Chapter 8
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 8
Chapter Title: Monthly Evaluation
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‘Eh, it’s just like a monthly evaluation.’
I thought to myself as I gazed at Kim Han-soo, the vocal trainer, and the choreographer seated in front of me.
Monthly evaluations.
This system, run by most agencies, didn’t just judge a trainee’s skills.
Talent was a given, but they also scrutinized overall appearance, down to body weight.
I’d grown used to them after seven years at GH, but switching companies made it feel fresh somehow.
Or maybe it was because of Lee Jae-ha, glaring at me with those intense eyes.
Why the hell is that guy even here?
But there was no one around to answer my question.
Kim Han-soo ignored Lee Jae-ha completely, fiddled with the camera again, and turned to me.
“Shall we start with the singing, then?”
“Yes.”
Before singing, I did my usual light warm-up, but something felt off—unlike normal.
Where’s that feeling from earlier?
Could it be because of Ho, Not Bad? It wasn’t the same as when I’d practiced earlier, and with the remaining time so precious, it felt different.
I’d always scored highest in singing during GH’s monthly evals, so I wasn’t too worried...
By then, the camera had started rolling for real. My close-up appeared on the nearby screen.
“Visuals are definitely on point.”
“Yeah, that’s gotta be why he made the debut lineup at GH.”
I overheard the vocal trainer and choreographer whispering. Even as I fretted over my throat, I couldn’t stop the corner of my mouth from twitching upward.
Sure, hardly any trainee ever got flak for their looks, but it still felt good to hear.
Finally, the backing track flowed from the speakers. I matched it and began to sing.
“I gazed up at the sky, sensing rain might fall, the overcast clouds just like...”
I could feel all four pairs of eyes locked on me, but I didn’t tense up. I was used to this.
Just like back at GH, I finished the song without a hitch.
“Good, that was good.”
The vocal trainer nodded as the track cut off. The choreographer’s expression wasn’t bad either.
Lee Jae-ha’s face was ambiguous, but that guy had worn the same blank look since I first met him, so he didn’t count.
What about Kim Han-soo?
Right now, the most important judgment came from Team Leader Kim Han-soo. I glanced his way.
...Huh?
His expression wasn’t great. He nodded gravely, lost in thought.
What? Did I mess up?
“Alright, let’s see the dance next?”
“Ah, yes!”
The vocal trainer took over since Kim Han-soo stayed silent. I got back into position. The dance track kicked in.
“Smooth lines, great expression control.”
The choreographer smiled faintly. The vocal trainer nodded in agreement.
“Solid basics, for sure. That’s GH quality, huh?”
They both turned to Kim Han-soo after finishing. Lee Jae-ha, next to him, propped his chin on his hand and stared too.
“...”
But Kim Han-soo’s lips stayed sealed like a clam, even after a long pause.
The vocal trainer finally spoke up cautiously, tired of waiting.
“Team Leader?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. That was good.”
Kim Han-soo snapped to attention and nodded. He’d clearly been deep in his own head.
“Anything you’d like to say?”
I asked carefully, but he just waved it off. His face still looked distracted, though.
“Nah, no. It was good. I get why the GH staff raved about you, Do-jun.”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me—it’s good for both sides. But...”
He trailed off, hesitating, then looked me straight in the eye.
“You’ve really never heard anyone say you should do acting instead of idol work?”
“Pardon?”
What the hell?
“Your acting just seems stronger than your vocals or dance.”
“...Come again?”
First time I’d ever heard that in seven years.
Everyone else looked baffled too.
Kim Han-soo tilted his head, undeterred, and asked again.
“Seriously, never?”
“No, never.”
“That’s weird...”
The vocal trainer, who’d been listening quietly, asked with a serious face.
“Is there a problem?”
“Not a problem, exactly...”
Then what is it? This is frustrating.
Kim Han-soo stroked his stubbly chin—it was getting dark with evening shadow—and spoke in an ambiguous tone.
“To me, your acting seems way better.”
Lee Jae-ha, who’d been propping his chin silently until then, cut in.
“Then why not just do acting instead of idols?”
Mind your own business.
His sharp words got drowned out by the choreographer, who’d stayed quiet.
“No, the vocals and dance are good too. More than good—they’re great.”
The vocal trainer nodded along.
Whew, relief.
That was the reaction I was used to. I’d been shocked thinking they meant my singing and dancing sucked compared to acting.
But even with the trainers’ input, Kim Han-soo still brooded with an unsettled look.
Hold on...
Was this the item’s difference? I’d used Ho, Not Bad for acting earlier today?
Sure, the song with the item earlier was on another level compared to now, but still—I wasn’t bad...
No matter how I thought about it, that was the only reason for his reaction.
“...Still feels like your acting’s stronger, though?”
The mood turned awkward at Kim Han-soo’s stubborn insistence.
Was I seriously getting pushed toward acting prep instead of the debut lineup?
Is that okay?
I did want to act someday, but my dream was to be an idol. I’d prepped for years for this.
Plus, realistically, debuting as an idol would get me on TV faster than breaking in as an actor.
Unless I crashed a fully prepped shoot, no contest.
Can’t let that happen.
Time was already short—any snag could ruin things.
First, I had to fix Kim Han-soo’s misconception.
It made no sense that I was better at acting than singing or dancing.
If anything, I’d expect criticism for the opposite.
The only variable was Ho, Not Bad, so using it again should work, right?
...Hate to waste it.
Better than risking issues over one coin.
Then I spotted Lee Jae-ha next to him, wearing that infuriatingly smug look.
His indifferent face screamed, ‘Not a big deal.’
What a jerk.
Crashing someone else’s eval was bad enough, but that attitude was worse.
I wanted to wipe away Kim Han-soo’s misunderstanding and that disinterested smirk clean.
“Team Leader!”
“Yes?”
“Let me try it once more.”
“Oh, no need for that.”
Kim Han-soo smiled softly, looking harmless to reassure me.
“If it’s bothering you, don’t worry. It’s just my personal take.”
That personal take was hitting me hard.
I insisted again, and though he murmured, “Really, no need...”, he finally nodded.
‘Ho, Not Bad’ x1 has been used.
For 2 hours, the user’s ‘current capabilities’ will be fully maximized.
The system alert popped up the moment I willed it.
Such a waste.
But this wasn’t the time for regrets. Something more important demanded focus.
Concentrate. Concentrate.
Even with the item active, I couldn’t let acting get called better again.
This was about pride now.
The first verse started no different from before. If anything, quieter, more subdued.
But beneath that calm, emotions surged so vividly I could feel them myself as I sang.
“Whoa...”
I thought I heard a gasp, but I wasn’t sure.
From some point, nothing else registered.
My gaze flowed naturally without thought. Vocalization glided like silk, highs rose effortlessly.
This is insane.
Was this my voice?
It blew away my solo practice earlier. Right now, I felt like I could sing anything.
Why had it ever felt so hard? Perfectly controlled, my emotions poured out crystal clear.
A bit more, just a bit longer. I didn’t want to lose this sensation.
“I can’t promise you happiness, but this much I’ll say~”
The song raced toward the highlight. The swelling emotions crashed like waves.
“Whoa, this is unreal. Whoa...”
“...Haaa.”
The reactions didn’t break my focus. With eyes half-closed, a wave from my chest welled up.
“The you who might return...”
Plip. A blink, and a tear clinging stubbornly to my eyelid fell.
And the finale.
“...I’ll wait.”
The speaker’s vibrations faded. Heavy silence blanketed the practice room next.
Plip.
A pen dropped. Only then did I see the vocal trainer on his feet and the choreographer with mouth agape.
“What the...”
Lee Jae-ha stared wide-eyed, nothing like his usual bored self.
And the last one.
“Ha... This is driving me nuts.”
Kim Han-soo sighed, looking utterly dazed.
After Lee Do-jun’s evaluation ended, Lee Jae-ha stood alone in the empty practice room, blankly facing the mirror.
“Damn it!”
More precisely, he was staring at Do-jun’s singing reflection still vivid in the glass.
The words he’d thrown at Do-jun upon first meeting echoed relentlessly.
Don’t cause trouble? What a joke. Trouble was coming—too much comparison.
He felt pissed, honestly.
Sure, GH was an idol powerhouse, but failing to debut after seven years meant something was off, obviously.
Yet just because he was from GH, his debut was locked in? It felt like it stole a spot from other trainees who’d grinded alongside him.
...What the hell.
When he first heard the singing, he’d nodded to himself—Yeah, thought so.
Not bad, of course. But he could match it.
At least not talentless, so somewhat hopeful.
Though it didn’t erase his bad impression.
What bugged him more than Do-jun’s skill was Kim Han-soo’s comment. About acting being better.
‘Jae-ha, you should focus more on acting practice.’
Those words he always heard rang like an echo.
Working under an executive who’d produced top actors, Kim Han-soo’s standards for acting were brutal.
For him to say that?
In disbelief, Jae-ha had blurted out why not acting then, not idols.
“Ha...”
Fine, even that he could stomach, a hundred concessions made.
The real gut punch came right after.
Do-jun, saying he’d redo it, unleashed skill leagues beyond the first try. Absurd.
Like he hadn’t tried before. Like his pride stung from the acting comment.
Compared to that opener, everyone watching lost their words.
The vocal trainer even shot to his feet—first time Jae-ha had seen that.
Embarrassing. Bullying needed some backbone.
Even he couldn’t help but admire it. Made sense why Kim Han-soo brought him.
I just have to be better.
At this level, Do-jun debuting with them was set. No way he’d take shit from comparisons.
I can do it. Lee Jae-ha!
He blinked at his reflection, eyes burning too long.
The Jae-ha in the glass wore his usual expression again, unlike moments ago.