Chapter 1: The Unraveling of Glitch and a Rider’s Burden

Until last year, Seo Yeon-ho was the leader of the idol group Glitch. While few knew Seo Yeon-ho, a member of Glitch, the group itself was infamous. This notoriety stemmed from a major incident involving a core member who had gone to a club with members of another idol group. Even though Glitch was relatively unknown, the other idols involved were popular, thrusting Glitch into an unwelcome spotlight. Misfortune, it seemed, had a habit of attracting more misfortune. Before the club assault could even be contained, allegations of school violence emerged against the second most popular member. Had Glitch remained obscure, the scandal might have been ignored and buried. However, the ‘Core Member’s’ club incident had drastically increased public awareness of the group. The exposé ignited an explosive reaction.

—Glitch again? It seems their ‘bad boy’ concept isn’t just an act. 02:04

—When the assault guy blew up, people felt sorry for the other members, but it turns out they’re all cut from the same cloth. 02:04

—LMAO, just look at their faces and tattoos. They definitely seem like those kinds of people. 02:04

—Their synergy is insane. 02:05

—Isn’t it efficient? No need to filter anyone out. The Glitchies are one! 02:06

—Two consecutive hits on the social news section, LOL. At least they’ve definitely escaped being nobodies now, LOL. 02:04

—Seriously, LOL. They’re probably going to break through the ceiling on the idol buzz chart this month. 02:04

—Congratulations in advance on Glitch’s skyrocketing recognition! LOL. 02:04

—In a way, it’s impressive. It’s not easy for a ‘ruined idol’ group to only make headlines through scandals, is it? 02:04

Up until this point, the managers and agency staff were still comfortable enough to entertain the absurd idea of leveraging the controversy as an opportunity to boost the group. In other words, they were utterly deluded.

“Hey, hey, why the long faces? There’s no need to be discouraged. In this industry, even negative mentions count as attention.”

“Manager Kim is right. Haven’t you heard that a crisis is an opportunity? Think of it as a free publicity chance that money can’t buy.”

However, their optimistic outlook began to falter as minor misfortunes piled up, even if they weren’t as significant as the initial two bombshells. A sasaeng fan exposed the youngest member’s dating life, and another member’s poor attitude during a video call fan sign event became public. The members felt the same despair.

“What do we do? Aren’t we going to be completely ruined?”

“Ah, sh*t. I don’t know. Chang-min and Doze will probably be suspended, right?”

“It might not end there. The CEO has been incredibly on edge lately. They might even make Jo Chang-min leave the group.”

The members of Glitch were anxious and nervous about the dark future looming over their group, yet they still believed their agency would take measures to save them. However, Yoon Won-han, the CEO of Glitch’s agency, acted contrary to the members’ expectations. Instead of trying to save Glitch, he disbanded the group entirely. His reasoning was simple: Glitch had become an obstacle to the impending launch of a new junior group.

In the early stages of the scandals, Yoon Won-han had intended to use Glitch to generate a massive amount of buzz, ultimately leveraging it for the promotion of his junior group. However, the level of public condemnation directed at Glitch far exceeded his expectations. Instead of riding the ‘Glitch coin,’ he realized the group’s negative image would taint his new venture, leading him to scrap Glitch entirely.

Cherry Picker, the agency, was routinely cursed by fans, called ‘idol-ignorant’ and a ‘sh*tty, baseless company.’

This was due to their haphazard, unprincipled management, their brazen exploitation of fans, and their nonsensical actions—such as promoting an employee who had assaulted a fan, instead of disciplining them.

Cherry Picker, a company that consistently blundered both during and outside of promotional periods, displayed its usual incompetence even when disbanding Glitch.

“Hey, Seo Yeon-ho. They’re saying we’re disbanding? What is this article? The company didn’t say anything about this yesterday. What the hell is going on?!”

“Hyung, the manager isn’t answering his phone. The CEO isn’t just abandoning us, are they? Maybe they’re disbanding us only to re-debut us?”

“Damn it, Seo Yeon-ho! Don’t just stand there with your mouth shut, say something! Why did the CEO ever make such an incompetent idiot the leader?”

Upon learning of Glitch’s disbandment through news articles, the members vented their frustrations on the blameless Yeon-ho. While it was certainly a devastating blow to their morale, the members should have confronted the company executives, not Yeon-ho, who was in the same predicament as them. After all, it was the CEO and the executives who had decided to disband the group without any discussion with the contract holders, not Yeon-ho, the leader.

However, the members lacked the courage to confront them. At Cherry Picker, from the CEO downwards, most of the higher-ups had gangster backgrounds. Two of them were even still active.

Yeon-ho didn’t have a good relationship with the other members. He had never been respected as a leader, and four years of cleaning up after their ill-tempered, delinquent behavior had utterly drained his physical and mental strength. Honestly, not even a shred of grudging affection remained.

Despite everything, Yeon-ho still went to the company to speak with the agency on behalf of the members. Part of him still considered himself Glitch’s leader, and he knew the other members, while quick to complain, were too spineless to take any action themselves. It was clear that if Yeon-ho didn’t step up, they would all just continue to escape reality until the very end.

Knock, knock, knock!

“Manager Hyung, Director Kwon! It’s Yeon-ho. Please open the door.”

However, Yeon-ho couldn’t meet with any of Cherry Picker’s executives. The building’s entry code had been changed, preventing him from even entering.

The agency’s petty misconduct didn’t stop at changing the entry code. They arbitrarily removed the members’ belongings from their dorm. This forced eviction, despite the dorm lease not having expired, was a clear warning not to cling to the company.

Yeon-ho gazed with hollow eyes at his personal items discarded in the villa’s trash heap. As if accepting his fate, he reached for a garbage bag, only for a text message to arrive, notifying him of his contract termination.

Suddenly jobless, Yeon-ho had no time to process his despondency; he immediately had to seek other work. His father had once again failed in business, leaving Yeon-ho burdened with repaying his debts.

His father had originally been an ordinary factory worker. Skilled with his hands, he was a kind and diligent family man who would weld metal monsters for young Yeon-ho and even build a doghouse for the landlord. In those days, his father was the person Yeon-ho respected most. Though his father didn’t earn much, Yeon-ho and his mother were not ambitious, content with their modest life.

But things changed when Yeon-ho debuted as a child actor and began earning extra money. At first, the money Yeon-ho brought in made the whole family happy. It was a time when expenses were high, with his younger sister recently born and suffering from various minor ailments. Yeon-ho felt immensely proud to be able to help his family.

Truthfully, Yeon-ho didn’t always enjoy his life as a child actor. His introverted nature made it difficult to adapt, and he was often bullied at school precisely because he was a child actor.

However, after overhearing his parents’ hushed conversations late at night, he couldn’t bring himself to say he didn’t want to go to the set.

“It’s truly a blessing to have Yeon-ho.”

“My thoughts exactly. When did Yeon-ho grow up so much to become the pillar of our home? I’m so proud of him.”

“Lately, I live for the compliments about raising my child well.”

“Me too. Everyone says they’re envious wherever I go; it makes life worth living.”

“What if Yeon-ho hadn’t become an actor?”

“I can’t imagine. And I don’t really want to.”

Their praise, like shackles, bound Yeon-ho tight.

What began as a desire to please his parents gradually transformed into something that would provoke their anger if he ever stopped. The money Yeon-ho earned was no longer just supplementary income; it had become the family’s primary source of livelihood.

His diligent father, upon realizing the family wouldn’t starve even if he didn’t earn money, became a changed man. He started calling in sick frequently and was eventually fired for his insincere work attitude. His father never sought another job.

Arguments between his parents grew more frequent. The terrifying weight of the family’s livelihood resting on his shoulders was something Yeon-ho couldn’t show. He felt an overwhelming responsibility to protect his family.

His mother sent his younger sister to their aunt’s house to properly support Yeon-ho as his manager. His father, seemingly bored of idleness, began passionately investing in businesses with people he’d met in the broadcasting industry. This was when his father’s chronic ‘business disease,’ which still plagued Yeon-ho, first emerged.

It was common for parents of successful celebrities to start businesses. The problem was that Yeon-ho’s peak as a successful child actor lasted only a few years. Yeon-ho’s long-running children’s drama, “Ping Pong Star,” was a tokusatsu show about elementary school students fighting alien invaders. Yeon-ho played the villain who tormented the protagonist. With sharp eyes, sanpaku eyes, and a larger build than his peers, the drama staff and broadcasting officials unanimously praised him as perfectly suited for a charismatic villain.

However, as if to prove that not every promising sprout becomes a towering tree, Yeon-ho’s growth trajectory sharply declined around the time he entered middle school. He rapidly lost weight, and his physique became generally slim. With his body changing, broadcasters stopped casting Yeon-ho. They were interested in the bulky troublemaker Seo Yeon-ho, not the slender, idol-like Seo Yeon-ho.

“It’s a shame. He had a unique position among child actors, but he’s lost all his advantages.”

“PD-nim, if you need someone with a bigger build, I’ll gain weight.”

The PD conducting the audition looked troubled as Yeon-ho desperately clung to his arm.

“No, no… it’s not something bulking up can fix. There are plenty of just fat kids among child actors. What we need is someone with a rebellious vibe. Someone with an overwhelming physical presence. Do you understand what I mean? You’re a smart kid.”

The PD looked at Yeon-ho with an expression that clearly pleaded for him to take the hint and leave. ‘They can’t give me a role because my image isn’t what they expected, so why do I feel like the bad guy?’ Yeon-ho could read the PD’s thoughts from his expression. It wasn’t that Yeon-ho was particularly perceptive, but rather that the PD made no effort to hide his true feelings.

“I’m sorry to have caused trouble. Thank you for your time.”

“Oh, by the way, you said your mother passed away in a car accident, didn’t you? Stay strong. She’s surely in a better place.”

Perhaps worried that rumors would spread about him being too harsh on a child who had recently buried their mother, the PD suddenly offered Yeon-ho comfort.

“Yes…”

Yeon-ho held back his tears, knowing that crying now would only make the PD more flustered. They say all deaths are sudden and shocking, but for Yeon-ho, his mother’s death was utter confusion, a reality he couldn’t grasp. He had lived every aspect of his life with his mother: riding in her car, having her do his makeup, eating lunchboxes together during waiting times. But now, he had to manage everything alone, without her help.

“You’re constantly going to auditions without a moment’s rest because of your mother, aren’t you? While being frantically busy might help you forget your sadness, it’s still good to take enough time to grieve. You’ll regret it later.”

Yeon-ho was running himself ragged auditioning, not to forget his grief, but because his family’s livelihood was at stake. All the money Yeon-ho had earned until then had been sucked into his father’s failed businesses, leaving nothing behind.

“Don’t just look for the easy path; take a good rest, then try something new. It might not be easy to find a role that suits your current image, but with your experience, I’m sure you’ll do well.”

The PD patted Yeon-ho’s head as if bestowing charity, then left. Yeon-ho also turned, his heart heavy. He was already pursuing new acting roles. However, with broadcasters and production companies refusing to cast him, he had no choice but to gravitate towards the roles he used to play. Now, he knew even that path was completely hopeless.

Months passed with Yeon-ho idly twiddling his thumbs, without work. He was consumed by anxiety but also held a flicker of hope that his father, who was living a life of leisure, might finally get a job. However, upon realizing Yeon-ho’s acting career was over, his father didn’t seek work for himself. Instead, he tried to push Yeon-ho into an idol agency.

“Yeon-ho, they say if you become an idol, you’ll rake in an enormous amount of money. The earnings are supposedly incomparable to being a child actor. It’s my wish, son. Let’s do it, okay?”

Yeon-ho was reluctant to join an idol agency. He had a premonition that his father would never cure his business disease. “You won’t even need to be a trainee for long. Remember Mr. Hwang Dong-jun? He recently left Aqua Entertainment to start his own agency, and he really wants to bring you in. Your dad has laid out a flowery path for you; are you going to be a bad son who doesn’t listen?”

When persuasion failed, his father resorted to guilt-tripping Yeon-ho. “If you do well, we can bring Chae-young back from your aunt’s. Do you like living with our family scattered like this? Your mom was always sad that she sent young Chae-young away to take care of you. Unlike you, she barely got to be in her mom’s arms, did she?”

At fourteen, Yeon-ho, unable to resist his father’s badgering, entered an idol agency. He still harbored some lingering regrets about changing his career path, but Yeon-ho also genuinely wanted to earn a lot of money. He envisioned setting up a restaurant or cafe for his father and bringing his younger sister to live with them. He meticulously planned out these practical steps in his mind.

Yeon-ho believed he would debut quickly since the agency CEO knew his father. However, plans, it seemed, were made to be derailed. The CEO Yeon-ho trusted was replaced due to various circumstances, causing his debut to be canceled and his trainee period to lengthen. It wasn’t until he turned nineteen that Yeon-ho finally debuted and reappeared on television.

Having transitioned from a child actor to an unknown idol, and now working as a delivery rider, Yeon-ho often thought to himself as he rode his scooter past the broadcasting station building: Would he still be an actor if his physique hadn’t changed and he had continued to grow taller? In truth, Yeon-ho wasn’t short; in fact, as an adult, he was well above average height. But what good was his current height now? It hadn’t met the expectations of adults during the most crucial period of his life.

At fourteen, Yeon-ho felt an overwhelming anxiety and fear as he watched expectations for him gradually recede. He felt as though he had become useless, and his body instinctively recoiled. It was as if he was being endlessly sucked into a giant pit, all by himself. But Yeon-ho couldn’t confide his pain to anyone else. More precisely, there were no adults around to indulge the childish whims of a teenage boy. His father was hounded by creditors, and his mother had passed away. His younger sister, seven years his junior, was too young; she was someone Yeon-ho had to indulge, not someone he could lean on.

Ding-a-ling.

Having finished a delivery, Yeon-ho opened the door to a 24-hour restaurant and stepped inside. A staff member, an older woman, greeted customers while watching TV from inside the open kitchen. “Please order at the kiosk.”

The year-end awards ceremony was in full swing on the TV. Yeon-ho turned his head away from the screen, as one might avoid the gaze of an uncomfortable acquaintance. After deliberating what to eat, he finally decided on the spicy extra-large tonkatsu. For someone struggling with debt, ordering a spicy extra-large tonkatsu, which was two thousand won more expensive than the regular, was undoubtedly beyond his means. However, thanks to the year-end surcharge, he had earned double his usual income today, so he felt this small luxury was justifiable.

Yeon-ho deliberately chose a seat where he couldn’t see the TV. He didn’t care whether the broadcast was for a music award or acting award; it was a world entirely unrelated to him. While waiting for his order, he checked his earnings for the day on the app. The cold, stiff feeling in his cheeks softened. The amount instantly made him feel that all his tireless efforts throughout the day had been worth it.

‘I wish every day were like today.’

As he rose to get some soup, he heard voices of admiration from a table across the room. “Wow, that guy’s back is seriously amazing.”

Glancing over as he passed, Yeon-ho saw three young men, who appeared to be students, sitting at a table. Two had their backs to the TV, while only one faced it. “What does that guy do? He looks like a different species altogether. He’s dwarfing the guys on stage with his height and build.”

“He’s probably an athlete. A lot of former athletes appear on variety shows these days.”

“That’s not a variety award; it’s an acting award.”

As Yeon-ho ladled soup, he also filled a plate with side dishes. He didn’t particularly want to listen to other customers’ conversations, but they were speaking loudly, perhaps having had some drinks. He figured he’d have to put in his earphones once he returned to his seat.

“Oh, it’s Han Tae-young.”

The man who had been sitting with his back to the TV turned around to face the screen and spoke. “You know who that is?”

“This guy, acting all uninterested in the world. Stop with the concept. He’s the one who was in Glass Staircase.”

“You have to understand. Our Deok-jin is a total otaku who has no interest in 3D.”

“Hey, shut up. Why are you still talking about something from ages ago?”

“Anyway, Han Tae-young is so popular that his face is everywhere. He was even in an ad for a new game.”

“Is he really that successful? Ha-eun even posted a screenshot of him on her story, saying she likes him.”

“Oh, are you interested in Ha-eun?”

“No, I’m not! I only know because she keeps forcing me to vote for him for the Popularity Award.”

“Really? Then why did you ask Park Ha-eun to go see the Rembrandt exhibition? You told her you’d go together after summer classes, didn’t you?”

“Hey! How do you know that?!”

“Joo Hye-young told me.”

“Damn it, I only asked because I didn’t want to waste the early bird ticket. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

“Then why did you book an early bird ticket? You, a guy who has no interest in art whatsoever? Who were you planning to see the Rembrandt exhibition with?”

Not just the TV, but even this conversation felt like a different world to Yeon-ho. Having filled his plate with side dishes, Yeon-ho walked a wide berth around the chattering group of college students. As he walked forward, the TV screen inevitably caught his eye. A man in a white tuxedo flashed a bright, confident smile at the camera, as if he already knew he would win an award.

‘Announcing this year’s CBS Popularity Award winner: Han Tae-young, congratulations!’

Sure enough, a fanfare erupted, and the Popularity Award icon appeared on the man’s chest. ‘Han Tae-young, who debuted last year as Park Han-soo in the KBC mini-series ‘Rampage’ and won the New Actor Award, has since continued active work, appearing in films such as ‘Backup’ and ‘Cheongun.’ This year, he starred as Cha Yu-won in CBS’s biggest hit, ‘Glass Staircase,’ achieving a 23% viewership rating and solidifying his position as Korea’s undisputed top star.’

While the presenter handed Han Tae-young the trophy and bouquet, the female MC rattled off Han Tae-young’s accomplishments as if pressing a 1.5x speed button. The camera captured a full shot of the stage, framing Han Tae-young with his bouquet alongside the other nominees who had failed to win. Perhaps because they were relegated to being Han Tae-young’s backdrop, the young actors’ expressions as they applauded were noticeably sour.

‘Han Tae-young, how do you feel about winning the Popularity Award? Honestly, you weren’t nervous at all, were you? It must feel like picking up something you left behind?’

The MC, a former announcer, seemed to be praising Han Tae-young, but in reality, she was posing a question that subtly insulted both him and the other Popularity Award nominees. This freelance announcer MC always drew criticism from viewers for crossing the line with her remarks at year-end awards ceremonies. Yet, despite consistently causing controversy, the broadcasting station rehired him every year. What mattered more than controversy was viewership ratings, buzz, and advertising revenue.

Han Tae-young bent at the waist, bringing the microphone to his lips. ‘Not at all. I was quite nervous, actually.’

His tone and smile conveyed not a single ounce of sincerity. Perhaps Yeon-ho wasn’t the only one who noticed, as the MC seized on it. ‘Oh, this doesn’t feel genuine at all. Isn’t that a bit too much of a broadcast-ready comment?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be? It’s a broadcast, so I’m giving a broadcast-ready comment.’

He smiled sweetly again, looking as cunning as a fox, as if to ask what the problem was. Though his physique was more reminiscent of a black panther than a fox.

‘Haha. He says he gave a broadcast-ready comment because it’s a broadcast; this is… I don’t know how to respond. Viewers were probably hoping for honest feelings, not a broadcast-ready comment, which is a shame. Still, it’s good to see you don’t lie.’

As the male MC stammered in embarrassment, the female MC stepped in to salvage the situation. ‘Yes, we’ve heard your acceptance speech. Han Tae-young has also been nominated for Best Male Actor and the Grand Prize, in addition to the Popularity Award. We hope for good results in those two categories as well.’

The college students watching TV each had something to say about Han Tae-young’s attitude. “His personality is really bad.”

“They say Han Tae-young is famous for being rude in this industry. He shot to the top right after debut, and with such good connections, he must be incredibly arrogant.”

“Even so, his buzz will die down quickly. Guys with such sh*tty personalities don’t last long.”

“I hope he fails soon. I can’t stand seeing someone who knows how great they are act so smug.”

The college students went beyond merely criticizing Han Tae-young, cursing him to fail. Yeon-ho agreed that Han Tae-young’s personality seemed unpleasant, but he felt no urge to curse him like that. It took energy to hate and curse someone. Why waste energy on someone he would never meet anyway?

Even if they happened to cross paths, it would only be a fleeting encounter or a brief moment in the same space; there was no way they would ever get personally involved, even if the sky were to split in two. “Here’s your spicy extra-large tonkatsu.”

Yeon-ho quickly brought the tray to his seat and went to pick up his tonkatsu. Han Tae-young had already vanished from Yeon-ho’s mind. All Yeon-ho could think about was quickly filling his stomach and heading out for his night deliveries.

After finishing his meal and stepping outside, soft snow began to fall from the dark sky. “The timing is just awful.”

No, wait. Had the timing ever been good in his life?

Yeon-ho lit a cigarette, his face contorted. He seemed to be the only one on the street not welcoming the snow; couples and friends, clinging close to each other, walked down the alleyways, their faces alight with happiness. Yeon-ho inhaled the cigarette smoke deeper than usual and switched his rider app to active status.

The snowflakes grew larger, and the air turned colder. The old wives’ tale that it feels less cold when it snows was clearly a lie. As he waited for a delivery to be dispatched, his cheeks and hands grew numb with cold.

Yeon-ho jogged in place to generate some body heat. He longed for warmth. Not the kind that could be filled by an electric heater or a hot pack, but the warmth one felt only when surrounded by people. When he was an idol, being crammed into a small room with three or four others, constantly rubbing shoulders, had felt utterly dreadful. But why, he wondered, did he now feel that even that time was better?

“I’m completely insane. Has the cold frozen my brain, Seo Yeon-ho?” Yeon-ho muttered, his voice rough as if cursing. He wished winter would pass quickly. Although earning money was much easier in winter, Yeon-ho still hated it. It wasn’t the cold that was unbearable, but having to witness himself overwhelmed by loneliness that tormented him.