Perhaps due to the fatigue from the business trip, Park Cha-myung had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, and Han Seon-ho was deep in thought as the car headed back to the company.
Until now, MOK had taken an unclear stance regarding Hye-mi.
They wanted to recover the contract deposit, but they weren’t interested in using their resources to turn her into a star—a complicated situation.
This attitude stemmed from the negative stance of MOK’s CEO, Kim Dong-han.
But now, things had changed.
With Autumn Leaf topping the chart, Hye-mi’s status had risen significantly.
She was no longer just one of many entertainers no one really cared about.
She was a talent they couldn’t afford to lose.
So MOK decided to change course.
At the company level, they resolved to support Hye-mi.
That was because Hye-mi already disliked MOK, and her contract only had eleven months remaining.
So if MOK wanted to keep her, they had to prove themselves.
They needed to make her trust the company.
That’s why they created a dedicated “temporary special team” just for Hye-mi.
The Temporary Special Team.
Also known as the Dream Team.
The Temporary Special Team, designed to operate for six weeks, was composed exclusively of top-tier supporters.
Leading the Dream Team was Jung Chanyoung, a veteran’s veteran and the head of Management Team C.
Other staff included coordinators, makeup artists, engineers, and stage production experts—MOK’s best of the best.
The name “Dream Team” couldn’t have fit them better.
And there was no place for Han Seon-ho in that Dream Team.
Naturally so.
The company was putting everything on the line to make Hye-mi a star—there was no way a rookie manager would be included.
Seon-ho was planned to join another management team, like all new recruits, to learn the ropes under a senior.
To absorb the know-how from those who had entered showbiz ahead of him.
It makes sense…
Then why did it feel so uncomfortable?
Like wearing clothes that didn’t fit.
Like forcing down tasteless food.
It wasn’t that he hated the idea of managing an artist other than Hye-mi.
His dream was to be a producer.
Of course he wanted to showcase the music he created through a variety of artists.
That was why directing Oh Hanbit’s rap had been so enjoyable.
Even so, something felt off.
After a brief moment of reflection, he realized what was bothering him.
His heart.
Is it because I strongly see myself as part of a team with Hye-mi?
It was a reasonable thought, but somehow didn’t feel like the right answer.
Bzzz—
Just then, his phone vibrated.
They were stopped at a red light, so Seon-ho checked his phone and couldn’t help but smile.
– Hyung, did you see this? Insane, right?
– Ah, I should’ve gotten first place…
– Bit of a shame, but honestly, Autumn leaf is just too good.
– Next performance, I’m taking the top spot.
The messages kept coming, accompanied by a screenshot from a music chart.
- Autumn Leaf[New][Hot]
- Love Hospital [New][Hot]
…
The sender was Oh Hanbit.
While Autumn Leaf was dominating first place with overwhelming results, Love Hospital was also doing incredibly well.
Out of eight major streaming sites, it ranked second on six and first on two.
Plus, love songs weren’t bound by seasons—they could be performed at any event.
So some in the industry were saying that, outside of streaming, Love Hospital might actually be the real winner—and it wasn’t a baseless claim.
– Oh, this is a review from a well-known critic about Tomorrow K-Star’s first performance.
Without giving Seon-ho a chance to reply, Hanbit sent two screenshots of reviews.
They were summaries from a critic named Bae Junghun.
Autumn Leaf:
Two young vocalists moved the entire nation.
Most impressive was how they performed a song with such a complex arrangement—where past and present coexisted—live, flawlessly.
Cha Hye-mi gave many parts to Jung Su-rim but didn’t lose an ounce of presence, and Su-rim led the performance perfectly.
It was a flawless stage.
Love Hospital:
A lion and a tiger fought for territory on stage.
There was no winner, but both showcased their presence through the battle.
The lion was Ryu Hail’s vocals, the tiger was Oh Hanbit’s rap.
Thanks to Hanbit’s fierce, explosive rap, Ryu Hail’s calm vocals stood out all the more.
The only drawback was that the two never reconciled by the end—but in the version released after the stage, they seemed to recognize and coexist with one another.
It was a brief yet precise critique, and Seon-ho found it quite striking.
Though it was the first time he’d heard the name Bae Junghun, he had a feeling he’d remember it.
– Good review, right? That guy totally ripped me apart in the past, and I was so pissed—but now that I think about it, he had a point.
Even though Seon-ho hadn’t replied, busy reading, Hanbit’s messages kept coming.
This wasn’t the first time Hanbit had reached out.
Now that I think about it, the top two songs on the charts both passed through your hands, hyung?
“Passed through”? I just gave some advice.
That means you gave advice for Autumn Leaf too, right? Then hyung, when I get the guide for my next competition song, you have to listen to it.
I told you, I don’t really know rap.
Just give me your opinion based on what you do know.
Ever since the first round of Tomorrow K-Star, Hanbit had been in steady contact.
Why are you even working as a manager, hyung?
What kind of random question is that?
No matter how I look at it, you’ve got way more talent for directing. You say you can’t compose, but your ear is amazing—it’s kind of a waste for you to just be a manager.
What’s wrong with being a manager?
Hmm… well, I guess without a solid resume, it’s hard to become a director. I’ll spread the word about you, so help me with my next song too, yeah?
Hanbit firmly believed that without Seon-ho’s advice and direction, Love Hospital wouldn’t have been a success.
That was why he showed interest and affection toward Seon-ho.
At first, Seonho had been shocked by Oh Hanbit’s attitude, but by now, he had gotten somewhat used to it.
Although he wasn’t a singer he was in charge of, he didn’t dislike the trust that came from someone he had worked with.
—I’m driving right now.
After reading the message, Seon-ho sent a reply, to which Oh Hanbit responded with a short “ㅇㅇ.”
Just then, the blaring sound of a horn startled him. When he looked up, the light had already changed.
As he started the car again, a random thought popped into his head.
What if my next assignment was Hanbit? Would I still feel uneasy?
It was a sudden thought.
But it struck right at the core of his subconscious discomfort.
Because… if Oh Hanbit became the next artist he managed, he didn’t think he’d feel uneasy.
In fact, he thought he’d be glad.
Why? Why is that?
It wasn’t about how close they were.
He and Oh Hanbit weren’t close yet.
Maybe they were in the early stages of becoming friends, but the trust between them had stemmed entirely from the success of Love Hospital.
Logically, it should’ve been a burden.
Then why does Oh Hanbit feel okay?
Just then, Park Cha-myung stirred awake from the passenger seat with a groan.
“Ugh, I’m dying.”
“You’re awake?”
“Yeah… where are we?”
“Probably about ten minutes away. You can sleep a bit more.”
“Nah. Gotta wake up before we go in.”
Saying that, Park Cha-myung took out his phone and began replying to his backlog of messages.
“Why are there so many messages? This is your fault, kid.”
“How is it my fault?”
“See all these congratulatory messages? They think I handled Autumn Leaf.”
“Well, your role was crucial, Team Leader.”
“Look at you, trying to suck up now?”
After finishing his replies with a yawn, Park Cha-myung seemed a little bored and opened his social media.
He began snickering as he watched a few videos.
“God, the world is full of weirdos.”
“Something funny?”
“Yeah, tons of funny stuff. Come to think of it, don’t you use social media?”
“No, I’ve never tried it.”
“Make one. The PR team handles it most of the time, but sometimes you need to take care of the artists’ social media. You should at least know how to use it.”
“Mm, understood.”
“Same goes for SNS or anything else. Our job happens in human relationships. You gotta push your way in somehow. If you stay distant, you won’t last long.”
As always, Park Cha-myung’s words were the kind of typical advice a senior gives to a junior.
But for Seon-ho, those obvious words weighed heavily.
Work that happens within human relationships.
Pushing your way into them.
Relationships…?
In that moment, Seon-ho realized what the discomfort he had been feeling really was.
He hadn’t been uncomfortable.
He had been afraid.
While directing Oh Hanbit, he had become certain of what kind of producer he wanted to be.
A producer who delivers results when trusted.
A producer who gives confidence when believed in.
But trust and belief weren’t things that formed easily. They could only be built on deep mutual understanding.
So what he had feared was the process of meeting someone new and coming to understand each other.
He was afraid of how long it might take for the other person to understand him, and for him to understand them.
Because ever since that child’s death, he’d been living like a loner for far too long.
He had tightly shut his heart and built thick walls disguised as politeness.
They didn’t know it, but a big part of why Seon-ho and Hye-mi had quickly opened up to each other was because of that shared “sense of similarity.”
“Ah!”
The moment he became aware of the emotion buried deep in his subconscious, Seon-ho let out an unconscious exclamation.
Park Cha-myung gave him a puzzled look.
“What’s up?”
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Why are you grinning like that if it’s nothing?”
“I’m just… happy.”
“What’s got you so happy?”
“This job. Being a manager.”
Just as Park Cha-myung had said, Seon-ho was smiling.
If he had been an ordinary producer, he might never have overcome this weakness.
He might have spent his whole life without even recognizing, let alone breaking, the thick wall he had built around himself.
But he was a manager.
He worked closest to the artists, in a position where he could see not just their constructed image but their true essence.
It was a role where he could understand the artist more deeply than anyone.
I’ve been lucky.
After Autumn Leaf’s success, he had seriously considered his position as a manager.
He had wondered whether it would be better to quit and become a freelance producer once he gained more experience.
But not anymore.
A producer who understands everything about an artist and creates songs that suit their very essence—
That was a role only he could fill.
So what he had to do from now on was put in the effort.
Effort to understand the new artists he would meet.
“Team Leader.”
“Yeah?”
“Who’s the artist I’ll be assigned to next?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you, huh. It’s not confirmed yet, but it probably won’t be an individual. Most likely a group.”
“A group? Like… an idol group?”
“Yeah.”
He had never thought about being assigned to an idol group before, but since more than half of active pop singers were idols, it wasn’t all that surprising.
“A girl group? Boy group?”
“Why? Hoping it’s a super pretty girl group?”
“No. I’d prefer a boy group.”
“Liar, this guy.”
Park Cha-myung snorted, but Seon-ho was being completely honest.
Now that he had recognized his weakness, he wanted to avoid the kind of idol group that needed strict privacy—he wanted to be with a boy group, where he could be more directly involved.
Then Park Cha-myung said,
“Neither.”
“Sorry?”
“It’s neither a girl group nor a boy group.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s not confirmed yet, but you’ll probably be working with the management team in charge of Personal Color.”
Personal Color.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall the members at all.
Seeing Seon-ho’s expression, Park Cha-myung gave him an annoyed look.
“You don’t know Personal Color? An Jia?”
“An Jia… the one who’s always in commercials and dramas… Oh right, she used to be an idol. Then Personal Color is the girl group she’s in?”
“I told you, it’s not a girl group.”
Personal Color.
A group where one girl—the breadwinner—was supporting two older brothers and two older sisters.
“A co-ed group.”
Park Cha-myung added, “A real rarity these days.”
TL : Yo, my heart dropped when he said “Neither”. For a second, I thought they were assigning my boy to some kind of gay group—if that’s even a thing.
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