Prologue

<All characters, groups, products, and events depicted in this work are fictional. They have no relation to real-life counterparts.>

Idol.

A profession that literally means “object of worship,” it has suddenly emerged as the mainstream of the Korean entertainment industry.

The genre known as K-POP has expanded across the globe, evolving beyond singers who are simply good at singing and dancing into all-around entertainers equipped with diverse talents.

It is a reality where a single successful idol member is referred to as a “walking corporation.”

Consequently, countless teenagers dream of their debut, leading South Korea into an era of one million idol trainees.

However, passing through the needle-thin eye of the debut wall is no easy feat.

It is said that only 0.1% of many trainees actually achieve a debut.

But even after enduring a grueling trainee life, passing strict agency tests, and finally debuting, a bright future is not guaranteed.

Naturally, not every idol group succeeds.

Getting the public to recognize even a single name is like plucking a star from the sky.

Even if one is lucky enough to receive a brief moment of spotlight, a single minor mistake can lead to public condemnation and a swift fall, or they are quickly swept away by a flood of new rookie groups.

After that, they find themselves wishing for the termination of the agency contracts they once craved so desperately.

They hope to leave and find other work, even if it’s late, but that is rarely easy.

It is natural for agencies not to want to let go of a “product” they invested in, and there are countless cases where unreasonable debts—labeled as “training costs”—are saddled upon the individual.

Having spent their entire adolescence trapped in a cramped practice room, many lack other skills, making it difficult to adapt to a cold, harsh society.

Technically speaking, Ji-ho was a victor who had overcome all these adversities.

He experienced the massive ordeal of being cut as a trainee, but he never gave up on his dream of debuting.

He met a new family at a new company and achieved the debut he so desired.

In the early days of their debut, various incidents nearly turned their group into just another “nugudol” (failed idol), but after enduring with relentless effort, they finally saw the light.

His group, Pentagram, was clearly a successful idol group worthy of running toward the summit.

But—

[For Sale] Selling a Hotteok flipper

(Multiple photos of Ji-ho’s photo cards)

Selling a Hotteok flipper for this winter.

It’s thick and coated, so if you fold it and use it as a flipper, it’s literally perfect. LOL.

(A photo of Ji-ho’s brightly smiling face folded in half)

I’m seriously selling this, so DM me.

#Jyo_Album_PC #Pentagram #Stop_Showing_Up

Replies)

I didn’t know what you meant at first, hahaha. A Hotteok flipper? That’s creative.

└ It’s basically the law: Unpopular member’s PC = Hotteok flipper.

Hey, if you pulled this many, it’s a sign you should stan him.

└ Get lost. I’m already pissed off.

└ I keep pulling only Ji-ho too. Ugh. Please delete him from the PC lineup.

Yeah, I wouldn’t take it even if you gave it to me for free.

Jyo is honestly amazing. I heard this album hit 300k in first-week sales, but a member is being treated like a Hotteok flipper.

└ Holy crap, 300k? They hit the jackpot with that one fancam.

└ You can’t just call it luck; the members’ specs are way too high, lol.

└ Their choreography changes are insane too. It’s a mystery why they didn’t blow up sooner.

└ If you think about it, wasn’t it Jyo who dragged the group through the mud in the first place?

Stage name Ji-ho, search-shielding name Jyo.

Even among the fans, he was treated as nothing more than a Hotteok flipper—

He was, undeniably, the unpopular member.

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

Beep— Beep—

A monotonous alarm echoed through the room.

Shaking off the lingering traces of sleep, Ji-ho reached out and grabbed his phone from above his head.

4:00 AM.

It was early even for a typical wake-up call, but on days with morning schedules, there was no choice.

The only silver lining was that Ji-ho was never one for deep, heavy sleep.

As soon as he sat up and switched on the light, a groan drifted over from someone sharing the space with him.

“Kang Noah, get up.”

On the bed across the room, a man buried under a mountain of blankets extended a single arm at Ji-ho’s call.

The long arm, corded with lean muscle, made it clear its owner was tall, but his fumbling movements across the nightstand seemed clumsy compared to his sleek physique.

Ji-ho walked over and picked up the phone from the nightstand for him.

He didn’t forget to offer his roommate a piece of advice.

“It’s 4:00 AM. If you want to shower in a clean bathroom, get up now.”

Because they shared a room—no, because they lived together—Ji-ho knew Noah’s fastidious nature well.

Noah was as picky and prickly as his personality; if he had to start his day in a bathroom someone else had already used, he would be sensitive and irritable all day long.

Therefore, among the members living together, the one Ji-ho always woke up first was Noah.

That’s right. Ji-ho was an idol.

Pentagram, a three-year-old boy group.

They were the masterpiece of Star Entertainment, an agency that had failed to produce a successful celebrity for a long time, surviving tenaciously like a cockroach.

They were the “miracle of a small agency” that occasionally occurred.

After their debut, they flopped on two mini-albums and were dragged to all sorts of local events just to recoup the investment.

At the very moment when the group was about to disband and the company was on the verge of closing its doors, they gained explosive attention through a fancam titled “The Reality of a Typical Unpopular Idol in Korea.”

That was early this year.

Pentagram, once a name no one knew, had now gained enough recognition for people to say, ‘Oh, those guys who performed even through the booing?’

The members, who had gone unnoticed, were finally recognized for their individual charms, with people saying that pearls had been hidden in a pile of dirt.

Riding that momentum, their third mini-album, which hadn’t been produced for over a year, was released recently.

Broadcast officials who once didn’t even have the name Pentagram in their heads were now the first to seek them out.

Schedules that they used to barely scrape together by begging pathetically were now so packed that the members had to wake up at dawn just to get through them.

Now, Pentagram was frequently cited as one of the top-tier active boy groups.

And Ji-ho was a definitive member of Pentagram, a group consisting of five members, as simple as its name meaning “five-pointed star.”

“I told you to get up, Kang Noah.”

“f*ck, stop calling my name. I’m getting up!”

A moment later, Noah, swearing and grumbling in irritation, finally threw off his blanket and sat up.

Even while just lounging on the bed, Noah’s tall upper body rose up tall.

However, what stood out more than that was his sharp features, despite being plastered with annoyance.

His appearance, which looked extraordinary for a native Korean at a glance, harmonized with his bleached blue hair to create a mysterious aura.

Even though he had just rolled out of bed, there wasn’t a single crease from the blanket on his fair skin.

His drowsy black eyes, not yet fully awake, were seductive enough to create the illusion of a greyish tint.

His perfectly proportioned features made one wonder if he was a living doll, and the masculinity exuded from his beautiful face gave off an indescribably suggestive atmosphere.

From his angular jawline to the high tip of his nose, it was the kind of face that made people understand exactly what the word ‘sculpted’ meant.

Even Ji-ho, who saw him every day, couldn’t help but be impressed every time he faced Noah’s face.

Though, Noah’s acquaintances often remarked that he must have received a massive visual buff to compensate for his terrible personality.

‘…Is his personality that bad because he’s actually that handsome?’

“Ji-ho, I can hear everything.”

Noah extended one arm with a low, sinking voice.

It could have been misinterpreted as an aggressive gesture toward Ji-ho standing by the bed, but Noah’s subsequent movement was a quirky action far removed from violence.

The first thing he did upon coming to his senses was pick up the thin blanket that had fallen to the floor, shake it out, and begin folding it with sharp precision.

He even pulled a lint roller out of a nearby drawer and began removing hairs that weren’t even visible.

Noah’s sleek back, clad in a tight-fitting tee, looked as sharp as if he were in the middle of a photoshoot.

The sight of him rolling a so-called “sticky roller” on the bed in such a pose was enough to trigger a burst of laughter, but Ji-ho, who had seen this scene every morning, was unfazed.

‘Is it because the schedule has been so tight lately? Kang Noah’s germaphobia seems to have gotten worse.’

Instead, he felt worried.

The more sensitive Noah became while sharing a room, the more his prickliness would increase, and it was obvious who would be on the receiving end of his irritation most often.

However, the passage of time didn’t give Ji-ho a moment to indulge in small worries.

“Hurry up and use the bathroom while I get breakfast ready. I’ll wake the others after you’re done.”

As he stepped out of the room, the pitch-black darkness greeted him, signaling the early hour.

In contrast to the room filled with Noah’s irritable voice, a silence where nothing could be heard except for his own breathing suddenly rushed in.

Even though it was a start repeated every day, strangely, he felt a momentary tightness in his chest, causing him to stop in his tracks without realizing it.

But he quickly regained his senses.

‘I don’t have time to be spacing out.’

Even though he woke up earlier than most people, there was no room for leisure on days of music show recordings in the morning.

Furthermore, considering the other members who would still be in dreamland, there was still much for Ji-ho to do.

“Let’s do our best today, Ji-ho.”

It was a cheesy line of self-talk that sounded like it belonged in a shonen manga, but this was his own kind of spell.

He flipped a nearby switch to brighten the room and even intentionally started humming, and the dawn no longer felt heavy.

And so, Ji-ho’s busy daily life began in earnest.

The first place he headed was the kitchen of the dorm.

For Pentagram, meals were a headache in many ways.

For other idol groups, they could simply set a diet menu, but for them, who boasted intense performances to the point of being called the “next-generation beastly idols,” protein intake was a particular concern.

At the same time, even a light breakfast required a lot of work to ensure they didn’t look bloated on camera.

Some might wonder why Ji-ho, an idol himself, would go as far as taking care of the members’ meals—

But what three-year-old group that had gone through so many ups and downs didn’t have a few peculiar circumstances?

Ji-ho’s movements as he took ingredients out of the refrigerator were swift.

He moved around the kitchen as naturally as if it were his own bedroom.

He was very used to stir-frying bell peppers and chicken breast with plenty of spices for the sensitive Noah, who loathed the smell of raw meat, and making a salt-free homemade sauce because of a member who grumbled about food whenever he was bored.

From neatly plating a fresh salad to quickly tidying up the kitchen tools he had briefly used, it was a seasoned touch unbelievable for a twenty-three-year-old man, let alone an idol member.

Even the fact that he showed no sign of resentment at having to wake up at dawn to prepare meals alone was remarkable.

‘I have to move quickly. It’s Choi Go-un’s birthday, so I should at least show some care.’

The core of this morning’s meal was a simple birthday table for the member celebrating his birthday.

Soup made with various ingredients was the type of food idols should stay furthest away from, but Ji-ho believed that on a birthday morning, one must eat seaweed soup, or at least something similar.

Perhaps it was a conservative way of thinking ingrained in him because he was raised by his grandmother.

Because of this, Ji-ho poured even more heart into it than when preparing a usual meal.

He took the radish soup he had made in advance yesterday out of the freezer to boil and cooked it using a special recipe for konjac japchae.

A moment later, a savory aroma—hard to believe it came from a dish made with reduced oil and no salt—took over the kitchen.

Though humble, grand feasts for the diet-restricted Pentagram began to be set on the table one by one.

A tall man appeared behind Ji-ho just as he was about to ladle the boiling radish soup into a bowl.

“What’s this smell, Ji-ho?”

A handsome man with a cold impression, different from Noah’s.

He was Se-han, the leader of Pentagram.