Five Days to Make a Human
The next day, Winter and I scoured the internet for a cheap practice room. Her fierce determination to train properly for five full days was the reason. After checking her status window and understanding the sheer scale of her potential, I honestly didn’t think it was necessary. Whether she crammed for five days or not wouldn’t change how her talent would shine. I wasn’t going to sell a polished jewel—I was selling a raw gem. And a producer of Cheon Jonghun’s caliber would surely recognize just how premium a stone Winter was.
Still, her proactive attitude was a good sign, so I decided to help her out a little. We found an affordable rental studio near the closest subway station and headed out together.
“By the way, what about school? You’re a first-year in high school, aren’t you?”
“Ah, I’m basically a hikikomori. Something like that. I don’t go to school anyway, so it’s fine!”
It absolutely was not fine. But it wasn’t my place to butt in.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of people who only attend the first semester, realize they won’t get into college with their grades, drop out, take the qualification exam, and jump straight into university early. If you’ve got a plan, it’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
“Hehe, I don’t have anything that organized. It’s just… hard for me to mix with people.”
Winter’s grandfather, how on earth could you trust and support a granddaughter like this? If it were me, the second I heard she’d lost her wallet I would’ve screamed at her to get home immediately.
Whether she sensed my thoughts or not, Winter kept stealing glances at me. Every time our eyes met, she’d flash that bright, toothy smile.
Well, is skipping school really such a big deal? I graduated high school and I’m doing fine. Just impress Cheon Jonghun. That’s all that matters.
After a short walk, we arrived at the address.
“This must be it!”
The place Winter pointed to was an ancient building that made me seriously question whether it was still in business. It looked like it would be full of dust and regret, but the map app insisted this was the spot, so we followed the signs down to the basement.
The rental practice room on the first underground floor was cramped and poorly ventilated. Still, the full-length mirror was intact and the floor had a decent finish. It wasn’t bad for solo use. Best of all, the price was ridiculously reasonable.
Winter seemed just as satisfied with the five-day rental as I was.
“It’s narrow and dark, just like my room. It feels comforting.”
Apparently we hadn’t received the exact same impression.
“…Well, as long as you’re happy, that’s what matters.”
Using the money Winter’s grandfather had given me, I booked the studio for four hours with the staff. Then I handed her some cash.
“I’ve reserved four hours for now. If you need more time, use this to extend it. Grab something good to eat at a nearby restaurant. Call me if anything comes up.”
When I turned to leave after finishing my business, Winter looked like a puppy whose walk had just been canceled. Her shoulders drooped as she asked, “You’re going?”
She probably wanted me to watch her dance and sing. For someone who was both a shut-in and a social outcast, she still craved an audience. It was oddly admirable. To become an entertainer, you needed that kind of attention-seeking streak.
Truthfully, aside from her raw talent, I had worried her timid personality might make her lose interest in idol life and give up easily. But that fear seemed unfounded.
Yes. With talent like hers, she should carry herself with confidence in her craft.
With the mindset of someone testing an S-grade gacha character, I sat down.
“Want me to watch for a bit before I go?”
Winter beamed. “Wow! Then I’ll show you the song I’ve been practicing!”
She fiddled with the laptop she’d lugged over, and music began flowing from the speakers.
The song Winter had chosen was Sevenstar’s “Oops.”
Oh. That’s a pretty aggressive pick.
Sevenstar’s “Oops” was a summer-targeted dance track known for its powerful brass, addictive hook, and crisp vocals. It felt like a light, fun song thanks to that infectious chorus, but the aggressive waacking choreography mixed throughout and the demanding high notes made it a notorious killer for trainees. Sloppy execution would make it look embarrassingly cheap.
I watched with a hint of nostalgia from my Flower Entertainment days, genuinely curious.
As if determined to meet my expectations, Winter’s eyes sparkled. Then the music started.
Oops! I’ve fallen into the ocean called love!
I keep getting sucked in, keep drifting deeper and deeper.
Only that one person fills my head—
Two minutes and fifty-four seconds passed in a flash. The song ended.
Winter had executed every difficult move in “Oops” while simultaneously delivering the four-person vocal parts live. She was panting hard at the end, unable to control her breathing, but considering how she’d distributed her vocals, her stamina was more than acceptable. I’d assumed she’d spent all her time holed up in her room, but apparently she’d been training her body too.
Yet my face after watching that performance was crumpled like I’d bitten into an entire fresh lemon.
Winter, still catching her breath, glanced at me nervously.
“Haa… haa… how was it?”
“How was it?”
I barely swallowed the curse that nearly flew out on reflex. Her dancing was a disaster. No—her singing was just as bad. My head throbbed from the mental damage, but I tried to deliver a rational assessment.
“You’re looking down on idols.”
It was an objective, rational evaluation.
“Who the hell taught you like that?”
Winter’s dancing and singing weren’t merely unskilled. They were maliciously bad. If a friend sang poorly at karaoke, you’d just assume they lacked experience or talent and let it go. There’d be no emotional reaction. But Winter’s performance was different. She had taken every controversial, polarizing element people usually argue about and exaggerated them to the extreme—like some vicious vocal impersonation designed to provoke laughter.
Anyone who took singing seriously would want to slap her. She seemed to have gathered every bad habit imaginable and stuffed them into her movements. It had reached the level of art. She was testing the absolute limit of how many disgusting mannerisms could fit inside a single choreography.
“Are you trying to provoke me? Is this a test of how long I can endure that dancing and singing? You want to fight? Fine, I surrender. Please, just do it normally!”
“I was just doing my best…”
Winter offered that excuse as her eyes began to glisten with tears.
So she hadn’t been trying to mess with me. She had genuinely practiced like that. It had simply looked like it contained pure human malice… I felt bad for snapping at such a fragile recluse.
“I was too harsh. Sorry.”
Winter glanced at me cautiously and asked, “Yeji told me this would look good… Is it weird?”
“No, that crazy bitch did it again.”
In my head I could perfectly picture Yeji teaching Winter all the wrong things with a Joker-like grin. Tormenting her with her friends was probably just a bonus. If there had been some benefit to her, I could have tried to understand. But there wasn’t any. Could a person really possess such pure, unfiltered malice?
The demon had been hiding in a training center in Jeonnam.
“…What should I do?”
Tears hovered at the edges of Winter’s eyes, ready to spill at the slightest touch. One poke and she’d burst into sobs again. With mental fortitude that weak, I had no idea how she’d survive trainee life. Though passing the audition was the first problem.
This wasn’t just Winter’s crisis. It was mine too.
Her dancing and singing being unpolished didn’t matter. Talent couldn’t be hidden by mere immaturity. A producer like Cheon Jonghun would peel away that veil of inexperience and see her true ability. But those disgusting habits weren’t a veil—they were staples hammered into every corner of the paper. No matter how much talent she had, if you didn’t pull them out, you wouldn’t even see it. Cheon Jonghun would never notice her potential. I’d be lucky if he lasted ten seconds before grabbing me by the collar.
I had originally planned to spend the five days doing odd jobs while Winter practiced. I already had seed money for stocks, so there was no downside. I scrapped that plan. This wasn’t the time to worry about small change.
“You… seriously, consider yourself lucky. I’m going to turn you into a proper human being in five days.”
Five days remained until the meeting with Cheon Jonghun.
It was an impossibly tight deadline for turning a monkey into a person. I had to rip out those terrible habits before then.
And five days later, the day of the meeting with Cheon Jonghun arrived.