Farewell at Dawn

It was a time when most of the city had fallen into a deep sleep, and even parts of the Seoul nightscape had begun to fade.

Ji-ho took advantage of the dawn’s silence to go up to the rooftop garden alone. The small garden was basic, consisting only of wooden floor tiles, a few benches, and some verdant plants, but compared to the desolate hospital room, it felt as if it were breathing out fresh air.

He knew that stepping outside his room before the news scandal was settled was reckless. He even worried about what he would do if another suspicious person approached him.

However, this time, Ji-ho couldn’t endure it, even if this outing was a mistake.

After the two had left without waking the sleeping Ji-ho, he could no longer stay in that stifling room. The conversation between Yong-ha and Ha-neul filled his head, tormenting him over and over again.

“A hiatus… and they’re releasing a full album as four members without me?”

Surprisingly, Ji-ho didn’t feel as much shock as he expected. Rather, he felt a certain sensation:

‘It feels like what was bound to happen has finally arrived.’

He had tried to ignore it, but Ji-ho knew. He knew his place in the group was narrowing, that his existence as an idol within Pentagram had become useless, and that he alone was standing still, watching only the backs of the members moving forward.

Ji-ho recalled the childhood dream he had for the first time in a long while before regaining consciousness.

‘Was the start wrong from the beginning?’

Perhaps the dream of becoming an idol was light because he had started dreaming it as a way to escape. Maybe he was accepting that it was over now that he had debuted, gained popularity, and even reached number one.

His deep subconscious might be telling him that since he finally achieved his dream, it was okay to stop.

“If that’s really the case, then what on earth am I doing?”

Sitting in his wheelchair, Ji-ho buried his face in his joined hands.

He remembered his first meeting with Kwon-ho, the man who had instructed Yong-ha to persuade him. That day, which was meant to be a simple introduction, was a moment that left a particularly deep impression on Ji-ho.

‘You all know that an A&R team was newly established in the company, right? This is Team Leader Kim Kwon-ho, who will be leading that team. Since the CEO won’t be in the country for a while, Team Leader Kim will be in charge of your producing from now on.’

A debut that passed like a shadow without ever being properly revealed to the world; the failure of two albums barely produced by scraping together nonexistent capital; a daily life of clinging to every single local event schedule that the manager had scrambled to get. Now that even Hyung-jun, who had believed in Pentagram, was gone, all the members, including Ji-ho, were sensing the end.

That was when the new team leader, Kwon-ho, appeared.

The new team leader, who firmly stated that formal greetings were unnecessary and that he would start by assessing the members, was strictly professional. However, Ji-ho welcomed Kwon-ho sincerely. To him, Kwon-ho was proof that the company hadn’t abandoned Pentagram yet, so he welcomed him with a very grateful heart.

But Kwon-ho had offered this evaluation of Ji-ho. It was spoken in a kind tone without a single rude word, but strangely, it was a criticism that pierced Ji-ho’s inner thoughts.

‘Ji-ho-ssi—no, Ji-ho, your color is rather faint compared to the other members, isn’t it? It’s as if you’re constantly trying to hide yourself… Hmm, is your actual personality introverted?’

That ominous feeling had returned as reality. Since then, Ji-ho’s role had begun to gradually disappear. It was partly due to the concepts that particularly didn’t suit him, but Ji-ho suspected it was the will of Kwon-ho, who was dissatisfied with him.

“Team Leader Kim’s evaluation from back then probably hasn’t changed. That’s why I’m no longer needed.”

Ji-ho’s voice, sounding like a mumble buried in his palms, echoed through the rooftop garden. Because it was a silent space without even the sound of an insect, the melancholy he felt was audible and clear.

The frustration and despair he wanted to ignore now rushed at him, no longer hiding. It was so embarrassing his face flushed to think he had struggled so hard just to end up like this.

The saddest part was this:

“I… I was truly just a nuisance to the group.”

It was incredibly sorrowful and miserable that the people around him believed all the current controversies would be resolved if he disappeared—and that even he was starting to believe this might be the solution.

It was heart-wrenching to think that the reason the members hadn’t contacted him might be for this very reason. In the end, calling them family, brothers, or friends was just his own one-sided claim—

Ji-ho spent his time in the rooftop garden from dawn until the sun rose. He stayed until the hem of the coat he was wearing became damp with morning dew and he finally reached a painful conclusion.

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

“Oh my, are you just coming in now? It’s already been several hours.”

To the nurse’s words—who had seen Ji-ho leave the room while guarding the desk—Ji-ho only managed an awkward smile. He wanted to act as if nothing was wrong, but even the smile he used to wear like a habit wouldn’t come easily.

“The walk just ended up being a bit long.”

Ji-ho barely moved his arms, which felt as heavy as if stones were hanging from them, and entered the room.

The air inside the hospital room was stifling compared to the outdoor rooftop. Ji-ho, who pushed his wheelchair near the bed and sat back on it, spent his time staring blankly into space.

The sound of birds signifying morning suddenly reached his ears. Even in such a high building, the start of the day is the same. It was when he was having such fleeting thoughts.

Ding—

A notification sound he thought he’d never hear. Ji-ho’s brown eyes, paler than usual, turned toward the sound. It was the reception tone from the tablet placed on the nightstand next to the bed.

Ji-ho’s pale hand reached out and picked up the tablet. Despite the owner’s lack of energy, the movement was somewhat hurried.

Though a corner was scratched from being thrown once, the electronic device fortunately functioned normally. What appeared first on the lit screen was an icon representing a text message and one of the members’ numbers that Ji-ho had saved.

It was Ha-un.

“I thought Lee Ha-un would sleep until broad daylight if I didn’t wake him. I guess not.”

He spoke to himself with a hint of bitterness, but the contact itself from the member he had waited for so long was a welcome sight.

When Ji-ho touched the tablet, a message appeared that seemed to capture Ha-un’s lighthearted way of speaking. Putting aside the incorrect grammar here and there, it was a very chaotic text mixed with words that might damage an idol’s image if leaked.

[Hyung ㅠㅠㅠㅠ]

[This is Ji-ho hyung’s number, right?]

[Yong-ha hyung gave me a weird number before]

[It’s so annoying lately, they won’t let us out of the dorm]

[I think trashy reporters are staking out the front of the dorm]

[Hyung, you’re still alive, right?]

Short messages sent according to his stream of consciousness followed in succession. At least the last message was a long one for Ha-un, but even that was frantic.

[Ah, they won’t even let us visit you in the hospital, isn’t that ridiculous? I wanted to go, I’ve never been to a VIP room before (Smiling emoticon) I want to stop living like I’m in prison ㅠㅠ Ji-ho hyung, try doing a press conference or something. Should I tell the company for you? I have to go, we’re staying at the office for a long time today lol Hyung, get plenty of rest and see you later]

While it made him smile automatically, a cynical thought also surfaced.

The moment he saw the part about getting “plenty of rest,” Ji-ho wondered if the members also knew about Kwon-ho’s instructions. It was strange that the company, which had ordered them not to leave the dorm, suddenly called the members to the office.

“It’s a useless thought. Ha-un wouldn’t be able to hide it if he knew.”

In truth, he wanted to call Ha-un right then and ask.

Do you, and the other members, also think it would be better if I left the group? Would you welcome it if this commotion that torments you all could be resolved that way?

“I’m curious… but I can’t torment you guys too.”

In the rooftop garden, Ji-ho had ruminated on much of his past.

Among those memories, the one that influenced his decision the most was from when he was on the verge of turning twenty. It was about the people who became a new opportunity for him when he was struggling after being discharged following six years as a trainee.

‘You’re in a position where you have to leave the orphanage because you’re 18? You should have told me sooner. I’m your agency’s CEO now. For now, stay at my house until the debut team’s dorm is ready. What? Haha, don’t worry. I’m not such trash that I’d market your family situation to get sympathy votes.’

An age somewhat high for an idol trainee, an orphan background that might be a burden from an agency’s perspective, and weaknesses that couldn’t be fixed even at a major entertainment company with systematic training. Star Entertainment’s CEO, Hyung-jun, had brushed all of that aside with a good-natured smile as if it were nothing.

‘Except for Noah and Jun-oh, we were all trainees at other companies too. Even Choi Go-hun used to be a part-timer here. So don’t worry too much about joining last. I’m the oldest brother here anyway, so tell me if anything’s tough.’

‘I know too. Everyone hates me because of my foul temper. …But don’t I bother you? It doesn’t seem like you’re just enduring it. Well, anyway, thanks.’

‘The hyungs always tease me for being short. That’s why I like Ji-ho hyung best because he doesn’t bully me. Ah, it would be so great if hyung were my real brother. Honestly, tell me. You like me best too, right?’

‘I don’t think a “team” means much. But if it’s with you, Jung Ji-ho, well, it wouldn’t be bad.’

The unique members, each with their own circumstances, had soon come to mean like family to Ji-ho. Practicing together, occasionally clashing, and despairing together, they endured their harsh reality.

By relying on and tolerating one another, they finally grasped the shining glory in their hands.

There were also many people who helped through the long, tedious process.

In particular, Yong-ha and Ha-neul, who didn’t give up on Pentagram and supported them until the end, were like an older brother and sister to Ji-ho. Even when they had to take on all the tasks alone due to a labor shortage, the fact that they stayed without running away was clearly an affection that went beyond professional spirit.

But it was painful that even those two implicitly felt it was better for him to disappear, and that they were being pushed to choose a terrible decision that even he found hard to make.

He felt sorry for bringing the situation this far with a lingering attachment he couldn’t give up. He wanted to at least stop Yong-ha from having to do the difficult job of persuading him.

“Anyway, I’ve achieved my dream. I should help the others move forward.”

The dream of being a singer or an idol had started from a promise he made one day to calm his grandmother. It was just one of a child’s immature resolutions to resemble his father—who was an unknown singer—rather than his mother.

He hadn’t imagined what would happen after achieving that dream.

Therefore, Ji-ho’s decision took a long time, but it wasn’t hard because of that.

Ji-ho tapped the tablet as it was about to turn off, closed the message box, and made a call. It wasn’t to the members, but to Yu-jin, the leader of the business team.

“Team Leader Lee, I’m sorry for calling so early. I have something to tell you. Could you perhaps come to the hospital?”

In truth, there were still crumbs of lingering attachment left in his heart, but Ji-ho ignored them and made the decision to leave the group for the first time.