If You Can't Take Responsibility

"Hyung, help me brace him."

Lee Won-yeong was doubled over now, gasping for air, so I pulled him upright first. I shifted so he could lean against Lee Jae-jin, who had come in close, then covered his mouth and nose with the paper bag Han Sang-jin had brought over.

"You're okay. Breathe as slowly and as deeply as you can."

Every time he inhaled, his chest ballooned under my hand. I pressed down firmly. Chest breathing wouldn't help.

"Deeper—from your stomach. Big inhale, long exhale. One more. Big inhale… and out."

Cold sweat kept rolling down his face, so I waved at the people hovering anxiously nearby. Once he calmed down we'd have to get him to the medical room; someone needed to fetch a stretcher.

"It's nothing serious. When you're tense and you mess up your breathing, this can happen."

I made it sound as unremarkable as I could. Hyperventilating from stress and anxiety was one thing—if everyone started making a scene, the panic could catch fire right along with it. I'd been through symptoms like this before. I knew the drill.

"Just focus on breathing. Big inhale… and out."

I repeated the same words in a steady tone. After a few minutes, his eyelids fluttered slowly, and I took the bag away. Settling a little, then.

"If you can't get up, stay still. Could someone help me?"

With help from the people around us, we got Lee Won-yeong to the medical room. By the time I came back to the practice room—assuming filming had already started—the atmosphere wasn't anywhere near ready for cameras. It had only grown more vicious. The second I stepped inside, Kim Seong-min's snide voice hit me full force. Continuation of their earlier fight, then.

"Want me to tell you what your problem is, hyung? You have no sense. That's the biggest issue."

"…Sense?"

Yu Sang-hyeon's face twisted as he squared off with Kim Seong-min.

"Yeah. Sense. You got completely cut from the edit, right? Why do you think that happened?"

Between cameras that had already gone dark and contestants wearing awkward faces, Kim Seong-min enunciated every word as he tore into Yu Sang-hyeon.

"Picking Sunlight for the second-round stage was wrong from the start. What am I good at. What charm do I need to show to stand out even a little more than everyone else. You never thought about any of that, and it shows right there. Appealing to people is work too. You say you worked hard? Did you really? Can you say that with confidence?"

"…"

"Before you ask why no one looks at you, you should be thinking about how to make them notice you. If the finished product is mediocre, who cares about the process?"

"…Stop."

"Stop what? You asked me to tell you what to do. I'm doing you a favor. You don't want to hear it?"

He doesn't look like he'd take it even if I told him, so why ask? Kim Seong-min muttered the question to himself and poured words out before Yu Sang-hyeon could answer.

"I'm telling you this because I actually feel sorry for you, but looking for equality in this industry is meaningless. The size difference is obvious—how do you expect the same treatment? This isn't some dream. Know your place—"

"Kim Seong-min!"

An Do-hyeon, who shared a room with him, shouted. Kim Seong-min's words cut off; he glanced around. For someone with a knife in his mouth, his face looked surprisingly innocent. An Do-hyeon spoke in a low voice.

"That's enough. Don't cross the line."

"…So I'm the only villain here? It's not like I said anything wrong."

"I get what you're trying to say, but fighting and clashing like this here won't do you any good either. That's why I'm saying it."

The way An Do-hyeon seemed to be shielding Kim Seong-min made Yu Sang-hyeon's expression harden.

"…I'm dropping out anyway, so I don't care."

"You calm down too. If you leave with this kind of mess for a finish, you'll walk away with nothing but a ruined image. You really don't care? Are you never planning to make it in this industry at all?"

"…"

"Think about the future, not how you feel right this second. Unless you want something like this coming back to bite you later."

"…I didn't do anything wrong. Why are you talking like I'm the one who has to take the loss?"

"Aigoo~ Still not getting it."

As if to say see?, Kim Seong-min shook his head. In the middle of that atmosphere that refused to settle, a staff member finally came in.

"There was a miscommunication. Filming for today is over, so everyone can disperse. Sorry for making you wait."

"Yes, thank you for letting us know."

A few contestants who had been fidgeting, clearly sick of the tension, hurried out after the staff. Kim Seong-min and Yu Sang-hyeon kept glaring at each other like they still hadn't burned through their anger.

"You're not leaving?"

"…"

An Do-hyeon, who had been trying to break up the fight, asked, but both of them kept their mouths shut tight. Into that hair-trigger silence, a calm voice cut through. Kwon Do-ha.

"Is there any need to say more here?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Kwon Do-ha, who had been watching quietly, spoke with a weary look, and Kim Seong-min checked the mood. By Kim Seong-min's own logic—know your place—Kwon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Do-ha was clearly someone of a different size.

"Shall we head in, then?"

The conclusion landed so cleanly it left no room for argument. Kim Seong-min left first. Once everyone else had filtered out after him, I walked over slowly. In the middle of the room, Yu Sang-hyeon stood like a hollowed-out shell, smiling in a dazed way.

"Talking like I don't know reality at all…"

"…"

"Must be nice for you. Having people like you."

He said it as I approached, his face so dead it looked like the world had collapsed on him.

Honestly, it wasn't as if Yu Sang-hyeon had done nothing wrong. I didn't particularly want to defend him either.

He said it was unfair to pile screen time on people who were good at things when there were people who wanted it more desperately.

Flipped around, that meant he was assuming the skilled ones were less desperate than he was. But who had the right to measure someone else's circumstances? Being bitter that no one recognized him was one thing—he was just as quick to pass judgment on everyone else.

"…I don't think you need to rush so much."

Even so, I said it because I could see the status window. And honestly, in an atmosphere this stifling, panicking and blurting out a mistake or two was hardly surprising. He was still young, too.

Whatever things looked like right now, his potential didn't fall short of the top-tier contestants. It would be a waste to let a talent like that snap here.

"I don't know how you'll take this, but some flowers bloom late."

"…"

No argument about right or wrong—just the plain facts. I gathered the water bottle and towel waiting neatly at my spot, gave him a short bow, and left the practice room.

I had no intention of sticking my nose in any further. Whether he dropped out like this or stayed and kept going—that was entirely his choice.

I turned away from the sight of Yu Sang-hyeon's bowed back, and found Kwon Do-ha still standing quietly by the door.

"You didn't look well. Why are you still here?"

"Is there any need to go out of my way to care?"

I'd thought he was already gone. His expression was oddly subdued. I looked at him steadily. As always, nothing came up.

"Can we talk for a minute?"

A nod, up and down. I walked slowly, looking for somewhere with fewer people, and a strangely quiet presence followed behind me.

We went a little farther in and slipped into a corridor where no cameras were installed. When I turned and met his eyes, the status window finally rose, as if granting permission.

I reviewed the window, checking it again. His dance stat had been 85 the first time I saw it; within a week it had hit 86, and today it was already 87.

Not even the low eighties—the mid-eighties—and climbing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠this fast? That growth rate was impossible to accept without system interference.

And then the age, the traits, the attitude. At this point it was practically a protest, begging to be noticed.

"I have something I want to ask."

"What is it?"

"Are you… playing a game right now?"

"…Hmm. Am I?"

For someone who'd bothered to follow me all the way out here, the answer was strangely lacking in drive.

I swept a look around us.

"You already know the evaluation songs cold, don't you."

"…Well. They're burned into me."

Kwon Do-ha usually wore a detached expression, but every so often he couldn't hide how thoroughly sick of it all he was. Like now.

Someone who already held the highest stats among the contestants, and whose growth was still absurdly fast.

"What are you, really?"

"Who knows… a marionette?"

At the claim that even he wasn't sure, I turned it over in my head.

"Did you come back in time, or—"

"…"

"…"

The atmosphere dropped cold in an instant. I stopped talking, and Kwon Do-ha let out a long sigh.

"I don't think now is the time to tell you… so for the moment, I'll just give you one piece of advice."

As if the sick-of-it look had never been there, he smoothed his face back into its usual neat composure and went on in an even quieter voice.

"You've done relatively well so far, but from here on it would be better if you paid a little less attention to the people around you."

"…Is there going to be a problem?"

It was hard to dismiss him lightly, so I listened. I still hadn't pinned down what his U-rank trait was, but I was certain he had some ability related to time.

"You'll be fine for now. But…"

Kwon Do-ha thought it over carefully, then continued.

"It's a matter of responsibility, I suppose. If you can't take responsibility through to the end, it's better not to reach out at all."

"People aren't animals."

Responsibility. I didn't think I could have that much influence on anyone.

It sounded like parents forbidding their kids from getting a pet. The past few days I'd been hearing lines from random people that I hadn't even heard from my actual parents, and the feeling was…

"You'll understand later what I meant by that."

And realizing what those words meant turned out to be a very short wait. Only a few hours, in fact.

With the music show filming not far off, I practiced late into the night, then came back to the room near dawn and spun the roulette. I watched the wheel whirl round and round.

The rewards written on the wheel shifted a little each time, but the one that never changed—and always took up the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠biggest share—was the red ginseng slot.

Red ginseng was useful when your stamina was tanking, so it wasn't a bad prize, but three days straight of nothing but red ginseng had drained the joy out of it. Today, too, the needle ticked slower and slower and started drifting toward the red ginseng slot, and I figured, sure enough, red ginseng again—

A fanfare blared.

The needle had stopped on a sliver of a segment right next to the red ginseng slot, and the notifications went wild along with the fanfare.

"…?"

Trait enhancement? Trait enhancement—what kind of garbage-game design was this…

Enhancement usually meant a B-rank could become an A-rank, an A-rank an S-rank, right? It was the kind of power-inflation moment that would get a developer cursed out on sight—and of course it had to land on a U-rank. Was I supposed to be grateful it hadn't hit the random trait I Grow on Love (R)?

Okay, but what actually happens when a U-rank gets enhanced?

I'm the Producer (U+). U-plus. Given that I'd always thought this trait was tied to the game system, there was no predicting which way it would jump. For now I checked the newly opened function. A bookmark that had appeared beside the rectangular status window slid open with a soft sound.

"…?"

The UI filling my vision looked so much like a classic training simulation game that I was left speechless. This wasn't a game inside a game—what even was this.

Sure, I'd played an idol training game before I died, but…

I'm supposed to do this all over again? Like this?

I opened the trainee registration window and found the names of everyone I'd met so far, sorted alphabetically.

"…"

Just in case, I checked whether I was on the list. My name wasn't there.

If you can't take responsibility through to the end, it's better not to reach out at all.

Was that what he'd meant?

I couldn't tell what "game addiction" meant as a warning line like that, but for now I pulled up the status window of Song A-seong, who was asleep in the next bed with a tired face.

Song A-seong must have been practicing hard; his vocal and dance stats had each gone up one point since the first time I'd seen his window. While I was looking it over, I equipped the Silver Badge. A title with a +15% stamina effect.

Silver Badge Contestant.

With the title successfully changed, I quietly moved around the room and swapped the others' titles too. Everyone except Song A-seong had a Golden Badge, so that was a +20% stamina effect.

So this was what the ability was. The power to interfere with other people's status windows.

I looked at the trait glowing on the status window with quiet satisfaction. For the first time, it felt like the direction of it was finally coming into focus.