Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Kim Sanho, having finished the dishes, immediately started tidying the bedding.
As I joined him, rolling up the blankets, I cautiously conveyed my decision.
"Sanho."
"Yeah?"
"I'm going on Mebaek."
With a clatter, the broom fell from Kim Sanho's hand.
After freezing like a malfunctioning robot for a long moment, Kim Sanho quietly spoke.
"Then I...."
"Sorry, but I'll go alone."
I knew it. My decision would sound completely out of the blue.
There were plenty of risks, but I had my reasons for pushing ahead with this choice.
Twenty was an age where, in some groups, you could even be the eldest.
Now, far too late to leisurely scout trainees, train them, and prepare for a debut, what we needed was a reasonably skilled trainee and name recognition acquired as quickly as possible.
<MAKE100%> could fulfill all of that.
To summarize, my goal was to milk the program's massive promotional effect, then naturally drop out when early elimination came.
Plus, I'd return with a wave of public sympathy for the small agency victimized by the network's dirty tricks, and a naïve... decent trainee as my trophy.
'Still, I'd better keep one hidden card.'
That was why I was leaving Kim Sanho behind. As a result, my words came off as a serious double standard, but instead of looking hurt, Kim Sanho just let out a soft sigh.
"I couldn't go anyway."
"I figured."
"Aren't you going to ask why?"
"Do you have something to hide?"
"No."
"Personal reasons?"
"Yeah."
"Then it's fine."
Who in this industry didn't have personal circumstances? It saved me the trouble of persuading him, so it was actually better this way.
But as if determined to scratch my now-relieved conscience, a gloomy voice came back.
"I'll vote. Just once every two days."
"...That's your call, but why?"
"Well, um, honestly, I thought we'd debut together...."
"Ah."
'Looks like he thought I was finding a way to escape on my own.'
After everything I'd been through recently, my thought circuits must have gotten fried. How could I overlook something this obvious?
I slapped my own cheek to snap myself out of it. Kim Sanho flinched a little, but that wasn't the point.
"I'm not debuting there anyway. Don't worry."
"You don't seem like the type who can't debut, hyung."
"I can't."
Even if I stood on my head and belted super high notes and you pulled off a helicopter headspin right next to me while delivering a machine-gun rap, we still wouldn't debut.
I wanted to say it, but I couldn't.
Kim Sanho was already looking at me with a pitying expression, as if comforting a college student with no confidence. I hastily added,
"I'm going to drop out partway through."
"Why?"
"Because I want to debut with you."
"We've only known each other a few days."
"Counting the New Year, it's been two years."
I swear I wasn't lying.
I placed my hand on the still-doubtful Kim Sanho's shoulder and said firmly,
"Of course you can't believe me. I get it. But just trust me this once."
"Um, okay. I will."
"...Yeah."
I awkwardly lowered my hand that had tried to look reliable.
He believed me that easily?
This kid—did he sign with Sorasum just because the President promised to buy him tangerines, not knowing any better and trotting along?
What a relief. If he'd been a bit sharper, I might have ended up playing ouija board with ghosts all by myself, lonely as hell.
I finished off with a genuinely concerned remark,
"Guard the practice room well."
"I will."
"Even if other companies come asking you to sign, don't ever open the door."
"Yesss."
"I'll go and lure over another trainee."
"That's a bit shady, hyung."
"Shut up."
I knew it wouldn't be easy. Of course, good words and sincerity alone wouldn't be enough to persuade anyone.
I had no intention of suddenly telling them to invest their lives in a company with no visible prospects either.
I just planned to become that prospect myself.
Through <MAKE100%>.
"Ha, this is brutal."
I clasped my hands together and stretched my arms out.
Rubbing my shoulders that were already feeling rusty, even though I'd only recently quit trainee life, I cracked my neck from side to side.
'Think positively.'
If I'd been dragged in by the hair and gotten soaked, I could brainwash myself into believing I had always loved diving.
I'd consider this penalty the price of giving up once. Since things had turned out this way, I might as well leech every last benefit out of the network.
* * *
"Give me the President's number."
"Okay."
"And save your number too."
"Okay."
Kim Sanho, who had taken the phone from Seo Cha-gyeom, paused while entering the number and subtly lifted his head.
"What?"
"I'm trying to remember the number."
"Why are you staring at my face to do that?"
"I just looked up and your face happened to be there...."
Seo Cha-gyeom, his expression minutely crumpled, cleared his throat and turned away.
Sorry to him for the embarrassment, but the truth was, I had been staring at him.
I was curious if the man in front of me was really the rumored Seo Cha-gyeom.
After entering the President's number and then his own, Kim Sanho recalled a memory from years ago.
"Oh, it's the eternal number one, Seo Cha-gyeom."
"You're friends?"
"Friends, my ass. Hey, don't say shit that'll get us in trouble. If you call guys like us his friends, he'd be seriously pissed off."
"Why?"
"We're not in his league. Since the big agencies dote on him and treat him like royalty, he probably thinks he's hot stuff."
"Did you save it?"
"Oh, yeah. Here."
Seo Cha-gyeom took the phone back, found 'Kim Sanho' in the contacts, and dialed.
After confirming the ringtone was working, he ended the call and said he'd call the President, then left the practice room.
"......."
Left alone, Kim Sanho stared at the closed door for a long time.
"Eternal number one? Wow......."
"So don't talk to him casually. Unless you want to get humiliated."
"Why?"
"Why do you keep asking why? What, you got a fetish for being totally ignored?"
"Mm......."
Snapping out of it, he found his own phone and hit the thirteen-digit number on the screen to save the name.
[Seo Cha-gyeom]
He mentally repeated the still-unfamiliar contact name a few times.
Then, Kim Sanho, reexamining his one-sided memory of their first meeting, muttered blankly,
"Guess rumors aren't to be trusted after all."
* * *
When I said I'd participate in MAKE100%, the President's reaction was truly beyond anything I'd imagined.
"Who are you?"
The answer was so unexpected that my words caught in my throat.
But I calmly stated that I was the newly joined trainee, and perhaps assuming it had been agreed upon with the few staff members, he thankfully acquiesced right away.
'Is that really a good thing?'
After that, everything proceeded swiftly.
When I told him I'd drop out midway through the program and reel in a trainee to debut together with us, the President simply nodded.
It was a plan that would look fishy to anyone, yet he didn't raise a single objection, which made it even more unnerving. Inwardly, I'd almost hoped he'd say he had his own scheme and to keep quiet....
Anyway, unlike independent trainees who had to pass a separate audition, for an agency-affiliated trainee, a video review and a simple meeting were all it took.
Fitting for a program that, overwhelmed with applicants every year, had eventually reduced the participant count from 100 to 72, passing was easy.
After my school records were verified to prevent any controversy, I was finally able to sign the contract.
"Please read it carefully and sign."
The production crew handed over a contract in which the broadcaster was substituted as Party A, the agency as Party B, and the trainee as Party C, with a whole list of clauses.
Among the contract terms full of unfamiliar jargon, the most eye-catching clause was, of course,
'Party A may arbitrarily edit Party C's footage for the program, and no objection may be raised against Party A for any reason whatsoever regarding netizens' reactions resulting from said editing.'
What an unbelievable case of power-tripping. I'd heard rumors, but seeing it in person was shocking in a whole different way.
Well, everyone probably signed up knowing that risk, so there's no need to feel sorry for them.
It was when I picked up the pen to sign.
[You have chosen a new fork in the road.]
Huh?
[Warning! Tutorial mode ending.]
[Continue?]
......What does that even mean?
I hate to say this to the System that was excitedly outputting messages, but no matter how many times I read it, I had absolutely no idea what it was saying.
No, I understood exactly one thing. That it was seriously ominous.
As I stared blankly into the air, the staff member across from me joked,
"Are you getting cold feet now?"
"Ah, no."
I didn't hear that damn warning sound, so I wasn't about to get thrown back to that sickening Christmas again.
Even the worst-case scenario couldn't be worse than death.
"Your seal as well."
"Yes."
Press. The moment I stamped, the System window changed as if it had been waiting.
[Selection complete.]
[Saving all data so far.]
'Ah, this is really ominous...'
[Thud!]
"......Seo Cha-gyeom-ssi?"
"......."
Damn, what the hell.
In an instant, all strength drained from my body, as if I had lost control of my limbs... I went face-first straight into the table.
I wasn't unconscious. My mind was perfectly clear.
The sensation of the table pressing hard against my forehead, the dull ache that followed, the sudden chill in the air—I felt it all vividly.
"I'm sorry. I practiced too much last night."
I straightened up nonchalantly and offered my explanation, and the staff member nodded with a look of deliberate approval.
I glossed over the situation, but my forehead still throbbed.
With no time to soothe the pain, the System displayed a new message before my eyes.
[New save point saved to slot.]
[Progress: Prologue (Warning ×0)]
'Save point?'
What's that supposed to mean?
Just then, the staff member stepped away to take a call. I seized the opportunity and hurriedly went online.
[Save Point: In a game, a specific point where the current progress can be saved. Upon game over, you return to that point.]
"......It's a game term?"
I don't know anything about games except matching puzzles.
I was considering whether I should try something and was about to open the app market when the returning staff member stopped me. I immediately pushed the System's antics out of my mind and focused on the interview.
After the formal questions and answers, the main topic finally came up.
"You have a song choice prepared, right?"
Song choice.
Most people probably thought the participants were free to pick their own song for the first evaluation, but in reality, the production crew's intervention began right here.
Because even if they claimed it was reality, it was ultimately a variety show.
Without any directing, there was no guarantee of dramatic entertainment. Their reasoning was that for the viewers' enjoyment, they had to map out a rough scenario line beforehand and then proceed with filming.
I'd heard there were even cases where they directly handpicked a song for you, but here they at least asked the trainee's opinion first. How generous.
"......This is what I prepared."
"......."
Even after my short performance ended, the staff said nothing, then began frantically typing on their laptop keyboard.
In the space where the clatter of typing echoed, I had to sit awkwardly with my mouth shut for a long while.
The answer finally came after a full five minutes.
"Yes. It looks fine."
"Thank you."
'What does "looks fine" even mean?'
The song I chose was an extremely ordinary boy group song.
If I'd gone for a song that stood out too much, it would have been rejected without a doubt. There was also the risk of getting saddled with a song choice that invited antipathy rather than charm appeal, like a ridiculously out-of-depth sexy concept or a wild beast concept.
Or a comparative song choice meant to prop up a pre-selected member.
I hadn't really worried about the latter, but... well, since they didn't counter-propose anything, it meant they didn't plan to mess with my screen time just yet.
"The first recording day is about a month from now. There will be one more meeting in between."
"Yes, thank you."
A month.
It was a long time if you thought about it, but also a short time.
For now, I'd just borrow Kim Sanho's bed.