A car horn honks outside the dorm.

“Director must be here. Let’s head down.”

Yoon Seok-hwan, who picks us up like clockwork at the exact same time every day, was waiting.

Fearing he’d start nagging us, we hurriedly got dressed while the owners of the shoes scattered around scrambled to find theirs.

Come to think of it, Biju had organized everything the day before yesterday—so how did it get so messy again?

“Jiho, aren’t those mine?”

“Hyung! They’re mine.”

While the two who occupied ninety percent of the entryway shoe space performed a little comedy sketch, Riheok opened the shoe cabinet and looked at them with disdain.

Meanwhile, Biju checked the gas and electrical cords.

Once everything was done and we piled into the Starex waiting on the first floor, that marked the end of our morning routine.

“Good morning!”

“Good morning, Director.”

Since several company staff had quit recently, Director Yoon had been handling pickups from the dorm to the practice room himself.

Of course, today was a little different.

Director Yoon was dressed quite dapperly, and we weren’t in our usual sweatpants but in nicely chosen street clothes.

“You all ready?”

I saw Director Yoon’s eyes crinkle into a smile in the rearview mirror.

Today was the day.

The day we headed to Hwayi Entertainment for our collaboration project.

Collaboration—industry jargon for a joint project with another artist. More specifically, artists from different genres or with different musical colors singing together.

It differs from a “featuring” credit like “feat. Hong Gil-dong,” where the guest musician participates only in part of the song; in a collab, both musicians share equal weight.

Honestly, there’s no huge difference—it’s just a convenient distinction, and people in the industry often get it mixed up.

“We really struggled over that ‘featuring’ terminology,” Director Yoon began, sharing the behind-the-scenes of negotiations with Hwayi.

“I thought I was going to go bald negotiating with them.”

“Who was it? The CEO?”

Everyone in the car burst out laughing at the maknae’s sudden interjection.

Sorry, CEO.

Director Yoon laughed as he removed the black box memory from the car’s dashcam.

“I have to erase the recording every day because of him. What if someone ever listened to it?”

“You can turn that feature off, you know.”

“Nah, I might need it sometimes.”

As he inserted the memory card into his phone, Director Yoon continued.

“The fight started over the song title. Hwayi Ent said, ‘You haven’t even debuted yet—what kind of artists are you? The title should say “Feat.”’ We insisted equal billing was only fair.”

“So you fight over that too?”

“That’s what labels are for, kid.”

“Director.”

Junghyun, munching on a banana in the back, asked,

“So how did it turn out?”

“We wrapped it up nicely. I told their rep that one of our guys has real talent for composing. Not just singing, but he’ll be involved in the songwriting too.”

Director Yoon looked at me.

“Want to guess why I’m telling you this?”

“...To do well?”

“Exactly. Whether the song ends up titled ‘Jang Sowon X New Black’ or ‘Jang Sowon feat. New Black’ is in your hands now.”

His words weighed heavily on me.

“By the way, this is your first time going to Hwayi, right?”

“You’ve never been?”

“Hyung Riheok, I originally went to acting auditions. I only joined our company for that.”

So his dream had been to act. No wonder he always seemed like an actor.

I turned to Riheok.

“Have you been to Hwayi?”

“I’m probably the only one here who has. I went for a vocal audition once.”

“Oh, that time you said you got cut in ten seconds?”

“It wasn’t ten seconds.”

“Hyung said you were eliminated the moment you walked in.”

“Why’d they cut me?”

Riheok sighed, reluctant to answer.

“They thought I looked like I could sing well, so they made me dance first.”

Everyone except one person laughed.

Seomoo, ranked fifth in New Black’s dance hierarchy, swallowed tears and rationalized,

“They weren’t letting just anyone in back then.”

“Really? Hyung?”

“Please just shut up...”

As the maknae forced a smile, Riheok spoke up about Hwayi Entertainment’s building.

“I almost gave up because of the facilities.”

“Facilities?”

“From the outside it looks impressive, but inside it was weird. When I entered the practice room, there were toothpaste stains on the mirror.”

“Well, that was ages ago.”

I chimed in, “It could be different now.”

“But Hwayi’s loaded, right? They should be one of the top agencies after us and DNS at year-end evaluations. So why were their practice rooms like that?”

“No idea.”

“Wasn’t that when Sugarfish was doing big?”

At Biju’s comment, we all frowned in confusion.

Hwayi Entertainment—once, if you said “Sugarfish’s agency,” anyone would go “Oh!” Sugarfish’s heyday rivaled that of the top girl groups. They must have been making a ton of money then, so why were the facilities shabby? The more I thought about it, the shoddier the company seemed.

They don’t even have an official website. Usually a company of that size has a homepage with artist photos, but Hwayi Ent didn’t.

Well, it doesn’t really matter. Hwayi’s still one of the more successful agencies, back then and now.

“You’re gonna show them the dance I prepared for you

Follow me, honey”

An electronic-beat–heavy girl-group song blared from the radio. After the bridge finished, the familiar chorus tickled our ears.

“Baby Lalala Baby Lalala”

Biju hummed along, bobbing her head.

This song, which everyone else was singing along to, was hot on the recent charts. The singer was Girls on Top—Hwayi Entertainment’s powerhouse girl group.

“Girls on Top are really hot. Weren’t they number one all the time?”

“Probably.”

“No. They were number one only in the first week.”

“Really?”

“In the second week, Scarlet made their comeback. Girls on Top stayed at number two the whole time.”

So they’d been nicknamed “Beans on Top.”

Girls on Top—a successful fourth-year girl group. Known to the public through variety shows and dramas, and in the industry for their strong songs. They’d followed Sugarfish as Hwayi’s hitmakers. Their debut album flopped, but every title track since has reached the top ten. The only complaint is that their songs all have a similar vibe.

Girls on Top succeeded with second-place marketing—never aiming for first, cementing themselves as the friendly runners-up. That strategy kept them endearing to the public even as the number-one spot changed hands—until Scarlet arrived the following year.

In 2012, after Jo Gyu-hwan introduced the rookie girl group Scarlet, Girls on Top began to lose their second-place crown. Hence the “Beans on Top” nickname and their shrinking variety-show slots. But they remained a top girl group.

“Thinking back, Hwayi’s girl-group lineup really is impressive.”

“They probably keep the company afloat.”

“Guess so.”

“But wasn’t Sugarfish even more unbelievable? They were huge when I was in elementary school.”

Ninety’s babies all nodded, sharing the memory.

Sugarfish—once called the undisputed top, with massive popularity, but their glory was short-lived due to member scandals. One got arrested for smoking marijuana with her boyfriend, shocking everyone who’d watched her perform on music shows the day before. They tried to continue after kicking her out, but another member was soon reported to be having an affair with a film director, and Sugarfish’s lifeline was severed.

They were five. Jang Sowon was one of the three who remained. She was amazing. It took her a long time to stage a comeback from rock-star to notorious scandal. As a singer-songwriter, she leveraged her composing skills—using her low recognition as an unpopular member to build a new image. Now she was the most successful of the five, doing drama OSTs and releasing singles one after another. Sadly, none had been a mega-hit. Her average chart position—songs I’d sung at auditions or rearranged for year-end evaluations—hovered around seventy. For us, who haven’t even debuted, that was an incredible achievement.

“What happened to the other Sugarfish seniors?”

“Don’t know about anyone except Jang Sowon.”

“I heard Baekhyang quit and went to school. Lisa went into musicals.”

“They’re all doing well.”

“What about the other two?”

“No idea. Hopefully they’re doing okay.”

The conversation drifted elsewhere. Being trainees in the entertainment world meant they’d each heard quite a bit of rumor. Watching them unpack gossip made me frown—why talk about this? It felt like entertainment reporters on TV inventing gossip about “Miss A” or “Mr. B,” which was uncomfortable.

I wasn’t the only one. Director Yoon’s eyes furrowed in the rearview mirror. Were they going to get scolded?

But before I could say anything, Director Yoon spoke up.

“Hey, you guys.”

His voice was sharp enough to freeze the air. The four chatting trainees in the back sat up stiffly, stunned by his anger.

“What are you doing right now?”

Under his fierce gaze, they froze like statues.

“I’m asking you.”

The mood was tense, like the calm before a storm.

“I asked what you’re doing.”

“...”

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

“...We were just talking, Director.”

Biju answered hesitantly, and Director Yoon stared at them in silence. An icy stillness followed. Even I in the passenger seat felt tense. The car continued in silence, as if urging them to think about what they’d done wrong.

Unlike the oblivious maknae and Junghyun, Riheok sighed and Biju looked guilty. After about five minutes, Director Yoon spoke calmly.

“Listen.”

Thankfully, his tone was gentle now.

“I don’t mind you sharing industry gossip among yourselves.”

“...”

“But shouldn’t these conversations stay between you?”

“Sorry.”

“I don’t like how it looks. Imagine how it looks to outsiders.”

He shook his head.

“If it were just me in this car, no problem—I wouldn’t repeat anything you said. But are you going to debut? Soon you’ll have road managers and stylists following you around—will you still talk like this then?”

By now Junghyun and Jiho looked chagrined.

“Road managers have it tough, you know? When celebrities pull in ten million won a week, those guys earn a million a month. They switch jobs for an extra hundred thousand won without a second thought. And if they leave, they’ll spread everything you said.”

Director Yoon emphasized,

“The entertainment world is small, you guys.”

“...”

“You don’t know ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) yet because you haven’t experienced it. A word in this car can circle the entire set the next day.”

He glanced at the maknae.

“And Jiho.”

“...Yes?”

The youngest hunched his shoulders, bracing for a scolding.

“About that thing you said earlier about the CEO—thoughtless, right?”

“Sorry. I’ll be careful next time.”

“You’re still too immature. Consider your words before you speak. Got it?”

At Director Yoon’s insistence that they think before they speak, the maknae nodded. Though getting scolded can feel rough, his calm tone made us all understand—it wasn’t personal anger but a manager’s duty to correct mistakes objectively.

“Now, Sun Woo-joo.”

“Yes, Director.”

It was coming.

“You know you made the biggest mistake, right?”

“Sorry.”

“They might seem young and clueless, but you’ve been through the military—you know what’s appropriate. From now on, if something like this happens, step in and handle it. Understood?”

I wanted to say I had intended to, but it was my fault, so I bowed my head.

“Sorry, Director.”

“Do me proud, Woo-joo.”

I looked out the window, meeting Director Yoon’s unusually somber gaze.

“I can’t always be there by your side.”