For the past few days, I’d ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) been watching for a chance to sneak outside.

To go to a PC bang, of all things.

Not knowing my impure intentions, Kang Giyeon even left me a small word of encouragement.

“Don’t overdo it.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

After I confirmed Kang Giyeon was heading up the stairs, I immediately turned on my heel.

Then I ran out to the main road and flagged the first taxi that came by.

I hate going off-script. I’m the kind of person who prefers to do as I’m told and be done with it.

Anyone would become like that after saying in a one-on-one that personal orders unrelated to work make them uncomfortable and then getting cursed out standing for four hours.

But right now I had no choice. There was something I absolutely had to check.

Before long, the taxi pulled up at the entrance to the apartment complex where I’d lived with my family before I moved out.

Instead of going inside the complex, I walked a few minutes toward the shopping arcade and there it was—the PC bang I knew.

The moment I opened the door, the part-timer waved me away, asking if I didn’t know minors can’t come to PC bangs after 10 p.m.

If he’d seen my dark circles in a bright place, he wouldn’t have made that mistake.

I had no choice but to show my ID proving I’d just turned twenty, and only then was I allowed in.

I let out a breath, thinking if I’d gone back just one year younger, I wouldn’t have been able to come to a PC bang or a karaoke room.

Once I grabbed a seat, the first things I checked were the certified real-estate register for the apartment I’d lived in and my resident registration record.

There was a lot of personal information to type in, and I didn’t want any search history left behind, so I hadn’t opened those documents on Lee Cheonghyeon’s laptop.

And even if it wasn’t fun, I found something surprising.

Around the time my residence was moved to SPARK’s dorm, the apartment’s ownership had been transferred from my father to someone else.

I remembered that back then I was the one who cut contact first.

Weirdly enough, it now seemed like the setting had been changed so my parents were the ones who disowned me first.

Didn’t really matter. The only difference was that the point where I distanced myself from family had been moved up.

Kind of pitiful that I ended up a twenty-year-old dumped in front of an entertainment agency, though.

Next, using my entire net worth—15 million won—as the baseline, I started organizing an asset portfolio in Google Sheets.

I pulled out an emergency fund first for contingencies, calculated bare-minimum living expenses, then re-checked the basic deposit needed for a housing subscription and subtracted that from my balance.

“Since the house evaporated, a subscription is a must. As for the rest... I’ll put it into stocks.”

In the past I had zero interest in stocks.

Maybe thanks to that, the only things I knew were the stocks that were already famous or the stocks that were going to become famous.

The kind that go up 300% so literally everyone in the country can’t help but know about them.

Sure enough, a few blue chips were still sitting at low prices.

I hadn’t even gone to college and I was about to burn through my hard-earned money, so at the very least I planned to grow this amount as much as possible and pay it back to my sister.

I left the stock forum after reading a thread titled “Sensory Electronics. Someday. It Will Go Up” that had a comment saying, “Old man, wash your feet and go to bed.”

If I knew which tickers would get delisted, I’d at least write a post telling everyone to run.

With how little I knew, all I could do was hope everyone’s investments worked out.

I left the PC bang exhausted, praying I’d made the right choice.

Then, to keep my word about practicing at a karaoke room, I sang for about two hours and obediently returned to the dorm.

It had been a long day.

If there’s one thing I realize every morning, it’s that a twenty-year-old’s stamina is nothing like it is nine years later.

No matter how much I danced the day before or how little I slept, by morning I had the energy to move.

“So youth is why I could do logistics part-time every school break.”

Every time I felt youth return to me like this, my feelings got complicated.

There was something else that had changed in the same daily routine.

“Did the practice help?”

For the first time, instead of just a small bow when we crossed paths in the morning, Kang Giyeon offered me his version of a morning greeting.

“It was time spent realizing I’m not a genius who can become a master in a day.”

“Hyung, you practiced separately again yesterday? Wow, hyung, your dark circles are no joke!”

Lee Cheonghyeon—who had definitely been coming out behind me—poked his head past my shoulder to check my face and made a fuss.

For whatever reason, even the manager who’d shown up at the dorm from early morning tossed in a comment from behind.

“Juu can sing a song as soon as he gets it.”

“Isn’t that exactly the proof that Juu’s a genius?”

I immediately hyped up a member’s greatness to the manager.

Thinking it was way too cruel to get compared to the main vocal first thing in the morning.

It was definitely a noisier morning than when I lived alone. Still, I felt just a little more used to greeting the morning with a group.

Terrifying, human adaptability.

After that, Kang Giyeon kept tossing me a word here and there as he came and went.

Jeong Seongbin, who has a habit of looking after everyone; Lee Cheonghyeon, who’s naturally sociable; and even Park Juu, who slips in so quietly you don’t know when he arrived and then checks my posture or vocals—

The SPARK brats carved up their own breaks to watch me practice.

Meanwhile, I had to keep strength in my fingers to resist the reflex to hit hotkeys in mid-air to retouch their skin tones.

Separate from me working hard to learn, these guys needed to know how unhealthy their sudden pop-ins were for other people’s hearts.

Even Choi Jeho—who rarely strikes up a conversation—said this much:

“You’re getting close with the kids pretty fast.”

He must’ve seen me getting passed around between members like a loop line on the subway.

Still, calling that “getting close” is crossing a line. I am grateful for the consideration and kindness, though.

“Me? With the kids?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t it just because they’re all nice?”

“Dunno.”

Choi Jeho answered vaguely. Anyone could see he didn’t look comfortable.

Who would be comfortable with this situation.

Give advice, give feedback at night, take care of him on the way home.

Considering the kindness SPARK shows me—the top heretic at UA—it’s only right to acknowledge their character, and I do appreciate it.

I have zero desire to build intimacy with them, though. You guys can get close with each other.

“With Giyeon it’s closer to a stern teacher and a hopeless student...”

“At least you know you were hopeless.”

“Past tense?”

At my words, Choi Jeho gave a faint smile.

That smile—the fans’...

“Please don’t misunderstand. Our Jeho is actually laughing his head off right now. He doesn’t bite.”

...explain-that-to-everyone smile.

If I didn’t know, there’d be no way to tell the difference between his smiles.

Of course, there was something that bothered me.

The members being kind and me being a freeloader were two different problems.

If I was going to cling to the bus window with shady intentions, I’d need extras beyond effort. Assuming I had a conscience.

Getting my skills up immediately would be best, but that’s not realistic.

With even the experience points I’d counted on now adjusted, it looked hard to pump my stats in an instant.

What was left was to accommodate—support, as much as I could—the guys who’d staked their futures on this.

Anything I could do.

Since it came up, I decided to check with Choi Jeho first.

“I want to ask something.”

“What.”

“I’m grateful you stop group practice in the middle, but it feels like I’m getting in your way.”

“So?”

“What should I shore up first so I’ll hurt you guys the least?”

I could feel four minors not far away looking at me.

Under Department Head Nam, I figured I’d gotten plenty used to lowering myself as incompetent.

But there was something I’d overlooked.

This was my first time basically saying, “Yes, I’m the dead weight in this zone.”

More humiliating than I expected. The kind of experience that makes you grit your teeth and want to practice.

I’ll remember this and kick my blankets in shame for a long time to come.

As I steeled myself, Choi Jeho shot back with a question.

“What’s the intention behind that question?”

Oh, he’s coming out milder than I thought.

If it was Choi Jeho, I’d expected something like, “And if I tell you, you can fix it?”

I already knew his rawest quotes.

In the idol world, where one sentence can create ten million antis, Choi Jeho’s rough one-liners were perfect for making headlines.

Maybe he knew it too, because as the years piled up, he noticeably talked less on broadcasts.

Unfortunately, that led to its own “attitude controversy,” the usual vicious circle.

He did his job more than well enough and he was older, so maybe nobody in the team was in a position to call him out.

In that sense, “What’s the intention behind that question?” was pretty gentle.

But now that they were openly watching this way, the expressions on Kang Giyeon and Lee Cheonghyeon weren’t great. They seemed to think Jeho’s question could sound like he was picking a fight with me.

“They probably heard it like, ‘You showed up late and now you’re guilt-tripping us?’ or something.”

Words are weird like that. Depending on context or nonverbal cues, the same words can be heard a dozen different ways.

If I’d heard that line during a late-night, twisted-mood all-nighter, I might’ve flared up too—“I’m bowing my head here and you’re still not satisfied?”

Maybe because he wasn’t leader yet, even Jeong Seongbin was holding his tongue.

This damned seniority system—we’ll have to smash it to bits soon.

Still, if I was going to be an idol, minding my language wouldn’t hurt.

So I decided to rewrite Jeho’s question into the version he “probably” meant.

“You mean, is there a reason you started thinking I’m a stumbling block?”

“...? Yeah.”

Knew it. The guy’s mouth is mean, but I don’t think he’s a bad kid.

After a brief silence, Jeho lifted his head and looked at me. He seemed to have finally noticed the mood around us.

“Rather than a reason... I thought about it by myself after hearing about the end-of-month evaluation.”

“...”

“Everyone’s been preparing longer than me, and of course they want to do well, but practice keeps stopping because you’re teaching me. I figured that’s a burden on you.”

“It’s normal to mess up all the time. How long’s it even been since you became a trainee.”

“Still, it gets in the way.”

“If a routine collapses because practice gets stopped a few times, that’s the problem of the person who collapsed.”

It was a barren and pointlessly kind piece of feedback.

Which, in turn, made it so the other members couldn’t voice any complaints even if they had them.

Can’t be helped.

I decided to neatly re-wrap the words of Genius Lord Choi Jeho—who acts like nothing would ever affect his condition whether someone else face-plants or breaks their nose.

“I get your point. Thanks for saying it straight.”

Jeho hesitated.

He had the look of someone who’d just realized he’d slipped. At least he has awareness.

He knit his brows a little, thought it over, then forced himself to speak.

“...For now, that’s how I feel.”

He’d put a tiny emphasis on “I.” Meaning he wasn’t ignoring other people’s opinions or trying to point fingers.

I glanced over and saw Lee Cheonghyeon silently mouthing a wow.

Unlike Jeho, Cheonghyeon has excellent social radar.

On a hunch, I shot him a signal to pick up the baton if he could, and he sauntered over with a shameless grin.

“As if Jehohyung would mean it in a bad way! I didn’t feel anything like that at all!”

He really picked it up. For this moment, I’m grateful for your quick wit.

“Just letting me share Jehohyung’s room is thanks enough. Otherwise I’d have been soaking my pillow every night in that Siberia of a room.”

“Isn’t that an insult to me?”

“C’mon. If I actually had a gripe, you know I wouldn’t be able to talk like this, right, Jehohyung?”

Then Cheonghyeon tossed a finger heart at Jeho. Peak idol gesture.

He slung an arm over Kang Giyeon’s shoulder and kept going.

“If something had really been bugging us, this guy would’ve popped off first. Our Giyeon’s basically the drill sergeant. Right?”

“Arm down.”

“Isn’t Seongbin the captain? He’s always doing checks during break.”

“Seongbin-hyung’s more like the baby-angel captain than a drill captain.”

Fair point. Jeong Seongbin is nice.

“Still, yeah, it’s hard not to worry when I suddenly wedge in with people who are all so good.”

“You think you’re the only one who becomes a trainee through street casting? If I worried about each of those, I wouldn’t even finish my own practice.”

“Cheonghyeon’s right to a point, hyung. You really don’t have to worry that much.”

“If it’s not making you uncomfortable, that’s a relief.”

Now the only thing on my mind was Park Juu, who hadn’t said a word.

Cautiously, I asked the future main vocal who would one day carry the team with his voice for his opinion too.

“Juu?”

“...Yes?”

“Are you uncomfortable because of me in any way?”

Sorry, Park Juu.

I know you don’t like talking to unfamiliar people, but for your comfortable practice life and smooth debut, I’d appreciate your coopera—

“Not even once.”

“R-really?”

“Yes. And everyone knows you work hard...”

“Uh... thanks for saying that.”

What a generous society toward others. It’s so unfamiliar.

“So as long as I don’t tank the practice vibe or anything, no one’s planning to make a big deal out of it.”

Same goes for the agency’s policy where self-practice is the main thing.

Overall, as long as the place doesn’t slide into laxness where discipline melts away, nobody seems intent on force-feeding me awkwardness.

All I have to do is grind myself into the ground?

Honestly, I welcome it.