Ha Seung-ju, the host of Music Café, sat with his arms folded. His face was expressionless.

‘How long has it been since I’ve had an idol on this show?’

Ha Seung-ju watched the young man step onto the stage.

First impression: he was handsome. Among today’s idols, he stood out. Usually someone can look good on stage yet drop in visual appeal on screen, but the Sun Woo-joo onstage looked like he’d survive even on film.

His striking features looked as if they were in higher resolution even from a distance.

The writers watching the rehearsal exchanged comments.

“Wow, he’s handsome.”

“Senpai, is this your first time seeing him in person?”

“Yeah. Where have you seen him?”

“I met him for a pre-interview recently.”

“That was them? Lucky break. I’m in charge of Cho Yuri’s band this time.”

The writers laughed, imagining an indie band full of piercings.

“The guy onstage is the leader, right?”

“I saw during the interview that he co-composed with Jang So-won.”

“Oh, really?”

“So he’s the visual member?”

“Hard to say.”

“Why hard to say?”

The junior writer hesitated as if choosing words.

“If we judge only by looks, Woo-joo is the best looking, but in the interview it got ambiguous.”

“Ambiguous how?”

“Maybe because Lemon Ent is an agency for actors, all their trainees are visuals, like assorted sushi—there’s a bit of everything. The one onstage and the maknae are handsome types, there’s Jung-hyun who looks macho, and two who have pretty-boy vibes.”

“Pretty-boy? Those two standing over there?”

“Yes.”

“Which one sings Something?”

“Oh, Ri-hyeok? The nice-looking one is Bi-ju, the cold-looking one is Ri-hyeok.”

“I see.”

Ha Seung-ju listened with a bored expression. What mattered wasn’t the shell but the substance. If only judging visuals, he’d concede they were all attractive, but vocals? ‘They look great, but can their skills match their faces?’

NewBlack had been booked only recently. A junior composer friend, Jo Gyu-hwan, had called asking him to feature the group he was producing.

–Senpai, I have a favor.

“My show isn’t for rookie promotion.”

–They’re not just rookies. They just hit number one on the charts.

“Fine.”

–Senpai.

“Send me their practice videos. I’ll decide.”

Even though Music Café is a late-night program, its current reputation owed much to Ha Seung-ju’s strict standards. If the CP recommended someone but Ha judged their skills lacking, he rejected them outright.

Knowing this, Jo Gyu-hwan had confidently said:

–You won’t regret it.

When the Music Café production team watched NewBlack’s practice footage emailed to them, they all agreed to book them.

–There’s also a guy named Woo-joo who’s amazing. You’ll be intrigued when you see him.

Remembering Jo’s boast, Ha Seung-ju had smiled. As a veteran pianist and composer with countless industry connections, nothing from an undeclared idol’s piano would pique his interest... or so he thought.

“...Huh?”

When Sun Woo-joo began playing, he was surprised. It wasn’t bad—it sounded like a serious piano-exam candidate. Remarkable skill for an idol.

Plus, sense.

‘He chose jazz.’

A jazz piece fitting the time slot. Excellent choice. But what caught Ha’s attention wasn’t technique or song selection. It was the way he played—the sight and breath, the fingertips’ movement. It was familiar.

‘Who is it?’

Just as a fingerprint is unique, so is a musician’s style—finger length, breath, rhythm. Sun Woo-joo’s jazz piano reminded him of someone—in a good way.

Ha rubbed his temple and searched his memory, until he recalled a person.

“...Myeong-ju hyung?”

Ha Seung-ju’s stunned expression made the nearby PD tilt his head.

“What is it, Seung-ju?”

“PD Kim.”

The MC’s pale, long fingers pointed to the stage.

“Was there anything unusual in that guy’s background?”

“Unusual?”

“Like his parents.”

“I don’t recall that in the meeting.”

Was he mistaken? Watching Sun Woo-joo play, the PD asked quietly:

“What do you think of him, Seung-ju? If judging only piano skill, he’s the best we’ve had.”

“He plays well.”

“That’s a soulless answer.”

Ha Seung-ju ignored the PD and recalled someone’s words:

–You’ll be intrigued seeing him play piano.

Now that the performance was over, NewBlack’s members and Jang So-won were climbing the rehearsal stage. But Ha’s gaze remained fixed on Sun Woo-joo.

‘I need to confirm this.’

A spark of curiosity lit in his otherwise bored heart.

The rehearsal ended without incident. Thanks to endless practice until bloody noses and the members’ excitement, it went smoothly. Ri-hyeok, as main vocal, had belted out songs all four weeks, but we only did backing vocals on broadcasts.

We unleashed the pent-up feelings we’d held back. No need to fake excitement—our members stormed through the rehearsal with real energy. The production team seemed pleased. From below the stage, the writers offered a few pointers on hand movements—that was all.

“I like it all.”

The middle-aged man clutching his script under his arm, the main PD of Music Café, looked up at us with satisfaction.

“NewBlack, you confident you can do this on the real stage?”

“Yes!”

“Good. You did well. Wait in the green room until further notice. The writers covered the rest. So-won is experienced on TV, so no worries, right?”

“Don’t worry, PD-nim.”

Jang So-won winked, and the PD nodded in approval.

As she headed back to the green room, someone grabbed my shoulder.

“You’re Woo-joo, right?”

“...Huh?”

The man holding my arm was none other than Music Café’s host, Ha Seung-ju. Salt-and-pepper hair, horn-rimmed glasses, an air of neat intelligence—like a British gentleman from a spy film.

I froze, then hurriedly bowed.

“Hello, senpai. I’m Woo-joo of NewBlack.”

“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve been watching your rehearsal from the audience.”

“I didn’t expect you to speak to me...”

He smiled gently at my flustered state. Despite his stern reputation, his smile was soft.

While the rough-looking indie band next up rehearsed, Ha led me back to a seat in the audience.

“Sit comfortably.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to press your legs together like that.”

“Yes!”

“Answer casually too.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask a couple questions? They might be personal.”

“That’s fine.”

“I saw online your surname is Seon. Which Seon clan are you from?”

...What?

I recalled a line from a crime movie: ‘Which Choi are you?’ Flustered, I answered truthfully.

“I’m from the Boseong Seon clan.”

“I see.”

Sharp eyes shone behind his glasses.

“Then what’s your relation to Seon Myeong-ju?”

I was ten times more surprised than at the surprise party.

How did he know that name?

“He thought your piano style was identical to someone’s—finger work, style. Might be my mistake, but it # Nоvеlight # looked the same.”

My lips moved. At first I wondered who told him, then realized it wasn’t that. The pianist before me, from my playing alone, recalled the name.

A ghostly sense.

What should I do? It was a fact I’d kept hidden even in pre-interviews. After a moment’s thought, I decided to answer honestly.

“He’s my father.”

“Of course.”

Ha Seung-ju smiled, and suddenly his expression changed—less British gentleman, more uncle. Warm.

“You’re Myeong-ju hyung’s son?”

“You knew my father?”

“You don’t recognize me?”

Ha Seung-ju beamed.

“I used to visit your home a lot when you were a kid.”

“...?”

“Well, you might not remember at that age.”

“He passed away long ago...”

Ha’s face paled and he glanced at me, but I smiled reassuringly.

“No need to worry, senpai.”

“Anyway, nice to see you, Woo-joo.”

His eyes held a nostalgic warmth.

“To think that kid grew up to debut as an idol... Time flies. Oh? Your nose line is exactly the same.”

He studied me fondly, and I smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond. My father and this man had been close enough for visits, but my memories of my parents were hazy.

He continued expressing delight and pride—an affectionate look in his eyes. Ha Seung-ju, swept up in nostalgia, was ignoring the broadcast behind him to focus on me.

“By the way.”

Clearing his throat, perhaps realizing he’d stared too long, Ha changed the subject.

“Are you keeping Myeong-ju hyung a secret on purpose?”

“No. It’s not exactly a secret, but it felt strange to announce it myself.”

“True.”

He nodded understandingly.

“How long is your airtime?”

“I heard edited it’ll be around ten minutes.”

“You want to promote your name with this appearance, right?”

“Yes.”

“The more public attention, the better.”

Ha Seung-ju stroked his chin.

“How about this? I owe Myeong-ju hyung so much. As a gesture, I’ll make you a proposal.”

“What proposal...?”

“I’ll give you more airtime. We can adjust other teams’ slots by a minute or so.”

This was an enormous favor. In this industry, people lobby just for ten extra seconds on air, yet he offered to expand our time.

“Usually such offers come with conditions.”

“Right.”

He nodded.

“Even if we extend your time, your repertoire has limits. You probably haven’t prepared extra. We also need to consider talk segments...”

I guessed what was coming.

“How about talking about Myeong-ju hyung?”

It was a difficult offer. Entertainment is about squeezing every second on air, yet he’d cut others’ time for us. The condition was tricky.

“What do you think?”

The man who lifted Music Café from its low ratings stood waiting for my answer. I took a deep breath.

7 PM. It was time to record Music Café.

As the audience took their seats, the hall buzzed with chatter, eager for the show to begin. When the pre-MC finished, the FD came onstage and struck the slate.

“Recording starts now!”

Soft BGM began. In tuxedo, Ha Seung-ju appeared to applause. On screen, a full shot of the PBS public hall with the stylish caption [Ha Seung-ju’s Music Café].

“Welcome, audience, to Ha Seung-ju’s Music Café.”

At the MC’s smooth voice, the audience cheered.

“Looking at today’s weather, spring is truly upon us. It’s gotten quite warm, hasn’t it?”

A chorus of “Yes” came back.

“I see more couples here than in winter. Welcome, you’ve chosen a great date spot.”

Self-praise drew light laughter.

“Spring is called the season of flings, right? To share that warmth, we’ve invited very special guests today.”

The first guest performed. A hot indie band from Hongdae opened the show. Watching their feed in the green room, we admired.

“Three members already.”

A tough lineup. Buster, an indie band, had recently charted. As sweet spring songs continued, we warmed up. Our slot was fifth, one before last.

Though we expected a long wait, time flew, and we answered the call.

“Jang So-won team! Please get ready!”

We hurried backstage after the FD. From behind the stairs we saw the stage. Same lights, same set as rehearsal, but the air felt different. Outside, the public hall was packed, waiting for us.

The tension differed from music shows.

“Feels like the year-end evaluation, right?”

Last year’s evaluation felt similar. Our skills and confidence had grown immeasurably since, yet on this massive stage, I recalled that humble mindset. The members nodded. Jang So-won watched us huddled like penguins with a fond smile.

“You all worked hard this month. Once we nail Music Café, our activity ends. So...”

I made eye contact with each member.

“Let’s enjoy it.”

When I stretched out my hand, the others placed theirs on top. Noticing the FD’s signal to prepare, we whispered “Fighting” and raised our hands.

“Now, let’s welcome our next team. If you don’t know them, you must be a spy. The collaboration team everyone in Korea is smitten with.”

To cheers of anticipation, we took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage.

Thud.

The wooden stairs echoed underfoot and my heart fluttered. It felt as if all air had stopped. Bathed in spotlights and gazes, I smiled.

This is it. The stage to crown our final activity.