The Final Knot

“Jio, what are you going to do with your life now?”

Leader, who had been sitting beside me on the waiting room sofa, asked. I had assumed he was asleep, given how his eyes were closed and his head rested fully against the backrest, but it seemed I was mistaken. Judging by his husky voice, he might have just woken up. In any case, it was a question with an awkward edge, not one to be answered offhand.

“What about you?”

When I cautiously returned the question, he crinkled his nose and chuckled.

“Why the sudden honorifics?”

“Oh, just because.”

For years, we had lived cheek-by-jowl in the same dorm. It was true that after spending years together, sometimes like brothers, sometimes like comrades-in-arms, it felt unnatural to suddenly stand on ceremony. But what could I do? After all, he was the one who first called me by my given name without the surname, in that slightly awkward, almost ticklish way. Still, understanding his feelings, I didn’t press the matter and simply kept quiet.

My colleagues and I, sprawled across the waiting room with grim expressions, had dedicated nearly a decade—seven years under contract, not to mention our trainee days—to Red Moon, the idol group under Cookie Entertainment. An insufferably long time, long enough for mountains and rivers to change their course…

‘There are countless groups that shine brightly for a moment only to be forgotten. Those who are remembered consistently are barely a handful. Do you really want to pour your life into something for a fleeting moment of glory?’ The advice from adults, which I’d heard so often during my trainee days it felt like calluses had formed on my ears, was undeniably true in every detail, yet there was one crucial error to address.

Red Moon had never even had that fleeting moment of brilliance.

Naturally, there were no ‘good times’ to speak of, not even for a brief while.

The reasons for our failure were countless. A small agency unable to provide proper support, an anachronistic mystical marketing strategy, and on top of that, an abstruse concept. Amidst all this, the fact that the members’ skills and passion never lagged behind merely brought tears to the eyes of our few dedicated fans.

Every time we performed a cover stage, we would briefly capture attention, but ultimately, the new fans we gained would inevitably drift away, finding nothing substantial to latch onto. Those who remained our fans to this day fell into precisely three categories. They were either unique individuals whose tastes perfectly aligned with the obscure concept the CEO insisted upon, or individual fans who had latched onto a specific member through their external activities, or, failing that, people who had stumbled upon us unknowingly during our less abstruse debut days and were now half-heartedly dragged along by a sense of loyalty.

Had they vaguely sensed that this would be our final performance, even though it hadn’t been officially announced? The image of them, waving their light sticks only to eventually burst into tears, still flickered before my eyes. These were faces that had become so familiar, always the same. Now, unless by some chance, we would never meet again.

For a stage laden with such heavy meaning, it ended with an almost anticlimactic dullness. Considering a typical setlist, where groups with more seniority usually performed closer to the end, and stripping away factors like agency power or popularity, Red Moon had been second on the bill today. It was almost the treatment of a rookie group.

There were no separate events scheduled, no contract renewals. The meager profits we earned meant that far from receiving any settlement, we were actually expected to repay the lesson fees from our trainee days, along with the costs of our dorm and meals. Yet, even more disheartening than this financial burden was the grim reality that we had to simply fade away, quietly, as if we had never truly been.

The CEO hadn’t even allowed a farewell live broadcast. Even for our small fanbase, he was a person utterly devoid of any consideration for those who had shown us affection all this time.

Now, the members would scatter, each to pursue their own lives. Among the five of us (we had debuted as seven, but two foreign members had left the team early due to the sheer lack of prospects), one had shown some talent in variety shows, and another, I’d heard, was already in talks with an agency about solo activities. Maknae, it seemed, had decided to enlist in the military immediately.

As for me, I had already decided on my own path forward.

“Since I majored in contemporary dance, I suppose I’ll try being a dance trainer.”

Or maybe a backup dancer, or something. I was vaguely considering those options. Having poured such a long time into this, I lacked the courage to pivot to a profession entirely unrelated to what I had been doing. Or perhaps, because I still harbored lingering regrets over a dream that had never fully materialized.

“You’re truly remarkable, you know.”

He said, his face clouded with gloom. I was merely puzzled.

“Why? If you don’t have anything else in mind, you should try being a vocal trainer. With your skill level, kids would be lining up for lessons.”

“…Just because someone sings well doesn’t mean they can necessarily teach well.”

It was so typical of him not to feign humility by denying his own talent.

“And… I don’t have the confidence. Even if I did, I’d probably only be able to teach hobbyists. I don’t think I could ever bring myself to cheer on the people I teach. Especially if they’re idol trainees.”

He let out a deflating sigh. It was an expression that could have been a laugh or a sigh; it was hard to tell. It looked as though a bloated balloon was shriveling. Had a sliver of hope, nurtured over long years, just escaped his lips so emptily? A sudden lump, hot and painful, rose in my throat.

‘Leader, you’ll do well no matter what. You endured so much even in this damn place.’ It was the moment I was about to offer such comfort, which was neither helpful nor particularly eloquent.

“Ah, HEX is coming on.”

He, who had been lounging in a relaxed posture, straightened his back, propping himself up with both hands on his knees. I glanced at the monitor, then inadvertently shifted my gaze to the cue sheet taped to the wall. Second to last. Considering that the very last slot was reserved for a solo stage by a member of a twenty-year veteran group, it meant that among currently active groups, they had secured the final position.

HEX. An idol group from a major agency that had made a successful debut just three months prior. In other words, they were our juniors by a significant margin.

“Huh…”

‘Is this the power of a major agency?’ I was utterly dumbfounded.

I knew how impressive they were. Their skill and aura allowed them to brilliantly pull off a weighty concept, uncharacteristic of rookies. The songs, music videos, choreography—everything must have had enormous sums invested in them; nothing was lacking. Each member was exceptionally talented, and there were even rumors that one member already had a fanbase so massive before debut that it would overshadow all the fans Red Moon had ever accumulated.

Possessing every element that could be a weapon on its own, the synergistic effect that followed was, of course, immense. They confidently snatched first place on their very first music show, surpassing formidable competitors.

Their very first step was different. Unlike Red Moon, who had started from the bottom with a haphazard approach.

‘Even so, to overturn industry customs like this?’ A ‘boomer-like’ thought, one I would never normally entertain, suddenly rolled through my mind. It felt unfair. I was envious. And angry. I was mortified to be consumed by such childish emotions, ones that my rivals wouldn’t even spare a thought for. This twisted bitterness was something I couldn’t confide in anyone. My throat felt parched.

“I’m going crazy.”

As if he had somehow caught my faint, almost inaudible mumble, Leader turned his head to scrutinize my expression. In that precise, brief moment, an accident occurred.

–Aargh!

Beyond the monitor, a platinum-blond boy tumbled down with a loud crash.

There was nothing wrong with the stage; he had simply tripped over his own feet.

“Wow… that must really hurt.”

I mumbled absently, and perhaps finding my dumbfounded voice amusing, Leader chuckled. The other members, after letting out strange exclamations, began whispering among themselves.

“Is that live right now?”

“Yeah, all the pre-recorded segments aired earlier.”

“What’s he going to do now? He must be so embarrassed!”

In a short span of time, information was exchanged: that the boy with the strikingly white skin, perfectly suited for platinum blond hair, was Kwon Yohan, HEX’s Maknae; that he was known as HEX’s only weak link in terms of skill; and that, according to rumors, he was the son of a wealthy family, which was why he could debut despite his evident lack of talent. All of it was information we were already well aware of.

It was a sight that everyone would notice, worry over, or, for those harboring petty jealousy, scoff at with schadenfreude. However, after watching the situation mostly resolve itself, we quickly lost interest.

“Time to head out and get ready for the ending.”

He was, after all, a member of a team destined for success. He’d figure it out. We, on the other hand, had to confront our own imminent end.

“Are we going out for dinner after this, hyung?”

Maknae asked, his voice clearly forced into cheerfulness, and Leader grinned in response.

“The company didn’t mention sending us off. Should we go anyway, out of our own pockets?”

We all knew full well that his pockets were as empty as if not a speck of dust could roll around inside them. Maknae, whose family was relatively well-off, scrunched up his nose and retorted.

“This hyung has no money, yet he talks about paying out of pocket. Let’s go, I’m treating.”

A weariness, not quite masked by the forced vitality, passed between us.

Truly. This was the final knot.

****

‘I knew it.’

“Jio… what am I going to do now…?”

‘This hyung looks perfectly fine, so why is he such a bad drunk?’

“Should we turn on a live broadcast right now? Huh?”

“We can’t do a live broadcast without our staff. We don’t know the password.”

“Hmph…”

Leader, who had been guzzling three shots of alcohol with every piece of meat at the barbecue restaurant, quickly became completely wasted. Now, he was soaking my shoulder with his tears, his face so utterly pitiful that I couldn’t bring myself to push him away. If it ended there, it would be a blessing, but the problem was that when he got drunk, this man would incessantly feed the person sitting next to him. If you didn’t eat, he’d cry even harder out of hurt, or his physical affection would intensify dramatically. Either way, it was infuriating.

“Hey, I’m starting to feel dizzy. Someone take this guy away.”

“Even if we seat him next to someone else, he’ll just keep feeding you, Jio hyung.”

“He won’t be able to.”

“Huh?”

“I’m going to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop.”

As I hastily made my escape towards the exit, Maknae’s voice pierced my back.

“You don’t smoke, hyung!”

Pretending not to hear, I stepped out of the restaurant. Maknae’s words were true. I didn’t even have a lighter, let alone cigarettes, in my pocket. A singer, smoking? What kind of smoking? It was a hastily improvised excuse, not even meant to properly deceive. The dizziness was genuine, at least, but even if it hadn’t been, my desire for some fresh air alone was overwhelming. Under normal circumstances, I could have indulged his antics indefinitely, but… I was slowly reaching my limit. Even tending to my own wounds felt like too much. And I didn’t know how to express my pain as honestly as Leader did. I needed time to swallow the emotions that were pooling inside me before they brimmed over to my throat.

I deliberately climbed the stairs slowly. Checking my phone, I saw that two hours had passed since we moved to the restaurant. No wonder it was so dark outside. No matter how much I lingered, the last step soon arrived. I thought I’d just kill time in front of the door even if it was locked, and twisted the rusty doorknob.

*Creak.* The door opened with a grating sound.

“It opened?”

I mumbled softly and slowly raised my gaze towards the sky. However, my eyes didn’t reach the moon, stopping awkwardly. I had spotted a slender, pure white figure.

Unusually pale skin. Platinum blond hair, tinged with blue under the night sky. It was a scene that felt somewhat surreal. If someone didn’t know him, they might have idly blurted out, ‘An angel?’ But I knew the person’s name.

“…Kwon Yohan?”

The boy, who had been precariously perched on the railing, turned his head.

“Sunbae?”

The boy uttered the short word in a dazed voice. ‘Wow, he actually recognized me as a senior in the same industry. He could have easily not known.’ As I thought this, I approached the boy. In that split second, Kwon Yohan’s arm, which had been supporting his weight, momentarily lost its strength, and his posture instantly collapsed.

“Oh.”

Kwon Yohan let out a single syllable, then tried to regain his balance with a startled expression. However, his center of gravity, already shifted downwards, would not return. ‘He’s going to fall at this rate, isn’t he?’

The building where the restaurant was located was five stories high—not exactly a skyscraper, but certainly high enough for someone to get hurt if they fell. With bad luck, they could even die. My heart plummeted.

“Kwon Yohan!”

I ran towards the boy with all my might, as fast as I thought I had ever run in my life. For now, the result was good. I had snatched the boy’s hand just before he fell. But I had overlooked something. No matter how small and thin Kwon Yohan was, he was still an adult male, and there was no way I, in my somewhat tipsy state, could lift him with one hand.

“Ah, shit.”

‘Just trying to be helpful once might make me his companion in this fall.’