Debut or Die-Chapter 305

“Uh, you’ll be fine, Rae-bin. You’ve done great so far.”

“Of course~ If it doesn’t work out, it just means we don’t have ears for it! But there’s no way it won’t work, right?”

“Right, we love your music, Kim Rae-bin!”

“...Thank you.”

Only after hearing the others’ encouragement did his expression lighten a bit.

But when they actually opened the results...

“So we’re picking numbers 2, 4, and 5, right? Okay. Then our Rae-bin’s number is...”

“...It was number 3.”

“...!”

His arrangement didn’t even place—it was outright rejected.

Literally, eliminated.

It sounds ridiculous to explain it so casually, but no one expected it.

‘Kim Rae-bin’s arrangement was eliminated...’

Until now, his arrangements could always be called “certain” finalists.

Of course, some weren’t fully adopted. But at least critical parts of his proposals were reflected, and he participated diligently through final production.

That’s why the members habitually said:

“Now for the concert tracks, our Rae-bin will do a magnificent arrangement~”

Yet this was the first time since debut that he’d failed.

‘And after working sleeplessly for days.’

“......”

I skimmed the “Concert Arrangement Blind Vote Results” file that arrived by email, then turned off the screen.

I leaned back with my arms crossed.

‘There must be various reasons.’

Maybe the direction was different, maybe the AR team produced great options, or maybe they had more time.

But why did it happen now of all times?

‘For Rae-bin, damn it, this feels like a slump at the most critical moment.’

Reversing a vote result right away would be stupid.

Knowing his personality, he wouldn’t feel better—and he couldn’t lower his quality just to comfort himself.

‘It would only worsen things without benefit.’

But leaving it be was also foolish.

“......”

I stood up.

After the morning concert meeting, I quietly went into the dorm to find the guy holed up in his room.

But I didn’t have to go far. Kim Rae-bin was sitting on the living-room sofa.

Beside him were Cha Yoo-jin with a resolute expression, Seon Ah-hyun looking worried, and Big Sejin looking awkward.

Cha Yoo-jin handed something to Kim Rae-bin.

“Kim Rae-bin, eat this.”

He still wore his coat and socks. Clearly they’d tried to keep him from leaving.

“I’m not hungry. I’m heading to the studio for a bit...”

“Why go to the studio?”

“...!”

Everyone turned to look at me. Rae-bin swallowed and murmured in a low voice.

“If I don’t work on fixing my weaknesses, I can’t produce something people will be satisfied with on the next try...”

“Rae-bin, you’ll do better next time! It’s fine to fail once. No problem!”

But Rae-bin neither got annoyed nor agreed with Yoo-jin’s words.

“Whether it’s fine or not isn’t decided yet.”

He just whispered.

“But because I failed this time, the probability that it won’t be fine has increased. So to reduce that probability, I need more preparation...”

“......”

After a brief silence:

“Rae-bin, how about taking a break?”

“Y-yeah. There’s still plenty of time before the concert... I need to save my energy...!”

Words spilled out instantly.

They must have thought something bad would happen if they sent him straight back to the studio.

‘I agree.’

Rather than getting angry or resentful, that sounded like an obsessive symptom. Big Sejin sat right beside him and patted his shoulder.

“Even monkeys fall from trees sometimes, right? Let’s just think about our stage and rest a bit~ Rest is important, after all.”

This... called for my support.

I spoke up.

“You’ve run non-stop until now—let your mind rest. Muscles grow during rest, and you haven’t rested enough.”

“Rest.”

In the end, Kim Rae-bin reluctantly nodded. I stifled a sigh.

The timing was terrible.

A few days passed.

As promised, Kim Rae-bin stayed out of the studio, but his expression remained pale. The shock of his first failure hadn’t worn off.

He kept busy shooting tour promo videos, and when no new drafts had come in for some stages, things finally relaxed.

‘It’s quiet.’

Maybe ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) I hadn’t adjusted to the new schedule, but I woke up at dawn.

‘Should I get some water?’

I quietly stepped out so as not to wake my roommate.

And discovered something unexpected: light leaking from the living-room balcony.

It was right outside the window—too close to be a streetlight. It looked like an electronic device’s glow...

‘An intruder?’

No way someone was abseiling down from the roof...but stranger things have happened.

I approached cautiously, ready to call for backup.

But it wasn’t a stranger—it was Kim Rae-bin.

“Kim Rae-bin.”

“...!”

Startled, he turned. He sat hunched on the tile wearing headphones, with a program open on his screen—obviously working.

The idiot had sneaked out onto the balcony at dawn to work.

I shut the balcony door and strode inside to stand before him.

“I....”

Rae-bin scrambled to clear his workspace and my eyes landed on his laptop screen.

He’d opened the group email titled “[Concert Arrangement Blind Vote Results],” the same one I’d seen days ago.

‘This...’

Judging by his recent behavior, he wasn’t revisiting it for motivation or productive ideas. He must’ve been tormenting himself with it.

And the email didn’t just show vote counts.

It listed, anonymously, why each number was chosen or rejected, to find a reasonable direction.

But the tone gave it away.

“Number 4 was the most fun.”

“Numbers 2 and 5 were smooth and pleasant to listen to~ Fighting!^^”

“All were good, but 5 felt most natural. Numbers 1 and 3 seemed too niche for my taste.”

“......”

That’s why we couldn’t even say, “It was just bad luck—we thought your tracks were great.” Because we’d all voted.

...And I had even left one comment per number, right under Rae-bin’s candidate track.

“Sound is too much.”

“......”

He’d been silently reading and re-reading his peers’ feedback for days.

And not a single person had said they liked his track.

‘Damn it...’

Could it be he planned to revise based on that feedback, at this hour?

“Listen.”

I sat down across from him and met his eyes.

“Majority rule isn’t always right. In reality, people might like your arrangement better.”

“......”

“You don’t need to worry so much about these results. It’s just a concert arrangement.”

Rae-bin spoke up abruptly.

“But, hyung, you judged my arrangement to be inferior.”

“......”

“You gave feedback that it was overdone... You, Mundae hyung.”

“I’m not a composer—you don’t have to trust my opinion unconditionally. Trust your own sense more than anyone’s...”

“No!”

He bowed his head deeply.

“Your judgment of the music has always been objective and excellent. It’s never been wrong, so it must be my failure to arrange it properly...”

“......”

It felt like a blow to the head.

He’d been hit hard by this.

‘He noticed my musical judgment was unusually good.’

Thanks to the “Keen Ear (A)” trait. I hoped he hadn’t realized it was like a skill, but he must have—he detects musical nuances instantly.

“Hyung’s choices are always excellent.”

He thought the evaluator he trusted most had given him a harsh review.

‘Ugh...’

It left a bitter taste.

I won’t lie—I don’t think this arrangement is particularly great either.

‘For Rae-bin, it was too typical.’

I could’ve sworn it came from the AR team.

And since I got that trait from the status window, it was guaranteed....

‘Wait, status window?’

Suddenly, memories of past events flashed through my mind.

‘...’

I summoned Rae-bin’s status window.

I prayed it wasn’t there—but at the very bottom was a word I hadn’t seen before.

!Status Ailment: Repeat

Darn.

[Repeat]: Stuck wandering in place.

A side effect of Maestro (S)—sensory degradation.

“But, um... by ‘overdone,’ do you mean the arrangement has too many elements? If I cut some here... could you tell me how that sounds? Is it better?”

“......”

This wasn’t going to work.

His mental state was completely shot.

Now I understood: Rae-bin had seemed immune to criticism because he could instantly generate and offer alternatives.

But now that system had collapsed. He’d become dependent.

‘Damn it...’

I took the headphones he offered, but didn’t put them on. Instead, I asked:

“...How does it sound to you?”

I heard him sniffle in a low voice.

“I don’t really know... I tried to reflect as many positive points as I could from what people said, but I don’t know if I did it right.”

“Do what you want.”

“You know, I can’t even concretely implement what I want to do....”

I understood that, too.

‘His balance is broken.’

He has the humility to absorb others’ opinions, but also the confidence in his own abilities.

He trusts his instincts: if it sounds good to him, it is.

He’d filter feedback himself and interpret it through his own judgment.

He’s the type to run with inspiration as he perceives it.

‘It’s his nature.’

Remember how he reinterpreted T-Holic’s comments as familial support?

But this time it was different.

He was overwhelmed by a flood of rave reviews from countless strangers.

‘He lost his confidence instead.’

The pressure to not disappoint and to be perfect destroyed his enjoyment.

Without his usual self-assuredness, his work lost character.

Then when he got harsh feedback, he panicked and fixated on it. It was his first “failure” in life.

‘A vicious cycle.’

I held back a curse.

I calmed the guy on the verge of tears, then confiscated his laptop.

“Stop this for now. You have plenty else to do, and you’re capable. Put it down.”

“......”

“I’m not saying this because I think you’ll fail, but you’ll get insomnia if you don’t stop.”

“Once I finish one piece...”

“No.”

I took the laptop and, after hesitating, said:

“...If you do this for fun, fine—but right now it’s wrecking your condition. You’re not sleeping.”

“......”

Kim Rae-bin hung his head.

I patted his shoulder, realizing I was terrible at handling this kind of thing.

‘Damn.’

We needed a solution.

After that dawn incident, Kim Rae-bin continued to attend schedule commitments diligently.

But the spark and creativity he had was shattered.

And one of the first to notice found the cause in my room.

“Park Mundae, that’s his laptop, right?”

Big Sejin said seriously.

“Better to just let him be, or it’ll kill him.”

“......”

I ruffled my hair roughly, then—belatedly—spoke the solution I’d refined over several days.

“Then arrange a mountain lodge retreat.”

“...? What?”

I wasn’t joking.

I recalled the content of Rae-bin’s status ailment.

A side effect of Maestro: decreased senses that normally boost his production speed.

His exceptional musical sense was degraded.

‘He became obsessed with results and efficiency, triggering the side effect.’

The solution was simple.

Let him do creative work that has nothing to do with Testar’s performance—unproductive creation.

So I began planning a worthless self-improvement retreat—something I’d never considered in my life.

A training camp for personal growth.

“Let’s just... go up to the mountains for a bit.”