The HR folks used to say about me—years into Manager Nam’s diatomite bath mat phase—“Iwol really seems to hide his emotions well.”

Even when Manager Nam cursed at me or threw paperwork, I always waited on that bastard with the same steady demeanor.

Even people who were masters at reading office mood acknowledged my secret art, “How to not show it when things are X-awful.” The fact that a mere nineteen-year-old Jeong Seongbin saw through it was hard to believe.

Playing it off like a casual question, I took the mug from him, rinsed the inside, and asked,

“From where you were standing, did I look nervous?”

Maybe because he trusted I wasn’t upset about his parents’ surprise visit, he answered in a lighter voice than before.

“Yeah. Ah—but it didn’t show in your expression or your tone!”

“If I let it show that way, my nickname would be Frozen Fish Eyes the moment we debuted.”

“Gasp...”

He snapped his mouth shut, startled.

What’s so wrong with Frozen Fish Eyes.

If an idol doesn’t manage his face for no good reason, he’d better be ready to hear that.

Still, I needed to understand the point where he picked up on it. That way I won’t make some stupid mistake elsewhere.

“So what made you think that?”

I acted like the dishes were no big deal and watched his face.

There was no uneasy look like he was trying to hide something.

“Good question.”

“What?”

“I’m not really sure what I saw that made me feel it. I guess it was just a sense I had.”

Now that was a deflating answer.

Worrying that I might have let something slip even for a second felt silly.

Still far better than doing something openly stupid. Feeling lighter, I said,

“Being quick on the uptake is good, but don’t go around reading everyone too much. It’ll wear you out.”

“Okay. Oh, right—hyung! Could I just text my mom to ask if they got home okay and then come help you clean up?”

“You think no one but you can clean this? Just go send it.”

Over nothing, he insisted on getting my permission.

Texting his mom, huh.

That was something I couldn’t even imagine. I didn’t even have either of my parents’ numbers in my phone to begin with.

I made a note to ask next time, when someone else’s parents visit, whether they’ve texted to say they got home, and wiped the sink dry.

“Assistant Kim! Book me a single pension in Jeju, will you? Plenty of parking, ocean view.”

“A pension?”

“Yeah. Big enough for a family of three. Match it to my vacation schedule.”

“Did you put in your vacation, sir? For when...?”

“Just submitted it. You can book it today, right? I hear if we don’t grab it fast, there’ll be no rooms.”

I never once got to tack even a single day onto a holiday, but Manager Nam used his paid leave just fine.

When he took time off, it was easily four or five days in a row.

And handling his vacation was exclusively my job.

Round-trip flights one day, lodging another, theme park reservations yet another.

For one man, Manager Nam, I had to prepare a full-course experience to die for.

If it was domestic, that was a relief.

On days when he planned an overseas family trip or a golf tour with old classmates, I’d be stuck at the office till ten at night, tearing my hair out between Saipan and Guam—places I’d never even been.

It made me think I might have been better off getting a job at a package tour agency.

Of course, stray thoughts like that vanished thanks to the complaints of the “customer” who returned from vacation.

That’s when I learned I had no talent for planning package tours.

“Assistant Kim, how come the only thing we could see from the room was a gloomy ocean? We paid extra for ocean view and never saw a clear sea the whole trip.”

“Sir, that was because Jeju’s weather then...”

“And why didn’t you book the hairtail place I told you about? We waited twenty minutes and had to go somewhere else. Are you going to compensate me for my time?”

“As I mentioned, that hairtail place doesn’t take reservations...”

“Anyway, you handle things so frustratingly. I’m letting it go because it’s you—if it were someone else, I’d have cursed them out already. You got that?”

“I don’t, you XX...!”

I woke up with a shout, a single curse word tearing out of me. Two hours after getting into bed. It was so vivid I was out of breath.

Maybe it was because I’d been searching all over for music video locations; the dream was a total mess.

At this rate I was worried I’d foam at the mouth and collapse the next time I met someone else with the surname Nam.

I was boiling, but now that I was awake, going back to sleep seemed hard.

Cursing the Manager Nam who still clung to me like a clingy ghost even now, nine years back in time, I dragged myself out of bed.

In the living room, the mood lamp Choi Jeho had left on glowed faintly.

Relying on the pale green light, I brought the shared laptop to the dining table and sighed.

If this isn’t voluntary overtime, what is it?

The good news was that the location selection work was almost finished.

Poking the Planning Team, I’d gleaned a ballpark budget, and while we couldn’t push for an overseas shoot like a group such as Parte, there were a few pretty solid spots.

And unlike back at Hanpyeong Industries, at UA I could say to venue companies, “Could we get a quote first?” when requesting estimates. That was a revolution in expense handling.

“Sir, it’s a discount window right now, so we need to pay immediately—how should we handle the payment?”

“About that. You put it on your card for now and invoice me in one go.”

“Pardon?”

“I ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) can’t exactly give you my card PIN, can I. Am I supposed to do SMS verifications every single time you pay?”

Compared to the era when I pre-paid for Manager Nam’s vacations, this environment was night and day. I was plenty satisfied with even this much.

If I were the person in charge, I’d be submitting approvals and wrapping negotiations, but I was just a proposer.

My role was to organize sample options, unit costs, whether sponsorship might be possible, and report.

In other words, this was exactly as far as my job went.

After pouring in about another hour, I scheduled the email to Planning.

Then the system lit up brighter than the mood lamp.

 [SYSTEM] “New Task” is pending approval.

▷ Content: Music video location sourcing

 With the thing that had held me for days finally done, my mind felt clear. I even felt a little floaty.

“Since I’ve still got focus left, should I look at outfit concepts too.”

Thanks to the Labor Support Service, my remaining fatigue was still at 40%.

I did a quick stretch and then hunted down all kinds of outfits, pounding the keyboard till the laptop battery ran low.

Everything seemed to be progressing smoothly, and yet there were things that didn’t go my way.

Not Seongbin’s wobble or Lee Cheonghyeon’s attempted runaway—this was a bona fide “my problem,” which made it worse.

I stared at the wide wall mirror in the gym for a long time.

What I saw was a body clearly leaner than the me from nine years ago in my memory.

“My muscles aren’t sticking at all.”

Even with clothes on, the difference in build compared to back then was obvious. That was strange.

I may not be doing warehouse shifts now, but I dance day and night, and I work out. The activity level should be roughly similar.

In that situation, accepting that I was putting on less muscle than before was hard.

Why on earth. Is it because I’m eating “healthy”?

Now that UA even covers food expenses, I eat salads and chicken breast; back in college, it was high-calorie ramen and instant food every time.

If the problem were diet to begin with, the difference should be in fat, not muscle.

If I’m controlling diet and training and still not gaining muscle, that’s a problem.

Without a certain base of strength backing me, some people’s dancing can read as halfhearted.

≫ All the members are dancing with their teeth clenched and he’s the only one flopping around lol Looks like someone forced him to debut—he looks like he hates this

└ He said they practiced the title track for half a year lol Did he hibernate alone for six months

└ If he got a different choreo from the choreographer and realized three days before debut and crammed, I’d accept that

└ lolololol In that case, yeah, fair enough

I couldn’t drag down our debut stage—the thing that would become someone else’s portfolio.

To avoid that outcome I’d been pushing more PT, but the results were sluggish.

Then a thought landed.

It was that explanation I saw when the Additional Labor Support Service first popped up.

“I’m sure there was something about side effects.”

As I tried to recall it, the same document reappeared before my eyes. The item I wanted was at the very end.

 [SYSTEM] The “Additional Labor Support Service” is being notified to “B.”

▷ If you wish to do additional work but feel physical limits are hindering KPI achievement, support will be provided so that additional work can proceed smoothly.

.

.

.

▷ Various reasons—including prolonged periods of service usage, excessive accumulation of fatigue, or when the temporarily reduced fatigue exceeds a certain threshold—may cause physical side effects to appear.

 If this system is designed for a successful idol debut, couldn’t they have cut the side effects?

Ever since I started taking this service, I hadn’t turned it off once.

So if a side effect like “not gaining muscle” had occurred, it was probably because I’d been using it for a long period.

“What if I turn it off only when I work out and turn it back on after?”

As I recall, my current fatigue is 40%. The portion reduced by the support service is 20%.

All told, around 60% would be average for a modern office worker. Most Korean office workers are basically zombies.

I pressed “Yes” to the question asking if I wanted to terminate the service.

Then, with a note that the changes were being applied, the system vanished.