Kang Giyeon kept his eyes pinned to the floor as he continued.

"That’s not me jumping to conclusions."

"......"

"Jeho hyung, you’ve got no motivation for group stuff. You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you?"

Choi Jeho looked like he had an idea. You could’ve noticed it even flying past on the KTX.

We hadn’t even debuted, and hardship and adversity were surging in like the tide. Life, as expected, wasn’t easy.

While I watched a relationship crumble like a helpless sandcastle, something came to mind.

The “stick function” listed under “New Task.”

Since it was called a function, there had to be something helpful about it.

I prayed inwardly and tapped the task page that popped up like a ghost at just the right time.

At the same time, the members’ movements paused as if time had stopped. New instructions appeared.

If I dragged this out, their legs would cramp, so I read as fast as I could.

 [SYSTEM] The “stick function” is now notified to Party B.

▷ Supports real-time checks of cooperation status among team members.

▷ Information about relationships between members linked by the stick will be disclosed irregularly depending on KPI achievement results.

▷ Select team members and then write an appropriate combo name to create a stick.

 If that function showed up now, it was telling me to link Choi Jeho and Kang Giyeon.

I dragged the names of Choi Jeho and Kang Giyeon, floating in midair, into the box in front of me, and an empty square field appeared.

 [SYSTEM] Please write a combo name.

▶ [ ]

 Without hesitation, I typed in “Matmak Line.”

 [SYSTEM] Inappropriate combo name.

▶ Reason: The facts do not match the combo name.

 And it was rejected in an instant.

"Why?"

Asking got me no answer.

Unbelievable. That was the official name fans used—who was it to reject it?

I read the reason for rejection slowly again. Then I had a guess what the problem was.

“Because I came in, did Choi Jeho stop being the oldest hyung?”

Counting birth months, I was February-born and Choi Jeho was November-born, so strictly speaking, the current Choi Jeho wasn’t the oldest.

Who knew memorizing Jeho’s birthday would be useful for something like this.

After that, I wrote more than ten combo names and got shot down for every single one.

The reasons for rejection were all over the place.

 [SYSTEM] Inappropriate combo name.

▶ Reason: Lacks sincerity.

[SYSTEM] Inappropriate combo name.

▶ Reason: Meaningless and overly simple.

[SYSTEM] Inappropriate combo name.

▶ Reason: Excessive malice detected.

 The review difficulty pierced the sky. To draw two sticks I might as well open a naming bureau.

Something moderately original, with a loving gaze, and a cute pet-name vibe was about as contradictory as a team-bonding company dinner.

So I decided to put the word “love” in first. That should at least convey affection.

By the time I reached “lovelings,” it started to feel a little cute.

But if I used “lovelings,” it would obviously pop up a reason like “The associated image does not fit.”

Those two... even at a glance, they were miles away from anything that felt lovable.

After much wracking of brains, I entered the final word.

 [SYSTEM] Combo name confirmed as “Sapodungi.”

 Thankfully, the system also acknowledged that that nickname fit two prickly men.

Once the combo was formed, the image each had of the other appeared.

 [Choi Jeho — I can’t tell what he’s thinking → Kang Giyeon]

 I didn’t know if I should be happy it wasn’t something like “Not interested.”

He acted like he lived in a world of his own, but it seemed he had at least a shred of interest in his fellow trainees.

The twist was on Kang Giyeon’s side.

 [Kang Giyeon — I’m hurt → Choi Jeho]

 So he was hurt about something with his hyung. Kind of... not un-adorable?

Apparently SPARK’s maknae, Kang Giyeon, had a warm heart behind a cold mouth.

If so, I could somewhat understand why he’d been the only one holding in his anger.

Above all, if they didn’t hate each other, there was hope.

I immediately closed the stick function. The suffocating atmosphere returned at once.

It looked like Jeho was about to open his mouth, but I had a feeling it would be something like “I don’t know.” or “I don’t care?” so I jumped in first and spoke to Kang Giyeon.

“Can you tell me what part hurt your feelings? That way I can be careful from now on, too.”

“Hurt my... feelings...”

Kang Giyeon’s eyes went wide.

When an emotion gets nailed down in clear words, it can be flustering. I get it.

But soon, Giyeon spoke with a decisiveness that made his earlier hesitation look silly.

“When I ask Jeho hyung to do group practice together, he says he can go on stage by himself anytime, so he doesn’t see why he has to match together from the start. Not once or twice—every time.”

“Mm.”

“I don’t know if ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) he hates having the flow broken when someone messes up or what, but it feels like hyung thinks as long as he does well, his part is done. I mean, that’s not wrong, but... I don’t like it.”

What Kang Giyeon said was polished and clear. Being this organized meant he’d wrestled with the same issue many times.

“Then ask him.”

“Sorry?”

“Choi Jeho, why did you say no when Giyeon asked to practice together?”

As the subject of the conversation shifted from Giyeon to himself, Jeho was flustered.

“I didn’t say no. I said I couldn’t find a reason we had to.”

Classic Jeho. There are people who don’t feel much when accomplishing something together.

“I get it. You didn’t feel the need because there wasn’t anything better about it, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s natural for people to think differently, but I do understand Giyeon’s side a bit more.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Maybe because we’re preparing to debut as a group, not debuting solo?”

Department Head Nam popped into my head, telling me how important group culture is in working life, and a chill ran down my spine.

I chose my words with every ounce of effort so I wouldn’t resemble him.

“Just debuting doesn’t magically create teamwork. If building skill is priority one for you, Jeho, it could be that for Giyeon, the extra things like teamwork matter too.”

“So then personal skill building isn’t important?”

“That’s important too, but your skill level isn’t going to collapse from doing a few group practices. That’s why I’m saying this.”

“.......”

“So if Giyeon asks to practice together, how about thinking, ‘Oh, he wants to try doing something all together.’ Isn’t that pretty admirable? He’s even the one initiating with his hyung.”

“It’s admirable just to initiate with me?”

“If you’re curious, count how many words you initiate with the members in a day.”

Jeho’s expression turned odd.

Uh-oh. That last line was a joke.

“Right, hyung. Kang Giyeon’s an only child, so he hasn’t had many chances to ask older folks to hang out!”

“I did not say it meaning ‘play with me,’ okay? Don’t twist it.”

Just when it was about to get serious again, Lee Cheonghyeon wrapped it up neatly. This punk and that punk—both were oddly admirable today.

And just like that, the suddenly opened case of “Why do you talk like that?” was brought to a close by the manager’s visit to the practice room.

Only after I returned, after a long battle of nerves, to the narrow, stifling vocal practice room did I manage to calm my pounding heart.

“No way we’re going to fight like this once a week... right?”

The thought alone was horrific. If I had to go through this every time for 20 EXP, I’d rather take three straight weeks of Kang Giyeon-brand special training.

A hundred times better to fight than to fall into a slump like Jeong Seongbin.

How did I end up dropping into a group like a candle in the wind?

I seriously wondered if my assigned role, “producer member,” was actually “mental produce member.”

But next time there’ll be no meetings, no assemblies.

Then I’ll make them solve it between the parties with nothing but “I see.”

What I thought was barely snuffing out embers ended up bringing an unexpected change.

Just a tiny bit, but the members started talking to each other a little more beyond greetings.

This very morning, even Choi Jeho...

“Do you bake that bread because of teamwork, too?”

...asked that. It was so unexpected I almost burned the whole batch.

The one who led this atmosphere was Lee Cheonghyeon.

He’d always had his own separate energy, and the moment he sensed the stiffness had loosened a little, he opened his mouth like a fish back in water.

“Hyung! Aren’t you hungry?”

Since getting out of school and coming to the practice room, this was the third time he’d asked if I was hungry.

“I am. I’ve been thinking about what to eat for breakfast tomorrow, actually.”

“You’re gonna eat bread or jjolmyeon anyway!”

Well, true.

I’m twenty, the age when your body wants to eat, and if I have bread for breakfast and only salad for lunch and dinner, of course I’m hungry.

“Do you guys get school lunch at noon? I don’t think I’ve seen you bring salad.”

“Oh, during the semester we skip lunch.”

“What?”

So they were suffering like that where I couldn’t see. Shocking.

Cheonghyeon breezily went on about not eating the perfectly fine lunch.

“If we eat, practice time drops, then our activity level drops. If I eat like usual, I gain weight.”

“No... so you just skip meals entirely?”

“Better than getting weighed and called out.”

Then he sighed.

“UA doesn’t weigh us that often, honestly. I hear the big companies manage really hard.”

“You’re on the slim side for your age group anyway, aren’t you?”

“Come on, hyung. Idols can’t go by standard weight.”

The more he talked, the heavier I felt.

SPARK had certainly shown a consistent look across seven years of activity.

The so-called “well-managed look.”

But human eyes are sensitive to change and dull to what doesn’t change.

If you watch people whose height and weight don’t change for seven years, you end up thinking, “Guess they’re just born like that.”

And then their effort naturally gets erased.

“At the end of the day we do this to eat—what is this...”

“Of all the faces I’ve seen on you lately, this looks the most serious...”

Wouldn’t you be serious if a high-schooler is skipping meals?

Even at Hanpyeong Industries they gave me a lunch break.

Legally required, sure—and even then I had to finish in ten minutes because I was delivering Department Head Nam’s lunch.

No fan on earth wants their idol walking around on an empty stomach.

I’d never once seen a support-lunchbox sticker design without “Don’t skip meals!” on it.

Suddenly I remembered how, seven years ago by my timeline, SPARK had debuted in a really unfitting, high-teen, delicate schoolboy concept.

“Did they go even harsher on diets for that delicate-boy concept?”

I looked at the present Cheonghyeon, then over his shoulder at Jeho and the other three in turn.

Unfortunately, far from “youthful schoolboys,” their faces were frighteningly cold.

Worse, these guys were born with such solid frames that even if they lost weight, unless they went to extremes it wouldn’t show much.

“I need to think about concept... in advance.”

Something that suits them as much as possible.

Above all, one where they don’t have to wear skinny school uniforms.