Maknae Unmasked

Lee Ha-un, the youngest member of Pentagram, had just turned twenty.

Due to a rapid physical growth spurt over the past few months, his appearance could no longer be called boyish, but his bright and cheerful personality still radiated the fresh energy typical of a maknae. Bouncing with vitality among his more serious and stoic older brothers, he naturally captured the public’s eye, and many fans adored the gap between his mature physique and his playful demeanor.

In truth, this persona was largely a calculated performance by Ha-un.

As the eldest of five siblings—with the youngest still in kindergarten—Ha-un had been forced to mature early. To secure what he wanted amidst a bustling household, his social intuition had to be razor-sharp, and looking after younger siblings who looked up to him as “Hyung” or “Oppa” naturally instilled a deep sense of responsibility.

Whenever he tried to voice his own grievances, he was met only with his parents’ plea to “endure it for just a bit since you’re the firstborn.” Thus, hiding his true feelings became a habit, and after years of yielding to his siblings, his patience grew immense. It was a side of him that Glows, who knew only the flighty youngest member, would find hard to believe.

“So, are we really not going to see Ji-ho hyung even on the day he’s discharged? Do you know he still isn’t answering the tablet? It’s because he’s hurt that we stayed hidden away just because the company told us to!”

It was because of this unexpected side of Ha-un that the sensitive issue everyone was thinking about, but no one dared mention, was suddenly dragged to the surface.

It was right around the time Ji-ho would be undergoing his discharge procedures.

Even though there was nothing specific to do, the members had been out of their rooms since morning. Noah sat on the living room sofa, lost in thought all day; Go-hun had visited the kitchen several times using ionic drinks as an excuse and was now slumped in a dining chair. Se-han had been pacing the living room ever since his call with Yong-ha, clearly bothered by something.

Yet, none of them said a single word—until Ha-un, unable to stand the suffocating silence, finally shouted.

“Quiet, Lee Ha-un. Do you think we don’t know that? It’s not like I don’t want to go to Ji-ho. But the company told us to be careful for now. The controversy finally died down; what if we get photographed and give them something else to nitpick?”

Se-han rebuked Ha-un with his usual firmness. In fact, he seemed even more on edge than usual.

It was understandable. For an entire month, the four of them had been confined to this small dorm, and as the leader, Se-han had to exhaust himself trying to suppress the members’ frustrations.

Especially since this wasn’t the first time Ha-un had revolted against the ban on visiting Ji-ho, Se-han’s tone was bound to be harsh.

“What is there to nitpick about a photo of us going to the hospital to pick up a member who’s being discharged?”

The problem was that Ha-un, who usually took a low posture with the intimidating eldest brother, was acting out of character.

“If public opinion were normal, there wouldn’t have been a controversy in the first place. I can already see the sarcasm: ‘Oh, so now that they’ve been holed up in their dorm without a single visit, they’re finally moving?’ If we stay quiet until the end, at least people might assume we visited him in secret.”

“Pfft, I guess Se-han hyung has a guilty conscience too. For ignoring Ji-ho hyung all this time.”

“Lee Ha-un. Watch your mouth with your hyung. Just because I’m not swearing doesn’t mean I’m not being aggressive,” Noah interjected.

“Noah hyung, you stay out of it. Don’t you feel guilty? If you hadn’t swapped seats with Ji-ho hyung on the day of the accident, things wouldn’t have turned out like this.”

“What? So you’re saying you’d feel better if I were the one who got hurt?”

“At least you have a massive fanbase that shields you no matter what trouble you cause, so there wouldn’t have been a controversy like this.”

“Hey!”

Noah, unable to watch any longer, turned beet-red with rage. Yet, the reason he couldn’t offer a proper rebuttal was perhaps because he secretly agreed with Ha-un’s words.

Looking at Se-han, who showed no sign of backing down, Noah, who looked ready to pounce on him, and Go-hun, who was observing from a distance as if it had nothing to do with him, Ha-un sneered inwardly.

‘Reliable big brothers, my foot. In the end, everyone’s just busy looking out for themselves.’

Ha-un looked back on the events of the past month, the root cause of his current bitterness.

When the accident first happened, Ha-un didn’t have this cynical attitude. To be precise, he didn’t have the luxury for it. Having briefly lost consciousness from the impact, Ha-un woke up in the hospital only to find his older members pale with the fear that Ji-ho might die, which sent him into a state of panic as well.

No matter how mature he was, he was only twenty. The possibility of losing someone close—someone he followed like a real brother—was a massive shock. He couldn’t believe reality and kept repeating groundless hopes that everything would work out.

But Ji-ho’s condition didn’t seem to improve quickly. The hospital said the surgery went well, but there was no news of him waking up. They were in the ICU for days, so the members couldn’t even visit, and the company only told them that Ji-ho needed another surgery. They said he woke up but fell back asleep immediately, repeating unbelievable claims that the hospital said he was fine.

During that time, there was nothing the members, including Ha-un, could do. The same went for the leader, Se-han, whom Ha-un had always thought was much bigger and more capable. The instruction was that the members waiting at the hospital would only draw attention and hinder the medical staff, so staying at the dorm was the best option.

He felt truly powerless.

Trapped in the terror that Ji-ho might leave forever, Ha-un was annoyed that he wasn’t an older adult. It was agonizing to have to wait for news from the company in silence, and that the only thing he could do was pray for Ji-ho’s recovery.

For the first time, he regretted choosing the profession of an idol. Because of it, he couldn’t even wait at the hospital.

The seatbelt controversy and other ridiculous situations erupted just as Ha-un was managing to pull himself together.

“It’s all nonsense. I saw Jung Ji-ho saying the seatbelt was weird before the accident and trying to click it several times…”

Go-hun’s words from when he was trailing off after seeing the article were vivid. He was someone who rarely showed emotion, but that day, Go-hun’s face was marked with clear self-reproach. He seemed to regret not checking the belt when Ji-ho said it was strange.

At that moment, Ha-un thought: It is Go-hun’s fault. Why did he ignore Ji-ho’s situation before the accident? If the seatbelt was weird, shouldn’t he have told the manager, Yong-ha, right away?

He didn’t need to hear the details to know. Go-hun had never been close to the members, but he specifically kept his distance from Ji-ho. The perceptive Ha-un had realized this long ago.

But he hadn’t seen it as a problem. Go-hun’s inexplicable behavior didn’t manifest outwardly, and there seemed to be a silent agreement between the two. Furthermore, Ha-un’s own petty heart played a part.

He had wanted to be the person closest to Ji-ho among the members.

He regretted that selfish thought for the first time. He felt that if he had resolved the awkwardness between Go-hun and Ji-ho sooner, maybe Ji-ho wouldn’t have been thrown from the car. He simply resolved to tell the two of them to make up—whatever their issue was—once Ji-ho got better.

At that time, Ha-un didn’t care much about the controversy surrounding Ji-ho. In an idol’s life, being nitpicked and cursed at over nothing was common, so he thought it would pass quickly.

Until the sudden article about the “patient cosplay” appeared.

“Yong-ha hyung, what is that photo in the article? You blocked us from visiting saying Ji-ho hyung needed absolute stability until his condition improved—were you lying about him being all better? No wonder there was no answer to the calls and texts I sent to the number you gave me. Dammit, Ji-ho hyung is definitely sulking because of us.”

The photo of Ji-ho in the article was so crafty that even the members in the dorm were deceived.

Though no one said it, they all seemed to share Ha-un’s worry that Ji-ho was feeling resentful. Noah, who had swapped seats with Ji-ho in the van right before the accident, became increasingly sensitive. Go-hun, who had ignored Ji-ho’s comment about the seatbelt, also grew visibly pale after the article was released.

Ha-un found his hyungs pathetic. They worried that Ji-ho was pushing them away out of hurt, yet they acted like cowards, unable to even demand answers under the pretext of supporting Yong-ha, who was undergoing a police investigation for the accident. Se-han, who called himself a leader but failed to look after a member when it mattered most, also grated on him.

[Lee Ha-un, I told you not to look at articles for a while. Sigh, the whole company is in chaos because of that photo, so please stay quiet. I can’t look after you guys for a bit either, so if you have something to say, tell Se-han.]

Yong-ha’s voice over the phone was thick with exhaustion. Ha-un got the answer from him that the photo was a fabrication and that Ji-ho hadn’t recovered yet, but Ha-un was skeptical. Why was everyone making such a fuss over a rumor that would pass as quickly as the seatbelt controversy?

Perhaps Ha-un’s vision was narrowed at the time because he was only focused on Ji-ho’s recovery. That was why he couldn’t easily grasp the situation as the subsequent controversies exploded.

Following the seatbelt and “patient cosplay” issues, all sorts of rumors spread: the theory of the manager’s sacrifice, fabricated bullying allegations, and so on. Even the withdrawal of Jun-oh, a member of the old debut team, surfaced, and everyone attacked Ji-ho, questioning if his character had been problematic from the start.

There was still no answer from Ji-ho, and the company restricted the members’ actions more as the controversy intensified. Silence gradually filled the dorm where the four lived, and the frequency with which Ha-un checked the internet grew shorter.

“I think everyone’s gone mad. Did you hyungs see? Even posts like this are going up in the fan cafe. Seeing how they keep bringing up Jun-oh hyung, it’s definitely being spread by his sasaengs. I mean, even during the debut team days, his fans were incredibly obsessive—right up there with Noah hyung’s.”

“Lee Ha-un, I told you to stop looking at the internet. The company will handle everything, so just wait quietly.”

“Don’t make me laugh. Handle it? You know Star Ent isn’t good at managing hate comments, Se-han hyung. I’ve been liking and collecting MeTube videos related to the members, but not a single one has been deleted.”

“Stop whining. I’m already pissed about being stuck here; do you have to make my head hurt more?”

“Is Noah hyung still worried about his ‘condition’ even now? I guess you aren’t even worried about Ji-ho hyung. Then again, a picky person like you probably feels comfortable now that your roommate is gone.”

“You’re crossing the line. That’s enough.”

“Why are you jumping in now? Go-hun hyung, just keep spectating like you always do. Since when did you care so much about group matters?”

The atmosphere in the dorm grew even more hostile as Ha-un blurted out the words the other members didn’t dare say.

But Ha-un didn’t stop. He felt like his heart would explode from frustration if he didn’t vent like this. Furthermore, in his eyes, the members looked just as hateful as the incompetent agency that couldn’t settle the situation.

‘Is Ji-ho hyung even a fellow member to them? After how much he took care of them.’

Ha-un had watched for a long time how hard Ji-ho worked to ensure that the strong-willed members wouldn’t clash and could promote smoothly as a team. He knew better than anyone what it was like to take a position of self-sacrifice and set aside personal greed.

He also knew that being able to live as the pampered maknae in Pentagram—unlike when he was the eldest of five at home—was thanks to Ji-ho.

That was why Ha-un followed Ji-ho more closely than the others. That was the reason he was especially whiny and acted like a spoiled child around him. He felt comfortable with Ji-ho, who always accepted and soothed him, so even if he occasionally crossed the line, Ji-ho never scolded him.

‘As I thought, I’m the only one in the group who truly cares for Ji-ho hyung. Fine, what’s the point of arguing? It’ll be the hyungs’ loss if they fall out with Ji-ho hyung later.’

Checking articles related to Ji-ho every day since the accident, pestering Yong-ha to settle the situation while acting naive, provoking the hyungs despite clearly knowing their guilt, and continuing to reach out to Ji-ho even when no reply came.

Ha-un was proud of himself for thinking of Ji-ho more than anyone else. He expected that when Ji-ho returned and learned about everything, he would dote on him like a real younger brother even more than before.

The flashback ended, and it was once again the day of Ji-ho’s discharge.

“Lee Ha-un, stop acting up. Shall we talk about how you intentionally waited to tell us that Yong-ha hyung gave you the wrong number for Ji-ho? And yet here you are, acting like you’re the only one who cares about Jung Ji-ho.”

Noah’s words, snapped at Ha-un, were sharp. But Ha-un remained defiant.

“I thought it was weird that I wasn’t getting a reply from Ji-ho hyung, so I asked Yong-ha hyung again. You hyungs were just sitting there. How is that my fault? No, wait—did you even try to contact him after you got the right number?”

Since there was no answer from the members, Ha-un didn’t hide his sneer this time. The cynical smirk, born of the certainty that he was absolutely not in the wrong, seemed a far cry from the bright maknae of Pentagram that most people knew.