Chapter 1: The One Who Stayed Behind

Sometimes, I think of CEO Shin, who now spends his days bedridden in the hospital.

Back in our trainee days, he was the kind of man who would line us up at the slightest excuse and drone on with his old-fashioned lectures for two straight hours.

There were other petty, miserable memories too, like how he never properly bought us meals, but beyond all that, there was one thing he said that remained vividly etched in my mind.

It was something he told us while making us stand in a line against the damp basement practice room wall, its peeling wallpaper threatening to sag off.

‘I’m telling you, I can see it at a glance.
Huh? You know?
How many years do you think I’ve been in this industry?
I can tell just by looking whether someone will make it or not.
Do you think the way you are right now looks like you’ll succeed?’

Every sentence ended like a question, but none of us were tactless enough to actually answer.

By then, we were all exhausted.

Me, who had foolishly believed that a bit of talent was enough to become a singer.

Jungwon, who was talented enough to be placed in a debut team the moment he became a trainee.

Yeonho hyung, who had returned from the military and believed this was his last chance.

Wooseong.

Hwan.

All of us were the same.

The reason I remember that day so clearly is because, just before CEO Shin clicked his tongue and walked out, there was something I almost shouted without thinking.

‘We’re going to make it, though.’

‘Shouldn’t we be successful at this point?’

Time passed.

Enough time that I could now call it the passing of years.

In that time, we released three full-length albums.

Nine years went by.

We sat gathered in a conference room.

Unlike that memory, the walls were painted white instead of covered in damp wallpaper, and the room, no longer underground, had large windows.

Resting my hands on the smooth, dustless table, I looked around at everyone and thought to myself.

CEO Shin’s words kept clinging to me like a ghost.

But even from my own perspective, it felt like we weren’t going to make it.

The office was dry.

I couldn’t focus.

I absentmindedly picked at the skin beside my fingernail where it had peeled up, then leaned forward against the table.

The members gathered in the office were all sitting in their own distinct ways.

After watching them for a moment, I closed my eyes and pressed my palms firmly over them.

Maybe the presentation that had just ended had strained my eyes, because everything seemed to blur with light.

After years of enduring with contact lenses, I had surgery on my eyes just last month.

It took a few days for the pain—like tiny shards of glass scratching against my eyeballs—to fade.

Now, without my vision-protection glasses, the world looked much clearer, and just as much sharper.

When I opened my eyes again, Wooseong, who had been sitting next to me, finally looked up from his phone.

We had been discussing the album concept, but he had seemed distracted, busy messaging someone since the latter half of the meeting.

Even the manager hyung and the team lead had only lightly scolded him before giving up.

The overall atmosphere was messy.

“Do your eyes hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then what’s up with your throat?”

I had caught a slight cold earlier, and with how dry the office was, the ends of my voice came out strangely cracked.

But explaining it felt like a hassle.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re the one who has to sing, hyung.”

“And you?”

“I just need my face, right?”

“Then dye your hair again.
Blonde doesn’t suit you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.
It makes your face look darker.”

Even after years of standing in front of cameras, Wooseong still couldn’t tell what suited him.

At my words, he turned his phone’s black screen this way and that, trying to check his reflection.

As if he could see anything in that pitch-black display.

I almost said more, then stopped.

Wooseong, who had been discharged from the military not long ago, already had a dull complexion, but now it looked even more lifeless, with only his eyes shining brightly—just like back when he had first come up to Seoul.

Back when we used to get scolded in that basement practice room.

Maybe that was why that thought came to me just now.

Before I could sink into pointless sentimentality, I slowly stood up.

At the sound of my chair scraping, a few gazes turned toward me before scattering again.

Jungwon, who was sitting across from me, kept his eyes on me until the end.

I rummaged through the inner pocket of the jacket draped over the chair beside me and glanced back at him.

His clear forehead creased ever so slightly.

Even without any styling, his pale face looked sculpted to perfection, despite the displeased expression.

“Hyung, where are you going?”

“For a smoke.”

“Is your throat okay these days?”

Being pointed out again made me a little self-conscious, but I decided not to care.

Who told them to make me the lead vocalist anyway?

The pointless irritation rose up, but if I was going to complain, I should have done it back when I was still a rookie.

Not wanting to take it out on Jungwon, who had just tried to talk to me, I opened the conference room door and left.

After telling a passing employee that I was stepping out for some air, I went through the emergency exit and down to the first floor.

Things used to be better.

Back when you could just open a window and smoke without anyone saying anything.

That kind of thing was impossible now.

I moved to the side of the building near a flower bed, out of people’s sight.

Beyond the tall trees planted there, only high-rise buildings were visible.

It was the perfect place to avoid attention.

As soon as I lit a cigarette and took a drag, my mind cleared.

The weather was still chilly, and as I rubbed my arms, the emergency exit door suddenly opened.

I turned to see who it was, and it was Jungwon—the one who had spoken to me before I left.

He found me immediately and walked over, stopping right in front of me.

I looked up slightly at his pale face standing a couple of steps away and asked, just in case.

“You smoke too?”

“I don’t these days.”

He answered with a relaxed smile.

That was what I remembered too.

I think he mentioned it in an interview once.

Maybe it was a film magazine, or something he casually said on a variety show.

During the break, I had heard bits and pieces about the other members.

Among them, I probably heard the most about Jungwon, the youngest.

Even without trying to listen, it reached my ears easily.

The second drama he filmed at the end of last year had its ratings steadily rise from the beginning, eventually surpassing thirty percent in the final episode, earning him dazzling spotlight at the award ceremony.

There were some accusations online—people saying our fan club, Polaris, had mass-voted, or asking if the Best Actor award was actually a popularity award—but they were nothing more than baseless claims.

Our fandom didn’t have that kind of power.

That night at the year-end awards, when the cold was biting, I had been drinking beer with friends in a corner of a bar.

Through the TV screen, my eyes met Jungwon’s.

Jungwon had always been exceptional.

Not just because he was our youngest—he really was.

But at that moment, even I found myself staring in a daze.

The youthful traces he once had seemed refined through what must have been a grueling filming process, shaping him into someone strikingly composed.

And when he received the award and smiled brightly—

That smile shimmered with a range of emotions, like colors spreading across a blank white canvas.

From that point on, I stopped worrying about him.

Being labeled as just an idol would no longer matter.

He would be remembered as a Best Actor award winner.

That was a good thing.

Jungwon would be fine now.

At least you made it.

Unlike me, who didn’t.

Without even needing to look, the rumors of his success echoed around me.

And that very Yoo Jungwon stood in front of me now.

Just standing there.

I deliberately shifted my body and exhaled smoke away from him as I asked,

“Then why are you here?”

“Just.
To get some air.”

Just?

Why just?

It couldn’t be that he personally came down to take care of my throat just because we needed a decent album at the tail end of our group’s run.

I stood there half-heartedly, digging my own thoughts deeper.

The cigarette smoke drifted into the air once more.

Jungwon changed the subject.

“What do you think of the song this time, hyung?”

“It’s the same as always.
Why?”

Yeah.

As always, it’s pretty bad.

That was also why the meeting had been cut short earlier.

The song felt less like something completed and more like something handed over because they couldn’t do any better.

The question was how long it would take after requesting revisions.

Fortunately, the composer who gave us the track was a close hyung who went by the name Black.

I was planning to contact him later when I had time.

I was definitely going to ask if he wrote it half-asleep.

Still, whether I called him or went to see him, he would fix it quickly after getting an earful.

Black hyung’s songs were always ones we expected to revise anyway.

I just didn’t bother answering properly.

Jungwon, who had always been kind since our trainee days, didn’t wipe the smile off his face despite my half-hearted reply.

It made me feel like the bad guy.

“You’re the lead vocal, so I thought you might have a different opinion.”

“What would I know?”

“You even released a solo album.”

“That was just something I put out.”

“Just?”

“Yeah.
What were you thinking about when you acted?”

At that, Jungwon silently looked at me.

He had a habit of not avoiding eye contact when he was thinking, staring straight on with honesty.

His clear eyes, shaded faintly by his lashes, could turn even an ordinary glance into something atmospheric.

Sometimes, that made me uncomfortable.

Was he really reflecting on his past right now?

Faced with that serious expression, I had nothing to say, so I took another drag of my cigarette.

What am I even doing?

We used to be pretty close, but it had already been four years since I moved out of the group dorm.

We still saw each other occasionally, but in that time, we had gone our separate ways with individual activities.

I had completely flopped with my solo album.

A so-called representative idol whose group only held them back.

Not long ago, while passing through my living room, I had casually seen Jungwon’s face plastered clearly under the title of a cable program.

Back then, our fans openly called him the “breadwinner of the group.”

Anyone who saw Jungwon would ask at least once who he was, and he contributed greatly to making our group known.

Now, even our fans seemed to refer to him separately as Yoo Jungwon, treating him as if he were in a different league altogether.