Debut or Die-Chapter 270

TeSTAR’s individual fandom was in ruins.

Honestly, there’s no beautiful solution that will work like magic here.

Do you think telling fans, “The members get along, so you fans should unite and get along too”? That’s wishful thinking.

Sure, sharing an interest in the same group might be a decent starting point, but what really matters is direct experience. In that sense, this Cha Yoo-jin scandal was like directly witnessing the tacit trust we were just beginning to build after Idol Corporation shatter into pieces.

‘And we can’t just compensate by blatantly hyping up Yoo-jin.’

That might cheer up his personal fans, but those who suffered from his toxic early fandom would erupt:

“Honestly, Yoo-jin hasn’t done anything right—why keep feeding the trolls?”

“I’m exhausted... I’ll go crazy.”

Such outcry would follow. In the end, you can’t let either side feel like it “won.”

“...This is tough.”

Several ideas came to mind, but it was hard to set balanced criteria, so narrowing them down was tricky.

‘Maybe I should collect more examples.’

I almost opened the internet but stopped.

‘...Maybe I should ask the members themselves.’

Even if I found a method, I’d need the group’s agreement to use it. Better to get their input first. I decided to ask the # Nоvеlight # members about the situation—carefully, without injecting fuzzy hopes like “our fandom will unite because the members are friendly.” I’d use a neutral analogy.

“So, what’s a good way for group members whose feelings have turned completely sour to get along again?”

“Yeah.”

Big Sejin shrugged. “Just think of each other as coworkers—if you look good together on the job, that’s enough.”

That was the orthodox answer—gross but straightforward: just focus on the goal. The problem is, fandom isn’t a job; there’s no obligation, so that approach lacks punch. Our fandom atmosphere was exactly that weak, meaning some would soon drift away.

‘Maintaining the status quo won’t cut it.’

Next, I tried another member. I struck out again.

“I’m not sure. Um... maybe by listening carefully to each other and showing respect?”

Rae-bin passed.

“...A way to get along better?”

“Yes.”

Bae Se-jin asked suspiciously, “...You’re asking me?”

He doubted his own sociability. So I moved on.

Cheong-woo, sitting beside me, answered without hesitation: “If we all struggle together, we bond fast.”

“...Hmm.”

But that felt off: we’d already suffered enough. Cheong-woo clarified, a little sheepish: “I don’t mean forcing hardship—if there’s a reward and we overcome obstacles as a team, we become close.”

“Ah.”

That sounded like his athlete background.

Next, one idea that sounded promising:

“Me! Me! I know—let’s do something fun together! Like sports!”

“Sports?”

“Yes! Run and play together, and if you win together, you bond!”

That was a good concept. Fandom is like a sport—rules, wins and losses, emotional achievement. The catch is that it lacks the full immersion of actually playing, but still a solid angle. So I asked again:

“What if, when you run together, your coordination sucks and you fight more? If someone plays selfishly to score or doesn’t pass the ball?”

[Well... they’d need someone to encourage them!] Yoo-jin answered confidently. [You make them feel ashamed of their selfish actions. Then they refocus on the game and win—after that, they can’t help reflecting and bonding!]

“Hmm. Okay.”

In the end, that meant bringing in an authority to mediate when they can’t resolve it themselves. But TeSTAR couldn’t do that—teaching fans would look like the company lecturing its own customers, a bizarre setup sure to backfire.

So that left... appeal.

‘We need to make fans soften up and want to listen to us.’

I frowned at the half-formed solutions—they felt too fragmentary.

“M-Mundae?”

“Ah.”

I turned to see Seon Ah-hyun lingering at the kitchen entrance—seems I was blocking the way. Perfect.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

“Go ahead!”

I made room and posed the same question to Ah-hyun.

“How do you think members whose feelings are completely wrecked can get along as a group?”

“Huh??”

She looked puzzled. Yoo-jin watched her with interest. After a moment’s thought, she gave a surprising answer:

“I—I think... it’s impossible.”

“...!”

“Because if their relationship is already that bad, there must be a reason. So suddenly becoming close... it seems... really hard.”

That was the most realistic, cold-eyed response.

“Of course, others might find a solution, but... I think that’s how it is.”

“...Right.”

I nodded. Ah-hyun forced a small smile, and Yoo-jin resolutely raised his hand.

“But I like my idea!”

“Ah, uh, what’s your idea?”

I let them talk and pondered.

‘I’ve gathered all their opinions, and bottom line...’

Conclusion: ‘We can’t immediately heal feelings by our own effort.’

Ah-hyun was right. This isn’t something TeSTAR can instantly fix. So let’s ditch vague talk of reconciliation and go back to basics. What motivates people?

‘Benefit.’

Victory, reward, achievement—joy makes the process worthwhile. I recalled Cheong-woo’s words:

“With a reward and overcoming obstacles together, you become close.”

That, too, is about how the promise of a positive outcome legitimizes struggle. So we apply the same principle:

‘Show each member how being in TeSTAR benefits them.’

When these seven are together, fans should instantly see how great, successful, and top-tier they are. So the instinctive reward of group success outweighs the stress from other fandom factions.

And we craft excuses—emotional framing—to smooth the process:

“Ah, they just needed someone to encourage them!”

In a sense, Yoo-jin’s own words: create emotional, human reasons so fans don’t feel they were purely calculating gains and losses. They can say, “They’re so close, so hardworking, TeSTAR is precious”—rather than admit they crunched numbers.

Pretend we’re losing, then display a heartwarming, passionate atmosphere so fans feel moved and the fandom calms.

We can’t lecture fans directly, so we go indirect:

‘Show, don’t tell.’

TeSTAR must demonstrate, through their idol activities, that the group itself is deeply valued and meaningful—without explicitly calling it out. We lay that groundwork, then give fans a big dose of “TeSTAR feels like home.”

[...Once we play one team game like that, everything clicks—why are there so many sports movies?]

“Th-that could work...!”

I smiled once more, watching Yoo-jin’s enthusiasm and Ah-hyun’s nodding, then stepped into the kitchen.

“Hyung, where are you going?!”

“To wash up.”

Time to organize. We’d need to plan multiple content pieces, but the top priority was clear.

‘I should contact W Live.’

First, nail down the encore concert format.

TeSTAR finished a successful Japan dome tour and is holding an encore concert in Korea!

Of course, everyone cheered the news.

“Finally feels worth it.”

“Please let me get a ticket this time.”

“They come right back to Korea—T1 actually working, wow.”

And another bit of good news arrived immediately: the moment tickets sold out, W Live announced:

[Failed to get tickets to the TeSTAR concert? Don’t worry! W Live will stream it LIVE♡]

An internet livestream of the concert—aimed at drawing as many viewers as possible. Ticketless fans breathed easy.

“They must’ve seen the response at the charity concert—thank God lol.”

“I got completely shut out, but this helps...ㅠㅠ”

“Heh.”

Rae-bin’s fan snorted at her screen.

‘I didn’t need the stream—I scored standing tickets!’

Because she had successfully booked a standing ticket this time, she was at the venue, leisurely scrolling through old posts.

‘Hm, the vibe’s nice.’

Offline, the crowd was warm and friendly—unlike the frosty atmosphere online.

‘Online is their world, I guess.’

Among the excited fans, she clicked her tongue, then nodded at a concert update on SNS:

“I just offered Cookie to Cheong-woo, but he ignored me—he must be that fan, lol.”

The post spread wildly.

‘They’re just keeping it low-key.’

It was a madhouse. Rae-bin’s fan turned off SNS and focused on the show—lest she jump in and comment.

‘I’ll just watch Mundae and Rae-bin.’

Wise choice. She found her spot in the left block, chosen carefully from her last experience. Heart pounding at seeing her idols live again.

Soon:

[Hello, Seoul~!]

Waaah!!

The stage exploded to life. Opening with their latest track “Drill,” it instantly drew parallels to their previous Seoul show and sucked the audience in.

‘Next song—let’s go!!’

As an encore, the setlist mirrored the last Seoul concert almost exactly—but knowing every song added to the excitement.

And above all, TeSTAR’s live impact was incomparable: even the same performance seen on screen felt more intense in person.

[Devour me

to your heart’s content!]

Title track, sub-songs, solo performances—

“Waaaah!!!”

Fans screamed until their voices gave out.

The well-paced, powerful concert flew by, and soon it was time for the ending:

[Bye bye~]

Lights dimmed back to normal.

“Phew!”

Of course, that wasn’t the true end. We all knew there’d be a few more encore songs.

Rae-bin’s fan wiped her brow—she’d said “he’s so handsome” so many times she feared cognitive collapse. Calmly, she considered the next song:

‘Was the first encore a medley?’

On tour, they’d included a local cover at that point; originally they’d done a short medley of Idol Corporation tracks.

‘They’ll probably stick with it.’

Rae-bin’s fan guessed and watched others sing the fan-song around her. But given recent drama, hearing an Idol Corporation song might evoke memories of past fandom tensions rather than nostalgia.

‘I don’t know. Maybe they’ll just curse each other.’

Still, as long as the performance shone, it didn’t matter—she shook off her thoughts.

“Feeling good today~ feels like something wonderful will happen~”

Meanwhile, fans sang the first fan-song in anticipation of the encore. It’s tradition, but from what she saw online, one-quarter of them probably loathed each other—so she felt odd. Yet the joy on stage was genuine.

‘I can feel the concert high.’

Even she, joining in, felt a bit of a full-fandom thrill.

‘Come on out, guys!’

Then the sound and lights cut in. Amid cheers, what should’ve been the tour promo VCR...

“Huh?”

Wasn’t. On the giant screen wasn’t a bombastic intro but the gentle strum of an acoustic guitar—the melody of “Magic Is You,” the fan-song everyone had just been singing. And the person playing it? Rae-bin.

“Wha—?”

He looked strange: pajama pants and a T-shirt, clearly comfy sleepwear, hair in a ponytail. The video wasn’t slickly shot—it felt like a filtered phone recording, heartbreakingly personal.

[Hmm, hmmm~]

Next to Rae-bin, Yoo-jin lay humming softly; Bae Se-jin perched on the sofa, choosing snacks with a serious face. Behind them, Park Mundae brought drinks, Lee Se-jin drying off from a shower waved at the camera.

[Hi there~ what are you filming?]

[Just for memories.]

Cheong-woo’s laughter drifted in, the camera panned around the room once like a handheld recording, then cut.

The screen went black, and captions appeared at the top:

[TeSTAR Documentary]

[Produced by: Ryu Cheong-woo, Bae Se-jin, Seon Ah-hyun, Lee Se-jin, Park Mundae, Cha Yoo-jin, Kim Rae-bin]

[Sponsored by: Ryu Cheong-woo! <— important]

Instead of a failed documentary, it was their own behind-the-scenes tour film, assembled from the photos and videos they’d shot preparing for this concert.