Chapter 5: Into the Spotlight

The writer, who had worn a tired expression the entire time, changed her expression for the first time.

She merely lifted one eyebrow, so it wasn’t exactly a dramatic change, but still.

Tapping the end of her pen lightly against the paper on the table, she stared straight at my face.

“Hm… to us, Sim Jaeseo actually stood out the most that day.”

Maybe my confusion—Why on earth did you pick me?—was showing on my face, because PD Muk Sahyeon gave a peculiar smile and supplied the answer.

Come to think of it, if a bunch of people who looked unmistakably like idols were in one place, and then one person who looked unmistakably like a college student was mixed among them… of course that person would stand out.

The realization struck me late.

…Don’t tell me the idol industry has reached a point where an ordinary-looking face is now a blue ocean market?

I quickly shook my head to dispel the useless thought.

No way.

According to everything I’d ever seen online, the rule for men—especially celebrities—was simple: being handsome was the best, and handsome faces somehow always felt thrilling and new.

Even if I managed to debut, I would always just… blend in to them.

I shoved the pointless thoughts aside and left the station after finishing the interview, vowing to focus on practice instead.

After the preliminary interview, I threw myself back into practice, and before I knew it, the day for the profile photo shoot arrived.

The thought of getting photos taken made me worry about stopping by a salon beforehand, but thankfully the program staff said they would take care of hair, makeup, and wardrobe.

So I just brought the tinted lip balm and headed out.

And then I regretted it again.

About ten participants were already at the studio, and I wasn’t exaggerating when I let out an involuntary holy crap.

Maybe it was because they were all trainees already under agencies, but compared to the prelims, their visuals were on an entirely different level.

Participants already posing in front of the camera looked dazzling, but even the ones still waiting their turn—completely unprepared—shone so brightly it made my eyes feel overwhelmed.

On top of that, whether it was “game logic” or whatever, everyone was tall.

I’d never once in my life been disadvantaged because of my height, so I’d been thinking that if my face couldn’t compete, maybe I could at least lean on my height a little—but no, that wasn’t happening either.

I looked downright pitiful, like a pigeon that had wandered into a flock of peacocks.

Feeling small, I shuffled toward a staff member wearing an event lanyard near the entrance and told them my name.

They told me to wait a moment, so I headed toward the waiting chairs, awkwardly greeting the people already sitting there before taking a seat.

The groups around me were lively and chatty, like they all already knew each other, while I sat alone like a remote little island, spacing out—until my name was finally called.

I followed the staff and ended up seated in front of a large mirror crowded with studio lights.

A moment later, someone hurried over, studied my face for a moment, and let out a short exclamation before speaking.

Judging by the tools in her hands, she was one of the staff in charge of the participants’ makeup.

“Wow, your skin is amazing.”

The sudden compliment made me flush with embarrassment.

I gave a stiff smile and thanked her, and she repeated that she meant it as her hands began moving briskly over my face.

Having hands and brushes sweep across my skin so confidently felt incredibly awkward, and as I sat frozen in place, she struck up bits of conversation.

“First time getting your makeup done?”

“Ah, yes. First time.”

Even as I answered, the ticklish sensation across my face made me scrunch my eyes over and over.

She let out a soft laugh like she’d expected as much.

“Well, your base face is good, so there’s not much for me to do.”

It was clearly a lighthearted joke thrown in with a bit of praise, but hearing it gradually relaxed my stiff shoulders.

She probably didn’t mean anything deep by it—just trying to help me loosen up—but thanks to that, some of the confidence that had completely evaporated earlier began trickling back in.

After makeup came hair and wardrobe, all handled by professionals, and by the time they were done, even I had to admit I looked… pretty decent.

A quiet sense of satisfaction started blooming in my chest.

But the feeling of satisfaction didn’t last long.

The moment I was called to stand behind the camera for my turn, the confidence I had painstakingly pieced together crumbled instantly.

It was because of the contestant who was filming right before me. Even if you lined up some of the most handsome celebrities next to him, he’d probably make them look plain.

Striking features, a tiny face, tall height, long legs—he was so perfect that even calling him an “idol-level face genius” felt insufficient.

…And since the filming was progressing in alphabetical order, the fact that this contestant was right before me meant that from now on—until I got eliminated, anyway—this face would constantly be right next to mine.

Shit.

I was so f*cking screwed.

Once the filming for the “face genius” ahead of me wrapped up, the props scattered across the floor were quickly cleared away, and then my name was called, signaling it was my turn.

I barely managed to pull myself together and step into place, trying desperately to force my lips into something resembling a smile—only for that smile to collapse in an instant.

My gaze was sucked, like into a black hole, toward the diagonal area behind the camera.

Standing right where I had been waiting earlier was the contestant whose turn would come after mine.

And he looked like the type of person who could rob the Louvre and escape by pretending to be one of the statues.

Just moments ago, after seeing the contestant before me, I had thought: Is it even possible for someone to be this perfect in face, height, proportions, and physique?

Turns out, yes.

It was possible.

And he was right after me.

One thing I can state confidently: regardless of whether I succeed or not, the existence of these two contestants alone guarantees that My Idol will be a massive hit.

Yes—regardless of whether I succeed.

Which obviously means I’m screwed.

Now that I know exactly who’s standing directly before and after me, I’m certain: in this program, my role will be that of a spectacularly tragic squid.

***

Since I was an individual trainee and the very last one picked, everything—from the acceptance notice to the personal interview to the profile photo shoot—was scheduled back-to-back like a string of sausages.

And among them, the tightest schedule of all was—

Schedule: “Please Take Care of My Idol” Season 2 Filming Is Now In Progress.

It was the first recording day.

And honestly, with only a tiny bit of exaggeration, it felt like I had blinked and suddenly the first day of filming had arrived.

Realistically, it hadn’t even been a few days since the profile shoot.

Carrying the luggage I’d packed for the upcoming group dorm during filming, I stepped out of the house.

A sigh escaped me as the cold, dark dawn air wrapped around me.

“An idol survival show… seriously….”

Since entering this game world, sighing had become second nature.

The fact that this was a game world was a problem to begin with, but the objective of the game being ‘Become an idol’ was an even bigger problem—and the method being participation in an idol survival show was an even bigger one on top of that.

I had somewhat resigned myself to it, since there was no way around it, but it still felt unbearably awkward.

“Whatever.

I just have to go.”

Whining here wasn’t going to solve anything.

As if shaking off the weight of worries pressing down on my shoulders, I adjusted the strap of my bag and started walking.

The broadcast station wasn’t far, and when I arrived, it was surprisingly busy for such an early morning.

From the entrance, where participants checked in, staff members were already rushing around behind the cameras that had been set up.

Contestants and what looked like their agency staff bustled about in every direction.

“My Idol Season 2 Contestant Waiting Room”

Following the arrows printed on the signs taped along the walls, I walked down a hallway lined with waiting rooms.

Sheets of paper listing agency names were taped to each door.

“Real Sound Company / MOD Music Label / TUU / Independent”

There was no way there’d actually be an agency called “Independent,” right? …I was thinking something that pointless as I opened the door—only to find a not-so-large room packed with people.

A staff member wearing an earpiece approached, checked my name, and pointed toward an empty makeup station.

I sat down to wait, and soon a makeup artist moved over to me, tidying the tools laid out in front of the next seat as she took her place.

“How would you like your makeup done?”

How?

My brain froze.

The only “cosmetic product” I even knew how to use was the lip balm quietly sitting in my pocket.

And now she was asking me how I wanted my makeup…?

Since I couldn’t give any answer at all, the artist smoothly rephrased the question, clearly used to this kind of reaction.

“What’s the concept of the song you prepared?

Cute, sexy—something like that?”

“Uh… something normal.”

Even with such a vague answer after a moment of silence, the artist simply nodded and lifted her tools.

As I sat there getting my makeup done, the hair stylist came over as well.

When I again said something normal would be fine, the hair stylist also just nodded and got to work without fuss.

After a short while—offset only by a tiny difference in timing—both my makeup and hair were finished.

I awkwardly stood up, staring at my unfamiliar-looking reflection in the mirror, when the waiting room door suddenly opened and someone called out our names.

“Sim Jaeseo, Choi Gyeom—are you two ready?”

“Yes.”

The other contestant—presumably the one named Choi Gyeom—and I answered at the same time.

The staff member waved for us to come out and muttered into her earpiece.

I faintly heard the word “Independent” through the muffled sound, so it seemed the other guy was an independent trainee like me.

“Follow this hallway to Studio B.”

We left the waiting room, exchanged a brief greeting, and walked down the hallway.

Before long, we arrived in front of Studio B.

A staff member standing at the entrance handed us name tags with our agency and names written on them, explaining the filming guidelines as another staffer fastened microphones onto us.

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