“Hyung, it’s your turn for the interview.”

“Yeah?”

Lee Cheonghyeon came in through the practice room door and called me.

It had been thirty minutes since he’d been called in for his interview.

Starting the day after the month-end evaluation, the company began one-on-one interviews, starting with Jeong Seongbin.

Considering that last time interviews were done in the beginning of the following month when scores came out, it really did seem like they were sketching out the debut lineup.

Well... I’ve done everything I could.

Now I had to think about what to do in the interview itself.

Like, if they said, “Rather than debuting with the current team where the skill gap is big, let’s aim for next time,” how exactly I was going to cling to the CEO’s pant leg.

Renewing my resolve to repay my sister with compound interest, I headed for the conference room.

I knocked and went in. Inside were the CEO, the manager-nim, and Min Ju Gyeong.

The room’s mood was quite different from what I’d expected.

“Iwol, you’re here? Sit, sit.”

“What can I get you to drink?”

How to put it — it was very friendly.

Why? Normally, if you’re trying to talk someone like me into something — lacking in skill and older on top of that — you come at them ready to slash everything to pieces.

“Assistant Manager Kim, you work like this and you’re not scared of your performance review? If it were me I’d be so embarrassed I’d hand in my title first.”

“You’re not thinking of jumping ship, are you? Get real, okay? Assistant Manager Kim, you’re almost thirty, aren’t you? Think you can compete with people in their twenties?”

...That sort of thing.

Remembering my memories with Deputy Manager Nam made my mood three times fouler. Thanks to that, I had to manage my expression with everything I had.

Once I sat, the interview began in earnest.

But something was a little unexpected.

“How was it living with the members, Iwol?”

“I heard you all got together in the studio and talked recently, right? Wasn’t a spot like that hard for you?”

“In your view, who do you think is suitable as the team’s leader?”

Every question coming at me was a character-interview type.

For a second I nearly suspected someone had reported, “That guy Kim Iwol’s personality seems kind of busted.”

Of course, even if someone had said that, it wouldn’t be strange.

I tried to be as sociable as possible, deploying the social skills I’d honed at Hanpyeong Industries, but I was never the one to initiate small talk with Spark.

So I emphasized that I really enjoyed living with the members, that I felt our bond had grown tighter lately, and that I was very satisfied.

I calmly added how solid and improving the trainees were, and how good their character was.

Since my KPI was debuting as a six-member boy group, there couldn’t be any dropouts.

Especially when asked who I thought fit as leader, I named Jeong Seongbin with a heart that might as well have been coughing blood. Without him, this team would blow apart.

After we’d talked for quite a while, the CEO spoke.

“Truth is, the company was thinking about making you the leader of the next group.”

It wasn’t a suggestion I couldn’t have predicted. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to set a klutz at a well-laid table either.

The “leader” hat was outside my expected range, though.

Given this, there was no helping it.

Time to show the secret kneel I’d polished for years to get propulsion when submitting a resignation...

“But your chemistry with the existing trainees is just so good.”

Huh?

That was a development I hadn’t expected at all.

I almost wondered whether the CEO misunderstood what the word “chemistry” meant.

Normally, no one would watch me stand the youngest in the middle of the studio and, channeling a judge, grind them for two hours or whip them into writing songs, and then call that good chemistry.

“In an idol group, teamwork is really important. People don’t go on about ‘relationship dynamics’ for nothing.”

That I know well. I’ve seen to the point of nausea just how individually the past Spark punks acted.

When the self-content started, they scattered in an instant unless forced, or kept their distances, and editing together the members’ shots into a “Spark Relationship Dynamics Compilation” series was back-breaking.

It almost seemed like having a Stick Function with coercive power to pair them off would be better for their future.

Whether I was confused or not, the CEO — clearly someone who didn’t know the meaning of chemistry — kept going.

“The kids aren’t the type to be all affectionate, but with you they seem to warm up fast. Your own skill is improving day by day, too.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“In the interviews, there wasn’t a single kid who didn’t bring you up, you know?”

I felt oddly unsettled.

These people clearly hadn’t seen the face Kang Giyeon makes on dance days.

The CEO mentioned he was thinking of the all-rounder Jeong Seongbin as leader, then said to me,

“So here’s the thing. As the hyung, can you help Seongbin from time to time and sync up with the members?”

“...Sorry?”

I had never once zoned out while talking to someone.

But right now I could feel myself spacing for a moment.

What does that mean?

While I was thinking, the manager-nim patted my back — not hard.

“You’re debuting with the kids too! Congratulations!”

Ah.

So that’s what you meant? 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

Compared to Deputy Manager Nam’s blunt abuse, the CEO’s words ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) were practically classical poetry. His skill at saying things in a roundabout, elegant way was top-tier.

“You were so crisp and decisive every time — did you really not think you’d make the debut team?”

Min Ju Gyeong spoke as if proud. I had, in fact, been thinking that if I didn’t, I’d have to kneel.

Wondering if the lot of them were playing a prank on me, the air flashed and the system appeared.

 [SYSTEM] “Task” has been completed.

▷ Reward: EXP (20)

▷ Total EXP: 55

▷ Total Points: 0

 What moving lines. So bright it stung my eyes.

Noona, please cheer for me.

They’re saying I’m in the idol debut lineup now.

A few days later, we got a small hall cake and congratulations for the finalized debut lineup. Because of the upcoming weight check, we all just had a taste and stopped.

There were exactly two good things about the lineup being fully set.

Month-end evaluations disappeared, and practice room hours were extended to 2 a.m.

And the bad points were...

The company officially stepping in to manage weight, the one-hour-per-day phone rule getting a bit stricter, each trainee having to develop a specialty, and foreign-language study being added... that sort of thing.

In the midst of that, the system brought a new task.

 [SYSTEM] An instruction from the “Supervisor” has arrived.

▶ Assistant Manager Kim, how about you plan the team-building event this time. With a young touch. Ah, execs will be attending too, so don’t go too innovative. Give me something, you know, retro yet fresh!

[SYSTEM] “New Task” has been assigned.

▷ Decide the debut album concept

▷ Reward: EXP (10)

 Come on. I’ve been waiting.

As luck would have it, the album concept was something I’d already started preparing.

I was planning an idol album for the first time, but since I had paperwork, it didn’t feel daunting.

With a template, you can see the components, so filling in the contents inside is no big deal.

The problem was that I couldn’t use the document the system gave me as-is.

If they ask where I got the planning template, what am I going to say?

I considered saying I downloaded it from an all-purpose forms site, but when I checked, that platform didn’t have the same template.

And I couldn’t go slapping an innocent someone with an internal-document-leak accusation either.

In other words, I had to act like I didn’t have the document, even though I did.

On top of thinking up a concept, I had to worry about how to hide Schrödinger’s document.

And how to disguise myself as a trainee with unnaturally sharp instincts.

Being a K-idol trainee is really no joke.

Come to think of it, I haven’t even opened those files.

I pulled out the three-piece proposal set I’d received and left drifting somewhere in the virtual ether.

And the moment I saw the template, I knew.

This template would be scrapped once the debut album planning was done.

When a document has no foundation, that’s how it ends. If even a non-specialist in planning can tell it’s a no-go, this one is beyond repair.

I skimmed the outline with bleary eyes.

Overall concept and message as one set, and then outfits and the music video — three total areas.

It hadn’t been long since I resolved to fix my dark circles, and I already felt them twice as deep.

At least an office worker gets paid when they work...

I indulged a mercenary thought for a moment, then remembered Hanpyeong Industries didn’t pay overtime either, and immediately returned to trainee life. Once I hit my KPI, I’m definitely getting a job at a company without a flat-salary scheme.

After climbing the big mountain called evaluation, a kind of peaceful daily life followed.

Every day I did the scheduled practice and wrestled with the proposal.

I thought things would continue on that schedule for a while. Unfortunately, the peace didn’t last.

This morning, while getting ready for school, Jeong Seongbin left, secretly from the others...

“Could you spare a little time this afternoon?”

...that one line.

“I can make time. Do you have something to talk about?”

“Yes. And... Jeho hyung, too.”

“Choi Jeho?”

The casting alone was nothing if not ominous.

Naturally. The moment Choi Jeho is involved, the probability of a smooth conversation approaches zero.

His own reaction when I relayed Seongbin’s request wasn’t much different.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know either.”

And now, the present. The only two adult members among the trainees were trembling.

I wanted to ask Park Juu, Seongbin’s roommate, if he’d sensed any strange currents, but Seongbin didn’t seem to want others to know yet, so I couldn’t even ask that.

“I really have no clue here, so I’m asking — did you do something to Seongbin?”

While we waited in the lobby for Seongbin to get back, I prodded Choi Jeho.

He answered seriously.

“I was already thinking it over.”

“...Right.”

Still, at least you think about it now. Compared to last month, when you tried to fight Kang Giyeon with physiognomy, that’s a giant step.

After about thirty minutes, Seongbin came in through the front door in his school uniform.

Maybe he’d given Giyeon a heads-up, because Giyeon just greeted us and went straight down to the basement studio without another word.

Seeing us, Seongbin took off his bag and bowed.

“Thank you for taking the time.”

“It’s nothing. Everything okay at school?”

Waving it off, I asked after him. He nodded a couple of times.

“Yes. Were you two okay?”

“Other than Choi Jeho almost cussing me out, yeah.”

While we exchanged light talk, I subtly watched Seongbin’s face.

His complexion wasn’t bad, but he looked just a little anxious.

A kid whose conduct is upright and who’d recently gotten his mind sorted — a reason awkward to broadcast to others.

A kid like that calling in the two who, just by looks, belong to the kind of group that brings frost in midsummer: Choi Jeho, and worn-out me.

Considering those factors, no matter how I worked my brain, only one answer came to mind.

Carefully, hoping he would say no, I asked,

“So... is this favor asking us to bury someone?”