Debut or Die-Chapter 410
Wishes’ appearance on the competition show True Match doesn’t give much airtime to talking—it barely shows the rehearsal process.
That’s because they stick to the “let the stage speak for itself” concept of a skill-based battle.
Which, in fact, suited Ryu Geon-woo just fine.
“If we show too much prep, it loses impact.”
Since they’re all experienced performers, it’ll look like they breeze through rehearsals too smoothly for rookies.
But that’s exactly the kind of misdirection we want.
“Gotta betray expectations.”
As a result, Wishes got edited exactly like the typical “one-hit rookie” who blows up with a single song—almost no prep footage at all.
[“And now, the fifth team?”]
[“Hello, the idols you’ve been waiting for—Wishes!”]
Just a polite greeting, then a quick plug for their current hit, “Timer,” as if it were an ad.
Under normal circumstances they’d have received more screen time—they’re absurdly hot as individuals, monstrous rookies.
But the rest of the early segment went to the team whose positions and image were a straight upgrade:
Baro T-holic.
[“Ah~ Welcome!”]
[“Here comes the nation’s idol!”]
Since they’re more widely known with multiple hit songs, viewer reactions—good or bad—focused on them.
A few sharp-eyed commenters, however, left these notes:
“They overlap a bit, don’t they?”
“This is a booking fail. The two look too similar.”
“They should’ve differentiated with Ryu Cheong-woo instead, jeez.”
Each member of Baro T-holic has sizzling individual fame and mainstream hits. Laid out like that, Wishes clearly look like followers on the T-holic line.
And today’s theme for the 101st episode didn’t help Wishes at all.
[Theme: Back to Basics]
[A theme for artists challenging True Match’s new post-100th-episode era]
“Back to basics” for rookies?
Especially after that 100th-episode festival of extravagant stage setups and famous composers’ signature songs—it all felt bland.
When it came time for the leader, Shin Jae-hyun, to deliver the requested “words of resolve,” the audience reacted coolly.
[“Through various solo activities, we’ve thankfully made a name for ourselves, but at heart, we’re people who perform as a group.”]
[“We want to show you that.”]
“That sounds like a death flag.”
“You’d think they’ve only done variety for five years, lol.”
“Haven’t they performed ‘Timer’ enough already?”
Just as viewers bristled at a promising rookie clutching a hit song, a fan couldn’t hold back:
“Lol, you don’t know—Wishes come from a survival show.”
“The whole point of a competition show is their rookie spirit.”
The comments vanished in an instant—and the screen changed.
[Live Broadcast]
As the live indicator popped up in the corner and the image texture shifted, the camera panned to the stage.
The prepared opening.
Huge cursive letters lit up on the scoreboard overhead:
[Yesterday]
Sunlit yellow beams fell across the stage.
Against a sky-blue screen, the set resembled a stately school entrance built of brick. Through the panel structures, the performers emerged.
Wishes, dressed in neat private-school uniforms.
They gathered along the flow of the choreography, formed up, and at center, blond-haired Jin Chae-yul smiled.
[“If we turn back the timer, let’s visit the past.”]
A familiar song began.
They tweaked the staging and vocal style with a slightly musical-theater flair, added a brass accompaniment, giving a retro yet jaunty vibe.
It felt exhilarating and joyful.
Each member wove in a pinch of their variety-show persona: Ryu Cheong-woo reading a book in glasses, Joo Dan performing newspaper-fire magic, Cha Yoo-jin ending his rap lines with “–seumnida” and winking.
They slipped in catchphrases or small reenactments.
Ryu Geon-woo, who’d been holding a campaign placard like a protest sign, hugged it to his chest, then smiled through the chorus.
[“My racing heart is you.”]
[“A shooting star descending above us.”]
[“Still remember it today.”]
The members danced with raised hands.
Every moment felt natural yet warmly supportive. The arrangement succeeded brilliantly, and the members looked so at ease you’d never guess they were nervous.
“Not bad.”
“They’re good—idols can be a force for good. Feels like we’re cheering them on.”
“They must’ve picked up some votes. They sing pretty well.”
Though it was a bit tame, it was a pleasant opener. Vocals left nothing to criticize.
Just when it seemed they’d passed without flak:
“Huh? Where’s Kim Rae-bin?”
Against the complex choreography and warped camera work, many viewers hadn’t noticed.
But there, climbing the railing behind a stage prop, was Kim Rae-bin—white hair gleaming.
The camera whipped back to him as he placed a hand on the school clock.
[D-------ing-----]
The camera recoiled. The sky-blue scoreboard rippled and a bell’s toll pierced through.
A minor-key recorder played. The backing tempo shifted.
“????”
As Kim Rae-bin calmly descended the railing, the other seven performers gathered and launched a new choreography.
It looked like a dance-break interlude but felt off-kilter and slightly slowed—uneasy.
By the time Kim Rae-bin joined them center, the bell’s tones and the original backing had already faded.
In the white noise that remained, he nodded once, then spoke in a hoarse, low voice:
[“Turn the timer.”]
[“Grant my wish.”]
A fierce riff melody slammed in:
[“Chant an unforgettable spell.”]
[“Teach it to me.”]
[“Your world.”]
The scoreboard shifted from rosy dusk to dark, a crescent moon rising.
Nighttime.
At the instant the title lettering changed:
[Yesterday]
—the real choreography began.
And each time a member stepped forward to reprise their “Timer” part:
[“Turn the timer.”]
[“Here I am; I haven’t changed.”]
A new minor-key melody barreled in, overriding the Timer riff.
Modern MIDI tones naturally took the stage, pushing aside the classical arrangement.
Viewers couldn’t help but be stunned:
“What song is this?”
“Isn’t ‘Timer’ their debut?”
No.
Their true debut track—one tailored to K-pop fandom tastes and rejecting mainstream chart appeal—was a different song entirely:
[“Even if I memorize it forever.”]
[“I never get tired of you.”]
[“Hold me here.”]
Wish.
A ghost-story narrative of being trapped forever [N O V E L I G H T] in a school at midnight began to devour “Timer.”
Every time the Timer riff tried to surface, Wish’s beat crushed it.
And the choreography shifted to block it:
[“A photo glints.”]
[“Night of the hunt, the prey’s breath.”]
[“I grant the wish.”]
As Timer’s original chorus path was shoved aside, Cha Yoo-jin, eyes blazing, grabbed dance center.
Members who’d had scant Timer parts stepped fully forward.
The beat sped up, grew fierce; movements became rough, the formations bulldozing outward.
Night of the hunt.
A chilling high note surged:
[Ohohohoh—]
Beneath it, a dark, powerful voice:
[“Make me enhanced.”]
[“Make me better.”]
[“Come in.”]
Just as hands shot skyward and freezes locked in place—
the song ended.
Lowering his raised hand, Joo Dan stepped forward.
[“One.”]
[“Two.”]
[“Three.”]
[“Grant my wish now.”]
He wore a composed expression.
Straightening his outfit with a finger, Shin Jae-hyun turned to leave, and the formation solidified into a pyramid.
Yet those at his back remained facing front—and began to sing:
[“U... u....”]
Their acappella mockery echoed.
In the crimson midnight school, a bell tolled:
[Ding—]
Their torsos rocked in time.
[Dong—]
Lights cut out.
[...g...]
On the dark stage, only the lingering bell tones floated as the opening ended.
The MC’s pre-recorded VCR for the next stage started playing, but...
“???”
“What song was that?? Someone please explain.”
“That was electric.”
“What did I just witness?”
Viewers were left so stunned they couldn’t follow the flow.
“? I went to the restroom—why’s the vibe like this?”
After all live performances ended, a ten-minute poll—half audience, half viewers—began.
Wishes finished second from the bottom, gasping through the final results.
Before leaving work, I stopped by the bathroom, then scrolled through my phone in the hallway.
Every page was buzzing with talk of the group. The key word: stunned.
“Do Wishes always do stages like that?”
Their “Timer” stage was deliberately easy to mimic and pleasant to watch—no jaw-dropping difficulty or eye-popping spectacle.
Just a feel-good display of charm.
So the public pegged Wishes’ strength and direction as “mainstream, T-holic-line friendly.”
But tonight’s stage revealed their true intent.
“Turns out variety was just a side gig for them.”
Surprisingly true. I nodded at the top comment.
“Isn’t this a scam? Live TV doing this? lol.”
“How did they nail the timing? They all sing so well—crazy live...” 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦
“I didn’t expect minor-key vibes to go this far, but it’s compelling. Was their debut always like this?”
As the fan-entertainment community churned with such reactions, regular viewers went even further.
They were so impressed it bordered on resistance.
“That stage was so satisfying. Young kids like these know how to take risks—geniuses.”
“Who’d have thought they’d wreck the opener like that—it was awesome!”
“With that talent, their ruthless company must’ve made them suffer. They sing and dance so well.”
On a long-running competition show, viewers hardened by clichés for over a hundred episodes crave stronger, more shocking performances.
In their eyes, tonight was the perfect jolt—both theatrically and narratively.
“Good performs are good people.”
As a result, the overwhelming majority flipped their stance in support.
“Nice.”
I nodded, closed the browser, thinking that tomorrow’s articles would cement the group’s image. Then I could finally stretch out and get a good six hours of sleep....
“Uh, excuse me.”
“Yes?”
Turning, I saw a familiar face.
“Hm.”
Who was this guy again?
“Ah, a T-holic member.”
I didn’t know he’d left the group.
Apologizing internally, I bowed politely, rookie-style. He nodded.
“Great stage. You really prepared hard—second place is well-deserved!”
“Thank you.”
I shook his offered hand, and in his eyes I saw a flash of contempt mixed with caution.
“Your next comeback should capture that kind of stage vibe. Wishes seem to do it best.”
He meant “ditch mainstream appeal.”
He must know rookies don’t get to choose that.
He probably just swaggered near our waiting room to feel like a big senior since he lost.
“Hmm.”
A power trip kinda guy.
Whatever. He’ll retire in a few years anyway.
I couldn’t help smirking as I nodded.
“Thank you.”
“Right. And I hope we meet again on variety shows—you guys can guest and we’ll see you again.”
“Ah, yes.”
Still, I wanted to knock him down a peg. The door to my waiting room stood right there and I couldn’t leave—annoying. Could he just zip it and go away?
Suddenly, the door opened.
Click.
Out came someone in street clothes.
Cheongryeo.
“Hello, senior.”
“Ah, Jae-hyun. Good to see you.”
Apparently the leader habitually greeted others first—so we were acquainted.
“Shall I let it slide and come in?”
I gave him a rare, welcoming look.
The former T-holic member gaped.
“You always have good manners. To last long, keep it up.”
“I always respect you.”
“Right, right.”
He radiated the confidence and arrogance of someone certain he’d never fall from this position.
“Wanna tease him a bit?”
I was about to speak when Cheongryeo quietly said,
“But no one stays in their prime forever—neither groups nor people.”
...!
Shin Jae-hyun smiled faintly, then glared at the T-holic guy.
He meant: you won’t outlast me.
“...That guy.”
He’d got in a dig.
I hadn’t expected him to say it so openly.
“The prime ends, so it’s still the prime, right?”
I remembered what I’d told him before.
The ex-member’s face flushed and he straightened up.
“You—now you’re...”
“Oh, hyung, there you are!”
At that moment, a bright voice cut in from around the corner.
Another T-holic member dashed up.
“The manager was looking for you—oh, Wishes!”
The youngest of T-holic, star of “Party in Me,” winked.
“Your stage was amazing. Let’s compete in good faith so we can keep seeing each other on the networks!”
“No, we dare not compete—”
“You’re even humble.”
He meant that in reality our generation gap would prevent true competition—an insult for an old man.
He seemed proud for a moment, but quickly changed expression.
“Thanks~ Alright, hyung, let’s go!”
The youngest pulled the ex-member away.
“....”
I glanced at Cheongryeo. He shrugged and smiled thinly.
“Well, how’s it feel to hear your words quoted?”
“Now you know.”
“Ha ha!”
I chuckled as I opened my waiting-room door.
All the conditions were set.
The Grand Prize season has arrived.
“Good evening, viewers~”
At the awards ceremony, from the MC desk’s side stage, Lee Se-jin of Jairope took the mic with a smile.
His dark-dyed hair had earned praise, and thanks to solid group and solo activities this year, he stood here tonight.
One reason, of course, was that he was one of the few who could skillfully host a live broadcast—but the company knew more than that.
“...I’m optimistic.”
Lee Se-jin stayed on alert for any curveballs.
For plans and strategy.
“He does everything, doesn’t he.”
He swallowed his nerves in private, then lifted his head with an easy grin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Lemon Music Awards begins now!”
