I thought back over the concepts SPARK had pulled off these past seven years.

From the debut album ballad where they tried to channel “winter boys” on a frost-burned lawn where the grass was long dead.

To the one where—shooting for “unexpected charm,” apparently—they wore jumpsuits in an abandoned factory and sang love songs.

Some concepts actually suited SPARK pretty well. They just torpedoed seasonality and fashion sense in the process.

“Once the cyber-warrior concept hit the board, UA’s planning was basically pronounced dead.”

I forcibly pushed the image of five gray cyber warriors out of my head—I didn’t even want to remember it.

So then, what concept should SPARK get?

“We’ve got to leverage their faces and physique somehow...”

First I asked Lee Cheonghyeon—who’d end up owning the biggest chunk of songwriting—if he had a concept he wanted. He answered:

“I hope it fits a big, bursting feel. Fun!”

“Are you just saying something that matches the song you’re writing now?”

The tune Cheonghyeon had been humming as “something I’m drafting” was a track that, in the past, went on the debut album.

Since I knew how that song would end up, I knew exactly the feel he meant.

“My life goal is ‘You only live once, so live it fun!’”

Not super helpful—but the words of our precious composer, so I took them to heart.

“Oh! What about a future-oriented concept? It’s cool! Like a movie!”

“Don’t even let a horrific word like that leave your mouth.”

Unless you want to be a cyber warrior born from an LED panel.

“Nothing else you need?”

“A warm compliment for a younger brother struggling for self-development?”

“Cheonghyeon, your effort to grow is awesome. Satisfied? Then let’s get back to work.”

I was herding Cheonghyeon back to his laptop when Park Juu poked his head in from [N O V E L I G H T] the doorway.

I waved him in—since he’d stuck his head in on his own.

“We were talking concepts for a minute. Juu, is there a concept you want to try?”

“If it’s among idol-type concepts... something a bit strong.”

Still the exact opposite of his gentle vibe.

“Do you mean strong as in lyrics/message? Or strong as in what’s visible—styling or choreography?”

“...Hmm.”

Looked like he hadn’t thought that far yet.

“Going by Juu hyung’s taste, isn’t it that he wants higher difficulty on the song? Like power high notes and such.”

“As long as this country owns Park Juu and Jeong Seongbin, avoiding high notes is impossible.”

“...If I have to choose, I like it when the message hits hard.”

A fairly philosophical taste.

The last time I thought about philosophy was when Hanpyeong Industries begged me to please decide which management philosophy to put on the website.

As for the rest, I asked Jeong Seongbin and the others and got a rough read on what each wanted to try.

Choi Jeho: something with tough choreography.

Jeong Seongbin: anything, as long as it suits the members.

Park Juu: something with a powerful message.

Lee Cheonghyeon: big, bursting fun.

Kang Giyeon: something that can use original formations, catch the eye, and show the group’s color well.

Like five guys at a Chinese place each ordering a different dish. With unity like this, how did they promote together for seven years?

I chased off the oncoming headache and mentally re-outlined the concept I’d have to build.

It has to showcase the members’ strengths—physique and visuals.

It has to fit a song Cheonghyeon will compose.

It has to match our high-maintenance members’ tastes.

It has to sell in the market.

Darkness. The only idol concepts I knew were the ones SPARK had done these past seven years.

There was only one solution for moments like this.

Same as when I’d scoured the internet for HR form templates right after joining the company: throw myself into the ocean of information.

I stuffed “reference research” into my already airtight daily schedule.

A day this explosively busy—maybe I should invoice the system for overtime.

There was a time I’d gone around scraping up positive comments to make a birthday present for Choi Jeho.

That was... when we said we’d compile supportive comments into a book and gift it, right.

Among the posts I saw on all sorts of communities, there was a type that popped up every SPARK comeback like it had been copy-pasted.

≫ There might not be a company worse than UA at using the kids’ faces

They go out of their way to lovingly put burlap sacks on kids who’d shine if you just coordinated their colors

└ >go out of their way to lovingly< is the kill point

└ Official no.1 idols who look best in their own clothes

Below that, the thread was wallpapered with photos of SPARK in Tetris looks—like as long as top and bottom were technically clothes, they were set.

≫ Doing every stage like this is a skill too

One of them must’ve spilled iced Americano on the CEO’s face for sure

└ Judging by the attitude, looks like all five spilled at the same time

└ If you tell me the CEO’s shirt cost 800k won, I fully understand

As the scathing critiques and flashy photos took turns sucking out my soul, something snagged my eye.

“What the...?!”

It was my photo.

Wearing—no joke—a black T-shirt, a neon-yellow vinyl vest, and white cotton shorts.

The post with the shocking photo had a one-line comment.

≫ Kim Iwol’s outfit is legit insane

Basically a Post-it note dropped on a keyboard

The evocative phrasing was so vivid I broke into a cold sweat.

Even that post with three views had comments.

≫ Those dead, dilated eyes XX feel sorry for him

“Hrk...!”

The moment my gaze met my own embalmed, glassy pupils immortalized with the comments, my eyes flew open.

A nightmare.

“No matter what happens, avoid the Post-it concept.”

I steeled myself. As if every day weren’t hell already, I had a feeling today wouldn’t be an easy one either.

When I went out to the living room, the first person I met eyes with was Lee Cheonghyeon, who greeted me.

“Hyung, did you have a nightmare? You were groaning in your sleep.”

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that this is reality.”

“Sounds like you had a really nasty dream.”

Accepting Cheonghyeon’s sympathy, I was heading to the kitchen when I saw someone at the induction cooktop holding a spatula.

Jeong Seongbin—already finished getting ready for school.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, hyung! Good morning.”

Then Seongbin pointed to the dining table.

“I baked bread today. Please have some too.”

On the table, the bread was laid out neatly.

No wonder it smelled good since morning.

If my eyes had opened earlier I would’ve at least rolled around a bit. He was practically a living moral-education textbook who’d been given life.

“Thanks. I’ll eat well.”

“No problem.”

He sat down and started eating bread too.

Even this Jeong Seongbin becomes the poster boy for “leader of a group full of grit” seven years into group life, huh.

I didn’t even want to imagine how idol life was going to roll from here.

They say learning never ends.

For the past 29 years, I believed that didn’t apply to me.

I didn’t even like studying to begin with. After getting force-fed study as a student, who’d want to study as an adult?

Through high school I studied just to get out of the house; in college I studied to get scholarships, graduate fast, and get a job. That was the whole reason.

I swear, I have never once studied because I wanted to.

I mean, I’m the guy who had to shovel with a hand trowel at Hanpyeong Industries because there wasn’t even a handover document.

If someone forces you to learn something new—I truly wanted to be done with that. And if I didn’t invite nonsense myself, it probably would’ve stayed that way.

But the old saying wasn’t wrong.

Massaging eyes that felt like they’d pop out while compiling the last five years of monthly TOP10s from music platforms, I admitted it inwardly.

In life, there really is no end to studying—because there comes a day an office worker has to study the idol market.

“How is it that the second I almost finish prepping for the monthly evaluation, all this work barrels in?”

The sad memories I’d stacked at Hanpyeong seemed to be resurfacing.

So, after sleeping three hours a day, practicing by day, and staring at my laptop by night...

“Hyung. Your dark circles look like they evolved.”

My face had deteriorated to where Cheonghyeon said that. I also felt like my dry eyes were flaring up.

Maybe I looked bad, because even Choi Jeho asked:

“If you sleep that little, aren’t you sleepy?”

“Sleepy.”

But if I don’t save the sleep now, it’s guaranteed the future will plaster me in Post-it looks.

Just thinking of that chased my sleep away.

“But hyung, what do you do at night? Didn’t you say you picked the monthly evaluation song?”

“Preparing for the future?”

“This hyung really talks weird.”

Cheonghyeon laughed.

It’s not like I could tell them, “Be grateful I’m saving you from foil-wrapped convenience-store kimbap life,” so I kept my mouth shut.

“...Still, hyung, I guess you really don’t get nervous.”

“Yeah. You did great on your first evaluation too.”

Park Juu and Jeong Seongbin chimed in, stretching in sync.

I didn’t want attention on me, so I switched the subject fast.

“Thanks for the compliments, but shouldn’t we start practice?”

Thankfully, FM-mode Seongbin flipped straight into practice mode.

And that was the end of the small talk... or so it seemed.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

Late at night, when we were the only two left in the practice room, Kang Giyeon spoke to me, keeping the nothing-conversation going.

“Could you spare me a moment?”

Sorry, Giyeon.

At this point, every time you open your mouth, I get scared.