Chapter 6: Ninety-Nine Trainees

“Go inside, put your name tag on, and wait.”

We moved as instructed.

I stuck the sticker name tag onto my stomach and waited, and before long the staff beside us signaled for us to head up.

I took a deep breath and stepped onto the stairs in front of me.

As soon as I stepped onto the stage—so brightly lit it almost hurt my eyes—the large screen at the back lit up with text.

“Independent Trainee.”

Below the stage, seats numbered 1 through 99 were arranged in a pyramid shape.

The contestants who had entered before us were sitting here and there, and when they noticed us they quickly stood up and greeted us with a round of “Hello!”

Only after bowing back did I finally scan the empty seats.

The seat I wanted most was right in the middle—number 50—but someone was already sitting there.

The next best option would be…

“Where are you going to sit?”

Choi Gyeom, walking beside me, struck up a conversation.

“Number 60.”

Since sixty contestants would survive the first ranking announcement, sitting in seat 60 during that episode meant I’d at least be guaranteed screen time up to episode eight.

If I got that much exposure, maybe some agency—any agency that was desperate enough—might reach out.

That was my logic, anyway.

“I’m going to sit a little higher.”

After telling Choi Gyeom “see you later,” I returned the bow and headed toward seat number 60.

Sitting down and looking up at the stage gave me an odd feeling.

If I stood on that stage and sang and danced, it would be broadcast.

My face would go out into the world as someone dreaming of becoming an idol.

The very thought felt surreal—so surreal it left me unsettled.

“Oh, they’re coming in!”

The sudden shout snapped me out of my thoughts.

I lifted my head as a company logo appeared on the screen.

Soon, the contestants from that agency came onto the stage in a noisy group.

After greeting loudly in unison, the four of them lingered, discussing which cluster of seats they should take.

“Excuse me.”

While I tried to keep my expression neutral so I wouldn’t look bored, someone tapped my shoulder from behind.

When I turned, a contestant sitting diagonally behind me bowed slightly and greeted me with a polite “Hello.”

I bowed back and glanced at his name tag.

“DY, Chae Han-ul.”

Come to think of it, we were the only two seated in this area.

Maybe he’d been sitting alone for quite a while before I came—he kept chattering nonstop once he started.

“Hyung, oh!

You are hyung, right?

I’m seventeen!”

Seventeen—ten whole years younger than the real me.

Being called hyung by a first-year high schooler made my conscience sting for no logical reason.

“I’m t-twenty,” I said.

Even if it was just a game setting, saying twenty when I was actually twenty-seven felt so embarrassing that I ended up stuttering without meaning to.

Fortunately, Han-ul didn’t seem to notice anything strange. He just beamed, dimples sinking deep into both cheeks.

“Come on, you’re three years older—talk casually with me.”

“Uh… should I? Then you talk casually too.”

The moment the words left my mouth, Chae Han-ul shook his head vigorously.

Kids that age really did everything in big motions.

“There’ll be a lot of other hyungs here. If I talk casually only to you, that’d be even more awkward.”

Then he leaned closer, lowered his voice, and whispered conspiratorially that, actually, the company told him very firmly not to speak casually to the older trainees.

No matter how softly he spoke, the microphones would pick up everything anyway… Should I tell him? I considered it, but decided not to.

Maybe before he said it, but now that the words were already out, telling him would just make things awkward.

After that, a long stretch of boredom continued.

By now, contestants had filled the seats so densely that empty chairs were hard to spot, and the seats around me were no exception.

I twisted my stiff body this way and that to loosen up when suddenly the contestants started murmuring.

Straightening up at the noise, I saw the logo of one of the agencies—K-Stars—appear on the screen.

K-Stars was founded by a composer behind many hit songs for famous idols.

They had started as a mid-sized agency, but since every group they launched hit massive success one after another, they had grown into a top-tier, undeniably representative idol company in Korea.

…And the reason I knew that was because of articles like “New Season Approaches—K-Stars Confirmed to Join ‘Please Take Care of My Idol’” and “K-Stars Lineup Set—Season 2 Already Showing Blockbuster Signs.”

When the news broke that trainees from K-Stars would be participating, the internet went into an uproar for days.

No matter where you looked, the words ‘K-Stars’ and ‘My Idol, Please Take Care Season 2’ were plastered everywhere.

The negative sentiment that had been attached to Season 2 was instantly flipped on its head.

Tabloids notorious for acting like malicious paparazzi, along with cyber “wreckers,” swarmed in to uncover the identity of the agency’s hidden trainees, and in the blink of an eye, countless rumors were created and spread.

In short, K-Stars was a company so influential that its very name was enough to make every participant tense up.

Everyone wondered just how incredible the trainees they sent would be.

The moment the two slowly stepped onto the stage, the studio fell into a heavy silence.

Ah.

So those two were the K-Stars trainees.

The two who walked onto the stage were the same “face genius” and “Louvre statue” who had been the contestants right before and after me during the profile shoot.

I had wondered how two people that ridiculously good-looking could exist in the same place—turns out they were not only from the same company, but that company.

It made sense.

A famed feast… and they even brought a buffet.

As the two found empty seats and sat down, contestants kept sneaking glances their way, whispering nonstop.

They were probably talking about how shockingly good-looking the two were.

“There are seven seats left now.”

The contestant sitting to my left spoke in a small voice, almost like muttering to himself.

I assumed he meant the seven positions remaining after subtracting those two from the program’s total of nine debut spots, so I nodded.

With the agency’s name value alone they had already brought explosive buzz—and with faces like that… Even if I were a viewer, I’d vote for them.

“It’s not seven.

It’s six.”

Whether he overheard us or not, the trainee sitting to Cha Han-ul’s right cut in and pointed at the screen where the new logo was displayed.

Now that I noticed, the studio had grown restless again.

Only one spot remained on the pyramid, and as the final contestant stepped onto the stage, the word “sunbaenim” echoed throughout the room along with his name.

Just as the contestants said, the last participant, Yoon Jiheon, had debuted four years ago as a member of the four-member boy group BURST.

The group had been the first idol project ambitiously launched by a company known for its roster of famous actors, so they had received full support—many even said they were a shoo-in for that year’s Rookie of the Year award.

They drew a lot of attention, but the glory didn’t last long.

After their first promotions ended, two members became embroiled in school-bullying scandals, and another was arrested for a DUI hit-and-run.

With that disastrous chain of events, the group disbanded only six months after debut.

…That was also something I read in an article titled “BURST’s Yoon Jiheon to Appear on My Idol, Please Take Care Season 2… Will He Succeed in His Comeback After 4 Years?”

Either way, what mattered was that Yoon Jiheon was a contestant with name value, popularity, and plenty of buzz.

“An audition of devils, and Lucifer shows up….”

Startled by the low murmur coming from somewhere nearby, I turned to look for its source.

But no one reacted—either no one heard it, or no one found it strange.

If it was the former, then all I had to worry about was the game’s copyright issues. But if it was the latter…

It wasn’t Lucifer showing up to an audition full of devils—I was the human showing up in a game full of Lucifers.

f*ck.

I desperately wanted to drop out.

After a short break, filming resumed, and soon Son Chae-i, hailed as one of South Korea’s legendary dance singers, stepped onto the stage.

“Show must go on! Hello, viewers. I’m Son Chae-i, the MC of Please Take Care Season My Idol 2.”

When she bowed to the camera, the trainees erupted into cheers and applause.

“A massive survival show to create the next national idol! On My Idol, Please Take Care, you, the viewers, can vote directly for the trainees you support to form the ultimate idol group.”

The moment she finished speaking, the main PD raised his hand to give the prearranged cue.

The participants instantly stood up and straightened their outfits.

“Then let’s meet the ninety-nine boys dreaming of becoming national idols—right now!”

The camera filming Son Chae-i swung in a one-take motion and captured the pyramid-shaped staircase where the contestants stood.

At another signal from the PD, all ninety-nine trainees bowed to the camera in unison and shouted loudly:

“Thank you in advance!”