Debut or Die-Chapter 264

I rested my hand on the table.

It was just a small table placed in the hotel room to fill the space—but there was a camera as big as the table in front of me.

A crew member behind the camera said,

“Please introduce yourself.”

“Yes. Hello. I’m Park Mundae of TeSTAR.”

I nodded to the camera, then spoke with a faint smile.

“I am currently... participating in TeSTAR’s second concert tour.”

And also participating in the making of this concert documentary—what I’m doing right now.

‘Actually, they film a lot of behind-the-scenes at concerts.’

It gives fans a sense of closeness to each idol, and the stories behind concerts fans attended are interesting. But making a standalone documentary is rare. Launching it publicly, not just as a fan-only product, is encouraging. It means the production has enough mainstream significance to leave a mark on pop music’s trends.

‘It’s like knocking on the door of the upper echelon.’

For example, VTIC has probably had three or four documentaries already. Everyone agreed this was a rite of passage to the next level. But whether everyone was happy about it was another matter.

“...Isn’t it uncomfortable? Having cameras follow you for months.”

“They said they’ll come in only with our approval.”

“I don’t lead an especially interesting daily life, so I’m worried the content won’t be engaging...”

“Ah, the pros will edit it well. It’s a documentary, not variety—no need to chase ratings! They’ll make us look good.”

In the end, by majority decision and some persuasion, filming began, and so far it hadn’t caused major problems.

‘Still... it feels a bit too intrusive.’

For instance, like this.

“Is there anything about the tour that makes you most uncomfortable?”

“Um... probably adapting to time zones and figuring out new venues... environmental factors, I guess.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Then, on a more... emotional level, how do you feel?”

“Emotionally...”

I could sense the crew wanting to capture something raw. Each camera seemed an attempt to close the gap between me and my inner thoughts. They’d ask simple questions to lower my guard, then steer the conversation toward something more revealing. It was a different kind of inducement than the sensational variety-show crew’s.

Of course, I could simply give a more “authentic” answer.

“It’s hard for me that if factors beyond my control prevent the audience from fully enjoying the concert.”

I paused as if thinking, then continued.

“So that’s the most sensitive and worrisome thing for me: the concert’s completeness.”

They must have felt satisfied that they’d got a glimpse of my character. As expected, the crew nodded and moved to the next question.

“Then, what does a concert mean to TeSTAR?”

“It’s the closest way for us to meet our fans...”

After that, I think I gave suitably documentary-style answers. The edited version will look polished.

“Thank you.”

The interview continued for about an hour. Then the crew left to visit the next member, and it ended.

“...”

I lay down on the bed.

Touring itself was more relaxed than regular promotions. Now that I had some free time, each member got a solo hotel room. And between concerts there was plenty of downtime to recover physically.

“So quiet.”

I closed my eyes. After years among noisy people, it felt almost awkward.

“...”

Just before random thoughts could creep in, the crew’s question echoed in my head:

What does a concert mean to you?

And a scene immediately came to mind—this tour’s first concert. The long-awaited show at Seoul’s Gocheok Dome.

WAAAAAAH!!

The roar. The pyrotechnics. The heat. And the pure focus.

If that overwhelming psychological uplift °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° and intensity are the essence of a concert, then that remote charity concert could only be called “filming.” It had been so long that it felt like diving into the ocean— the air itself was different.

Though concerts are a good revenue source for the company, for a performer it’s a transcendent space. When done well, the reward exceeds the burden. And it had been ages since this group felt that.

“Sigh.”

...Thankfully, the documentary crew wasn’t stuck to me since Seoul.

‘They would’ve all sobbed their way home.’

They’d never have been able to be interviewed in that state.

“Dream a blue dream like the daytime!! Sniff!”

The guys who’d linked arms singing our debut song back at the dorm were a pack of drunks. If the walls weren’t soundproof, there’d have been noise complaints.

‘Cheong-woo cut it off just right.’

I quietly credited the leader. Then I checked the next W Live schedule and fell asleep, reminding myself there were 34 hours until the next concert.

“It’ll be soon.”

The venue in the U.S. was smaller than in Korea, but a concert was still a concert—there’d be a similar rush of intensity.

After hunkering down in the hotel and rehearsals, the concert began again.

[Hello LA!]

[Wooooow!]

Yes. Concerts remained a special experience—and it felt exhilarating. But I decided I’d need to revise my opinion of the documentary crew.

‘They’re overdoing it.’

“Mundae, are you okay?”

“...I’m fine.”

I removed the oxygen mask and sat up. The camera hurriedly followed, and someone on the crew scribbled something behind me. It felt laden with intent.

‘Are they crafting a narrative?’

But finding an idol not using an oxygen mask would be quicker—and focusing on “passion” this way would just produce a clichéd image.

‘VTIC milked that trope to death.’

However, after the concert, I realized in the resumed interview what was going on.

“Mundae, since the car accident, have you ever felt any lingering effects?”

“...? Car accident... um, no. I’m healthy.”

They’d begun asking about my physical condition.

‘Ah, I see.’

They wanted to frame me as “the perfectionist idol who, despite physical pain, gives his all.” It’s interesting to add narrative to a documentary, but...

‘It’s deception.’

By modern medical standards I was cleared completely. And I even worked on stretching my muscles for the intense choreography on this album—making that a storyline would be dishonest. I’m perfectly healthy.

‘If they go down this path, a lie detector would expose it.’

The only limit was asking about “post-accident anxiety.” I added my words more firmly.

“I appreciate your concern, and I did want to show fans my best despite any worries—but I’m completely healthy now.”

An odd silence fell among the crew. What was this?

“Um, Mundae. We noticed you moving beyond normal limits during the concert.”

“...Me?”

Had I been in a different show?

“Yes. The oxygen mask and everything. Your members have mentioned it too.”

“My members?”

What were they talking about? Meanwhile, the crew behind the cameraman were giddy at my confusion. Was it that entertaining?

“They said since the accident, they see you struggle more than before—and you never show it, which pains them.”

“...”

In an instant, memories flashed through my mind.

You... had reduced stamina from aftereffects.

You were seriously injured and bedridden so long it affected your conditioning.

“They want you to pace yourself more, they say.”

But the only thing I’d lean on was bakus. Even without it, I was fine—but the members kept comparing me to the era when I ran entirely on bakus. I’d actually forgotten how unreal my stamina was back then. And contrary to my vow, I’d replaced baku’s boost with “mission mode,” slamming the door on my peak fitness...

And with the system gone, I couldn’t get any more pulls.

‘I’m screwed.’

No way out.

I gritted my silence and finally spoke.

“I didn’t know the members felt that way.”

Don’t look like you’re touched. But I’d use the misunderstanding. I paused, then slowly answered.

“I was the one who was most seriously injured, so the members took care of me a lot. I’m sure their comment came from that same context... so, thank you.”

Half of it was sincere.

So they could drop the warm “bonding over overcoming injury” storyline. But they didn’t give up.

“Here!”

“M-Mundae, are you okay?”

“...I am.”

Ha....

They then doggedly filmed me backstage. Especially capturing me leaning on someone or gasping for breath—it was blatantly intentional.

‘They’re completely fixated.’

I considered warning them a few times, then gave up.

‘Whatever.’

They picked interesting angles, so the documentary would be fun and fact-based. Though it risked implanting a distorted image of me in the public’s mind... well, fine.

‘Injury-fighting spirit is a common behind-the-scenes trope.’

Yeah, this job starts and ends with deception... Let’s at least do it justice.

‘The “member-caused aftereffect” rumor is going global...’

I resigned myself and focused on the concert.

But apparently, one member couldn’t do the same.

“Stop! Enough!”

“...!”

It happened during the short VCR before the encore. Suddenly there was a loud voice backstage—the least sensitive member’s voice.

“Yoo-jin?”

“Cha Yoo-jin?”

The guys changing outfits froze, then rushed over in surprise. The camera followed—and though it was a bit awkward, our contract stipulated footage disposal anyway.

‘First, assess the situation.’

Rounding the corridor, I saw where the sound came from: a small backstage room usually used for treating cramps or joint pain. Yoo-jin had a patch on his shoulder like he was getting emergency treatment—but something more urgent was happening. He was confronting the documentary crew.

“...Yoo-jin?”

He glanced at me, then turned back to face the crew.

“Don’t do that. I don’t like it.”

“Y-yes, sorry.”

“Get out. Don’t come in here.”

And he firmly sent the crew away.

“...Wait.”

I ushered the cameraman out too. Their attempt to film through the closed door annoyed me—but Yoo-jin came first. When Cheong-woo saw the door close, he cut the mic and said to Yoo-jin:

“Yoo-jin. There’s a camera. If you have something to say, you can after the concert, when the cameras are down.”

“...OK. Got it.”

Yoo-jin nodded, not exactly happy, but he’d manage the encore—he wasn’t the type to struggle on stage.

‘Those documentary guys really overstepped.’

I didn’t expect Yoo-jin to react so strongly. What had they done to provoke him? Yet the crew seemed to maintain their boundaries—so what had gone too far? I took a deep breath and opened the door. Immediately, the camera charged in.

...This time it bothered me too. Maybe their zeal was the cause.

‘I’ll have to say something as soon as it ends.’

But before this concert even ended, another fuss erupted.