The atmosphere on the set of Idol War the second time around was quite different from the first.
During the initial shoot, the overall mood had been a mix of anticipation and anxiety, but now it had shifted to a blend of excitement and high expectations.
“Did you see the broadcast?”
“Of course I did. PD Nam edited it amazingly.”
“The response has been great. There’s no way this flops—at the very least it’ll be a solid mid-level hit.”
“Mid-level? If episode 2 is good, it’s going to be a huge success. Social media’s already going nuts.”
“Would be nice if we got some bonuses if it blows up.”
“I heard weekday variety shows usually hand out bonuses if they crack 10%.”
This kind of chatter among the rookie floor directors was due to the early signs of a breakout hit.
In truth, based solely on viewership ratings, Idol War wasn’t yet considered a major success.
A 7.1% rating wasn’t low by any means, but it wasn’t overwhelming either.
Variety show ratings, unless they had a special boost, typically followed a slow downward slope.
The previous show, Chicken Race, had opened with ratings in the low 10% range but had dropped to 4% by the final episode for exactly that reason.
Of course, Chicken Race had ended poorly due to a scandal involving infidelity, and Idol War was a pilot program with a set number of episodes, so a direct comparison wasn’t fair.
Still, the 7.1% rating alone wasn’t enough to declare it a hit.
Even so, everyone thought Idol War was a breakout success—and that was because of its explosive online response.
- #1 in search volume on portal sites.
- #1 in online buzz index.
- #1 in SNS buzz volume.
- #1 in IPTV rewatch count.
- 300,000 views on Personal Color’s highlight clips.
All records set within just two days.
These numbers were clear proof of how much attention Idol War was attracting online.
Of course, there were still some concerns.
One was the overly off balance viewer demographic—mostly teens and people in their twenties with a direct interest in idols.
But the show had the advantage of being a weekday variety program.
Weekday shows airing after 11 p.m. were often watched by families together.
As more kids discovered the show online and became fans, it was natural that their parents would eventually become viewers too.
That was one reason why Idol War was so focused on online promotions.
If the online audience transitioned into offline viewers, those rookie FDs getting bonuses would be only a matter of time.
Winner Takes All.
That phrase—winner takes all—seemed more fitting to the entertainment world than anywhere else, Seon-ho thought as soon as he arrived on the set of Idol War.
Or maybe this is what you’d call a dramatic shift in fortunes?
The thought came to him because the production team had given the largest private waiting room to Personal Color.
It wasn’t just the atmosphere on set that had changed.
The way the production crew and rival teams treated Personal Color had also changed completely.
First off, the staff now acted as if they would grant Personal Color anything they asked for.
Their excessive kindness left the members feeling more bewildered than pleased.
On the flip side, the rival teams now seemed uncomfortable around Personal Color.
Aside from Dream Girls, who had a rocky history with them, most teams had initially liked Personal Color.
Online netizens had accused them of being forced into the show because of An Jia’s appearance in a KBM drama, but the competitors hadn’t felt that way.
To them, Personal Color had been a convenient team to take the fall in the first round of eliminations.
But not anymore.
Things had changed.
At this point, Personal Color had become a more threatening competitor than either Jesco or A.S.A.P.
Maybe that was the reason—or maybe it was just how things were—but Personal Color now had little interaction with the other teams.
They simply waited in their spacious room.
Waiting time used to be the most frustrating part for Personal Color, often causing team manager Kwon Hosan a stomach ache.
But not anymore.
“Oppa, what is this supposed to mean?”
An Jia handed her phone to Woochan.
The screen displayed comments posted on a mysterious message board.
└ There’s no better example of the trickle-down effect than Woochan. When sweat starts to roll down from his crown, no economist in the world can deny the economic impact.
└ Woochan’s eyelashes are like put options. The more they fall, the more profit.
└ Woochan’s eyelashes are like currency exchange rates. The lower they drop, the higher the value of the won.
└ Aw, the first two were great but this guy ruined it.
└ Woochan’s eyelashes are like interest rates. Whether they rise or fall, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m broke.
└ Hahahahahaha.
└ Brilliant writing.
Woochan tilted his head as he looked at the phone.
“You don’t get it? What does this mean?”
“It sounds positive… but I don’t really understand it.”
“Isn’t it hate comments?”
Riha, who had been listening from the side, burst into laughter as she looked at the phone.
“Unnie, you understood this?”
“Of course I did. Even if I lost all interest in studying and was dead last in class, I still went to a foreign language high school.”
“What does it mean?”
“They’re saying it’s good when Woochan’s eyelashes fall. They’re just using economic terms as metaphors.”
“Why use economic terms?”
“Because it’s a stock trading message board. Those guys are good at everything except actual investing.”
With that, Riha burst into laughter again.
Thinking about it just made it even funnier.
“Woochan-oppa. With this much support, don’t you think it’s okay to shed a tear or two?”
“Ah, seriously!”
Woochan, having lost all big-brother authority, bickered with Riha while Baek Songyi scolded them to quiet down because they were being a nuisance.
But no one seemed fazed by her scolding.
The atmosphere in the waiting room—once a source of anxiety for manager Kwon—had already become light and relaxed.
Rather than interacting with the other teams, Personal Color much preferred talking amongst themselves.
They had three years worth of conversations to catch up on, after all.
A little later, as a staff member came in to change the tape on the waiting room camera, Seon-ho approached to ask a question.
“Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
“Is it because the waiting room is big? There seem to be a lot more cameras than usual.”
“Ah, that’s on PD Nam’s orders.”
“PD Nam’s orders?”
“Yes. He said the viewers would want to see the reconciled Personal Color, so he told us to install every spare camera.”
“Ahh.”
Seon-ho nodded.
Indeed, the ‘teamwork’ of Personal Color was a major point of interest for Idol War’s viewers.
“You should strike a pose too, Manager. Wouldn’t it be nice if you showed up looking cool on camera?”
“Come on, does it matter if I look cool? The members are the ones who need to stand out.”
“There are even comments about you sometimes. Like why that member’s always with them during missions but never on stage.”
Seon-ho gave a embarrassed smile at the staff member’s comment.
After a bit more small talk, the staff replaced the tape and left the waiting room.
Shortly after, the cheerful wait came to an end, and the opening for the second recording of Idol War began.
Idol War was a survival show where ranks were given and contestants were eliminated—but it had no judges.
Or more precisely, it had so many judges that they couldn’t be listed. Because the judges of Idol War were the public.
There were five evaluation criteria used to judge through the public:
- Real-time text voting: 30%
- Big data score: 25%
- Audience panel vote: 20%
- Pre-show online vote: 15%
- SNS buzz index: 10%
“Let me explain the big data score, which might be unfamiliar to some.”
As soon as singer Jo Junseok, the sole host of Idol War, finished speaking, the contestants all wore intrigued expressions.
Some even scooted their chairs closer, focusing intently on the screen.
But these were calculated reactions—designed to get more screen time.
They had already received full explanations during the pre-recording meeting.
Meanwhile, Jo Junseok continued his explanation.
The big data score was calculated based on online data related to each team.
For example, if 82% of the data related to the team Personal Color contained positive words and 18% contained negative ones, their score would be 82.
If there was a portion of neutral data that was neither positive nor negative, half of that amount would be converted into points.
So if Personal Color had 80% positive, 10% negative, and 10% neutral, half of the neutral—5%—would be added to the score, making it 85 points in total.
“The team introduction mission was an exhibition match with no eliminations. However, to imitate a real round, we’ll still reveal the scores.”
The first score revealed was the SNS buzz index, the category with the lowest weighting.
1st place went to Personal Color. 7th was Ladies Day.
At that moment, the host added an explanation.
“In the case of Dream Girls, who made a critical mistake, their SNS buzz index was actually high. Their mistake got people talking.”
The members of Dream Girls made unsure expressions—unsure whether to be happy or not.
A high SNS buzz score was good, but that likely meant their big data score would be low.
Next came the pre-show online voting results.
1st place was A.S.A.P. 7th was Personal Color.
That was to be expected.
Before the first episode aired, Personal Color was just a team digging dirt. They had no chance of ranking high in pre-show votes.
Then the host said,
“For the real-time text vote, big data score, and audience panel vote, we’ll only be revealing the 1st and 7th places.”
The singers looked puzzled at the sudden announcement, but soon nodded.
Revealing ranks 2 through 6 was meaningless.
Because Personal Color had swept all the top spots.
Their big data score alone was 94% positive, 2% negative, and 4% neutral—for a total of 96 points.
Dream Girls, in 7th, scored 31 points.
Jo Junseok continued.
“If this had been the first official round and not just an exhibition, Dream Girls would be eliminated right here. With the combined results, they placed 7th out of 7 teams.”
Tension filled the set in an instant.
Next week, after preparing a stage for a whole week, applying full makeup, and dressing in performance outfits, one team would be sent home after merely hearing the results.
Everyone was just hoping it wouldn’t be them.
After the opening ended in silence, the main filming began.
Filming progressed smoothly.
In truth, there wasn’t much for Seon-ho to help with during the second and third rounds.
The second round’s arrangement was done by a producer from MOK, and the third round was a cover mission where they weren’t allowed to change the original song.
All Seon-ho could do was trust and watch over Personal Color.
Of course, the fact that he had triggered the potential that had lain dormant in Personal Color for three years meant he had already fulfilled his role perfectly.
And it wasn’t just about triggering potential.
As time passed, Idol War was gaining more attention, and with it, Vivid’s chart performance was rapidly rising.
The song that started off at 10th had now reached 3rd.
Since Idol War was still a new pilot program, it didn’t have the same influence as Tomorrow’s K-Star.
That’s why Vivid didn’t debut at #1 on the charts.
But Seon-ho believed Vivid was as good as autumn leaf, and he held out hope that it could take 1st place before the weekend ended.
Maybe that’s why he felt even more frustrated.
He wanted to stir up an even stronger wind behind the slowly rising Personal Color.
They said the 4th round mission would be revealed after today’s shoot, right?
With that thought, Seon-ho headed for the bathroom.
As he stood at the urinal, someone called out to him.
“Hey.”
A man of average height had just finished at the innermost urinal.
He looked vaguely familiar—on closer inspection, it was Jeon Heeseong, the manager in charge of Dream Girls.
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