A Shout in the Crowd

“…ho, Jung Ji-ho!”

Ji-ho snapped out of his daze, lifting a startled face.

Since he was sitting right next to the van’s sliding door, he could see Yong-ha tapping on the window from the outside.

Ji-ho quickly pushed the door open, wondering how much time had passed.

“What were you thinking about to be so spaced out?”

“I think I dozed off for a second. …Are you already back from the cafe?”

“Yeah. App orders really are convenient. Everything was ready. I’m giving you guys yours first before taking the rest to the salon.”

“Oh? Yong-ha Hyung, is that for us? Awesome! That’s the Sweet Potato Green Milk Tea!”

Yong-ha held cardboard carriers filled with drinks in both hands, and Ha-un rejoiced at the sight of the milk tea he had wanted.

“Yeah, yeah. Lee Ha-un, you know this is a one-time thing, right? I just ordered Americanos for the rest of you.”

“No one else whines about the menu except him. I was feeling sleepy anyway, so this is perfect. I’ll take mine.”

Go-un, whose tanned skin and long arms stood out, reached past Ji-ho from the back.

Following his lead, everyone took a cup of coffee from the carrier Yong-ha held out.

Ha-un reclaimed his phone from Ji-ho and immediately started taking pictures of his drink.

Se-han, who had woken up at some point, watched the excited youngest and remarked that since the manager allowed it, he’d let it slide just this once.

Noah popped an ice cube into his mouth as if trying to wake up, while Go-un drained his coffee in one go and returned his focus to his game.

And Ji-ho silently looked down at the paper cup he had been handed.

The cold chill seeping through the sleeve seemed to tell him to face reality.

In truth, Ji-ho was sensitive to caffeine and couldn’t drink coffee.

His constitution was such that even a small amount of caffeine caused his heart to race and, in severe cases, led to dizziness.

There was no way the manager, who had been with them for years, didn’t know this.

“Yong-ha Hyung, mine came as a coff—”

He didn’t even have the chance to ask if the manager had ordered it by mistake or to ask for a swap.

Yong-ha had already turned away to deliver the drinks to the salon staff.

Ji-ho’s hand, which had started to reach out to stop the closing door, slowly dropped.

The request to change his drink never left his lips.

‘Yong-ha Hyung has been so scattered lately, it must be hard to look after every single member.’

Right. That had to be it.

He was a manager suffering from a labor shortage amidst a brutal schedule.

It was easy to forget the constitution of one member.

It wasn’t like it was a life-threatening illness or an allergy, after all.

Reciting this to himself, Ji-ho placed the coffee he couldn’t drink into the cup holder.

If the members—especially Ha-un—found out, they would tease Yong-ha all day for not being able to handle a simple drink order, so it was better to keep it quiet.

‘Ha-un… right. Pressing the “like” button on that video was probably just a mistake too.’

The community post he’d seen through the link was far too intense to worry about anything else.

“Withdrawal”—a word Ji-ho had never even imagined.

Malicious comments he couldn’t just dismiss as meaningless if they truly came from Pentagram fans.

The way he felt himself shrinking, unable to refute even the blatant lies.

How wonderful would it be if he could forget things as easily as Yong-ha forgot a designer’s drink preference or a member’s caffeine sensitivity?

If these gloomy emotions could be buried and lost in the busy daily routine, if even a portion of those burned-in sentences could be erased, he might feel a little better.

‘Even if I can’t forget, let’s just let it flow past. Yes, that’s what I should do.’

Perhaps because he was wishing for the impossible, Ji-ho’s mood continued to sink endlessly.

***************************************

Time flowed on, indifferent to the turbulent heart of a single man.

At the call from the salon, the members stepped out of the car one by one, with Ji-ho being the last to be called.

“Oh my, Ji-ho. You waited a long time, didn’t you?”

“It’s fine. Everything has an order.”

“Still, it’s always you who’s last. This is how morning music shows are. I wish all the stations doing morning pre-recordings would switch to evenings.”

This was one of the famous hair and makeup salons in Cheongdam-dong, primarily frequented by celebrities.

They handled many famous idol groups, and Pentagram’s agency had paid extra to secure a spot here as soon as the group received their first ad revenue.

In a place like this, even a single designer could afford to be stuck-up, but fortunately, Ji-ho’s designated designer treated him with the friendliness of a younger brother.

“You didn’t do a base, right? Did you sleep well today? Your skin looks so fresh.”

“That’s a relief. Yes, I only applied sunscreen.”

The designer began a flurry of chatter while wiping Ji-ho’s skin with makeup tools.

Ji-ho replied with a faint smile, not mentioning that taking care of the members in the morning meant he could never get a full night’s rest.

He caught his reflection in the mirror.

For an idol, appearance was an undeniable factor, but strangely, the face in the mirror felt more awkward than usual today.

‘Is my appearance really that out of sync with the other members?’

As expected, he couldn’t forget the post he’d seen on Ha-un’s phone and found himself worrying about it again.

There was another reason he couldn’t just brush it off.

Because during this promotion cycle, Ji-ho had felt it too.

Originally, Pentagram was a group created with the somewhat vague concept of five stars with diverse charms growing together to shine.

In the past, the company tried to highlight the images preferred by each of the five members and distributed screen time as fairly as possible.

Then, early this year, when the fancam of them performing passionately through heavy rain and audience jeers went viral, Pentagram underwent a massive transformation.

The CEO, who had been acting as director, admitted his limitations and recruited a new producer from outside.

An independent A&R team was established, and the new team leader put immense effort into rebranding the group’s concept.

Pentagram sought to transform into a dynamic, multi-faceted performance group with a masculine image that emphasized a strong, deep impression.

The results of this change were sufficiently proven by the chart reversal of the B-side Beyonder from their 2nd mini-album and the first-week sales of their 3rd mini-album.

The problem was Ji-ho, who had softer features and a milder impression compared to the other members.

Though the company didn’t say it outright, Ji-ho had sensed the problem since the cover shoot, which marked the beginning of this album’s visual work.

He noticed that shots including him required far more edits and that the work time was often delayed.

In the beginning, the staff tried to fix this.

The designer assigned to Ji-ho was a director-level professional, not just a general designer, and they conducted a lot of research, trying various styling attempts to melt Ji-ho into the new concept.

But none of it lasted long.

Whether they decided it was useless or they were just too busy once promotions started, the company’s direction gradually shifted.

Instead of trying to save the whole, they focused their energy on the members who fit the concept best.

If Ji-ho seemed to ruin the overall picture, they reduced his screen time, and the staff assigned to him began to dwindle.

Ji-ho didn’t think this was wrong.

From the perspective of an agency that had to make cold, calculated decisions, it was a natural choice.

And as the post he saw earlier said, this was a very important time for Pentagram.

If being sidelined was necessary for the group’s success, he could endure it as much as needed.

‘So I shouldn’t be hurt. I’m such a fool.’

He felt sorrowful over his frame that didn’t bulk up easily no matter how much he exercised, his pale coloring that had limits to what makeup could cover, and his faint reflection in the mirror that didn’t stand out among the members with their vibrant individualities.

As if reading his thoughts, the designer, who had been chattering as fast as her hands moved, brought up a related topic.

“I heard today’s stage has a completely dark concept? Aren’t music show promotions almost over now?”

“Yes, there are only a few left.”

“That’s a shame. I wanted to give you a makeup look that actually suits you at least once. I’ve told you every time, Ji-ho, your base features are really good. Your skin, your full features, that soft aura. If styled properly, you could stand out plenty…”

The designer continued to praise Ji-ho after that.

She spoke while mixing in professional knowledge as a designer, which might be why her words sank into Ji-ho’s ears so clearly.

“Do you… really think so?”

Perhaps those words were just part of the designer’s service mindset.

However, because it was a professional’s evaluation, it provided Ji-ho with a small amount of comfort.

At the very least, he felt he could make the excuse that he was just holding his breath due to the situation and environment, not because of a lack of talent.

He could tell himself that the group’s new concept simply didn’t suit him, and that there wasn’t a problem with him personally.

That is, until the designer spoke her next words.

“Of course. That’s why you need to demand things strongly from the company, Ji-ho. In this industry, being “kind” is the same as being “talentless.” Don’t you know the personalities of kids in other groups? They’re all struggling desperately to stand out more. It’s a miracle someone as timid as you is even surviving in this field.”

For some reason, he recalled words he had heard a long time ago.

It was a vivid voice that Ji-ho couldn’t help but remember, down to the tone and every single word.

‘A diligent and kind image? Not bad. It’s not like there’s no demand for that in the idol world, and we all know how hard you work, Ji-ho. But what we want is literally a shining idol, an icon. Someone special who becomes the object of others’ envy and makes people smile just by looking at them. But you, strangely enough, instinctively shrink away from revealing yourself. Unless you fix that flaw… it will be hard for you to become an idol.’

Star Entertainment wasn’t the first company for Ji-ho, who had started his trainee life at fourteen.

The moment he received the notice that he was being cut as a trainee from his original agency, before joining the Pentagram debut lineup, was one of the most bitter memories of his life.

It wasn’t the advice or criticism itself that hurt.

It was the anxiety that even after four years had passed, he was still hearing the same thing.

It felt as if he were walking the wrong path, and that his current struggles were just meaningless, empty kicks in the air.

“…Thank you for the advice. I’ll try harder.”

Even the fact that this was the only answer he could give remained the same.

*****************************************

On the days of music show recordings, which happened once a week for each station, there was a small event that took place implicitly.

It was the filming of the idols’ “commute” to work.

These days, there are opinions that it should be abolished for reasons like safety or labor drain, but many music show filming days were still a spectacle, crowded with fans waiting since dawn to see their favorite idols arrive.

After parking the van in the designated spot, the members of Pentagram headed toward the studio entrance.

They could see a crowd of about a hundred people waiting behind a controlled fence in the distance.

Ji-ho made an effort to ensure his face didn’t look stiff due to his sunken emotions from the morning.

Smiling for the fans who had waited for them was a basic requirement for an idol, so it wasn’t difficult.

“The kids are here!”

“Noah! Did you sleep well today?”

“Guys!”

“Shining like five stars! Hello, we are Pentagram!”

The sight of five handsome men, their hair and makeup professionally styled, standing in a line was quite a spectacle.

Pentagram, in particular, had larger frames and were taller than many other boy groups, so the impact of meeting them in person was even greater.

Besides their recent popularity, this was why photos of Pentagram members were so high-profile.

The “Home-mas” (homepage masters) holding expensive cameras that looked like they belonged to journalists naturally became busy.

“Let’s wave once. We’ll give the fans plenty of time, so please don’t push against the fence too much!”

“Look over here! Camera over here!”

“The makeup is insane today.”

“Choi Go-un! Go-un, smile just once!”

There were few cases where receiving the cheers of others felt bad.

Even if those cheers weren’t directed solely at him.

Ji-ho raised one hand and greeted the fans according to the instructions of the staff member guiding the commute filming.

Finally, the tension in his body seemed to be loosening a bit.

‘Right. In the past, I didn’t even get this kind of reaction.’

No matter how good one’s looks, talent, or skills were, the most important things in the profession of a celebrity were fame and recognition.

It had only been half a year since Pentagram started receiving this much applause.

In the past, the number of fixed fans following them was so small that at the music show commutes they barely managed to secure, they mostly heard things like, “Those guys are handsome. What’s their name?” or “When are our boys coming?”

There were even days when almost no one was waiting behind the fence because all the famous idols had already passed through.

Compared to the past, being depressed while receiving this kind of attention would be a luxury.

Ji-ho smiled even more brightly with rising motivation and waved his arm.

It was then.

“Ah, Jung Ji-ho! Put your arm down! You’re blocking Noah’s face because of you!”

It was a loud shout that cut through all the noise of the scene.