Once the track was finished, UA immediately moved to hire a lyricist to set words to the debut song.

Since they were a company that made records, at least the part about sourcing a lyricist didn’t seem like anything to worry about.

When UA asked if there were any particular points they wanted the lyrics to include, I took the plan I’d shared before, made it more concrete, added a few references, and sent a fresh version.

Luckily, the completion rate for “advice for the stage” went up again.

With that, the big project for debut was more or less wrapped—at least on the things I could put my hands on.

That didn’t mean the idea of getting a rest crossed my mind for even a second.

Every office worker knows the common sense that once you finish one task, a new one arrives.

‘They’ll probably dump a bunch of weird stuff on me again...’

So instead of relaxing, I had to think about slicing up the tiny sliver of free time I’d just gotten.

Before the next task popped up—either to clear the backlog on my accounts, or finally draw those lines of love I hadn’t managed to draw between the members for a while.

You look away for a second and work ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ piles up like a mountain. The blessings of “tasks” never end.

As long as I live in the Republic of Labor, there’s no way I’ll ever worry about running out of work—short of dying and being buried.

So when I quit being an idol someday, I hope companies post a lot of job openings. I will work with all my heart and soul.

“Hyung, are you using the vocal practice room today? I saw your name on the board.”

“Yeah. I’m going to go attain enlightenment and come back.”

I gave a noncommittal answer to Jeong Seongbin telling me not to overdo it.

Objectively, I was in a position where I had to practice even if it meant overdoing it.

He knew my skills stuck out like a jagged stone among the six of us and still said that.

It was the kind of magnanimity that impressed me every time.

‘When he says it like that, it actually makes me feel more guilty...’

I finally get why his fans kept crying, “Kindness is a crime.”

Back then, I thought being kind was just good. Now I agree. Kindness is a crime.

Even if my conscience has been ground to powder, there’s still at least a dusting left. I’m still wearing the mask of a human, after all.

Considering I was getting Work Support I’d never even gotten at Hanpyeong Industries, burning up my vocal cords was the least I could do.

Dreaming of a jump in vocal proficiency, I steeled myself and headed to the practice room.

The results weren’t great.

The growing pains were way bigger than the growth.

I couldn’t pull off a third high register, so I aimed for a second—and like a bad joke, I wound up losing half my voice.

I realized my voice was shot when I ran into diligent early-bird Jeong Seongbin and tried to greet him.

“Good morning, hyung.”

“Yeah. ...?”

I’d meant to ask, ‘Did you sleep well?’ but it felt like my throat was grinding cement.

It was like I’d transplanted the acrid air of a construction site straight into my windpipe. The scratchiness hit me a beat late.

“Hyung, what happened to your voice?!”

“It’s morning, ahem, that’s probably why.”

Unfortunately, my lie didn’t fly.

Anyone could tell I sounded like someone who’d screamed at a karaoke room for three hours last night. Or someone who’d stood on top of Bugak Mountain for three hours yelling about their boss.

“Hyung, don’t force your voice.”

Seeing me struggle to clear my throat, Jeong Seongbin poured warm water into a cup and handed it to me.

I appreciated the warmth, but my mood was nothing but grim.

How could my skill improve by a fingernail while my vocal cords felt like they’d been shredded on a steel grater?

This is unfair. Even Hanpyeong Industries paid minimum wage, but idol power seems to live outside the law.

And I’m even getting Work Support, yet here I am. All I can think is the body damage is wildly disproportionate to the outcome.

“Got it—ugh. I can’t, ahem, even talk.”

“I said don’t talk...!”

When Jeong Seongbin raised his voice, Kang Giyeon opened the door and asked what was going on.

“Iwol hyung’s voice is really shot. I think he overdid it yesterday.”

“His voice?”

“Yeah. Hyung, we’ll handle breakfast and head out. You should rest and then go to the doctor.”

“What does voice have to do with baking bread.”

With a throat condition that’d probably rate “very bad” on the ultrafine dust scale, I somehow managed to say, with the meaning of “stop talking and sit tight for the bread,” and Kang Giyeon’s face fell fast.

“Uh... I really think you should go to the hospital first.”

They were overreacting because a newbie trainee had handled his voice roughly once.

It was frustrating that I couldn’t say I wasn’t planning to sing for life. A bit of a hoarse voice wasn’t the end of the world.

If I were sick somewhere that would hinder practice, I’d immediately choose the hospital, but voices aren’t that urgent to treat.

I tore into a bread bag and said,

“Guys.”

“Hyung...”

“My throat hurts. Don’t make me say things twice.”

At last, they shut their mouths.

If you’re going to be idols, you can’t be this bad at reading the room. I can already see the rough road ahead.

Even after I insisted it was nothing, Jeong Seongbin still made sure to wake up Choi Jeho and leave a message: “Please make sure Iwol hyung really goes to the hospital!” before he headed to school.

“How bad is it?”

“Just so-so.”

“I can hear the rasp.”

Choi Jeho looked horrified. Is it really that bad?

My vocal cords being overworked isn’t exactly new.

During interview season or on days when there were inspections or construction in the building, my everyday was talking like a parrot for eight hours straight.

So I didn’t think it was that strange, but apparently it sounded pretty strange.

“Hyung.”

I was about to tell Choi Jeho I’d handle the hospital on my own when someone called me from behind.

At this hour, the only younger member in the dorm is Park Juu.

I turned to see Park Juu holding a mug. Steam was curling up from it.

“What?”

“...Please drink this. It’s honey water.”

He set the mug down beside my plate with sliced bread.

He must’ve put a lot in—the water was a solid shade of yellow. And yet I couldn’t smell honey, so my nose must’ve been blocked too.

I tried to say thanks, but my words dissolved in midair because he stopped me.

The honey water I got for free like that was incredibly sweet and scorching hot.

“Juu.”

“Yeah, hyung?”

“How much... ahem, honey did you put in?”

“This much.”

He pointed to a point about a quarter of the way up the mug.

Looks like our main vocal wants to take me out not with a cold but with sugar overload.

It was brutally sweet, but out of respect for the thought, I went to take another sip when he asked,

“...Should I add more water?”

The moment he said that, an old memory surfaced—when I’d been fifteen times sicker and about two million five hundred thousand times more exhausted than now.

‘Assistant Manager Kim, what hurts that you’re taking medicine so often?’

‘It’s nothing major. I’ve just been getting headaches lately.’

Was it around my second year at Hanpyeong Industries?

That’s when I started having chronic headaches. I squeezed in hospital visits whenever I could, but they only told me they didn’t know the cause.

In the end, all I could do was take painkillers whenever it got bad.

Every time, Deputy Director Nam would toss a line at me in passing.

‘Isn’t a young person relying on meds too much? That’s a lack of willpower.’

I’ll never forget Deputy Director Nam’s saying that willpower cures headaches and improves circulation.

And then he himself got older and claimed he had indigestion, so after every meal he’d go up to the roof and smoke for an hour.

It was his fault I got headaches in the first place.

At one point he even took the medicine out of my hand when my head felt like it was about to split and tossed it in the trash, saying:

‘Anyway, don’t keep taking meds. Take care of your health on a daily basis.’

‘Yes, understood.’

‘You’re not staging a protest that you’re sick... People will think you’re making a show because you don’t want to work. You know what I mean, right?’

I didn’t want to know what he meant, but I did—that was the problem.

Rain or snow, healthy or sick, his unwavering heart to hound me was truly impressive.

After that, every time he saw me, he’d ask how my body was doing. If some clueless coworker asked if I was ill, he’d make a huge fuss and talk about me like I might die tomorrow.

‘Everyone rest up on the weekend. Especially you, Assistant Manager Kim! Don’t do anything stupid and don’t budge an inch all weekend! Just rest!’

At that point, people who didn’t know the situation thought I was someone who did something stupid every day. Thanks to that, even the executives told me health management is a skill.

Compared to back then, the treatment I’m getting now is lavish. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Still, worry without malice isn’t bad. Just a little embarrassing.

I shoved down the awkwardness and said to an equally embarrassed Park Juu,

“No, it’s good. Thanks.”

He smiled—much paler than my honey water.

Seeing that, I couldn’t bring myself to leave any, so I had no choice but to drink all the honey water—sweet enough to believe it was straight from the hive.

Up to this point, I was being naïve.

Because I was receiving Work Support and my own fatigue load decreased, I mistakenly believed that if I supported the members, they too would get through their grueling schedule without a hitch.

I forgot that whether it’s mental stamina or physical strength, these kids are still not done growing.