80 – Like Brother, Like Sister (4)
80 – Like Brother, Like Sister (4)
80.
[Whoa! Whoa!! What was that broadcast?! You looked insanely cool!!]
The over-the-top message was from Jin Sohyang.
[Congratulations.]
This concise, clean message was from Goyo.
[I knew my judgment wasn’t wrong. Keep proving your worth from here on.]
This slightly cringeworthy message was from Seo Chaerim.
[Damn, I’m jealous as hell.]
This brutally honest message was from Kim Taeyoung.
[Hah…]
And finally, this mysterious message was from Kang Seonghun. How did he even get my number? Did I give it to him? Maybe I did.
Aside from those, people who’d heard about it from me—or from Suyeon—and watched the broadcast themselves sent all kinds of messages.
Looking at them, I let out a quiet chuckle. It had been a long time since people congratulated me for appearing on a program. Back then, they only worried about me.
Anyway, it didn’t feel bad.
Of course, if you only looked at screen time, it was barely two or three minutes, and the ratings were only 0.7. Still, it was true that my appearance left the strongest impact in the entire program.
But…
Was this really okay?
Sure, I liked being hyped up like this, but because of me, Blue Aka almost looked like a band that couldn’t even make a song without a high schooler. No matter how little recognition they had in Korea, they didn’t deserve to have their skill downplayed like that. Especially Won Seongmin’s composition and producing—there was a lot to learn from him.
After a moment of thought, I called Won Seongmin. It was pretty late, but considering their practice habits, there was no way he was already asleep.
[Yes, Hajun.]
After a brief connection tone, Won Seongmin picked up. But his voice was strange—slightly higher than usual.
Even the way he addressed me was off. He usually called me by name casually, not this neatly.
Which meant—
“Ah, have you been drinking?”
[Yeah. We gathered with the members and watched the broadcast while drinking.]
No wonder he sounded excited.
In the background, voices overlapped.
[Did you watch it?]
[What, is that Hajun?]
[Tell him to come too!]
[Yeah, Hajun, come drink!]
They sounded pretty drunk, but at least they didn’t seem upset.
“Yeah, I watched it too.”
[Congrats. You looked amazing.]
“I thought so too. But… are you okay?”
[About what?]
“About Blue Aka looking weird because of me.”
Before I even finished, Won Seongmin burst out laughing. I flinched at the noise and almost dropped my phone.
[It’s fine. It’s not like the show fabricated anything. Composing has always been hard for me, and it’s true things got easier thanks to you this time. And we agreed to that edit in the first place.]
“…You did?”
From behind him came more voices.
[What was the PD’s name again?]
[Jin Ilman, idiot.]
[Right, Jin Ilman contacted us. He asked if we were okay with that kind of edit. Apparently there was controversy last time, so he checked in advance.]
[We said yes. Our screen time increased.]
[Honestly, without Hajun, we probably wouldn’t have had any screen time at all.]
More voices chimed in, agreeing that they always got edited out completely.
Hearing that, I nodded.
Well, if Blue Aka had no complaints.
“Alright. I’ll hang up. Don’t drink too much.”
[Got it. Take care.]
After hanging up, I stared at my phone.
Well… I’d just wait for next week’s episode.
§ § §
“Hey, look at this.”
Monday lunch. While eating today’s cafeteria special with its overly dramatic name, Kim Taeyoung suddenly shoved his phone at me.
“What is it?”
“Your clip got uploaded to iTube.”
“What?”
Sure enough, it was there. Not a new video—just the broadcast clip uploaded on Saturday.
“Title’s ‘Genius High School Producer Appears.’ Another one’s ‘Blue Aka’s Savior Appears.’ Wow. Genius producer. Wow. Savior.”
“That’s insanely cringey.”
“They’re really trying to bait clicks. But the views are doing pretty well.”
“How many?”
“Ninety thousand.”
Ninety thousand. Several times more than the songs I’d uploaded to Drop Pop. That was undeniably good.
“The reactions are good too. Want me to read comments?”
“Only if you skip the cringey ones.”
Taeyoung scrolled.
“‘He’s actually skilled. Probably really is a genius.’ ‘For those who don’t know Blue Aka, they’re a band famous overseas. They experiment a lot, and they’re really, really good.’ Wow, you know Blue Aka?”
“Why are you reading comments about them when I asked about me?”
“This stuff’s fun. Anyway, most reactions are similar—genius, talented, was there really a student like this? Of course, there’s some backlash too. People saying the show exaggerated things.”
“They’re not wrong.”
I drank the yogurt that came with lunch and nodded. The edit definitely inflated me.
It was a little scary—what if the hype bubble burst later? Still, it wasn’t bad.
I felt sorry for Blue Aka, but this program was going to help me a lot. The public image my company and I had settled on was “genius.”
A once-in-a-generation high school prodigy.
There was no better program for that kind of branding.
MM Entertainment was already pushing out articles too—calling me a legendary genius producer, saying I was unbelievably experienced for my age. Just thinking about it made my skin crawl, so I didn’t bother reading them.
“Hey, what if you become a star? Damn, that’d be bad. I wanted to blow up first.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. With a 0.7 rating? Star, my ass.”
Even for cable, that was low—especially for a prime-time weekend show.
“Anyway, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I added.
If nothing came of it, I’d just embarrass myself.
Taeyoung nodded. “Yeah.”
We finished lunch and went back to class. Even though I’d looked cool on TV, nothing really changed around me.
Like I said, it was a 0.7-rated program. Anyone outside my immediate circle probably didn’t even know Star Kingdom existed.
So no one’s perception of me changed. My daily life stayed exactly the same.
Classes, then the practice room.
Today, it was just Goyo and me again. Taeyoung had dropped out of our regular sessions since he started trainee activities.
While working on the song Suyeon would sing at events, Goyo spoke.
“I watched the broadcast.”
“Ah. Thanks.”
I tried to get back to work, but in a quiet voice, Goyo asked, “…Are you going to keep appearing on programs like that?”
“…Hmm.”
I chewed on my pen, thinking.
Honestly, I didn’t want to keep doing shows like that. Ten hours a day, for weeks or months—it was exhausting, and I had other work to do.
But sometimes, I wouldn’t have a choice.
“For August or September, probably one.”
Suyeon’s audition program. I’d have to appear to support her, whether I liked it or not.
“Is that another competition show?”
“No. An audition show.”
“…I see.”
Goyo nodded, then hesitated before asking, “In audition shows, you sing and get votes, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Are there participation limits?”
“Not really. If you pass the audition, you can appear.”
“…Then could I do it too?”
I widened my eyes.
Was she seriously thinking about audition shows?
“You’re thinking of applying?”
“…Not exactly. I’m still thinking. After you went to that company, Chaerim keeps talking to me. Asking what I want to do.”
Of course. Seo Chaerim again.
I thought it through.
If Goyo appeared on an audition show, the country would lose its mind. Even now, entertainment companies were desperate to sign her.
But then she’d clash with Suyeon.
A direct showdown between Goyo and Suyeon.
At this point, Suyeon couldn’t win. It wasn’t about talent—it was about accumulated time.
And desperation.
Suyeon sang because it was fun. Goyo sang to survive.
That difference wouldn’t be easy to bridge.
“What do you want me to do?” Goyo asked.
“With what?”
“…Signing with your company. Or going on that audition show.”
Honestly, I wanted her to.
She’d be Suyeon’s strongest rival—and her strongest motivation. And I didn’t want Goyo to disappear. That kind of talent was too precious to lose.
But this wasn’t my decision to make.
“What do you want to do?” I asked instead.
“I don’t know.”
She shook her head, confused.
I stood up, walked over, and said, “Think about what you want.”
Goyo nodded.
I smiled. “You’re kind.”
“…What are you even saying?”
She muttered irritably.
§ § §
Time passed quickly, and Saturday came again.
The second week of Star Kingdom aired.
Last week, my screen time was barely five minutes. What about today?
We watched together—Suyeon, Mom, and me.
“They’re starting with practice right away today,” Suyeon said.
“Yeah.”
And again, just like before, I was at the center of Blue Aka’s story. They showed me coordinating everything, cutting in footage of Blue Aka struggling in the past, emphasizing my presence—and my absence.
At this point, it was embarrassing.
Then came the mid-check stage. Nothing fancy—just a group evaluation in the practice room.
“Ohhh, you look amazing!”
And there, Jin Ilman’s editing really went to work.
All of it was pointed at me.
The screen showed me evaluating other teams.
“If that’s the stage, direction will be the most important factor. Audience reaction will depend entirely on how it’s staged.”
That arrogant, blunt tone. They aired all of it.
My face burned.
I wasn’t a judge.
Then came close-ups of me giving instructions, nodding, with captions like “A producer who obsesses over every detail.”
No, that was you who made me do that.
They even slapped dramatic music over scenes of me consulting with the band and the PD, sketching stage layouts.
The episode ended with next week’s preview.
“Heh…”
This was getting bigger than I expected.
That PD—Jin Ilman—had picked me as the protagonist.
As the genius producer.