The company is moving into assembling the debut lineup.

Which meant if I slipped up here, I’d fail the task of debuting with SPARK.

I, who can barely do anything, was in the position of clutching my heart and begging, “Heavens, please grant me just a little more time...”

But for some reason even the SPARK guys—geniuses of the century—wore dark expressions.

Looking over their faces, Manager Min Ju-gyeong gave a sympathetic smile.

“Everyone, relax, okay? You’ve all worked hard up to now, so think of this as the day to get rewarded and give it your all.”

After Manager Min dropped the shocking bulletin and left, a brief silence hung over the practice room.

Park Juwoo headed into the vocal room first, and only after even Choi Jeho took his empty water bottle and stepped outside did the others creak back to their spots.

Sure, it was news to me, but they had to at least know the evaluation period was coming.

Seeing them that gloomy made me think, “Just how stingy is this evaluation...?”

Failing the evaluation would be a big problem.

But even if I barely scraped by, another issue was whether the SPARK members would accept me when my skill gap is a mile wide—regardless of my own discomfort with them.

Am I getting ahead of myself when no one’s even said they’ll let me squeak by? God, I think too short-term.

I ran a dry hand down my even drier face a couple of times. It felt like the scratchy fatigue of right before quitting time.

When confidence drops like this, you need a morale-boosting chant.

“After all that work for that sad little salary, what could there possibly be that I can’t do...?” That one.

All the more when the reward now couldn’t be exchanged for money.

They’re saying they’ll bring the dead back to life. I should be damn grateful. Plus it’s a chance to erase that hellhole Hanpyeong Industries from my career.

Some people couldn’t get a shot like this even if they wanted it. Waffling is a luxury.

I strapped on an iron mask called responsibility.

Let’s brazen it out.

Charged by Manager Min to help the newcomer, Jeong Seongbin kindly explained the evaluation from start to finish.

Beginning with the date, he went over what first-time trainees mainly prepare and the guidelines, step by step.

“...Do it like this and you’re more or less done preparing for the evaluation.”

“Not exactly a short prep list.”

“Well, a ranking comes out every time.”

With a calm face, Jeong Seongbin sounded exactly like Assistant Manager Ahn from Marketing.

Assistant Manager Ahn—always hollow-eyed from morning KPI reports.

That same samsara-of-all-things look hovered on Jeong Seongbin’s face too.

I gave him a modest thanks as he wrapped up—with words meant to reassure me sprinkled in.

“Thanks.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got a lot to prepare too, but you keep helping me.”

Jeong Seongbin’s eyes went wide, like it wasn’t something he heard often.

Which, in SPARK, it probably wasn’t. Most of them try to do their own work solo.

And except for Lee Cheonghyeon, none of the SPARK members are exactly expressive.

There’s no good in skimping on greetings and thanks. Once I hitch a ride into the debut lineup, I should probably make them say “I see” once a day at least.

If I’m being carried by others, I need to contribute something for the numbers to add up.

But then Jeong Seongbin flattened my calculating thoughts with something warm-hearted.

“It’s not just me. Giyeon says if hyung mixes up left and right again, he’ll tie you in front of the mirror and teach you.”

“I’m so touched I’m getting snotty.”

From afar, Kang Giyeon yelled, “What was that?”

“Oh, I said you’re the best teacher.”

Kang Giyeon gave a face like, what on earth are you talking about.

He looked like he needed an explanation, but I didn’t bother.

Just honestly praising them had already drained today’s allotment of positive energy I could spend on SPARK.

Up to this point, the distance between me and Kang Giyeon was the far end to far end of the practice room...

When I came to, only the two of us were left there.

UA’s practice schedule runs on a 9-to-10 system. The kind of timetable that could get reported to the Ministry of Employment and Labor any second.

Me—the guy who needs to patch a foot that’s melting like butter—was already tacking on extra practice every day.

And even though he’s on a completely different level from me, today Kang Giyeon didn’t seem eager to go home either.

If you’re hurting, go rest early for once. He was obviously trying to make up for what he’d missed.

Personally, I preferred not being alone in the practice room. Like how studying doesn’t work if the student-affairs teacher is standing behind you during night self-study.

And having to spend every waking minute with SPARK was torture enough.

Every time I saw their faces I felt the compulsion to cut out the background.

Fortune favors the bold.

To secure my precious two measly hours of alone time a day, I carefully broached the topic with Kang Giyeon.

“Giyeon, aren’t you heading in?”

“What about you, hyung?”

“The teacher said I should practice a lot, remember.”

“You practice through like half your breaks anyway.”

“You guys helped me. I should at least do the basics.”

After thinking a moment, Kang Giyeon answered.

“Then if anything still isn’t going well, remember it and tell me tomorrow. I have more I want to practice today too.”

No, you go home. I want to be alone?

It also stressed me out to have an injured person moving around nearby.

I can still clearly see that manager in Accounting collapsing from a herniated disc.

Through my eyes, Kang Giyeon’s ankle was a walking hazard. I didn’t want to watch someone crumple again.

“You hurt your ankle. Shouldn’t you rest more?”

“As long as it’s not moves that put a lot of strain, I’m fine.”

He answered immediately—guess he’d asked the hospital a bunch of questions. Meticulous kid.

Before I could ask if a minor was even allowed to stay out, he’d already walked off to the far corner of the room.

Seeing that reminded me of SPARK’s magazine interview.

“Q. There’s a story you’re in charge of turning the lights off at the practice room?

Seongbin: It’s not just me; all our members were like that. I think at least one of us always stayed for extra practice. Everyone was diligent and really wanted to be good. More than anything, we really wanted to debut. (laughs)”

I also thought of the “career planet” review attached to Hanpyeong Industries I read before coming back in time.

In one line...

“They called it a company like a lighthouse whose light never goes out,” or something.

At least Hanpyeong looked like its lights never went out from the outside.

But this damned practice room was buried underground, so whether underage trainees sang or danced all night, not a thing showed outside.

Even after practicing like this and debuting, SPARK couldn’t snag first place for over three years. Hard to believe, but that was reality.

The idol world SPARK debuted into was a thorny path that would insult even a hastily convened Monday-evening team dinner by comparison.

If it was that hard to debut, they should’ve worked even more aggressively.

From my standpoint—having had to run monitoring in their place—I was just grateful SPARK didn’t hustle.

But to fans, it probably wasn’t a good look.

What group does only one livestream during promotions?

“Well... it’s not the time to think about others.”

I stood up right away. The road ahead stretched ninety thousand li.

I don’t know how much time passed like that.

“Are you going to stay longer?”

While I was wrestling with the me in the mirror, Kang Giyeon turned off the music and asked.

“It’s eleven.”

“Eleven?”

The clock really did say 11 p.m.

This feeling of being chased to the jawline—I hadn’t felt it since the time Department Head Nam asked me to rearrange the office desks by tomorrow.

Going home now would only reap karma.

Having grown into an adult who can see an inch ahead, I decided to stay longer for tomorrow-me and asked Kang Giyeon,

“What about you—aren’t you going?”

“I’m going to do a little more.”

“Go early. You won’t grow.”

After busting his bones in practice, the kid didn’t appreciate getting holiday-table nagging from a rolling stone who just showed up.

Suck it up. I’m saying it because I know Future You won’t break 180.

Future him really did stress about it.

Fans called him a 173-centimeter giant puppy—“our super cute Giyeoni”—but with so many tall guys in the group, it got to him.

Side note: thanks to him being the only one who visually “dipped,” I had it rough too.

I’d need more than 140 characters to explain how much of a pain it was to edit SNS headers because of him. I practically wanted to enforce a vertical-photo ban—’nuff said.

Still, I couldn’t let a kid who just graduated middle school walk home alone in the dead of night. Especially one with a bad ankle.

I shook off the uneasy feeling and packed up.

Outside the building—after a solid fourteen hours—knife-cold wind was blowing.

The weather refused to warm; every breath smoked white.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Hyung, you ask that a lot.”

“Your body is your asset.”

At that, Kang Giyeon puckered like he wanted to say something and didn’t.

No sense of injury risk. Kids who don’t know to fear hospital bills.

The trainees clearly needed comprehensive occupational safety education. Make them take twenty sessions and they’d manage themselves whether they liked it or not.

Still, I did feel a bit bad about nagging that staying up late would stunt his growth.

Anyone who works knows every word from a boss hits like a dog bite.

Even if I’m more mousetrap than boss, sorry is sorry.

I pointed at a convenience store with its lights on and asked,

“Want to stop by the convenience store?”

Then, without waiting for his answer, I steered him inside. Gently—considering his ankle.

Maybe his energy was spent, because he let himself be herded in without resistance.

“Pick something you want.”

“Why?”

“Because I nagged you. Consider it an apology.”

They say a sincere apology comes with monetary compensation.

His nose red from the wind, Kang Giyeon made a reluctant face at my words.

“When did you—oh, you mean telling me to go home earlier?”

“Yeah.”

I shepherded the hesitating kid toward the fridges.

After a moment’s thought, he grabbed an ion drink.

I {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} almost told him to get something pricier, but then remembered he’s an extreme self-management idol who doesn’t even put dressing on salad, so I quietly paid.

Even if my entire net worth was that precious 15 million won.

For a student who’d done physical labor until 11 p.m., my sister would understand me buying one drink. I wasn’t going to be paying that money to a university anyway.

When I handed over the paid-for ion drink, he dipped his head.

“Thank you.”

“You’re thanking me for a 1,200-won drink? I should be thanking you for helping me practice.”

“I’m not helping—I’m saving you.”

“Fair point.”

After that short exchange, we walked toward the dorm in silence. A suffocating commute home, like with a coworker.

After passing a lane as dark as my future, we arrived at the entrance of the villa where the dorm is.

At the entrance, I motioned for him to go in.

“What about you, hyung?”

“I’m going to the karaoke. I already got permission from the manager.”

“Why the karaoke?”

“To practice.”

He made a thinking face.

Right. You probably wish the practice room were open 24/7 too.

I’m the type who’d rather pull an all-nighter than leave work piled up, so I get it.

“Well, it’s not only the karaoke I’m going to.”

Hiding my dark little plan, I waved him toward the door.