Based solely on the name “Failure to Meet Deadlines,” you’d think this feature should’ve unlocked when my attendance record was perfect.

But when my attendance actually was top-tier, the system gave me the Negative Emotion Recognition Adjustment Rate. Trying to intuitively understand the system’s standards was clearly pointless. I should just focus on the significance of finally being able to check the expiration date of this slave contract that the system had kept hidden all this time.

[SYSTEM] The “Failure to Meet Delivery Deadlines” clause is notified to the “Subordinate”

▷ The “Subordinate” has an obligation to faithfully perform their duties in accordance with the delivery deadline specified by the “Superior”

▷ The delivery deadline is designated by the “Superior” based on the performance of the “Subordinate,” and the “Subordinate” may not raise any objections to the determined deadline.

▷ Failure to comply with the deadline will result in the final KPI being considered a failure.

Sentences that looked like they belonged in a textbook case of “toxic contract clauses” seared into my eyes. Just because I’m the only employee, I’ve been worked to the bone without a single day of annual leave, and now I don’t even have the right to speak? What a filthy society.

“Obviously, Superior should notify Subordinate of the deadline, right?”

As I waited with my arms crossed, the scheduler appeared. I hadn’t seen it in ages, not since I used it diligently back when I was a trainee.

As always, the pages flipped rapidly before my eyes. It ended much faster than I expected.

Once the scheduler stopped, I checked the year first.

February, four years from now. The date was...

“The debut anniversary?”

The 19th. It was Spark’s 5th anniversary.

By then, I would be twenty-six. Just as I feared, the timeframe wasn’t nearly as generous as it had been before the regression.

Why exactly five years? Isn’t seven years the standard for an idol contract? Does it really not matter if I quit being an idol once I achieve the KPI?

Just as my head was about to fill with question marks, the system appeared.

[SYSTEM] Work Instructions from “Superior” have arrived.

▶ Assistant Manager Kim, you didn’t check your contract period properly, did you? Oh? I didn’t explain it to you? Is that so? Sorry~ But it’s not that important anyway. It’s fine, right?

What kind of bullshit is that? Are you trying to get sued for contract invalidation?

But wait... did I sign a new contract when I debuted with Spark?

The trainee contract must have been signed before my regression.

I clearly remembered struggling like crazy to debut, but I couldn’t recall whether I’d actually signed the formal contract afterward. Was it because I was so distracted by the Yu Hansu incident? In life, the only thing you can truly trust is a contract. I hurriedly rummaged through my suitcase.

“It should be in the folder of documents I organized during debut preparations. UA isn’t the kind of company that runs contract scams.”

I flipped past various documents—including one titled “Objection to Winter Boy”—until a document with a familiar layout appeared.

Article 3 (Contract Period, etc.)

① The contract period for this agreement shall be from February 19, 20XX, to February 18, 20XX (5 years).

“Huh?”

The contract period was five years. It was a significant difference from the seven-year contract Spark had signed in the past.

The standard contract and seven-year rule had originally been created because entertainment companies used to keep idols tied down indefinitely. It had been a long time since companies were no longer allowed to keep idols for more than seven years. Because of that, every company tried to hold onto idols for as long as possible.

But the period was shortened? By two years?

It would be strange if only I, the last to join, had a five-year contract, and it would be equally strange if everyone had a five-year contract. Either way, it wasn’t a normal case.

That didn’t mean I had zero suspicions. In fact, there was exactly one plausible hypothesis. The phrase saying Superior sets the deadline based on Subordinate’s performance. And considering my past record where a penalty occurred because I moved up the debut date...

“They judged that giving me a full seven years would be ‘unfair.’”

You bastard. You wouldn’t even give up a single bit of cache data if you were squeezed. Relentless, absolutely relentless.

I reread the unfamiliar document that clearly bore my name in neat print. From beginning to end, it was a perfectly legitimate contract. Looking at this five-year temporary contract document, a hollow laugh escaped me.

“Counting from my trainee days, I have about half the time left.”

It took one year after returning to the past to debut. By the end of this year, it would have been almost two years since I started promoting as Spark. And there were at most three years and a few months left until the KPI was over.

I couldn’t tell if I should be happy that the end was closer than I thought. I reorganized the contract and tucked it away while thinking.

The “Personnel Disadvantage” the system mentioned for failing the final KPI definitely included a forced re-employment at the Hanpyeong Industry. Because I was just /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ thinking of my sister, I’d never carefully examined that condition, but seeing how the system could even pull off snatching someone’s contract, it didn’t seem impossible.

“I should understand it as: if I don’t achieve the final KPI by the contract expiration date, my life as a Spark member ends and I am forced to go to the Hanpyeong Industry.”

That would explain the job-transfer restriction clause.

In that case, I’d be naturally released from Spark. Just like before, Spark would return to being a five-member group, and Kim Iwol would join the company as a rookie employee around the same age as in the original timeline. All while having lost his sister.

The system definitely had perfectionist tendencies. It hated when things deviated from the original course of events, yet after resetting about a third of someone’s life, it still prepared a way to restore everything to its previous state.

I would have to think more about why the synchronization and KPI progress rates didn’t move together, though. If the KPI was the main quest, maybe synchronization was more like side content.

“At least it won’t kill me.”

If I failed the mission due to some accident or incident, given the system’s personality, it would likely send me to the Hanpyeong Industry even if I were half-dead, rather than letting me die cleanly without a penalty.

Since things have come to this, couldn’t it lower the synchronization rate? How am I supposed to live anxiously with only 25% remaining when my work period still has so much time left?

But at least what I had to do was clear. Just like always.

“Fine, let’s see how many KPIs are left.”

You better know that even a contract worker deserves severance pay. Have six years’ worth of severance pay ready for me.

“The Kaist’s nephew shot another ad.”

“That kid is everywhere lately. Didn’t he just shoot something else recently?”

Conversations buzzed around before the lecture began.

The mentioned “Kaist’s nephew” referred to Lee Cheonghyeon. Lee Soohoon guessed that since Cheonghyeon wasn’t a student himself and only had family ties here, that nickname had stuck.

Ironically, Lee Soohoon had seen more ads featuring strangers than those featuring his own younger brother. After opening a clothing link a senior had sent asking which outfit looked better, Lee Soohoon kept encountering the same exotic-looking man in internet articles.

The most recent one he saw was an advertisement for the industry-leading adult English education company.

The person he met on the day of the festival.

The man who’d been about a palm taller than him still had that pale face. His large black eyes hadn’t changed either. Only his hair color had.

The cold aura Lee Soohoon had felt when seeing him in person was nowhere to be found. He felt a sense of dissonance seeing the man smiling brightly on the monitor.

“Is he good at English?”

Lee Cheonghyeon was the best at academic English among the peers Lee Soohoon knew. That was why it was a bit puzzling that the pale-faced man, rather than Lee Cheonghyeon, was shooting an English academy ad.

Anyway, the important point was that Lee Cheonghyeon’s ads rarely caught Lee Soohoon’s eye. Everything Lee Cheonghyeon promoted had unfamiliar names. Those strange brands didn’t stay long in Soohoon’s memory. For the first time, Lee Soohoon felt like he might be on the slower side.

“There’s no face quite like Lee Cheonghyeon’s.”

“How much does he make shooting that many ads?”

“I heard he composes music, too. He’s probably raking in money.”

Is the advertising fee for celebrities really that high?

Just the equipment in the laboratory students commuted to cost anywhere from thousands to hundreds of millions. The research funding invested in various projects wasn’t small either. Lee Soohoon couldn’t imagine the kind of money that would shock his classmates.

“Unless it’s a globally trending pop song, how much copyright money could a song that briefly appears and disappears really earn?”

Considering that he had come all the way to Daejeon just to sing a few songs at a festival, he clearly wasn’t making that much money.

Even so, he must be growing, as the news of the nephew that used to reach Lee Soohoon once a week was becoming more frequent. From once every five days to once every three days. Then, it reached today.

“Spark has a new song out?”

“Is their company broke or something? Why are they working those kids like cattle?”

“I don’t know. I heard they had five comebacks last year.”

“Is ‘Speaker’ the title? That one did well.”

“I think it’s a B-side.”

“They must have a lot of songs. The supply never runs out.”

Lee Soohoon felt a bit uneasy. Companies usually cut spending when they had no money, so just how broke was that company to keep releasing new songs while still paying for production costs? It didn’t make sense.

After attending all his lectures, leaving the lab, and finishing his assignments, Lee Soohoon closed his notebook. Then, he picked up his phone, which he had kept on airplane mode for his sleep schedule.

“Sp... ark...”

He searched the three syllables of the group name, and a four-minute video appeared at the top. It had been uploaded eight hours ago. To realize that this video was the music video for the new song, Lee Soohoon had to pass through three previous MVs, one highlight medley, and two strange news videos with AI voices.

≫ [spArk] Hideout Official MV

On a background of a concrete wall covered in various drawings and graffiti, where one block was missing, the word “Hideout” was written in white.