Debut or Die-Chapter 397
The Wise filming set was in full swing.
The trainees looked utterly serious, wholly engrossed in reaching the final, yet behind the scenes conversations still took place.
Who among the lower-ranking contestants would survive?
“Who are you voting for?”
“I don’t know. I’ll decide then.”
Although the vote was anonymous, they subtly grilled each other even during interviews.
“Have you already made up your mind?”
One lower-tier contestant gave the standard, “I’m still thinking it over,” but in reality it seemed decided.
‘They tell us to pick two people—what is there to think about?’
Normally, picking one to eliminate and one to keep wouldn’t be hard. You can cast your top and second-choice votes; what’s difficult about that?
‘Just leave out the person you won’t vote for.’
One guy was already tacitly disqualified.
“What a bastard!”
Ugh.
‘Who’d want to work with someone who suddenly goes off and tries to beat people up over lunch?’
Unaware that Shin Jaehyun—who three years later would spark a real assault scandal—had neatly orchestrated everything from the action to the rumor spread, the contestant merely nodded.
Once they tacitly excluded that one person, only three remained.
Eliminating one more was even simpler.
Someone less close. Someone they hardly knew. Someone with zero trainee experience.
The most recently added make-up group.
Ryu Cheong-woo.
“He’ll manage on his own.”
He wasn’t friends with an ex-national team pensioner, nor did he inspire any particular warmth.
“In that case, just pick the other two and we’re done.”
The existing trainees had already decided. They’d bonded in practice, and somehow it felt wrong to drop the other two—they were the safe choices.
“Yeah, that’s how it’ll go.”
Having reached that conclusion, the contestant lounged back, enjoying a precious moment of goofing off.
Click.
The practice room door opened, and voices drifted in.
“...that’s why choosing is so hard.”
“True.”
Familiar voices.
‘Oh.’
Realizing he wasn’t visible, the contestant, who’d been reclining behind the sound equipment, froze.
Ryu Geon-woo and Jung Woo-dan carried on.
“Have you decided who you’ll pick?”
“Well... hyung, will you vote for Ryu Cheong-woo?”
“And you?”
Unaware someone was there eavesdropping, they spoke freely. The lower-tier contestant quietly listened.
“I’m thinking of Da-hwan hyung.”
“Ah.”
Kim Da-hwan was one of the two the contestant had been considering.
Surprised by the topic he’d just been thinking about, the contestant held his breath, focusing on the conversation.
“I don’t mind him. His dance position is a bit crowded, though.”
After a beat, Ryu Geon-woo seemed to recall the camera wasn’t rolling and spoke at ease.
“It doesn’t matter to us—he’s a vocalist.”
‘...!’
Position?
“Yes. If someone skilled joins and raises the average, that’s beneficial.”
“Right. Those decisions are for the boss to make.”
Ah.
They agreed to vote for each other’s picks and left the nearly empty practice room.
“Not many here yet.”
“Too early. Let’s go somewhere else... ”
Thud.
“.......”
The door closed. The contestant felt unsettled.
Dance position overcrowded?
“...he’s right.”
It was true. Among the remaining contestants, there were at most four vocalists—including those two. Only the fierce make-up group rapper remained as a rap position. The dance position alone had seven people.
And at the very top were the monster Shin Jaehyun and the surprise make-up group entrant Cha Yoo-jin....
‘...there’s no room.’
Nearly double the number. The contestant—a dancer—swallowed hard. Another remark nagged him.
“Those decisions are for the boss to make.”
Members weren’t chosen by public vote; the boss decided. Given his tendency to balance positions, it really was dangerous.
“.......”
Suddenly seized by crisis, the contestant bit his lip. When choices are free, people rationalize the option that benefits themselves—especially with debut looming.
His conclusion was swift.
‘...I should eliminate as many competitors as possible. I’m no sucker.’
“The dancer elimination candidate has to go now.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he quietly slipped out and sprinted down the corridor.
Opposite in the vocal practice room, Ryu Geon-woo and Jung Woo-dan noticed.
“He actually left.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure this will work?”
“Mm.”
Ryu Geon-woo chuckled. He was confident in one thing: his own standing.
Among the contestants he was top tier—public recognition, buzz, skill, and the boss’s high appraisal.
‘Hard for fellow contestants to ignore that.’
It wasn’t about personal affection but hierarchy and authority. Direct persuasion might provoke resistance, but an indirect approach worked.
‘If he thinks he figured it out himself, he’ll trust it more.’
Overcrowded positions could be weighted toward one side depending on group style, but no one could be certain. Ryu Geon-woo wouldn’t explain that far; he simply said:
“Bet me tomorrow the atmosphere will flip.”
“I don’t fall for uncertain gambles, but I respect a key player.”
“.......”
Ryu Geon-woo fell silent. Woo-dan nodded, resting his chin on his hand.
“How many times do we need to do this?”
“Change the subject one more time.”
“Will that suffice?”
“They’ll talk anyway. The remaining trainees are in the same boat—they’ll cluster. You saw him dash out.”
With vocal positions taken by TeSTAR and VTIC, the dancers all shared the same predicament. They’d swap this strategy. If the votes split meaningfully, even if Ryu Cheong-woo got just a third, he’d be safe.
Only six voters remained once you counted the returned VTIC and TeSTAR members. Half the roster was already secured.
Ryu Geon-woo shrugged; Woo-dan nodded in agreement.
“You must think about human psychology a lot. I do sometimes—interesting habit.”
“.......”
Ryu Geon-woo said nothing further, preparing to explain the next target.
Meanwhile, beyond the corridor they watched, an unexpected event unfolded.
“Ugh.”
The contestant running down the corridor fell.
“Ah!”
He felt pain in his ankle.
“You okay?”
Ryu Cheong-woo, returning from an interview, saw it and rushed over.
“Hold on. Don’t move.”
Instinctively he applied his training.
“Does it hurt here?”
After checking, he said, “It’s just a muscle shock. No need to worry about an injury.”
Drawing on his experience, he reassured the contestant and fetched spray-on pain relief from a nearby lounge.
“Use this.”
“Ah... yes. Thank you.”
Without offering extra advice, he left. A simple kindness, as he often did.
But the situation was a little special.
“...hmm.”
After spraying the pain relief and standing, the contestant mentally assessed Ryu Cheong-woo:
Calm, generous, quick to act—truly a former national team member.
‘Could be someone to rely on in a team.’
And... he was a vocalist. No need to compete over that position.
Come to think of it, if they weren’t voting for dancer Kim Da-hwan, the only candidates left were Ryu Cheong-woo and that hotheaded loser.
A reasonable thought arose.
‘Better to vote for someone who plays well with others than that guy with anger issues.’
The contestant silently revised what he’d planned to say about the vote, then walked slowly down the corridor toward the dorms.
A few days later: the long-awaited final broadcast.
“Wow, finally.”
“I want to watch but I’m worried about them.”
“Heard it’s gonna be great.”
As viewers eagerly tuned in, the boss himself announced the lower-rank survivors in order of votes received.
[With 11 votes, these are the survivors joining the final stage.]
“Overwhelming.”
“That many votes must be the existing trainees.”
“Da-hwan?”
Speculation flew, and with the voting screen on VCR, the name was revealed.
[Ryu Cheong-woo.]
[...!!]
Ryu Cheong-woo became the first qualifier, taking 11 out of 12 votes—virtually a clean sweep of the lower tier.
Viewers were stunned, but seeing the contestants applaud him with smiles, they accepted it.
“Ryu Cheong-woo must have a great personality.”
“Insiders are different.”
“Didn’t they not like him at the agency? lol amazing.”
In fact, Park Mundae was a bit surprised.
‘What the—’
He hadn’t expected Ryu Cheong-woo to sweep like that.
‘I thought he’d get eight or nine votes.’
Then it dawned on him.
‘He doesn’t bluff.’
“I’ll get the votes I need.”
Ryu Cheong-woo’s confidence wasn’t baseless—he’d easily have placed second even without his tactic, proving his self-assurance was grounded.
‘Smart guy.’
He’d led every meal at AJUSA, after all.
‘No wonder.’
Park Mundae, wearing Ryu Geon-woo’s face as a TeSTAR member, happily applauded the leader.
As the next vocalist was called, the two eliminated were confirmed. Cold but unsurprising, given their low vote counts.
“Aww, no stage for them.”
“Cruel but they’re still young—hope they debut elsewhere!”
After a brief pause to allow viewers a moment of sadness,
[Yes I am!]
the final stage began.
Thanks to four lower-rank contestants practicing two routines for the same part, the ten-member stage flowed smoothly.
Viewers, moved like any final-episode audience, poured out responses.
“ㅠㅠㅠㅠ”
“Please let them all debut.”
“Ta-in, it’s not too late—K-pop needs you, boss!”
“Ta-in, make a reasonable decision, please.”
Ten members didn’t seem /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ many—these days groups debut with eleven or more—and people wept, seeing no one to eliminate.
But on the judges’ panel, CEO Kim Ta-in’s expression remained inscrutable.
Just as viewers hurled curses and jokes,
the camera suddenly panned behind—to a mask-clad but familiar face.
“???”
“Whoa, just now—”
“Isejin?”
“Isejin, no way!”
In the front row of the standing section, arms crossed, stood actor Lee Se-jin—still using her birth name Bae Se-jin here.
A reclusive film-only actress famous for churning out movies like a beast had inexplicably appeared in the front row of a male idol survival final.
Unsurprisingly, reactions exploded.
The moment the camera crew spotted her, she began appearing on screen frequently.
[Who can be a STAR?]
Each 1–2 second cut to her saw viewers cheering trainees and discussing Isejin in alternating bursts.
Her reactions were visible—wide eyes, swallowed spit.
“He’s cheering for Ryu Geon-woo.”
“Yeah.”
“Cha Yoo-jin loves him too.”
“Isejin’s a skill-fan, I get that.”
“With that lineup, aren’t you an idol stan? lol”
Even viewers who hated audience shots found the secretive actress’s cameo entertaining.
“Too obvious who they’re rooting for.”
“Why so bad at acting in real life? lol”
“She’s great at playing a bully—already too immersed in her character.”
They laughed, and though the novelty waned, social media buzz drew fresh viewers. As the final two-stage performances ended, they prepared for the climax.
And one more element was essential: empathy and tears.
The easiest way to evoke it was well-worn.
[Surprise letters to the trainees]
A warm middle-aged voice echoed from the quiet stage screen.
[??: Our Yoon-shin, how are you?]
Family.
“...!”
In the audience, Bae Se-jin almost ground her teeth.
‘No way...’
Had they recorded every trainee’s letter? Short video calls and affectionate messages flickered by.
‘No way...’
Bae Se-jin didn’t know all the intimate details of Park Mundae—now Ryu Geon-woo’s—family, but his reaction to his parents told everything: Ryu Geon-woo’s situation mirrored Park Mundae’s.
‘...here, how will he react?’
Never having discussed it, Bae Se-jin broke into a cold sweat, alternating her gaze between the screen and Ryu Geon-woo on stage.
When she saw him standing expressionlessly,
[Geon-woo, how are you?]
the screen went black, and his name appeared.
[These folks sent mail to get on a call from the Antarctic research station.]
Comments poured in.
“Wow, his parents are researchers in Antarctica?”
“Cool—Antarctic station!”
“A real elite family.”
“She’s jealous, must be a silver spoon.”
Ryu Geon-woo bowed his head slightly. To all but Bae Se-jin—who’d known him for years—it looked like grateful attention, but she read the gesture:
‘He’s holding it in.’
