Three More Circles to Go

"S-shaman? No, no — Chief?"

The answer didn't come right away. His soaked suit shoulders were rising and falling heavily. He had sprinted at full speed from the building's back entrance all the way to the bus stop.

Rain drummed down, streaming through his long hair and dripping off his chin.

"Um, excuse me..."

Kim Bom tilted her umbrella toward him. Their height difference meant its edge didn't even reach his shoulder.

"I'm fine."

Lee Mishin caught his breath and looked the four of them over, one by one.

"Good timing. The bus hasn't come yet."

"...Sorry?"

"I heard about the disbandment."

All four flinched at once.

"That's why I ran here. There's something I needed to say before the paperwork went through."

"The paperwork... we already signed it, though."

Mishin gave a small nod. "I know. Which is exactly why I held it before the ink could dry. That termination agreement was put on hold in the CEO's office just now."

"...!"

His voice carried through the rain.

"One year."

"..."

"Let's give it one more year."

Shaaaa—

For a long while, only the sound of rain filled the bus stop. He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠swept the rain-flattened bangs from his forehead, and droplets scattered with a flick.

'Is this a photo shoot?' was Baek Iseo's involuntary first thought.

The first to come back to her senses was Hong Yena.

"We're the deficit team. Even the company wrote us off. And now you're telling us we get one more year?"

Doubt had leapt out ahead of any joy. It had been a long time since suspecting anything too good to be true became habit.

"So... who's actually going to manage us?"

"Me."

"..."

"I'll be taking personal charge."

The chief who had brought Park Songhwa back from the dead. The man the company whispered about as a shaman. Hearing it from his own mouth somehow made it feel even less real.

"Th-the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠CEO would never approve—"

"He did."

Baek Iseo opened her mouth quietly. "...How did you convince him?"

She knew better than anyone that a man like Cha Eunseong didn't reverse decisions on a whim.

Mishin met her gaze and answered. "My eyes."

"..."

Before she could even chew on what that meant, Nam Green cut in. "But why? Why us? We already did three years and it wasn't enough. What could possibly change now?"

"The whiteboard."

"...Sorry?"

"The one in the corner of your practice room. You wrote your goals on it."

Four pairs of eyes blinked.

"Debut. Number one on a music show. A solo concert."

The sound of breathing vanished.

"And one more line at the very bottom."

Mishin swept his gaze across all four of them, then said it. "Become the history of band idols."

"...!"

"H-how did you..."

That writing had been erased from the board long ago. All that remained was a single circle scrawled next to [1. Debut].

Kim Bom's umbrella nearly slipped from her hands. Even Baek Iseo's expressionless face had cracked.

"There was only one circle on that board."

Mishin went on. "Three remain. Let's go collect them."

"..."

Drop. Something fell from Kim Bom's cheek.

"Then... um."

A trembling voice slipped out. "Can I... keep playing drums...?"

"You have to."

The answer came without a heartbeat's pause. "Your drumming especially, Bom."

"Hiiik... e-especially?"

Kim Bom finally broke into audible sobs, and Nam Green pulled her shoulder into a hug.

"One condition comes attached. If we can't produce results within the year, then even I won't be able to hold on."

With that, he turned away. Nam Green shouted at the retreating back disappearing into the rain. "H-hey! What if! What if it still doesn't work after a year?!"

"...It will."

He vanished into the rain, leaving nothing but those words behind.

Squeeak—

Right on cue, a bus splashed up to the stop. The doors hissed open.

"..."

"..."

Not a single person boarded. The driver tilted his head in confusion, closed the doors, and the bus rumbled off.

"...Guys."

Nam Green finally parted her lips. "That just now. That wasn't a dream, right?"

Baek Iseo held up her phone. On the screen, a long-haired figure running through the rain, captured mid-shake.

"Filmed it."

"...When?!"

"From the moment he started running."

"Are you insane? Why would you film that!"

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

"Habit. There are way too many creeps these days. When a man comes at me, I record first and ask questions later."

Kim Bom was still hiccupping through her tears. "Unnie... this feels exactly like the last episode of a drama..."

"No."

Nam Green looked up at the sky. The rain was thinning, little by little.

"Last episode, my foot."

She held out her hand.

"...Hands."

Hong Yena snorted a laugh and slapped hers on top. Baek Iseo laid hers over it, and Kim Bom, still sniffling, brought up the last.

"One, two."

For the first time in ages, the chant tore right through the rain.

"Youth starts now!"

Once again — it was episode one.

The roar of the crowd rolled over him. A summer night's breeze brushed his face. Between pillars of stage light stabbing the sky, a colossal screen glowed with a logo.

'...Pentaport?' The holy ground of rock festivals. And there, standing on the stage, were four familiar faces.

"Here comes the next one!"

Nam Green's shout sent the cheers soaring. Kim Bom clicked out a drumstick count.

Tak, tak, tak, tak—

Baek Iseo's guitar riff rang out, with Hong Yena's bass thundering underneath it. The crowd stretched past the horizon of sight. Tens of thousands were singing the chorus in one voice.

The scene blinked.

An interview studio. The four sat shoulder to shoulder, and a caption glowed at the bottom of the screen.

"Feeling the popularity these days?"

At the off-camera voice, Nam Green cracked a joke. "Yesterday on the subway, we saw someone who'd set our song as their ringtone."

"Ahahaha!" Laughter rippled through the studio.

"What would you say the turning point was?"

The members' eyes drifted, naturally, toward the youngest.

"In the beginning, it was Bom's drum video blowing up on YouTube."

Kim Bon shook her head side to side, embarrassed, while Hong Yena nodded up and down in solemn agreement.

"The views, overnight... I still can't believe it."

Then Baek Iseo looked straight into the camera. "Looking back, I'm really glad we listened to Mishin oppa that day."

'...Oppa?'

Not shaman, not Chief, not even manager — oppa.

'What on earth happened in the meantime.'

Click. His sight returned to the present. After the vision, he'd met with Youth Girls, and now he'd hauled his rain-soaked body all the way back to the rooftop apartment. He draped a towel over his head and sank into thought.

'So Bom's drum video blows up, huh.'

On his screen was Youth Girls' official channel. 3,472 subscribers. The debut music video: 110,000 views. Below that, things got bleak. The ensemble fancam, 1,206. The behind-the-stage footage, 813.

And then, one particularly damning entry.

'...The drum video already exists.' He shelved the hypothesis that simply uploading one would make it take off. A video of the same person playing the same instrument was already sitting out there in the world.

'So what made the future version different?'

Getting pushed by YouTube's algorithm was being chosen by the algorithm god — and regrettably, he had no connection with that particular deity. Their own spirit, apparently, held no ties to YouTube headquarters, either.

That left the remaining variables. Which song had she played — a cover, or an original? Which channel — official, or personal? How was it filmed — a single take in the practice room, or produced content? When did it go up — and what wind was blowing through the industry at the time?

'The interview didn't tell me that far.'

Just like with Park Songhwa, they'd only played him the highlights; this time, too, the process stayed hidden.

'And the most important part.'

She said she was glad she'd listened to his words. Which meant that somewhere in that process, his instructions entered the picture. And he, the one giving them, had no idea what those instructions were.

'If my words end up becoming the right answer... then manufacturing that right answer is exactly what this agonizing is for.'

Thinking it through that far gave him goosebumps. 'Is this, too, some form of determinism?' And why was he suddenly pontificating about determinism in the first place?

His head started to ache, so he lay down on the bed.

And then, the next day. He was still turning the problem over even after arriving at the office when — a murmur rippled through the room, and heads began popping up over the partitions one by one.

"Wait... isn't that Han Heedae?"

"Why is Han Heedae here...?"

"He's unreal in person... absolutely gorgeous."

A cloth-wrapped box hung from one hand, and that alone was enough to guess his destination.

"Mishin-ssi."

"..."

"It's been a while."

Thud. The box settled onto the desk. As the cloth fell away, a wooden case inlaid with mother-of-pearl was revealed. Gold-leaf characters on the lid.

A thing that lived its whole life enshrined behind glass cases in department store basements. He had never seen a price tag on it. Goods behind glass never show their prices.

"...What is this."

"A divination fee."

"Fees are collected after the work is done."

"Then consider it a deposit."

Han Heedae parried, perfectly at ease. The surrounding stares were getting too sharp, so they relocated to the meeting room. The moment the door closed, Heedae pulled something out of his bag and laid it on the table — a thick stack of scripts. Two characters were stamped across the cover.

"Episodes one through twelve — all of them are out."

"...Already?"

"The platform runs on seasonal pre-production. Every character has to be locked in before the table read."

Heedae pushed the scripts toward him. "That's why I'm here."

"..."

"My role is a shaman."

For a moment, he was caught off guard.

"I'd like a formal consultation with you, Mishin-ssi. I'll speak to the production company myself and get you a consultation credit on the project."

'Even a credit?' The board was bigger than he'd imagined. 'Honestly speaking,' one line — our spirit dislikes worldly cameras — would have wrapped this up cleanly. And yet.

'Han Heedae is the man who single-handedly generates close to half of Division 1's revenue.'

Which was a matter of his future company. If the main beam of the house stumbled on his first true genre piece, that loss would circle all the way back and land on the desk of the future CEO. As the man who would someday sit at that desk, this was not someone else's problem.

If asked whether he was a real shaman — obviously not. But being seen as one? Half a year of active service. It had worked in a broadcast studio. It had worked in front of reporters. And in front of this company's CEO, it was working in the present tense to this day. What an actor ultimately needs is the craft of looking like a shaman on screen.

'...In that particular field, I do have something to teach.'

"Let's do it."

Han Heedae flashed a grin and stuck out his hand. Unfairly, even his hand was handsome. "I look forward to working with you, Mishin-ssi."

That very night, the crash course began.

His search history stacked up steadily, and he sat through all four hours of a major ritual's full footage like a scholar. Three days of this, and the recommendation feed was wallpapered with blade platforms and pig heads.

'Even the algorithm believes I'm ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a shaman now.'

The real problem lay elsewhere. The movements of the mansins in those videos — watching them, he could see it. Putting it into words was another matter entirely. Was the power circling from the shoulder, or snapping free from the wrist? He had no confidence he could distill this into language and hand it to an actor.

'...This is territory that has to be learned with the body.'

Items piled into the shopping cart one by one.

He hesitated a little in front of the checkout button, then pressed it anyway. 'Research material costs.' Where was he supposed to file the receipt? Would this even count as a business expense?

Monday morning, eight o'clock. They spotted each other in front of the practice room and both flinched.

"...Why are you here already?"

"That's my line, unnie."

"I-I just couldn't sleep..."

"...Me neither."

Call time was nine-thirty, and yet every one of them had arrived an hour and a half early. They opened the door.

Nam Green stood in front of the whiteboard. The marker cap came off.

Squeeak, squeeak—

Next to [1. Debut], a fresh circle had been traced over the faint ghost of the old one.

"Since everyone's early, shall we grab something to drink?"

She was picking out drinks at the vending machine when the conversation of two passing employees drifted over.

"I'm telling you, the composer of Park Songhwa's comeback song is Mishin-ssi. Supposedly he announced it himself, out loud, at the showcase."

"Yeah, right... what does a manager know about composing?"

"It's true! Every A&R kid who was there saw it with their own eyes."

Pffft—!

Hong Yena nearly sprayed her drink across the machine.

Back in the practice room, the four of them convened an emergency meeting.

"So now he composes, too."

"Sees the future, manages us, writes songs... how many hours are in that man's day?"

"T-then, could it be... someday, maybe our songs too—!"

Baek Iseo cut her off, short and flat. "Dream on."

"It's about possibility! You can't even imagine it?!"

"Um, more importantly..."

Kim Bom raised her hand, careful and hesitant. "We... haven't even properly thanked him yet, have we? We were all out of our minds that day..."

The four looked at one another.

That afternoon, at the mart near the company building, the council convened in front of the ssanghwa tea display — the sweet Korean medicinal root tea beloved of office workers.

"There's the thirty-pack and the sixty-pack."

"For our budget... no. Get the sixty. No — get two boxes."

"I'm sorry, who is this? Yena does not behave like this."

"Are you possessed or something?"

"...Being stingy in a place like this earns you divine punishment."

Hong Yena — the woman who could split a hair over money — picking up two whole boxes. A genuinely rare sight. At the register, Kim Bom selected some letter paper, and that night a heartfelt handwritten letter was pressed out stroke by stroke.

Tucked into the corner of the letter were little caricatures of the four of them, each clutching her instrument.

The next morning, Operation Infiltrate Team 2 commenced.

"Now! He's away from his desk."

"G-go, set it down, and bolt."

On the desk they crept toward on tiptoes, the offerings had already piled into a mountain. Ssanghwa tea. Bellflower root tea. Jujube extract. And even the mother-of-pearl wooden case.

"...So this is the place they only speak of in whispers."

"A shrine..."

They carefully laid the two boxes and the letter on the peak of the mountain and turned to leave when—

"Hey. You there."

"Eek!"

Team Leader Gu Wonho was standing there.

"Youth Girls? What are you leaving behind?"

"O-offerings! We'll be going now!"

As the four scampered away, Wonho stood gazing at the offering mountain, now grown a full tier higher, and muttered to himself.

"...Aren't they going to reach the ceiling at this rate?"

And then, that night. Self-practice didn't wrap up until ten-thirty. By the time they'd packed away their instruments, the dark basement corridor stretched out long before them.

"Ugh, I'm exhausted..."

"Anyone want tteokbokki back at the dorm?"

"Me! Me!"

That was when it happened.

Jingle...

"...What was that?"

"B-bells...?"

Jingle, jingle. The sound was leaking out from the far end of the corridor. Among all the practice rooms with their lights off — exactly one exception. Light was spilling through the glass window of Practice Room 4.

"Who'd be in there at this hour..."

"...You know they say a ghost lives in this building's basement. A trainee who died with the grudge of never having debuted."

"U-unnie?! Why would you say that right now?!"

"Supposedly she has more grudges than we do?"

"Shh."

The four of them pressed themselves to the wall and crept forward on tiptoes.

"...!"

Beyond the glass, Lee Mishin stood in full shaman's garb.

He was rehearsing, so that he could coach Han Heedae — a circumstance Youth Girls knew absolutely nothing about.

'...Good heavens.'

All their eyes could take in was this: wide sleeves, long black hair loosed over his shoulders. Bells wound around one wrist; a fan held in the other hand.

Swish—!

The fan snapped open. His feet skimmed the floor, tracing a circle, and the sleeves billowed. Jingle— every time the bells rang at his wrist, his shoulders flowed like a wave.

The fan turned, slow as fate.

Snick—

The instant its tip swept out toward the glass window—

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

All four of them froze solid on the spot.