Drizzle

"Of all times…."

"How many stages left now?"

"Twenty-four more, at least."

"Ah, what do we do about this."

Roughly three or four hours after the second exam had begun, raindrops started falling—one, then two. The makeshift outdoor stage looked utterly exposed to the sudden downpour.

"The sun's still out—why is the weather doing this all of a sudden? What's the forecast say?"

"It doesn't look like it'll be heavy. They're calling it a passing fox rain, but…."

If it had poured in earnest, that might have been one thing. But under this fine, mist-like drizzle, the PD's expression grew complicated. Calling off the shoot now would mean swallowing losses he clearly judged too steep.

"We keep going for now, then? If the rain gets heavier, we can shut it down."

The on-site director narrowed his eyes, gauging the rain, then surveyed the equipment and seemed to reach a decision.

"…We proceed. Everyone watch for safety accidents, and keep the stage from getting too slippery."

Word spread that the exam would resume. At the sudden rain and the production team's orders, the faces of the contestants waiting in the wings went pale. They were already terrified of making a mistake; the thought of dancing on a stage slicked by rain only wound their nerves tighter.

None of that concerned me. I was too busy running through my choreography.

The song I had chosen, Drizzle, was a female solo track. It was a cut from the second single album of Yuna, a woman who had spent over five years as the main vocalist of a popular idol group before making a successful solo transition. One of the few breakup songs written by Yuna—now established as one of the country's representative musicians—it unfolded longing and sorrow for a departed love through an oriental-tinged melody. Three years after its release, it still resurfaced on the charts from time to time.

Drizzle leaned harder on vocals than on choreography. It was a song where innate tone mattered more than technical skill, so for all its chart presence, cover stages of it were surprisingly rare.

Fortunately, the song and my voice had always meshed well. Whenever I pulled it out while busking, people liked it especially. Because the response was good, I kept doing it—starting with mostly singing and only the lightest ad-libbed gestures, then later drilling the choreography hard to raise my dance stat—so the completeness of the routine wasn't a problem either.

The only catch was the two-minute limit. I'd cut the first verse entirely, which made a clean, unconfused entry into the second-verse intro critical.

I hummed lightly as I linked the moves. Watching from beside me, Woo Cheong-hee's eyes sparkled. Maybe it was his age, but he had an especially clear-eyed look about him.

"Whoa, hyung, your tone is seriously good. The kind of voice I'd put on a playlist and loop forever."

The moment his own stage ended, Cheong-hee had come running over, buzzing with excitement, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠showed no sign of wanting to go home.

He had chosen Sunlight as well, but true to his hybrid stats he had delivered stable vocals and solid dance work and finished his turn successfully. For a seventeen-year-old, he had looked relaxed on stage—objectively the best of the countless Sunlight performances that had come before him.

"I felt it when you were busking too, but when you sing there's something that just snags your attention, you know?"

Lee Jae-jin, who had likewise finished his stage and settled in beside me, joined in.

"Right? Hard to explain, but something that just pulls you in, something…."

"Yeah. There's some-thing, but I have no idea how to put it into words."

Leaving the two of them to their endless loop of "something, something," I focused on practice. I had managed a little sleep that morning, but my stamina was still flagging, so through the long wait I kept alternating between drilling and resting. Whether I practiced or rested, their conversation never stopped.

They've got energy to spare.

If it were me, I would have bolted for the exit the second my stage ended. That they still had the stamina left to stick around and chatter after waking at dawn and finishing every performance was impressive.

"You two sure you don't want to watch the other stages?"

"Nah, you can roughly see them from here."

"I don't want to get rained on."

"That aside, this rain's lasting a while."

"Hyung, are you going to be okay?"

"For real. Han-hee, those shoes of yours look slippery."

"Shouldn't we stick some non-slip pads on the soles?"

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had only spoken once, and the two of them fell into perfect sync. I stopped Cheong-hee, who looked ready to run out and buy something on the spot.

Whether he was grateful for the tip that a second exam was coming, he sat beside me practically itching to ask if there was anything—anything at all—he could do for me. Maybe he was the type who couldn't stand being in someone's debt.

"I'm not doing any intense dancing, so it's fine."

The choreography for Drizzle was relatively static, so it wasn't something that worried me much.

"That song still has footwork in it, though. Canvas is slippery."

"Then should I just take the shoes off?"

"You don't know, do you. Bare feet are insanely slippery too."

"Just in case, I'll go buy non-slip pads. I'll be right back!"

Hearing Jae-jin, Cheong-hee shot off in an instant. This time there was no chance to stop him.

"Cheong-hee's a good kid."

"I'm grateful he's looking out for me, but…."

While I half-heartedly fielded Jae-jin's constant needling, I lost track of Cheong-hee. It felt bad, like I was exploiting him over every little favor. When I looked over at Jae-jin for keeping putting useless ideas in Cheong-hee's head, he just grinned, stood, and dragged me with him.

"When Cheong-hee gets back, thank him properly. You're on break right now, yeah? For now, you follow me."

Jae-jin strode off and soon found a woman carrying a huge case packed with cosmetics.

"This one too, please."

"Hyung, you went straight up without getting anything."

"I got some contouring at least. I wiped it off after I came down, though."

I wasn't opposed to makeup, but I wasn't sure I needed it either, and I started to refuse—only to be shut down immediately. When had he even gotten it done?

"Everyone does the basics at home before they come out. Who shows up barefaced ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like you?"

"I put on sunscreen at least…."

"You can't even tell."

Where he pointed, someone had particularly heavy eye makeup. Thinking about it, plenty of people had had reddened, made-up eyes even during the first exam.

"First round is one thing, but if you're going up on a stage like that, you need makeup. The lights are strong—mess it up and your whole face washes out."

"Wouldn't the camera director adjust for that…?"

Wash out completely? That would be a broadcast accident.

"Anyway, basics are basics. Sit down already."

Before I knew it I was in the chair, offering my face, and the person tidying up the scattered remnants of products let out a low sound of admiration. I was getting used to that by now.

"Good lord, your skin texture is insane."

"Ah—thank you."

"I'll start with the basics. If you want a particular look, tell me."

Keeping her expression neatly neutral, the makeup artist pulled out what she needed and set up with brisk efficiency. She started applying before she had even finished speaking. Extremely mechanical.

I felt the brush gliding over my face. Her hands were so fast that the base was done in no time.

"Your base is so good I barely had to touch it. Because of the rain I kept the contour light too. Brows don't need anything. Even this much is art, honestly. Ah—what about the lips? Any color you want? The color you've got now is pretty, or should I just add a little gloss?"

She moved busily, pulling things out to show me, when a lipstick perched precariously on the edge of the case tumbled to the floor. I snatched up the lid that had come free as it fell, but the lipstick itself had snapped in half.

"Looks like it broke inside."

"Thanks for picking it up. Must be the humidity from the rain."

The makeup artist shrugged it off coolly. Then she opened the bottom of the big case to show me—it was packed with boxes of cosmetics.

"I use that shade a lot anyway, so I should have a spare I bought… ah, found it. If you liked that color, want me to use this one?"

"Ah—no. Just lip balm is fine, please."

Even as she finished with simple moisture, my eyes somehow wouldn't leave the lipstick. Looking at it, something hovered just out of reach of memory.

"You don't need more eye makeup? Color, or anything?"

"No, this is enough. More than that—if it's all right, could I take that?"

"Pardon? This?"

The makeup artist, who had been inspecting the broken lipstick, waggled it.

"Yes."

"It's fine, but why… never mind. Take it."

"Thank you!"

Looking puzzled but handing it over without fuss, she let me pocket the lipstick.

She already looked busy putting away the products she had used and receiving the next contestant for makeup, so I quickly thanked her for fitting me in and stepped away. Jae-jin, who had been watching quietly, asked out of nowhere,

"What are you planning to do with that?"

"A little performance? I think I can use it as a prop."

"Ooh~ now I'm curious."

"Over here! I'm not too late, right?"

I hadn't thought the makeup had taken that long, but Cheong-hee came sprinting up, breathless, and held out a plastic bag. He must have run without an umbrella—his hair was soaked through.

And he was the one who said he didn't want to get rained on.

Fine for the trip out, maybe, but on the way back he could at least have used one. What was so urgent he came back without an umbrella?

"…Thanks."

Somehow, I felt it all over again. Coming back to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠life had brought me a windfall of good people.

After receiving this much help, I couldn't afford to mess up on stage.

I threw myself into practice, and before I knew it the sun had set and my turn finally approached.

I checked the non-slip pads stuck to the soles of my shoes and waited in the dark backstage. My palm, gripping the mic, was slick from the long, thin rain, but I clenched it tight.

Then I stepped out under the bright lights.

Soon a rich yet delicate melody unfurled across the stage, centered on the tone of a gayageum and finely woven with other instruments. The overall feel was unmistakably oriental, but the melodic line had been rendered with a modern sensibility—the kind of song people said they kept coming back to no matter how much time passed.

I opened with the cleanest tone I could manage. Skipping the first verse and going straight in meant I had to structure the buildup to the climax carefully.

It wore the mask of a historical-drama ballad, but true to K-pop it was not a song to be sung standing still. Nor was the choreography a frenzy of motion either.

With the barest movements of fingertips and toes, I drew the gaze and held it.

The stage was far too wide for one person to fill, so I didn't try to force it. I simply made it so that if you listened to the song, your eyes would have no choice but to follow.

Just like the lyrics, I could feel the rain soaking into my clothes.

It had been a fine, misting rain that seemed only to make fog, but once the sun set the raindrops became visible and dew began to bead. For now it was only gathering on the surface and running off, but if it grew any heavier it would be trouble.

As I moved with the next stretch of choreography, the thin fabric clung to my body. It was black, so nothing would show through—but I needed to finish before I looked like a drowned rat.

As hoped, the short song of a little over two minutes raced quickly toward its highlight.

As I grieved and wept for the love who had died and left me, my love's tears became rain that wiped my own away.

It was the moment where the emotion held in check through the entire song burst free all at once.

Feeling the raindrops trail down my cheeks, I let the high note out. I had done it so many times that it rose lightly. With my vocal stat already up to 84, this much was effortless. I carried that breath straight through.

The ad-lib that followed was quite long. Between the phrases I kept the choreography going, turning a half-circle to hide my right side—and rubbed the broken piece of lipstick I had hidden between my fingers across my lips.

It didn't need to be neat. I was going to smear it anyway.

Then, after the ad-lib, the final lines.

Looking straight into the camera whose light had come on dead ahead, I swept the back of my hand across my lips. A vivid red bloomed there.

I hoped the sudden, intense contrast of color would hit with real impact.

Not bad for something I thought of on the spot.

To stand out from everyone else in a mere two minutes, I needed one powerful, unforgettable hit.

My dance and vocal stats still aren't that outstanding.

So I was wondering what would work—and when I saw the lipstick, the lyric about sending a kiss came to mind.

It was a hastily improvised performance, but I was satisfied enough with it that I felt light. The singing and the dancing had both come out as well as I had practiced. At the very least, it was enough not to be ashamed in front of the people who had helped me.

Now I'm going to sleep for three days straight. Is that too long? Still, I'll probably be out for at least two.

I finished the stage, and without any clear memory of how I even managed the bow, I came home and spent two full days doing nothing but sleep.

At the time, I had no idea that this bit of staging—later to be known as the lipstick performance—would set off far larger ripples than I ever expected.