Debut or Die-Chapter 380
“I’ll add the ally immediately.” I swallowed and checked the list.
The current status of the allies I’d recruited so far was displayed.
[Ally List]
[Shin Jaehyun: Heading out to find allies (//-^├)]
[Cha Yoojin: Having a calm conversation with production (ㅇㅅㅇ)]
It should have ended there, but one more line had been added.
The one I’d just recruited.
[Lee Sejin: Studying the script intently (｀ㅅ´9)]
Script. Anyone could tell this meant an actor—so it really was Bae Sejin.
“Sigh.”
A pop-up scribbled like with a big brush exploded onto the screen.
[Huh—hyung, go ahead and awaken him right now!]
Right.
[Ally: Would you like to awaken Lee Sejin?]
–Use 1,000 Exp
I reached out to tap the accept button, then...
I stopped.
[?? Hyung?]
No, this wasn’t right.
Only then did my head clear and I remembered.
‘We’re filming right now.’
I’d already turned in my phone. Even if I awakened him now, he’d be unreachable for at least four days. I couldn’t leave him alone, awake and confused, while filming continued.
“Ah... you’re right.”
I’d finish the stage first, then awaken him.
[Nep! Fighting!]
I closed the ally list pop-up again. But this time I wasn’t anxious. Instead, I felt... motivated.
‘Once we’re done, I’ll awaken him and contact him right away. I should tell Cha Yoojin, too.’
Convincing him wouldn’t be easy... but even thinking about it felt pretty good. My mind cleared.
[Lee Sejin: Rereading the script (｀ㅅ//)]
...Not sure why that emoticon suddenly added a slash, but anyway—this ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) was fine for now.
I smirked, closed the ally list, and prepared to return to the practice room.
That’s when I heard it.
“Uh... excuse me.”
“...!”
That voice is familiar. But...
‘Why am I hearing this here?’
I turned, and sure enough, saw him: Lee Sejin, looking sheepish.
“Do you know where the sinks are?”
“....”
Right. It was break time, so he could wander around freely.
I raised a hand.
“Over there.”
“Ah~”
Go—go quickly. But instead of walking off, he hesitated.
“Thanks. Oh—Geonwoo-ssi, is it okay if I call you that?”
“Yes.”
“Oh—you’re so straightforward!”
He grinned.
“You were amazing on stage today. Thanks to you, I really enjoyed it. Thank you~”
“No, thank you.”
Choose my words carefully.
“Thank you for your kind words.”
“Aww, I’m not just flattering you. I saw your first stage, and it was all really great. I bet you’ll debut soon, seriously!”
Is he testing my memory?
‘That can’t be it.’
He must just see potential networking value and want a contact. Predictable.
‘That hasn’t changed.’
I relaxed my arm. Fine—after the fame mission ends, I’ll awaken him anyway. Let him call.
I’ll play nice.
“Thank you. I also learned a lot watching your stage. Your movements and expressions matched the song perfectly; I really took note.”
“Oh.”
He shut his mouth abruptly.
‘Didn’t expect that?’
But before long, he spoke as if nothing happened.
“Thanks. I feel energized now~ So... since this is fate, shall we exchange numbers?”
Just like at AJUSA.
More bittersweet nostalgia than bitterness. I shrugged.
“My phone’s not with me right now... if it’s okay, I’ll give you my number.”
“Yeah, great!”
I entered my number into his phone. It felt weird.
“I’ll text you, so we can say hi again later—us~”
“Yes. Well, I’ll get back to preparing now. Thank you.”
“Mm, yeah.”
I turned and walked away, as if unaware he wanted to keep talking.
‘Need to clear my head.’
He always chatted so much—I’d slip up if I relaxed. Anyway, I’d been polite; he wouldn’t take offense.
‘It unfolds the same everywhere.’
Networking, mutual benefit relations.
I smirked, rounded the hallway corner, and hurried along.
Just before I bumped into someone, I came to a halt—Cheongryeo.
“There you are. You’ve come far.”
“Somehow.”
“‘Somehow’ doesn’t seem right... ah. Of course.”
He glanced past me around the corner, confirming Lee Sejin’s retreating back, then muttered flatly.
“I checked—he’s hard to recruit. Third-year, established group member.”
As if I didn’t know.
“He was just for networking—exchanging numbers.”
“Hm. Planning to persuade him by explaining the situation?”
“....”
“You tried that on him before.”
Randomly, out of the blue?
A thought flashed that maybe I could, but...
“No, the stage comes first.”
Not crazy because I can’t do it—it’s crazy to do something everyone avoids.
Until I awaken him, I won’t bother him with unnecessary talk.
“You’re right. Smart choice.”
Stating the obvious.
I returned to the practice room—to perfect the stage.
A few days later, the show’s first audience-attended shoot began.
“Thank you~”
Once again in the judge’s seat, Lee Sejin from Zyro greeted politely and sat. They’d re-called the less busy idols from mid-evaluation, and he’d nabbed the seat—no small pleasure.
Still, he was intrigued by the stage.
Monitoring likely competitors is always beneficial. And now he had an acquaintance here.
Ryu Geonwoo—the trainee who did that jazz stage.
Lee Sejin scrunched his nose as if wincing.
‘Something was off about him.’
He’d always been unusually good, attention-grabbing. Remembering him wouldn’t hurt. But talking to him...
‘Felt like he just wanted to get close again.’
Like reconnecting with a childhood friend he’d drifted from.
‘Maybe someone he knew before?’
A neighborhood buddy. Or an older brother-figure from the neighborhood?
‘Ah, who knows.’
He killed questions without answers.
‘No reply yet, anyway.’
After this stage, he’d reach out and learn more.
Even if someone seems distant, if they’re talented, it’s worth the effort. Lee Sejin straightened his posture—filming was about to start.
“Wise’s third stage—begin.”
At the boss’s crisp cue, the set moved into place. What unfolded was a debut-team stage worthy of a major label.
‘...Infuriating.’
Lee Sejin repressed boiling feelings: competitiveness, a sense of crisis. He ranked them.
This side is weaker than Zyro, that side nearly equals Zyro...
‘Well, great stages don’t guarantee success, though.’
That agency’s last girl-group, Sweet&Sour, didn’t soar on skill alone; they pivoted to a goofy concept.
But knowing only half of these will debut...
‘Damn it.’
He resolved to whip the group into shape somehow. Handling people was his strongest skill. He felt a little drained thinking idols worry about that more than stages—but his gaze sharpened under the lights.
“Next battle keyword—revealed.”
Time passed, and the awaited match arrived. The screen lit up:
[Sexy]
A roar—half gasp, half cheer—rose from the crowd.
‘Ah~ the moment I saw that, I knew they were serious.’
He forced a bitter smile and, as a junior idol, gave a suitably pleased reaction. Then the first team’s stage began.
–Kneel down, woo!
A sharply angled, autotune-and-wave-heavy performance screaming “fatal attraction.”
‘Hmm.’
There’s demand for that... it seems.
Lee Sejin prepped a quick review for when the mic returned to him, jotted neat notes, and forecast the last stage’s reaction.
‘...That team.’
He’d known from mid-evaluation: the one with the most consistently output-strong contestants on the show. The team that included Ryu Geonwoo, whose number he’d exchanged.
‘They didn’t give them last order for nothing.’
Spoilers were already floating online; everyone was hyped. Many in the audience were likely messaging “who’s next?” on SNS, guessing the members.
Then the moment the board lit up:
[Shin Jaehyun, Kim Raebin, Jung Udan, Cha Yoojin]
[+ Ryu Geonwoo (excluded)]
Aaaah! Aaaaargh!
With tremendous cheers mixing shrieks and moans. Fans stunned at seeing Geonwoo excluded, yet excited for the team itself.
‘They’ll go nuts.’
Success was visible. The program would shine. Lee Sejin stifled a bitter grin. They’d picked a song from a top-tier boy group two years ago: wild, masculine sexy—similar to the first team’s direction.
‘They’ll win.’
When two acts share texture, the better one wins. The midpoint gave it away.
‘...They’re good.’
Even from verse one, but he watched seriously.
The contestants formed a bud-shaped formation under gray flicker lights.
–Cut off
A low voice and elegant accompaniment began:
“...!”
Lights turned violet as the members moved smoothly—waves of torso motion linking formation. Lee Sejin realized immediately:
‘They tweaked the arrangement.’
A few instruments were dropped. Electronic sounds gone; bass and strings emphasized.
And the movement—languid, relaxed instead of forceful. Velvet shirts and black pants clung to their motions.
–And leave it behind, your way
(So sick)
When Raebin, hair swept back, finished the intro, Shin Jaehyun picked up the gesture-laden part without backup dancers—just expression and movement. Yet the audience was riveted.
‘That’s hard.’
A stage with gaps, no fixed choreography—keeping it full is tough even for pros. But they didn’t stop there.
–Don’t look back, it’s only torture, pointless
You lost your game, leave it behind
During the interlude, a complex group dance unfolded. High-difficulty moves meshed like gears.
Snap.
The center’s presence triggered peripheral limbs and props to shift, forming stands and rods. Members interacted like set pieces, highlighting the center.
They shifted seamlessly between tight choreography and loose sections, maximizing each moment’s appeal.
–An already ended story
By the second verse’s midpoint, Lee Sejin made his judgment:
‘Clever.’
A choice only possible with insane skill—but if he were in their position, he’d choose it too.
“.......”
The stage thrived. He shook off thoughts and re-focused, watching a stage entirely different in tone from mid-evaluation. Then another question surfaced:
Was it just the arrangement?
“...!”
And he realized: Cha Yoojin. At mid-evaluation, Cha’s intensity and explosive thrill made the stage feel wilder, more like the original. Here, he’d dialed back brightness and saturation.
‘It’s not that he doesn’t stand out.’
Take the second verse’s final chorus:
–Love is a kind of disease
An epiphany comes so late
So—
When Cha Yoojin grasped the mic and looked into the camera, his gaze was half-lidded—killing the flash to sell the mood. A shaded allure. So convincing he could pass as a trainee of that agency.
Controlling that was both shocking and eminently strategic. Viewers would find it uniquely captivating. I can practically see boss LeTi reevaluating already.
Plus, this stage’s structure had solid support:
–So, oh, oh, oh
Ryu Geonwoo. At precise moments he delivered difficult super-high live notes.
‘Sometimes I felt the audience gasp.’
Yet if that were all, he’d be just a parts supplier. But he struck once more.
‘There.’
The so-called “saint” part—standing, sudden stillness that commands focus. Not super-high notes, just a high range. In other words, a section even talented singers dread.
–It’s done
It’s over
Cut it off
Geonwoo sang it dreamily, blending breath into tone. Flawless control unimaginable from someone who’d been ad-libbing wild high harmonies. It would’ve been easier to belt it out.
Take one long breath—no pause—and float through that line, without AR?
–And leave it behind, your way
(So sick)
That single cut was their killing point—he seized it brilliantly. And with that voice he elevated the entire stage. No wonder a team needs a main vocal—his presence screamed it.
“.......”
A strange déjà-vu washed over him.
‘Why?’
But the bridge ended and the finish approached. Every member nailed their role, aiming to win over the audience. Then the ending:
–Cut off
Aaaaahhh!! Ears-splitting cheers and applause, a sea of lightsticks swaying. Lee Sejin didn’t take his eyes off, watching sincerely to the last note.
His competitiveness still burned, but the sense of crisis was gone. In its place...
‘...Ah.’
A loss he hadn’t even noticed. A strange feeling, as if his place had been quietly stolen.
‘What am I saying?’
What did I eat today? Lee Sejin bit his lip, controlled his expression. When it was time for his critique, he smiled and spoke.
“It was truly excellent—really!”
That very day, Wise episode three aired. The audience saw, no spoilers needed for the excluded members. And finally—viewer voting opened.
