Rap Training with Roadkill
Yu Hana’s information had been accurate. The very next day, the planning team notified me that I’d be receiving rap training. The idea of learning rap had never once crossed my mind. If Yu Hana hadn’t given me that heads-up, I probably would’ve been pretty flustered.
“No need to feel pressured. Just approach it with a light heart and give it a try. We’re considering having you and Hana form a duet unit later on. Picking up some rap skills will definitely come in handy.”
From the atmosphere, it didn’t seem like the company was taking this all that seriously. More of a “if it works out, great; if not, no big deal” vibe. They were clearly more focused on Tasha than on me. Still, one part of the staff member’s explanation rubbed me the wrong way—the bit about planning a duet unit with Yu Hana and me.
Plenty of groups release single albums as units during their downtime. But why did it have to be Yu Hana and me? That sounded exhausting. The group’s undisputed main vocalist was Yu Hana, so she obviously had to be involved, but there was no reason I had to be part of it too.
Complaining about something that hadn’t even happened yet was pointless, so I simply nodded and left, already resolving to prepare roughly five thousand excuses for why I couldn’t do a duet with Yu Hana.
The other members were also assigned focused training in their respective weak areas.
“Vocal training… with Min Yongsik and Seoa sunbae. Is this combination really okay? Seoa sunbae is still in the middle of promotions, too.”
Seong Jiyeong was the first to receive additional vocal training. Her instructors were the hell-spawned Bulldog-ssam and Oh Seoa, Purple Swan’s former main vocalist and the company’s only active solo artist. Just looking at the lineup, it was obvious this was going to be brutal.
“Ugh, how many hours of one-on-one sessions with Bulldog-ssam is she in for? Jjeng-jjeng, I wonder if she’ll survive.”
Bulldog-ssam was Cha Entertainment’s undisputed supreme being, the owner of a personality that could end careers. Of course, back in the first timeline he’d handed me a thick wad of cash, proving he was a decent person underneath, but that only applied when you approached him privately. During training, he was the absolute worst. He’d topped every poll the trainees made: “Staff member I most want to shove off the rooftop,” “Staff member I’d never save if they were drowning,” and “The only primate whose appearance perfectly matches their personality.” Those three categories had always belonged to him alone. The trainees firmly believed that physiognomy was science, all because they’d been chewed out by Bulldog-ssam like dogs.
“And if the training location is the recording studio… that’s literally hell, isn’t it?”
Pairing that Bulldog-ssam with Seoa sunbae made me want to offer Seong Jiyeong my condolences in advance. Like the other Purple Swan seniors, Oh Seoa was genuinely kind. She always wore a smile and had a reputation for treating trainees well. But she had one fatal flaw: the moment she stepped into a recording studio, she turned into a rabid dog, half-crazed and unwilling to tolerate even the smallest mistake when it came to singing. That extreme professionalism was probably why she’d succeeded as a solo artist, but thinking about Seong Jiyeong trapped between Bulldog-ssam on the left and Seoa on the right made my eyes water.
Honestly, with a lineup like that, I felt like I was the lucky one for getting sent outside for rap training. The surprising part was that Oh Seoa was still in the middle of promotions. The fact that the company had asked her to carve out time for Seong Jiyeong’s vocal training showed just how high their expectations for our group were. Of course, the fact that Seoa sunbae had agreed to such an unreasonable request was also a little strange.
“Dance training, huh… At least with Yuri-ssam, my side is the sweet deal.”
Yu Hana had been assigned exclusively to Ha Yuri, the dance trainer. Though Yu Hana was an all-rounder who could sing and dance, she was still a step behind Tasha and Seong Jiyeong, who had rapidly risen as dance aces. Rather than adding more vocal training, she’d chosen to further develop her dance skills. Anyone could see this was the cushiest assignment. Ha Yuri was the only Cha Entertainment trainer whose personality stayed consistent whether she was teaching or not. It seemed the world had no intention of proving that justice still existed for that squinty-eyed girl.
“Acting… Why do I have to do this?”
Ji Seoeun had been assigned acting training, which was unusual. Both her dance and vocal skills were only average, so focusing on acting first came as a surprise. The company apparently planned to develop her as the group’s sole acting member. On paper, her registered ability was “Expression Direction,” but her real power was Materialization. That meant her ability to freely control her expressions was pure talent.
“Why wouldn’t it work?”
Even now she was pulling off frame-by-frame expression changes and throwing a fit by herself, looking genuinely baffled that anyone would question it. When someone was that talented, there really was no arguing with them. If everyone could do that, “bad acting” wouldn’t even exist. Still, since she was the only one among us capable of it, it made sense the company wanted to cultivate her as an acting member.
“Oh-ho, Expression Direction? That’s actually quite rare. I’ll have to take this seriously.”
The trainer assigned to teach Ji Seoeun acting was Kim Jiyoo, Purple Swan’s undisputed center and now a thriving actress. They hadn’t brought in an external acting coach because Kim Jiyoo herself possessed the Expression Direction ability. Learning from someone with the same power was considered far more efficient. The problem was that our Space Battleship Villain’s ability wasn’t Expression Direction at all.
Honestly, I had no idea how this was going to play out. I didn’t even know if Ji Seoeun could keep her real ability hidden forever. Materialization wasn’t a completely unique ability, the gap in skill based on talent was enormous, and it wasn’t a lethal power, so even if it was discovered, she wouldn’t suddenly be forcibly conscripted. Not getting caught was ideal, but even if she was found out, it wouldn’t lead to forced removal from the team. Plus, being able to freely control her expressions despite not having the ability might actually work in her favor. She could turn out to be a naturally gifted actress.
Like Oh Seoa, however, Kim Jiyoo was someone who didn’t do anything halfway. Ji Seoeun was in for quite a rough time. Though the girl herself seemed more bothered by the fact that she’d have to learn acting alone rather than the training itself.
“Unnie!”
Watching Ji Seoeun get dragged toward the practice room by Kim Jiyoo while shooting me a burning gaze, I had to admit those two were something else. Ji Seoeun spoke casually even to Tasha, the oldest member, yet only ever called me “unnie.” I still couldn’t figure out what that was about. None of them seemed remotely normal.
Receiving advanced training didn’t mean the basic training disappeared. Advanced training was more like supplementary lessons. Schedules varied depending on each trainer’s availability, so we could no longer gather at the same time for the same grueling basic sessions. The purpose of maintaining basic training was simply to prevent our current skills from regressing. Since basic training still included physical conditioning, it wasn’t something we could take lightly.
Training had essentially doubled. Just thinking about it was exhausting, but in a situation where someone might sneak out of the dorm at night, this brutal schedule actually had its advantages. When the body was tired, unnecessary thoughts tended to disappear.
“Roadkill, the rapper from Hammer Shock…”
The person teaching Tasha and me rap was a rapper named Roadkill, the head of the Hammer Shock label. Naturally, I had no idea who he was. Tasha was a foreigner, and I knew nothing about this side of the industry either. So I searched for information first, and the top related search term that popped up was absurdly “drill.” A rapper associated with “drill”? I had no idea what that combination meant.
“Ah, drill… it’s not a tool, it’s a rap genre?”
Apparently there was a new genre called drill that had branched off from trap, and Roadkill was a fairly well-known rapper in that scene. I couldn’t really grasp the characteristics from the descriptions, but it was clear that both the lyrics and beats were deeper and harder than regular trap. Early drill tracks had even featured lyrics about shooting and killing people with guns. His rap name had seemed suspicious from the start; turns out he enjoyed pretty tough hip-hop.
“The CEO must have had a reason for entrusting us to this rapper. I guess something like this suits us better than something soft anyway… But is it really okay for someone who does this kind of rap to teach idols? I don’t get it.”
Neither my past self nor my current self had been particularly close to hip-hop. At most, I’d listened to tracks from Show Me the Money on music sites. Yet Roadkill had served as a judge on Money & Swag—the show equivalent of Show Me the Money in this world—twice. Considering how Show Me judges usually walked around with their shoulders squared, this guy was clearly respected in the hip-hop scene.
Just like in reality, idols here were treated as unwelcome guests in many fields, including acting and hip-hop. Actors were subtly dismissive, while rappers were openly critical. So it was strange that such a prominent figure had agreed to teach rap to idol trainees. Korean hip-hop was a small pond, after all. There would definitely be talk among them. Roadkill clearly had some kind of plan, and I was curious what picture he was trying to paint.