A Lifeline Named Heo Jeong-in

A lifeline came down to me just as I was floundering, my mental state shattered by the sudden decision to join the audition. That lifeline's name was Heo Jeong-in.

Heo Jeong-in, who had passionately pitched to me that first day with such a youthful face, turned out not to be a casting manager at all—she was the company's representative. The company she ran, Kyu Agency, was one she had built and grown herself alongside a former workplace colleague who was now her husband. When I looked her up, her academic background and track record were formidable. In the industry, she was famous for having a sharp eye.

Looking back now, it was almost embarrassing how thoroughly I had mistaken her for a fresh graduate. She was older than she looked, and she was generous, too.

When I declined her offers and told her I planned to go on this program, she even connected me with an academy where I could take short-term lessons.

She called it an investment in my future after I finished being an idol, but at the time it felt so distant that "investment" hardly seemed like the right word. We hadn't even signed a contract.

It had been a belated, rather calculating contact—made in a moment of desperation, partly to get audition information—and yet Representative Heo Jeong-in had extended her hand without the slightest hesitation, saying she would help.

I was naturally expected to cover the lesson fees myself, but having access to a skilled trainer's instruction plus a private practice room available twenty-four hours a day was an enormously practical form of support.

There was no way an ordinary person could have secured a place like that right before a large-scale open audition.

So this is the power of connections.

I had been keenly aware of how badly I needed to learn dance systematically in a proper environment. It was an opportunity I absolutely could not let slip away.

How you take the first step matters.

Take exercise as an example. If you start with bad form and that form hardens into habit, the risk of injury skyrockets—so with any kind of training, learning correct posture and breathing from the beginning is critical.

I was a complete novice when it came to dance, so I figured dance would be the same as exercise and, by analogy, I had been putting off practicing alone for as long as possible. In my defense, finding a place to practice had also been hard.

If I'd practiced dance at home, I'd have ended up in a feud with the neighbors over the noise…

When I lived in a semi-basement, that kind of worry hadn't existed. Living on the fourth floor meant there was a lot more to consider.

Anyway, the result was that I had thrown myself entirely into singing and kept putting dance off indefinitely. I had even reserved a practice room and tried working on my own for a while.

But alone, it was still too much. I couldn't tell whether I was doing it right or even practicing in the right direction. I simply had no sense of it.

To improve in a short period, I desperately needed someone who could guide me. More precisely, I needed a professional's help so that my body could catch up from the bottom to match the stats that had already risen on their own.

So even though I had shamelessly turned down her scouting offer, I gladly accepted the help of a practice room and an introduction to a capable trainer.

Even to my own eyes, receiving help with no guarantees in return looked like freeloading. And yet, when the representative added that she hoped we could maintain a good connection, I felt the depth of her experience.

She was someone I would want to keep seeing for a long time, if the chance arose. Having her as my boss would feel solid and reassuring.

How am I supposed to repay this kindness?

Even in this short stretch of time, I had already been helped by so many people in one way or another. Before I died, I had never been blessed with good connections—and now my luck with people was strangely, almost unnervingly, good.

It was ironic that even while receiving so much help, the life I had been given was still far from easy.

In truth, the hardship had been inevitable. Everything I remembered about Step Up amounted to nothing more than a flashy, substance-free trailer, plus some reviews saying that while the overall format matched the previous work, the story and music were quite different.

"Haa…"

In an outlying area of the stadium grounds, well away from the actual audition stage, I was sprawled out reeking of pain-relief patches. I had received my number and group assignment and immediately slipped outside.

Forcing my zero-base dance ability upward had taken its toll, so even on audition day my condition was far from good. I had needed results in a short window of time, so there hadn't been much choice.

The days of grinding basics under my trainer's guidance, memorizing the assigned choreography every single day, drilling it into my body, and then refining the lines of the dance flashed through my mind like a panorama.

The choreography for the first round had only been released very late—on March 15th—so until then I had been frantically learning and covering every kind of routine I could find just to build fundamental dance skill.

Anything that looked useful, I learned without discrimination: female or male, group or solo. Because I had no idea what the eventual choreography would be, I needed to absorb as wide a range of movements as possible across as many genres as I could.

My head felt like it was dying, but my body still moved.

Thanks to I Grow by Eating Love (R), my dance stat had risen considerably, so even though my head was a blank slate, my body already knew how to dance. It was clearly the power of the stat correction.

My trainer was pretty shocked…

I didn't know a single routine, and from the way I talked it was obvious I had never properly danced before—yet I could still follow along with waves and popping as if I had done them. Of course it looked strange.

Even so, separate from the stats, I still needed the work of getting used to actually dancing. No matter how high the dance stat climbed, if my head couldn't keep up with my body, the movements kept stuttering like a buffering video. And since I knew nothing, verbal explanations went completely over my head as a bonus.

If only I'd realized a little sooner that this was Step Up.

Even while practicing like my life depended on it, I couldn't give up the busking and volunteer work. I had no idea where the debut cutoff would land, so I couldn't afford to neglect the basic stat-raising.

In the end, all of it was part of raising my dance skill anyway.

Splitting every day into pieces and running so many things at once left me with far too little absolute practice time. Cutting into sleep had been inevitable. If I had started focusing on dance earlier, it wouldn't have gotten this hard.

Reap what you sow, I guess…

My body, drained of stamina, was demanding rest with a vengeance. Collapsing in a secluded corner of the audition grounds after staggering around looking for somewhere empty had been unavoidable. Even sitting had been hard.

Thanks to a generously oversized long padding jacket, the back of my head felt as soft as if I had laid out a sleeping bag, and sleep kept tugging at me.

"I can't sleep. I can't sleep…"

The number I had been assigned was exactly 3000. Coincidentally the very last number, the very last group—so the wait time I had confirmed on site came to roughly five or six hours.

Maybe just close my eyes for a second.

But if I fell asleep now, alarm or no alarm, I had no confidence I would get up again. That was how exhausted I was. I fought it with everything I had.

I'll just lie here. That's all.

And then a loud noise woke me.

"…?"

When did I fall asleep? Checking my phone, three hours had already passed.

I've lost my mind.

Beside me was a student clutching his backside. He looked young. He must have fallen, and the sound had woken me.

He seemed to be limping a little, so I quickly held out a pain-relief patch. I was grateful he had woken me. It was practically a life-saving favor.

Still half-asleep and foggy, I caught fragments of whatever the student was saying before he ran off into the distance. In a hurry, I guessed. I sat there blankly for a moment before my mind cleared.

I need to get ready too.

I packed up my spot and hurried off. Sleeping had at least restored my condition a little. Sitting no longer felt like it might kill me.

I should do some monitoring.

I brushed a hand once over the number 3000 stuck to my stomach, pulled my padding tight, and started walking. April was right around the corner, but the outdoor air was still cold.

I had no desire to draw unnecessary attention, so I planned to jam a hat down over my head, tuck myself into a corner, and watch quietly.

And the moment I stepped inside and faced the chaos of the judging floor, I thought:

Yeah. This is going to get some hate.

"Fuck, are the judging assistants' eyes just for decoration? Number 2157 got cut?"

"What the hell is 2145 that he passed? Does that guy even dance that well? Honestly 2157 crushed it. 2157 must be so fucking pissed."

Participants who had watched Group 72's judging on the electronic board were openly venting their anger. Anyone could see that 57 had danced better, yet 45 had passed—so of course the contestants were questioning fairness.

There's no way this doesn't get hate.

You couldn't ignore visuals in the idol entertainment business, but they had shown that far too blatantly.

If the full stage footage from just now went up online, number 2145 would take a fair amount of heat too. He might end up labeled as the contestant who unfairly won while being weaker on skill.

There's no reason to invite hate on purpose, so they'll probably edit it—but too many people already saw it.

By the nature of a survival audition format, the people who advanced inevitably knocked someone else out. If you couldn't properly prove your skill, resentment was built into the structure.

Objectively, 2145 hadn't done that badly—but his matchup luck had been terrible. Comparing the two, 2157 had been far superior. And he had still been cut.

"I feel secondhand injustice."

"Is 2145 a PD pick?"

"They picked him because he's handsome. This industry's always like that."

"I don't know… he doesn't even look that good."

Especially because it was an open audition with plenty of civilian-origin contestants, the atmosphere was even uglier. With ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠no particular filming equipment visible nearby, people spoke even more freely.

"Ugh, sudden reality check. So in the end, even if your skill's trash, as long as your face is good you can still be an idol?"

"If that's how it is, why make us kill ourselves dancing? Just line everyone up and pick by faces."

"Idol business is all like that anyway. What was I even expecting. Looks so damn cheap."

The backlash was especially fierce from people who were curious about idols without being unconditionally positive about them—people who had just applied because it was a large-scale open audition.

Because it didn't look like fair competition.

It was obvious they had ranked people by looks rather than skill, so no one was going to call it fair. No matter how important external appearance was, putting it front and center in the judging was bound to create revulsion.

A contestant who rode in on nothing but his face and eliminated people who looked more skilled and more desperate—that was exactly the kind of reaction I needed to be most careful about.

The more the idea rose to the surface that skill was meaningless and good visuals alone could make you an idol, the more you risked not only direct backlash like this, but also the danger of making the entire idol industry look frivolous even among people who loved idols and dreamed of becoming one. That was why I had to be even more cautious.

"Is 2145 valuable enough to tank a fairness controversy? I honestly don't get it."

"Same. It's not like there weren't better-looking, better-dancing people than him. Did they really need to drag him forward?"

While waiters and passers alike were locked in heated debate, Group 79's stage had already begun. Number 2345, whom I had run into earlier, was among them. That fall had made quite a noise.

Hope he put the patch on.

Number 2345 looked fairly nervous, but he would probably pass without much trouble. After all—

Among those thirty people, his overall stats were the highest.

In game terms, his starting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stats are a little low, but he's a hybrid SSR absolutely worth investing in.

Evaluating a living person right in front of me—high stats, low stats, worth raising, assigning grades—left a faintly nauseating taste, but what could I do? That was the nature of the trait I had drawn.

In the traits section of my status window, next to I Grow by Eating Love (R), I Am the Producer (U) was shining clearly. U—a rank I had never seen before.

Whether it stood for Unique or Ultra, a trait of a grade I had never encountered in any game had appeared.

No extra explanation attached, either.

Whether it was the system's characteristic lack of helpfulness, there was no additional text explaining exactly what this trait did. All I knew was that after drawing it, I could see ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not only my own status window but other people's as well—so I figured it was a trait that let me view others' stats.

For me, who had spun the trait gacha the moment my combined singing, dance, and charm total crossed 260 while shouting I Want to Keep Watching! (S) Dance +3, it had been a disappointment. I had been going half-insane from learning choreography on a short deadline and raising my dance stat, so I had desperately needed a trait that would shore up my numbers. Wasting that chance and drawing this instead had even made me resentful at the time.

But once my head cooled, it wasn't such a bad trait. After all, it let me check my competitors' stats.

It might even be why this world started feeling more like a game.

It was the kind of special privilege prepared for people like reincarnators, possessors, and regressors. It wasn't the dance-stat increase I had desperately wanted, but it was an ability that would make navigating this world easier.

More game-like is better.

If it was a game, every situation had a strategy, and every game had an end. There was a part of me that wanted to just think of everything as a game and take it easy—so I was letting myself go with that now.

"Um, excuse me—earlier…?"

"Ah."

Before I knew it, Woo Cheong-hee—number 2345, who had been on the electronic board—was standing right in front of me. He must have passed without trouble after all.

"Congratulations on passing."

"Ah! Thank you. I worked really hard!"

His smiling face looked so young. Given his high growth potential, he might even belong to a major agency. First year of high school. Today was a weekday, so had he skipped school to come?

Come to think of it, March is already almost over.

It had already been nearly three months since I opened my eyes in January. More precisely, about two and a half. Memories of living desperately through that time flashed through my mind.

Without that time, I would have become a second number 2145.

By the way, if the story has me debuting through this program, isn't the preparation period ridiculously short?

In the previous work there had been as much free time as you wanted until debut. By comparison, this time the story's beginning was clearly more forced and early. That made the characters' initial stats ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even more important—and grades would have greater early influence than in the previous game. Had the developers gotten greedy for money when they made Step Up?

"But… are you not one of the judges? Why are you here?"

"No, I'm a contestant."

"What?"

"What?"

The face asking whether I was an idol no matter how you looked at it was completely serious. Maybe because he had seen my face earlier when I woke up and hadn't managed to put my mask back on…

The blatant praise left me with nowhere to put myself. Between Representative Heo Jeong-in and everyone else, why was everyone so free with compliments?

"I'm nineteen. Lee Han-hee."

"Ah, I'm Woo Cheong-hee! I'm seventeen."

His smiling face was cute. His skin was so pale and his impression so purely innocent that I figured fans would love him once he debuted. A face with guaranteed demand, you could say.

Before long he was calling me hyung and telling me to speak comfortably, so he seemed to have a good way with people too. I wasn't exactly the talkative type, but he showed no sign of finding it awkward.

"It's already Group 80. What number group are you in, hyung?"

"The last one."

"Whoa, then you'll have to wait at least another hour."

Chattering away beside me, he gave off a strong "beloved youngest" vibe. In a good way—he had a personality without any creases in it. Maybe I should help him a little.

"Are you sure it's okay for you to stay here with me?"

"I was told to wait until everything's over anyway. Ah—if I'm making you uncomfortable, hyung, I can go stay somewhere else. Come to think of it, mindset control before a test is important too…"

"No, it's more that I thought you might need to prepare as well."

"Huh? For what?"

"This is just my guess, but I think there might be more chances to get on stage today."

On my way in earlier, I had seen them running camera rehearsals on a separate outdoor stage set up on the outskirts. Passers were waiting, and they were running things this tightly—so they were probably going to use that stage today.

"Just in case, it might be good to check whether they're preparing anything near where we met earlier."

"Thank you!"

Thinking it was better for him to confirm it himself, I passed the tip along, and he thanked me with round, wide eyes before rushing off in a hurry. He must have felt uneasy about it too.

And then an unfamiliar voice lodged itself in my ear.

"Is it okay to tell him something like that?"

At the same time, a dazzling status window appeared.