One Week to Number One

In the first episode, Kim Yunjae had been a man whose pride reached for the sky. Even while blabbing that his group was finished and nursing his own inferiority complex, when it came to wooing women he had pulled out every trick in the book and weighed them all carefully.

But the Kim Yunjae of today had screamed until the tears came, and had even thrown himself flat on the ground. He was a wreck.

“Ugh.”

“Coming back to your senses yet?”

“Haah… why did I do that.”

Hoisted onto the subway with the other members propping him up, Kim Yunjae chewed over his own behavior, late as the reflection was.

It wasn't so much regret over having done it — it was more that he'd only meant to say it calmly, and instead had ended up bawling his eyes out in front of everyone, which was mortifying.

It would probably live on as the greatest cringe of his entire life. And yet, strangely, he didn't feel all that bad about it.

“What are you staring at?”

“Nothing, just.”

The expressions of the other members watching him were a sight to behold, too. They'd clearly been moved themselves, but were doing their best to tease him anyway. Lee Taein and Lim Doyun, swept up in the moment, had gone red around the eyes.

“Cha Noah, what're you looking at? Are we trending?”

“Yeah. It's already blowing up.”

“Let me see.”

They huddled together and fixed their eyes on the small screen.

There was no way Seo Geonwoo would let this opportunity slip. Together with Han Song-i, Secretary Yu, and the rest of the staff, he launched the viral campaign.

Even fans who had burned out and drifted away began to show interest again. Icarus's final album shot up the rising-charts on music retail sites.

“I never imagined Yoonjae would be the one to go first. Did you see this coming, Director?”

Still unable to believe it, Han Song-i replayed the clip over and over. Lim Doyun, too, had pride to match Kim Yunjae's — she hadn't expected him to follow suit so quickly.

“I told ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them to give it their all. I didn't expect them to go this far…”

Seo Geonwoo touched his own lips and hid a smile.

Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance. Icarus had returned. The distance between the members as they walked was close.

At first they'd arrived separately, or kept a careful gap between one another, as if staging their awkward relationship for show… Seo Geonwoo could no longer hold back the smile blooming on his face.

“Director!”

“You're back, then?”

They'd knelt on the pavement, then run all the way from the station to hide their embarrassment. They looked a complete mess — but for the first time, they felt like a complete team.

“Sit down over here.”

“Huh?”

“Let me see those knees. You've got a stage to do tomorrow — what are you going to do if you've slammed them down that hard?”

“You… you noticed?”

Seo Geonwoo fetched a first-aid kit and looked after their knees.

“It'll probably just bruise, but tell me if it hurts.”

“Oh, it's fine, really—”

“No point acting tough this late in the game, is there?”

“Ugh…”

Kim Yunjae wanted to crawl into a mousehole somewhere out of sheer mortification. But the hand that came to rest on his head made him start and look up.

“You did well.”

What they had needed was compensation equal to the years they had poured in. The support of the company. The presence of a reliable adult. The members, their noses stinging for no good reason, darted their eyes around to keep it together.

“Hyung, are you okay?”

“What would I not be okay about?”

Seo Jihu couldn't stop thinking about what Secretary Yu had said. That man he refused to call father had set a trap for his own son — how could Seo Geonwoo be fine?

“That… person, he's threatening hyung, isn't he?”

Secretary Yu, that big mouth of his… Seo Geonwoo shook his head.

“It's not something you all need to worry about.”

“But Director, when did you and Seo Jihu get close enough to be calling each other brothers?”

“Didn't I tell you?”

Seo Geonwoo looked at Seo Jihu. Seo Jihu avoided his gaze.

The members, learning the truth this late, were stunned for a moment — then, crying traitor for not having said it sooner, they threw their arms around Seo Geonwoo's neck and squeezed.

More than the days when they barely exchanged a handful of words, this really felt like being back in their trainee days.

“Hoo… haaah.”

“Nervous?”

“How could I not be?”

Lest his father try to sabotage things, Seo Geonwoo had emptied his own pockets to fund Icarus, and had even thrown them a comeback showcase — something they'd never once had.

“There's been a lot of controversy around you, Mr. Doyun. How do you feel about it?”

Among the journalists gathered at the showcase, some were reporters Seo Geonwoo had cultivated in advance, but not all of them. The members swallowed hard and looked at Lim Doyun.

“I apologize to anyone who was hurt by my careless words and behavior. And I'm sorry for the trouble I caused the group.”

The speech academy had paid off. What had once been a flippant, offhand manner of speaking came out measured and deliberate, delivered with real sincerity. With his bow so deeply held, there was nothing anyone could fault.

“Mr. Noah, I understand you kept up solo activities the whole time. Wasn't it a waste? If you'd started sooner, wouldn't you have regrets?”

“Ah, what's there to regret? No regrets at all.”

Cha Noah answered the question with an easy, disarming smile.

“Mr. Taein, did you happen to see the apology statement posted two hours ago?”

“Sorry? Which one—”

Seo Geonwoo was never going to sit still over the sexual harassment story about Lee Taein. He had mobilized every resource at his disposal to find the culprit, then made the man post a handwritten apology.

His staff used that apology to start reshaping the narrative. Subtle posts and comments began circulating about why Lee Taein had given no fan service all this time — and how things would be different now.

“Mr. Jihu. It's been a long, hard road for you… how are you feeling now? Say a few words, if you would.”

It all felt like a dream to Seo Jihu. This moment, with everyone together — the spotlight finding him again seemed to be speaking of hope, of things still left to say.

“Whoa — are you crying? Don't tell me you're—”

“Hey, hey—”

“Since when has he been like this?”

He was crying without a sound, so he couldn't answer the question.

At his tears, everyone tilted their heads back toward the ceiling or dabbed at their eyes, and even Cha Noah — who'd seemed the last person who would cry — began to sniffle. And so the showcase dissolved into a sea of tears.

Backstage kept tracing an upward ratings curve, and was now delivering genuinely meaningful results.

Slotted into a timeslot that had been struggling with poor viewership, it pulled off ratings no one had anticipated. Everyone around Cho Youkyoung sang the praises of her eye for talent.

“It wasn't me — it was that kid.”

Cho Youkyoung was scrolling through articles about Yoon Jay when she shut the screen off. As expected of the boy she'd marked as a sure thing from the time he was little.

What was more, among the staff of every production Yoon Jay had passed through, the Yoon Jay Good Luck Totem Theory had long circulated as a running inside joke.

“Is it because of Lee Junseo and Yoon Dojun?”

“You're missing the point — it's Yoon Jay. Even if those kids are famous idols, do you think anyone outside their fandom bothers looking up their solo activities? People only tune in for the full group.”

He'd made his leading-man debut, out of nowhere, in an idol drama of all things — and even that had turned into a smash.

What's more, overseas fans who had originally tuned in for Lee Junseo and Yoon Dojun kept falling for Yoon Jay instead, and their numbers only grew.

“Well, he had plenty of other offers, but… wow, even an idol drama turns to gold with him in it.”

“Exactly.”

“Seriously, is there something actually enchanted about this guy?”

He'd landed a supporting role the moment he debuted as an actor, and digested it flawlessly. Then he'd stopped a fire on set — averting what could have been a devastating loss. In the drama where he made a special appearance, his screen time was brief, but he'd gone world-famous anyway.

People were saying the man's luck was beyond insane. And anticipation was already building for the upcoming Intermission and Permafrost.

Its overseas popularity — in Japan especially — kept climbing, and viewers were increasingly getting in too deep. The very people who'd once sneered, who watches ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an idol drama? were now wailing that ten episodes was far too short.

The production team, praised for its faithful idol-industry accuracy, kept rolling out all kinds of bonus content. With the fandom growing, a Blu-ray production committee was even assembled.

Thus, amid all that expectation and attention, the final episode of Backstage aired. The actors and staff gathered for the wrap party, while viewers who had chased the drama live from its first broadcast fixed their eyes on their screens.

The comeback showcase had ended, and full promotions were underway. After a week of packed music show appearances, they were all exhausted, but their faces were bright. There had been a time when they were one of those groups that couldn't even get into a music broadcast.

“Is that them? Those guys?”

“I even bought their album.”

Eyes turned toward them. What if they won people over? They were receiving more attention than they had in years.

Of course, the day didn't end with the music shows. Fansign events — crammed back to back to push album sales — were also on the schedule.

Back in the day, Icarus was the group whose fansigns fell short of quota even when they held them. But today, the seats were filled to the brim.

“Noona… y-you're—”

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

“You remember me!”

“How could I ever forget—”

Even fans who had loved them from the earliest days had come to see them again after so long.

And so Icarus made it through their busy comeback week — and the following week, the moment of reckoning finally arrived: the week they could chart number one on the music shows.

Terrestrial broadcasts — I'm not even counting on those.

What Seo Geonwoo had aimed for was number one on a cable music show. To that end, he had worked the back channels with the agencies holding groups of similar caliber to Icarus, pushing their comebacks and debuts back a week.

Which meant Icarus had to make their move in week two. It was now or never.

Seo Geonwoo arrived at the broadcaster alongside Icarus and watched the members head off to standby for the pre-recording.

And then, a call came in. It was Secretary Yu.

“What is it?”

Seo Geonwoo's face hardened at once. Faster than I expected? The sharp, seething expression from episode one resurfaced.

“Song-i, when does this recording finish?”

“We'll be done before eight.”

“…Then I'll be back before then.”

Seo Geonwoo hurried out of the broadcasting station, and Han Song-i watched his retreating back with worried eyes.

“Didn't it look like a lot of fans showed up for the pre-recording?”

“Ha… now I'm going to be second-guessing myself all day…”

The members, buzzing with excitement as they filed into the waiting room, knew right away that Seo Geonwoo was gone. His presence was simply that overwhelming.

“Where did the Director go?”

“Mm, just some business at the company—”

Han Song-i was a terrible liar. It showed plainly that something didn't sit right with her.

Seo Jihu fidgeted anxiously with his phone, then finally dialed. Seo Geonwoo, naturally, didn't pick up.

“Did something happen…?”

Seo Jihu's voice was trembling, endlessly.