One week after the Music Café recording.

Officially, we’d ended our broadcast activities, but that didn’t mean everything was over.

There were still events to attend.

Something had been the biggest hit of the first half of the year, and so many places wanted us to perform it.

Naturally, the company was enthusiastically scheduling us.

We got up at dawn, hit the southern provinces, then swung by Gangwon-do, then returned to Seoul, over and over.

Close my eyes, open them: Gyeonggi-do; close, open: Seoul.

It got to the point where I lost all sense of where I was.

“Man, Gangwon’s air really is great.”

“This is Seoul, hyung. Get a grip.”

Stretching in the car, I looked out the window.

Oh, wow.

It really is Seoul.

In that moment, the fresh air that had streamed in through the window just seconds before felt stale.

“That, my friends, is the placebo effect.”

Ji-ho grinned from the seat beside me.

“Since it’s you, hyung, shouldn’t it be the soufflé effect instead of placebo?”

“Look at him, brimming with confidence, thinking Music Café hasn’t aired yet.”

The broadcast airs next week—so only one more week to go.

I offered a warm smile.

“Just you wait. If they clip you crying, I’ll spread it everywhere.”

“I’ll help you.”

Lee Hyuk chimed in eagerly. But Ji-ho just laughed triumphantly.

“That won’t happen, hyungs.”

“Why not?”

“I bribed the Music Café writers with a ton of chicken gift cards.”

In other words, he’d lobbied to cut his crying scenes, so they wouldn’t air.

“......”

As Lee Hyuk and I stared at each other blankly, I spoke up.

“Five hundred won says it’ll air.”

“And five hundred more says they’ll do a close-up.”

“I doubt they’ll even close-up.”

Watching the two of us banter, the maknae continued to spread his naïve faith in the network.

His eyes flickered anxiously—he probably didn’t believe it himself.

Why would anyone believe that bribing a high schooler with gift cards would block airtime?

“Just thought of something.”

Jung Hyun, who’d been listening quietly, spoke.

“Do you think we’ll get any fans now?”

“Huh?”

“We’ve been doing music shows for nearly a month, and soon Music Café will air. Think any fans have stuck with us?”

At that, everyone fell silent in thought.

It was a question we’d all wondered but never voiced.

What to say?

The word “fans” sounded amazing, but it felt like an expensive outfit you admired in a store window—nice to look at but probably not for you.

New Black had worked hard for a month.

We rose at dawn for music shows, did interviews, shot a photoshoot, and ran events.

But we hadn’t shown enough to expect significant results.

Our broadcast exposure was all music shows.

Thank goodness for Music Café—otherwise people would think only Lee Hyuk sang.

The problem was it hadn’t even aired yet.

“What would we have to do to get fans?”

Lee Hyuk pointed out the reality.

“Most people think Something is Jang So-won’s song. If you stopped someone on the street and asked about New Black, no one’d know. And we haven’t even been on any variety shows.”

“Is that so?”

Jung Hyun shrugged in a lighthearted tone.

“I’ll stay positive. Surely someone out there likes us.”

“That’s right. There must be people out there—hiding somewhere. We just haven’t discovered them yet.”

“Ji-ho, if we get fans, what should we do first?”

While the rapper and the maknae happily daydreamed, Lee Hyuk clicked his tongue behind them.

“You need fans before you can think of fan service, you guys. Shouldn’t we figure out how to get fans first?”

Jung Hyun, staring at Lee Hyuk, whispered to Ji-ho.

“There he goes, raining on our parade again.”

“Oh, nice rhyme. Add that to the mixtape, hyung.”

Singing “Here he goes, raining on our parade~” and turning it into rap, the two amused themselves as Lee Hyuk shook his head.

Honestly, I agreed with Lee Hyuk.

How do you get fans?

Debut will bring fans gradually, but what can we ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) do right now?

I asked the manager in the passenger seat.

“Hyung Seok-hwan.”

“Huh?”

“Is there any show we could go on?”

“You know getting on Music Café was a struggle, right? How hard we and the director worked for that.”

“......I know.”

“And your status is complicated.”

Lemon Entertainment was top five for actors, but in the music world, a mid-sized agency.

They weren’t so small they couldn’t snag variety slots, but if we appeared somewhere, the network would demand one of our actors in exchange.

Pushing us as rookies before our debut album was tricky.

The networks treated us as debuting idols with Something, but could they call us fully debuted singers? Hard to say.

So I understood the company’s position.

Had we released an album, they’d boldly trade actor appearances for variety slots, but Something was already a famous song—and featured another label’s artist. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

Even if we succeeded on variety, it’d only give us fame, not tangible benefits—we only had Something to perform.

It felt like a dilemma: no new song to promote, no way to promote without a new song.

But that wasn’t something we could solve immediately. The company’s A&R team governed the debut album’s song selection.

So what could I do with my own hands?

“No variety shows, then. What else, Hyuk?”

“I don’t know. How about social media? We’ve got official SNS accounts. We could post and interact with fans.”

Road manager Min-gi, driving, nodded in agreement.

“Good idea. What do you think, Director?”

Our manager smiled kindly.

“Min-gi, you’ll handle that.”

“SNS isn’t a great idea, guys.”

When the road manager backpedaled, we all laughed.

It was cowardly, but we couldn’t argue—Min-gi was the only road manager we had.

So SNS was put on hold. I mentally crossed it off the list.

Jung Hyun suggested a reality show about our daily lives, but Seok-hwan cut that down.

The promotions team was swamped with film promos and had only one editor. They said they were overloaded.

“Bi-ju, what do you think... oh, you’re just listening.”

I tried to ask Bi-ju, but our main dancer sat by the window with earphones in, staring blankly.

Not exactly conversation mode.

But then—

As I turned back, something was wrong.

His earphone jack lay detached from his phone in his pocket.

No music was playing—was he just wearing them?

His unfocused eyes looked different from usual.

Tired from the events?

Just then, Seok-hwan said, as if recalling something:

“Come to think of it, there is a variety show that wanted you, Woo-joo.”

“Really? Me?”

“Someone’s noticed you. They don’t care you’re a trainee.”

“Ooh!”

“But I figured you wouldn’t like it......”

My manager hesitated, so I said,

“What are you talking about, hyung? This is for our publicity. I’d go on anything—even a survival show.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I can do anything.”

Seeing my determination, Seok-hwan smiled knowingly. Then he spoke the program’s name:

“A military experience variety show: Men Go.”

“I’d never do that.”

At that, everyone except Bi-ju burst out laughing.

After finishing our schedule in Chuncheon, instead of returning to the dorm, we went straight to the company, as usual.

For lessons and practice.

Now that broadcast activities were officially over, we needed to prepare for debut in earnest.

“Woo-joo? Sun Woo-joo?”

A dapperly dressed man looked at me.

When I came to, I was in the recording studio.

More precisely, the room where Director Jo Gyu-hwan gave composition lessons.

“Why are you spacing out?”

“Just thinking about going back to the military.”

I explained the situation to the surprised director, and when I finished, he laughed.

“I’m serious, Director.”

I kept a straight face, but he just laughed.

This guy.

When I stared, he waved his hand and said,

“It’s because you’re cute. Cute.”

“Director, should I go on that show blindfolded once, just to get our name out?”

“Hmm......”

He stroked his chin.

“That seems to miss the point.”

“The point?”

“As you said, getting fans before debut would be nice. An idol’s power comes from fandom. That’s why agencies cling to debut reality shows.”

He cited our Year-End Evaluation rival, Street Boys, as a nearby example.

“I like your idea of gaining fans. But the direction is wrong.”

“So military variety won’t appeal. Best not to do it......”

“No, no.”

Laughing, our producer waved him off.

“I’m talking about overall direction, not specifics. Our company is an actor agency, so let’s use actors as an example. If you were an actor and I wanted you to gain more popularity, what would you do?”

Without thinking, I blurted out,

“I’d try to get roles in good projects—movies or dramas with good scripts and direction. Ah!”

“Now you see why that’s the point.”

“Yes, I get it.”

The producer’s point was simple.

Just as actors gain fame through great works, singers must build fandom through songs.

Not variety shows or other gimmicks.

“Of course, I’m not saying singers must only rely on songs like in the ’90s. I recommend it because it’s the easiest.”

“Easiest?”

“How was Music Café? Broadcasts aren’t that easy.”

“No, they’re tricky.”

“Real variety is harder. I did one once and was too intimidated to speak.”

I felt embarrassed.

Like being caught daydreaming about kimchi soup.

There was no guarantee I’d shine on a military show, yet I thought I’d surely succeed.

Why did I think that?

Was I overconfident after the Year-End Evaluation, Something’s success, and Music Café?

“I don’t know why I thought it was easy when nothing is.”

“When things go well, everyone thinks that. You’re not weird.”

His warm words made me look at him gratefully.

What to call him? Our producer, but also a solid advisor.

He always offers great solutions no matter my problem.

Even when Something didn’t go well, he helped.

Gratitude welled in me.

“Thank you. I’m glad I asked you.”

“No, you asked well.”

He smiled.

“I’m proud you all discussed this. You can’t think like this on command.”

I thought it over and nodded.

Then I voiced the solution he’d guided me to.

“We’ll have to win people over with good songs.”

“Exactly. That’s why we have these lessons.”

With that, the lesson resumed.

We learned various techniques on the composition software displayed on his laptop.

When class finally ended, Director Jo organized some folders and asked,

“Did Management tell you? For the debut album, we’re doing a single album with around four tracks.”

“No. This is news to me.”

“Looks like you haven’t been looped in yet. That’s the decision. Now, I need your okay on something......”

He asked,

“Would you like one of the tracks to be your original song?”

“My own song?”

“Not the title track—just an album cut, so don’t feel pressured.”

It was about time I wrote my own song.

I’d been studying composition in spare moments in the military, and had formal lessons since last December.

An album cut, not the title, felt like a challenge I could take on.

“Yes, I’ll do it.”

Answering that, I felt relieved.

As if I’d found the answer to my dilemma.

Yes.

Making good songs must come before variety plans.

Definite no to military variety.

“Alright. Details you’ll discuss with A&R later.”

Director Jo checked his watch.

“They should be here soon.”

“Here?”

Just then, there was a knock and the members entered the studio.

Leading with a bright smile, Bi-ju and the others greeted Director Jo.

Behind them stood Seok-hwan and Min-gi, who held a small handy cam.

What was this about?

I wrinkled my brow, and Director Jo gave me a meaningful smile.

“I have a gift prepared for you.”