School days, the kind every Korean goes through at least once.

A student who went to put the field line marker back in the storage room finds a mysterious box in the corner.

Debating whether it’s okay to just toss it, they open the box—and out come personal effects left by students no one can name. Things that seem like they could be thrown away, but somehow feel like they shouldn’t be...

"...is the concept for this album package."

With that, my avant-garde presentation ended.

Reactions to the “Secret Box Spark Left Behind” concept album ran the gamut around the conference room.

Some said it was overly experimental; others said we were putting too much weight on a mere first mini.

All of it I’d anticipated. So I showed, one by one, the unit-cost sheet I’d stitched together, the references, and examples of SNS and viral reactions to albums with a strong concept.

As for the “aren’t we overdoing it” concern...

"I think getting swept away at debut because we held back would be the bigger loss."

That was my rebuttal.

Get a grip, people. If we drink sand here, Spark won’t see daylight for two years after debut.

While I waited, hoping for a favorable review, the CEO called to me.

"Iwol."

"Yes."

"Pull up that page with the community reactions again."

When I opened it, the CEO stared at the screen in silence for a few minutes. Looked like he meant to read every captured post.

Then he spoke.

"Team Lead Jang."

"Yes, sir."

"Have the whole Planning Team develop Iwol’s proposal and send it up. If schedules line up, seat Iwol in the meeting too."

It was an okay sign. My chest opened up.

Of course, the joy didn’t last long.

Not long after the meeting ended, the manager told me Yu Hansu had called me out.

When I first heard he was looking for me, I didn’t think much of it.

At most, I figured he’d vent because his proposal had become useless.

But the moment I stepped into the conference room, I knew.

This guy was pissed.

Reclined so far his chair was about to tip, Yu Hansu looked at me and asked without so much as a “sit.”

"Hey."

"Yes, PD."

"You think I’m fucking funny, don’t you?"

A raw emotion so naked it surprised me he showed it to someone twenty years younger.

Thankfully, I had enough sense not to say otherwise here.

I folded my hands politely and answered, "No."

But he didn’t believe it.

"The hell you mean no, you little shit. You think I haven’t seen your type a thousand times?"

Amazing. I thought all he’d learned at work was how to act like a thug, but maybe he picked up mind-reading too?

As if to make sure I knew he was angry, he let out a long, loud sigh.

I, Kim the 29-year-old office worker who does not scare at a sigh, simply waited for whatever he’d say next.

What line would he use to go at me?

“Make a joke of your superior, does that feel good?” Or “Get praised once and now you think you’re somebody”?

Whatever it was, I’d heard it at Hanpyeong Industries at least once, so I wasn’t worried.

Right on cue, he opened his mouth.

"Be honest."

"I’m not sure what you mean."

"Whose parachute are you?"

Wow. That’s a first.

Fresh hypothesis—one you’d never hear from HR, who actually knows staff details. I’ll award creativity points.

More than that: this guy is irredeemable.

He didn’t think my proposal got through thanks to a lucky one-off.

He just decided I was recognized because of someone’s backing.

Clearly, he’s never seen a parachute hire in the wild.

In that sense—me, who’s seen parachutes till I’m sick of them but has never lived as one—could ask back with full confidence:

"Sorry?"

With a laugh that said, What the hell are you talking about.

His face twisted when he saw my snort.

"Did you just laugh?"

He asked.

Yeah, I laughed, you asshole.

Wouldn’t you?

It was the first time in my life the historic moment arrived when it was actually okay to talk back to a superior.

He spouts abuse and throws his weight around, and I, a trainee playing subordinate, am not even allowed to laugh? Get real.

When I didn’t even give him my old standby “I’m sorry,” his face flushed.

"I knew you were this kind of bastard. You colluded with the Planning Team Lead, right? The CEO seems to like you, so you took his proposal and pretended it was yours, didn’t you—scammed everyone."

He stood, jabbing my shoulder with a finger as he snarled.

There was only one thing I could say to that.

"I don’t do that."

I looked at Yu Hansu’s fist, clenched and trembling, and continued.

"Someone might. But not me."

No sooner had I finished than he yanked back the hand that had been poking my upper shoulder.

At the same instant, with a dull thud, my face snapped to the right.

For a moment, it was as silent as if time had stopped.

But the sounds that gradually reached me told me what I didn’t need eyes to see: Yu Hansu was huffing like a beast.

Still keeping my head turned, I carefully raised a hand to my left cheek.

The pain arrived, slow and late.

Did this fucker just hit me?

Why? In this situation, there is nothing he stands to gain by using violence.

Just because he was mad? A guy smart enough to leech off others’ work wouldn’t know better?

Maybe because I’d taken a blow to the head, the situation wouldn’t quite compute.

Unlike me, though, his face showed nothing but anger—none of the bewilderment that can slip out after you hit someone without thinking.

I lowered my gaze a little and saw his fist still clamped tight.

Even hitting someone with the palm is a big deal, and he used a fist. To the face, at that.

In winter, when my face was frozen stiff from the wind. Was he the only one who’d been cozy in a warm conference room?

Say I’m the one who took it this time. What guarantees someone else won’t be next?

Irritation slowly turned to anger. I even flashed to Jang Junhu throwing an empty bottle, and my mood got even shittier.

I looked straight at him and spoke.

"PD, are you the type who hits people?"

"The hell did you say?"

A person who hits people doesn’t get treated as a person.

That was my principle—my conviction.

"You’ve got a habit of throwing your fist. If push comes to shove, you’ll throw a few more, won’t ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) you."

"Hey!"

"I’m the one who got hit. Why are you the one shouting?"

At my question, he flinched.

Fuck.

I don’t know how to describe this feeling. Just—utterly disgusting.

Yu Hansu, who hit someone and then had the gall to snap at me like the victim.

Manager Nam, who in a similar situation didn’t lay hands on me but found every way to jab me—with a file, with a pen, with anything.

My parents, who kept hitting me until I came to loathe the idea of being hit.

And me, who only managed to decide to talk back to Yu Hansu after getting a green light from the mystery called the system.

With no device to record the conversation, there was no point in keeping up the back-and-forth.

But the feeling of something long-suppressed bursting loose—I couldn’t swallow it. My mouth wouldn’t stop, like a screw had come loose.

"Does the CEO know you go around assaulting trainees like this?"

"Assault? Don’t use loaded words to blow this up on purpose. You think I don’t see you scheming?"

"How would I scheme? Maybe because I got hit in the head, my brain won’t turn."

No sooner had I finished than he slapped my cheek with his palm this time.

Hit the same spot again. Where’s the garbage truck when you need it—why hasn’t it burned up this trash.

Whether I cursed him silently or not, my cheek went from burning to stinging. The bones in my face throbbed.

Even that didn’t cool him off; he grabbed me by the collar.

"You little shit, I’ll make sure you’re buried in this industry."

"Buried?"

"You’ve only been a trainee for half a year, so I guess your pride isn’t broken yet. Burying someone like you without a trace is nothing. Got it?"

"Do I need to?"

I pulled out the MP3 I use for vocal practice—the one that can do nothing but play whatever songs I’ve loaded.

"With this, someone other than me gets buried first."

When I held up the MP3 with a dozen-plus tracks, he lunged, pried open my hand by force—

—and, screaming a curse, stomped on the MP3 until the screen shattered.

Not long after that tantrum, he finally lost to his own temper and walked out of the conference room.

Only when his footsteps had fully faded did a sigh stuffed with every feeling escape me.

"Phew..."

It was satisfying to piss him off, but to suddenly end up a trainee who got slapped twice and lost his MP3—pathetic.

Still, I couldn’t leave trash in the room, so while I crouched and picked up the broken pieces, I cooled my head and replayed what had just happened.

"No matter how I look at it, he was angrier than the situation called for."

For the type who lives off others’ work, image management is everything. Otherwise words won’t work when you’re coaxing people.

And there’s no way someone freshly arrived at a new company wouldn’t know that.

A guy like that accepting the high-risk, high-return of blowing up at me over a few lines? Unlikely.

And he hit my face.

Earlier, I deliberately needled him—asked if he had a habit of hitting people—but truly nasty types hit where it won’t show. In that sense, he doesn’t hit smart.

"There’s definitely something."

Something that made him throw a punch without a moment’s thought for the image he’d been so careful to keep.

Thinking about what reverse scale of his I must have touched, I wrapped every shard carefully in scrap paper from the conference room so no one would get hurt by a stray piece.

Then I stuffed the paper bundle with the MP3’s remains into my pocket and headed for the practice room.

I don’t think he’d go that far, but if he really worried I’d recorded him and went digging through the trash, and then discovered this MP3 doesn’t even have a recording function—that would be trouble.

If he realized he’d been duped, he might take turns with my right and left cheeks.

My face is already way below the members’ league; the least I can do is keep it from getting scarred.

Thinking I’d better take this trash back to the dorm, I opened the practice-room door.

The music spilling out seemed to prove the kids had kept practicing even while I was gone.

"Sorry I’m late. How’s practice going?"

"Not rea— hyung?"

The instant I came in, Jeong Seongbin sprinted to the old phone and cut the music, his face turning abruptly serious.

"Hyung. What happened to your face?"

My face? What about my face?

I raised a hand to the left side where his eyes were fixed.

A prickling, electric sting shot across my cheek.

Every other kid’s gaze was on my face too. A chill ran down my back.

Right.

I’ve got the kind of skin where, when I get hit, it shows right away.