Category: Star Maker

  • Star Maker Chapter 56

    [Has no one here seen Idol War? It was insanely fun.]

    └ I don’t watch crap like that.

    └ Same. I skipped Chicken Race because it was just shirtless male idols having a chest party, and Idol War looked like an emotional battle over who smudged their eye makeup better.

    └ Emotional battle… You’re not wrong, but I don’t feel like saying you’re right either.

    └ Same here. It was emotionally manipulative, but I’d still sell my organs to support it.

    └ Our PerColors ㅠㅜ keep showing us your Perzique ㅜㅠ.                 *ㅜㅠ is a Korean emoticon for sadness.

    └ What’s “Perzique”?

    └ I think it’s a fan term for Personal Color—PerCol + Physique.

    └ Oh, that’s clever. Perzique!

    └ I was watching with my mom. At first we were trashing the “Personal Color Scattered Bean Powder Team,” but by the end we were both voting for them, lol.

    └ Got chills when they sang the chorus while crying at the end.

    └ And the song’s actually good. Vivid~

    └ I can see it now. Personal Color shooting a makeup ad with Vivid as the BGM.


    [Was Idol War really that good? The feedback looks great.]

    └ It was insanely good. They said it’s a 10-episode pilot, but I hope they just jump right into season 2 after that.

    └ It’s all thanks to the PD. Honestly, the format and flow were super cliche, but the editing brought it all to life. Pacing was insane.

    └ Agreed. The pacing was top-tier.

    └ Most variety shows have parts you just want to skip, but not with Idol War. If anything, I wished they had shown more.

    └ Really? I thought the missions ended too quickly.

    └ But dragging that stuff out would make it boring. You know, with slow-mo shots and captions like “A Battle of Goodwill!”—instant cringe.

    └ The pacing was good, but it really came together when Personal Color left the audience speechless.

    └ Facts.

    └ Idol War really is a war. They didn’t edit out any mistakes. Seemed like they tried to show the stage performances as raw as possible.

    └ Speaking of mistakes—Dream Girls comes to mind.

    └ The Mistake Idols.

    └ Mistake idols, lol. Dream Girls, lmaooo.

    └ That performance was nightmare-tier.

    └ What were they thinking doing live vocals with that confidence?

    └ On Idol War, live vocals are mandatory. After each broadcast, KBM posts the AR (pre-recorded backing track) used on stage.

    └ I checked those. Most groups still had backing vocals, but Personal Color had nothing except during the chorus. It was 100% live.

    └ As expected from a MOK idol.

    └ If Spain is the go-to in soccer, then MOK is the go-to in K-pop.

    └ Then why couldn’t AT, who got humiliated by HSH, make it?

    └ Because he is not from MOK—he is from Kim Dong-han.


    In the early hours following the first episode of Idol War, conversations started buzzing across variety show fan communities.

    At the heart of it all was Personal Color.

    It was impossible to talk about Idol War without talking about them. And that’s when media outlets with proper sources began flooding in.


    • KBM’s pilot program Idol War gets off to a great start with 7.1% viewership.
    • Idol War receives consistent praise: “Showcased real music, not just packaged idol images.”
    • Actress An Jia rediscovered! The top-rated moment (11.5%) goes to Personal Color’s An Jia’s stage.
    • Long-time underdogs Personal Color make a flashy revolt. Will their new song Vivid top the charts?
    • A strong debut for Idol War—could it reclaim the Wednesday variety throne?

    Despite the late hour, these headlines were met with a flood of comments.

    Of course, some people bashed the show without even watching it.

    But the actual viewers were overwhelmingly positive, and the negative comments got buried in no time.

    With all the top comments being favourable, more people started checking it out through replays.

    Seeing this, KBM made the first episode of Idol War available for free.

    Even if it meant a slight loss, their clear aim was to significantly expand the viewer pool and reclaim the Wednesday variety crown from SBN.

    The buzz then carried over to social media.

    Clips distributed by the MOK PR team spread across platforms, piquing people’s curiosity.

    Eventually…

    “Personal Color” and “Idol War” were locked into the #1 and #2 real-time trending topics all Thursday long.


    “You are cursed with a wanderer’s fate.”

    That was the first thing Team Leader Park Cha-myung said after hearing from Seon-ho about his conversation with CEO Kim Dong-han.

    Seon-ho hadn’t shared the details of that conversation with anyone else.

    He had just vaguely mentioned that he got some praise for his hard work.

    That went for Kwon Hosan too. Since the conversation involved Personal Color, it wasn’t something he could casually bring up.

    So the only person he could turn to for advice was Team Leader Park.

    “A wanderer’s fate?”

    “You were assigned to Hye-mi, then to Personal Color, and now you might have to go back to Hye-mi. What else would you call it?”

    “Hmm…”

    “What kind of rookie changes teams every month? And not because he’s bad, but because he’s too good. Know when to stop.”

    “Why do you think CEO Kim Dong-han said all that to me?”

    Park shrugged.

    “Isn’t it obvious? He wants you to reel Hye-mi back in. Contract renewals usually start about three months before expiry, and her renewal is six months away—perfect timing.”

    “Oh, negotiations start three months in advance?”

    Seon-ho had no prior experience with contracts in the entertainment industry.

    So it made sense he wouldn’t know.

    “There’s a lot of loose ends to tie up once the contract ends—copyrights, sponsorships, CFs, etc. Not legally mandated, just industry practice.”

    Patting Seon-ho’s shoulder, Park added,

    “I know you find the CEO intimidating, but this one’s simple. He’s rewarding you for doing a good job, and using the opportunity to try pulling Hye-mi back in.”

    “Then… is there no way I could be in charge of both Personal Color and Hye-mi?”

    “How’s a road manager supposed to handle two teams? What if their schedules clash—are you gonna just drive for whoever pays more? You would have to be a director at least.”

    After thinking for a moment, Seon-ho asked again.

    “Then what if Hye-mi clearly states she wants to renew, and I stay with Personal Color?”

    “Dunno? Then it should be fine, I guess? But just remember—if Personal Color flops, your shot at a promotion goes with it.”

    “I understand.”

    Hearing this, Park looked at him curiously.

    “Why are you trying so hard to turn down the CEO’s offer? I mean, I wasn’t a fan of how he chewed Hye-mi out either, but honestly? As a boss, Kim Dong-han’s not bad.”

    “How so?”

    “He sticks to the rules. When a boss starts shifting standards based on their feelings, it becomes a nightmare to work under. That’s the exact reason I quit my first entertainment job.”

    “Hmm…”

    “Besides, you’re getting shockingly special treatment right now. Who gets offered a promotion three months in? Are you perhaps the CEO’s hidden son?”

    “You know we have different last names, right?”

    “So what? You’re both guys.”

    “…”

    Park Cha-myung, who had just thrown out a sudden team leader-style joke, chuckled at Seon-ho’s expression and said,

    “Just accept it. If you liked working with Personal Color, aim for the director position in six months and slowly bring them back. The girls from Personal Color like you too, so it wouldn’t be hard.”

    When Seon-ho didn’t respond, Park Cha-myung continued.

    “Now that I think about it, in six months, Personal Color will probably be settled in, and the time of managers running around everywhere will be over. That’s like scooping honey, isn’t it?”

    Seon-ho thought the team leader wasn’t wrong.

    No, thinking rationally, he was right.

    Seon-ho reflected deeply on why he felt uneasy about CEO Kim Dong-han’s offer.

    The answer came quickly.

    “Then there’d be success, but no happiness.”

    “Huh?”

    “Let’s say I bring back Personal Color in six months. What about Director Kwon Hosan? And Manager Jung Jiwoon, who will have worked hard until then? Whether Personal Color chooses me or Director Kwon, they will feel uncomfortable.”

    He disliked CEO Kim Dong-han’s method of stripping away human emotions and reducing everything to a system.

    During the recruitment interview with Team Leader Park Cha-myung, he had been asked a question:

    ‘Exactly what kind of producer do you want to be?’

    At the time, he had answered without hesitation:

    ‘Someone who creates happiness through music.’

    His life included a portion meant for Seon-ah.

    In that kind of life, he didn’t want to blindly chase money or success.

    During his most painful times, music was the only thing that had brought him happiness—he wanted to share that music with more people.

    Seeing Seon-ho’s answer, Park Cha-myung first made a baffled face and then burst into laughter.

    “To be honest, that sounds dumb, but maybe it’s because you’re that kind of guy that you were able to save Hye-mi and Personal Color.”

    “Really?”

    “Yeah. Just don’t go around talking about happiness and all that. People will think you’re a fool. These days, ambition, money, and success are the trends, man.”

    Then Park Cha-myung added,

    “But I’m actually curious how far you will go. I kinda want to root for you.”

    Though Park Cha-myung was a practical person who clearly distinguished between what he could and couldn’t do, he wasn’t someone who laughed at others ideals.

    On the contrary, he could support them sincerely.

    “If you ever need my help, just say the word.”

    “Then this is exactly when I need it.”

    “Huh?”

    “Could you give me the CEO’s personal number?”


    -This is Han Seon-ho. If you’re available to talk, I have something I’d like to discuss.

    It wasn’t polite for a rookie employee to message the CEO directly, but there was something he had to confirm.

    Thanks to Park Cha-myung, he had sorted out his thoughts clearly, so he felt at ease.

    After sending the text to CEO Kim Dong-han, Seon-ho began working on the written interview Team Leader Choi Ki-seok had given him.

    Seeing Seon-ho working at his desk for the first time in a while, employees started striking up conversations.

    “What are you up to, Seon-ho?”

    “Just writing up the interview Team Leader Choi asked for.”

    There were co-workers from Team B as well.

    “I watched the show yesterday. Great job.”

    “Thank you.”

    Even Shin Ho-yoon, head of the singer division, came down personally to offer a few words.

    “What are the Personal Color guys up to?”

    “Preparing for tomorrow’s recording. They’re at the practice room with their dance instructor. I’ll head down after I finish this.”

    Clearly, the staff’s attitude toward Seon-ho had shifted.

    As he was absorbed in finishing the interview, someone tapped his shoulder and handed him a coffee.

    “Seon-ho.”

    “Oh, Director Baek. Hello. What brings you here?”

    “I have something to ask. The composer Prefer—he’s not officially under contract, right?”

    “No. We work with him on a per-song basis.”

    “Then do you think you could get him to listen to this?”

    It was Baek Sangyeon from Team C, whom Seon-ho had occasionally run into. He handed over a USB.

    “What is it?”

    Baek looked around cautiously and lowered his voice.

    “These are the candidate tracks for Junho’s digital single, sent by the A&R team. But Junho’s not feeling them.”

    “What does he mean by that?”

    “He says they don’t really fit him. But they’re too good to throw out. He wants them revised just a little…”

    Baek leaned in closer and whispered,

    “If the A&R team gets vague feedback, they lose it. It’s a pain. The CEO spoils them too much, and now they think they’re running MOK.”

    “That sounds rough.”

    “It’s more annoying than hard. They always think if a song doesn’t do well, it’s the promotion’s fault, not theirs.”

    Shaking his head in frustration, Baek added,

    “Anyway, both Junho and I want Prefer to do the rearranging. Could you talk to him for us?”

    “What’s the deadline?”

    “Well, since the company’s focusing on Hye-mi and Personal Color right now, it can take its time. Just get it in by the end of January.”

    That gave about two months of time.

    Seon-ho nodded without hesitation.

    It was a chance to raise Prefer’s influence within MOK—there was no reason to refuse.

    “Sure, I’ll talk to him.”

    “He listens to you?”

    “For the most part, yeah.”

    “Man, I’m so jealous. Why don’t I have a friend like that…”

    Then Baek whispered again.

    “You know PD Joo Min-hwan, right?”

    “PD Joo? Yeah, I know him.”

    Joo Min-hwan was the producer who had deliberately done a lazy arrangement of Autumn Leaf by Su-rim.

    “He’s got it out for you. So stay away from the A&R department if you can.”

    “Me? Why?”

    “He just hates Prefer. Prefer roasted him on Autumn Leaf, then beat him again on Girl In The City. And you’re the one moving Prefer.”

    Now that he thought about it, the competing track for Girl In The City, which Hye-mi had chosen, was Joo Min-hwan’s.

    Just as Seon-ho was about to say it’s probably fine since they’re on different teams, his phone rang.

    Thinking it was CEO Kim Dong-han, Seon-ho excused himself and left the office.

    But when he checked the caller ID, it wasn’t the CEO.

    —Writer Min Heeyoung.

    The screen showed the name of the writer for High School in Melody, which would begin filming in two weeks.

    “Yes, hello?”

    -Manager, this is writer Min Heeyoung.

    “Hello, how have you been?”

    -Sorry, I’m a bit busy right now. Can I skip the pleasantries and get straight to the point?

    Her voice carried the fatigue and rush of someone overwhelmed.

    “Of course. Go ahead.”

    -I’ve got two things. First, I’d like Personal Color to make a cameo.

    “A cameo?”

    -In the first episode, there’s a scene where the main characters attend a concert. I want to include Personal Color Vivid in that scene. I just watched Idol War and their song was fantastic. It matches the drama’s vibe perfectly.

    Seon-ho instinctively wanted to say yes.

    It sounded like a great opportunity.

    “It sounds like a great idea, but I’m not in a position to give a definite answer. I’ll pass it on to the higher-ups.”

    -I figured. This is just a way to give you credit. I want them to know this contact came through you.

    Then she added,

    -I also heard you’re close with the composer Prefer. Could you connect me with him?

    “What for?”

    -After watching Idol War, I’m convinced that only Prefer can bring out An Jia’s full potential. I want him to write the song she’ll sing in the drama.

  • Star Maker Chapter 55

    While Seon-ho hesitated at the unexpected call, CEO Kim Dong-han spoke again.

    “If you’re really busy, we can meet tomorrow instead.”

    “No, sir. I’ll come up right away.”

    “Yeah? Then see you in a bit.”

    As Seon-ho hung up, countless eyes in the PR team turned to follow him.

    The moment Team Leader Choi Ki-seok, who had been on a long call with a journalist, put down the receiver, he asked in surprise.

    “What was that? Was it the CEO?”

    “Yes.”

    “What did he want?”

    “He told me to come up to his office.”

    “To the CEO’s office? Why?”

    “I don’t know.”

    Team Leader Choi turned to the team members.

    “Has the CEO ever called in a road manager before?”

    “Never. You know that anyone below team leader level isn’t even allowed in there.”

    Whatever his personality might be, CEO Kim Dong-han was a stickler for rules when it came to running the company.

    That’s why he had stubbornly improved the producing system over the years, even at a financial loss.

    And it was also why he avoided showing favouritism or personal interest toward any particular employee.

    He believed that even the smallest act by the CEO could shake the company’s discipline, so he treated all employees strictly within the system.

    But he called for Han Seon-ho?

    This was exactly why Choi Ki-seok and the other MOK employees were shocked.

    Summoning Seon-ho to the CEO’s office—normally off-limits to anyone below team leader—meant that CEO Kim Dong-han regarded “Manager Han Seon-ho’s” capabilities as at least on par with a team leader.

    Some might say that interpretation was too much, but for Team Leader Choi, who had watched Kim Dong-han for nearly ten years, it wasn’t wrong at all.

    Kim Dong-han was a rule-bound perfectionist, to the point of being obsessive.

    Still…

    Team Leader Choi tilted his head.

    Logically, this should be a moment of great surprise, but he wasn’t all that shocked.

    Because, deep down, it somehow made sense.

    Han Seon-ho had revived Personal Color, a group that had been practically dead in the water for three years.

    And he did it in under two months.

    Sure, there had been a similar case with Hye-mi, and rumors had swirled within the company.

    But Hye-mi and Personal Color were completely different stories.

    If Hye-mi was a hidden gem neglected due to conflict with AT, then Personal Color was a group whose time had run out and was barely holding on thanks to An Jia.

    In major agencies, it’s often said that the life of an unknown group is three years.

    If a big agency pushes a group for three years and they still don’t make it, it’s considered an act of God—meaning, it’s beyond help.

    And hidden in that phrase “act of God” was the understanding that there were internal team issues that couldn’t be solved through promotion.

    Was there really no team leader-level manager assigned to Personal Color in the last three years?

    Of course there were. Plenty, in fact.

    Which means that Seon-ho had managed to revive a group that even MOK’s most capable resources had all given up on.

    Personal Color hadn’t become popular yet—they were only just getting started.

    Seon-ho had helped them grow wings, but it would still take great effort for them to fly.

    But from here on, it was up to the company’s promotional push.

    Even just laying the groundwork for that promotion was enough to evaluate Seon-ho as team leader material.

    And then there’s Prefer, moving in perfect sync with him.

    Soon, Prefer’s name value would rise alongside Personal Color.

    “Autumn Leaf” and “Girl In The City” were both hits made by rearranging existing songs.

    In the eyes of an agency, rearranged songs meant sharing revenue with the original songwriter.

    And it also meant getting permission during the production process.

    For a company like MOK, which put so much effort into its producing system, this was far from ideal.

    That’s why the industry’s response to Prefer had been indifferent.

    Creatives tend to prefer what they know, and it had been assumed that Prefer was a producer who specialized in arrangements.

    But not anymore.

    Because of the original song Vivid, the perception of Prefer would inevitably change.

    If things had been lukewarm before the first broadcast of Idol War, now it would become as hot as lava.

    “…No, but seriously, what is this?”

    “Sorry?”

    Team Leader Choi’s sudden muttering made the others blink.

    Ignoring their confusion, he pointed at Seon-ho.

    “Hey, Han Seon-ho. You’re close with Hye-mi and Personal Color, right?”

    “Uh? I guess… yeah, we’re pretty close.”

    “What about Oh Hanbit and Jung Su-rim?”

    “To some extent…”

    “Director Yoo Ayeon?”

    “Same with her…”

    “And the CP who offered you the casting for Idol War?”

    “I met him thanks to Director Yoo. We’re not personally close.”

    “Then why would someone who’s not close call and speak so casually with your name? Obviously, he thinks highly of you.”

    Talented in managing, best friends with Prefer, and despite being new to the industry, already has a solid network.

    The kind of network that usually comes only with years of experience.

    And that wasn’t all.

    He was good-looking.

    Not in an annoyingly pretty-boy way, but with a kind, universally appealing look.

    You might ask why appearance matters for a manager, but the higher your position, the more important it becomes.

    Because the impression a person gives really matters.

    Showbiz is a world driven by all sorts of superstitions and gut feelings.

    So the impression someone from an agency gives could affect how much investors were willing to invest.

    “Han Seon-ho, this guy…”

    Seon-ho looked curiously at Team Leader Choi, who was now glaring at him with intense eyes.

    Then Choi’s expression softened into a wide smile, his eyes forming crescent moons.

    Even his dimples popped out.

    With his wild hair and intimidating face, that smile was pure shock and horror.

    Team Leader Choi, still grinning, slung an arm over Seon-ho’s shoulder.

    “Let’s be friends.”

    “Uh… what?”

    “I said let’s be friends.”

    “Uh…okay.”

    “Anything bothering you at work?”

    This moment was the most uncomfortable thing Seon-ho had experienced so far, but he could only say no.

    “The CEO’s waiting. Go on up. I’ll tell Manager Kwon when he gets off the call.”

    “Okay.”

    Seon-ho left the PR office, feeling the curious stares of the team members behind him.

    Seon-ho fell into thought as he rode the elevator up to the 9th floor, where CEO Kim Dong-han’s office was located.

    That was because he had no idea why the CEO had summoned him.

    Of course, the most likely reason was what Hye-mi had previously mentioned—‘political showmanship.’

    Giving him the authority to choose a singer.

    And then, if he achieved decent results with that singer, promoting him.

    But that wasn’t something CEO Kim Dong-han needed to call him in personally to say.

    It wasn’t hard to offer a word of praise to an employee who had delivered strong results, but that just wasn’t how Kim Dong-han operated.

    “—Ninth floor.”

    Before he could even finish sorting his thoughts, the elevator doors opened.

    Well, it’s not like going from the 3rd to the 9th floor takes long anyway.

    With the mindset of “might as well face it head-on,” Seon-ho stepped off the elevator.

    The 9th floor felt spacious.

    Technically, every floor should have the same size since it was the same building.

    But Seon-ho found the 9th floor noticeably larger because, unlike the other floors packed with offices, there were only four doors here.

    CEO Kim Dong-han’s office.

    The office of Executive Director Im Guk-han, the No. 2 of MOK, who was currently in Japan.

    A VIP room for guests.

    And a fitness room with various equipment, indoor golf practice space, and shower facilities.

    That was all the 9th floor held. Because the space wasn’t densely packed, it felt even bigger than it actually was.

    Without the information desk in front of the elevator, the area might have felt too empty.

    Passing the vacant info desk, Seon-ho arrived in front of Kim Dong-han’s office.

    He didn’t know the exact location since it was his first time on this floor, but it was the only place with the lights on.

    Straightening his outfit, Seon-ho knocked on the door.

    Knock knock.

    A voice responded almost immediately.

    “Come in.”

    When he opened the door, he saw a large, well-decorated office.

    It had shelves full of LP records, a turntable, and even an ultra-large wall-mounted TV.

    But what really caught Seon-ho’s eye was the man sitting on the guest sofa, looking over a file.

    It was CEO Kim Dong-han, dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit, a silver watch complementing it.

    While preparing for Tomorrow K-Star, Seon-ho had reviewed various audition programs, and he’d seen CEO Kim appear as a judge before.

    But this was the first time he saw him in person.

    Kim’s last TV appearance had been four years ago, yet his appearance hadn’t changed much.

    Thanks to his thorough self-care and lean physique, he looked more like someone in his late 30s or early 40s, even though he was in his late 40s.

    “Hello. I’m Han Seon-ho from Management Team B.”

    After examining Seon-ho for a moment, Kim Dong-han pointed to the seat across from him.

    “Have a seat.”

    Once Seon-ho sat down, Kim spoke again.

    “You’re younger than I expected. And better-looking too.”

    “Thank you.”

    “How old are you this year?”

    “I’m twenty-five.”

    “When did you join the company?”

    “Early September.”

    “So, exactly three months, then.”

    Kim began asking Seon-ho a few personal questions—mostly about his background.

    As they talked, Seon-ho couldn’t help feeling a bit thrown off.

    The image of Kim Dong-han he had built up while working on Hye-mi’s project and the man sitting before him now were completely different.

    What’s more, he could sense a certain fondness from Kim Dong-han toward him.

    Why?

    Kim had clearly hoped Hye-mi wouldn’t succeed and had subtly made that known to the employees.

    Because of that, Hye-mi had been ignored for a long time.

    Yet Seon-ho had gone against Kim’s policy and made Hye-mi a success.

    Logically, Kim should dislike him.

    No—since they weren’t of equal status, “dislike” wasn’t even the right word. “Find him insolent” would be more fitting.

    Is it because of the Idol War?

    That was when Kim Dong-han asked,

    “You’re on Singer Team B, right?”

    “Yes.”

    “How is it working under Team Leader Park Cha-myung?”

    “I’m enjoying the work.”

    “Enjoying it. That’s important.”

    Kim made a thoughtful sound and continued.

    “You’re currently under Kwon Hosan, right?”

    “Yes, that’s correct.”

    “Between Team Leader Park and Kwon, who do you think you work better with?”

    A question he hadn’t expected at all.

    He also couldn’t guess why Kim was asking it.

    “Their work styles are different, so it’s hard to compare. But I’ve learned a lot from both.”

    “So both are good bosses?”

    “Yes, they are.”

    “Then it doesn’t really matter.”

    Kim nodded, then casually dropped a bombshell.

    “I’d like you to hand over Personal Color’s file as soon as possible.”

    “…Handover?”

    “I plan to push Personal Color with full force, but Director Kwon and one road manager won’t be enough. Since you know Personal Color well, I want you to choose someone to take over.”

    Kim slid the file he had been reading to the center of the table.

    Only then did Seon-ho realize it contained personnel records of managers who currently weren’t in charge of any artists.

    “I’m not saying pick someone right now. Just decide by Monday morning.”

    Without even glancing at the file, Seon-ho asked,

    “You want me to choose the manager who’ll take over Personal Color from me?”

    “Take over? Hmm. Their rank is higher than yours, but I suppose you could say they’re your replacement.”

    “What’s the reason?”

    Right now was a critical period for Personal Color.

    This wasn’t the time to be switching managers—and even if there were a reason, they should be doing everything they could to keep things stable.

    It had already been proven that no one could manage Personal Color better than he could.

    Surely, Kim Dong-han was aware of that.

    “What do you mean, reason? You’re part of Team B, aren’t you? You only got assigned to Team A’s Personal Color because of the new employee training.”

    “…”

    “So now you should return to Team B.”

    “My training period isn’t over yet.”

    “But you’ve already proven you don’t need more training.”

    “But…”

    “Go back to Team B and take charge of Hye-mi again. In six months, you’ll have a new business card.”

    Kim drew a small rectangle in the air with his index finger.

    “One that says ‘Department Head’ on it.”

    “…”

    “I value you very highly. That’s why I can promise you a proper title just nine months after joining.”

    Kim firmly pushed the file at the center of the table toward Seon-ho.

    “Report to my office on Monday. Bring the file of whoever will take over Personal Color.”

  • Star Maker Chapter 54

    As soon as Personal Color appeared on the screen, the PR team office fell silent.

    Until now, they had been watching the show like office workers watching a soccer match during overtime, but now it was like stockbrokers staring at the graphs.

    It meant it was time to get to work.

    And the ones who became the busiest were the PR team staff.

    In just five minutes or so of Vivid’s stage, they had to summarize promotional points, capture usable screenshots for articles about Personal Color, and find appealing material for entertainment journalists.

    However, despite the workload, the PR team members felt somewhat discouraged.

    After all, PR was only satisfying when netizens reacted positively, or when reporters from the entertainment department hounded them for better sources.

    But judging from the broadcast so far, Personal Color’s role had already been decided.

    A team eliminated in Round 1, a sacrifice to generate buzz.

    Unless Vivid’s upcoming performance was truly extraordinary, it didn’t seem likely that this perception would be overturned.

    And from what they knew of Personal Color, the team didn’t have that kind of ability. If they did, they wouldn’t have made it this far just barely.

    Still, work was work.

    Determined to find something worth using, the PR staff placed their hands on the keyboard and focused on the TV.

    But soon, it wasn’t their hands that were moving—it was their mouths.

    “What the hell?!”

    “Director Kwon! What is this?!”

    When lead vocalist Baek Songyi started singing, the staff didn’t react much.

    The opening was solid, but Personal Color had always been technically strong.

    But when Riha, standing behind Baek Songyi, began her part, the PR office started buzzing.

    Because—

    “There’s no cutaway footage at all?”

    “No reaction inserts either!”

    “Cut baris” was slang in broadcasting for segment editing—cutting shots into parts.

    “Inserts” referred to additional scenes interspersed throughout.

    Just as the staff shouted, Vivid’s stage lacked the usual choppy editing or abrupt cuts.

    And even more shockingly, the screen—normally filled with constant transitions from PD Nam Yunsoo—remained still, almost disturbingly so.

    It was as if the only thing the show wanted to present was the song.

    Within that stillness, Personal Color’s members poured everything into their singing.

    “…Ah.”

    Initially surprised by the lack of editing, one by one, the staff began to be astonished by the performance itself.

    The Personal Color on the screen wasn’t the same team they thought they knew.

    It wasn’t the team that was technically good but lacked heart—the group on the verge of disbanding.

    Through Idol War, Personal Color delivered something the six teams before them hadn’t.

    Something that stirred the hearts of viewers.

    The performance built to its climax.

    After Woochan’s rap and Teiji’s singing came Jia’s part.

    And in the moment that “actress An Jia” became “singer An Jia,” a PR staff who had been silent until now suddenly screamed.

    “O-oh!”

    Because every time they hit refresh, a flood of comments was pouring in, too fast to count.

    “It’s working! It worked!”

    Kwon Hosan, whose face had been sullen and dark, shouted with excitement.

    Even though the earlier awkwardness from Personal Color still lingered in his mind, this stage was a successful reversal.

    Enough to keep the team intact and move forward with a proper relaunch.

    But PD Nam Yunsoo’s twist wasn’t over yet.

    In fact, the true reversal was only beginning now.

    It started with the chorus of Vivid.

    Vivid – Vivid –
    This is the moment to shine the brightest
    Vivid –

    Just as the catchy and easily singable chorus played, the static screen finally changed.

    What appeared were the awkward images of Personal Color from before.

    Members sitting far apart in the waiting room.

    Baek Songyi reaching for a box of bottled water instead of taking the bottle next to An Jia.

    But this time, it didn’t stop there.

    After Riha left her seat, An Jia was shown placing her cushion on Riha’s chair.

    Baek Songyi returned with water bottles for everyone and quietly placed them on the table.

    The previously shown awkwardness was now followed by moments of care and consideration.

    Behind every awkward scene Personal Color had shown, there had always been kindness.

    When the FD delivered lunchboxes and the members sat silently—

    —they were waiting for Woochan’s interview to finish so they could eat together.

    When Riha winced in pain from her high heels—

    —Teiji was later seen slipping slippers next to her without a word.

    It was impressive that PD Nam Yunsoo had discovered all of this.

    Thanks to his efforts, the viewers could no longer misunderstand Personal Color.

    They didn’t hate each other.

    In fact, they liked each other.

    They just didn’t know how to show it well.

    As the insert cuts showing their sincerity came to an end, the chorus of Vivid, previously lowered in volume, returned with full force.

    Vivid – Vivid –
    Clearer than anything else
    Vivid –

    The camera zoomed in on the members as they cried on stage.

    Slowly.

    One by one.

    Lovingly.

    Soon, the sound of applause and cheers from the audience judges could be heard.

    As the applause faded, audio from the post-performance interview began playing.

    Even as the members spoke honestly about the issues they had faced, the visuals continued zooming in on each of them.

    That was how Idol War ended.

    There was no montage or wrap-up after the Vivid performance.

    The zoomed-in shot pulled back to a wide angle, showing only the members of Personal Color holding hands.

    And maybe that was why the emotional impact of Vivid lingered.

    To anyone watching, the true stars of the first Idol War broadcast were Personal Color.

    The MOK PR office, now overwhelmed by the unexpected reversal, fell into stunned silence.

    The one to break it was Yoo So-yeon, a female staffer from Singer Team B under Team Leader Park Cha-myung.

    “Insane…! That was insane, right?!”

    Her outburst snapped everyone out of their daze.

    “That wasn’t just a hit! That was a megahit!”

    “Is one ‘mega’ enough? It was a mega-mega-megahit!”

    “Wow, what just happened? Is that really the same Personal Color we saw yesterday?!”

    “Oh no, I was so focused I didn’t even take any notes!”

    Listening fondly to the team’s excited chatter, PR Team Leader Choi Ki-seok clapped his hands.

    “Alright, let’s start organizing material to send to the journalists.”

    “Every scene was a highlight—how are we supposed to choose?”

    “What do you mean? Jia’s solo gave me chills!”

    “I vote for the crying members part!”

    “Aww, still, the most touching part has to be when the members were looking out for each other.”

    “Totally. And the way the visuals and the music synced up was just perfect. It felt like the song was made just for that scene.”

    “But seriously, doesn’t it feel that way? The lyrics themselves talk about personal colors… Ah!”

    A staff member from the PR team let out an exclamation.

    She had just remembered that all of Vivid’s lyrics were written by Personal Color.

    “Wait, so Vivid is like a letter the members wrote to each other?”

    At her words, Team Leader Choi Ki-seok nodded.

    “You just focus on compiling everything about the song. Don’t worry about anything else. Dig into that song.”

    “Yes, sir! I’ll dissect the lyrics to pieces.”

    “Don’t just focus on the lyrics. There’s something more unique than that.”

    “Huh? Like what?”

    Team Leader Choi clicked his tongue.

    “Does Vivid sound like your typical hook song?”

    “Oh…!”

    “The chorus only appears at the end, there’s no part swapping… Do I need to go on?”

    “They structured it that way to be more sincere, right?”

    “Exactly. And let’s get an interview from Prefer too… Oh, Prefer is handled by this guy here.”

    He slung an arm around Seon-ho’s shoulder.

    “Can you get an interview with Prefer?”

    “If it’s a written interview.”

    “Geez, picky as always. Fine, let’s go with written. I’ll draft the questions and you ask them nicely, got it?”

    “Understood.”

    “And you, you’re doing a written interview too.”

    At the unexpected suggestion, Seon-ho tilted his head.

    “Me?”

    “Who else would it be? Me?”

    “But why me?”

    “What do you mean why? You were behind every part of this performance from A to Z. The song, the choreography, the lyrics, taking care of everything on set. You even got them the casting, didn’t you?”

    Only then did the staff in the office recall that today’s stage had come to life through Han Seon-ho’s hands.

    Until now, Seon-ho’s skills were just rumors. But in this moment, there was no longer any doubt.

    Hearing Team Leader Choi’s words, Seon-ho asked,

    “Even so, would there be any need for me to be front and center?”

    “There isn’t yet… but who knows, there might be.”

    Choi Ki-seok grinned slyly and nudged him.

    “Be honest. You slipped PD Nam Yunsoo some cash, didn’t you?”

    “Huh?”

    Seon-ho was momentarily flustered but managed to compose himself.

    “What do you mean, cash?”

    “Otherwise, why would PD Nam feature you so much? Look at you getting all flustered. You totally paid him because you want to debut, didn’t you?”

    “It was only three or four times, though.”

    “Hey, there are thirty-eight performers on Idol War. Even if each one gets shown three times, that’s over a hundred appearances. And you think three or four is few? Especially when every shot was your best angle?”

    As Team Leader Choi pointed out, Seon-ho had indeed been on screen quite a lot.

    Especially during the discussion about performance order with Baek Songyi—his voice had even been heard.

    Then an older female employee chimed in.

    “Oh come on, Team Leader. It’s not that they only showed Seon-ho’s good side. He just looks good no matter how they film him.”

    “Oh wow, Ms. Kim, that’s a bold comment.”

    “What’s bold about it? I just wish my husband looked half as good as him.”

    While everyone was laughing, Team Leader Kang San and his actor management team slipped out of the office with stiff expressions.

    Team Leader Park Cha-myung clicked his tongue as he watched them leave.

    “Kang San’s way too petty. It’s the first time in three years there’s something to celebrate, and he can’t even say a word?”

    He then turned to speak to Kwon Hosan.

    “Congratulations, Team Leader. From now on, it’s only uphill from here.”

    “Thank you. It doesn’t feel real. This is all thanks to Seon-ho.”

    “Han Seon-ho, this guy. Ever since Autumn Leaf, I knew he had potential, but he really pulled something off this time.”

    Park Cha-myung patted Seon-ho on the shoulder a couple of times and asked Team Leader Choi,

    “Should we have Team B help out a bit too?”

    Choi, who had just gotten off the phone, nodded.

    “That would be great, actually.”

    By then, the PR team’s phones were ringing nonstop.

    Reporters, practically reincarnated as oxpeckers, were probably begging for juicy material to write articles with.

    Some of those calls were no doubt early attempts to book Personal Color ahead of the competition.

    Meanwhile, some staff with morning shifts left the office after offering their congratulations, while others settled in to help the PR team.

    Looking around at the PR team still buzzing with energy close to 1 a.m., Seon-ho felt a strange kind of emotion.

    He was watching his efforts become someone else’s happiness.

    “How do you feel?”

    Director Kwon Hosan had quietly approached.

    “I don’t know how to put it… but I think I’m happy.”

    “The kids in Personal Color are even happier. You should give them a call.”

    “You should do it, Director.”

    Seon-ho added firmly,

    “If it weren’t for you, Personal Color wouldn’t have made it this far. So you should be the one to call.”

    Director Kwon hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

    While he stepped away to make the call, Seon-ho checked his phone.

    It had been vibrating like crazy, and it was now filled with congratulatory messages from all kinds of people.

    Of course, Hye-mi, Su-rim, and Hanbit had texted, but also Director Yoo Ayeon and Hyun-seok.

    Even “Our Woochan,” whom he had run into at a cafe, had sent dozens of screenshots of online comments, just spamming them to Seon-ho.

    Her profile picture had even been changed to a screenshot of Woochan on Idol War.

    There were also tons of messages from managers, journalists, broadcasters, and staff from event agencies he’d met at university festivals.

    After a moment of thought, Seon-ho started typing a message.

    The recipient was PD Nam Yunsoo.

    He wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted—until finally, he just sent a short message: “Thank you so much.”

    The reply came quickly.

    -Don’t mention it. I didn’t do it to get thanks. I did it because I want my program to succeed.

    -Still, thank you.

    -I only picked that scene because it was the best one for the show. That’s all.

    After thinking a bit, Seon-ho sent over a coffee and chicken gift voucher.

    That’s when he started to feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. Looking around, he saw that most of them were staring.

    “What? Is something wrong?”

    “Seon-ho, pick up office phone, quick!”

    “Me?”

    Prompted by a PR staff, Seon-ho answered the call.

    “Yes, this is Han Seon-ho.”

    —Are you busy right now?

    The voice on the line was completely unexpected. While Seon-ho hesitated, it continued.

    —If not, come to my office for a bit.

    The voice belonged to none other than CEO Kim Dong-han.


    TL : Don’t tell me he wants to use Seon-ho just so his son can succeed.

  • Star Maker Chapter 53

    [Interview]

    ·
    ·

    Q: Was there a specific reason you chose UU Entertainment over MOK?

    H: To be honest, I really like MOK. Their system is solid, and the producers are skilled. But I didn’t like the singer.

    Q: The singer?

    H: Yes. I was thrilled when MOK said they wanted my song, but once I found out it would go to Low Five, I changed my mind.

    Q: You mean the singer and the song don’t match?

    H: No. To be exact, I don’t like Low Five’s leader, AT. I feel bad for the other hardworking members, but that’s the truth.

    Q: That’s a bit shocking—you’re being very blunt.

    H: As a composer, I have no reason to like a singer who can’t sing.

    Q: But didn’t you write your song over AT’s track?

    H: I saw that claim too, but that’s just AT’s one-sided story. Can anyone really claim ownership of a basic drum & bass loop that could’ve existed in the ’60s?

    Q: So you’re saying it wasn’t written over AT’s track?

    H: Correct. And just to avoid any possible controversy, I’ve already revised the loop for the official release.

    ·
    ·

    As expected, AT was furious when he read the interview. He shouted, threw a fit, and tore the place apart.

    HSH, now hailed as a genius composer after receiving love calls from Drake and Jang Sang-won, had clearly taken a shot at him.

    What made it worse was that HSH had definitely worked in linked sessions with AT but was now denying it.

    Opinions about the HSH interview within MOK were divided.

    Those trying to stay in the good graces of the A&R team or CEO Kim Dong-han criticized HSH as shameless. On the other hand, employees who had grown tired of AT’s past behaviour found the whole thing rather satisfying.

    The interview quickly became a hot topic among netizens.

    └ Typical rookie composer guts. Dang.

    └ Who even is AT?

    └ MOK has some unknown idol.

    └ Anyone got a link to AT’s performance?

    └ Sure, here’s some antidepressant: http://bit.ly/2kMLA9g

    └ Just followed the link—what a disaster lol

    └ But idols all lip-sync anyway, don’t they?

    └ That’s why we’ve prepped a version with the music removed. Enjoy at your leisure.

    └ If he’s a singer, I guess I can be one too.

    └ How did this guy become a singer anyway?

    └ Probably because AT is MOK CEO Kim Dong-han’s son.

    └ Ah, really? No wonder the other members are just collateral damage, like HSH said.

    Netizens were naturally drawn to the interview because it was unheard of for a composer to publicly criticize a singer like this. In the Korean entertainment industry, this was extremely rare.

    Of course, the interview wasn’t entirely Seon-ho’s own move.

    It had been coordinated with Director Yoo Ayeon.

    To be precise, it was part of a plan to reignite the buzz around HSH, whose name had started fading from headlines.

    And while he was at it, Seon-ho slipped in a bit of revenge against AT on Hye-mi’s behalf.

    A few days later, the real firewood was thrown in.

    • Rookie girl group “Sparkle” sets out to win hearts with a song by HSH!
    • Top vocalist Jang Sang-won: “Very excited to collaborate with composer HSH.”
    • Drake hints at single release via SNS. His upcoming track samples a song by HSH, styled in retro hip-hop.
    • Three singers. One song. Who will emerge the ultimate winner of this unique arrangement?
    • Music critic Bae Joongheon: “HSH’s song contains numerous musical sources. We’ll likely see even more versions.”

    UU Entertainment proved itself to be a dominant force in Korea’s showbiz industry.

    To boost its rookie girl group, it brought in Drake and Jang Sang-won and launched a nonstop media campaign.

    As soon as it was revealed that three versions of the same HSH-composed song would be released, public interest surged.

    Fans of Jang Sang-won and Drake dismissed Sparkle, saying the rookie group couldn’t compare, but the more they ignored Sparkle, the more the group’s name spread among the public.

    Within UU Entertainment, Director Yoo Ayeon was widely praised for scouting HSH.

    And the company developed a strong impression of HSH as well.

    Even as a major agency, UU couldn’t force top-tier artists like Jang Sang-won and Drake—who belonged to different labels—to perform songs.

    The fact that Jang Sang-won and Drake agreed to work with HSH meant they were genuinely interested in his song, and both parties had come to mutually beneficial agreements.


    HSH, Drake, Jang Sang-won, and Sparkle.

    These were the most searched names on Korean portals over the past two weeks.

    However, while these names saw explosive short-term spikes, there was one keyword that had been searched steadily over a longer period.

    That was the much-anticipated Idol War.

    Idol War had begun teasing its premiere through trailers on KBM, and viewer interest had been growing ever since.

    Today, that interest reached its peak.

    Because today was the first broadcast of Idol War.

    Despite the late hour approaching 11 p.m., the MOK building was buzzing with people.

    They were all gathered in front of the massive TV in the PR department, enjoying late-night snacks.

    They were there to monitor the premiere of Idol War together.

    “Director, didn’t you say Personal Color was the final performance?”

    “Yes, the very last one.”

    “Then we won’t see their performance tonight, right? I heard the first round spans two episodes.”

    At Team Leader Park Cha-myung’s question, Director Kwon Hosan shook his head.

    “That was the initial plan, but the PD changed it.”

    “Changed it?”

    “Yes. Now the first round is just one episode, and the second round is two. They thought dragging out the first match—which has no eliminations—would hurt the tension.”

    “Hm, makes sense. So we’ll get to see Personal Color’s stage tonight?”

    “That’s right.”

    “Let’s hope things go well this time.”

    Hearing Park Cha-myung and Director Kwon’s conversation, PR team members started chiming in.

    “All the ad slots are sold out, right?”

    “They are, but lots of them are one-time deals. The advertisers are testing the waters.”

    “So basically, we have Chicken Race’s viewers to thank for that.”

    “Yeah, if we’re being honest.”

    A staff member from a different artist team joined in.

    “What were the ratings for the final episode of Chicken Race?”

    “Four percent. Maybe 3.5 in the metro area?”

    “That’s quite a drop.”

    “Well, there was controversy—couldn’t be helped.”

    For weekday variety shows, four percent wasn’t bad. But Wednesday Variety was a different story.

    It was the golden day for weekday shows, with top programs grabbing anywhere from 9 to 11 percent.

    Around 11:10 p.m., as the weeknight drama ended and commercials rolled, the snacks were nearly gone.

    A PR staff member watching the ads commented, “Good thing there are no B-tier ads. They’re all premium. Looks like advertisers liked what they saw.”

    “Thanks to Chicken Race. But again, most are one-shots.”

    As actors’ teams looked smugly at the PR staff, Seon-ho checked his vibrating phone.

    • Oppa! I just posted the promo on SNS.
    • Ah right, it’s today. I’ll post too.
    • I beat Hye-mi unnie to it!

    The chatroom of the “Han Seon-ho squad”: Hye-mi, Hanbit, and Su-rim.

    Seon-ho, on a roll, went to check Hye-mi’s SNS.


    @HyeMi.Cha

    Today is the first broadcast of Idol War, featuring some of my absolute favorite senior artists from Personal Color!

    And the song , which will be revealed through today’s Personal Color performance, was made by my favourite and deeply respected composer, Prefer!

    Everyone, please send your support too!

    Wishing Idol War massive success!

    Go Personal Color!

    Go Prefer!


    At the feeling that Hye-mi’s voice was practically auto-playing in his head, Seon-ho let out a faint smile.

    Just then, Team Leader Park Cha-myung gave Seon-ho a light pat on the shoulder.

    “You’re not even nervous?”

    “Of course I am.”

    “Then why are you smirking at your phone?”

    “I was reading a post Hye-mi made on social media.”

    “Oh yeah? Let me see too.”

    After reading Hye-mi’s post, Park Cha-myung let out a whistle of admiration.

    “She really is loyal, that Hye-mi.”

    “Hye-mi’s always been kind.”

    “You’ve got some luck, man. What kind of singer posts this kind of thing for a competitor airing at the same time?”

    Just as Seon-ho was about to respond, someone shouted, “It’s starting!”

    Everyone who had been nibbling on late-night snacks or glued to their phones turned their eyes to the big TV screen.

    And just like that, the first episode of Idol War began.


    Starting with captions and team profile photos, Idol War opened with a textbook introduction.

    Scenes of the singers sweating it out in practice.

    Interviews capturing each team’s aspirations.

    The teams’ first meeting before clashing in seven fierce rounds.

    These clips, inserted in between segments, quickly led into the mission to determine the performance order.

    “It’s off to a pretty standard start.”

    “That’s a good thing with this kind of program.”

    “Yeah. If a survival show goes too hard before you even pick a favourite, it’s hard to get immersed.”

    “But isn’t it too standard?”

    Early reactions from the MOK staff mostly centered on the show being conventional.

    But that impression changed in an instant.

    The moment the rapid scene-switching began.

    Mission progress.

    Idol members candid shots.

    Practice footage.

    Interview segments.

    Even break-time clips.

    Various scenes started switching in rapid-fire edits, one after another.

    This kind of format was risky—it could easily feel chaotic and lose viewers’ focus.

    But PD Nam Yunsoo showed his full capabilities.

    He not only highlighted each singer’s charm but also accelerated the pace right where viewer attention might dip.

    And it worked—remarkably well.

    “Whoa, the online reaction’s insane. People are saying it’s cliche but they still can’t look away.”

    “The comment rate’s off the charts!”

    Hearing this from a PR team member monitoring the viewer board, Kwon Hosan and Jung Jiwoon lit up with excitement.

    But their expressions turned grim in the blink of an eye.

    “…Huh?”

    “That part… could be trouble.”

    In the waiting room, the Personal Color members were shown sitting awkwardly apart.

    When Baek Songyi wanted water, instead of asking An Jia next to her, she walked around her to grab a bottle from the case.

    The camera subtly began to highlight the Personal Color team’s uncomfortable atmosphere.

    And the captions didn’t help.

    —A tense mood fills Personal Color’s waiting room.

    Then came the anonymous survey results, displayed as captions.

    The survey asked about other teams appeal and casting reasons. Someone, shielded by anonymity, had answered like this:

    —An Jia / Drama casting.

    “Wow, that’s seriously low.”

    “That’s harsh!”

    Despite the indignation of the staff rooting for Personal Color, the team’s awkward moments continued to be broadcast.

    Kwon Hosan’s face turned visibly dark as he watched.

    “Damn it.”

    And his anger was justified.

    Sure, Personal Color had indeed behaved like that. It wasn’t an “evil edit.”

    But if PD Nam Yunsoo had seen their stage and the post-performance interview, there was no way he could miss their sincerity.

    Those actions weren’t schemed—they were just habitual behaviour.

    The members had come to understand each other’s true feelings during Vivid’s rehearsals, but with no chance to break the ice yet, their old habits still showed.

    In fact, they’d even talked about it in the post-stage interview footage.

    Hearing Kwon Hosan’s low muttering, Team Leader Kang San tried to comfort him.

    “Sir, the episode isn’t over yet. Let’s wait. There’s gotta be a twist coming.”

    Still, Kang San looked oddly amused.

    He even turned to Seon-ho and spoke.

    “Word is you took charge of prepping this performance. Must’ve been a lot of work… Just hang in there.”

    “Thank you,” Seon-ho replied calmly, though he didn’t feel calm inside.

    He hadn’t given up hope entirely, but Nam Yunsoo’s intentions were definitely beginning to seem questionable.

    The show continued, and just before midnight, the first performance for the “Team Introduction Mission” began.

    The opening act was Soul Mate.

    But Seon-ho, filled with anxiety, barely registered their performance.

    The show would end at 12:30.

    Only 30 minutes left—was a twist even possible?

    While he wondered, Soul Mate’s performance ended, and Black Label took the stage.

    That’s when Seon-ho noticed something different about Idol War compared to other survival shows.

    Most survival programs focused more on the audience’s reactions than the performances themselves.

    Especially for idol survival shows.

    Given how idol songs don’t easily create emotional impact in a short time, the shows typically leaned heavily on reaction shots for viewer engagement.

    But Idol War didn’t follow that formula.

    PD Nam Yunsoo showed the idols unfiltered.

    He minimized stage-slicing edits, showed mistakes as they were, and let the good parts shine as they were.

    There were reaction shots, but for a five-minute performance, about three minutes were fully focused on the stage itself.

    And maybe that’s why… some performances were downright painful to watch.

    Dream Girls, the sixth team, kept messing up choreography and going off-key.

    “Oof…”

    “Still, it’s kind of lucky. Since Personal Color’s going after Dream Girls, even an average stage will look good.”

    “Right? The order works in their favor.”

    “They’d better have nailed it.”

    At that moment, Personal Color took the stage for the final performance of the night.

    It was the moment Vivid would be revealed to the world.

  • Star Maker Chapter 52

    The last KTX train back to Seoul was as quiet as the early morning.

    Hye-mi, perhaps worn out from her packed schedule and the trip down to Daegu, had dozed off with soft breaths.

    In the silence, Seon-ho was lost in thought.

    Countless thoughts flickered by, then vanished.

    Among them, what occupied the largest part of his mind was his conversation with Hyun-seok.

    Though it hadn’t been long, the time he spent with Hyun-seok had been enjoyable.

    It was the first time he realized how relieving it could be to just unload everything onto a friend.

    And thanks to Hyun-seok, he’d also been able to resolve a dilemma.


    “From what I heard, it sounds like you regret what you did to that producer from Idol War, right?”

    “It’s not exactly regret. It just nags at me a little.”

    “What’s bothering you?”

    “It feels like I’m going back to how things were before. I want to live differently now—for Seon-ah’s sake.”

    At Seon-ho’s words, Hyun-seok asked,

    “Do you remember when we hit puberty?”

    “Puberty?”

    “Maybe it was a bit early to call it that. Anyway, that time when we realized the stuff we were doing was seriously wrong and it got hard.”

    “Oh, yeah. I think I know what you mean. But why?”

    “You said something to us back then.”

    When Seon-ho tilted his head, unable to remember, Hyun-seok said,

    ‘If you do something bad for the sake of your family, then it’s not really a bad thing.’

    Seon-ho let out a short laugh.

    “That’s so childish. Doesn’t even make sense.”

    “Yeah, in hindsight it’s total nonsense. But if you hadn’t said that back then, I don’t think we could’ve endured it.”

    Hyun-seok reminisced for a moment before continuing.

    “What you said wasn’t entirely wrong. Just needed one more word.”

    “What word?”

    “If you do something bad to a bad person for your family, then it’s not really a bad thing.”

    Hyun-seok said,

    “Don’t overthink it. If that producer’s a scumbag, just take him out. But make sure you really know who the scumbag is.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Just in case… you’re might be the one with bad intentions.”


    Chewing over his conversation with Hyun-seok, Seon-ho thought of Producer Nam Yunsoo, whom he’d met during the first shoot of Idol War.

    Back then, Nam had worn a very odd expression.

    It hadn’t seemed hostile or angry.

    But it hadn’t been positive, either.

    And so lately, Seon-ho had been wrestling with temptation again.

    Should he have gone on the offensive instead of just defending?

    He still couldn’t tell if shame or stubbornness had taken root in Nam Yunsoo’s heart.

    But thanks to Hyun-seok’s unexpected advice, those temptations faded away.

    Figure out who the bad guy is.

    If he ever saw clear signs that Producer Nam was acting with sleazy intentions, Seon-ho would act without hesitation.

    But not until then.

    Gazing at his reflection in the train window, Seon-ho made that vow to himself.

    Just then, a sleepy voice pulled him from his thoughts.

    “Oppa.”

    Hye-mi, who’d been sound asleep, was looking at him.

    “Why did you wake up?”

    “Just did.”

    “Try to sleep a bit more. You’re tired.”

    “No. I can always sleep at home, but who knows when I’ll get to ride a train like this again?”

    Blinking as if to shake off the sleepiness, Hye-mi asked,

    “What were you thinking about?”

    “Just… this and that.”

    “Oh, right. Do you think the Idol War shoot went well?”

    “Yeah. I think it did.”

    After the shoot, Director Kwon Hosan had told Seonho that if anyone asked about Idol War, he should simply say, We worked hard.

    Even if things looked promising, they didn’t want to create pressure for Personal Color before results were in.

    It made sense, so that was what Seon-ho had said whenever asked.

    But he wanted to be straightforward with Hye-mi.

    Because he had a feeling he knew what she was about to bring up.

    “Oppa.”

    “Yeah?”

    “We’re on the same team, right?”

    “Of course.”

    “If I move to UU Entertainment… would you come with me?”

    At her question, Seon-ho fell silent in thought.

    Director Yoo Ayeon had informally expressed interest in recruiting Hye-mi, and she was seriously considering the offer.

    But since Hye-mi still had to release her debut album under MOK, there was no rush.

    The real complication was that Seon-ho had found a new team—Personal Color.

    After a pause, Seon-ho spoke honestly.

    “Hye-mi.”

    “Yes?”

    “If I had a scale comparing you and Personal Color, the weight would probably tilt toward you. I don’t know by how much—but it would.”

    “I see.”

    “But it bothers me that while Cha Hye-mi the singer has found her footing, Personal Color still hasn’t. That’s what’s making it hard.”

    Hye-mi listened quietly, then spoke.

    “This is something I heard from Team Leader Jung Chanyoung. If Idol War goes well and Personal Color makes it, you’ll be given an opportunity.”

    “An opportunity? What kind?”

    “The chance to choose your own placement. And if you build up some achievements there, you might even be promoted. It’s like… a showcase assignment.”

    Seon-ho understood immediately.

    It meant: you’ve done good work, so here’s a delayed reward—because your years of experience are still too few for something bigger right now.

    “So if that opportunity comes to you…”

    Hye-mi swallowed, then continued with effort.

    “Choose Personal Color.”

    “Why?”

    “What do you mean, why? Like you said, this is an important time for them.”

    “So you’re giving up?”

    “Yes. Because I’ve been there. That feeling that no matter how hard you train, there’s a wall you just can’t get over. And then the moment you start to feel cracks in that wall.”

    When Seon-ho looked at her expression, Hye-mi averted her eyes.

    He watched her for a moment, then asked,

    “What about the offer from UU Entertainment? Don’t you want to go?”

    “I do. But if you’re staying at MOK, I want to stay too. Someday, you’ll probably be promoted to team leader, and then you’ll have your own team, right? You’re capable—three years should be enough.”

    When Seon-ho didn’t say anything, Hye-mi added,

    “And lately, MOK’s been feeling better. I can’t explain it exactly, but it feels like they’re being more considerate in little ways. Team Leader Jung is trying really hard too…”

    “That means… you liked working with Team Leader Jung Chanyoung more than working with me?”

    “No!”

    Seon-ho was startled by how loud her answer was.

    A passenger in front of them grumbled in a sleepy voice, “Ah, keep it down, will you? All day long, seriously…”

    Both Seon-ho and Hye-mi widened their eyes. Given their professions, they were sensitive to voices.

    It was definitely the same man who had told people to quiet down earlier on the KTX ride down to Daegu.

    They remembered his unusually high-pitched voice for a man.

    Finding the coincidence amusing, Seon-ho and Hye-mi stifled their laughter.

    A moment later, still smiling, Hye-mi spoke.

    “No matter how good Team Leader Jung is at his job, I could never enjoy it like I do when I work with you.”

    “So you’re saying he’s better at the job than I am.”

    “Mm… When you’re at his level of experience, you’ll be better. But not right now.”

    Seon-ho chuckled at her teasing and asked,

    “So when it’s up to me, you want me to choose Personal Color?”

    “Yes.”

    “Because you’re giving up your spot for me?”

    “Yes…”

    “Because it’s an important time for Personal Color?”

    “I said that with a heart-wrenching resolve, so why do you keep asking!”

    “Because it’s obviously a lie.”

    At that, Hye-mi hesitated for a second.

    “It’s not a lie. I really am giving it up. With a heart-wrenching resolve.”

    “There’s no need to keep wrenching hearts. You don’t have to give anything up.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because I’ve got a much better idea.”

    With that, Seon-ho leaned in and quietly explained his plan to Hye-mi.

    As she listened, her eyes grew wide.

    “You’re a genius…!”

    Her voice was filled with genuine amazement.

    “I’m not a genius. It’s just an idea anyone could come up with.”

    “Really?”

    “Yeah. The real issue is whether someone has the guts to actually go through with it, and whether they can even imagine asking a celebrity to do something like this.”

    “But you’re asking now.”

    “We’re a team.”

    When Seon-ho playfully held out his palm, Hye-mi smacked it cheerfully with hers.

    Beaming, she said,

    “I can’t wait for Idol War to air. I’m going to promote it like crazy to everyone I know. Oh, and if you ever need a guest appearance or anything, just say the word. Even if I’m scheduled to perform at the White House—no, the Blue House—I’ll cancel and show up.”

    (TL : The Blue House was the White House of South Korea, but now it has been turned into a public park. )

    As Seon-ho watched her expression, he suddenly spoke.

    “Hye-mi.”

    “Yeah?”

    “I… don’t know how to say this.”

    “What is it?”

    “You know… Prefer, right?”

    Hye-mi tilted her head.

    “Of course. Why?”

    “Prefer… isn’t my friend. Prefer is me. I mean, Prefer is a fictional persona.”

    This time, it was Seon-ho who avoided her eyes.

    He was a little embarrassed, thinking back on all the times Hye-mi and Su-rim had praised Prefer.

    Then Hye-mi’s voice broke the silence.

    “I figured.”

    “What?”

    Seon-ho looked up.

    “You knew?”

    “Well… I didn’t know, but I had a feeling. Maybe fifty percent sure?”

    “How?”

    “Just did. Your songs… they smelled like you. I mean, they had your feel.”

    “Do you think Su-rim knows?”

    “Nope. As far as I know, no one does.”

    Then Hye-mi asked,

    “What about the people from Personal Color? Do they know?”

    “No. Still in the dark.”

    “So I’m the first?”

    “Yeah.”

    Seon-ho thought of Kim Hyun-seok but didn’t mention him—Hye-mi was smiling too brightly.

    Besides, Hyun-seok wasn’t involved in showbiz.

    Seon-ho then shared more about Prefer.

    It had all started as a way to get Hye-mi’s honest evaluation.

    And while he was at it, he ended up telling her about HSH as well.

    There was no real reason to reveal it, but also no reason to keep it hidden.

    Today’s “favour” had confirmed it—he and Hye-mi were truly on the same team.

    “Ah, so that’s why there’s that rumor you’re close with Director Yoo Ayeon.”

    “Exactly.”

    Hye-mi seemed especially delighted by the stories about HSH.

    When they had finally talked through everything, she said,

    “I wish time would pass faster.”

    “Why?”

    “No reason. Things are going really well.”

    All the while, the train continued steadily toward its destination.


    After the short break, time flew by.

    And during that time, the name HSH resurfaced for the first time in a while.

    It all began when a single article with an exclusive label was published.

    [Exclusive] The genius composer HSH, desired by both Drake and Jang Sang-won, heads to UU Entertainment.

    As soon as the article was released, chaos broke out at MOK.

    It was MOK who had first discovered HSH’s songs and brought the name to light.

    Of course, if that were all, the uproar wouldn’t have been so intense. After all, composers choosing companies is just how the industry works.

    The real issue was the interview with HSH included in the article.

  • Star Maker Chapter 51

    Seon-ho had watched the first shoot of Idol War and felt a pleasant feeling that things were about to get incredibly busy.

    Now that this was the true beginning for the team called Personal Color, there was much to do—and even more he wanted to do.

    But once the first shoot was over, he realized he had been mistaken.

    Personal Color couldn’t be busy yet.

    For them to get busy, the Vivid stage had to be aired first, and there were still two weeks left before Idol War’s premiere.

    So…

    They were given a vacation.

    It was a generous three-day break, gifted by Manager Kwon Hosan, who knew how much Seon-ho had endured up to now.

    A rare, truly generous three-day vacation that included Saturday and Sunday.

    “You’re really going all out.”

    “Don’t get too emotional about it.”

    He grumbled jokingly, but for a manager whose work fluctuated and paid no mind to weekdays or weekends, a Friday–Saturday–Sunday off was pure sweetness.

    And there was one particular thing he had kept putting off due to the busy schedule—something he could no longer delay.

    A trip to Daegu.

    So the timing of the break felt perfect.

    ‘If I take the early Friday morning train, I should be able to do a round trip in a day.’

    He wanted to use Saturday and Sunday to truly rest and focus on the songs he’d been putting off.

    However, that plan collapsed right from the start.

    One of the entertainers from MOK, whose hometown was also Daegu and who happened to have a free schedule, contacted him and asked to go together.

    “Oppa, do you like eggs?”

    The person who boarded the KTX with Seon-ho on Friday was none other than Cha Hye-mi.      *Korean Train Express


    6:40 a.m.

    At that hour, fatigue was plain on every passenger’s face.

    As soon as the train departed, most of them dozed off, unaware of who else was in the same car.

    None of them realized that Hye-mi—who had hit three home runs in Tomorrow K-Star, was now backed by MOK’s dream team, and was rising as a top-tier solo artist—was sitting among them.

    Wearing a baseball cap and a hooded zip-up to hide her face, Hye-mi leaned toward Seon-ho with an excited whisper.

    “It’s been so long since I’ve been on a train.”

    “Yeah? Then how did you go home all this time?”

    “I usually didn’t. I barely managed to convince my dad to let me go home, but things always came up. I didn’t go back so often that he usually had to come pick me up.”

    She laughed and added, “It’s all thanks to you, oppa.”

    “What is?”

    “Everything.”

    “You worked hard, that’s why things went well.”

    “I was working hard all along. But things only really started going well after you came. So it’s thanks to you.”

    At her words, Seon-ho replied with a soft smile instead of answering.

    Seeing his smile, Hye-mi asked another question.

    “By the way, why are you going to Daegu? I messaged you as soon as I heard.”

    “Oh, just to meet a friend.”

    “A friend…?”

    Hye-mi trailed off, knowing a bit about his past.

    Noticing her hesitation, Seon-ho spoke first.

    “His name’s Kim Hyun-seok. He’s the only orphanage friend I still keep in touch with. I’m going to see him.”

    “Oh, so you’re close?”

    “Yeah, I guess. Actually, it’s thanks to him I ended up joining MOK.”

    “Huh? He works in the entertainment industry too?”

    “No. Hyun-seok runs an auto shop in Daegu. I just mean that it was thanks to him I pulled myself together.”

    Kim Hyun-seok.

    The only orphanage friend whose number Seon-ho still had.

    The one who had shared the same pain as him—because of that girl, Yu Seon-ah.

    Seon-ho believed that if it hadn’t been for Hyun-seok, he wouldn’t have even had the resolve to enter the entertainment industry.

    Before joining MOK, he had drifted through life for years, doing odd jobs and manual labor just to keep himself from falling apart. If he had money, he ate when hungry.

    But that was it.

    There was no meaning in his life.

    Not until he ran into Hyun-seok by chance at a construction site.

    “What happened that day wasn’t your fault.”

    Those were the first words Hyun-seok said after five years.

    And the moment Seon-ho heard them, he realized Hyun-seok was still hurting too.


    “…It was my fault.”

    “You think it was your fault?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Fine. Let’s say it was. Let’s say Seon-ah died because of you.”

    “…”

    “Then what? If you live like this, what does that make Seon-ah? If she died because of you, then you should live two lives in her place. You should be carrying cement on a site and eating instant noodles with some damn hope for the future!”

    Whack!

    After yelling that, Hyun-seok punched Seon-ho in the face.

    Staggering from the unexpected blow, Seon-ho frowned and asked,

    “Have you been watching too many movies or something? Even the cheesy lines I could let slide, but why the hell did you throw a punch?”

    He sighed, grumbled, and then, seeing the embarrassed expression on Hyun-seok’s face, burst into laughter.

    What Hyun-seok didn’t know was that it was the first time in years Seon-ho had laughed out loud.

    Hearing him laugh, Hyun-seok turned red and muttered awkwardly.

    “It’s not bad, is it?”

    “What isn’t?”

    “Being able to watch movies whenever we want. Listening to music freely. Back then, our biggest dream was to watch Weekend Movie all the way through.”

    “…”

    “You still listen to music, right? Still humming like a lunatic?”

    “…”

    “Seon-ah wanted to be a singer, and you wanted to be a producer. That was your dream, right? You know how jealous I was that I couldn’t be part of it.”

    “…Yeah, I know. You petty bastard.”

    “That’s why you have to do something. Live for both of you. Leave a mark on this world.”

    “And now you say that?”

    “Didn’t Seon-ah say you were a genius? Then prove she was right, you ungrateful bastard.”

    That night, the two drank heavily, reminiscing about their painful past.

    When remembered alone, those old memories were bitter—but shared between them, they took on the strange flavour of nostalgia.

    That day, Seon-ho gained two things.

    One was a friend who shared his memories—and the other was a firm resolve.

    A vow to become a producer, no matter what.


    After stopping by a bakery near the station to buy Hye-mi a cake, Seon-ho only picked up the phone after confirming the number of the taxi she got into.

    After a few rings, Hyun-seok’s voice came through.

    —What, you’re here already?

    “I just arrived. If I take a taxi and say ‘car repair shop,’ will they know where to go?”

    —Ah, I quit the repair shop a while ago. I was going to tell you in person.

    “Seriously? You already saved up all the money?”

    —As if. I just felt pathetic, telling you to live right while still stuck in this business. So I quit. It’s thanks to you. I always said I would but never followed through.

    “You quit right after meeting me? Then what are you doing now?”

    —I’m working part-time and going to a training academy, preparing for a technician certificate. I need that to open a repair shop. But studying again after so long is driving me nuts.

    Hyun-seok grumbled over the line, then added:

    —Anyway, let’s talk more in person. Did you take the KTX?

    “Yeah.”

    —I’ll come to the station. Give me about 20 minutes.

    A little later, Seon-ho met Hyun-seok at the station, and they headed to a nearby cafe.

    Once they ordered coffee and sat down, they couldn’t help but laugh.

    “Wow, us going to a cafe together? We could never have imagined this as kids.”

    “Time really has passed.”

    “Geez, listen to that tone. You’ve totally turned into a Seoul guy.”

    “I wasn’t that different when we met last year, was I?”

    “Nah. You weren’t this pretentious.”

    “…Pretentious?”

    Seon-ho was surprised at how natural it felt to be with Hyun-seok again after so long.

    And it seemed Hyun-seok felt the same.

    After catching up for a while, Hyun-seok asked:

    “So, what’s this about? You said you needed a favour.”

    “Oh, it’s not a big deal.”

    “What is it?”

    “Can I borrow your name?”

    “…Take care. It was nice seeing you.”

    “Come on, I’m serious.”

    “I thought you joined a big agency… Wait, is MOK actually the name of some third-rate savings bank?”

    The reason Seon-ho came to see Hyun-seok wasn’t a joke—he really did need to borrow his name.

    As a composer, Prefer was currently using Seon-ho’s name.

    In other words, the account receiving the royalties was under “Han Seon-ho.”

    But if HSH’s copyrights were also registered under “Han Seon-ho,” things could get messy.

    He planned to reveal he was Prefer at the right time, but since he’d already talked about HSH with Manager Yoo Ayeon, he wanted to keep that identity as a hidden card.

    That’s why he needed someone else’s name.

    And Seon-ho didn’t have any other friend he could ask for that kind of favour.

    Manager Yoo had offered to help resolve the name issue for HSH, but that would mean relying on her goodwill too much.

    His relationship with Yoo Ayeon was good now, but people change.

    In the worst case, once HSH’s value increased, there was even a risk of her taking that name away from him.

    “What’s HSH? And Prefer, too?”

    After hearing the situation, Hyun-seok had questions, and Seon-ho answered.

    It was the first time he told a friend everything about himself.

    Manager Yoo knew most of his story, but she was more a business partner than a friend.

    That’s why he was curious how Hyun-seok would respond.

    And Hyun-seok’s response was:

    “You’re so damn simple.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I told you to live like you’re worth two people, and you really started living as two people?”

    “I think the problem is your simple interpretation of that.”

    “Well, I get keeping HSH hidden, since that was kind of accidental. But why hide Prefer?”

    “It all started because I wanted Hye-mi to judge my music fairly. That’s all.”

    Hearing this, Hyun-seok tilted his head.

    “Still, keeping it secret this long? Isn’t it better to just tell her?”

    “It’s just a gut feeling… but I’m suspicious of Director Kim Dong-han.”

    “Why? I mean, he reported his own son as a stalker. That’s a red flag.”

    “It makes sense, yeah. But it’s weird that someone who’s lived a certain way for decades suddenly breaks character only with Hye-mi. That’s why I want to leave a backup plan.”

    “Hm. Well, you’ve always had great instincts. Still, you should tell Cha Hye-mi. Sure, you helped her, but she saved Prefer too, right?”

    “I’ve been meaning to… It’s just, keeping Prefer at arm’s length until now makes me feel like a show-off.”

    “Hey, you gotta say things while you still can. You know that.”

    “…Yeah, you’re right.”

    “And more importantly…”

    Hyun-seok lowered his voice, and Seon-ho leaned in.

    He’d only recently realized how insightful Hyun-seok could be.

    Before joining MOK, Seon-ho studied intensely for nearly a year, but Hyun-seok didn’t seem to have done that.

    Yet the things he said often got to the heart of the matter.

    Hyun-seok continued in a low tone.

    “Is Cha Hye-mi really that pretty?”

    “…Huh?”

    “I mean, it’s cool that you made Autumn Leaf, but more than that… Cha Hye-mi…”

    Seon-ho took out his phone and showed him a picture he’d taken on the train.

    Then he had to endure a long stretch of whining from Hyun-seok about wanting to join MOK.

    After that long monologue ended and they both sipped their coffee, Hyun-seok asked:

    “But aren’t you worried?”

    “About what?”

    “That if I wanted to, I could steal the HSH name or take the money. Why trust me more than that manager, Yoo Ayeon?”

    Seon-ho thought for a moment before replying.

    “You’re the only person I can truly call a friend. If I started doubting my one and only friend in this world, that’d just be too lonely.”

    He meant it.

    Some might say it was blind faith, but Seon-ho had felt a deep bond with Hyun-seok even though it had been five years since they last met.

    They’d lived through the same times, shared the same pains.

    “And honestly, I’m fine even without the name HSH. It’s just one side of who I am. No matter how big HSH gets, it’s still a part of me. I think I’ll end up doing most of my composing as Prefer anyway.”

    Hyun-seok gave a dry chuckle and said:

    “It would’ve been perfect if you didn’t say that last part.”

    “Thanks.”

    “You’re not just sounding cringey now, you’re acting cringey too.”

    With a smirk, Hyun-seok gave Seon-ho a playful slap on the shoulder.

    “Lunch is on you.”

    After that, the two spent time talking about all sorts of things.

    This time, the memories they were creating felt much sweeter than the ones from a year ago.


    TL : Seon-ho and Seon-ah, huh? Did they give each other those names?

  • Star Maker Chapter 50

    Seon-ho had always had one lingering question.

    What does it really mean to be good at singing?

    He had a clear standard for what made “good music,” but not for what made a song “well sung.”

    Of course, he was familiar with the general, commonly accepted criteria:

    A stable lower register, an explosive high register.

    A rich vocal tone, clear projection.

    A pleasing voice, precise diction.

    And an endless list of vocal techniques like vibrato…

    If he tried to list them all, the list would be endless.

    But to Seon-ho, all of those were just ways of expressing something.

    If clear diction were an absolute value, there wouldn’t be any fans of death metal with its heavily distorted vocals. If high notes were the gold standard, rap as a genre wouldn’t even exist.

    That’s why Seon-ho still couldn’t find an absolute standard for what made a good vocal.

    But working with Hye-mi, Su-rim, and Personal Color, something had started to form in his mind.

    A good vocalist, he thought, was someone who could completely melt into the song.

    He knew this was a very producer-centric point of view.

    After all, a “song” was a product of a producer’s vision, tailored to their taste.

    But unlike many producers, Seon-ho didn’t expect singers to go beyond and give 200% of what he asked.

    He was confident that just giving 100% was more than enough.

    And in that sense, An Jia was an incredibly interesting vocalist.

    Though it pained him to admit it, back when Personal Color released their first album, Jia’s singing had been mediocre.

    But through two singles, a second album, and a mini-album, her vocal skills had steadily improved.

    That was because the producer’s demands gradually increased—and Jia met them every time, fully.

    So Seon-ho began to wonder: What if I assigned Jia a truly difficult part?

    Could she pull that off too?

    Jia had an extraordinary ability to fully immerse herself in a song and bring the lyrics to life.

    So then—what would happen if she added solid vocal technique on top of that?

    While the other members felt guilty because they had misunderstood Jia, Jia’s own guilt stemmed from the belief that her poor singing dragged down the group’s average.

    So if they wanted to erase that last trace of uncertainty in Personal Color, Jia simply had to sing well.

    That was why Seon-ho had chosen Jia to be the centerpiece of Vivid.


    “Huh?”

    “Hey, isn’t that the girl from that drama?”

    “You guys didn’t know?”

    Despite the flurry of media coverage, many in the audience still didn’t realize that Personal Color’s An Jia was that An Jia—the actress.

    More accurately, they might’ve known but hadn’t quite made the mental connection right away.

    “Is An Jia even good at singing?”

    “I saw some comments online saying she’s not.”

    “Really?”

    While the audience watched with curiosity in their eyes, the An Jia standing on stage wasn’t a singer.

    She was “actress An Jia.”

    But while the audience looked on with curiosity, the gaze of the other singers held something different—expectation.

    Not the hopeful kind. The expect-her-to-fail kind.

    Please. Please. Please.

    It’s An Jia. She’s an actress, not a singer.

    The other contestants in this idol survival show desperately hoped An Jia would mess up.

    So far, Personal Color’s stage had been jaw-droppingly good.

    Like the recent popular slang goes—legendary.

    It made them wonder why such talented people hadn’t gained fame sooner.

    But that only meant one thing: their own positions were now in danger.

    So they pinned their hopes on An Jia.

    Ready to mock at the producer and the Personal Color team for putting her last.

    Even under all those judgmental eyes, An Jia wasn’t a singer.

    She was “actress An Jia.”

    And then—her mouth opened.

    Should I say it, or not?
    Say I’m sorry…
    Should I say it, or not?
    Say thank you, so much…

    Her voice began at a surprisingly high register, rising atop the still-lingering echo of Teiji’s powerful high note.

    Sometimes I felt left out,
    Sometimes I got hurt,
    Should I say it, or not?
    That it was hard for me, too…

    As the song progressed, the notes kept climbing.

    With half-step intervals and increasingly complex transitions.

    “Hmm…”

    The producers and vocal directors watching realized they had reached An Jia’s limit.

    If she were asked to go any higher, her voice would falter.

    It was the kind of instinct honed by hearing countless singers over the years.

    But if it ends like this, the highlight is way too flat, isn’t it?

    Is there another section? Wasn’t the chorus supposed to follow this part?

    True to its nature as a survival show, Idol War had a unique rehearsal process.

    Instead of full vocal rehearsals, they only ran camera blocking, choreography, and stage cues with an MR (music without vocals) track.

    The actual songs were kept tightly under wraps.

    But the producers dispatched to Idol War were skilled enough to sense a song’s structure just from the MR.

    And that’s why they were confused.

    There was no part left, and it was clear that An Jia couldn’t go any further.

    So… this was the highlight?

    You compose such an incredible song and this is how you end it?

    Then, at that moment, they heard it.

    The soft beginning of the next measure: a synthesizer piano.

    It was high.

    Very high.

    And the scale that followed was full of unstable flat notes, like something from a jazz blues scale.

    From the very first note of the measure, anyone with musical training could tell—it was a high-difficulty vocal section.

    And so the producers concluded: Prefer had failed.

    He’d written a truly fantastic song.

    If Vivid aired on TV, Prefer’s reputation among industry professionals would skyrocket.

    But An Jia’s vocals weren’t enough.

    In the end…

    The producers prediction was correct.

    An Jia couldn’t handle the high-difficulty part Seon-ho had assigned her.

    She showed remarkable potential, but the tight schedules and short preparation time meant she couldn’t fully master it.

    And yet…


    “I’ll change the part to something a bit easier.”

    “No, it’s okay.”

    “Then?”

    “I have an idea.”

    Just because An Jia couldn’t pull it off didn’t mean Personal Color couldn’t.

    The moment An Jia’s voice rang out, every pair of eyes in the room snapped wide open.

    Because what followed was a stunning performance no one had anticipated.

    Long breaths, precise pitch.

    Explosive high notes and a flawless finish.

    Wow!

    Wooooah!

    Gasps and cheers burst from the stunned audience.

    But the ones most shocked weren’t the spectators—it was the producers.

    After all, handling singers voices was their job.

    Even an ordinary person could tell, just by listening, whether a singer was struggling or relaxed.

    So naturally, producers were even more sensitive to these things.

    By their judgment, An Jia’s vocal limits were already clear.

    Sure, she could try to push higher notes or attempt more complex techniques—but that would only lead to instability.

    And flashy but shaky vocals were the most useless kind in a performance.

    So how could she suddenly sing like this?

    But as the audience’s cheers slowly subsided, the producers finally realized the secret behind the twist An Jia had pulled off.

    “Ah…!”

    This wasn’t An Jia’s voice.

    It was Personal Color’s voice.

    Riha was stepping in for the high notes, Baek Songyi was starting off the tricky phrases with perfect pitch,

    Teiji and Woochan added barely-there harmonies that enriched the volume with subtle depth.

    Even after realizing the trick, the producers remained amazed.

    In fact, they were even more stunned.

    This was the kind of stunt you’d call gimmicky—something friendly artists might try out as a joke during downtime.

    Baek Songyi starts a line, An Jia carries it, and Riha hits the high note?

    No way such a disjointed delivery would work.

    But the studio audience for Idol War was locked onto Personal Color’s song more than anyone else.

    Because of An Jia.

    Her gaze, expression, and gestures—completely immersed in the lyrics—had an irresistible pull that drew everyone’s eyes to her.

    It was as if An Jia had crossed into another world, performing not a song but a story.

    There was a reason she had became a star on both television and film as soon as she debuted.

    An Jia had always possessed a natural-born talent for acting.

    Team Leader Kang San had once evaluated her as not quite fitting the role of a lead actress—because, at the time, her talent hadn’t yet exploded.

    That explosion happened, ironically, while she was preparing to debut as a singer.

    As she immersed herself more and more in the lyrics, she unknowingly learned how to throw herself into the emotional situation of the song.

    That talent was now radiating on stage.

    An Jia’s magnetic presence was so overwhelming that the voices of the other members felt like background music.

    Even though she had given all the key parts to her teammates, the stage still belonged to her.

    At last, the audience stopped seeing “Actress An Jia” and started seeing “Singer An Jia.”

    Of course, nothing about An Jia had changed.

    It was just the difference between being immersed in a drama—or in a song.

    But what she was showing now was the performance of a singer who could own a solo part flawlessly.

    Prefer was proving exactly how An Jia could be used—not as someone dragging down the group average, but as someone elevating the entire act.

    But that lasted only a moment.

    Should I say it, or not?

    No, I’ll say it.

    I like them all…

    The moment An Jia’s part ended, someone in the audience let out a quiet “Huh?”

    And that reaction began to spread.

    Because Baek Songyi, captured on the main screen, was shedding silent tears.

    Then one by one, the faces of the Personal Color members appeared on screen.

    It wasn’t just Baek Songyi.

    Riha and Teiji were also crying.

    Woochan wasn’t shedding tears, but his reddened eyes betrayed the effort to hold them back.

    And finally, An Jia—shown in close-up—

    Was beaming.

    An Jia, who was often misunderstood because she rarely smiled.

    Was now shining with the happiest expression in the world.

    The chorus began.

    Vivid– Vivid–
    This is the moment to shine the brightest
    Vivid–

    Vivid– Vivid–
    Clearer than anything else
    Vivid–

    It was a simple, addictive chorus.

    The kind you could hum after hearing it once, the kind that imprinted itself the moment it hit your ears.

    We lost.

    The producers admitted it—their idols had lost.

    No matter what song they brought today, nothing could beat Vivid.

    Prefer not only showcased each member’s charm and vocal talent, but they closed it out with the knockout punch of a perfect hook.

    The audience, who had been happily following the song through the lineup of Baek Songyi, Riha, Woochan, Teiji, and An Jia, would now be losing their minds as the chorus came in.

    Vivid– Vivid–
    This is the moment to shine the brightest
    Vivid–

    Vivid– Vivid–
    Clearer than anything else
    Vivid–

    And just like that, the final stage of Idol War’s preliminary round—the “Team Introduction Mission”—came to a close.

    On that stage stood five smiling singers,

    Holding each other’s hands tight.

  • Star Maker Chapter 49

    Vivid

    The most intense and brilliant of all colors.

    Seon-ho had always thought Personal Color’s identity lacked vividness.

    They had lost their original color’s, dulled by guilt, regret, and excessive consideration for each other.

    But a singer must never lose their color, no matter the circumstance.

    A song without color was no different from a machine-generated voice.

    That’s why Personal Color had always felt out of sync.

    But today was different.

    Though the members of Personal Color still felt some distance between each other, it was a kind of distance that time, unlike before, could actually mend.

    As the intro played, the members exchanged faint smiles.

    The first to begin the song was Baek Songyi, the leader and lead vocalist.

    When I think about it quietly,
    It was really nothing at all.
    Tiny little misunderstandings,
    Things a single word could melt away.

    The moment Baek Songyi’s clear voice filled the hall, the audience of Five Hundred felt themselves drawn in, without knowing why.

    The lyrics resonated, and Baek Songyi’s voice was pleasant to hear.

    Being the start of the song, there was no room to show off with technique or flair.

    And yet, listeners felt the song was good—because it was sincere.

    A sincerity Personal Color had long been missing.

    One word is too hard to say,
    Because of pointless pride,
    Even though I know, even though I know,
    The colors just keep fading.

    In most idol songs, there’s constant part-switching.

    With the growing number of members and choruses taking up half the song, it was inevitable.

    But Vivid by Personal Color had no such part changes.

    It flowed like someone telling their story, one voice after another.

    That’s why the audience felt this performance was different from the ones before it.

    If the earlier stages were about performance, this one was about the song itself.


    After finishing her part, Baek Songyi stepped back and brushed past An Jia.

    She had hated Jia.

    More than Team Leader Kang san, who had belittled them by calling them “failures” when Jia wasn’t around. More than the actor management staff who treated them like Jia’s baggage.

    Watching Jia’s expressionless face as she thrived in acting, Baek Songyi thought Jia was looking down on them.

    Then the contract terms changed.

    To be exact, after their single following the first album failed to even break the top 100, a contract with awful settlement terms was handed to her, with the condition that she’d join MOK and Personal Color.

    At the time, Baek Songyi had no choice.

    Her family’s financial situation was worsening, and even if she couldn’t earn money, she didn’t want to ask for help at home.

    If she left MOK, she’d just be another unemployed wannabe singer.

    So she signed the contract.

    And again, she was angry at Jia.

    Because she realized that the reason she, once called a top trainee, ended up in Personal Color… was all because of Jia.

    Later, Baek Songyi happened to overhear Jia’s monthly earnings.

    An outrageous sum that far exceeded the combined settlement of all the other members.

    She also heard a rumor that Jia’s contract terms hadn’t changed, unlike the rest.

    Yet it was Jia who had kept the group together.

    That day, Baek Songyi lashed out at her.

    Jia, who had never been particularly talented in singing or dancing, kept making mistakes during practice—and that became the excuse.

    Even then, Jia wore the same blank expression.

    Though she must have been deeply hurt inside, her face never showed it.

    In the end, the rumor about Jia’s settlement was false.

    In fact, Jia was taking a far greater financial hit than the rest of them.

    The only reason Personal Color still existed was because of her sacrifice. The rest of them alone couldn’t even break even.

    They should’ve just apologized then. Apologized together, as a team. But they didn’t.

    Instead, they just got angrier.

    They were young, and pride was all they had to survive their long trainee years.

    After that came a period of self-blame.

    Woochan, the oldest, regretted not stepping up as a leader. The others, each for their own reasons, carried guilt.

    But Baek Songyi likely carried the most of it—because she blamed herself for what the team had become.

    At some point, she started thinking—

    Maybe it’d be better if the team just disappeared.

    So she could escape the guilt.

    But Jia, who had no talent for dancing or singing, who had likely debuted as a singer because of the agency’s plan, ended up falling in love with music.

    And so they had made it this far.

    Even though their steps led them toward a cliff, they couldn’t turn away.

    But at the edge of that cliff, there was one last chance—

    A manager named Han Seon-ho, who believed in them.

    So they tried, little by little, to keep going.

    They’d always known that Vivid’s lyrics were their own story.

    They had just pretended not to.

    What Personal Color needed was a turning point.

    A reason to be more honest.

    A moment to finally say they were sorry.

    And now that that moment had come, they were glad.

    Even if today’s performance were to be their last, Personal Color wouldn’t be remembered as the worst in their memories.

    As the female main vocalist Riha’s part burst forth, the audience oddly fell silent.

    It wasn’t because she sang poorly.

    Riha’s singing was excellent.

    It was just that those listening felt a ticklish sensation inside.

    Like when watching a sad movie.

    Like when seeing a touching human documentary.

    Like when hearing wonderful news.

    The audience was feeling that kind of ticklish warmth.

    And so, without realizing it, they were waiting.

    Waiting for the chorus that would bring all five members together.

    Waiting to see all five of them smiling brightly.

    But after the first verse, the chorus didn’t come.

    They had abandoned the hook—a core of idol songs.

    Instead, what filled the space where the chorus would normally be was Woochan’s calm rap.

    It’s okay if we still fight.
    It’s okay if we argue again.
    Sometimes, over the littlest things—
    It’s okay to get sulky.

    These were the things Woochan had always wished for Personal Color.

    If someone secretly eats the snacks,
    It’s okay to get caught and be surprised.
    If an embarrassing photo comes out,
    It’s okay to laugh out loud and tease.

    Things they could have done freely—if only they had been honest.

    And now those things were calmly laid out across the stage, borrowed through Woochan’s voice.

    If someone forgets the choreography,
    It’s okay to tattle to the manager.
    If you don’t want to do cleaning duty,
    It’s okay to lie and say you did.

    Then, just as the short rap was ending, the beat suddenly cut off.

    But then…

    But then…

    On the stage, where the word “but” echoed, Woochan—drenched in sweat down to his eyelashes—grinned and said:

    “Sometimes, it’s okay to lean on each other.”

    Somewhere in the crowd, a high-pitched scream erupted—then another and another.

    The close-up of Woochan’s face filling the main screen was charming enough to make even men’s hearts flutter.

    And through those screams, the instruments returned again.

    This time, it was the male main vocalist Teiji’s turn.


    “Th-that’s insane.”

    “He’s seriously insane.”

    Producers who had come on-site to support their company’s idols were completely stunned by Personal Color’s performance.

    The song itself was incredible.

    But what truly shocked the producers was the experimentation and trust contained within Vivid.

    Producers didn’t add choruses or split parts between members just because they liked catchy tunes—they did it for a reason.

    It was a necessity for survival.

    Over 90% of idols’ profits came from live events.

    Appearances on music shows and variety programs were all aimed at boosting recognition to secure those gigs.

    That’s why catchy songs were the trend.

    Easy to memorize after just a few listens. Easy to sing along.

    In other words, songs that got good reactions at live events.

    But Personal Color’s Vivid was going against that tide.

    A progression of vocals—vocals—rap—vocals—vocals. An almost ridiculous flow.

    There wasn’t even a single catchy section between the first and second verses.

    This wasn’t a decision that could be made without extraordinary belief.

    The producer had to believe the singers wouldn’t mess up.

    And the singers had to believe that, regardless of profitability, this song would help them.

    Only with that kind of faith could someone sing a real song—not a performance piece—on a nationally broadcast variety show.

    “They’d need to hit #1 on at least five major music platforms just to break even.”

    “They probably won’t even be able to perform this at events…”

    But in that moment, the producers realized their own unconscious bias—and revised their judgment about whether the song would work at live events.

    Because they themselves wanted to hear Vivid again.

    They wanted to watch it again, either as a clip or the full broadcast, and take it in quietly.

    Still, one question remained.

    Everyone knew that while An Jia was a talented actress, her singing wasn’t great.

    She had excellent part execution, but in terms of pure vocal talent, she wasn’t a standout.

    And yet, the final part was hers.

    Right after Teiji, who was arguably the best vocalist in the group.

    As Teiji’s song ended and An Jia stepped forward, every eye in the room focused solely on her.

  • Star Maker Chapter 48

    The nine-story MOK headquarters was among the largest buildings of all the entertainment agencies.

    Only companies like UU Entertainment, Topaz Entertainment, and BAG Entertainment had buildings bigger than MOK’s.

    Strictly speaking, the reason MOK’s building was so large was because it included facilities like practice rooms and recording studios—engineering spaces that most agencies placed off-site.

    Unlike typical agencies that kept their rehearsal and engineering spaces outside, MOK had integrated everything within the building itself.

    Whatever the case, the fact remained that MOK had a large, impressive headquarters.

    At the very top of that building was the office of CEO Kim Dong-han.

    Kim Dong-han’s office was the perfect embodiment of what most people imagined a CEO’s office to look like.

    The only exceptions were the cupboard full of LP records to the left of the room and the luxurious turntable beneath it.

    Beside that were several high-end speakers from brand U—beloved by British musicians—and a few guitars.

    No—perhaps even that image aligned closely with people’s fantasies of a CEO: someone who diligently ran a company and enjoyed classical music in their leisure time.

    However, the music flowing from the speakers now was not refined classical music, but pop songs.

    To be specific, it was the music of Cha Hye-mi—currently the hottest singer in South Korea.

    • Autumn Leaf.
    • Red Day.
    • Girl in the City.

    The three songs released through Tomorrow K-Star each took the number one spot on music charts in succession.

    In the three weeks—21 days—that Hye-mi appeared on Tomorrow K-Star, her and Jung Su-rim’s names dominated the top spot of the integrated charts for 12 of those days.

    The public praised her inclusion as the masterstroke of Tomorrow K-Star Season 3’s production team and welcomed the return of a top-tier solo female artist after a long drought.

    Industry insiders said MOK had finally hit the jackpot after a long dry spell.

    Until now, MOK had been solidifying its lineup of actors, but its music division had brought little success.

    Ever since the back-to-back hits of Black List and July Girls, it had been quiet.

    Particularly after the complete flop of Personal Color and Low Five, rumors started to circulate that MOK’s time in the idol industry had passed.

    But Cha Hye-mi’s success changed that perception.

    In an industry dominated by short-lived, competitive idols, a solo artist with the potential for longevity was incredibly valuable.

    So, insiders envied MOK and sent congratulatory messages to CEO Kim Dong-han.

    But Kim Dong-han couldn’t be happy about it.

    Because he was one of the few who had hoped Cha Hye-mi wouldn’t succeed.

    At least, that was the case five minutes ago.

    More precisely, before his phone call with CEO Seo Sung-han of UU Entertainment.

    Standing by the window and gazing at the autumn sky, Kim Dong-han recalled the call he’d just had.


    “It’s really strange,” Seo had said.

    “…What is?”

    “Usually, no matter how much you pray or pay for good promotions, most singers don’t blow up. It’s like pouring water into a bottomless pot—money just disappears.”

    “……”

    “If making someone a star is hard, then not making them a star should be easy, right? What do you think?”

    When Kim Dong-han didn’t reply for a long time, Seo asked quietly,

    “You were the one who tipped off the reporter about your son and Cha Hye-mi, weren’t you?”

    “I would never do anything that would damage my own son.”

    “Really? Well, let’s go with that then.”

    “……”

    “Using your son as an excuse to ignore Cha Hye-mi wasn’t a bad move. But you should’ve finished the job properly.”

    Seo’s voice was mocking.

    “She was saved by the sudden appearance of a rookie composer.”

    “She got a song that was just right for making a mistake—but compelling enough to inspire greed—and she pulled it off.”

    “Then she collaborated with another rookie composer right after.”

    “Are you just incompetent? Or is Cha Hye-mi absurdly lucky? Considering how she handled Red Day, she probably has the skills too.”

    Kim Dong-han could guess what Seo would say next.

    “Cha Hye-mi. We’re going to sign her. So make it easy, will you?”

    “……”

    “Yoo Ayeon’s been working on it quietly, and I wasn’t sure how it’d go. But now the timing’s perfect.”

    Dong-han clenched his fist tightly and asked,

    “What are you planning to do with her?”

    “What do you think? Since our plan to ruin her and kick her out of the industry failed, we’ll have to give her something to protect.”

    “For your sake and mine.”

    “Something to protect?”

    “Money, fame, popularity… we’ll let her taste it all. People grow more secretive when they have something to lose.”

    “We could give her all that at our company. Why take an already successful singer?”

    “I acknowledge that MOK is a good company. Twenty-seven years ago, I never imagined you’d get this far. I was just a rookie manager, and you were an engineer doing post-production work.”

    “…That’s true.”

    “We’ve come a long way together. So I’m asking you this as a favour. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

    Dong-han clenched his fist again.

    If it really were a favour, he would’ve refused without hesitation.

    But this wasn’t a favour.

    It was a threat.

    “…If the artist agrees.”

    “Hahaha. Don’t be silly. MOK might be a great company, but it can’t compare to UU.”

    “……”

    “Don’t worry. I’ll give Cha Hye-mi everything. I’ll turn her into the biggest star—just like I did for you 27 years ago.”


    As Girl in the City ended on the speaker, CEO Kim Dong-han snapped out of his thoughts.

    It was a good song.

    In fact, Girl in the City hadn’t received great reviews during Tomorrow K-Star’s broadcast.

    That was because Jung Su-rim had made a critical mistake—forgetting the lyrics mid-performance.

    But the recorded version of the song was a huge hit.

    Right after the track dropped, the MBN network even contacted them to propose a joint stage at the year-end <2017 Music Summary>—pairing “Citizen” from Man in the City with Cha Hye-mi and Jung Su-rim from Girl in the City.

    “Prefer made that song too, didn’t he?”

    And the one who brought in Prefer was a rookie manager.

    Someone named Han Seon-ho.

    “Han Seon-ho…”

    Rumor had it that Cha Hye-mi trusted Han Seon-ho deeply.

    According to what the staff had been whispering, Hye-mi even wanted to continue working with him directly.

    “Han Seon-ho…”

    Maybe, just maybe, he could use Han Seon-ho to keep Hye-mi at MOK.

    Maybe it was possible to stop Seo Sunghan from getting what he wanted.

    It was a long shot—but worth attempting.

    After all, no matter how powerful Seo was, he couldn’t force a contract without the artist’s agreement.

    But for that to work, there was something that needed to happen first.

    Personal Color had to succeed.

    Not just succeed—it had to become a central focus of Idol War, turning into a hot topic.

    That wouldn’t be easy.

    A lot of funds had been sunk into preventing issues with Black List, leaving little to invest in Personal Color.

    There was also a general lack of confidence in Personal Color’s potential.

    “By now, they should be deep into filming…”

    With faint hope and cautious anticipation, CEO Kim Dong-han looked at the clock.

    Depending on how today’s filming went, everything could change.


    The filming site for Idol War was nothing short of a battlefield.

    “Jesco! Where’s Jesco’s manager!”

    “Director 2! We need to re-shoot Black Label’s background interview—the images are overlapping!”

    “Dream Girls outfits still aren’t ready?!”

    “Hey! Assistant PD! Either get some cable ties and secure this, or stand guard so no one steps on it!”

    “When can the audience panel enter? The wait is way too long!”

    ADs, FDs, PDs, sound teams, camera crews, writers—everyone was scrambling. So were the idols, stylists, makeup artists, and managers.

    Having experienced Tomorrow K-Star, Seon-ho had assumed Idol War would be similar.

    He was wrong.

    Tomorrow K-Star had three seasons under its belt and well-established production know-how.

    They had guidelines on what shots to take and how to direct them.

    Idol War had no such thing.

    There were no clear rules on what would be used for inserts or reaction shots.

    So the production team chose to film everything and sort it out later.

    Camera crews tried to record every moment on set.

    Each idol team had two to three VJs attached to them at all times, filming their every move. Fixed cameras were set up in waiting rooms, on stage—everywhere.

    It wasn’t just the idols waging war—the production crew was fighting one, too.

    Amid all this chaos, Personal Color stood out as distinctly out of place.

    Even their star status as entertainers didn’t compare to the other teams.

    Jesco and A.S.AP were clear A-listers.

    The rest were hoping to be A-list.

    Compared to that, Personal Color was a C-tier team—aside from An Jia’s popularity.

    Even if you included An Jia’s popularity, her influence as a singer was relatively lacking.

    So it was only natural that other teams subtly looked down on them and whispered that they were only cast because their agency was MOK.

    However, the reason Personal Color felt out of place wasn’t just about their celebrity ranking.

    There was a bigger reason: the atmosphere.

    It wasn’t that their behaviour was significantly different.

    Personal Color also worked hard on interviews, rehearsals, and missions just like the other teams.

    But the vibe was different.

    “You were with them all the time, so you noticed, right?”

    When Jung Jiwoon brought up the team’s awkward atmosphere, Seon-ho thought for a moment before replying.

    “It’s probably because it feels awkward.”

    “What does?”

    “All of it. Working as a team feels awkward, and even the desire to do well feels awkward.”

    “You’re saying it wasn’t like that before?”

    “The actions might be the same, but the motivation’s different.”

    There’s a clear difference between working hard to not drag the team down and working hard for the team’s success.

    At Seon-ho’s comment, Jung Jiwoon asked,

    “Is it okay to leave them like that? They’ll come off even more awkward on TV. Even friendly teams don’t always seem that way on screen.”

    “I think that awkwardness will either be a huge flaw or a huge blessing.”

    “A flaw? A blessing?”

    “Yeah. If the performance fails, it’ll be a big flaw—rumors about discord will spread. But if the performance goes well, it’ll be a huge blessing.”

    “How can awkwardness become a blessing even if the performance is good?”

    “If that dam of emotion breaks open properly. Everything depends on the stage anyway, so I think it’s better not to pressure them and just watch.”

    At Seon-ho’s words, Jung Jiwoon silently nodded.

    Manager Kwon Hosan was off greeting other team managers and staff he knew, so only Seon-ho and Jiwoon remained on site.

    As the VJs moved back and forth, Seon-ho found it amusing to see Jung Jiwoon putting on a serious expression for no reason.

    From Jiwoon’s perspective, it would’ve made sense to feel burdened or even resentful toward Seon-ho.

    After all, this newcomer had taken his place.

    But Jung Jiwoon had been the same from their first meeting. He showed no sense of seniority or pride.

    Maybe this was his way of showing he liked Personal Color.


    Idol War moved at a relentless pace, but its format was simple.

    Each team introduced themselves, did interviews about their rival teams, and completed missions to showcase their charm.

    From the fourth week, when about three teams would be eliminated, more complex formats were planned. But for now, with so many teams, it had to stay simple.

    “Let’s go!”

    When Personal Color placed first in the precision dance mission that determined performance order, Baek Songyi clenched her fist in excitement.

    “Leader of Personal Color, Baek Songyi, what performance slot would you like?”

    As the main writer with a VJ crew asked, Baek Songyi rolled her eyes around and asked,

    “Can I discuss it for a moment?”

    “Of course.”

    As soon as the writer responded, Baek Songyi approached Seon-ho.

    Everyone thought she would consult the members, but instead she went to their manager. Two VJs followed her.

    “Oppa.”

    “Yeah?”

    “What order should we take?”

    “Don’t you guys have a preferred spot?”

    “No. You decide.”

    After a brief pause, Seonho responded.

    “Let’s go last.”

    “The last slot?”

    “Yeah.”

    “That’s a bit of a burden…”

    “Then pick the slot you want.”

    Baek Songyi shook her head.

    “No, we’ll go last.”

    And so, Personal Color was assigned the 7th and final performance out of the seven teams.


    Team intros, member intros, interviews, small missions.

    After seven hours of initial filming, it was finally time for the highlight: the team showcase performance mission.

    Even though no teams would be eliminated in this round, tension filled the shared waiting room.

    Everyone knew that today’s performance—featured in the first broadcast—was the most important.

    If they performed well and made headlines today, their chances of being eliminated in later rounds—even if they faltered—would drop significantly. But if they failed to make an impression today, they could be eliminated in the next round no matter how skilled they were.

    That’s why, with each team called out from the waiting room, the tension thickened.

    By the time the fifth team took the stage, only Dream Girls and Personal Color remained.

    “It’s the first time we’re meeting since the music show, right, sunbaenims?”

    Suddenly, the leader of Dream Girls, Lucid, spoke to Baek Songyi.

    “Yeah.”

    “I wanted to get closer, but we didn’t get another chance at the music show. It’s a shame.”

    “We’ll probably see each other more often here.”

    “I hope so.”

    Lucid’s words, though polite on the surface, carried the same undertone as before.

    You weren’t even visible at the music show. You won’t survive this either.

    The rude behavior they’d shown backstage during the music show was under the orders of Team Leader Jeon Heesung, who had a poor relationship with Manager Kwon Hosan.

    But today was different.

    The road manager accompanying Dream Girls instead of Jeon Heeseong seemed entirely indifferent.

    Today’s provocation from Dream Girls came from Lucid and her members, still feeling the sting from the embarrassment caused by Oh Hanbit and Cha Hye-mi.

    Lucid’s gaze locked with Baek Songyi’s.

    Baek Songyi smiled back.

    She had been angry at Lucid’s provocation in the music show greenroom—but not today.

    Maybe because they had prepared their best?

    Or maybe…

    Because she believed in her team this time.

    Soon after, Dream Girls left for standby behind the stage.

    Only Personal Color remained in the waiting room.

    A long silence followed.

    But unlike usual, today’s silence wasn’t heavy.

    The one to break the silence was Seon-ho.

    “Before you go on stage, there’s something I want to say.”

    All eyes turned to Seon-ho.

    “You’ve probably already figured it out, but the lyrics of Vivid are—”

    Just then, Woochan raised his hand.

    Though he was the most awkward at first, Woochan had become the closest to Seon-ho—his same-aged friend.

    “Don’t go all 1980s on us. Just stay quiet, Manager.”

    Baek Songyi nodded.

    “Woochan oppa actually said something right for once.”

    “What do you mean, ‘for once’?”

    Riha chimed in, agreeing.

    “It has been a while. Or maybe it’s the first time?”

    To that, An Jia disagreed.

    “Nope. Not the first. This morning in the van, Woochan oppa said, ‘Ugh, I’m so tired,’ and I was tired too.”

    “……”

    “……”

    Lastly, Teiji spoke up.

    “Manager hyung. We get it. We’re not idiots—who wouldn’t?”

    Seon-ho silently looked around at the Personal Color members, then gave a small nod.

    Just then, the assistant director burst into the waiting room and shouted.

    “Personal Color! Standby!”

    The members of Personal Color stood, fixing their outfits.

    They didn’t say anything more.

    They just walked to the stage—each step slightly different from usual.


    Waaaaah!

    Uwooooh!

    The stage lights blazed brightly, and the live audience roared with excitement.

    And through that sound, Vivid by Personal Color began to play.

  • Star Maker Chapter 47

    Seon-ho’s laughter filled the van, making PD Nam Yunsoo frown.

    “Are you out of your mind?”

    “Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.”

    “This punk…!”

    Just then, Seon-ho’s voice reached Nam Yunsoo’s ears, who had flared up in anger.

    “You say it so naturally, but isn’t it because you’ve experienced it yourself, PD-nim?”

    After meeting Nam Yunsoo PD, Seon-ho had one lingering question.

    Why did PD Nam Yunsoo take a three-year break?

    Why did a PD praised for his directing ability have to be out of work for so long?

    So Seon-ho dug into what happened three years ago.

    It wasn’t all that difficult.

    While it wasn’t public knowledge, quite a few people could piece things together if you mentioned the name “PD Nam Yunsoo” and “three years ago.”

    People like Park Cha-myung or Yoo Ayeon, for example.

    The reason PD Nam Yunsoo took a three-year break was because of under-the-table dealings.

    He was caught taking bribes from participants. The network managed the scandal internally, but he still received a heavy disciplinary action.


    Three years ago, PD Nam Yunsoo had been in charge of a show called Duo Reinterpreted.

    Duo Reinterpreted paired ordinary people with singers to reinterpret classic songs. It was a popular variety show that dominated its time slot.

    The issue was that this was Nam Yunsoo PD’s first major directing gig.

    Lacking experience, he eventually gave in to a company’s temptation.

    In exchange for having a company’s trainee appear disguised as a regular participant, he accepted a bribe.

    The bigger problem? It worked.

    The disguised trainee gained huge popularity during the show, and the narrative was spun that the program helped them achieve a dream they had once given up on.

    Even after debuting, the popularity earned from Duo Reinterpreted gave the trainee a strong foundation.

    Similar situations kept happening.

    Some viewers suspected the agencies were overly involved with the casting, but most chalked it up to the agencies just keeping a close eye on the program.

    The show and its cast were just that popular.

    And behind that popularity was Nam Yunsoo PD’s undeniable talent.

    He was a far better director than others gave him credit for—and even better than he himself believed.

    He knew that for his shady dealings to remain hidden, the cast needed to succeed.

    So he put in meticulous effort directing these disguised participants—and his efforts always paid off.

    But as always, greed led to problems.

    Things unraveled when he tried to insert two trainees at the same time.

    One of them didn’t get good results, and the agency took issue with that.

    In the end, Nam Yunsoo PD was secretly filmed accepting an envelope of cash. The agency began subtly blackmailing him.

    That’s when the network stepped in to mediate.

    In truth, the network’s higher-ups had already suspected what was going on.

    They had no solid proof, and the show was doing so well that they chose to turn a blind eye.

    Eventually, Duo Reinterpreted changed PDs due to “health issues,” and in return, the agency got several rookie actors cast in KBM dramas.

    There were no extreme events like police involvement or articles being published.

    KBM had its public broadcasting image to protect, and the agency didn’t want to provoke the network too much either.

    Once Seon-ho confirmed all this, he came up with two “methods.”

    One: PD Nam Yunsoo would subconsciously still crave that envelope of cash.

    Two: PD Nam Yunsoo’s past wasn’t a closed case.


    Seon-ho spoke to the shocked PD Nam Yunsoo.

    His voice was gentle.

    But to PD Nam Yunsoo, oddly enough, it sounded terrifying.

    “To be honest, I was tempted. Really considered giving you money.”

    “Don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d take something like that?”

    “I think you would’ve. If we’d picked the right place.”

    As he looked at PD Nam Yunsoo’s face, Seon-ho thought to himself.

    This kind of thing… is just too easy.

    “Somewhere like a sauna is best. No CCTV, and if we meet naked, it’s hard to hide a recorder. Or, well, maybe we could’ve just met wherever you preferred.”

    “…”

    Seon-ho’s voice rose above PD Nam Yunsoo’s silence.

    “It struck me as strange. Why ask a rookie like me to get a blacklist? You knew it was unreasonable. And why tell me you took three years off? Of course I’d look into it.”

    “…”

    “The conclusion’s simple. Whether consciously or not, you were hoping I’d bring you a money envelope.”

    “…”

    “If a rookie with a hero complex shows up with cash, you take it. If he reports it to the company, you just deny it—‘I never asked for money. The rookie’s exaggerating.’ And that’s it.”

    PD Nam Yunsoo tried to stay calm.

    “So what? The fact is, you did bring me an envelope. You’re trying to say, ‘I let it slide even though I knew’? Is that it?”

    “Not at all.”

    Seon-ho handed him the envelope PD Nam Yunsoo had thrown earlier.

    “Go ahead. Open it.”

    “You think I’m really going to open this?”

    “The dashcam’s off.”

    Seon-ho pressed gently, as PD Nam Yunsoo continued to hesitate.

    “If you don’t open it now, you’ll regret it.”

    In the end, PD Nam Yunsoo opened the envelope.

    But instead of money, it contained a thick bundle of A4 papers, densely printed with text.

    He began reading.

    As Seon-ho watched him, an old memory surfaced.

    The voice of a gangster from the orphanage, someone whose face he no longer even remembered, collecting payments.

    “You only threaten when you’ve got nothing to lose. If you’ve got something to lose, that’s not a threat—it’s a negotiation.”

    Giving PD Nam Yunsoo a bribe wouldn’t have been hard. It could’ve even prevented Personal Color from being eliminated.

    But once that line was crossed, it would never stop.

    Next time, the amount would have to be bigger. And bigger the time after that.

    The issue was that there would be a trail.

    The moment he handed over money, he’d also have a weakness—bribery.

    So Seon-ho recalled a second method.

    The orphanage method.

    More specifically, the Chinese-Korean gangster method.

    Don’t fix your shoes in a melon field. Don’t straighten your hat under a plum tree. What do you think? Sounds classy, huh?”

    “It means, don’t make yourself look suspicious. You know, it’s one of those sayings.”

    “Let’s say the melon field is your turf. And some bastard bends down to tie his shoe there. What do you do?”

    “You beat the crap out of him. And collect money for the melons.”

    “Doesn’t matter if he stole the melons or not.”

    “What matters is I saw it that way. And that he owes me for the melons.”

    “And that I’m confident I can take him out.”

    “Got that, you punk?”

    Seon-ho still didn’t like this method. It made him feel like he’d slipped back into those days.

    But he’d already made up his mind.

    If PD Nam Yunsoo chose to play dirty, Seon-ho wasn’t going to back down.

    “W-What the hell is this?”

    Seon-ho responded to PD Nam Yunsoo’s trembling voice after reading the entire document.

    “An article that could be published within the hour—through a reporter I know.”

    “I-I didn’t do anything like this!”

    “Who knows? I’m not sure. Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t.”

    “You’d dare publish lies?!”

    “Lies? Not at all. It’s all written in speculative language.”

    Seon-ho said calmly.

    “Let’s say PD-nim bent down to fix his shoes in a melon field, and 100 people saw it. If just one of them yells, ‘Thief!’—ten will believe it. And when those ten shout it, a hundred will believe it too. It’s only a matter of time.”

    “That’s easier said than done!”

    “Exactly. It might not work. But I’ve got nothing to lose. The one with everything to lose is you, PD-nim.”

    “Y-You…!”

    “What do you think will happen if a scandal breaks out about a pilot program rushed to air because of an adultery scandal? Especially with a PD who’s already been disciplined? I’d bet my salary you’d be replaced.”

    “…”

    PD Nam Yunsoo stared blankly at the article draft in his hand.


    “Public Broadcasting Loses Its Dignity Due to Office Politics and Corruption”

    The article draft carried a weighty title and contained three main points:

    The first was about the bribe-taking and disguised trainee appearances during Duo Reinterpreted.

    The second exposed an internal whistle blower who anonymously reported the affairs of the Chicken Race MCs.

    The third was about the one who leaked the affair to a news company when the broadcasting station tried to suppress the news as much as possible.

    The article concluded with the speculation that the main character of all three incidents was the same person.

    And that person was “a certain PD who recently directed a pilot program.”

    Anyone could see that it was referring to him.

    PD Nam Yunsoo did feel a sense of injustice.

    He had absolutely nothing to do with the second item in the article. He hadn’t known about the affair between the Chicken Race MCs.

    But once rumors started circulating—about the affair and the pilot program—greed begans to stir inside people.

    That was because, at that moment, he was the only one who could take charge of directing the pilot.

    He feared that the show might try to weather the storm by dragging things out and replacing only the MC.

    Or that, if things dragged on too long, another PD might become interested in directing the pilot.

    So all he had done was trigger an article that was bound to break eventually, just a bit earlier.

    That’s why he felt it was unfair.

    The first incident was something he’d already been disciplined for.

    The second had nothing to do with him.

    The third was bound to happen anyway.

    And yet, PD Nam Yunsoo was overcome with despair.

    Because he instinctively knew that Han Seon-ho was right.

    The moment an article like that came out, the PD would inevitably be replaced.

    On top of that, he had only just returned from a long disciplinary suspension.

    If he got caught up in another scandal, no matter what the facts were, the station would replace him to save face in the public eye.

    Did I really tie my shoelaces in a melon field…?

    He couldn’t figure out where things had gone wrong.

    He had just tested the waters.

    He thought he had nothing to lose, and that Personal Color had much more to lose.

    But the opposite had happened.

    All because of one manager.

    He still couldn’t believe the manager in front of him was the same guy he’d met at the station.

    If he had known the guy carried such an aura, he never would’ve made a move so recklessly.

    In the end, despair and fear flickered in Nam Yunsoo PD’s eyes.

    And finally, he opened his mouth.

    “What the hell… do you want?”

    The moment PD Nam Yunsoo asked what he wanted, Seon-ho was hit by an intense temptation.

    He wanted to demand that Personal Color be made the winner.

    But…

    Up to now, everything he had done was defensive.

    He had used aggressive methods, sure, but they were all in response to PD Nam Yunsoo’s attacks.

    If he now used the PD’s weakness to make demands, that would become an attack.

    It would be exactly the kind of tactic used by the orphanage—something he desperately wanted to distance himself from.

    Still, the temptation was overwhelming.

    Dealing with PD Nam was easier than expected, and the man was more cowardly than he had assumed.

    At this point, the PD was so shaken he would probably accept any demand.

    Of course, once the immediate crisis passed, resentment would start to build—but Seon-ho was confident he could handle that too.

    “What matters is that I saw it that way. And that bastard owes me for that melon.”

    “And I’m confident I can take that bastard down.”

    The PD owed him for the melon, and Seon-ho was confident he could “take him down.”

    So why shouldn’t he?

    “…Ah.”

    That was when he saw it.

    A small box.

    The one handed to him by the part-timer who used the nickname “Our Woochan.”

    A box filled with different kinds of cookies.

    A box filled with support for Personal Color.

    The moment he saw it, his mind cleared.

    And then… he felt ashamed.

    The moment he made an unfair demand to PD Nam Yunsoo, everything would become a lie.

    From the sweat Personal Color had shed, to the efforts of everyone trying to give that sweat meaning—it would all be a betrayal.

    So he felt ashamed.

    He wanted to shake off that shame.

    It may have started with the orphanage’s methods, but he wanted to end it differently.

    He wanted to end it in the way of Producer Han Seon-ho.

    “You asked what I want? I don’t want anything.”

    “What?”

    “PD Nam Yunsoo. I’m not asking for anything.”

    “Then why did you do all this…?”

    PD Nam Yunsoo’s eyes trembled.

    “All you have to do is get rid of that desire that crept into your heart. And go back to the beginning.”

    “…The beginning?”

    “Yes. The very beginning. The singer prepares for the stage with all their might, and the director does their best to direct it. I’m saying we should return to a time when everyone did their part faithfully.”

    “……”

    “I’m not asking for special treatment for Personal Color. I’m just asking you not to distort things.”

    That was all Seon-ho wanted.

    Because he believed in Personal Color.

    “If their performance is lackluster, then film it as it is. I will never blame you.”

    Looking into Seon-ho’s eyes, Nam Yunsoo PD realized he was serious.

    So he couldn’t suppress the curiosity bubbling inside.

    “You catch a public broadcaster PD in a scandal, and all you demand is fairness? There’s gotta be someone behind you. Someone who planned all this.”

    Seon-ho paused for a moment before replying.

    “I could spread this article to the news companies. I’ve even gathered a decent amount of evidence. But no one planned this with me. I wrote the article. No one else has read it yet.”

    “……”

    “I’ll take you back to the station. See you at the shoot tomorrow.”

    When Seon-ho said this, PD Nam Yunsoo looked confused and asked again.

    “That’s really it?”

    “Yes.”

    “Why?”

    “Because I believe in Personal Color. And because I don’t want to keep fighting someone as capable as you.”

    After a long silence, Nam Yunsoo PD opened the passenger side door.

    Cold air rushed in from the open door.

    “The station’s quite far. You should sit.”

    But there was no answer.

    A moment later, the PD stepped out of the car.

    Seon-ho watched his figure grow smaller as he walked away.

    He must have been feeling a whirlwind of emotions.

    Fear, knowing he was still leashed. Anger, for being manipulated. Doubt, about whether Seon-ho’s words were even true.

    And Seon-ho hoped… that somewhere in there was a flicker of shame.

    Just like what he himself had felt today.

    Just like he had rejected the ways of his past, he hoped Nam Yunsoo PD would do the same.

    Otherwise, they would have to go all the way.


    Last winter hadn’t been very cold, which might be why the chill came early this year—starting from November.

    “Jeez, they must be freezing. The heaters aren’t even on yet.”

    “Being an idol is really tough.”

    KBM broadcasting staff rushed to clock out, glancing at the idols dressed in weather-inappropriate outfits.

    But the members of the seven idol groups weren’t feeling the cold at all.

    Because at long last, the first battle had begun.

    November 9, 2017, 7:00 p.m.

    All rehearsals had ended, and the first recording of the Idol War was underway.