Two Days Ago

Rolling my eyes around, lost in thought, I found myself already at the broadcasting station. Initially, the familiar sight brought a slight calm to my racing mind, but that tranquility was fleeting. Soon, the deafening roar of surging fans assailed my ears. They were all shouting the members’ names at the top of their lungs. The members of HEX, appearing genuinely pleased yet subtly accustomed to the commotion, confidently met the fans’ gaze as they strode forward.

“Yohan!”

Of course, many voices called out Kwon Yohan’s name. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look them directly in the face; my chest felt as though it were being squeezed tight. My head buzzed, and my breath came in ragged gasps. The sensation of my feet on the ground felt vague, as if I were floating, much like the morning after a sleepless night. ‘Ah, if this were a dream, such dull senses would be perfectly acceptable. Had my body finally realized it? That this was all an absurd dream.’

Just then, a cool hand clasped my wrist. Regrettably, the sensation was far too vivid.

“Let’s go quickly.”

Yoon Jihyuk smiled brightly and pulled me along, his strength surprisingly potent for such a refreshing demeanor. Perhaps due to Kwon Yohan’s scrawny frame, my legs felt weak. I diligently moved my constantly wavering legs, for if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to keep pace with Yoon Jihyuk’s swift, long strides. Rushing in such a manner, we swiftly arrived at the waiting room. This particular room, proudly bearing the group’s name, was a place I had never used before.

Yoon Jihyuk released my hand and pushed open the waiting room door. The other members, as if his actions were entirely natural, made no move to open it themselves. The staff, too, remained passive. It was, for lack of a better word, an odd sight.

“Here.”

The moment he stepped inside, Choi Seung-beom opened his bag and handed me a phone. It was a pristine, latest-model smartphone, completely unblemished and without a case. ‘Rich people, indeed,’ I thought. Upon closer inspection, it seemed even a screen protector hadn’t been affixed.

When I turned on the screen, the date and time appeared over the default wallpaper.

“April 8th…”

It was exactly two days ago.

I blankly turned on the keypad, repeatedly entering and deleting a few numbers. The ones I knew by heart: Mom, my younger sibling, Leader, and our manager, who had miraculously stayed with us for a record eight months. In my narrow social circle, those were the only people who came to mind. After all, who memorizes other people’s phone numbers in this day and age?

After a moment of deliberation, I entered a number I hadn’t yet typed and pressed the call button. It was a number I could never forget: my own contact.

Ring. Ring. After a few rings, someone picked up.

–…Hello?

His voice was so hoarse it was almost unrecognizable. Yet, there was no way I wouldn’t know the owner of that voice. Suppressing the familiar “Hyung” that almost slipped out, I carefully asked,

“Isn’t this Lee Jio’s number?”

–Ah, our Jio…

The other person seemed to swallow an unsteady breath, as if trying to suppress a sob, before finally speaking with difficulty.

–There was an accident last night, so he can’t answer the phone right now.

An accident? If things had gone as they should, on April 7th, I would have gone back to the dorm early, shared a can of beer with Leader, and talked late into the night. Half complaints, half empty chatter. The main topic would have been today’s music broadcast. Today, the day of HEX’s comeback stage, we wouldn’t have been able to perform. Our CEO had fallen out of favor with this broadcasting station late last year. Since then, it had become an unspoken rule that Cookie Entertainment artists couldn’t appear on their shows. It had been a struggle to console Leader, who had wept bitterly, saying he wanted to show at least one more stage for our final activity. Yes, I’m talking about this very man, who was now speaking so primly on the phone.

“What kind of accident happened that he can’t answer the phone?”

–It was a car accident. He’s unconscious right now… And who is this calling?

Thump. My heart plummeted. I pressed a hand against my chest, struck by a sudden, sharp pain. When I couldn’t answer immediately, the other person prompted, ‘Hello?’ Their anxiety was palpable.

At this point, I had no choice but to force myself to grasp the situation. For some reason, I had returned two days into the past and become Kwon Yohan. And my original self, Lee Jio, was now unconscious due to an accident that hadn’t originally occurred. If I were to immediately claim to the person on the phone that I was the Lee Jio currently lying unconscious, it wouldn’t make any sense. I’d be lucky if they simply thought I was crazy. It would be even more troublesome if they took it as a cruel joke about an injured person. Especially since our Leader had such a strong attachment to the group and its members. I truly didn’t want to hurt him.

“Well… I was going to introduce Jio to a trainer position, but it seems that won’t be possible given the circumstances. I only recently changed my number, so I guess I’m not saved in his contacts?”

Nor could I introduce myself as Kwon Yohan. Aside from not wanting to assume someone else’s identity, I knew all too well that this was a time when even hearing the name of a successful rookie would stir up internal turmoil.

“Please tell him to call me when he wakes up. And, if his condition worsens, please contact me at this number.”

–Um, so your name is…

“I’m busy right now, so I’ll hang up. Please call me, definitely.”

I cut off the other person, rattled off my message, and then abruptly hung up. If he was the man I knew, he wouldn’t bother calling back to ask for my name. He would probably fret for a while, clutching the phone, but ultimately conclude that he couldn’t disturb a busy person. Now that I had assessed the situation…

“Yohan, if you’re done with your call, shall we start your makeup?”

It was time to put out the immediate fire.

****

Cookie Entertainment, while providing no proper support to its artists, was nonetheless brutal when it came to basic training. Even during inactive periods, if no individual schedules were set, artists were expected to be cooped up in the damp, moldy underground practice room, just like their trainee days. While one might argue their situation was better than those “black” agencies that offered even less, comparing themselves to the absolute worst and second-worst in the industry, rather than to industry standards, was hardly a wise form of self-consolation.

As it happened, I was one of those Red Moon members who exceptionally rarely took on individual schedules. I was filled with resentment, yet simultaneously naive. I believed the CEO’s words that our failure to rise was due to a lack of effort. Foolishly so. I realized far too late that it was nothing more than a simple shifting of blame. What this meant was that, despite the somewhat haphazard training due to the lack of competent trainers, my practice volume was equivalent to having toiled for ten years in a major agency’s A-team. Naturally, my choreography acquisition was incredibly fast, to a degree unimaginable for most rookies. Even for difficult songs with complex movements, a single day was sufficient.

‘Hah…’

The problem was that, being comeback day, it wouldn’t end with just one song. There were two hours until the pre-recording. I had to perform a total of three songs, including the title track and the pre-recorded track. The only saving grace was that Kwon Yohan, notorious for being the “skill hole,” didn’t have many parts.

“What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know, probably forgot the choreography.”

Lee Seon and Han Doyoung sat on the sofa, munching on their lunchboxes and whispering. ‘Let them chatter as they please,’ I thought, adjusting my earphones and turning up the laptop’s volume.

The laptop belonged to Yoon Jihyuk. When I mentioned wanting to review the choreography one last time, he gave me a puzzled look but retrieved his laptop and started a video. After watching the entire thing roughly once, he asked,

‘But Yohan, why did you ask me?’

‘Huh?’

‘The managers would have shown you if you’d asked them.’

‘Ah…’

Red Moon’s manager found it difficult to handle such trivial requests, as he managed the entire team alone. We all knew he was overworked daily for a pittance. ‘Please don’t quit just because we bother you,’ was the members’ silent plea. From my perspective, Yoon Jihyuk seemed to be the only one among the members who was friendly towards Kwon Yohan, so I’d asked him. But to find even such a simple request unfamiliar… perhaps their relationship wasn’t particularly friendly after all. It might simply be an awkward one. ‘But really, can you live in the same dorm, sharing a roof, and still be that awkward?’

There was more than one puzzling aspect, but I quickly decided to ignore it. First, I needed to memorize the rest of the choreography. Even if I couldn’t master it perfectly, I could at least ensure I wouldn’t ruin the performance. Such things were usually learned quickly by practicing with the other members… but regrettably, I had no choice.

“That’s what happens when you don’t show up for practice yesterday.”

Han Doyoung, who had already finished his lunchbox, chastised me while fiddling with a piercing in front of the mirror. He stared at his ear for a long time, seemingly dissatisfied, then eventually took out the one he was wearing and replaced it with another. After turning his head this way and that, he approached me with a satisfied expression.

“Is there something you can’t get?”

As he spoke, he rested both hands on my shoulders.

‘Anyway, I can’t get the details right. Subtle angles or expressions aren’t something I can perfect alone. If I were to go through them one by one, asking questions, an entire day would pass. When time is short, you have to compromise sharply to create a high-quality stage.’

Han Doyoung, interpreting my silence in his own way, smiled, one corner of his mouth curving upwards. The expression, combined with his cat-like face with sharply drawn eyeliner, made him look quite malicious.

“Indeed, it’s faster to find what our Yohan *can* do.”

He bent down, bringing his lips close to my ear, and whispered in a low voice,

“It’s so f***ing embarrassing to call you a member.”

The piercing dangling from Han Doyoung’s earlobe swung down, touching my jaw. It was a light, irritating sensation, like cold drops of water tapping against my skin. ‘This bastard, huh?’

Judging by the members’ words, it was clear that Kwon Yohan hadn’t been particularly diligent in his group activities. So, I had nothing to retort with. Frankly, I couldn’t understand Kwon Yohan either. ‘What kind of nerve does it take to skip practice the day before a comeback? Especially when you’re already so bad you creak like a wind-up doll.’ I deserved the insult. They had every right. If I were a member of our team, I would have scolded him sharply and somehow made him practice, or, if he truly wouldn’t listen, I would have kicked him out. Intellectually, I understood. I also knew that Han Doyoung’s words were directed at Kwon Yohan, not me. But unfortunately, I wasn’t the type to simply let such words pass without a retort, especially when spoken directly to my face.

“Oh, so you’ve been going around bragging that I’m a member? How could I not have known that?”

“What?”

“I didn’t realize Doyoung’s love for his members ran that deep. Well, I suppose if you have a junior as angelic-looking as me, you’d want to brag. Wouldn’t you?”

Just then, Yoon Jihyuk, who had briefly stepped out, entered the waiting room.

“What’s going on? What are you two talking about so excitedly?”

Han Doyoung’s brow furrowed like a crumpled piece of tissue.