Chapter 19: The Silent Observer

“Even so,” Haeil had said, “if someone can actually teach Xenon, they could teach anyone in the world.”

“That bastard?”

“‘Bastard’?” Han Hoseong repeated in a mock-warning tone, though it had zero effect on Woo Yeongchan.

“Is it my fault I can’t dance well? It’s because he’s a terrible teacher.”

“…Wow.”

“What?”

“Your self-centered way of thinking is genuinely impressive… No, I’m not trying to insult you. Honestly, I think having that kind of shameless mindset is a huge advantage for surviving in this harsh world.”

The company did employ a professional dance trainer, but two lessons a week were nowhere near enough. As a result, Moon Haeil, the group’s main dancer, had been tasked with personally evaluating and fixing Woo Yeongchan’s moves.

“It’s not just my mindset. I’m telling you, it’s an objective fact! Moon Haeil has zero talent as an instructor.”

“Being a great dancer and being able to teach someone else are two completely different things. We can’t help that. Don’t be too hard on him, Yeongchan. It’s Haeil’s first time teaching anyone.”

“Moon Haeil just wants to find fault with me.”

Just yesterday, hadn’t that guy sneered right to his face, “Even an inflatable tube man at a gas station would dance better than you”?

Every time Woo Yeongchan was forced to learn choreography from Moon Haeil, he felt like Cinderella being berated by her evil stepsisters. At least Cinderella’s stepsisters never nagged her about dance routines. In that sense, Moon Haeil was vastly worse.

“Mmm…”

Han Hoseong could sympathize with both sides. To Moon Haeil, Xenon’s current state must be agonizingly frustrating. To Woo Yeongchan, Moon Haeil’s relentless criticism must feel like pure harassment.

The two had clashed from the moment they met. Xenon’s original personality hadn’t meshed well with Moon Haeil to begin with, but Woo Yeongchan was even worse. They were like water and fire—or perhaps fire and fire. Their personalities clashed all the harder because, deep down, they shared oddly similar, stubborn traits.

“I don’t know about other things, but he isn’t just picking on you for fun. I can guarantee that much. If you want, I’ll even vouch for it.”

“…”

“If Haeil truly hated you, he wouldn’t waste his energy teaching you at all. Say what you will, but he’s actually trying his best to help you. His methods are just… a bit rough around the edges.”

Woo Yeongchan still scowled. It was clear his pride had been battered after taking constant heat from Moon Haeil.

Sensing they needed a shift in topic, Han Hoseong brought up something else in a tentative tone.

“Oh, right. I got in touch with a friend.”

“Which friend?”

“You know, the one who introduced us to that shaman before.”

At those words, Woo Yeongchan’s eyes snapped open. “Did you find out anything useful?”

“No. I’m sorry… I know you were holding out hope, so I hate to give you bad news, but I thought I should keep you updated on the progress.”

“Forget it. I didn’t have high expectations anyway.”

Perhaps realizing how blunt he sounded, Woo Yeongchan added, “That doesn’t mean I don’t trust you. I just knew this wouldn’t be resolved easily.”

“I know. Anyway, through my friend, I talked to Hojae—the guy who recommended that fortune teller’s shop. But Hojae said he doesn’t know anything about Western occultism or magic.”

“…”

“He did refer us to a famous tarot master, but I doubt that’ll help us much. Still, just in case… do you want to give it a shot, even as a long shot? I heard you can do online consultations.”

“No.”

This wasn’t a problem that could be magically solved by drawing cards. Woo Yeongchan ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

Han Hoseong asked cautiously, “Have you looked into anything on your end…? Or do you feel any signs of your body returning to normal?”

“Nothing like that. If anything, I’m getting more used to this body every day, and it’s utterly revolting.”

At first, managing the public situation around him was a massive headache, but simply living in Kim Jeguk’s body was a daily struggle in itself. Jeguk was nearly twenty centimeters shorter than Woo Yeongchan. That wasn’t all—his hand and foot sizes, as well as his limb proportions, were completely different.

Operating this frame required constant, agonizing caution. It felt like an adult being forced to use children’s cutlery for every meal. Because of that, his nerves were constantly frayed without him even realizing it. The fact that his muscle memory was gradually adapting to these smaller proportions made it all the more infuriating.

“I don’t think this is going to resolve itself naturally.”

“I see… It really is a mystery. What on earth could have caused this?” Han Hoseong tilted his head. Setting aside the cure, he wanted to at least understand the cause, but there wasn’t a single lead to follow.

“I’m searching for answers too. I’ve been browsing mostly overseas sites, but there’s no useful data. That’s the real problem.”

“Ah, so that’s why you’ve been glued to your phone late at night. Were you looking up occult research?”

“…”

Woo Yeongchan remained tight-lipped. Han Hoseong took the silence as confirmation.

In reality, it wasn’t confirmation at all. The true reason Yeongchan stayed up late staring at his phone was the uncanny, relentless algorithm of WeTube.

Nobody’s here.

The dorm room was empty.

It made sense. Lee Jujin was out for his acting lessons, while Moon Haeil and Han Hoseong had gone to film a guest appearance on a variety show.

The only other member without an official schedule was Seol Itae, who was quietly shut away in his own bedroom. Yeongchan had no idea what Itae was doing in there, but as long as he didn’t bother him, it didn’t matter.

Click.

Woo Yeongchan softly closed the bedroom door and slid onto his bed, pulling the thick blanket all the way over his head. If someone unexpectedly barged into the room, they wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing. It was a makeshift barrier—shabby, but effective enough.

He jammed the earphones he had borrowed from Han Hoseong deep into his ears.

Ready.

With all preparations complete, he pulled out Kim Jeguk’s smartphone. Opening the WeTube app, a personalized list of recommended videos instantly flooded his screen:

Was HIGH-5’s sudden chart reversal calculated all along?!

[No Ads] HIGH-5 Song Compilation ♬ Best Tracks ♬ Playlist

Zodiac Signs That Are Surprisingly More Accurate Than Personality Tests

The Mind-Blowing Voice of a Children’s Singer Who Shocked the World

Hidden Secrets of Fate: Mysteries of the Spirit World

[HIGH-5] Main Vocal MR Removed — Shocking Live Performance

Flop Idol Hides Mind-Blowing Vocal Talent

WeTube’s recommendation algorithm was accurate to an unsettling degree, pinpointing the exact topics its user spent time consuming. According to its calculations, Woo Yeongchan’s primary interests boiled down to three things:

HIGH-5, the occult, and Han Hoseong.

“Hoo…”

He didn’t want to admit it. But whether he acknowledged it or not, the data didn’t lie.

Lately, whenever Woo Yeongchan had a spare moment, he found himself searching for HIGH-5 clips—specifically ones featuring Han Hoseong. Just in case there was any relevant information about his predicament, he occasionally checked occult theories, but he spent far more time watching Hoseong’s performances.

This is all because of those music videos.

Watching HIGH-5’s past discography for basic background knowledge had been his downfall. He had only searched them for research purposes, but the algorithm had apparently flagged him as a hardcore, newly converted fan. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be pushing these videos so aggressively.

He deliberately ignored the fact that he had eagerly clicked on every single recommended thumbnail, which was the real reason the algorithm kept feeding them to him. Woo Yeongchan scrolled down further.

★☆ The Legendary Gyuri City Canola Flower Festival — Han Hoseong Fancam ★☆

One specific title caught his eye. He wondered what on earth could have transpired at a random local flower festival to earn the dramatic label of “legendary.”

It was the kind of clickbait title anyone would be curious about. Convincing himself that his click was purely objective, Woo Yeongchan tapped the video.

Blaring, low-quality music exploded into his earphones. Because it was recorded at an outdoor venue, the background noise was chaotic. Scowling, Yeongchan turned the volume way down. He hadn’t intended to listen to the song anyway, so the audio quality was secondary.

On screen, men wearing stage outfits encrusted with cheap, sparkling beads danced past the camera. A moment later, Han Hoseong swung into the frame.

Well, at least his outfit isn’t the worst.

Hoseong was wearing a black collared shirt studded with metallic beads, paired with plain black trousers. The beaded gradient cascading down his shoulders was a bit excessive, but compared to the bizarre costumes of the other members, it was surprisingly tame.

Woo Yeongchan compared Hoseong with the rest of the group as they flickered across the screen. But their faces were completely unfamiliar.

“Huh?”

Only then did Woo Yeongchan register the truth. This wasn’t a HIGH-5 stage performance at all.

Flame Star.

No wonder the song sounded completely foreign. Checking the video description, he saw that it had been uploaded seven years ago. Everything made sense now—including why their outfits looked so hopelessly dated. Those clothes were probably considered trendy back then.

What an absolute trainwreck.

The tacky wardrobe, the cheap music, the violently shaky camera work—there wasn’t a single element he liked. And yet, Woo Yeongchan remained glued to the tiny screen, staring intently at the young performer.

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