artist. After all, a dog that drools is far more terrifying than one that barks.
We distanced ourselves from the female senior and turned to Ahn Gyeongmin, whose face was still stuck somewhere between red and blue.
“…Senior. So what exactly does this club do?”
At the very least, everyone was certain it wasn’t the drama club.
“Ah, sorry. I’ll explain properly…”
Ahn Gyeongmin, who had finally snapped back to his senses, lowered the screen installed at the back of the classroom and turned on the beam projector hanging from the ceiling.
We will solve any and all worries.
The phrase was surprisingly normal. I wondered why they hadn’t just started with this explanation from the beginning. But then—
“…Snow~.”
I heard Kim Yeonwu muttering to herself beside us, and the question was instantly resolved.
Yeah… Ahn Gyeongmin must have it really rough.
“…Senior. Hang in there.”
When I secretly offered him those words of comfort, Ahn Gyeongmin gave a lonely smile.
“…Yeah.”
“Then I’ll begin.”
The three of us naturally shifted our gaze to the presentation screen.
“As the name suggests, the Counseling Club is a club that listens to the worries of students within the academy and helps resolve them.”
Ahn Gyeongmin seemed used to giving presentations. He delivered the information smoothly without needing a script. His pronunciation was also clear—completely different from when he had been acting in that play. His crisp, articulate voice echoed in our ears.
“You might have seen this before…”
When Ahn Gyeongmin tapped the remote once, a familiar photo of a blue suggestion box appeared on the screen.
“We collect notes containing students’ worries from suggestion boxes installed throughout the academy. And…”
He pressed the remote again. This time, the screen showed what looked like a bathroom wall with phone numbers and messenger app IDs written on it.
“Students who feel burdened writing their worries on paper can consult us online.”
The atmosphere was flowing nicely. The dark expressions Lee Harin and Jo Ayoung had worn when we first entered the dimly lit clubroom were gradually brightening.
“…Hmm.”
Lee Harin, who had always been interested in helping others, watched the presentation with particularly sparkling eyes. Noticing her gaze, Ahn Gyeongmin smiled faintly and seemed to gain strength.
“Many people are skeptical, thinking that we’re just students and can’t possibly handle real worries, but…”
The next photo showed two people sitting face-to-face inside what appeared to be the clubroom.
“We believe there’s an advantage in being fellow students. It makes it easier for them to open up about things they couldn’t tell adults.”
The calm presentation suddenly fell into chaos with the arrival of a certain madwoman.
“Y-Yeonwu.”
The madwoman lightly snatched the remote from Ahn Gyeongmin’s hand as if twisting a child’s wrist. She simply smiled.
“Kids.”
With gleaming eyes, she scanned the room and began to speak.
“You asked what this club actually does, right?”
Ahn Gyeongmin, sensing danger, tried to stop her. But Kim Yeonwu was faster at pressing the remote.
Tap tap tap tap—
Like someone frantically clicking a mouse, she began flipping through the slides at a terrifying speed. Then, she found the subtitle she had been looking for and smiled faintly.
I felt an ominous chill at that smile, but there was no stopping a train already in motion.
“Before that… you’re Ayoung, right?”
Jo Ayoung flinched at the mention of her name.
“…Y-yes.”
From here on, this was a scene I already knew.
The Counseling Club.
This was the explanation of why it was treated as a hidden route and why you couldn’t even join unless you became close to Jo Ayoung.
“Then did you know that this club was founded by Juyeon unnie?”
“…Huh? What?”
“Go Juyeon. You don’t know her?”
“No, I do know her, but…”
Go Juyeon. She was the name of the older woman we had met at Badugi’s Snack Bar—the one Jo Ayoung had taken us to, claiming it was a great restaurant.
Jo Ayoung looked confused about why that name was coming up here, but Kim Yeonwu continued without concern.
“What? The president didn’t tell you?”
After thinking for a moment, she casually called out our names as well.
“You’re Lee Hajun, Ayoung’s boyfriend.”
“…Yes.”
“And you’re Lee Harin, Ayoung’s friend, correct?”
“Ah, yes.”
Even though we hadn’t introduced ourselves, the way she naturally knew our relationships left everyone except me in confusion.
Kim Yeonwu let out a short “Hehe” and muttered,
“I thought you all came knowing the basics… but it looks like you really don’t know anything.”
She lightly touched her lips with a finger, then jumped down from the desk she had been sitting on as if she had made up her mind.
“Well, it doesn’t matter… since the president gave permission.”
After dropping that meaningful remark, Kim Yeonwu stood beside the white screen and began speaking directly.
“Alright then, kids.”
Unlike the neat slides Ahn Gyeongmin had shown, this one looked somewhat sloppy. Yet the atmosphere was far more solemn than before.
“What do you think is the real purpose of our club?”
No one opened their mouths at the question. But when Kim Yeonwu began pointing at each of us and asking directly, we had no choice but to answer one by one.
“Ayoung?”
“…C-counseling worries?”
Jo Ayoung answered in a weak voice.
“Hajun?”
“I don’t know.”
I pretended not to know even though I did.
And finally, Lee Harin.
“…We will solve any and all worries?”
She recited the phrase written next to the club’s name.
“Correct!”
Kim Yeonwu’s eyes curved into crescents.
“We are fundamentally a club that resolves worries within the academy.”
After finishing her sentence, she gave a meaningful smile and pressed the remote once more.
“Then what kind of worries does our club solve?”
With those words, the next slide revealed shocking statistics.
Mirae Talent Academy — 147 cases
Byeolbit Talent Academy — 34 cases
Haneul Talent Academy — 32 cases
Uju Talent Academy — 25 cases
Hyeoksin Talent Academy — 18 cases
National Average — 29 cases
Mirae Talent Academy was recording roughly five times more incidents and accidents than the other academies.