The Artist Syndrome and the Deserted Island

The promotional period smoothly transitioned into its second week. While the constant music show appearances made it far from relaxing, I found myself breathing a little easier than during the grueling first week. Moreover, it was a rare day off, meaning I wouldn’t have to wake up early for once.

However, my plans for a luxuriant nap were swiftly thwarted the moment I opened my eyes.

“…What are you doing here?”

It was because Lee Seon was sprawled confidently on Kwon Yohan’s bed, as if it were his own.

Lee Seon, deeply engrossed in a farming simulation game, merely glanced my way at the sound of my voice. A clear imprint of a pillow was still visible on his face.

“This bed is the widest and softest. Can I use it?”

“Uh… I suppose so, if you wish.”

Since the bed was certainly spacious enough for the two of us, I readily agreed. With one condition, of course.

“Just make sure you sleep in your own room.”

“Alrighty then,” Lee Seon drawled, nodding his head.

Though I was awake, no particular task came to mind, so I simply stared blankly at the ceiling. Beside me, Lee Seon, who had been fiddling with his phone for a while, seemed to grow bored and casually tossed it onto the bed.

“Kwon Yohan, there’s something I’m genuinely curious about.”

‘Ah, so the bed wasn’t his primary objective after all.’

Lee Seon asked, his face etched with a newfound seriousness.

“You haven’t actually caught ‘artist syndrome,’ have you?”

“…What?”

“No, I’m genuinely worried—no, it just seems a bit strange. I know it’s not true, but… Ugh, how do I even put this?”

He fumbled around the bed until he retrieved the phone he’d tossed aside. Then, quickly manipulating the screen, he thrust it before my eyes.

It was a photo I had uploaded to Q-Verse a few days prior.

“What about it?”

Feeling a sudden flush of embarrassment, I quickly retorted, only for Lee Seon to scrunch up his nose, wearing a disgruntled expression as if to ask, ‘You still don’t get it?’

“You usually take photos with a face like a fifteen-year-old, like *this*.”

Lee Seon widened his eyes and puffed out his cheeks slightly, attempting to look cute. ‘If I had to nitpick, that’s more like a seven-year-old, not a fifteen-year-old, isn’t it?’ Regardless, it was clearly an expression aimed at making him look several years younger than his actual age.

“If you’ve truly ‘darkened,’ I doubt you’d be wearing chick pajamas in the first place… But why do you take such serious photos? If you look closely, all your expressions are the same.”

He passionately ranted, flipping through dozens of photos, yet I still struggled to fully grasp his point. However, one particular comment soon pierced through the noise and struck me.

“Or are you saving all the good photos for photo cards?”

‘…Ah. Right.’

As an idol, I couldn’t possibly be ignorant of what a photo card was. I knew them: the random inserts you received when buying an album. Even Red Moon’s albums included them as part of their package.

The difference was, those weren’t selfies, but rather B-cuts from concept photos.

Since every photo uploaded to the official account underwent staff review to ensure it aligned with the group’s concept, I never really had the chance to post the kind of adorable, wide-eyed selfies that most idols typically share.

Even so, I had been quite satisfied with how clear and steady they turned out. ‘But it seems that wasn’t enough.’

“I suppose I’ll have to try taking better ones.”

Lee Seon abruptly sat up, exclaiming, “Right? See, I told you so!” repeatedly, practically bouncing with excitement.

Just like that, I suddenly had a task for the day.

****

The reason today had become a holiday was that Kwon Yohan rarely scheduled personal activities.

Lee Seon, who had been lying beside me, nagging about this and that, eventually left with Han Doyoung for a variety show filming. Soon after, Choi Seung-beom also departed the dorm for a cooking program. Yoon Jihyuk hadn’t shown his face since morning, leaving me utterly alone in the vast dorm.

Thanks to this solitude, I could dedicate a considerable amount of time to taking photos, yet I found it difficult to judge whether any real improvement had occurred. Thus, I simply uploaded the one I subjectively deemed the best.

‘If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just come back to nag me again.’

Spending the remaining hours idly practicing the confirmed solo concert setlist songs I’d overheard from Han Doyoung, I realized evening had already fallen.

And today also happened to be the broadcast day for ‘Star Room.’

As there was something I particularly wanted to check, I settled onto the sofa and flipped through the channels.

[Sparkling~~ A high-quality broadcast with shining stars! Star Room!]

Watching Kwon Yohan sit stiffly, staring into the camera, felt exceedingly awkward. The events I had experienced firsthand just a few days ago now seemed distantly surreal, as if they had merely unfolded in a dream.

‘But this… why wasn’t it cut?’

[We’re UNI-Q, after all.]

[And we were ’empty house thieves’ during our debut.]

The sight of it, even emphasized with a grand-looking font, sent a chill down my spine.

Beyond that, the broadcast’s editing direction was peculiar. Specifically, in how it portrayed Kwon Yohan. It was as if the cute rookie, who had always seemed angelic, had somehow ‘darkened’ in the interim.

Behind every scene where I glared at Han Doyoung for his ‘young master’ remarks or simply laughed them off, footage from my debut era was invariably inserted. It showed the *real* Kwon Yohan, vehemently waving his hands and blushing crimson, denying such claims.

Seeing them side-by-side, the difference in our speaking styles was undeniably stark. Compared to the Kwon Yohan whose words dripped with aegyo, my own felt like dry, rustling leaves.

‘Is this really okay, taking such a direction? There’s no way the company didn’t review this, yet it somehow aired exactly like this.’

Just as my brow furrowed in deep thought, the sound of the door lock disengaging reached my ears.

“I’m home.”

It was Yoon Jihyuk, heavily disguised with a mask and cap.

“Were you alone, Yohan?”

He began to remove the cumbersome items that had obscured his face, tidying them away one by one. Running a hand through his hair, which had been flattened by his cap, he came over and sat beside me. It was a miraculous coincidence.

Of all times, the Kwon Yohan on screen was just then pulling out a piece of paper.

[Which member is the scariest when they get angry?]

Upon seeing the question, Yoon Jihyuk made an uncharacteristically pouty expression.

“What? When have I ever gotten angry? That’s so unfair.”

I subtly averted my gaze and promptly pressed the power button.

“Why did you turn it off? I was curious about the others’ answers too.”

Despite his words, Yoon Jihyuk didn’t seem curious enough to insist on watching the broadcast right away. He made no move to turn the TV back on, merely gazing at me intently.

After exhaling a sigh, I finally spoke.

“The ’empty house thief’ comment… it aired just as it was.”

A heavy silence settled between us for a moment. Yoon Jihyuk’s face had stiffened slightly.

“…Ah, I see. So that’s how it turned out.”

Clenching his fists lightly on his knees, lost in thought, he soon rose and strode purposefully into his room. Though the room was likely soundproofed, no sound emanated from beyond the closed door. Even in such a situation, Yoon Jihyuk seemed incapable of displaying an agitated demeanor.

Before long, the closed door reopened.

“They said it would be fine since we’re already pushing a more intense image.”

As he relayed the message, his tone was uncharacteristically monotonous, like someone reading from a textbook, as if he himself wasn’t entirely convinced.

“It should be fine, right?”

I couldn’t bring myself to shatter his hope by saying it was absurd, nor could I offer false reassurance that everything would be alright. In the end, I chose my words carefully.

“…It has to be.”

Only then did Yoon Jihyuk smile as he usually did.

****

Fortunately, my concerns proved unfounded. While there wasn’t a complete absence of criticism, it wasn’t severe enough to be unmanageable. On the contrary, it even functioned as a form of noise marketing, significantly impacting our music chart performance.

Thus, HEX’s second single promotions sailed smoothly through their third week and finally landed on the last broadcast. During the final week, we secured first place in every show we participated in, filling up a good portion of the trophy shelf in the CEO’s office.

After the final stage of the last broadcast, we held a short live stream of about ten minutes to commemorate the end of promotions and our first-place wins. The content was simply about giving our acceptance speeches and expressing gratitude. Once the broadcast ended, our manager waddled into the waiting room, carrying a pristine white box with a hole cut into its top.

“What’s this?” Yoon Jihyuk’s voice articulated everyone’s shared question.

“We’re filming a travel reality show next week, you know. If you write down what you’d like to do on these questionnaires and send them in, they’ll try to incorporate as much as possible. Just write your answers on a piece of paper and put them in here.”

“Oh, that’s next week already. Has the destination been decided?”

“They’ll tell us once everyone has filled this out.”

The questionnaire included sections for ‘closest member,’ ‘most awkward member,’ ‘what you absolutely want to do on this reality show,’ ‘one item you’d bring if stranded on a deserted island,’ and finally, a space for ‘requests to the production team.’

Perhaps exhausted from our passionate performances, everyone seemed to jot down their answers quickly and submit the questionnaires without much deep thought. I, of course, was no exception.

After Han Doyoung, who had been suspiciously flipping over the blank back of his paper, finally submitted his questionnaire, a swarm of broadcast staff members poured into the waiting room.

A woman with a lively demeanor and an excessively bright smile extended both hands.

“Alright, may we have the box now?”

Choi Seung-beom, his face rigid, moved to block the box with his body. It seemed less like a conscious decision and more like a reflexive action.

The standoff ended anticlimactically when the staff member politely extended both hands. Choi Seung-beom, who was second to none in politeness, readily handed over the box.

“Ahaha. You must be surprised, just when you finished your last broadcast and were about to rest, right? Don’t be surprised! This is all the passion of our ‘Mild Flavor Team’ wanting to create wonderful memories for you all!”

The members all blinked blankly. Her energy was simply impossible to match.

“Alright, then, a question! What was the first word that caught your eye when you received the questionnaire?”

Lee Seon, who had been huddled in a corner, frozen, answered as if spellbound.

“De-deserted island?”

“Correct!”

‘…Why would that be correct?’

“Excellent! That’s exactly the reaction we were hoping for! But you know, once you actually go, I bet it’ll become a great memory!”

“…”

Lee Seon had turned utterly pale.

“Then, we’ll see you next week! Bye!”

But before anyone could even utter a word, the storm had already passed.