The Face of Greed

The unexpected space for confession grew deeper as time passed.

Ji-ho described to Jae-in a particularly unfortunate day from his past. His calm, light tone held no hatred for anyone, nor the depression he had felt at the time, but that very lack of emotion made Jae-in’s expression contort.

“So, the day the accident happened, I thought: ‘Ah, so that unlucky day was a foreshadowing for this.’”

Ji-ho couldn’t bring himself to mention the miserable thoughts he had while lying on the cold asphalt after being thrown from the van. True to his nature, he barely mentioned anything that criticized or pointed fingers at the Pentagram members.

“Yong-ha Hyung probably doesn’t know I overheard his conversation with Ha-neul Nuna. I understand Team Leader Kim’s reasoning, too. Public opinion back then was hard to suppress with ordinary methods.”

He simply reflected on his own slight disappointment and the timidity that prevented him from expressing it. However, Jae-in—who knew Pentagram and Star Ent well and was an idol himself—could guess the overall situation from just a few fragments of the story.

Jae-in jumped to his feet on the veranda, more agitated than when he had discovered the post about his own cleared reputation.

“Is that how you were promoting with Pentagram, Hyung? You just quietly announced a hiatus like that? You were practically kicked out, and you’re just resting here all leisurely?”

Jae-in’s outburst was aggressive, but it pierced right through to Ji-ho’s core.

“Ugh, Hyung, are you seriously a pushover?”

A “pushover”—a word for someone who is so clumsy and naive that they are easy to take advantage of. It stabbed right into Ji-ho’s chest. It wasn’t that he was hurt; it was that the word described his situation so accurately that he felt a jolt of alarm.

Faced with a frustrated Jae-in, Ji-ho answered honestly.

“Is that how I look to you? Like a pushover?”

Perhaps because of the dark surroundings lit only by the indoor light, or perhaps because of the shadow cast by the standing Jae-in, Ji-ho’s face looked dark at a glance. Considering his fair skin hadn’t tanned at all during months of country life, his pallor could be seen as a reflection of the deep thoughts he had been harboring.

It was a vulnerable side of Ji-ho that Jae-in hadn’t even seen during their desperate trainee days. Jae-in stuttered for a moment, then sat back down as if giving up. The fact that he could restrain such surging, violent emotions was proof that Jae-in had grown since the old days.

“I didn’t mean to insult you. ‘Pushover’… that’s a bad word, right? I won’t use it.”

Fortunately, that apology-like remark managed to coax a hollow laugh out of Ji-ho.

“It’s not slang, it’s a standard word. It reminds me of how you used to be. Calling me an orphan and then not knowing what to do with yourself.”

“Ah, that damn insane memory again. I take back the ‘pushover’ comment! Totally take it back! Come to think of it, if you were a pushover, there’s no way you’d remember all those things.”

Jae-in tried to act playful, but it was difficult to lift the heavy mood even with the sentimentality of the night. Sensing this, Jae-in adjusted his posture to face Ji-ho, deciding it was better to talk properly while they were at it.

“It’s a bit of a shock. I never thought Star Ent would be like that. I only blamed the people who insulted you based on weird rumors; I thought Star Ent just… lacked the ability to stop them. But fixing the situation by having you announce a hiatus is no different from my agency telling me to take the fall for Lee Ra-min.”

“Strictly speaking, it’s true I chose it. I needed a break considering my physical condition.”

“Don’t make me laugh. If you were resting to recover your health, why aren’t they calling you back now? I saw your left leg was perfectly fine when you were dragging me through training today. You said it yourself earlier. That there’s no problem with you promoting.”

“Besides that, I was unstable because of stress.”

“Stress? Seeing how you’ve tolerated me, you’re practically a Buddha. Do you really think you’re in a state where returning is impossible right now?”

“Well… even if I wanted to return right now, what could I do? The studio album preparations must be well underway, and joining would have to be for the next promotion……”

“You’re okay with being left out of the group’s first studio album in three years?”

Jae-in’s point dragged out the cruel reality that Ji-ho had been subconsciously ignoring. It made him remember his own fears—every time he spoke to his only contact, Yong-ha—that he might never be able to return to Pentagram.

“Sigh, I’ll be blunt. Even if I said harsh things to pick a fight with you during the last promotion, it was a fact that only you were being overshadowed among the five. Putting stage screen time aside, there was no content that spotlighted you at all. They were openly pushing you to the back.”

“It’s not a solo activity, so it can’t be helped. Realistically, it’s impossible for all five members to get the spotlight. My recognition is low because I’m lacking, so who would I blame?”

“Hyung, Enheim has seven members. Do you think I don’t know about screen time competition? You think you don’t stand out because you lack talent? Don’t give me that. Most of the time, people get overshadowed because they don’t get the opportunity. Why do you think I keep doing this ‘leader’ role even though it’s annoying?”

Jae-in’s tone was light, but his words were grounded in vivid experience and sounded plausible. Having clearly spent a lot of time worrying about idol life while serving as a leader, Jae-in showed quite a sharp insight.

“Star Ent just pushed you aside. They used you as a shield and then tossed you away. Argh, I know I’m being harsh, but it pisses me off because you keep trying to take the agency’s side. What did the other Hyungs—what did Lee Ha-un even do?”

“What could the members even do?”

“So it’s natural for them to ignore you? Was Pentagram just a business relationship like other groups? Or did everyone change after debuting? Where did the Se-han Hyung go—the one who used to gather our opinions and push back against the company?”

“It was different this time. They would have only been harmed if they got involved with me. What can we do if the company forces it? They only just saw the light in their third year.”

“I’ll ask again. Then what about now?”

Even without an answer, both of them knew. Though packaged as a “break,” Ji-ho’s status was no different from being abandoned. And perhaps, the Pentagram members tacitly agreed with this.

Jae-in placed both hands on Ji-ho’s shoulders and met his eyes.

Jae-in seemed like the type to usually cringe at such a gesture, but at this moment, he felt strangely reliable. It might have been because his eyes, which clearly displayed his emotions, held only pure concern.

“I know. It’s because you’re kind, Hyung. But I wish you wouldn’t be like that anymore.”

“Jae-in-ah.”

“Kim Jun-o is debuting soon. As a soloist, no less. He said he’s even going on a survival audition show. You know YL, right? The company with massive Chinese backing. It seems they’re pushing him fully.”

“…Really? He hasn’t given up on debuting yet.”

“You don’t have to tell me what happened between you two. I’ve already decided to only be on your side. But that guy who said he was a reporter—his uncle or whoever—and that CCTV video… they keep bothering me. I’m worried that bastard will hold a grudge and do something to you later. If you stay buried here quietly, Kim Jun-o will happily manipulate the past however he wants.”

At that moment, the image of the man who had broken into the hospital to take his picture flashed through Ji-ho’s mind. He also thought of the internet newspaper that had written the ridiculous article claiming he was “roleplaying” as a patient.

‘No. That’s too much of a stretch.’

Deeming it unrealistic, Ji-ho quickly erased the assumption.

“Besides… aren’t you angry?”

“What?”

“I’m asking if you’re angry. You were completely backstabbed by your agency and your members. Even though I’m not close to them, I get this worked up just thinking about Lee Ra-min.”

“Of course I……”

Ji-ho, who was about to say out of habit, “There’s no point in being angry at my own members,” stopped himself. Strangely, the words wouldn’t come out. Jae-in’s simple question of whether he was angry bothered him immensely.

‘Ji-ho-ssi—no, Ji-ho—your “color” is a bit faint compared to the other members, isn’t it? It’s like you’re always trying to hide yourself… Hmm, is your actual personality introverted?’

He remembered Kwon-ho’s assessment that he was always trying to hide. He thought of his time with Pentagram, which had been gradually becoming suffocating. He thought of the cruel words the members had tossed at him as if they were nothing. It felt as if the conversation Yong-ha and Ha-neul had shared behind his back was playing right in his ear.

The unknown rage that had made him suddenly throw his tablet in the hospital room—Ji-ho finally realized it wasn’t just a momentary impulse.

“You’re right. I am angry. At the members, at the company, at the people who insulted me, and at Kim Jun-o. I don’t want to end it like this. It’s unfair. I don’t want to be kicked out of the group.”

It was the first time Ji-ho had ever poured out his true feelings to another person. It was a sense of liberation, as if chains that had been tightly bound were suddenly snapped. He felt as if a heavy weight he had been suppressing had vanished, leaving him free.

Ji-ho’s confession continued.

“I want to remain in Pentagram. Not as a shadow-like, excluded member like before, but as a member who is properly supported.”

They say the eyes are a mirror to the soul. Ji-ho’s light brown eyes, meeting Jae-in’s, finally seemed to sparkle with life.

That light was tiny compared to the feast of stars overhead, but—

“What on earth should I do to make that happen, Jae-in-ah?”

The fact that he had finally set a clear direction was brilliant enough.