One Step Forward
“Wait, where exactly are they pointing that thing?”
I could feel my ears burning at the whispers rippling through the room. If I’d ever filmed a vlog before, I might have known better. I’d figured the editors would cut out the weird angles on their own—but editing? Forget it. Everything went in as-is. No, worse—they seemed to have maximized every second of me looking like an idiot.
“I’m just gonna leave this here for a bit while I work out.”
On-screen, I stood in front of the outdoor exercise equipment halfway up the mountain, propped the self-cam against a tree trunk, and bolted for the parallel bars. The camera caught me vaulting up—and in the same instant, tumbled straight onto the dirt.
“Start with a leg swing for momentum. Once that feels natural, kick your feet back as you bend your arms, then kick forward as you straighten them.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah. Don’t overdo it. You’re doing fine.”
We went on chattering, completely unaware the camera had hit the ground. Only after a long stretch of fast-forward did a sheepish face finally appear, scooping the thing back up.
I covered my face with both hands. What even was this.
“Oh—look, a squirrel.”
And there it was, filling the frame: a plump little squirrel, shot head-on in a crystal-clear close-up. A chorus of delighted gasps went up from the room.
“Oh my god, it’s so cute.”
“I’ve got almonds.”
“Oh, can I try? Come here.”
Han Sang-jin set an almond on his palm and held it out carefully. The tiny squirrel edged closer, inch by inch.
“This one’s got a serious appetite.”
“Looks like it’s gotten plenty of handouts around here already.”
Before long the camera captured the squirrel clamping firmly onto Han Sang-jin’s fingers, stuffing almond after almond into its cheeks. For a workout vlog that had somehow ended up filmed on a mountain, this made the whole trip worth it.
“It likes you.”
“Are the almonds that good?”
“They are pretty tasty…”
Han Min-hyeok mumbled it in a daze, watching the squirrel’s little mukbang, then snapped back to himself. The feast, however, was far from over.
“Its little fingers are so cute.”
“They’re tiny.”
Even when someone gently poked and prodded those miniature toes, the squirrel—too absorbed in eating—simply offered its paw without protest. Clearly this was a squirrel used to free snacks in the area; it was remarkably friendly with people.
“It’s finished everything and still won’t leave.”
“Must be bored.”
I perched on a nearby rock for a better view and adjusted the camera so the squirrel and I would share the frame—and in that exact moment, the little creature came scampering over and dove straight into the pocket of my hoodie.
“Huh?”
“What was that? Is there a predator nearby?”
As I stared in bewilderment at the squirrel that had suddenly burrowed into my pocket, Han Sang-jin scanned the sky behind me.
“I think I hear birds…”
Then the squirrel, after a flurry of rustling inside, poked its face out of my pocket—and the room erupted in admiration.
“What is he, a druid?”
“Hyung, you don’t keep peanuts in that pocket, do you?”
It had already seemed unusually fond of people, but climbing into a stranger’s pocket was bold even by those standards. So what had started as a workout vlog had somehow become an accidental nature documentary.
We played with the squirrel a while longer, then headed down the mountain chatting, and that was how the vlog ended. All in all, it felt like a nature tour by a pair of complete fools.
“So peaceful…”
Han Min-hyeok, who’d been staring as if hypnotized by the squirrel’s tiny working mouth, stretched his whole body with a long yawn. Did he like animals that much? He’d been leaning so far forward I thought he might fall into the screen.
“Hello, everyone. This is Han Min-hyeok.”
And the next second, a neatly put-together Han Min-hyeok filled the entire screen.
“Wah!”
The real Han Min-hyeok, who’d been slouched comfortably against the backrest, slid right down it the moment his own face took over the display.
“I’m heading to the supermarket to pick up some groceries.”
A quick cut of him smoothly pulling the car out and driving, then Han Min-hyeok at the market carefully selecting ingredients before returning to the car almost at once.
“Tonight’s dinner is hot pot. I suddenly got a craving.”
Enoki, oyster mushrooms, shrimp, scallops, napa cabbage, bok choy, more scallops, shiitake, and chuck flap tail. He prepped the whole array of hot-pot ingredients at lightning speed and arranged them in the pot until the presentation put most restaurant plating to shame. No matter how many times I watched, his skill was something else.
“I’m home… You’re already done? Smells amazing.”
Accompanied by a series of electronic beeps, Song A-seong appeared on-screen. Moments later, the bubbling of a simmering hot pot filled the entire studio.
“I’m drooling…”
“Is this psychological torture?”
The contestants who were carefully managing their diets for weight control made pitiful noises. Honestly, though—how was it even fair for food to look that good?
As the old saying went, pretty rice cakes taste better—and Han Min-hyeok had a real gift for making exceptionally pretty rice cakes. The taste, of course, matched the presentation.
“Min-hyeok-hyung cooks so well…”
The sous-vide tenderloin steak he’d made last time had been incredible. The memory slipped out of me in a mutter, and Yu Min-seong beside me lit up.
“You’ve had it? How was it? Was it good?”
I nodded at his eager questions. Honestly, it had been delicious. Han Min-hyeok could probably make a living as a cooking YouTuber.
“Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“That good? Wow.”
“You’re giving me way too much credit~.”
Han Min-hyeok, clearly pleased, ruffled his own hair; I dodged his hand and refocused on the screen.
Lee Jae-jin’s vlog rolled by—him roaming a campus, skating along the river—followed by Woo Cheong-hee’s, walking and playing with his dog. Every time the tiny pup bounced with excitement, its ears flapped in perfect sync; then it flopped onto Woo Cheong-hee’s stomach and yawned, utterly adorable. He really did keep a dog that looked just like him.
After a run of videos that felt expected—ones that matched each person’s existing image—something unexpected jumped onto the screen.
“That is a completely different world…”
Kwon Do-ha, baking a cake in a kitchen with immaculate interiors. The moment the baking footage appeared, the watching contestants let out a collective sigh of awe.
Measurements precise to the gram. Hands moving with the clean efficiency of a lab experiment, producing a full cake in what felt like seconds. Watching him, I could already picture a wave of fans falling for him over this alone. He even did the decorating? The guy had serious craftsmanship.
“How is everyone this good…?”
I cast a look of pure betrayal at several of them. When we’d been told to film vlogs, they’d all complained and claimed they’d just wing it—yet here they were, every last one of them having given it their absolute best. Where did that leave me and Han Sang-jin?
Lee Jae-jin caught my eye and quietly looked away. He had been pulling some seriously flashy tricks on that skateboard.
I locked eyes with Han Sang-jin and shook my head. We were finished. Amid all these mood-soaked vlogs, we were the comedy duo.
After a few more videos, the session ended and everyone headed straight for the practice rooms. On the way, Yu Min-seong brought the conversation back to the vlogs.
“So Min-hyeok-hyung and A-seong live together?”
“Not exactly. A-seong just comes over a lot.”
As Han Min-hyeok explained that they’d been close since they were kids, Kim Seong-min spoke up.
“Hyung, why do you even want to be an idol? At this point.”
In the noisy corridor, Kim Seong-min’s question reached my ears.
He’s been quiet the last few days.
Ever since the school-violence rumor, Kim Seong-min had spent a lot of time lost in his own thoughts. Hearing him initiate a conversation was rare. It was a question that could easily have come off as rude, but Han Min-hyeok answered lightly.
“I finally found the courage. Like you said, it’s a little late, though.”
Kim Seong-min tilted his head at the vague reply.
“…What kind of courage?”
“I don’t know. The courage to cut ties with my father?”
Han Min-hyeok shrugged and fell silent. His home life seemed pretty complicated too.
It made sense. Dropping out of a good university, a good major, at such a critical time to join an idol survival show—the reason couldn’t have been simple.
Judging by the complicated look on Song A-seong’s face as he stayed quiet, this wasn’t a light matter.
Kim Seong-min whispered something under his breath. His head was bowed, so I couldn’t see his expression, but his voice was heavy and low.
“I misunderstood you. I’m sorry.”
“Mm. It’s fine. Thanks for apologizing.”
Considering how thoroughly Kim Seong-min had gotten under his skin until now, Han Min-hyeok accepted the apology without making a big deal of it. An unexpectedly big-hearted side of him.
For all that he often came across as playful and lightweight, he hadn’t wasted his years—he was surprisingly sharp and mature when it counted.
“So… did that resolve things?”
“…Hard to say.”
I brushed off Yu Min-seong’s question as we walked side by side and kept watching the back of Kim Seong-min’s head. He acted like he didn’t care what other people thought of him, yet at the same time he seemed to care an enormous amount. Completely impossible to pin down. Were all teenagers like this?
Honestly, a kid who’d dreamed of being an idol since he was little and had years of trainee experience under his belt didn’t seem like the type to mindlessly, systematically, and actively bully a classmate the way that post had described.
But looking at how he’d reacted when the news first broke, he wasn’t completely innocent either. Even if he hadn’t led the ostracism, he might have wounded someone who was already hurting with careless words.
Either way, the small mistakes he’d made had woven together, one by one, into something enormous—and that must have finally scared him. School violence was a career-ending issue. If things went wrong, the dream he’d held since childhood could shatter into pieces.
Closing the barn door after the horse has bolted was still better than leaving it open. People only changed when they felt the danger.
At least he’d taken one step.
“Good job.”
I gave Kim Seong-min’s shoulder a couple of light pats. If he was trying to change, the least I could do was cheer him on.
…
Four a.m., as always. I sat up drenched in cold sweat, groping through the dream I’d just left. I had the sense I’d dreamed something important, but nothing would come into focus. What had it been about?
“Hah…”
No matter how hard I tried, my head stayed fogged and blank, so I started by working the stiffness out of my muscles. Crack. Pop. My whole body had gone rigid—I must have been tense the entire time I slept.
At this point I should have been dealing with cramps or actual pain, but thanks to actively using my trait to raise Song A-seong’s and Han Min-hyeok’s stats, there was barely any sensation at all. Just a faint feeling that the blood wasn’t circulating properly. I clenched and unclenched my fists a few times.
I should probably use it more carefully.
Song A-seong was already in the safe zone, so I hadn’t really needed to push that hard. If one of his stats—singing or charm—hit 90 and unlocked a trait, great; if not, fine. Han Min-hyeok, though, was another story.
I have to get Han Min-hyeok’s singing and dance stats higher somehow before the next stage.
I still couldn’t tell exactly how many members they’d debut in the end, so there was no room to relax. The same went for Woo Cheong-hee. The finals were almost here, and production still hadn’t locked in the final number.
A ruthlessly cruel way to put both the choosers and the chosen through hell.
Because of that, the boards these days were flooded with posts guessing the final debut count—you only had to skim for a second to find them. The most popular guesses were eight or nine, though plenty of people were pushing for a generous eleven.
When someone wrote that the company should just pick five to continue the legacy of Vesta—who’d debuted as a five-member group—the reply section filled with so much abuse it actually made the news. With the end in sight, the final member count had become a major obsession.
That’s probably why they keep delaying the announcement.
Anyway, if I wanted to pull the people I cared about into a limited roster, ignoring the game-addiction penalty for a little while was the easier path.
Why are you so desperate?
A voice rose unbidden in my mind. Words I’d never heard before, and yet they strode straight into my memory with a strange, unsettling familiarity.
I tilted my head at the alien sensation. My brain, pricked awake as if by a needle, spun hard searching for a clue. Right—Kwon Do-ha had said something like that.
That he could put memories in and take them out like a rabbit’s liver.
He’d said I wouldn’t remember it afterward, but he’d already given me the hint. According to Kwon Do-ha, I had lost memories—and there was a way to get them back.
I wiped the cold sweat from my face and stood. It was time to move on to the next stage.