House of Cards
For a stretch of days, everything stayed noisy and unsettled.
“So, is Jang Seon-woo still doing okay with his streams?”
“He’s got a hundred thousand subscribers, but it’s a pure house of cards.”
After successfully drawing the public’s eye with his internal whistle-blowing, Jang Seon-woo had launched a personal broadcast the very next day. Little by little he kept padding the story, and before long he crossed every line there was.
“If it were me, I’d have stopped after the first verse.”
“How’s anyone supposed to keep their head on straight when the hundred-thousand-won punches keep landing?”
Every time he spun a new tale, donations exploded one after another. The longer his tongue got, the faster his words tangled.
“Still, a person should at least be consistent. What are you supposed to do when he can’t even remember what he said himself? Early-onset dementia is terrifying, I’m telling you.”
“The part where he whined about how hard it was because of Plus was honestly hilarious.”
His only content was survival-show gossip to begin with. Voices laced with open mockery said he’d been trying far too hard to coast on free meals.
Even if he’d wanted to talk about something else, he couldn’t have—but that, they added coldly, was a problem of his own making.
“People are scary.”
Lee Jae-jin muttered the words over his meal after overhearing the conversation; Woo Cheong-hee nodded.
“The evaluations keep flipping day by day.”
Day by day. Exactly as he said, the verdict on Jang Seon-woo kept plummeting, and the communities reassessed the reliability of their information sources every single morning.
People waiting for someone—anyone—to take a fall didn’t care who the target was. As long as a famous figure tumbled from a high place, they were content to enjoy the spectacle.
“Remember this, kids. The man who rises by his tongue falls by his tongue.”
Han Min-hyeok planted his spoon upright and spoke with unexpected gravity. Song A-seong’s face had gone thoughtful.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing, just…”
He chose his words carefully before opening his mouth.
“Until just a few days ago they were tearing into us with pure glee, and now everyone’s busy laughing at Jang Seon-woo… Other people’s gazes really are hollow, you know? Weightless.”
Song A-seong seemed to have taken a great deal from the whole affair.
It made sense. Public opinion was attacking Jang Seon-woo now, but only three days earlier that same blade had been pointed straight at him.
“Even if they claim they always believed it wasn’t true, I don’t know. The people saying nice things right now could flip again any second, any way. In the end they’re just strangers. That’s the thought that stuck.”
He spoke calmly and lowered his eyelids. Only a week ago he had been smiling, overwhelmed, up on stage.
Seventeen years old. The violently swinging tides of opinion were far too much for someone at that sensitive age.
While I was still searching for the right thing to say, a clear, ringing voice cut in.
“There must have been plenty of people who kept believing the whole time.”
Woo Cheong-hee’s eyes curved into bright crescents.
“And maybe some of them just don’t have that belief yet.”
His tone turned playful as he added that we hadn’t even debuted. At that solid expression, Lee Jae-jin’s eyes lit up with genuine surprise. It really was unexpected.
Around the second round he’d still been the type to get tossed around by public opinion, yet in this short stretch he’d grown a lot. Or maybe it was only because he was in front of a friend?
“You look at the world through rose-colored glasses sometimes, no plan at all.”
“Or maybe you’re the one looking at it too darkly?”
The two same-age kids bickered with familiar ease. When I glanced over, my eyes met Han Min-hyeok’s. He wore a thoroughly pleased expression.
“That’s right, A-seong. Drinking the kimchi soup this early? You think trust just appears out of nowhere?”
“Ah, come on.”
“Tomorrow’s the mid-evaluation, the day after is Episode 13, and the day after that is the ranking announcement. Finals are right around the corner. Don’t space out on me, yeah?”
Only eight days left until the final stage. At Han Min-hyeok’s reminder of the brutal schedule, Song A-seong nodded.
“Got it. Enough already.”
Then he grimaced at Han Min-hyeok’s broad, grinning face. The usual expression had returned.
“By the way, is everyone ready for the mid-evaluation?”
I asked lightly, just to shift the mood. Song A-seong’s eyes sparkled.
“I’m collecting all three Passes.”
“Greedy.”
“What did I even do?”
Third-round win, top five in the live broadcast, top three in each team’s mid-evaluation—Song A-seong lifted his nose high, fully intending to claim every Pass that had been handed out so far.
“I could give you one, you know.”
“Don’t need it.”
Woo Cheong-hee, who had narrowly missed the top five in the live broadcast, was aiming for the mid-evaluation so he could join the special stage. Han Min-hyeok watched him turn down Song A-seong’s offer, then smiled slyly.
“Or I could just give you mine.”
“Hyung?”
At Han Min-hyeok’s suggestion, Woo Cheong-hee’s eyes went round. Han Min-hyeok already had two tickets, so he could transfer one.
“Then I’ll gratefully accept!”
“You turned mine down!”
Ignoring Song A-seong’s protest, Woo Cheong-hee sprang up and bowed from the waist. Han Min-hyeok waved him off, saying it was fine. What good-natured personalities. My eyes met Lee Jae-jin’s; he shrugged. Tomorrow Lee Jae-jin would have two tickets as well—someone had beaten him to the punch.
The next day, July 7th—mid-evaluation.
People with hands clenched tight from nerves gathered in the large practice room. Excluding Jang Seon-woo, there were forty-one in total. Split into groups of thirteen, eleven, and seventeen, they waited for their turn to be judged.
Alpha Team, Beta Team, and Gamma Team finished their mid-evaluation stages in that order. Throughout it all I stood off to the side, watching the others dance. The empty spot left by the missing person looked hollow, but with the PD himself having declared the exclusion, there was nothing I could do.
This part probably won’t even make the broadcast.
If I calculated it out, tomorrow’s Episode 13 would air the third-round stages, and next week’s Episode 14 would jump straight into the FINAL live. There simply wouldn’t be room for the mid-evaluation in between. And there was only one camera anyway.
While I stared at the camera that seemed to have been set up purely for form’s sake and drifted into thought, the judges finished their closed discussion. Hyui stepped forward and rapidly announced the top three from each team.
“Alpha Team: Lee Jae-jin, Kwon Do-ha, Han Sang-jin. Beta Team: Song A-seong, Han Min-hyeok, Kim Seong-min. Gamma Team: Ahn Do-hyeon, Kim Yo-han, Seo Woo-ri. Passes will be issued to these nine!”
Even with the air conditioning running, the practice room was sticky and overheated. The participants who received Passes—more or less the ones everyone had expected—bowed their heads. So how many people now held two or more Passes?
Me, Kwon Do-ha, Lee Jae-jin, Song A-seong, Han Min-hyeok, Kim Seong-min…
Counting them up, it came to six. Of those, Song A-seong and Han Min-hyeok had three each.
I glanced at the people hovering in the corners, reading the room. Voting closed tomorrow. The careful dance of reading one another’s intentions would continue right up until the ranking announcement the day after.
Already the gazes clinging to those who held Passes were sticky and relentless. It wasn’t only the lower ranks; the upper ranks were the same. For the bottom, a Pass meant survival. For the top, it meant a ticket onto the special stage.
No one was going to give up a special-stage spot lightly.
“After practicing this hard, if we get pushed out the day after tomorrow…”
“I already feel like I’m going to cry.”
A sudden sniffling sound rose from Gamma Team. Seo Ji-ho, I thought his name was.
Special stages, eliminations, position switches—the production team had stirred up so many different storms that more and more people were suddenly breaking into tears under the stress.
“Huu…”
After the mid-evaluation ended and everyone headed back to their own practice rooms, deep sighs filled the corridor. I turned off that path and made for the medical office.
It had been about a week since the wound was stitched. Healing had gone smoothly, so I’d been told the stitches could come out around this afternoon.
A week was faster than average, but I had waited long enough.
I hurried into the medical office. The doctor examined the wound carefully, then picked up the scissors. Finally.
“All right, stitches are out. I’ll put steri-strips on now.”
I must have been an uncooperative patient, yet the prognosis was good. After disinfection, transparent tape was applied and the treatment was finished. I bowed in thanks and headed straight for the practice room. I had been practicing in secret the whole time, but it was nowhere near enough.
One thing I had realized after getting hurt was that dancing took far more strength than expected. Elasticity, too.
They said not to put tension on the wound site, but…
That had been nearly impossible. I would have had to smash every movement flat or dance half-heartedly, and that wouldn’t have counted as practice at all.
It was a stretch of time when I felt raw impatience more clearly than I had in ages. I couldn’t count how many simulations I had run inside my head.
With footsteps quickening, I hurried into the practice room. The teammates who had been using the post-evaluation break for personal practice looked up and asked how I was.
“What did they say?”
“They said the stitches could come out, so I had them pulled.”
“Wow, congratulations!”
“Must be because you’re young. Recovery’s solid.”
Listening to the welcoming voices, I moved to a corner and started with stretching. From here on it was pure practice. I hadn’t realized how badly I had been wanting this; my heart was already beating pleasantly before I even began.
That night, after finishing practice and taking a refreshing shower, I checked the official board as my final task of the day. The surprise mission still hadn’t been cleared, so I needed to keep an eye on the shifting public opinion.
Do I really not have to do anything at all?
Kwon Do-ha had told me not to waste energy on unnecessary things and just focus on recovering, but time was running short. Now that the stitches were out, I was wondering whether I should post something anonymously if nothing resolved by tomorrow—when I spotted a post racking up recommendations and comments at terrifying speed.
There was no text—only an attached voice file. When I pressed play, a familiar voice filled the air.
“Should we trip him while pretending it’s nothing? Let him get a whole new face?”
“That bastard’s tough, though. Seriously tough.”
“Yeah, I was right there. Blood pouring like crazy, and he didn’t even flinch.”
“Should we really poke the injury once?”
“Without getting caught, yeah—without getting caught. Pickaxe! Pickaxe!”
The fragmented clips were more than enough to identify the speaker. Lately the voice had been everywhere.
The comments were plastered wall-to-wall with Jang Seon-woo’s initials, and between them ran reactions of pure horror. And this is the guy who talked about fairness?
“It’s over.”
This was the single blow that would lock public opinion in place—and the shackle that would finally close around Jang Seon-woo’s ankle. The tone had been light, almost joking, but anyone who knew anything understood: this hadn’t stopped at scheming. It had been carried out.
Judging by the numbers already climbing under the post, he probably wouldn’t even think about showing his face in public again.
Conflict Resolution
📍 Progress: (1/1)
⏳ Time Remaining: D-2
⚠ On Failure: Withdrawal from the idol survival program
Not long after I confirmed the post, the surprise mission terminated. I had been wondering when it would finally end; it only wrapped up once every last ember had been stamped out. Still, as long as the conflict itself was resolved, that was enough.
I just watched the fire from the other side of the river and it was over.
I hadn’t needed to lift a finger—everything had been extinguished on its own. It felt almost wrong, yet at the same time nothing about it felt impossible.
I slowly worked out the muscles that had pulled tight from dancing properly for the first time in ages.
“Still… I never thought he’d actually go around saying things like that out loud.”
Had he truly trusted the people he was talking with? To speak words that could become his own undoing in front of others, then go and act on them. Either he was dumber than expected, or his pride ran deeper than I thought. Or maybe it wasn’t pride so much as pure spite.
If Song A-seong hadn’t turned around at just the right moment, would they have simply laughed among themselves and called it a success…?
I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling when a text arrived. Kwon Do-ha.
I huffed a quiet laugh. Thinking back, after we finished writing the lyrics that day, Kwon Do-ha had been the first to leave, saying he would go photocopy the lyric sheets.
Judging by how clear the audio had been, he used good equipment.
That recording was made on Day 1. The real trouble, starting with the live, kicked off on Day 2.
It was now the early hours of Day 8—not even a full week. Yet thinking of the roller coaster Jang Seon-woo had ridden in that short span made me dizzy myself.
Maybe it was a textbook example of what happens when someone gets the wrong kind of addicted to attention.
From what I’d seen on the boards, he’d poured more than ten million won a day into it. Deep pockets.
“Scary…”
His skill at tying balloons was ghostly. He inflated them as high as they could go, and the moment they hit their limit he popped them and sent them plummeting. So this was what it meant to play with someone in the palm of your hand.
The timing was flawless, too. Considering Episode 13 airing tonight, Jang Seon-woo—who had been sliding steadily downhill until he finally hit rock bottom—would probably just be buried and forgotten.
“A fleeting dream if there ever was one.”
Just as Song A-seong had felt, it was hollow beyond measure.