Pandora's Box

With less than a week left until the third team battle stage, there was only so much time anyone could spare.

"Tell me."

And once the third stage was over, final preparations would begin immediately—so if there was any window left to steal a little time, it was now.

"What these lost memories are, and what I have to do to get them back."

But Kwon Do-ha, who had been dragged into the supply room during break, did not seem to share that assessment. His face was cold.

"I shouldn't have said anything. You don't need to worry about that."

I had expected he wouldn't hand the answers over easily. Even so, I had no intention of letting it go this time.

"It's a little late for that. I'm already worrying about it a lot."

Whether he read the resolve in me to settle this one way or another, Kwon Do-ha let out a sigh, looking as though the whole thing were pointless.

"How about practicing instead of wasting time like this?"

"I can just sleep a little less. You know that."

Used carefully, the Game Addiction trait could even trick the body into not feeling its own fatigue. Since when had the needle been stuck over yellow?

We both already knew I was practicing twice as hard as everyone else. This was just him not wanting to tell me again.

Until now I had gone along whenever he deflected. But I couldn't keep standing by forever while he slipped away.

"I thought you told me to use that in moderation."

"Why did you say that again…? I don't really remember. Tell me, and I'll think about it."

Kwon Do-ha had never given me a reason.

It hadn't been that long, but it had been more than enough to understand that he was the kind of person who would keep his mouth shut unless you pushed. It was time we stopped hiding what we really thought from each other.

"…Explaining everything one by one would only exhaust us both."

His dry voice was asking, again, whether it wouldn't be cleaner if he simply handed over whatever information was needed in the moment.

"Is it a problem if I know?"

"There's a reason people say ignorance is bliss."

"There's also a saying that knowledge is power."

"Do you know what Pandora's box is?"

"I know it's a box that opens eventually, no matter what."

"Then keep pushing it as far back as you can."

"No. I'm opening it now."

I had died and woken up with a system, and somehow found myself dreaming of becoming an idol. I was following the path laid out in front of me with perfect precision—but that didn't mean I had no questions.

A system that held my life in its hands as if that were only natural, and a face that seemed both like it and not. A photograph of a mother I didn't recognize at all, embracing me with unfamiliar hands against a past that had been neatly arranged for my convenience. And now, memories I was told I had lost.

There was too much that grated. Including the part of me that kept adapting to all of it without resistance.

Across from me, Kwon Do-ha studied my face for a long moment, then exhaled a small sigh.

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"First—what are these memories you're talking about? Memories from before I was nineteen?"

I watched his face as I asked. The expression that gave nothing away was strangely peaceful.

"Or memories of a failed future? No—not a future. A previous loop, I suppose?"

Inside the time Kwon Do-ha kept reliving, there must have been versions of me I couldn't remember. Whatever the condition for ending his loop had been, he must have failed it. Otherwise he wouldn't have come back. And he wouldn't wear that expression—hollowed out like ash after a fire had burned itself to nothing.

Whether my guess had struck true, a crack slipped free across his face the moment he heard the word failure.

The failure penalty the system imposed. Kwon Do-ha might have watched countless failures I couldn't remember.

After dying and becoming something like a game character, I had wondered what would happen if I lost a life. Now one piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.

"Do you know how to restore memories from previous loops?"

"…No. I don't. All I know about that part is that sometimes you remember from the beginning, and sometimes you never remember until the end."

He added that there were limits to what he could explain—but what I latched onto was something else. The end.

"By the end, you mean when I die, right?"

"Lee Han-hee."

The certainty in my voice twisted his expression.

"No matter how many times I've been through it, that doesn't mean I feel nothing."

Each word came out slow and deliberate, and running through them was the unmistakable wish that it could have been otherwise.

"You don't get used to it. Memory only gets heavier the more of it you pile up—until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it's a weight you can't carry."

After he said that, Kwon Do-ha fell quiet for a moment, his shoulders sinking under something heavy. I watched his face carefully. Was he worried about me?

"When I remembered everything—did the memories hurt me a lot?"

Kwon Do-ha, who had said he had met versions of me that remembered, stared straight at me.

"…It doesn't stop at being afraid of alleyways at night."

Said like that, the weight of the memories he was talking about came into sharper focus.

Remembering death was never going to be good for anyone's mental health. Even I, who only remembered dying once, could still hear the sound of my bones crushing between a car and a wall as clearly as if it were happening now.

I looked at Kwon Do-ha. The memories had to be just as heavy for him.

"Do you resent me?"

"…"

If the axis of Kwon Do-ha's loop was my death—if it meant the failure of a mission…

The impulsive question left a hush hanging in the supply room. Leaning against the desk, Kwon Do-ha's expression sank deep. Watching a face that gave nothing away, I sorted through my thoughts. Didn't he need someone to blame?

"You said it once, you know. That you'd only gotten caught up in this—so if I needed someone to resent, I should resent myself."

Whether he had read the thought, Kwon Do-ha's face—still turned toward some distant past—went cold and hard.

"You shouldn't say things you can't take responsibility for."

I looked into the anger lying just beneath the surface of his eyes, then nodded. Yes. I was going to get those memories back.

Unlike Kwon Do-ha's claim that sometimes I remembered from the start and other times never remembered until the end, I had lately been dredging up unfamiliar memories in fragments. Mostly while I slept.

"…!"

A choked gasp tore out of me. The sensation of water flooding my lungs snapped my eyes open before ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I could stop it. I had turned off the crisis-detection signal light so I wouldn't wake mid-sleep—and still my body had jolted awake, soaked through with cold sweat.

In the room washed with the blue of early dawn, I wiped the beads of sweat from my face. I needed to wash up first. As I pushed myself upright, a low, quiet voice reached me from the other side of the room.

"You're up?"

Even at that hour there was not a trace of sleep in the tone. I turned my head sharply and found Han Sang-jin sitting on the opposite bed.

"…You're up early."

I pulled the blanket up by reflex and checked my condition, but there was nothing to think about—I was a mess. Clutching my damp hands, I rolled my eyes around the room until Han Sang-jin nodded once and stepped outside.

"…"

I slipped quietly into the bathroom and put myself back together. Sweat-soaked hair and a deathly pale face stared back at me. For a second the blue cast made me look like a corpse, so I stepped under warm water and raised the temperature. Once the steam filled the space, a little color finally returned to the face in the mirror.

I checked myself over, decided something still felt lacking, and used a skin-care voucher. The exhaustion vanished cleanly. That would do.

I finished the shower in a hurry, towel-dried my hair, and stepped out—only for Han Sang-jin, sitting on the sofa, to hold out a cup.

I took it and found it full of hot tea. While I emptied the cup, Han Sang-jin said nothing at all, rendering all my fretting over excuses completely pointless.

"Want to go work out?"

Yu Min-seong had declared three days ago that he was skipping morning exercise, so only two pairs of feet headed for the field. Practice had been so brutal we hadn't managed to sync our workout times, and it had been a while since I'd trained with Han Sang-jin.

"Hah."

After a proper stretch, we started running. Cool air poured into my lungs. As I gradually picked up the pace, Han Sang-jin matched me without a word.

Something in me wanted to run until I had nothing left, so I did several more laps than usual. The cold air slowly gave way, and by the time the sun finally rose, Han Sang-jin had simply held his place beside me. Not a single question had passed between us.

We finished the late morning workout, grabbed a meal, and headed for the practice rooms. At the fork where we would each go our separate ways, Han Sang-jin tapped my back once, then walked on. I thought I understood a little better why the other contestants liked him so much.

The tension that had been wound tight through my body, waiting for some question to land, finally loosened.

And before I could even enjoy the relief, disaster struck.

"Yu Min-seong!"

Three days left until the third team stage. In the middle of dancing, Yu Min-seong crumpled without warning, his face drained white. Whether he had fainted completely or not, he wouldn't come around after hitting the floor, so I hoisted him onto my back and carried him to the infirmary.

Low blood pressure, sleep deprivation, and dehydration, they said. Watching the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠staff diagnose him with practiced ease—remarking that kids fainting during intense practice was more common than people thought—I bowed my head, asked them to take care of him, and left. Back in the practice room, I made the waiting teammates drink water first.

"What did they say?"

"Vasovagal syncope."

For idols living on sleep debt and overwork while grinding through practice and endless schedules, it was a surprisingly common diagnosis. Kim Seong-min nodded as if he had heard it plenty of times; Han Min-hyeok just looked pained.

"There's not even medicine for that. What do we do?"

The real answer was rest and proper meals—but that was never easy on a survival show. Especially for Yu Min-seong, who had elimination breathing down his neck and was all the more desperate because of it.

The atmosphere was so overheated that it was hard to find anyone who wasn't giving everything they had, and that only made it worse.

I had thought that if this kept up, someone was bound to collapse—and of course I had been right. I just hadn't expected it to be someone on our team.

During a short break I handed out the glucose candies I'd brought back from the infirmary. The importance of supplements, indeed.

While the others quietly rolled the candy around their mouths, Han Min-hyeok crunched his down the second he got it and opened his mouth.

"Kids. Your body is your fortune. Take care of your health while you're young. That's what lasts."

"Don't talk like an old man."

At Song A-seong's scolding, Han Min-hyeok clicked his tongue and muttered that kids these days didn't know anything. Even so, the way he fussed and held out the balloon flower root tea he had packed in a thermos made it painfully clear how much he cared about Song A-seong.

Under Han Min-hyeok's insistence that he drink it all, Song A-seong tossed it back in one go and frowned. He clearly hated the taste, but the fact that he drank every drop without dodging said he was just as fond of Han Min-hyeok in return.

"Han-hee, you want some too? Doraji is good for the throat."

Explaining how he made the syrup as he went, he passed me a cup, and I drank it down. The heat of it was pleasant going down.

"It's good."

I handed the empty cup back clean, and Han Min-hyeok looked proud. How to put it—like a grandmother watching her grandchildren eat well.

"Right? Last time during practice my throat felt a little scratchy, so I made some, and it turned out better than I expected. Maybe I'll make more when I go home."

He nodded to himself, saying making the syrup was actually pretty fun. Homemade—that was a serious amount of care.

"…Could I have a cup too?"

"Oh—me too!"

"Then me as well…"

Whether they were sold by Han Min-hyeok's proud claim that it was good for the throat, Jo Min-jun, Min Ho-su, and even Kim Seong-min all wanted some of his doraji tea. He made a show of calling it precious, then poured generously anyway before tucking the empty thermos away. He hadn't even gotten any himself after sharing it all out, and he was still smiling.

Come to think of it—what had that tea been this morning? Something like herbal tea. I wasn't sure exactly.

I had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠never really been one for tea, but looking back, this was already the second cup today. Drinking in silence, drinking while chatting quietly—both had felt a little awkward, but not bad at all.

Time passed, and when Yu Min-seong returned that evening his face was still pale—but he clenched his fists and shouted.

"Let's go all out!"

His voice was so desperate there was no room to tell him he needed more rest. Han Min-hyeok pressed a freshly steeped cup of doraji tea into his hands and clucked his tongue.

"These kids don't act like kids at all."

I couldn't have agreed more.