Chapter 390

Chapter 390

Given that all the elements and keywords aligned, our performance naturally headed in a similar direction to my first team rendition of the song. Ahyeon was in charge of the choreography, and I was the leader. Perhaps it was natural that the performance was becoming more and more like the first team battle performance I had done on Idol Inc.

“Good work, guys!”

“Gunwoo, here!”

“Thanks,” I said.

I wiped the sweat dripping from my chin with a towel.

“Gunwoo, this kind of choreography must suit you! You’re so quick at picking it up, and your moves already seem so complete…”

“Yeah? I guess I got lucky,” I said.

I know the choreography already. Our altered version of the chorus moves, which we were practicing now, didn’t require any memorization on my part. It was almost identical to what I remembered. That wasn’t the end to the similarities as the composition of the arrangement was also turning out basically the same.

Who knew I’d end up proving what a good job of it we did back then… Experts had made similar changes to the ones I’d made during my first team battle. We needed to finish our art-focused collaboration in a week, so in order to ensure good quality, more of the agency’s experts were lending their skills than ever before. The feedback we got right before the interim evaluation had been the following.

“I think it would be great to put a little more emphasis on the bridge.”

“Right…”

“The other two members have a lot of dancing parts in the beginning part of the song, but this is meant to be a collaboration. You should do this part solo,” one of the experts said to me.

Me? On my own?

I’d done the exact same thing on Idol Inc, arranging the music to include a lot of high notes so that I could show off my singing stat. Essentially, the composition of the arrangement would be basically the same as before.

“How does it sound?”

“I’m totally for it!” one of the others said.

Nobody was complaining.

I relaxed my hands and said, “All right.”

The person doing the music, however, massaged his shoulder with an unhappy look and said, “Gunwoo, are you ill? You seem really out of it today.”

“…!”

That won’t do. Looking tired on a survival show was setting oneself up for failure—I was sure to be accused of having an attitude. It was best that I clear up the misunderstanding quickly.

I immediately spoke louder. “No! I just have some aches and pains… I apologize if my poor condition was obvious.”

“No need to apologize… You should take good care of yourself. Your debut is on the horizon, you get me?”

“I understand.”

My teammates on either side of me quickly began speaking quietly to me.

“Gunwoo, sorry. We had no idea you were ill…”

“Have some water.”

“Nah. I’m the one who didn’t tell you,” I said.

I took some water from Judan and we moved on.

The arranger asked again, “So we’re going to do this for the bridge, yes? Emphasize Gunwoo’s singing?”

“Yes,” I said.

It would be a bad idea to protest. In order to make sure nothing went wrong, I would have to make sure I seemed more dedicated than ever before.

This is the right way. Mentally, I was totally against the song and concept choice, despite having no good reason for feeling this way, and it was turning out to be a problem. There was an unpleasant niggling sensation, like I wasn’t singing at my full potential the entire time we were practicing.

Sh*t…

“Let’s get some rest and start again tomorrow—”

“If you work even harder now, you’ll sleep better tonight,” I said.

“Right…”

My teammates seemed worried about my condition and were suggesting absurd things like working harder so we could finish early and rest. I talked them out of it and finished our afternoon practice session. I couldn’t help but sigh.

Have I lost my mind? The cameras were on, and yet my weird mood was actually affecting my performance. It was enough to make me unworthy of being on the show in the first place.

Aren’t you going to do a proper job? The companion draw and whatnot aside, perhaps I would have to use the reputation I’d earned on my own stats.

“Gunwoo, are you going to eat dinner?”

“Let me finish this first. You guys eat first.”

I stretched for a long time before finally heading to the cafeteria. After I showered and got my interim evaluation, I planned to come back to the practice room at night to work on practicing some more. I felt like sh*t.

I pulled out a chair. There was no one in the cafeteria, perhaps because it was past dinner time, other than one person who was using the tables like a study cafe.

“Hey, Gunwoo. Sit here,” Cheongryeo said.

I immediately checked the corners and all the tables.

He grinned. “There are no cameras. Come on, we can talk, yeah?”

I scooped some food onto my tray and sat opposite him. He had been looking over a notebook containing choreography sequences.

He asked, “You don’t feel ill, do you?”

Because we shared the same practice room, it seemed he had overheard a few things.

“Why are you asking? You don’t need to,” I said.

“Huh? I’m asking because I already know,” he said. He closed his notebook and asked lightly, “This is your first time, isn’t it? You did a performance, and it was successful in the past, but now it’s as if it never happened. And you’re being forced to use it again in a different situation.”

I stared across the table.

“I guess it’s bothering you quite a bit,” he said.

How do I handle this? I wanted to ask, but naturally, I didn’t.

F*ck. He probably just did it because he had no other choice.

“Is it that performance? That one you did during the first team battle of Idol Incorporated?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Your first performance is always special. I still remember mine.”

His first performance?

“Speaking of which… mine was also on a survival show. This survival show. There are quite a few commonalities, aren’t there? It’s interesting.” He stared into space for a moment. Then he grinned. “It’s fine. Once you go through it once, you realize it’s no big deal. You said this isn’t even reality, anyway. You’ll feel disappointed, and that’s it.”

“Maybe…” I said, lowering my chopsticks to the table carelessly from the tray, where I had perched them.

I can’t believe I am talking to him like this.

“The problem is, the repulsion I feel is affecting my performance,” I said.

“My goodness,” he said, closing the notebook after he was finished writing something in it. He said quietly, “Don’t practice any more today and get some sleep. Be sure to eat well, too. Your thoughts are more impacted by your physical condition than you might think. You are going to look after your physical condition, right?”

I nodded slowly.

He shrugged. “Yes… And if you really feel like you can’t do it, think of another way,” he said.

“Why would I do that?” I slammed my water cup down on the table. “I know what I should do, and I know I can do it.”

“So you do know,” he said with a smile, getting up. He gestured to my tray with his chin. “Eat all of that and go to bed.”

I nodded to him, and he left.

“Phew…”

I hadn’t had an appetite to start with, but now I felt even less like eating.

[You really should eat…]

Wouldn’t it be better to just have some glucose candy instead of potentially upsetting my stomach?

[Of course not!]

I grinned, looking at the shocked pop-up. I now had a better idea of what I needed to do, but I felt even worse.

So I just need to go ahead with it, and it will feel better? Just the thought upset me.

Sh*t. I spent the next few minutes shoving everything on the tray into my mouth. It felt terrible. By the time I was done and getting up, I heard the door to the cafeteria slide open. I wasn’t looking at the person who came in, but I heard their voice.

“Oh.”

“…!”

I turned around. It was the same guy I had seen two days ago—Seon Ahyeon with black hair.

“Hello. Nice to see you again.”

I bowed my head at him, but he waved his hand at me.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that! I would rather we be comfortable with each other,” he said.

“You’re here as a mentor. I can’t do that,” I said.

“But the cameras aren’t on right now,” he said, smiling faintly as he closed the door carefully and came inside.

Why bother?

“I got here early because there was no traffic, and I was looking around,” he said.

Yeah?

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Do you really think that a contestant would say no to their mentor?

“Of course not,” I said.

“Thank you…!”

What are you thanking me for? Now I couldn’t leave. I stared down at my finished tray and considered.

He said gently, “Thank you for the candy. I eat it too, at times. It’s usually to boost my energy during intermissions.”

“Right.”

Right. I remembered the way he would eat candy in the middle of concerts, only to spit them out because he ran out of time.

He was probably talking about ballet intermissions right now, though. Because intermissions were set periods of rest for him, he probably hadn’t ever needed to spit the candy out.

After my terse response, the silence stretched between us. He didn’t seem dissuaded from conversation, however, since he said, “Actually, when we met in the corridor… I thought I’d seen you before.”

What?

“But then I realized that it was probably not the right time to ask that sort of thing. You seemed to be in pain.”

“Pain?” I asked.

He flinched a little, but he nodded.

“Yes. In pain. The same is true right now.”

It seemed that I had worn my emotions far too obviously on my sleeve.

What about the cameras? I had already made my excuses, saying I was in a poor condition, so I supposed it would be fine. I had done my best during practice, and I never said anything mean to the other contestants.

“You don’t have to tell me about it, but I hope you find someone you can talk to. Here is my therapist’s number…” he said.

“I’m all right,” I said.

That’s enough.

“Right… Sorry. I guess that was too meddlesome of me,” he said, becoming uncertain.

I repressed a sigh. Before I could exhale, I found myself saying, “It wasn’t meddlesome.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just that… I’ve already done a performance using the same song and concept.”

“The same as this one?” he asked.

“Right.”

I looked down.

“It was my first performance, and it was with some close friends that I can’t see anymore. It doesn’t feel right that the same performance will be shown to the world for the first time on this show.”

Even as I said it, I knew how absurd I sounded. His expression grew puzzled. He seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“If you’re having such a hard time… Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked.

Why else?

“By saying nothing, I can ensure better results,” I said.

“…!”

“That performance was very well received. I’m not stupid enough to not use a concept that’s already been proven a success.”

I supposed he might misunderstand and assume I was talking about an end-of-month evaluation at some other agency. Not that it really mattered.

He stared at the table for a long moment. Then he said firmly, “Getting good results isn’t always the answer. Choosing to not inflict pain on yourself is also valid.”

“…!”

It wasn’t something I would have expected a professional to say, but Seon Ahyeon was doubling down.

“Forcing yourself to face something you don’t want to isn’t the only way to succeed.” He hesitated, then added uncertainly, “I… I’ve neglected my own feelings too much, and it has caused me pain. And I know that you can pull off a great performance even if you choose a different way of going about things. There isn’t a single interpretation.”

He concluded gently, “So you don’t have to insist on enduring pain so that you can succeed. Sometimes an alternate plan is what you need.”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I had to admit that his words rattle me, and I was tempted for a moment. But there was now something else weighing on me.

I thought he was living a good life, without any troubles. He was no longer stammering, he communicated actively despite being in unfamiliar circumstances, and he was very successful. He already had all the things that Seon Ahyeon had been working toward in the real world. He was obviously the version of himself that was doing better. And yet here he was, talking about pain to someone he had only just met.

It’s almost as if…

[Gunwoo?]

Oh! I’d been silent for too long. I managed to force myself to speak.

“Thank you… I’ll keep that in mind.”

I wasn’t telling him that I was going to do as he said, but he nodded happily nonetheless.

“Not at all. It must have come as a surprise to hear a stranger saying all this to you. Thank you for your mature response,” he said.

“No. Thank you for the advice. It… made me feel better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Finally, the mood between us felt a little more pleasant. I was just happy that the cameras were not running.

Ahyeon looked a little happier as he said, “And there isn’t really that much of an age difference between us. We can speak casually with each other.”

“You go first.”

“Well… You should probably go first,” he said, smiling hesitantly.

Thought as much. Before I could say anything more, one of his employees called to him, just like the last time we’d spoken.

“You should probably get going, right?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.”

He finally stood up.

“If you decide to change the song, I’ll say that it was my suggestion. Don’t worry,” he said, though he didn’t have to try and help me like this. Then he left. It did make me feel a little better, perhaps because he was here as a mentor.

So I don’t need to go through with it… huh?

[Gunwoo… I think Ahyeon is right. If you don’t want to do it, why should you have to?]

Though I’d been moved by his words, changing the song was a different matter. If it was necessary, I would do it. The pop-up shook, as if booing me.

Enough. I would not change my mind.

The pop-up shrank, as if put out.

[T_T… Why not think of this as a team cover performance, then? It’s not like this is a repeat of Idol Inc.! Just think of it as working with your juniors!]

It sounded like nonsense, but it was still an oddly convincing idea. It was true that this was a totally different time period, and we were on a completely different show. If I could convince myself that the two situations were different, perhaps something in my attitude could change.

“…!”

Wait a second.

[Gunwoo?]

You’re right.

[What?]

I had been coming at this all wrong. Idol Inc. and Wise were not the same show. Not only were their years different, the way they progressed and the target audiences differed.

In other words, the standards for evaluation are different. The same could be said for how many members I was working with, the theme of the performance, and the composition. Even if this performance had been perfect for the first team battle of Idol Inc., there was no guarantee that the same would be true now.

And if I took that into account and calculated once more… I could see that doing the same performance again was not necessarily the correct answer.

I am such an idiot. I can’t believe I realized that only now.

[Uh… so…]

I easily came to a conclusion.

We are going to have to change things around a little.

[Oh, wow!]

I grinned and returned my tray, leaving my place at the table clean.

I gathered my teammates in the living room before the interim evaluation.

“Oh, Gunwoo!”

“I thought you were taking a shower?”

“I have something to say,” I began immediately.

“Something just didn’t feel right, and now I know why. There’s something that we failed to take into account.”

“Huh?”

“Our mentor.”

The mentors not only provided advice regarding the performance and took part in the planning, but would also join our performances briefly. For example, a team might draw pop art for the intro, only for the mentor to tear it apart, or an orchestra might do a live accompaniment.

“Our mentor is a ballet dancer,” I said.

“Yes… he is. What about it?”

“We have to make sure he doesn’t eclipse us.”

There were no cameras in the living room yet. I spoke without hesitation.

“We can’t do the same choreography. It has to be different and synergistic, which will make the performance seem more novel.”

“Oh…”

The two looked at each other. Chaeyul said, “So does this mean… we have to make some corrections?”

“Yes. There are some things we need to get rid of, and some things to add,” I said.

I paused, then said gently, “Of course, we’re going to have to do a lot of work if we’re going to pull this off…”

Chaeyul brightened. “That’s okay! I love this idea!”

“Let’s give it a shot,” the other VTIC member said.

They’re VTIC, all right. I’d never been so glad that they didn’t know how to say no as I was now.

“All right,” I said, opening my notebook.

The reaction we got during our interim evaluation after announcing we were going to overhaul at least half of the performance was one of confusion, expectation, and worry. Time passed and the day of the performance arrived.