Chapter 50

A few hours before the mentor evaluation.

"Hyung. I've got something to say."

"Hm? To me?"

"The third-verse chorus is rough, right?"

"……"

"You want to swap with me?"

At Hajin's suggestion, Seok wrestled with it. The third-verse chorus, coming right off the tail end of the dance break, was definitely a stretch for him. But the part being tough on him and Hajin offering to swap for it were two very different things — and that gap raised clear problems.

'Why's he offering to swap? Does he think I can't actually handle the chorus? Then again, I can feel for myself that by the time I hit that part my breath's gone and my stamina isn't holding up. But even so, I want to see my role through to the end. Hajin's part? Where was Hajin's part again. Ah, the ad-lib. The ad-lib line goes high, sure, but I could probably handle that—'

—right as he was thinking that, Hajin, who'd been reading it off his face in real time, cut him off and got in first.

"The ad-lib line is really tough for me. It sits a little high."

"Ah. Is… that so?"

"The positions for that part just need to swap between you and me, so it wouldn't be hard. I was thinking maybe I take the chorus and you take the ad-lib instead."

Once Hajin had made it crystal clear that it wasn't 'you' who couldn't do it but 'I' who was struggling, and had laid out an alternative that actually held together, Seok didn't think long — he nodded. Y-yeah! Fine by me. Just means it'll be tough on you, {Hajin.}(#3m34v2wkud1p)

"Tough on me, what — please. Shall we practice, then?"

"Yeah!"

At Seok saying it so brightly, Hajin laughed along. Since he'd already committed to running the whole early stretch solo, he needed a result that built on the midpoint check. With a hint already vetted by Lee Doha — a guy who'd be a top-ten producer down the line — not trying it would be idiotic.

On top of that, unlike the chorus, which demanded rapid breath control, the ad-lib section would let Seok show off his vocal range as much as he wanted — which, all things considered, was actually a win for him. That settled it, and Hajin could make the call to swap parts without a shred of guilt or hesitation.

And the result, needless to say, was a success.

"Hajin's… overwhelming, isn't he."

Whether he had a lot of parts or few, no one could deny that the person carrying that stage now was Hajin. The Team A had delivered tender, wistful, and crisp took on a new face under Hajin — driving forward hard on the back of his grounded projection, overwhelming volume, and that signature open-throated belting: a power-crisp version.

'It's like an animation OST.'

Someone watching the stage thought that. Like the opening of a shounen manga, Team B's delivered that swelling rush that gets something hot boiling up inside you. And as the whole song neared its end, the final line finally arrived.

Hajin, who'd started the first line, took center. And this time too, running the choreo reversed so every movement of the trainee behind him would be visible, he broke into a smile as if in greeting.

Hi, it's 'me.'

Finally — so glad to meet you.

"…Ah."

And the moment Hajin walked slowly backward and pressed his back against his pair partner behind him to finish the ending, Ria caught the subtle nuance she'd been sensing all along.

"…He met another self."

Not 'Hi, I'm so-and-so' introducing himself, but greeting another 'me' he'd finally met. So all that pair-focused staging throughout had been building toward this. Admiring the read on the song, Ria couldn't help but concede Taeil's point about Team B's stage being fun.

"Exactly the kind of stage you'd love."

"Right?"

"You wrote the lyrics that way on purpose, didn't you? Kind of aiming for it."

"What I aimed for doesn't matter — it's their song now. Their read is the original."

Taeil shrugged, finished off what he'd been writing on the evaluation sheet, and set his pen down. To some people the nuance might be too small to matter, but one tiny difference like that is what gives rise to whole worlds, whole narratives, whole different staging choices. And the detail that grows out of that tiny difference was, at least at Miro, considered very, very important.

Stages by kids who found the hidden story inside a song he'd written made Taeil feel proud every time he watched one. Feeling good about it, Taeil picked up his mic.

"Honestly, after I finished writing this song, I went back and forth on it a lot. Like, ah, maybe we should just take it for ourselves."

"Finished writing it and regretted letting it go?"

"Yeah, hated to part with it. Plus our fourth kid sings the hell out of it. But after seeing today's stage…."

"……"

"I really do think I was right to hand it over. Thanks for turning it into a great song."

"Thank you!"

For the trainees, who'd just come off the stage, praise from the original songwriter — with that much genuine feeling behind it — had the power to double a lung capacity that had been ground down to nothing. Team B's trainees called out their thanks and bowed deeply. Taeil, watching from where he sat, spotted Hajin at the center of it, hands folded neatly, back straight and posture proper, listening in on the feedback.

'Ah… I was going to let it go, in case any more starts to look like blatant favoritism.'

But after a stage like this, staying quiet would come off as unfair in its own way. In the end, after every mentor had given their evaluation, right as Team B was about to step off the stage, Taeil picked up the mic again.

"Hajin."

"Yes?"

"You reached for it."

At that, Hajin, looking a touch embarrassed, answered with his signature open smile instead of words. And that single beat landed harder than any clumsy explanation could have.

"Alright, everyone please return to your seats. Results of the first mission will be revealed shortly."

The score tally that would decide fates had begun.

---

Recording paused for the tally, and the cast got a short break. While the guys — chattering as they guessed at their own results — all headed back to the dorm to rest, I moved against the flow and tracked down Ji Suho, who was standing off to one side of the set.

"Oh, Hajin. Why aren't you in the waiting room?"

"Park Jaeyoung — is Jaeyoung okay?"

"Hm? Ah, ah, must've scared you. He's on an IV, fever's down, resting. Got word."

After I'd asked him — cameras rolling, and you're still going to call me Hajin-ssi? — Ji Suho, who by this point had committed to talking down with me for good, nodded and clapped my shoulder. Even with him saying not to worry, I couldn't easily settle into just being relieved.

And to me like that, Ji Suho glanced around, then cautiously added,

"Thing is — he might end up leaving the survival."

"…Why? Because he couldn't do the mission?"

"That, and also… his collapsing today apparently gave Jaeyoung's parents a real scare. Anyway, this is still up in the air, so don't dwell on it — focus on the shoot."

The second I heard that, my breath jammed shut.

title: Su?dden Que?st! I gave you a chance. Take it. penalty: Mental Care System destruction −1000000000000000000000000000000%

The red window, still flickering. Park Jaeyoung suddenly collapsing.

"Hajin?"

"…If Jaeyoung gets in touch, let me know."

Leaving only that reply, I rushed out of the set. A nameless nausea seemed to be rising up from inside me.

'This goddamn….'

I wanted to grab that System window by the throat right then and there, but everywhere I went, there were people around. Swallowing my rage, I ducked into the bathroom at the far end of a lower floor — where hardly anyone went — and locked the door.

Then I glared at that goddamn System window, still flickering.

"Was it you? This — you did this?"

The red-flickering, obnoxious System window gave no response. But I wasn't backing off either.

"Hey, run your mouth like you were earlier. Chickened out and bolted? I asked whether you were the one who did that to Park Jaeyoung."

At that, the System window that had been throwing off sparks flickered like it was sighing, exasperated — letters glitching onto it a few times, error-like, then wiping away. And soon, the same insolent line I'd seen earlier came up.

Does that matter? What matters is that with Park Jaeyoung out of the picture, you got the spotlight.

"Didn't need any of this. Would've been fine either way."

Ha, really?

"What are you? Not the System. Are you that bastard from back then?"

No idea what you're talking about. What do you even know about this 'System,' to begin with?

There was no way my precious System was this rotten. With my anger still yanking at the base of my skull, throat raw, I tried to hold onto whatever composure I could.

"Fine, sure, all of that. But why Park Jaeyoung? What did he ever do wrong? A kid who followed practice till his lungs gave out because he was 19th and knew he had to work harder. Who the hell are you to knock a kid like that off the show?"

Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

"What are you cackling about, you piece of shit."

Hahaha, still going through life this naive.

At the end of that line, the letters paused for a beat. Right along with it, the lights of the clearly brand-new bathroom flickered, then flashed out.

Hajin.

"…What, motherfucker."

Worry about yourself, not other people.

The lights, which had been flickering wildly, steadied — and with a pop, everything brightened.

"You who would touch the sun — fly high. Your journey to become Miro's Icarus!"

I was standing in the middle of the studio, recording in full swing.

"W-what?"

"Hajin, what's up with you? You sick or something?"

"……"

The hell is this? A regression? Did I just regress? A sudden flare of dread had me scanning my surroundings in a rush. No, this isn't a regression — this is…

"Alright, then. Miro Maze first mission, Daylight! Announcing the results for both teams!"

…the future. And who'd pulled this stunt was crystal clear.

What? Should I have sent you back a couple of days instead?

Rewind was the only mode, I thought — turns out fast-forward's in there too? To hide my trembling hands, I clenched them behind my back and shoved my sleeves down over them.

"Miro Maze, first mission, Daylight! Which team took the win in the first mission? Show us the results!"

What's this bastard's angle? What's he trying to say? While I kept glaring at the System, running that in my head, the scoreboard was flashing lights alternately across Team A's and Team B's profile photos. They always drag this out over five minutes, easy.

Yeah? Then let's 'fast-forward' that too.

What?

And the studio flashed out again. Couldn't have been three seconds — with a bang, the result popped up on the scoreboard.

"Yes, out of a possible 500 points, 472 to 486 — the Feather class wins! Congratulations!"

"No way!"

"Oh my god, we won! We won!"

Even with the guys around me shouting for joy, I couldn't laugh with any peace of mind. The red System window sparked and stuttered a few more times, graphics fracturing like it was tearing itself apart, then popped up ominously in front of my eyes again.

Hajin. You really think you'd have won this even without the 'chance'?

Another flicker. On the scoreboard now, the battlers' individual scores and win-loss results were displayed.

〈Lee Yugeon (83.75) WIN! VS Kim Wonho (82.49)〉

Another flicker.

〈Han Seongwoo (93.15) WIN! VS Kang Hajin (92.99)〉

'…What?'

"…Trainee Han Seongwoo, with 93.15 points, edged out trainee Kang Hajin by 0.16 points to win the battle. Congratulations."

Told you, Hajin. Worry about yourself.

I lost?