Even after hearing Jeong Seongbin’s story, our day-to-day didn’t change much.

At best, what I could do was make a big resignation scene while shouting, “That bastard is the one who should die!”—and that was the limit.

I mean, I certainly had enough confidence to blow everything up.

Instead, we decided to give compliments once a week, each person praising the next by age order.

The idea was to encourage one another where our self-esteem had been chipped away.

Adorably enough, it was “that” Park Juu who suggested it first.

I was a little nervous that the person praising Jeong Seongbin would be Choi Jeho...

If he has any sense, he’ll just watch me and follow along.

Ah—on the way to return my phone to the manager, I did bring it up once in the office.

“Manager, we don’t have any top-down hazing in this company, right?”

“No. If something like that existed, it’d be a huge problem!”

“Really?”

“Of course. And trainees themselves don’t do that to each other, do they?”

“They don’t. Still, I wondered if there were things we had to maintain between seniors and juniors.”

“Basic courtesy is important, but no bullying. If anyone did that, they’d be finished.”

This conversation happened in the office used by the Management Division. Which is to say, a place with more than ten open ears.

And about a sensitive abuse-of-power issue in showbiz, at that.

Jeong Seongbin did go pale, like he thought I might blow the whistle on Jang Junhu right away.

In the end I didn’t say it, so he let it pass without a word.

It might not seem like much right now. But one day someone could show up who understands the context of that random remark I blurted out.

If nothing pops, so be it; but if it does, great. I treated it as an insurance policy, for now.

So while a series of incidents had, against our wishes, turned into membership training for the group, we got our first all-trainee group interview since joining.

The full-scale “debut team cultivation” project had begun.

UA’s meetings had gentler edges than those at Hanpyeong Industries.

For starters, there weren’t raised voices or ballpoint pens flying across the desk.

What did the conference room look like at the company I’d belonged to until just recently?

“Someone wants to know the perfectly legal and moral way? Bring me workarounds. Workarounds.”

“All the kids not coming to the hiking club are new hires, right? Pull a list. No—tell them all to come to my desk now.”

“Management says do it, so what? Do {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} none of you want a professional life? If you don’t, write a resignation and get out.”

The more I think about it, I should’ve left back then.

If I’d left, at least I wouldn’t have had to go light Deputy Manager Nam’s cigarette every fifteen minutes afterward.

Even though UA’s building is non-smoking throughout, just thinking of those days makes me smell acrid smoke in my clothes.

In a far more fragrant atmosphere than my previous life, I got to hear again the group’s early concept—the one I’d overdosed on while being forced to stan Spark.

“Management says you all read as cold, chic types. So we’re planning to bring a strong ‘winter boy’ feeling to the album and group logo overall.”

Which is why the debut MV was shot on a lawn where all the grass had frozen to death.

Hold on.

Then why was the group name Spark?

Don’t you usually pick a name that reflects the team’s image?

Not that I should talk—considering I changed my own name to Kim Iwol just because I was born in February.

Anyway, saying you’re going for a winter-boy vibe while naming the team after fire was a bit contradictory.

“The group-name candidates the company’s thinking of are Spark, Flake, Glint, and Flame. We always welcome ideas, so if anything comes to mind, speak freely.”

Every candidate was simple and flashy. Just hearing the names made my eyes squint and my face heat up.

I almost forgot—this company is crazy about textbook idol.

From those gaudy names you could tell they wanted symbols and mass appeal and were cramming everything in to sort later.

This is why one person should write a plan. With multiple authors, the content goes wandering into the mountains.

Personally, I wanted to keep the existing team name. It’s only polite to preserve Spark’s path as much as possible.

But the conversation didn’t flow the way I hoped.

“If we’re doing fire anyway, Flame feels stronger than Spark—better, no?”

“If you want to go strong, it should be Blaze at least, shouldn’t it?”

The staff’s passion toward the rookie group was blazing right there in the group names.

Of course, there was a rational one among them.

“Um, weren’t we doing the winter-boy concept...?”

But in a crowd, the man of reason is always lonely.

We trainees, myself included, could only sit and watch as the group name turned into a pillar of fire.

“Those are the thoughts on the table—do you have any opinions?”

The CEO asked.

I smiled bright and answered,

“We’ll discuss it at the dorm and share right away through the manager!”

First, end this zero-nutrition discussion!

When the CEO OK’d it, Jeong Seongbin across from me let out a small breath of relief.

Right—so you also felt that staging a fire show with the group name was not it.

After that came the usual cautions.

“We all know you’re diligent, so I won’t be saying ‘practice hard’ over and over. Instead, be a lot more careful with each of your actions than before.”

On this, I completely agreed with the CEO.

All the more so if you remember how Park Juu got ground to dust for not minding his expression when greeting a senior group.

“And we’re adding more classes. We were thinking foreign languages and fitness—what did we say we’d start with?”

“Foreign languages first, CEO.”

When fitness is an option, why start with languages?

That makes no sense. Muscle built in adolescence lasts ten years.

It’s not like Spark is about to go overseas right away. They debuted in Japan in their fifth year—what foreign language, now?

Besides, every Spark member is still growing. If we use the present well, they might end up a few centimeters taller than before. Letting those frames sit idle is clearly a loss.

Anyway, since Lee Cheonghyeon can handle English, languages aren’t urgent.

If memory serves, Jeong Seongbin was pretty good at Japanese, too.

Maybe he hasn’t learned it yet at this point, but given how fluent he was during promotions, he might just be talented at picking up languages.

Worst case, I can roll out “100 Business Sentences an Office Worker Can Use” myself.

I thought the last English study of my life would be the TOEIC Speaking cram I did to grab a score right before graduation.

The thought alone makes my skin crawl, but it can’t be helped.

“Okay. For English and Japanese, let’s aim for basic conversation plus reading and writing. Joo-gyeong will give you the details later.”

I took about a hundred deep breaths in my head, quickly.

At Hanpyeong Industries, arguing against what the higher-ups decided would’ve gotten a file folder thrown at my head on the spot.

But...

If it’s just me getting chewed out, of course I should choose the average height.

Picturing Kang Giyeon sagging down alone in the line of members, I couldn’t not feel a sense of duty.

“CEO!”

I took a huge breath in my chest and called out.

Even if everyone later calls me a freeloader, Kang Giyeon, you at least must not suffer for this.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, but could we take the gym class first?!”

This isn’t a request. Approve it now.

It’s all for the growth of your precious children.

Maybe my grim resolve came across, because the CEO reacted positively.

“Iwol, you wanted to do gym? If he wants it that much, should we start fitness first?”

“We’re starting them a month apart anyway, so doing gym first won’t make a big difference, CEO.”

“Let’s do that, then. Just report back later on how the costs were processed.”

“Yes!”

Thus, my objection to win gym first wrapped up peacefully—without a single object flying.

Between building the body and processing the expenses, I suspect the latter suits my aptitude more.

Along with securing the gym class, we had one more piece of good news.

“Hyung! Hyung!”

“What?”

“I finished that song!”

Lee Cheonghyeon had finished the track he’d been stuck to for weeks.

I don’t know the average timeline for composing, but for a first full creation, this seemed impressive.

On top of that, despite having no memory of past work, he’d made something better than before.

You can’t carelessly reduce someone’s sweat to “talent,” but honestly, it was an amazing ability.

“Did it change a lot from before?”

“It’s almost the same, I just tweaked the ending.”

He fished out his earphones. Watching him, Kang Giyeon asked,

“What, hyung already heard it before?”

“The pre-revision one? Yeah, Cheonghyeon played it for me.”

“What’s with you, Lee Cheonghyeon? Why haven’t you let me hear it till now?”

“I was saving it for when it was finished for Mr. Kang Giyeon!”

Saying he was pouting, Cheonghyeon kneaded Giyeon’s face like sujebi dough.

I told them so many times not to touch faces because it could cause trouble. My words go in one ear and out the other, really.

Anyway, it was surprising that even Kang Giyeon hadn’t heard it. Given Cheonghyeon’s personality, I figured he’d be telling us twice a day to gather and listen.

So other than me and the A&R team, he really hasn’t played it for anyone?

Unaware of my puzzlement, Cheonghyeon pulled the wired earphones from the laptop and handed them to Giyeon.

“How is it?”

“Hold on. It’s only been thirteen seconds.”

While Giyeon listened, chin propped on his hand, Cheonghyeon wore the nervous look of a child approaching a flock of pigeons.

And about four minutes later—

“It’s good.”

“Really?!”

Cheonghyeon’s face lit up. Giyeon answered with the same indifferent face, but seriously.

“Yeah. Really.”

Then he asked the dozing Choi Jeho, sprawled on the sofa,

“Hyung, want to work out a choreography tonight?”

“For what?”

“For Cheonghyeon’s song.”

Not long ago they’d glare fire at each other if their eyes met in midair. That was some growth.

I was so moved I thought I could even change their “Sapodungi” tag to “Sarangdungi” (lovey-dovey). For about two seconds.

While the two from the dance line laid constructive practice plans, Cheonghyeon, who was closing his laptop to turn in, suddenly cried out.

“Huh?”

On the laptop screen I glimpsed the pink entertainment-news UI that hadn’t changed in years.

“What is it?”

Even Jeong Seongbin, who’d been drinking water, came over—and made a peculiar face when he saw the article.

“...MYTH is debuting a boy group.”

That’s right.

The sure-thing A-team that would sit as the top rookie boy group for the next three years.

The group that would wage a grinding numbers war for years against Spark, who could never get their comeback timing right.

And the one that would take the win every single time in that war—“Parte”—had just had its debut plan announced.