Kang Giyeon’s presentation was a sight to behold.

Point by point, Kang Giyeon laid out the reasons why I was a delinquent and exactly how weird I was.

“You can even glimpse his uncompromising personality from the fact that our lunch menu was jjolmyeon for an entire month.”

It just feels like you’re trying to stick it to me.

As the person concerned, I was utterly dumbfounded, but the others were wearing faces that said they agreed. What an absurd situation.

“I have another question. Did I do something wrong to you, Kang Giyeon?”

“The most incomprehensible part is how unaware he is of his own peculiarity.”

“I agree!”

The way the five of them closed ranks without me reminded me of the old Spark.

Go bond when I’m not looking. Every time Spark comes to mind, I get heartburn.

While I fought a lonely battle, the five members heated up the room with a zeal that called a hearing to mind.

“You keep lodging objections, but if you rebut without evidence, we’ll bring in a witness on our side.”

“And who’s the witness?”

When I asked, Lee Cheonghyeon covered his face with Jeong Seongbin’s cue card and tried a ridiculous voice modulator bit.

“Everything stated so far is true... Kim Iwol has ruthlessly wiped jjolmyeon out of our neighborhood...”

“That’s all fine, but don’t cover your face. Get your whole face in the frame.”

Fans will watch this video to see your faces, so what are you doing hiding them?

Unfortunately, my instruction for future fans didn’t get through to them.

“Did you hear him just now? I told you, he’s a real ice man!”

“Why is my desire to keep your face on screen for even three more seconds being so devalued?”

“The very fact you don’t understand that is proof you’re extraordinary.”

With that, the profile introduction about me—the person in question, who understood none of it—came to an end.

Even Park Juu avoided my eyes, staring somewhere into space while fighting to keep the corners of his mouth from rising. I felt betrayed by the world.

“Next is... heh... Iwol’s turn.”

Also a little red in the face from holding back laughter, Jeong Seongbin soldiered on as MC.

The person I was introducing was Choi Jeho.

The team’s only same-age trainee and my roommate at the dorm.

The one who made my life hardest in Spark before I came back in time.

Honestly, I could write Choi Jeho’s profile without even looking at it.

How many years did I monitor his every move on Manager Nam’s orders?

The only thing I don’t know would be the exact number of hairs on Choi Jeho’s head.

But if I said that, I’d just get called a delinquent again or whatever.

Since I plan to quit after exactly one activity, it’s best not to stand out in the team.

‘If I want my deliverable to look as ordinary as possible while still packing concrete details, this is the best.’

So I prepared this.

“Okay, one copy each.”

“Huh?”

This... the Kim Iwol-brand “Choi Jeho Activity Record Book.”

A student record fits a school concept like a glove and is a quintessential document for introducing a person.

Here, I took the categories as reference but wrote everything myself from header to footer so anyone could tell it wasn’t a real form—no talk of document forgery.

The purpose is a filming prop, so it wouldn’t violate any laws anyway, but it’s best not to give anyone something to nitpick.

My profile was set up at a tidy 15-point size, but having everyone stare down at ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) paper doesn’t look good on camera, so for this part I decided to present with a projector. We discussed it all in advance, of course.

“Name: Choi Jeho. He’s on the practice room oldest line. In line with a social trend toward blind evaluation, no photo is attached to this record.”

“Is this a suspect briefing?”

Choi Jeho cut in, but I pretended not to hear.

I’m explaining with the kindest voice in the world; why pick a fight?

For what it’s worth, at Hanpyeong Industries I reviewed dozens of resumes a day on average.

On top of that, I scrutinized the photos that would go up on Choi Jeho’s fan account, week by week. There’s no way a document I made has gaps.

Whether or not Choi Jeho looked incredulous, I bulldozed ahead with what I had prepared.

“He also contributes to improving dorm life, such as by bringing in mood lights for the dorm.”

“An impressively proactive trainee, I see?”

“Correct. You could say he strives to show an attitude of cooperation for communal living.”

Right on cue, Lee Cheonghyeon chimed in. Even his word choice was delightfully student-record-like.

High school and college entries may differ, but he must have learned a thing or two while prepping for an arts high school.

His older brother and younger sibling were science high school grads, so he probably picked things up over their shoulders too.

“Hobby: spreading jam on sandwich bread to an opacity of eighty percent.”

“That’s not a hobby; it’s for the calories!”

“Having worked to achieve Grade-1 arm strength and then taken first in team arm wrestling, his prospects can be considered promising.”

“Ha...”

Maybe he was embarrassed; Choi Jeho barked loudly.

Considering I put in this much effort for the very guy who caused my overtime, he could at least be grateful.

To a Choi Jeho who couldn’t know how much patience I’d exercised, I gave a gentle smile that said, “Thank you for listening.”

Judging by his face, I should probably ask them to edit down Jeho in my segment as much as possible.

As our debut song—“Untitled” (at this stage, the lyrics apparently weren’t out yet, so even the song had no title)—neared completion, the system dumped a mass of tasks on me like it had been waiting.

Thanks to that, I raked in a ton of EXP and this time too could forcibly bump up my dance proficiency.

 Performance Evaluation (100)

— Vocal Proficiency: 6/20

— Dance Proficiency: 6/20

— Self PR: 12/20

— Attendance Management: 18/20

— In-Organization Adaptability: 10/20

Cumulative EXP: 0

Cumulative Fatigue: 20% (Work Support Service in effect)

 Only, this time my vocal proficiency hadn’t gone up automatically.

I definitely didn’t feel that thing from before where just practicing made my singing shoot up.

‘If I don’t have enough points to raise a skill... then I’ll just earn them.’

I opened the scheduler and checked the piled-up tasks once more.

 [SYSTEM] ‘New Task’ has been assigned.

▷ Final approval for debut song

▷ Reward: EXP (5)

[SYSTEM] ‘New Task’ has been assigned.

▷ Perfectly memorize debut choreography

▷ Reward: EXP (5)

[SYSTEM] ‘New Task’ has been assigned.

▷ Three pieces of advice to improve stage quality (0/3)

▷ Reward: EXP (1)

 Looking at the packed list, I felt as reassured as if I’d stocked supplies before a new hire arrived.

I have no idea why I’m the one who has to give final approval, but I gave up thinking about it long ago, chalking it up to the hard road toward becoming a producing member.

“Let’s start practice again!”

After I pretended to drink water and skimmed the scheduler, right on cue, Jeong Seongbin announced the end of the break.

At his signal, Lee Cheonghyeon and Park Juu, who had been lying on the floor, dragged themselves up.

‘The practice intensity is definitely ramping up.’

I’d never thought my base stamina was lacking, but lately I could feel the fatigue in my body for sure.

What’s the point of getting to add chicken breast to a dinner salad if the PT sessions are doubled.

If not for that so-called Work Support Service, I’d be pretty drained too.

So there was nothing to say about the kids doing this bare-handed.

The mercy was that no one showed they were struggling during practice. Overall, that was good.

But not complaining doesn’t directly mean they’re doing their best.

Twenty minutes after practice resumed, I forced myself to speak.

“Hey, can we stop the music for a second?”

At my request, Park Juu, closest to the music phone, turned it off, and the practice room filled with nothing but breathing.

“You all heard about our concept through Cheonghyeon and the company, right? Do you remember what it was?”

“Fresh but mischievous classmates who cause trouble... sir.”

“Right? Then can you look in the mirror now?”

Five gazes swung to the giant mirror covering one wall of the practice room.

The faces in the mirror were a mess.

I wasn’t talking about features. It was the expressions.

“Of course we look wrecked. We’ve been dancing for hours.”

“...”

“But the expressions aren’t it. None of us has even a trace of a smile on our face. You can’t wear a bad expression just because promotions are hard after debut.”

Since there were no lyrics yet, we had picked a few other idol songs and were rotating through them for practice.

But our furrowed brows made a mockery of choosing bright tracks.

Seongbin and I were all smiles as we danced, but there was no need to split into sides over it.

“And most of all, there’s zero sense of us being ‘classmates who share everyday life.’”

A heavy mood never boosts work efficiency.

Manager Nam worried people would slack off when he stepped out, but if you think about how everyone performed at their best when he wasn’t there, it’s obvious.

Spark’s practice atmosphere wasn’t so different from Hanpyeong Industries when Manager Nam was around.

We just didn’t have that answerless old fossil bas***, and everyone was strung tight.

It’s a given to practice like it’s the real thing.

But being unable to breathe and burning yourself up just to avoid mistakes is something else.

One person wrestling with that kind of worry—the team’s only clumsy one, me—is plenty.

“I’m not saying grin like idiots during practice. I just want us to think more seriously about our concept and practice while paying attention to whether it reads well.”

“Okay...”

“I’m sorry to say this when I’m so far behind you. I’ll make up for it by speaking up more, starting with me.”

“No! I’m starting a ‘Cheer for a member a hundred times a day’ challenge from today!”

“A hundred is a bit much.”

“Then how about praising once every time we run a song?”

“No, that’s still too much.”

Thanks to the active back-and-forth between Lee Cheonghyeon and Choi Jeho, what I said wasn’t dismissed as, ‘What’s he on about, the worst one is talking,’ and it was accepted. The others didn’t look offended either.

Good. A culture of cheering each other on matters more than you think.

Even drenched in sweat, the way they started to smile a little wasn’t bad at all to look at.

And over those smiling faces popped a notification that “one of three pieces of advice to improve stage quality” had been satisfied.

Spark’s strength lay in fast uptake.

For whatever reason, their on-camera speaking never improved, but when it came to the comprehension needed to build technical ability, everyone was outstanding.

Maybe that’s why. By the last practice at 9:57 p.m., when we all felt like we might pass out, the six of us could still dance with prankish expressions.

‘I don’t know if this is growth or awakening...’

Their eyes did look a little wild.

But it’s a hundred times better for them to be called grim, gritty, feral than to be told they have dead-fish eyes, so I let it be.

‘Then I guess it’s time to solve this one.’

At nearly 3 a.m., I stared at the system, glittering by itself in the dark room.

 [SYSTEM] ‘New Task’ has been assigned.

▷ Secure music video filming location

▷ Reward: EXP (varies by condition of filming site)

 I mean, if you’re going to assign me things like this, just let me be an office worker instead of an idol.