Please, Show Me His Face
“Huuu…”
It was Friday evening, April 22nd, 6:50 p.m. Hyerim clutched the remote tight and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Please let me see a lot of Han-hee’s face…”
She prayed that, in the about-to-air second episode of Idol Survival, Lee Han-hee’s face would appear even a little more.
Hyerim had already packed the past week full of a blissful fan life. She had licked the first- and second-round stages down to the nanometer, and she had scraped up every last Penguin busking video across every platform. The time had been rich—and yet she was going out of her mind.
It’s not enough.
Aside from two short stage clips that, even put together, didn’t clear five minutes, the only thing left to feed her swelling fandom was Penguin’s busking footage.
The busking videos were more than enough to set the imagination racing—and exactly that much, they left her parched.
Like a few drops of cola found in a desert: wonderful, and nowhere near enough. If anything, the cola only made her thirstier.
Now that she knew the face, hearing that warm, smiling voice talk so gently to fans made the curiosity unbearable. What expression had been under that mask?
She had captured every frame that showed even a sliver of face and blown them up, but nothing close to satisfying ever came of it. After that cycle repeated a few times, Hyerim burned past restless into half-deranged.
Face! Han-hee’s face! Face!
She needed footage of Lee Han-hee from every possible angle. She wanted to know, without a single gap, what his face did when he was happy, sad, gloomy, angry.
“Ah—calm down… calm down.”
Hyerim slapped her own cheek. It was something she repeated every time the feelings spiked. Sometimes she yanked at her hair, too.
“Everyone knows this pain…”
The wait for the Penguin bait to be reeled in was happy and also agonizing.
Penguin-sighting stories from Idol Survival had been circulating for a long while, but surprisingly few people were ready to swear that Lee Han-hee and Penguin were the same person. The face was simply too unfair; people flinched on first contact.
Right after episode one, comments like “Isn’t this Lee Han-hee?” had started creeping under every Penguin video, but plenty of people denied it.
The sharpest replies—with a fair amount of support—were the ones that asked, with that face, what could he possibly have been missing that he went around covering it? Watching those made Hyerim want to boil. They were so drunk on Lee Han-hee’s face they were talking the same person down.
On the other side, people who still pegged Penguin as some unlucky obscure singer insisted, hard, that Penguin not be dragged into idol-trainee talk—and that camp sniped at Han-hee sideways by arguing idols weren’t real singers.
And with those currents weirdly tangled, every community had plunged into chaos.
He performed on the street with his face covered? With that face? Why on earth? Was that insane face really under the mask? Was this a hidden-camera prank?
That was the kind of overcharged delusion running wild. Whether out of resentment at not catching on earlier or something else, some people denied it with their whole lives, while most guessed it was the same person and still forced their expectations down. Penguin had gotten famous enough under a mystery concept that people were bracing for the backlash if it turned out not to be true.
The consensus was that the tone was similar, sure, but judging from a single song was premature.
That cautious, off-target reaction made Hyerim thump her own chest.
If you just listen knowing, it’s this clear…!
People as frustrated as Hyerim had papered the Idol Survival boards with “Penguin = Lee Han-hee” bait posts until every mention was deleted on sight, so the surface stayed glass-smooth.
A quiet agreement had formed that it was better to be careful than to get dragged into useless gossip, and the calm in the eye of the storm held. Lee Han-hee was already drawing so much more attention than the other contestants that people were watching their step even harder. Of course, to Hyerim the worry was pointless. Lee Han-hee and Penguin really were the same person.
Even now, the view counts on Penguin’s busking videos climbed every day.
“Hyerim, are you watching that again today?”
Because it was Friday evening, Hyerim holding the living-room TV had caught her parents’ eyes. She seized her mother’s hand and pulled her down beside her.
“Mom, pray with me.”
“For what?”
“That Lee Han-hee’s face comes out a lot.”
“Pfft. To who? The PD?”
“I don’t care, just do it.”
The broadcast opened on a few headlines about how successfully episode one had aired, then immediately cut to a multi-split of the contestants. In the tiny tiles, Hyerim hunted Lee Han-hee’s face with a hawk’s eyes. She had no idea what he’d been doing when it was shot, but a bright white smile aimed straight at the camera punched into her vision.
“Whoa…”
She wanted it bigger, but the shot was already gone. As always, it opened in the screen room. After the cliffhanger that had closed episode one, the big screen now held Lee Han-hee’s face at the very start of his stage.
“What’s going on with that face?”
“No, wait—what even is this…”
The judges, who had gasped from the moment he appeared, spent the whole performance in soft sighs and cheers—and once the final move landed, they fell silent as one.
“Ah… were we too quiet? Sorry. It’s hard to know what to say.”
Hui spoke first, but the silence in the screen room still hung, and the show cut straight into judge interview clips.
“Not in a bad way—I genuinely didn’t know how to evaluate it. Like any words I put on it would only dull the color?”
“Honestly, if you start saying what was lacking, you just look ridiculous.”
“I came here as the one judging that kid, but if I were the one on that stage, could I leave people with an impression that strong? I have my doubts. Face aside, he’s a contestant with tremendous talent. I think he’ll stick with people for a long time.”
Under the stream of praise, Hyerim’s expression went soft and loose. She told herself they were only saying nice things to build a good scene—and still loved every second of watching him get complimented.
“Mmm…”
“This is a bit…”
“Tsk.”
And as if that warmth had never happened, the evaluations that followed were merciless.
“This person doesn’t seem to have practiced singing—why pick this song?”
“No personality in the dance or the voice.”
“Are there strings on your arms and legs or something?”
“That’s enough for us.”
The coldness kept coming, sharp enough to feel cruel. The atmosphere was harsher than expected; even the viewers at home felt a little wounded.
“I thought that one was fine…”
“Their standards seem pretty high, huh?”
Alongside the judges’ harsh notes, a run of slightly unfinished stages passed, and at last a watchable one arrived. This time the cheers started from the intro.
“Whew—great sense of rhythm.”
“Mmm, the voice is really charming. The timing’s so good it’s easy to listen to. That part’s hard to sing, and he’s making it sound effortless.”
Watching a contestant properly sell himself with emotional rap, the mother beside her tapped Hyerim’s shoulder.
“As a son-in-law, Mom likes that one.”
“No, Hyerim. A man needs to feel solid. That one coming up now—a guy like that won’t put you through heartache.”
“What are you even saying!”
After her mother, her father had somehow sat down too. It was the same scene as last week. Hyerim talked with her parents just enough and then sank straight back into the show.
Praise for the standouts, blade-sharp critique for the weak. As if there were no middle ground, the evaluations swung from hot bath to ice bath in a breath, and there was never a dull second.
Sometimes the ice flipped dramatically into heat.
“To be honest, this contestant isn’t that strong at singing or dancing… but I keep wanting to watch? I think that’s a talent too.”
“It makes me wonder how far this contestant can go—and I want to keep an eye on him. I’m curious what kind of result he’ll show.”
Hyerim’s parents, pulled in without noticing, were nodding.
“He’s got charm, you’re right. The way he uses his face is different from the others.”
“He’s good at finding the camera, too. Handsome face.”
After that contestant—who had a knack for locking eyes with unusual clarity—a run of average ones flickered by in short cuts, and already the end was close. Wait—time went that fast?
“This isn’t easy, is it.”
“Right? Everyone seems good…”
“Hyerim, nothing in this world is easy… hmm?”
Just as they were feeling the wrap-up vibe, a face hit the screen and her mother’s eyes flew wide.
“Oh my, oh my oh my oh my oh my. Honey—honey! Is that—is that—?”
“Y-y-yes—Do-ha, that’s Do-ha! Do-ha!”
“Do-ha?”
Elegant features filled the sixty-inch TV—and the broadcast ended. Same as last week, the K-plus promo line rolled, and excited voices flooded her ears.
“Hyerim! Hyerim! We’re subscribed to that, right?”
“Huh? Yeah…”
“Put it on, hurry—hurry!”
“Yeah, hurry up and put it on!”
Déjà vu?
Hyerim, blank-faced, launched the OTT app. Her parents bouncing like children was a strange sight.
“….”
“….”
Reaction Broadcast Footage Secured (100/100)
[ Claim Reward ]
I had worried so hard about how to manufacture reaction footage that it felt almost ridiculous—clearing the mission had been easy. Even without any special reactions of my own, the flood of screen time had already filled every condition.
But I still couldn’t shake the feeling of sitting on a bed of nails. The end of episode one, the opening of episode two, the interviews on top of that—across the two episodes, more than ten minutes had been handed down to me, which meant everyone else’s share had been cut, and the fallout was plain to feel.
“Hic… hhuk… hick.”
In the end someone couldn’t hold the tears; a choked, hiccuping sob rolled through the practice room. This was bad.
“Why are we even supposed to stay here…”
Someone muttered under their breath. They were right. After the reaction shoot, under production’s orders, the contestants had been gathered by class and kept here instead of being sent back to their rooms. Even a little time to collect themselves would have been something.
If you boiled the regular broadcast of Idol Survival episodes one and two down to a line: it started with Lee Jae-jin and ended with me, then started with me and ended with Kwon Do-ha.
Milk it a little more carefully…
How many times the lipstick-smeared face and the judges gasping over it looped on the big board—there was no hiding from the embarrassment. As a broadcast that hit hard at the open and the close, it might have been a success. Thinking of the contestants who had broken down crying once the reaction shoot was over, though…
It’s a lot of pressure.
It really was. But I couldn’t show it on the outside. Other people were crying because their footage had been cut, and I was burdened because I’d gotten too much? That would only make me genuinely hard to look at.
I held my seat with a composed face. The other contestants who had managed a decent amount of screen time kept quiet too.
“…I’m withdrawing on my own.”
“…!”
And then, out of nowhere, contestant Yu Sang-hyeon—eyes so swollen it was obvious how hard he’d cried—opened his mouth. Everyone’s eyes went round. Mine did too. He’d looked like he was struggling, but this was still too good a chance to throw away like that.
“But before I go, I’m going to say a few things.”
The voice was thick with tears and, for that, harder. He was staring at someone; I followed his line of sight and found a contestant. Kim Seong-min?
“I know other people work hard too, and maybe my effort just wasn’t enough…”
Even with the tear tracks still clear on his face, Yu Sang-hyeon’s expression was calmer than I expected as he walked straight toward Kim Seong-min.
“But putting in the same effort doesn’t mean you get the same result, does it. I’m really giving it everything I’ve got, and if no one sees it—is that just a problem with my effort too? We put in the same work and the results are different, so is this really about effort?”
“….”
“If I beg people to look at me a little, if I whine—am I not allowed to do that? I bet my whole life on this. So what am I supposed to do?”
“…Why are you asking me that?”
“You said it. Who’s going to notice if you whine. So what am I supposed to do, then?”
The air turned ugly fast enough to promise a fight, and people stood up to break it apart. I shot to my feet too—and the face of Lee Won-yeong, who’d been sitting in front of me, looked wrong.
“A bag! Does anyone have a bag?!”
His face had gone paper-white and he was gasping for air; I ran for him first. What the hell was happening.