Chapter 4: Show must go on

Time passed quickly, and before I knew it, a full month had gone by since I entered the game.
As for what had happened during that time….

First of all, I diligently set up and executed my schedules.

Monday—which I had greeted with gloom because I only had one million won of starting funds—turned out to be a fairly decent day, objectively speaking.
My first schedule had, of course, been a part-time job.
But unlike in “reality,” I didn’t have to spend hours searching for a job or work on a regular weekly basis.
All I had to do was select the part-time job I wanted from the job list, activate the schedule, and a message would arrive with the workplace and time.
As long as I arrived at the designated time, I could start working immediately.
On top of that, the pay was given daily instead of monthly, which was a huge relief.

Of course, if this game shared the same system as My Idol, then my stats would limit which part-time jobs I could pick, and depending on my physical condition, I might even fail a shift.
But for now, none of that posed a problem.

Once I had solved the issue of earning money to some degree, the next urgent matter was singing and dancing.

Registering for the survival program had felt bold at the moment, but once I realized I’d actually have to audition, my mind went completely blank.
As a total “noob” in this field, I was worried about how I was supposed to prepare.

Fortunately, the training schedule made it extremely easy—just a single tap, and it was taken care of.

So from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., I filled every available time slot with part-time work, vocal training, and dance training.
On days when I didn’t have enough money for lessons, I filled the entire day with part-time work, then went to the cheapest karaoke in the neighborhood and spent two or three hours making a fool of my—no, practicing by myself.

Weekends offered no time to rest either.

On the first weekend, I tracked down and watched every episode of the idol survival show I’d applied for— “Please Take Care of My Idol”, or “My Idol” for short—Season 1.

After that, I searched the internet for anything related to the program and read through it all.

From the following week onward, I started listening to every song I could find in this world and familiarized myself with them.

For idol music in particular, I watched every music video and famous stage performance I could dig up.

There was so much to see and hear that it made my head spin, but since I’d never lived close to music in “reality,” at least there was no risk of mixing the two up.

That was a small mercy.

While I was grinding through my schedule like that, I received a message with the preliminary round details for My Idol.

From what I’d gathered, there were apparently applicants who got cut in the document screening, but somehow even that unimpressive application of mine made it through.

I wondered if it meant there weren’t many applicants or if the talent pool was weak—and an unnecessary sense of hope began to creep up on me.

…If this goes well, maybe I could actually make it on air?

From that day onward, I headed straight to the karaoke booth after finishing my schedule.

The five-digit room code—now even more familiar to me than my old university ID number—and the Start button were pressed, and the instrumental kicked in.

My body moved automatically.

This was the song I had found after listening until my ears went numb and watching videos until my eyes went bloodshot—my pick for the prelims.

It was a medium-tempo dance track: the vocal range only went up so high, the choreography was very simple for a dance song, and most importantly, the concept was straightforward.

As someone who’d lived his entire life as an ordinary guy, there was no way I could pull off things like winking every three seconds, biting my lower lip, or licking my lips—those were moves I couldn’t even attempt.

A dance track that wasn’t too difficult, lyrics about a calm breakup that didn’t require flashy facial expressions—this was the best I could manage.

After running full speed like that for a few weeks, today was finally the day of the prelims.

Since it was an idol audition, I wondered if I should at least try to look somewhat put together, so I looked things up—but wax, curling irons, and all kinds of cosmetics were all way too expensive, so I gave up.

More than anything, with my disastrously clumsy hands, no matter how much I tried to follow tutorials, I wouldn’t end up looking decent—just ridiculous.

So I left the house wearing only clean, neat clothes.

‘Ah’—though I did grab a tinted lip balm in a rush from the cosmetics shop near home.

But the moment I arrived at the prelim venue, I immediately regretted my complacency.

I’d heard that trainees affiliated with agencies were recruited separately, and that only unaffiliated people like me would be doing this round.

Yet when I actually got there, most of them were dressed up as if they had already debuted.

Standing there alone looking completely unprepared, I could feel the surrounding contestants glancing at me.

If I’d known it’d be like this, I would’ve put something in my hair.

Feeling embarrassed for ever thinking I might actually pass, I hurried with my head lowered to find the registration desk.

After giving my name and phone number to the staff member at the table, I was given my audition number after a brief check, and I lined up accordingly.

Even after getting in line, it took about an hour before my turn finally came.

Were there only five solo contestants last season?

But here, even just for the prelims, there were this many people.

As my chances of passing felt thinner, strangely enough, I felt lighter.

Since it was obvious I’d fail anyway, I figured I might as well get some proper experience out of it while I was here, and stepped into the audition room.

A staff member pointed me to the spot marked with white tape near the door, so I stood there.

The judges—who had been looking down at their papers—lifted their heads.

I bowed and straightened; their sharp gazes brushed across my face before dropping back down to their papers. I couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed to be my application form.

“Show us what you prepared.”

I answered that I understood and quietly cleared my throat.

Singing and dancing in front of other people—on top of that, without any accompaniment—felt a little embarrassing for a moment, but since I was going to embarrass myself anyway, I might as well get it over with quickly.

With that mindset, my body began moving, already conditioned by habit.

After finishing about thirty seconds of the chorus—the section I’d prepared, both singing and dancing—the judges scribbled something on the paper that looked like my application form, then flipped it over with a brief “thank you for your effort.”

I briefly considered saying something determined-sounding, something that might make me look earnest or slightly more promising, but it felt pointless.

I shut my mouth, bowed, and turned to leave.

…But only a few days later, something completely unexpected happened.

I got a call from someone who said they were a writer for Please Take Care of My Idol.

—We’re going to do a short pre-interview next week, and the week after that we’ll do profile photos.

First filming will be that Sunday, same as the prelims—you’ll need to prepare singing and dancing again.

You just need to let us know what song you’re doing at least a week beforehand.

Oh, and you know you’ll be entering group housing, right?

More detailed schedules will be sent to the email you wrote on your application.

The writer rattled all of that off in a tired voice, then asked if I had any questions.

Since the moment I’d answered the phone, I hadn’t managed to say a single word.

Carefully, I opened my mouth at last.

“…Is this, by any chance, a voice phishing scam?”

Hearing the baffled “What?” from the other end of the line finally made the situation feel real.

I actually made it?

“Did I really pass?”

The person on the other end answered “yes” in a bored, dismissive tone, and I mechanically replied, “Thank you. I’ll see you then,” blinking blankly as I hung up.

Why did they pick me? No matter how much I thought about it, the question wouldn’t go away.

Still dazed, I lifted my phone.

Whatever the reason, since I’d passed, I needed to find a new song and start preparing.

I tried to move my fingers on autopilot, forcing my eyes and ears to focus on the screen, but soon my concentration blurred, and the same question filled my head again.

No, but seriously—why did I pass?

***

A week passed like that, and I headed to the broadcast station for the pre-interview.

The question still wasn’t answered.

Actually, it had gotten worse.

Out of all those people in the prelims, they only picked two, and I was one of them?

Following the staff’s guidance, I entered the office where the interview would take place.

The two judges from the prelims sat across the table, and behind them a camera was set up.

One of them gestured to a chair, so I awkwardly sat.

Then the man on the opposite side introduced himself as the main PD.

Ah, so this is that guy…

Muk Sahyeon, the main PD who had directed My Idol, Please Take Care of Them since Season 1, was smiling warmly like a friendly person—but I didn’t trust him.

I already knew from the internet that he was called every name under the sun—“that bastard, this bastard, the guy who’ll turn you into mush”—and that he was infamous for malicious editing.

On top of that, the biggest victim of his devilish editing in Season 1 had been an individual trainee with no agency—someone in the exact same situation as me.

That alone was enough reason to stay on high alert.

Even though this pre-interview probably wouldn’t make it to broadcast unless someone was a noteworthy contestant, I still answered carefully, choosing every word as cautiously as possible.

As the short interview made up of routine questions was coming to an end, the woman who had been quietly listening beside PD Muk Sahyeon finally spoke up—the main writer.

“I heard you asked if it was a voice-phishing scam when we called to say you passed. Why did you say that?”

“Ah, well… at first I really did think it was a voice-phishing call.”

When I added that it was because I fully expected to fail, PD Muk looked at me with interest and asked why I thought that. “Why?”

“Because… during the prelims, I was the only one who looked completely ordinary.”