In front of the Ilsan studio.

Fans waiting for the live taping were lined up.

“Whoa...”

Fans at the front clicked their tongues as they looked back at the line behind them.

“They just keep coming. Today’s audience count must be record-breaking.”

“Wow, insane.”

“This is no joke...”

Maybe because it was the final showdown, the headcount looked like an all-time high.

Most were girl-group fans who’d applied through the fan cafe, but here and there were regular folks mixed in.

“They must’ve opened audience applications to muggles too.”

The girl-group fans snorted.

“Those production brats. If there are leftover tickets, increase the fan allotment instead.”

There were so many people online mourning that they’d lost the audience lottery for The Spirit’s final.

“Please cheer twice as hard for me ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ”

“I wanted to see our girls in person ㅠㅠㅜㅜ”

“I lost again”

“I’ll just watch on TV and eat chicken...”

“Have fun at least!” — Idol fans solemnly nodded at messages like that from their comrades.

“We’re going to cheer like our lives depend on it.”

Fitting for the final, the air between idol fans was thick with both excitement and grim resolve.

How fierce had the last eight weeks been.

MyTube view-count battles for the stages, on-site voting, SNS points, and so on.

They were fans who, faced with TBC forcing labor on the fandom, couldn’t fight it and nobly surrendered—refusing no task thrown at them.

“We’re making them number one, no matter what!”

Full of grit and stubbornness, the die-hard idol nerds clenched their fists and steeled themselves.

Then fans clustered in little groups to fire each other up.

“This is the SNS post Hyena uploaded an hour ago.”

“So cute... we have to go nuclear with support.”

“How is Yubin so lovable. Isn’t she just a lovely person, period?”

Idol fans chattered away about their idol’s SNS, photos, and the last performance.

Scarlet’s fans were the same.

“Hehehe... Lina’s so pretty.”

“Did you see the photos Nayoon posted? Last outfit was gorgeous. Unreal...”

“I thought I wasn’t a face-only fan, but when I came to, I had five hundred pics of the girls saved.”

Scarlet fans, proud of their visuals, squealed over photos and clips.

“Top-tier pretty. Top-tier.”

Their sisters’ faces alone were treasure.

They’d even ranked first in a “idol-picked visuals” poll back at the Idol-ympics, and they owned countless GIFs that even non-fans saved in a daze—goddesses famous for always being beautiful, the ultimate biases.

But the thing Scarlet fans were proudest of wasn’t that.

“Our sisters’ stage is top-notch!”

The stage, above all.

A girl group whose performance was so flashy that even dancers filmed reactions on MyTube like, “Wow... they dance like dancers.”

The classic Scarlet fan conversion route was: glance at the face and go “hmm?” then fall in after watching the year-end stage videos.

“The whole world needs to know how good our sisters are on stage...!”

Thinking that, fans looked up at the sky.

“Mr. Gyuho...”

“Don’t.”

“I was just saying ‘Mr. Gyuho.’”

“Oh. I thought...”

Bittersweet laughter spread among the fans.

They’d suffered enough under Park Gyuho that typing just “Gyuho” on their phones autocompleted to “Gyuho you son of—” for many Scarlet fans.

“Damn, the fandom name ‘Curtain’... I’m dead”

“A bald-headed exec naming the fandom and we get ‘Curtain’???? Curtaiiiin???”

“Gyuho better treat us right”

“The light stick is a curtain rod, damn it. People laugh now, but back then the fandom vibes were dark as hell”

“The curtain-rod shape was literally the hardware for hanging curtains—thinking about it again pisses me off”

“Gyuho, you—”

“We’re Curtain so we can’t do cute pastry tie-ins like NewBlack’s Souffle”

So many things had happened in Scarlet’s early days.

All the messes caused when CEO Park Gyuho’s so-called “good ideas” exploded and he couldn’t hold himself back...

“It’s a relief he’s doing better these days. In the beginning we cursed every time he pitched another event or idea.”

“We had that ‘cursing granny’ image for a while as a fandom...”

“But lately it’s good.”

Everyone nodded.

“Lately it’s truly happy stanning.”

Thanks to junior group NewBlack.

NewBlack brought in so much money that a trickle-down effect was underway.

“Guys, look at this! A special stage every week!”

“What the— the event quality got crazy good.”

That small-agency feel disappeared, and lately it felt like stanning a big-company girl group.

High-class in-house variety content rolled out one after another.

They uploaded separate stage fancams shot on gleaming sets.

Merch quality leveled up.

And the song quality pumped out by a producing team of top composers went without saying.

“I heard each company’s dropping a new song today. Ours will be good, right?”

“I hope it’s a good one...”

“I heard Director Cho didn’t participate this time. Either way, I hope it’s a strong song.”

“Yeah. Since we’ve caught a wave now... let’s blow it up with the song too.”

The fandom had been in a slump until the survival show.

Every album cycle, they’d shout “It’s a hit!” but somehow it felt like the Twitter crowd was slowly shrinking.

The ones there stayed, but newbies weren’t coming in.

That was why six girl groups ended up on the survival.

Like GDP needs to grow each year to keep an economy moving, idol fandoms need a growth engine that pulls in new blood to keep things running.

“Full of controversy, sure... but doing the survival was a god-tier move.”

Thanks to that, the chicks chirped “Newbie here!” and energized the place.

Scarlet fans took deep breaths.

“I hope something explodes on stage today...”

Waiting for the full album was long.

They wanted a stage that would keep these newbies hooked and pump vigor into the fandom.

“Let’s go!”

Scarlet fans pulled out their “curtain rods,” the light sticks with mini curtains like flags.

[flutter—]

[flutter—]

When the red flags—whose shade looked ideologically dangerous—fluttered and made the people nearby flinch—

“I will show my fellow idol nerd comrades the majesty of Scarlet’s fans...!”

“You brats! Taste the red flavor!”

Waving their flags, Scarlet’s fans strode in with imposing pride.

“Ehehehehe.”

“You look happy, hyung.”

“Hahahahaha!”

To juniors tilting their heads, I told them what had just happened.

“...They were saying it’s the end of Spaceship Wooju’s era and a new one is opening, and they didn’t know I wrote it.”

“Whoaaa.”

Biju’s eyes sparkled.

“Using the name Kim Deokchun was a brilliant strategy. We rule the charts, but no one knows it’s us.”

“We dominate the charts...!”

“Setting up a puppet—that’s what this is. This is regency behind the curtain.”

“We’re the Heungseon Daewongun!”

I smiled, pleased at how fast my minions caught on.

We were busy hyping that this song felt like a smash when Ri Hyuk asked primly,

“So when are you coming today? Are you staying through all the performances?”

“Scarlet’s fifth, I think. I want to see it with my own eyes, so I’ll watch the stage and come right back.”

“Come slooowly.”

“Come...?”

“Gulp... come.”

Something went down the wrong pipe, maybe.

Only then did I notice their video-call angle was weird. Like the phone was on a table and four faces were squeezed over it.

“Hang on. Why does your ceiling wallpaper look like that?”

“Hm? Like what?”

Playing dumb, Junhyun wiggled to block the ceiling from view.

[chi-iiiiiik]

“Chi-iiik?”

Something sizzling on a grill.

No. From years as a meat-room regular, that was the sound you get when the water tray under a charcoal grill runs low.

“...Hold up.”

No way.

“Are you eating barbecue at a meat place without me right now?”

“Nope.”

No sooner had the maknae finished speaking than the door slid open with a rattle and someone said, “Here’s the extra ribeye.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Don’t misunderstand, hyung. We came to buy meat for the trainees. And to show them the final...”

Biju flipped the camera to show our fluffy Lemon kids.

Jinhu, cheeks stuffed with meat, stood up to bow and say hello, and I smiled warmly.

“Good. Eat a lot.”

When the camera turned back to the boys, I smiled bright.

“Nice work. Feed the trainees meat.”

“You were about to get really sulky a second ago.”

“Hey now, what are you talking about...”

That’s when—

“Oh!”

A lively voice came from the back.

A DNS Media trainee with brown-dyed hair, giving off golden retriever energy, appeared with a group.

“Hello, Jihyuk hyung~”

“Jihyuk hyung...?”

Maybe they heard the call; the trainees’ eyes went wide.

“N-NewBlack...!”

“Hello, sirs!”

At the sight of trainees bowing ninety degrees to the phone, my boys’ eyes narrowed.

Biju rolled his eyes up and down and smiled gently.

“Yeah. Jihyuk’s friends?”

“Jihyuk!”

“Hey!”

My brats took the chance to chirp “hey! hey!”—infuriating.

While we chatted with NewBlack and the trainees’ eyes sparkled like stars, my nape prickled.

Junhyun twitched his cheek.

“Right. Jihyuk’s really working hard. Enjoy the show.”

“Yes...”

“Our Jihyuk is Lemon Entertainment’s treasure. He’s the ace.”

The maknae swung the camera.

Then, as if reading a line Ri Hyuk had cued up, the trainees chanted in a stilted tone,

“Jihyuk hyung! Watch well for all of us!”

A group con ring. These punks.

I’d hoped the maknae or Junhyun would cluelessly go, “Hmm? Why are you calling hyung by that name?” so I could engineer a natural encounter as Sun Wooju.

My natural-meeting plan failed.

“You guys doing me like this?”

“Kyahaha!”

The minions waved.

“Hang in there, Jihyuk. We’ll eat the meat~!”

“Bye, Hyuk!”

...After ending the call, I took a deep breath.

The trainees bowed again, then clutched their chests with a collective “wow.”

“Wow. It was NewBlack sunbaenims.”

“But where did Senior Wooju go?”

“Yeah, where?”

...I’m right in front of you.

People are funny.

Given everything going on, the normal reaction would be “Senior Wooju!” and recognizing me, but since they’d already decided I was someone else, they didn’t catch on.

“Huh?”

One trainee looked at me.

“Come to think of it...”

“Yes. That’s right.”

I lifted my hand toward the mask.

“I’m actually not Kim Jihyuk. I’m Sun—”

“They said there were two trainees. Where did the other one go...”

“Huh?”

Thinking they’d caught on, I slipped my mask down and showed my face.

But the conversation went weird.

“...”

“...”

The DNS Media trainees’ mouths hung open and their eyes lost focus.

As they froze like statues, I gave an awkward smile.

“Hello?”

“...”

“Um...”

Thud—

One trainee’s legs gave out and he sat down hard, so I stopped mid-sentence.

Uh.

Why are you collapsing?

“Were you very shocked...?”

“Haaah... haaah...”

Gye Hongju, a trainee with his hand on his chest, swallowed.

“Y-you’re real.”

“Sorry?”

“N-no. When I get flustered, I say random things. S-sorry!”

“What are you sorry about. It’s my fault—you misunderstood because I didn’t speak up.”

I’d planned to just keep it quiet, but this way I was going to get dragged along.

“Jihyuk hyung! Sit with us!”—and if they asked, “Why the mask?” I’d have no answer.

So I decided to open my face now and—

“If you saw me here, that means you’ll tell other people...”

“Even with a knife at my throat, I won’t talk!”

“If there’s a knife, you should.”

“You’re right. Senior, you’re right...! If there’s a knife, I’ll shout immediately.”

He clearly didn’t know what he was saying.

Unlike when he looked at Hanjo, he stared at me with a hazy gaze, like I’d become a living demigod.

“Senior...”

Gye Hongju swallowed and held out a trembling hand.

“I’m so honored—may I shake your hand once.”

“Yes.”

“M-me too!”

“Me too, a handshake.”

I shook hands with the quivering trainees and then went to a corner to take selfies with them.

The chicks chirped with joy—“We took a picture with Sun Wooju!”—like peeping babies.

“I’ll treasure it as a family heirloom forever.”

“No «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» need...”

I calmed the excited trainees down.

Was seeing me that surreal.

Even saying goodbye, a few trainees bowed while backing away and toppled over, and I smiled.

Then I thought of the minions who’d caused this.

“You little punks...”

I could hear four laughs from somewhere.

Strictly speaking, it started with my mistake... but anyway, it was the minions’ fault.

“Let’s see...”

After sending off the DNS Media trainees, I headed to the staff entrance.

Where the production team gathered to monitor.

It was near backstage facing the stage, so the angle wasn’t ideal, but the upside was you could see the stage live with your own eyes.

“Hello.”

“Oh my, oh my!”

I greeted the startled writers and staff, then said hello to the PD with the script.

One of the two main PDs—he’d created the dance competition show Biju appeared on.

“Mr. Wooju, you’re here?”

“Long time no see, PD.”

We shook hands and I handed over a gift.

“Biju baked these cookies and wanted you to have them. Said you like sweets.”

“My goodness... thank you.”

Minsu, who’d followed me in, also passed out coffee to staff, and the mood lifted.

If you want to lounge and watch where others are working, you have to grease the wheels.

“Wow. It’s been a while since we got coffee like this.”

“Really?”

“Yes, during this survival we didn’t accept coffee at all. We had to judge fairly.”

Managers gifting coffee to broadcast staff is common, but it seemed they’d banned it to avoid accusations of bias.

That’s how hard they were pushing for fairness.

For a survival show, the lack of noise from the companies was probably thanks to this kind of meticulous attention.

“Okay! The winner of the one-billion-won grand prize... who... ahem... who will take home the one-billion-won grand prize!”

On stage, anchor Baek Sangjung, today’s MC, was doing a final run-through while glancing at his cue cards.

You could hear the buzz of fans filing in.

The hot energy seemed to ripple all the way to backstage.

On the opposite backstage where artists entered and exited, a cluster of brightly colored heads huddled together.

It was almost time to go live.

“I’m nervous for them.”

“It’s the moment everyone gets nervous.”

With a walkie in hand, the PD gave instructions and the site shifted to standby.

On the monitor piping the same feed as TV, the countdown number [30] showed.

[This is NewBlack’s speed.]

A shot from this year’s new carrier ad ended with Junhyun acting cool.

Before the broadcast proper, the [Today’s episode preview] VCR rolled on the TV screen.

And—

Having only watched stage clips so far, I instantly understood why this survival show had hit so big.

“Hello. I’m Shim Wonseop, president of TBC.”

Right from the start, the TBC president, a man of imposing build, introduced himself.

Bodyguards in sunglasses set down briefcases in front of him like special agents.

[click.]

The cases opened and a gleaming stack of prop yellow fifty-thousand-won bills shone.

“This is the one-billion-won prize TBC prepared.”

“...!”

“Want it?”

Cash: one billion.

As murmurs and a wave of whoa rippled through the venue, I asked the PD,

“Is this okay to air live...?”

“We’ll probably get a rebuke from the broadcast standards commission.”

“...”

“But the ratings will be good.”

With a decadent chuckle, the PD asked, slyly,

“How is it?”

“Sorry?”

“We studied NewBlack TV a lot. How to pull buzz, how to make people look...”

“...”

“What you’re watching now is the fruit of that research. Heh heh.”

“Um...”

I think your research direction might be a bit off...