To Myself

On Friday, May 6th, as episode 4 of Idol Survival aired, viewer voting finally began.

The music show stage that had dropped on May 1st was already drawing strong responses, and I heard the watch time on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠both the main broadcast and the Plus episodes was staggering.

Episode 4 in particular had exploded. The main show covered the team assignments and the other teams’ progress, stoking anticipation for the first stage, while Plus rolled out every bit of content they’d filmed so far—Dance Mafia, Idol Karaoke, Random Play Dance—and raked in the entertainment value.

The show had been a talking point from the very start, and now that the program itself had hit its stride, every article was practically shouting that Idol Survival was riding a massive wave of public attention and expectation.

Voting was already underway, and the heat was fiercer than anyone had predicted.

Plenty of people had expected it to do well—but the reaction still surpassed even those hopes. Capple’s subscriber count had been climbing so steeply since the show launched that the stock price was climbing with it, and with investors latching on, the program felt even more like a phenomenon. Money always makes people pay closer attention.

“Hyung, hyung, hyung—what do I do? I’m seriously so nervous.”

The contestants could feel the board swelling like a snowball. These days their moods seemed to swing between heaven and hell several times a day. The more SNS and community posts piled up, the more the support mixed with the hate comments that kept surfacing.

Once voting started, fan wars began popping up everywhere. They were already fighting in the comment sections of news articles about the show’s success—so what was it like everywhere else?

I really needed to check the reactions for myself, but everything was so busy I kept putting it off.

Once the first training camp ends, we’ll have about five free days. I can go through everything then.

And so the day we had been waiting for arrived—May 10th, the day of the first team mission stage filming, and the end of the first training camp. Nam Hye-seong, already in the stage outfits that had finished production a few days earlier, held out fingertips that wouldn’t stop trembling.

“It’s okay. After how much we practiced, even if you tried to mess up, your body would remember.”

Of course there was always the risk of a formation snag or a blank lyric on an unfamiliar stage, but there was no reason to remind him of that. What he needed right now was confidence.

“You remember the concept?”

“…Yes.”

“Then we just stick to it.”

After hair and makeup were set, I looked over the team’s styling—party-hall vibes all the way. The suits varied in shade and cut, deep green, navy, black—but the red rose corsages and white half-masks pulled everything together.

“Ugh, I’m so nervous I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could die. What do I do? My heart’s about to explode. Should I take a calming pill?”

Kim Yo-han, dyed blond and dressed in a toned-down purple suit, was making a full production out of it. The necktie and tie pin alone were already flashy; with the bleach job on top, he practically glowed.

“Hyung, my eyes hurt. Go stand over there.”

“Hey, I’m already awkward enough—don’t be like that!”

I ignored his whining. He would be fine. You could see it—he’d grown so noticeably that his own confidence had finally caught up.

“You’ll still do great, though.”

Lee Won-yeong chimed in from the side. His wine-colored suit and cravat stood out. We’d chosen mostly dark tones overall so the lineup wouldn’t look chaotic at a glance, but the main vocal, Kim Yo-han, and lead vocal Lee Won-yeong had been given slightly bolder colors.

Same for Yu Sang-hyeon in the second lead vocal spot. Mustard suit, necktie, and cufflinks as the accents. Flashy.

As center and main dancer, I wore a black suit with a black bow tie—cleaner, more understated—so the red rose and white mask cut sharply against it. I was meant to hold the center without breaking the unity. Classic, textbook.

Once hair, makeup, and styling were done, we watched the other teams’ stages from the waiting room. Yu Sang-hyeon’s face had gone deathly pale, so I gave his shoulder a couple of solid pats.

“Nervous?”

“How could I not be.”

Lee Won-yeong and Kim Yo-han’s dance stats had each jumped three points in two weeks, hitting 81—B0 grade—while Yu Sang-hyeon was stuck one point short at 80, C+. His singing and charm stats had risen a little more instead, but watching two people who’d started at roughly the same dance level pull ahead of him had clearly left him restless.

“Don’t compare yourself to anyone else. You remember the lyrics, right? Just stick to them.”

“…Nobody can actually believe that. It’s pure idealism.”

Yu Sang-hyeon shook his head hard, but I was satisfied enough that his trembling legs had stopped.

“Believe it for real once you’re on stage. If you don’t believe it, how are the audience supposed to?”

“….”

“It’s our stage. It’s your stage.”

“All right! You’ve waited long enough. The third slot—the teams who chose ‘Rival’—Yellow Team and Purple Team!”

With that, just before the performance, both teams took the stage and lined up on either side of MC Cheon Tae-rim. Ahn Do-hyeon, in a black-and-silver chain-decorated stage outfit, and I, black suit with a red rose, took the mics.

“Idol Survival first team mission—Rival Match! And this round’s theme is also rivals. Shall we hear a word for each other? Yellow Team?”

“We’re going to win.”

“Yes! Short and sharp! Purple Team?”

“We’re looking forward to it.”

“Ah! So composed! Excellent! Shall we meet each team’s preparation process through a VCR?”

Since Ahn Do-hyeon’s team went first, we left the stage and headed for the waiting room. While we ran through final checks, the VCR ended and his team appeared on the waiting-room monitor as they took the stage.

Exactly as the outfits and concept had suggested. A textbook dance track. Seven people locking into clean formations and hitting every move precisely. They’d cut the bronze-grade members and stacked only the strong dancers, so no one dragged; the choreography never sagged. And of course the eye was drawn to the center—Ahn Do-hyeon.

“They really went all-in on pure dance.”

The razor-sharp group work was impressive, but put another way, there was no impact beyond that. Everything had been poured into the dancing.

“They did what they’re good at. Safely.”

When Ahn Do-hyeon’s team finished, our VCR began. We hurried down beneath the stage.

Standing ready below the stage, I listened to my own voice rolling out. When had I even recorded that interview?

I lifted my gaze to the stage. Suits, dress shoes, corsages, half-masks. The set had been dressed like a social ballroom, with a long sofa and a table placed carefully to draw the eye whenever the vocals needed to take priority.

A light laugh threaded through, and practice clips flickered past. Rivals—people chasing the same goal, overtaking each other, falling behind, competing.

Day by day the members’ changing faces filled the giant screen.

To Myself had originally been a ballad, so the rearrangement into a social-party dance track that seven people could actually move to had been extensive—but we kept as much of the lyrics as we could.

And to give it a theatrical feel, we opened not with dance but with carefully ordered vocals. People take satisfaction from watching a perfectly locked group dance—but they also take pleasure from a well-built little play. The viewing experience would be more than enough.

When darkness settled over the stage and the audience noise thinned, the song began.

A light found Lee Won-yeong alone on the sofa. Through the white half-mask that covered him down to the nose, you could see his eyes gently closed.

This time the light found Kim Yo-han’s head as he walked out of the darkness.

A solid, steady opening—exactly what you’d expect from a vocal line with high singing stats.

Yu Sang-hyeon stepped out from the opposite side of Kim ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Yo-han and took the next line; their voices braided with Lee Won-yeong’s.

As the notes climbed high, every light on the stage blazed on at once.

And the real stage began.

We crossed our legs, shifted our weight side to side, then spun and touched the masks. The seven of us locked in the center moved as one; the moment the vocal line joined, the two dance-line members and I vaulted up onto the table.

I stepped with my right foot and finished the motion softly through knee, waist, and shoulder, then settled on the edge of the table. Next part.

I jumped down from the table and rejoined the formation. The zigzag line broke and reformed in a flurry of pathing as I shot forward.

I kicked one leg out and caught my center. With my waist slightly arched I rolled my hips while snapping both knees outward. We’d drilled that section so many times that the moves locked perfectly; I smiled as I caught the mask.

On the lyric we flung the white half-masks away and swept the floor on one bent knee. Misjudge the center of gravity and you go down hard—but no one made a mistake.

Straight into the group dance. The notes climbed without ceiling as we slammed into the highlight. Everything we had stacked up until now detonated at once.

Rich doubling rolled out; for a heartbeat everything held still, a hush like suspended time—then I spoke ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the lyric almost under my breath.

And right on top of it, the chorus. Harmonies, then a low-laid rap underneath.

And for the ending we went instrumental-free, nothing but harmony. Impossible if you weren’t confident in your singing—but we had four people at B+ vocal grade. No problem at all.

Voices layered into accompaniment, into melody—and with that, the first team mission of Idol Survival was finally over. Even under the stabbing lights, no one on stage could bring themselves to leave. Maybe it was the roar piercing our ears.

Only now did the audience’s wild cheering fully hit us.

“Lee Han-hee is insaneeeeeee!”

And cutting through that endless wave of sound, that thunderous cheer—there was no way not to laugh.