Chapter 8: Evaluation

The stream of praise was so unexpected—and honestly more than I deserved—that I sat there in a daze.

It was surprising enough that I even wondered if PD Muk Sahyeon had picked me as this season’s scapegoat and was doing this on purpose.

I’d heard that in the previous season there had been contestants who got a lot of hate because of favoritism controversies and whatnot, so… it wasn’t impossible, right?

“Your dancing isn’t at a level we can evaluate yet.”

“You don’t normally rap at all, do you?

I could tell you felt awkward.

I don’t know why you forced it in.”

Of course, the criticisms that followed right after made that theory a lot less likely.

I wasn’t good at singing, dancing, or rapping anyway, so I figured more was better and just crammed everything in—clearly a bad call.

“Thank you for your hard work.”

Once the rap trainer gave the final evaluation, the MC and the trainers put their mics down and began discussing my grade.

I had naturally expected to receive an F.

But because there had surprisingly been several positive comments, I wondered—very carefully—if maybe I might get a D instead.

Before long, it seemed their discussion had wrapped up. Son Chae-i lifted her mic.

“Trainee Sim Jaeseo… receives a C grade.”

Huh? Did I mishear that? Without realizing it, I leaned toward the mic and spoke.

“C?”

When I asked again, the trainers exchanged baffled looks.

It made sense—no matter if someone got an A or an F, every contestant so far had just thanked them and left.

I was the first one to question it.

Only Son Chae-i, who was used to being on camera, answered with an easy smile.

“Yes, it’s a C.

Why—are you disappointed?”

“No, it’s not that… it just feels too high compared to what I did.”

At that, Son Chae-i widened her eyes, then let them curve into a smile.

The vocal trainer sitting beside her picked up the mic and laughed as well, saying I was modest.

“Judging by the performance you just did, you definitely deserved a C.”

“Thank you.”

I bowed and thanked the vocal trainer, but I still felt stunned.

Was that performance—where I barely managed to keep my pitch, rhythm, and moves together—actually good to watch?

Maybe she sensed my doubt, because Son Chae-i picked up her mic again.

“As a senior singer—not just an MC—let me give you a bit of advice.

In this field, being overconfident is harmful… but underestimating yourself can be just as harmful.”

Again, I reflexively said thank you, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand what she meant.

Underestimating myself?

I was the one person who could evaluate myself more objectively than anyone.

Why?

Because I had visible stat points.

My current Vocal stat was 234, and Dance was 197.

High numbers compared to most of my other stats, which hovered near zero.

But my highest stats—Intelligence and Stamina—were over 900 each.

On my status screen’s bar graph, Vocal and Dance were basically scraping the bottom.

“You look like you don’t quite get it,” she said.

“…I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.

You’re still a trainee—it’s normal not to understand everything yet.

You’ll come to get it slowly, over time.”

Son Chae-i, who had earlier shrugged playfully and said I’d thank her later, continued speaking—this time with a serious expression.

“There are still two grades above you, remember?

Don’t settle just because you got a higher grade than you expected this time.

Try pushing yourself so you can climb even higher.

I feel like you can do it, Jaeseo trainee.

I’ll be cheering for you, too.”

The way she added that last line—I’ll be cheering for you—felt surprisingly sincere.

I bowed deeply, thanking her just as sincerely.

And strangely enough, hearing her say she thought I could do it sparked a bit of ambition in me.

Maybe… I should try a little harder.

My turn had been two before his, when Cha Hanul received a C grade and came back up, our eyes met.

His dimples sank deep as he beamed at me.

Considering how he’d been chatting earlier about being bored sitting alone, he was probably happy knowing he’d have a familiar face during the grade-based training sessions.

I offered him a small smile back, and his dimples deepened even further.

As soon as Hanul climbed the steps and returned to his seat, the next contestant received a D grade and stepped down from the stage.

“Next, K-Stars trainees Seo Junjae and Yeo Hyeontae, please come forward.”

The moment K-Stars was mentioned, I could feel the tension ripple through the participants.

The trainers, too, straightened up from where they had been leaning comfortably against their chairs.

Well, of course—they were trainees from a major company; expectations would naturally be high.

When the two K-Stars trainees were shown climbing the steps, the close-up shot appeared on the massive screen.

Gasps echoed around us, followed by stunned exclamations.

They were so good-looking it was almost absurd.

Even on the screen, they looked flawless.

Staring at their perfectly captured faces felt less like watching fellow trainees and more like viewing art pieces displayed in a vast museum.

“Hello. We’re K-Stars trainees, Seo Junjae.”

“And Yeo Hyeontae.”

…Do they have good voices too?

I must not have been the only one thinking that, because sighs burst out from all directions.

“I hope at least their skills suck.”

Someone must have forgotten there were cameras and microphones everywhere—they actually said that out loud.

Honestly, with faces like that, there’d probably be a truckload of people willing to cast them even if they just sang the national anthem on stage.

For them to sing and dance well on top of that?

Even for game characters, that’s crossing a line.

While the contestants murmured among themselves, the two seemed to have finished getting ready, because music suddenly began to play.

The gentle intro matched their light warm-up motions—stretching their arms and legs as if loosening up—and something about it felt… ominous.

Then, the moment the beat sped up—

Holy shit.

I barely managed to swallow the curse that almost jumped out.

I didn’t have to look around to know that everyone near me was probably feeling exactly the same.

As the fast beat kicked in, their movements split cleanly into razor-sharp details that clicked into place like precision measurements.

The intense rhythm continued for quite a while before the music finally began to soften.

I thought it was about to end—but then the two raised their microphones to their mouths, and two different notes flowed out, weaving together in perfect harmony.

By that point, everything I saw and heard felt downright unfair.

I mean, I’m the one who got shoved into this world and told to become an idol out of nowhere.

I’m the protagonist here.

So why are all the good stats loaded onto them?

They throw me into this world empty-handed, then surround me with two cheat-code characters like that.

How is that even remotely fair?

…It feels like I can practically hear the players of “Please Take Care of My Idol” collectively screaming in frustration right about now.

***

The agency evaluation shoot, which we’d been preparing for since dawn, finally wrapped up around the time it started getting dark outside.

The contestants grabbed the luggage that had been crammed together in a single waiting room and headed toward the bus parked outside.

“Hyung, is that really all your stuff?”

At Hanul’s question, I slung my backpack over one shoulder and looked around.

Everyone else was dragging a big suitcase behind them.

They’d said the training clothes for filming would be provided, so I figured the only things I really needed were some sleepwear, underwear, socks, a towel, and toiletries.

I’d stuffed all of that into one generously packed backpack and called it a day.

It never once occurred to me that I might need a suitcase—and it’s not like I even owned one in the first place.

“If you’re missing anything, hyung, just tell me.

I’ll lend you mine.”

After loading the bags into the luggage compartment and boarding the bus, Hanul plopped down in the seat next to me and offered that with a proud look.

I said, at least out of politeness, “Thanks for the thought,” but he immediately pouted.

“It’s not just the thought—I really mean it.”

“Okay, okay.

If I need anything, I’ll definitely tell you.”

I used the same tone I used to calm down the kids I used to meet while working part-time, and only then did he seem satisfied, letting out a small noise and smiling.

Well… he is basically a kid.

Ding—

Just then, a familiar notification sound came from my phone.

The same sound that always played whenever there was a new message from the game Please Take Care of My Idol.

I unlocked my phone and opened the game.

A message popped up across the top of the screen.

[A new system has been added.]

[The Character Codex icon has been activated.]

As soon as the message disappeared, a new icon appeared on one side of the game screen.

Some kind of in-game encyclopedia that organizes characters?

I tapped the icon— a round circle with a person-shaped silhouette— and just as I suspected, a few names popped up in a list.

Lee Chan-seo, Chae Hanul…

All the names belonged to the contestants who had been sitting near me today.

So it didn’t automatically register every contestant— it must only add characters once you’ve talked to them or formed some sort of acquaintance.

But then…

“Then why aren’t Son Chae-i or the trainers listed?”

“Huh?”

Even though I’d muttered it under my breath, Hanul somehow heard me and asked back.

I said it was nothing.

He didn’t press further, but he stared at me with a dying-of-curiosity expression, so I pretended not to notice and turned my head toward my phone.

Maybe only Please Take Care of My Idol contestants get registered. Leaning my head against the window, I tapped a random name on the list.

A new window popped open— showing a straight-on photo of the person whose name I touched, along with their name, age, agency, height, weight, hobbies, special skills…

And affection level?