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.
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