The Card-Throwing Move

The four in the corridor had erased even the sound of their breathing.

"Th-the fan just pointed this way······"

"D-did we get caught?"

"If we got caught, the door would've opened already."

If there was any mercy to be had, the gaze beyond the glass hadn't so much as grazed them. The fan folded shut, the sleeve came down, and the Chief, having returned to her original spot, began treading through the very same sequence from the very beginning.

A toe traced a circle, a bell chimed, the fan snapped open with a whoosh! It was the exact same order as before, down to the last syllable.

The four of them slid soundlessly down beneath the window ledge.

"Why at this hour······"

"Must be something big. I heard rituals aren't just performed any old time."

"D-don't tell me it's a prayer for our comeback······?"

"A rite of passage."

"What?"

"For an underground ghost. A trainee who never got to debut."

"Oh······"

The four went solemn. So she was performing a service to send off a senior trainee with a grudge still weighing on her — sending her on to a good place.

"Um······ so does that mean that unnie gets to go somewhere nice now?"

"With sincerity like that, she'd better. The woman's even working overtime at night."

Tears welled up in Kim Bom's eyes.

"I-I'm scared, so why am I crying······"

"You're grateful. She's sending the unnie off so she can rest in peace."

"Unnie······ go somewhere good······"

Just then, beyond the glass, a foot stamped hard against the floor.

Chwararang—!

The bell-sounds surged to a crescendo.

"······Heep!"

That was the signal.

"······!"

"Run."

Tadadadak!

The four of them sprinted to the far end of the corridor, and only at the stair landing did they finally catch their breath.

"Haah, haah······"

"D-did we get caught?"

"We killed our footsteps, didn't we?"

"W-we should all just agree we saw nothing, right?"

"I can't go to the bathroom alone for a while······"

That night at the dorm, they ordered tteokbokki, and an unusually solemn air hung over the table.

"We can't tell anyone, right?"

"Obviously. If word gets out we peeked at a ritual, we'll be the first ones exorcised."

"······!"

On one side ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of a plate, three rice cakes sat untouched, gathered neatly together.

"Bom, why aren't you eating those?"

"······They're for the ghost unnie. It's her last night."

"······"

"······"

A moment later, the other members quietly added one more rice cake each to the pile.

And so the misunderstanding flourished, healthy and green.

Then, the next afternoon.

Knock knock—

The sound echoed through the Youth Girls' practice room mid-song, and the moment the door opened and their long-haired manager stepped inside, the instruments fell silent.

"Good afternoon!"

Four backs bent to ninety degrees in perfect unison — so thunderously that the snare drum resonated with a low hum.

"······Yes. Hello."

Lee Mishin gave the changed whiteboard a single glance, then took his place. Three hands offered him chairs, one of which had a cushion spread out on the floor. He was a former shaman, after all — they'd figured the cushion might suit him better.

"······A chair is fine."

"Yes, sir!"

The cushion was quietly withdrawn.

The briefing didn't take long: recovering the band's performance condition came first for now, and the detailed plans would be shared as soon as they were worked out. Nam Green, who'd been copying it all into her notebook, cautiously raised a hand.

"Um, Chief? Those detailed plans — when might they, you know······"

"I can't say yet."

"I knew it······ there's a right time for it, isn't there?"

"······Well. Yes."

The four exchanged glances. A right time. When a shaman said it, the meaning landed with full force.

"And one last thing."

"Yes, sir!"

"Bom."

"Y-yes?!"

Kim Bom flinched at being singled out.

"I'd like to hear your drumming."

"N-now? B-by myself?"

"Yes. Anything you like."

Kim Bom learned today that anything you like was the hardest spell in the world. Her three unnies silently evacuated to the wall, each dropping a word as they passed.

"Bom, grip those sticks tight."

"Don't laugh if you mess up."

"Bom, you know what happens if you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mess up, right?"

Baek Iseo's parting advice was the most terrifying of all. And out of nowhere, the thought flickered through Bom's mind — that the person who'd bought rice cakes last night might be getting her rite of passage performed right now.

'Eep!'

She barely managed to sit down on the drum stool. Nam Green came over ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and pressed down firmly on her shoulders.

"Bom, just like always."

"I don't remember what always was······"

"Breathe. Think one thing. You're the best drummer in this room."

"I'm the only one in this room who plays drums······"

"Which makes you number one, doesn't it."

"······"

She regripped the sticks, took a deep breath, counted in.

Tak, tak, tak, tak—

The eighth-note groove began to roll.······ creaking all the while. The hi-hat lagged by half a beat, the snare's rimshot missed its mark every other hit, and on her very first fill, a stick clanged off the rim.

Ttak!

'I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead I'm dead······'

Kim Bom's mind had turned to mush. She hadn't even shaken this hard at her audition — at least the judges hadn't been watching a ritual. Every time she felt a gaze on her back, her arms felt like someone else's arms.

'Don't look, don't look, don't lo—'

She looked.

Come face to face with two expressionless eyes!

"······!"

Her mind went white in an instant. She had entered the realm of self-forgetting. Dudududududu! Fills poured down like a waterfall. Kwang! Chang! Dugudugudugu! Toms rolled, crashes detonated, afterimages trailed off the blurring sticks.

"······?"

"B-Bom?!"

The members' faces had gone slack with disbelief.

"······So this is what she's been hiding."

The performance only rampaged harder. Dugudugudugu! Ghost notes packed every gap between the beats, and every crash landed precisely where it was supposed to.

"She's possessed right now."

"······Actually looks like she's channeling a spirit."

Hong Yena's bass-holding hand started to itch, and she found herself fiddling with the neck. She couldn't help wondering what it would sound like to lay a line under that drumming.

Chwaaaang—!

The last crash hung in the air a long while.

"Haah, haaah, haah······"

Kim Bom collapsed forward onto the cymbal, sticks still in hand.

"Bom, what you just did······"

"Wh-what?! Did I play something wrong?!"

"No? We've been together three years and I have never once heard you play like that!"

"······She was a monster."

Even in the middle of all this, the maknae's mouth curled up gooey at her unnies' praise.

'It felt······ like the playing just came out of me all of a sudden. Did the Chief breathe some energy into me?'

Meanwhile—

"······"

Lee Mishin was turning the performance over in his mind. The first run-through and the one just now. Same person, same instrument, same practice room. The only thing that had changed was that their eyes had met.

'Now that I think about it.'

The first day he'd watched this team through the glass — that day too, the moment their eyes met, the four slumped figures had suddenly exploded into playing.

'So that footage of the future······'

would mean that I was behind the camera.

'Something's slowly starting to click······'

Around lunchtime the next day, Lee Mishin's phone rang.

A black van was parked in a corner of the basement parking garage. The moment he approached, the door slid open before he could even knock, revealing Han Heedae — selfishly handsome again today.

"You came."

"Yes."

Stepping inside, Lee Mishin flinched for a split second.

'Is this some kind of hotel?'

Seats like first-class airplane chairs. A refrigerator, even. And spread out on the table before his knees was the script for Night Journey, its pages forested with sticky notes. Apparently there was a color system: blue went beside dialogue, yellow beside stage directions, red only in the margins.

'So this is how a top star lives.'

In spite of himself, he glanced back at the slacker of a shut-in he'd been for three years — earnest in his desperation, but lazy all the same.

"Have a seat. There's a photoshoot nearby, so I stopped in on the way."

Han Heedae opened the mini fridge beside the armrest and handed over a can.······ a can of sweet ssanghwacha tea.

"I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heard it was to your taste."

"······"

There was one thing he'd like to correct. It had never been a taste. The cans piled up on his desk, so he drank them; drinking them daily, it grew on him; and now it was just that their absence felt like something missing.······ wait. Was that what a taste was?

"How far along is what I asked for?"

"Nearly finished."

"Nearly. Then let's set a date. My table read is next Wednesday, and I'd like to have it before then."

"The weekend should work."

"Good, the weekend."

Preferably somewhere with no discerning eyes, no doubt. A con-artist shaman tutoring a top star, after all.

"Should I bring anything to prepare?"

"Comfortable clothes will do."

"So we'll be exerting ourselves."

Expectation crept across Han Heedae's face, and watching it, Mishin said:

"Don't expect too much."

"That's a bit of a problem when my character has eight years of training."

"······"

"And let me ask one thing in advance."

Han Heedae picked out a single sticky note and opened the script to it.

"There's a stage direction in episode three. 'The shaman stands for a long moment before the closed door.' The director says it's for the visual, but I still don't really get it."

Lee Mishin set down the empty can.

"A god dwells in the threshold."

"······"

"When you enter someone's home, you pay your respects to that home's god first. That long moment is time set aside for the greeting."

Scratch, scratch—

Han Heedae began jotting into the script's margin.

"A greeting, huh······"

He tapped the sentence a few times with the tip of his pen, then laughed low in his throat.

"Glad I asked for a consultation."

'Phew. Dodged that one.'

For the record, that answer had been salvaged from a documentary he'd watched last night. That was also the first time he'd learned there was a reason behind every grandmother's warning about stepping on the threshold. Such is the awesome power of cramming.

"By the way. I heard you took on Youth Girls."

"······Word's already gotten around?"

It had only been days.

"I don't know about word getting around — I asked separately. To the head of Division 1."

"······"

Han Heedae lowered the script onto his lap.

"Songhwa's got name recognition and she's doing well for herself, so fine, I get that one."

Leaning back into the seat, he continued.

"Forget Youth Girls. No interest in managing me?"

"······Actors fall under Division 1's jurisdiction."

"Which ends the moment I say the word."

"······"

The man was discussing bending company rules with the world's most casual air. And the terrifying part was that with his market value, it actually seemed possible.

"Stick with me and you'll never be bored."

"······"

"I'm the type to stir up big business, so my tables are always huge. With your eyes, there'd be plenty you could work on those tables."

Han Heedae took a sip of the ssanghwacha and went on with perfect composure.

"Oh, and I like ssanghwacha too, as it happens."

"······"

"So — your answer?"

"I can help you the way I have been, but managing you outright would be difficult."

"Why?"

······Why, of course. Because I'd never seen one. And more than anything—

"I made a promise to Youth Girls."

"A promise······"

A strange smile crossed Han Heedae's face. Mishin glanced, out of habit, at his wristwatch — and Han Heedae looked at that same watch.

"You wear it well. I could give you more of those, you know."

"Then I'll be going. Time's up."

Lee Mishin had just opened the door and stepped out when a voice — trained actor's projection blended in — came from behind him.

"Think it over. Carefully."

Preparations for Park Songhwa's All In comeback were rolling along steadily, and today was the day the choreography draft would be unveiled for the first time.

"Mr. Mishin! Here, over here!"

Park Songhwa greeted him the moment he walked into the dance studio.

"It's been so long since I learned choreography — I was so excited yesterday I couldn't sleep, you know."

"You should sleep properly."

"······Still with the T-speak, I see."

A quick glance showed tape wrapped around her ankle. Apparently she'd been practicing on her own all this while — how could her ankles be that thin?

"You're the composer, right? I've heard a lot about you."

Choreography captain Seo Jian came over and offered a handshake.

"My team's been humming the song nonstop since they heard the demo. It wouldn't leave their ears the whole time we were building the draft — I got chewed out for it."

"Thank you for receiving it so kindly."

I took a seat in the chair set aside for me. In my capacity as composer and overall director.······ or so the title went. Frankly, if I'm confessing, my stage career ended with playing a pine tree in my elementary school arts festival. In the army, I carried speakers for the division talent show. Which is to say, on matters of dance I was an audience member — nothing more, and nothing less. I sat there playing the composer, but it meant I knew absolutely nothing.

"We'll start from the verse, then."

The backing track came on, and the choreography draft began to unfold.

'Oh. The pros really are different.'

Even to a layman's eye, the moves looked expensive. What was more astonishing was Park Songhwa. This was her first time seeing the draft, and from the second run-through her body was moving ahead of the count.

"Songhwa, you pick things up so fast."

"Oh, do I? Maybe it's because Mr. Mishin's watching again today······"

······No connection whatsoever.

Then came the hook.

「Throw everything, throw it」

On the lyric, Park Songhwa's arms flung wide above her head, and on—

「Yes, I'm all in」

—she landed the frozen pose, wrists crossed.

But.

'······That's not the feel I saw.'

When the run-through ended and water bottles began making the rounds, I opened my mouth.

"About the hook's choreography point. I think the direction's a little different."

Seo Jian turned around, towel at her neck.

"Different how?"

"More······ leisurely than the current draft? A little cheeky, maybe?"

"······Leisurely, and cheeky."

Seo Jian moved her arm exactly as described.

"Something like this?"

Not at all. She tried shrinking the arc, tried keeping only the wrist snap — no good either way.

"You wrote the song, so you must have a clear picture in your head······"

She tilted her head, then said:

"Could you show us just a hint of it with the movement? Even just the feel?"

'······Me?'

I looked at my long-haired, suited self in the mirror.

'Well — if it's just the feel.'

I stood in front of the mirror. Eyes drilled into my back — Seo Jian and Park Songhwa, and even the other dancers had stopped to watch.

'You people make it so heavy.'

I steadied my breath and summoned the scene.

'It was something like this, I think······'

"······"

"······"

The studio went quiet. The first to move was Seo Jian. Like someone entranced, she began mimicking that hand shape.

Twist, tak.

She laid it over the beat, tried changing the wrist angle, shifted her weight.

"Uh······ this lands exactly on the beat."

Twist, tak. Twist, tak.

"With this snap on the throw it······ whoa, that works. There's no better point than this."

The dancers started copying it one by one, and soon the mirror was filled edge to edge with twisting wrists.

"But wait, this······"

The murmur slowed, bit by bit.

Twist.

"······Isn't this a card-throwing move?"

"······"