The Fracturing Team

“None of us are going to put up with your whining like Jung Ji-ho did. Give it a rest already, Lee Ha-un.”

Go-hun’s words, longer than his usual clipped responses, were heavy and definitive. They were enough to make Ha-un—who had been pestering him—snap irritably and turn his back.

But Go-hun didn’t regret saying it. While mentioning Ji-ho made him feel uneasy, it was clear that Ha-un’s behavior was becoming increasingly excessive.

‘If Ha-un keeps provoking Se-han Hyung, it’s going to become a real problem.’

Go-hun didn’t want to get involved, but if a major fight broke out among the members, the fallout would inevitably affect him. Furthermore, as a former athlete sensitive to hierarchy, he found Ha-un’s recent habit of talking back to the eldest member increasingly bothersome.

Of course, Ha-un, who was intentionally pestering his hyungs, wasn’t about to give up easily. Wanting to annoy Go-hun further, he pulled a thin blanket over his head and began muttering to himself from inside. Even so, he kept his voice low, seemingly fearing Go-hun’s retaliation.

“Sigh… What’s the problem now?”

Buzzing around like a mosquito was often more effective at breaking a large predator than a direct confrontation. Go-hun let out a deep sigh and spoke to Ha-un, who finally threw off the blanket and began to pour out what he’d been wanting to say.

“It’s the title track for this album, obviously.”

It was a predictable topic.

A few days ago, disaster struck Pentagram as they were rushing to prepare their full album within the short three-month window. It turned out that the title track—one the A&R team had confidently sourced and which had passed a blind test—was plagiarized.

In an era where AI is being developed, it was only natural for song plagiarism detection systems to exist. Basic checks were conducted when songs were registered on streaming sites, and even before that, songs were often sent to professional plagiarism checking agencies.

The problem was that the song belonged to a famous composer, and the team had been far too relaxed with the checks, trusting that he would never plagiarize.

Perhaps because of that, the consolation that they found out before the album was released didn’t help. Along with the song selection, the planning meetings had already been finalized around that specific title track. The concept, stage composition, styling, and even the marketing direction had all been confirmed.

A disaster had occurred that wiped out a third of their already short preparation period.

Star Ent, which had been showing cracks since Ji-ho’s controversy, was in turmoil. The A&R team, who had been boastful about the song, and the Business Team, who had finalized the planning early due to the tight deadline, began to fight over who was responsible.

For the members of Pentagram, who were just waiting to start vocal recordings, it was a bolt from the blue.

“I knew it from the moment they said the concept meetings were over and they didn’t need our input. An agency that won’t even listen to the artist’s opinion… this is their punishment.”

“The CEO used to accept all our opinions when he was around, and we ruined every album back then.”

Go-hun’s words were short compared to Ha-un’s, but each one was sharp.

“Ugh, that’s… even if they don’t accept it, they shouldn’t ignore us. I emailed the A&R team images for the concept I wanted, and they left me on read immediately.”

“I know. You and Se-han Hyung fought about that two weeks ago.”

“That’s because he completely disregards our opinions! He was always like that, but this time he’s in total ‘loyal to the company’ mode. Anyway, the reason things turned out like this is all because Ji-ho Hyung is gone.”

“…Why is Jung Ji-ho coming up again?”

“Think about it. Ji-ho Hyung was really good at remembering songs. Back during composition class, he even remembered a melody I hummed and then forgot before I could write it down.”

“Forgetting a melody you made yourself just means you’re stupid…”

“Aaaagh! If you keep that up, I’m deleting your game account while you’re asleep.”

Go-hun briefly considered where he should hit the disrespectful youngest to make him snap out of it. He wondered how Ji-ho had ever managed to deal with this exhausting kid.

Sensing the murderous intent directed at him, Ha-un quickly changed the subject.

“So what I’m saying is, we participated in the blind test too. If Ji-ho Hyung had been there, he would have noticed the plagiarism in that song immediately.”

“Is Jung Ji-ho some kind of superhuman?”

“I’m telling you, you guys just don’t know! That Hyung knows so many songs he’d win first place on a show like Random Ten Thousand.”

Random Ten Thousand was a program where contestants had to sing along to random accompaniments from a list of ten thousand songs. Go-hun tried to remember if Ji-ho really knew that many songs, but because of Ji-ho’s humble personality, nothing came to mind.

“And about my email being ignored. Back when the CEO used to ask for our concept opinions, Ji-ho Hyung would organize the photos I collected and send them. He made them into a PPT or whatever you call it—it looked like an office worker made it. Team Leader Lee even said he was surprised by me.”

“Get to the point.”

Go-hun was already exhausted by Ha-un’s rambling, wondering if the kid thought he just had to link everything back to Ji-ho’s name. It was absurd hearing the youngest—who had never lived as an office worker—making such comparisons.

“If he was here, he would have organized my opinions this time too, and my email wouldn’t have been ignored.”

“Just how messy was the file you sent for the A&R team to ignore it?”

Go-hun was actually curious why he’d sent concept opinions directly to the A&R team in the first place, but he asked the question anyway. He wanted to tease Ha-un and end the conversation quickly, assuming the quality must have been not even worth a reply.

“I’ll show you the file I saved. Look at this.”

The file Ha-un showed was beyond the point of needing a reply. It was a literal mess. It was just a collection of photos without proper explanations, and even the text he did write was so vague it was hard to understand.

Go-hun suspected that the agency—which surely had the members’ emails flagged—hadn’t ignored it out of malice, but rather out of sheer confusion on how to respond. He felt a bit embarrassed thinking the A&R team might assume this was the standard of the Pentagram members.

But Ha-un, seemingly unaware of the problem, continued to chatter.

“When Ji-ho Hyung was here, we talked about how it’d be good to make the full album like this. I remembered that and sent it. We’ve had the same concept ever since Beyonder started climbing the charts. They said the full album would be similar, but honestly, isn’t that boring? If we keep going with this heavy image, we’ll run out of content we can do.”

‘He’s… not wrong.’

Go-hun felt a bit unsettled by the fact that he was actually being persuaded. Since Ha-un lacked the ability to articulate things logically despite having the drive, he was clearly just repeating what Ji-ho had said.

As they talked, Go-hun began to vaguely understand why Ha-un was making such a fuss today.

“The real point.”

“Agh… It looks like releasing the album within the deadline is a failure anyway, so let’s delay it and bring Ji-ho Hyung back to start over!”

“So that was it after all.”

“Hyuuuung, let’s persuade Se-han Hyung… no, the company together. This is the time we should speak up. We can make an issue out of them ignoring us in meetings, and the title track plagiarism is the company’s fault anyway!”

Ha-un’s suggestion to use the agency’s moment of weakness to amplify the members’ voices was surprisingly plausible. It was a shrewd, opportunistic approach, but Go-hun was well aware that the youngest had more wit than his behavior suggested.

‘Does he really want to bring Jung Ji-ho back that badly? I can guess why, but still.’

Ha-un’s claim that they couldn’t stop the plagiarism issue because one person was missing was close to a delusion, but the idea that Ji-ho’s absence was causing problems wasn’t entirely baseless.

Go-hun, who relied on instinct rather than deep, complex thought, had been feeling it lately. Since the accident—specifically, since the vacancy left by Ji-ho—the team known as Pentagram was becoming increasingly unstable.

No-a, who still wasn’t allowed to live in his studio because they had to be careful with the media, locked himself in his room and rarely came out while he was in the dorm. It was because the housekeeper had to be called back since Ji-ho—who used to handle some of the chores—was gone.

For some reason, Se-han was following the agency’s instructions—specifically those of Kwon-ho, the A&R Team Leader—to an excessive degree. Aside from the leader, the only member who had some grasp of the company’s inner workings was Ji-ho; without him, they couldn’t even ask questions or dispute the situation. It was simply: if you don’t know, shut up and follow. It was a one-sided tyranny from the leader.

Ha-un was clearly stressed because there was no one to accept his whining, and he often vented that frustration as resentment toward his hyungs. He raised his voice in the dorm whenever he was bored and didn’t hesitate to talk back to Se-han. It had been a long time since they’d had a somewhat proper conversation like today.

Naturally, the members were drifting apart.

Even at this moment, with the preparation for the full album hitting a snag, there was no meeting of everyone to discuss it. The management team, which should have sensed the discord and intervened, seemed to be suffering from a more severe labor shortage after the controversy; Yong-ha and Ha-neul only repeated how much they missed Ji-ho’s help.

It was as if everyone was standing on a sheet of ice that was about to shatter. The members no longer wondered why Ji-ho chose his hometown over the dorm, or why he hadn’t contacted them yet.

‘The same goes for me.’

Go-hun thought he wouldn’t even feel Ji-ho’s absence since he was someone he tried to push away. Aside from a slight guilt over the seatbelt issue, he thought it would be easier once the person he had to worry about was gone.

But he was wrong.

There was no one to wake him up in the morning, so he was late for every morning training session. And the diet management he’d recently restarted wasn’t quite right, even though a professional housekeeper was preparing it. Besides managing his body for promotions, Go-hun enjoyed working out, and he found himself thinking of Ji-ho, who used to help correct his posture even from a distance when he did home training in the dorm.

Ha-un wasn’t wrong when he said things had become boring. Even Go-hun, who had chosen to be an idol because he found it genuinely interesting despite it being a job, found this album preparation strangely tedious.

“Why are you quiet, Go-hun Hyung? You’re not… against Ji-ho Hyung coming back, are you? Something feels off. It feels like they’re intentionally leaving him out throughout the whole album prep.”

“……”

Ignoring Ha-un’s words, Go-hun thought seriously. Would he actually welcome Ji-ho’s return? Would he be swayed by Ha-un’s persuasion and lend strength to his cause?

‘Normally, it’d be strange to hesitate.’

He knew how sincere and hardworking Ji-ho was about his idol activities as a member of Pentagram. Even compared to the other diligent members, Ji-ho’s industriousness was top-tier. It had been obvious since their debut team days.

Go-hun had watched Ji-ho silently back then. And because of that, Go-hun knew a secret about Ji-ho that others didn’t. That secret was a large reason why he’d started keeping his distance.

The confession of a former colleague who was no longer here came to mind.

‘I didn’t think you would find out, Go-hun. You’re right. Actually, Ji-ho and I…’

He didn’t want to experience those complex emotions again. Or the nightmare from his athlete days that he had been forced to recall. He didn’t want to go through it again. Therefore, Go-hun had no choice but to answer Ha-un this way.

“Lee Ha-un, stop it. Nothing is going to change no matter what you do.”

“Hyung!”

“I’ve listened to all your whining, so that’s enough. Don’t disturb my rest.”

Go-hun picked up his phone and turned on his game again, leaving the fuming Ha-un behind. He thought to himself that at least the ground he was standing on hadn’t broken yet, and that the group he belonged to wouldn’t crumble.