Debut or Die-Chapter 390
All of the elements and keywords overlapped, so of course the stage ended up aiming for a similar result. Given that Seon Ah-hyun handled the choreography and I served as leader, maybe it was inevitable that this performance would grow more and more like the AJUSA first team round.
“Great work, everyone.”
“Hyung, over here!”
“Thanks.”
I wiped the sweat from my chin with a towel.
“Hyung, it seems like you really suit dance-style choreography! You pick it up so fast, and the execution is already incredible...”
“Is that so? I got lucky.”
I already knew. The revised choreography for the chorus we’re practicing was something I didn’t even need to learn—it was almost identical to what we did before.
And it wasn’t just that. A similar thing happened with the arrangement. I never expected it would prove how good that choice was—an expert picking nearly the same option I chose in that first team round.
With only a week to complete an “art” collaboration, the company’s in-house experts were brought in far more than before to boost stage quality. And right before the midterm evaluation, we got this feedback.
“I think you should bring out the bridge section more...”
“...Yes?”
“Since the other two have done a lot of dance parts, let’s treat this as a collaboration—solo for you.”
A solo for me. They did exactly that on AJUSA too—rearranged it into a high vocal range to showcase vocals. That pronouncement was effectively a death sentence: the arrangement would almost perfectly match what I did before.
“How’s that sound?”
“I’m totally on board!”
No one objected. I let my hand go slack and opened my mouth.
“All right, understood.”
But the arranger, looking somewhat displeased, tapped his own shoulder and then casually asked,
“Geon-woo, are you hurt? You seem kind of off your game.”
“...!”
That won’t do. Looking drained on a survival show is a landmine for attitude controversies. It’s best to own up.
I raised my voice immediately.
“No! I had a bit of a cold... If my condition showed, I apologize.”
“No need to apologize... just take care of yourself. Debut is right around the corner, you know?”
“Yes.”
And my teammates on either side started chattering.
“Sorry, hyung—I didn’t realize you were sick.”
“Here, have some water.”
“No, I should’ve told you...”
I defused the situation by accepting water from Joodan. The arranger asked again,
“So—bridge it is? Emphasize your vocals there, Geon-woo?”
“Yes.”
No arguing. From now on, I need to look fully committed on camera so nothing can go wrong.
‘That’s right.’
But the useless discomfort nagged me: my performance felt off all practice long, tainted by irritation.
‘Damn it.’
“Let’s rest well and pick up again tomorrow...”
“If you push yourself now, you’ll sleep like a rock tonight.”
“...Yes.”
I wrapped up that afternoon’s practice, holding back my teammates’ crazy talk about “going hard so we finish early and get rest.” I couldn’t help but sigh.
‘Are they sane?’
If my performance depends on my mood once the cameras roll, maybe I should quit. Or maybe I’ll just awaken my own stats with that legend reputation instead of peer selection.
“Hyung, what about dinner...?”
“I’ll eat after this. Go ahead.”
After stretching for quite a while, I finally headed to the cafeteria. I planned to shower, take the midterm evaluation, then sneak back in late at night to polish everything. My mood sucked.
Clack. Because it wasn’t dinner rush, the cafeteria was empty except for one guy using it like a study hall.
“Hey, hyung. Sit here.”
It was Cheongryeo. I quickly checked the corner of the wall and table—he grinned.
“No cameras here. We can still talk, right?”
“...”
I put some food on my tray and sat across from him. He closed the notebook of choreography notes he’d been reviewing and asked,
“You’re not actually sick, right?”
Since we share the practice room, he must’ve picked up on some rumors.
“Why ask if you already know?”
“Huh? I’m just double-checking.”
He closed his notebook and asked in a light tone,
“This is the first time you’re reusing a well-received stage in a different context, isn’t it?”
“...”
“That must be bugging you.”
How do you even ask that? The words rose to my throat, but I didn’t say them. Damn it—I wouldn’t have done it if I could help it.
“Isn’t it that stage? The one from the first AJUSA team round?”
“Yeah.”
“That first stage has a special impact, right? I still remember it.”
His first stage?
“Come to think of it... I did it on a survival show here too.”
“...”
“We have a lot of similarities. Right?”
He stared into space briefly, then grinned.
“It’s okay. Once you try it, you realize it’s nothing. They say this isn’t even reality, right? It’ll feel kind of empty.”
“...Maybe.”
I pushed my chopsticks aside, halfheartedly. Me, complaining to this guy?
“But the problem is letting discomfort affect your condition.”
“Hmm.”
He closed his notebook again and said quietly,
“Don’t practice more today—sleep early. Eat well.”
“...”
“People’s thinking is surprisingly ruled by physical state. You’ll take care, right?”
I nodded slowly. He shrugged.
“If you really can’t do it, think of an alternative.”
“Why would I do that?”
He tapped his chin.
“There’s a right answer, and you can do it.”
“I know.”
He smiled, stood up, and motioned to my tray.
“Finish that, then get some rest.”
“...”
I nodded. He left.
Phew. I feel like my appetite vanished.
[You really should eat...]
Better to pop glucose candies than risk eating and throwing up.
[No way!?]
I chuckled at the startled pop-up. My tasks felt clearer, but my mood sank further.
‘They say you’ll feel better once you start...’
Even that prediction felt gross. Damn.
Over the next few minutes, I forced down everything on my tray. Not pleasant. When I finished and stood to clear it—
Clack. The cafeteria door opened. I didn’t turn, but I heard someone speak.
“Oh.”
“...!”
I looked up. It was him: black-haired Seon Ah-hyun again.
“Hello. Nice to see you again.”
“...”
I bowed my head and looked up. He waved me off.
“You don’t have to be so formal... Feel free to speak casually.”
“You appeared as a mentor, so I can’t.”
“But we’re not filming right now.”
He smiled faintly, carefully closed the door behind him, and came in.
Really?
“The traffic was good, so I arrived early and wandered until I ended up here.”
I see.
“Mind if I sit?”
I can’t imagine anyone refusing a mentor.
“Sure.”
“Thank you...!”
I didn’t know why he was grateful. I stared at my empty tray, feeling awkward. Then his gentle voice broke the silence.
“I enjoyed the candies you gave me. I sometimes eat those too—during intermission to refill stamina.”
“Yes.”
Right—I remembered he spit out a candy during a concert intermission. Here, intermission refers to a ballet performance.
“...”
“...”
We exchanged terse replies, but he wasn’t done.
“You looked familiar in the hallway, so I wondered if I knew you.”
“What?”
“But when I got closer, it didn’t seem like something to ask. You looked in pain.”
“In pain?”
He flinched slightly but nodded.
“Yes. You look in pain. Even now.”
“...”
He must walk around exposing everything so everyone can read him.
‘How about the cameras?’
I’d already covered that excuse: my condition showed, but I never skipped practice or yelled at anyone. That should be fine.
“You don’t have to confide in me, but I hope you find someone to talk to. Here’s my counselor’s number...”
“I’m fine.”
Shut up.
“...Sorry. I meddled too much.”
His face clouded over. I bit back a sigh. Then, almost without thinking, I answered abruptly.
“It’s not meddling.”
“Yes?”
“It’s just... I’ve already done a stage with the same song and concept.”
“This one?”
“Yes.”
I looked down.
“The first stage we did together was with people I was close to but can’t see now. I don’t like the idea of my next on-air performance being this one.”
Even I doubted my own sanity saying that. His face clouded; maybe he thought the same.
“Then... why didn’t you say something if it was so hard?”
Why indeed.
“Because the outcome would be better that way.”
“...!”
“That stage got a great reaction. I’m not stupid enough to avoid using a proven success.”
Someone else might misinterpret this as a competing agency’s monthly review, but I didn’t care.
“...”
He stared at the table for a moment, then spoke firmly.
“Good results aren’t the only answer. A choice that doesn’t cause you pain is also valid.”
“...!”
That wasn’t a “professional” thing to say, yet he didn’t back down.
“Victory isn’t only when you shove aside what you don’t want to do.”
He hesitated, then added in a quiet voice,
“I used to ignore my own feelings so much it caused me pain.”
“...”
“And Geon-woo, you can still give a great performance even if you take a different path. There’s no single right answer for a stage or interpretation.”
He wrapped up gently.
“So. You don’t have to cling to pain with a ‘must-win’ mentality. Alternatives can be right answers too.”
I couldn’t find my response. The content shocked me, and I admit it swayed me for a moment. But one more thing:
‘...I thought he was living smoothly without hurdles.’
His refined, unhesitant speech, willingness to engage in an unfamiliar situation, his near-legendary successes—he’s already attained everything he reclaimed in the original world. He looks like the one thriving, not me. So why is he talking about pain... to someone he’s never met?
...Really.
[Hyung?]
‘Ah.’
The silence had been too long. I managed to say,
“...Thank you. I’ll take it under consideration.”
It wasn’t exactly a promise, but he nodded happily.
“You’re welcome. I know it’s startling to hear such things from a stranger, so thank you for handling it maturely.”
“No. Thank you for the advice—it comforted me.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
The mood warmed—for which I was grateful since the cameras were off. He brightened his face and offered,
“And... we’re not that far apart in age. Feel free to call me casually.”
“In that case, mentor, you start speaking casually.”
“Oh—um... you go first.”
He smiled awkwardly, as I expected. Before either of us could say more, his staff called him, just like last time.
“You should get going.”
“Ah. Yes.”
Only then did he stand.
“If anything changes song-wise, just say it was my idea—no worries.”
He left, and despite the unlikelihood of such a remark, I felt a bit more at ease.
‘I don’t have to do it... huh.’
[Hyung... I think Ah-hyun-ssi’s right. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to, do you??]
That’s separate from the shock. If necessary, I’ll do it.
Pop-up shudder. A mocking vibration.
‘Enough.’
I won’t change my mind for that. The pop-up deflated.
[ㅠㅠ... Then how about thinking of it as just another cover-stage collaboration? It’s not like you’re doing AJUSA again! Just think of it ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) as performing with your junior!]
It sounded like nonsense but oddly persuasive. Right, the timing’s different, it’s a totally new show. Better to recognize them as separate situations...
“...!”
Wait.
[Hyung?]
Right.
‘You’re right.’
[Huh?]
I’d mistaken it. AJUSA and Wise aren’t the same program—different years, different formats, different target audiences.
‘In other words, different evaluation criteria.’
Besides, the number of members and performance themes differ.
There’s no guarantee that what was a perfect answer in AJUSA’s first team round will work here.
And when I recalculate given those differences... the AJUSA stage isn’t a perfect answer for our situation.
‘Ah... I’m such an idiot.’
Why am I realizing this now?
[Then... what?]
I came to a clear conclusion.
‘...We need to revise it.’
[Oooh!]
I smirked and returned my tray. The table was clean.
Before the midterm evaluation began, I gathered my teammates in the common room.
“Hey, hyung!”
“You were going to shower, right?”
“I need to say something.”
I spoke without hesitation.
“I’ve been wondering why this felt off—there’s one factor we overlooked.”
“Yes?”
“The mentor.”
Right. This time the mentor not only advised on stage composition but briefly joined the performance. Drawing pop art in the intro, then ripping it up as he entered, or having a live orchestra accompaniment.
“Our mentor is a ballet dancer.”
“That...that’s right?”
“We have to keep him from overshadowing us.”
There were still no cameras in the common room. I continued unabashedly.
“So we can’t use the same choreography. The answer is to make both parts feel distinct but synergistic, so the stage feels fresh.”
“Oooh....”
They glanced at one another, and Chae-yul spoke first.
“So... are we revising?”
“We need to remove and add a few elements.”
I paused, then opened my plan with a quiet flourish.
“Of course, this might mean a tough final push...”
Their faces lit up.
“That’s fine! Let’s do it!”
“Let’s go for it.”
That’s VTIC for you—those yes-men are a blessing.
“All right.”
I opened my notebook.
And after a tense but hopeful midterm evaluation where they heard “we’re going to half-rewrite it”... a few days later, the day of the performance arrived.
