“You dance well, don’t you?”

Sun Woo-joo was twisting his body this way and that, matching every beat of the electronic music with his movements.

At first glance, his skill was remarkable.

Not phenomenal, but as they say, you see one thing and know ten. Invest a few months and he had the potential to become a solid main dancer.

“His flexibility is a bit lacking, though.”

Maybe it was because he’d taken two years off—some of the moves that should have been smooth came out rough. But flexibility could be fixed with stretching, so CEO Park Gyu-ho still gave his dancing a passing grade.

It was the skill you’d expect from a sixth-year trainee.

“If he’s this good, why was Director Yoon acting so dramatic?”

Curious, he turned to look. Park Gyu-ho was staring at Yoon Seok-hwan, who sat at the edge of the room, his eyes wide as if he’d seen a ghost.

“This can’t be real.”

Yoon Seok-hwan’s pupils darted uncontrollably. Who was Sun Woo-joo? Among TJ Entertainment’s trainers, he had been known as “the log” or “the robot”—a trainee blessed with a good voice but dropped for lack of dance skill.

“Am I supposed to be overjoyed or shocked?”

Yoon Seok-hwan felt happy to see the kid he cared for like a younger brother dance so well, but he was also completely stunned. He never would have imagined such a thing in his wildest dreams—Woo-joo, the one who had no sense of rhythm, who used to stay up all night only to flunk dance evaluations and cry, had transformed so suddenly.

He felt bittersweet, like looking at a child who had grown up so much he barely recognized him.

“If he’d improved this much in two years, he could have given us a heads-up.”

All that anxious waiting over the past three weeks felt so empty now.

Finally, the freestyle ended. Sun Woo-joo, in the center of the practice room, panted and wiped the sweat from his brow. Their eyes met and he gave a cheeky grin.

That rascal.

Yoon Seok-hwan silently applauded and looked around.

“He passed.”

It was clear from the judges’ looks at each other: the audition was a success. Smiling at the fact that people genuinely enjoyed Woo-joo’s dancing, Yoon Seok-hwan thought, Life is full of surprises.

After the audition, I signed a contract with Lemon Entertainment.

It was for three months at first, with a clause allowing either party to terminate at any time, and an automatic renewal if there were no issues.

CEO Park Gyu-ho brought up debut plans.

“Next June?”

He meant June 2014. It was almost December, so we had about half a year.

“The investors are relentless. After cutting trainees and two years of waiting, they want results.”

“I don’t mind, but will you be okay? The schedule’s tight.”

“I’ll manage. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll beg the investors to stay,” he said with a laugh, extending his hand.

“Just don’t give up and do your best. Got it?”

“Yes. I will.”

“We’ll start lessons tomorrow since it’s the first day. Want to meet the others today?”

“Right now?”

“Well, you’ll be working together, so the sooner, the better.”

I accepted gladly. It was true—you’d want to meet your future teammates as soon as possible.

In the underground practice room, Park Gyu-ho went in first. I straightened my outfit, then entered at his wave. Curious gazes followed me.

When I saw the four trainees, I froze for a moment. Their visuals were extraordinary—maybe their skills hadn’t impressed yet, but they each gave off an aura.

A tall, handsome man; two with a pretty-boy vibe; and one whose face screamed “actor” the moment you saw him.

Their eyes subtly studied each other as they hovered in the air.

“Say hello.”

Park Gyu-ho smiled. “This is the one you’ll be practicing with from today.”

The trainees bowed awkwardly, mumbling greetings like “Hello,” while the CEO pointed to each of them, introducing names. Honestly, I barely registered who was who.

One calm-looking trainee raised his hand.

“CEO, I have a question.”

“Sure, Bi-ju.”

“You said this was the person we’d be practicing with—so this is the member Director Jo Gyu-hwan promised to bring us?”

“That’s right.”

“Did he really bring him?”

The CEO nodded. A strange excitement washed over the trainees, as if they had just received a long-awaited package.

The tall trainee asked, “So we’re debuting?”

“We have a tentative schedule. A&R and management are meeting, but we’re aiming for around June next year.”

“Wow—!”

The youngest couldn’t help but shout. Then he ran around hugging the others, shouting, “Hyungs, we’re debuting!”

CEO Park smiled at their festive energy. I couldn’t help smiling too—it felt like I was watching them see the end of a long tunnel for the first time. To a trainee, debut wasn’t just a TV appearance; it was the first ray of light after endless darkness.

“Alright, calm down,” said the CEO, pulling out a corporate card. The trainees fell silent, looking at it as if it were Excalibur itself. The card and his head gleamed under the rail lights of the practice room.

“Since we have a new trainee, let’s welcome him with a barbecue down the street.”

Cheers erupted. I smiled quietly—what a great atmosphere for a first meeting.

We wrapped up the day by breaking the ice over dinner. Lessons officially began on the second day.

I arrived at the practice room and turned on the lights. It was 7:00 a.m. Lessons started at 9:00, but I came two hours early to make up for lost practice time. After two years off, I had a long way to go.

I did some light stretching—splits, leg lifts—and hooked my phone to the speaker via AUX cable.

It was charting on Billboard. An R&B track with standout dance performance. I’d seen a YouTube clip of its choreography on the subway this morning.

Then moves that used to be impossible for me flowed out effortlessly.

The wave: a series of segmented motions forming one undulation that traveled from one arm to the other. I not only mimicked the moves but intuitively grasped their mechanics.

Strangely, this ability applied to singing too—vocal cords were muscles, after all. Thanks to it, I’d recovered about 60 percent of my original skill before the audition. At this rate, reaching minimum debut standard within a ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) month wasn’t out of the question.

Click—

As I worked up a sweat and groaned through a three-part splits set, the first trainee entered. White skin, delicate features—he looked like a gentle deer. Kim Bi-ju, I recalled.

He yawned repeatedly, fighting off fatigue, then spotted me and beamed.

“You’re early, hyung.”

“Hey.”

“You came early because it’s your first day?”

“Yeah. Better not be late on the first day.”

His clear laugh rang out. From yesterday’s dinner, I’d observed that Bi-ju was calm and composed. He sat next to me and began stretching; I marveled at how effortlessly his legs split.

He must be the main dancer. Each of his moves was soft and elegant, befitting the group’s top dancer. When our eyes met, he smiled.

“What’s up?”

“I’m impressed by your flexibility.”

“I’ve been dancing since elementary school. My skills have improved, but I haven’t grown taller.”

Bi-ju made a sad face. I smiled back.

“Don’t worry. You’ll grow.”

“I turn twenty the month after next, hyung.”

“Oh? I thought you were all high schoolers?”

“Me and Jung-hyun here”—he nodded at the tall member—“graduate next year. The youngest is just starting high school.”

I’d mistaken him for seventeen, but he looked younger in person.

We chatted while stretching, though it was awkward since we’d only met once—typical small talk: “You’re handsome, haha.” “No, you’re more handsome, haha.”

Our conversation stalled as I strained through an impossible split. Bi-ju broke the silence.

“Woo-joo hyung.”

“......Uh?”

“At TJ Entertainment, you said you were cut from debut for dancing, right?”

“That’s right.”

He seemed about to say something unexpected.

“A bit random, but I really hope you debut with us this time.”

“Hmm?”

I was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You said we’d debut in June next year. With only half a year to prepare, it’s going to be intense, and you might feel a lot of stress over dancing.”

“That’s possible.”

“If someone gives up halfway, they can’t do that to me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You never know how someone’s feeling. If you ever feel like you can’t go on, talk to me. I can buy you meals, give you advice—anything. Even if you can’t figure a dance move, I’ll stay up all night helping you.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember that.”

He was so earnest it made me smile. He was scared—I could tell. After two failed debut attempts due to members dropping out at the last minute, he feared I might leave too. And since I’d mentioned quitting because of dance problems, he was understandably anxious.

What should I say? I couldn’t tell him about my supernatural ability.

“......”

Bi-ju looked embarrassed and resumed stretching. I couldn’t help grinning.

Click—

While quietly stretching with Bi-ju, another trainee arrived. He wore a puffer coat and beanie. Also a pretty boy, but his vibe was different—cold and princely, not gentle like Bi-ju. He must be Seo Ri-hyuk. I remembered his distinctive face from dinner yesterday. He was turning eighteen next year.

I greeted him as he entered with earphones on, but he only nodded. When I blinked at him, Bi-ju whispered, “He’s always like that.”

“Chilly,” I murmured.

He was about the same height as Bi-ju—early 170s—but with a lean build and intellectual face. Leaning against the wall, he briefly glanced at me then ignored me.

A tough character.

I only got to talk to Seo Ri-hyuk when I went to the hallway for water.

“Hey.”

He turned with sharp eyes.

“My name isn’t ‘hey,’ it’s Sun Woo-joo.”

“Ah.”

“If calling my name is awkward, ‘hey’ works too.”

I offered a gentle smile and soft tone. From experience, with temperamental types you have to be friendly in tone but firm in content.

“Were you saying Sun Woo-joo hyung?”

He looked like he hated calling me “hyung.”

“I need to talk to you. Got a minute?”

“About what?”

I blew on my paper cup, filled it with water, and nodded at him to speak.

His dark eyes fixed on me.

“You said yesterday you quit because of dance issues.”

“.......”

What are we, some devoted brothers?