Kwon Hosan, who had briefly frozen at the unexpected face, came to his senses belatedly.
“Oh no, I left our superstar standing for too long. Come on in.”
“Aw, Manager. Superstar? That’s too much.”
“Not you. I meant Su-rim.”
“Come on, Manager!”
Hye-mi laughed and shook her head at Kwon Hosan’s joke.
Hye-mi and Su-rim entered the waiting room, nodded politely to Seon-ho, and walked toward Personal Color.
No matter how happy they were to see Seon-ho again, they couldn’t greet the manager first when senior singers were present.
“Hello.”
“Hello!”
Both in terms of age and debut year, Personal Color were seniors to Cha Hye-mi and Jung Su-rim.
But in the hierarchy of the entertainment world, Hye-mi and Su-rim were royalty, while Personal Color were mere servants.
No… maybe commoners, at least.
Manager Kwon Hosan, harbouring such pitiful thoughts, cautiously scanned the expressions on the members of Personal Color.
The sense of deprivation one feels when a fellow labelmate rises to fame is immense.
They had all received songs from the same company, had the same promotion, the same management.
But one of them made it, and the other didn’t.
You couldn’t help but feel miserable while wondering what the difference was.
Still, the members of Personal Color greeted them, hiding their true feelings.
“Hey, Hye-mi.”
“It’s been a while. Congrats on the #1 spot.”
“‘Autumn Leaf’ was really great. I enjoyed it.”
“Thank you.”
Hye-mi bowed politely.
Baek Songyi turned to Su-rim.
“I really enjoyed your song too, Su-rim. You sing so well.”
“Oh, thank you! Sunbae!”
“Make sure you win Tomorrow K-Star. Don’t you think it’s time a woman won?”
Su-rim beamed and bowed deeply at Baek Songyi’s words of encouragement.
“Thank you so much for the support. And please feel free to speak comfortably with me. You’re way more senior than I am.”
At the mention of “way more senior,” a subtle change crossed Baek Songyi’s face.
But she knew Su-rim meant no harm.
She could tell from expressions whether someone was mocking her or not.
“So I can speak informally from now on?”
“Of course.”
“Wow, I suddenly gained a dongsaeng who’s topping the charts? You should call me ‘unni’ instead of ‘sunbae’ now.” Dongsaeng is used for younger siblings
Su-rim smiled at Baek Songyi’s playful comment.
But still inexperienced in showbiz, Su-rim failed to sense the bitterness hidden behind the joke.
“So what brings you two here? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the next round of the competition by now?”
“Oh, we’re appearing on Music Box’s special stage today.”
“Special stage? It wasn’t on the cue sheet.”
“We don’t really know either. We got the call early this morning, right, unni?”
Hye-mi nodded at Su-rim’s question.
“Yeah, it was a last-minute arrangement.”
Baek Songyi realized the infamous “Dream Team” at MOK had begun moving.
Normally, Tomorrow K-Star contestants were forbidden from appearing on any broadcast outside of the group schedules arranged by SBN.
This restriction was absolute until elimination.
No matter how popular ‘Autumn Leaf’ became, and even if Music Box was an SBN program, there were no exceptions.
So the fact that there was an exception now could only mean there had been some deal behind the scenes between SBN and MOK Entertainment.
The special stage not being on the cue sheet said it all.
Whoever lost their spot must’ve been some small-time agency…
Major broadcasters like this were extremely strict with airtime.
If a special stage was added, someone had to lose that slot.
Most likely, a small agency that had fought hard for that broadcast slot got bumped off.
But Hye-mi and Su-rim, with little experience outside Tomorrow K-Star, seemed unaware of this.
Well, it’s not their fault.
After all, opportunities weren’t shared equally.
If you missed today’s opportunity, there was no guarantee you’d get one tomorrow. That was the entertainment world.
Watching Personal Color slowly unravel, Baek Songyi felt it more keenly than ever.
Their downfall was entirely her fault.
She had let go of that opportunity back then.
Silently blaming herself, Baek Songyi let out a quiet sigh.
The light-hearted greetings mixed with updates didn’t even last five minutes.
They quickly ran out of things to talk about.
Since Hye-mi and Su-rim were being considerate and avoided talking about music, it was only natural for near-strangers to have nothing else to say.
Watching from the side, Kwon Hosan thought it was time to wrap things up.
Hm?
But no—it wasn’t.
Even though the conversation had long ended, Hye-mi and Su-rim made no move to leave.
Hye-mi in particular lingered.
Kwon Hosan tilted his head.
Does she have something hard to bring up?
After hesitating a while longer, Hye-mi glanced at Kwon Hosan and finally spoke.
“Manager Kwon.”
“Yeah?”
“Is Seon-ho oppa busy right now?”
“Seon-ho? Why?”
“I just wanted to catch up a bit. It’s been a while.”
“A while?”
Kwon Hosan tilted his head again.
Just a few days ago, Han Seon-ho was still Hye-mi’s road manager.
“Been a while” didn’t really fit.
“Just… I have a few things to ask.”
“Is it something important?”
“Not super important, but…”
“Then you can talk here, right? He’s not particularly busy, and he should get to know the other staff anyway.”
“Oh, it’s fine.”
As Hye-mi nodded, Su-rim grumbled beside her.
“Aw, I wanted to hang out too.”
“You’ve got filming soon. Go get ready.”
Su-rim had an upcoming shoot for Tomorrow K-Star.
It was a crucial one that would determine the performance order for the next round.
“I know! I’ll pull first place, just watch.”
“Well, it’s your stage, after all.”
“Wow, so cold!”
Su-rim exaggeratedly pretended to be hurt, and Hye-mi shrugged her shoulders.
Watching them, Kwon Hosan felt like the wall that used to surround Hye-mi had finally come down.
The Hye-mi he’d met at the company and the Hye-mi now felt like two completely different people.
Was it the success of ‘Autumn Leaf’? Or maybe…
Just then, Su-rim said,
“The stage isn’t mine. It’s ours, you heartless unni.”
“Who’s ‘us’?”
“Who else? You, me, and oppa.”
As she said that, Su-rim looked toward Teiji.
Startled by her gaze, Teiji flinched, and the Personal Color members were even more shocked.
“Wait, what? Did you start a whole other group without us?”
“W-what? Me? What are you even talking about?”
But Su-rim hadn’t been looking at Teiji.
It was Han Seon-ho, who had been quietly standing behind him.
As everyone turned toward him, Seon-ho finally spoke.
“No, Surim. That stage isn’t ours. It’s yours.”
“Ugh! You guys are the worst! So heartless!”
Seon-ho burst out laughing.
Ever since the party over the weekend, he and Su-rim had grown noticeably closer.
After grumbling for a while, Su-rim glanced at the clock.
“Anyway, you’re staying longer, right? I’ve gotta go now, so see you in a bit.”
“Pick a good number.”
“Don’t worry! I’ll get number one!”
This time, she turned to Seon-ho.
“I’m heading out, oppa. See you later. And seriously, say something in the group chat once in a while! If you think your schedule’s ending soon, give us a heads-up!”
After saying that, Su-rim left the waiting room.
The members of Personal Color tilted their heads as they watched Jung Su-rim vanish like a storm.
“Are they really close?”
“Didn’t they only meet briefly during K-Star?”
“And wasn’t Han Seon-ho Cha Hye-mi’s manager? Why is he so close with Jung Su-rim too?”
“Is it because ‘Autumn Leaf’ went so well? Still, they’re really close.”
The members of Personal Color had no idea what kind of process Seon-ho, Hye-mi, and Su-rim had gone through to build their bond.
They didn’t know the joy and emotion of having their work—born purely from discussions, deliberation, and effort without outside help—recognized by everyone and winning first place.
So in the end, their curiosity led to one distorted conclusion.
It was all thanks to Han Seon-ho’s ridiculously good looks.
“Or maybe… Jung Su-rim might have a thing for Han Seon-ho. I mean, just look at him.”
While Personal Color misunderstood the situation, Seon-ho and Hye-mi started talking in the corner of the waiting room.
It wasn’t a serious conversation or anything.
Just casual chatter—whether they slept well, how the new team was, what new schedules they had lined up.
But the way they talked gave off a sense of deep familiarity.
Kwon Hosan and the members of Personal Color unconsciously focused on the two.
Partly because the waiting room was always quiet to begin with, and partly because they were intrigued by Seon-ho and Hye-mi’s relationship.
Yet, the more they listened to their conversation, the more something felt off.
It was strange that Hye-mi was asking Seon-ho questions about music, but they could chalk that up to artistic curiosity.
Plenty of singers value the opinions of regular listeners, and besides, rumor had it that Han Seon-ho wasn’t exactly clueless.
What really struck them as odd was the presence—or rather, absence—of MOK.
Cha Hye-mi was a singer under MOK.
Han Seon-ho was a manager under MOK.
They were both tied to MOK.
But the more they listened, the more it felt like MOK didn’t even exist between them.
As if they existed outside of MOK entirely.
In the middle of their chat, Hye-mi suddenly remembered something.
“Oh, right. I’ll upload a few songs to the group chat in a bit. Give them a listen, okay?”
“Are they for the next round?”
“Yeah. They’re candidates selected by the A&R team. Fully produced tracks with guide vocals too.”
“What do you think of them?”
“Hmm… They’re good songs. But to be honest, none of them really grab me.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t feel like my songs, you know?”
Hye-mi figured her disappointment had something to do with the impact of Autumn Leaf.
The moment she first heard Autumn Leaf, she felt like the song had a place just for her.
That was a feeling she’d never had before—and one she wanted to experience again.
But the new songs proposed by MOK didn’t feel like her songs.
They were all good songs, sure, but they felt like anyone could sing them.
Slightly… underwhelming.
Lost in that thought, Hye-mi shook her head.
“But I made a promise yesterday, so I’ll work hard anyway. Which means you have to give me feedback too.”
“Don’t worry.”
“As soon as possible.”
“I’ll listen as soon as you upload them.”
Nodding at Seon-ho’s reply, Hye-mi suddenly asked,
“I forgot to ask yesterday—why didn’t Producer Prefer participate in this round?”
“The deadline was too tight, I think. We had a longer prep time for Autumn Leaf, but this time it’s only a week.”
“Oh, true… Still, that’s a shame.”
Entertainment companies often had what they called “keeping tracks”—songs held in reserve before release.
Some were kept because they weren’t quite ready, while others were saved because they were too good to release just yet.
Songs that were amazing but didn’t match the artist’s concept.
Songs so good they should be released as singles instead of album tracks.
Songs delayed due to copyright issues like sampling or remakes.
With enough engineers on board, entertainment companies could quickly refine those keeping tracks into polished releases.
MOK, with its strong engineering lineup, was well-equipped for that kind of production.
But for a solo producer like Prefer, creating a song in a week wasn’t so simple.
Especially since Prefer also had another job—being “Manager Han Seon-ho.”
Still, that didn’t mean Seon-ho had been sitting idle.
“Wait a bit.”
“Huh?”
“Prefer will definitely join the third round. He’s already working on a song.”
Hye-mi’s face lit up instantly.
“Did you provide the ideas and sources again?”
“Probably?”
At Seon-ho’s words, Hye-mi said with determination, “I have to make it through the second round!”
Seon-ho smiled at her words.
In truth, there was another reason he hadn’t submitted anything for the second round.
Even with tight deadlines, he could’ve squeezed out at least one track if he really pushed himself.
But he held back because he wanted to see what kind of song MOK would give to Cha Hye-mi.
With Autumn Leaf, Seon-ho had introduced the ideal version of Hye-mi he’d imagined to the public—and succeeded.
So what image did MOK see as ideal for Hye-mi?
What kind of song would they choose to move past the shadow of Autumn Leaf?
It was something worth studying.
Just then, Hye-mi said wistfully,
“Ugh, I really need to brainstorm like this with you more often…”
“Why? Is communication tough with your current team?”
“No, not at all. If anything, they treat me like a top star, which is kind of uncomfortable.”
“Then why?”
“Hmm…”
Hye-mi searched for the words before speaking.
“When we worked on Autumn Leaf, everything felt intense and passionate. Now it just feels… calculated. Like I’m just another cog in the machine, you know?”
“I see.”
“I’m not saying that’s wrong. Actually, it probably is the right way to go. But I still feel a little disappointed.”
She added with a smile,
“Su-rim’s coming over to my place tonight. Our radio gigs end last, so we figured we’d hang out.”
“What time do you both finish?”
“I’m done at midnight, she’s done at one.”
“That’s not evening—that’s early morning.”
“Whatever! Anyway, can you come too?”
At that, Kwon Hosan and the members of Personal Color—who had been quietly eavesdropping—were startled.
And their curiosity about Han Seon-ho grew even more.
At first, they thought Hye-mi’s familiarity was just attraction to a charming guy, but the more they listened, the more they realized it wasn’t that.
What they were witnessing was trust.
A deep, unshakable trust.
Naturally, they couldn’t help but wonder—
Han Seon-ho had only managed Cha Hye-mi for a month.
Jung Su-rim had only spent two weeks with him.
So how had Han Seon-ho earned such overwhelming trust in so little time?
Knock knock.
Just then, someone knocked on the waiting room door.
“Yes, come in,” said Kwon Hosan, snapping back to his senses.
The door opened—
“Hyung! I heard you switched teams!”
It was Oh Hanbit.
Kwon Hosan stared in disbelief as Oh Hanbit ran straight to Han Seon-ho.
Is this Personal Color’s waiting room, or Han Seon-ho’s?
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