The Invisible Architect

The hand Ji-ho had been using to wave at the fans froze mid-air. He was actually standing a fair distance away from Noah, so from the perspective of the fan who had shouted, the claim that he was “blocking” Noah’s face was clearly just a matter of angles.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t faced baseless criticism a time or two during his career as an idol.

But it was humiliating to realize that everyone present had heard those words—words that, judging by the tone alone, were meant to belittle him. The brief silence that followed only confirmed his suspicion.

It was made worse by a mutter that drifted through that short-lived quiet.

“She’s not wrong, though. If your demand is low, you should at least play the part of a background prop properly.”

The short, scoffing remark came from a woman in the very front row of the fan fence, holding a conspicuous camera. Unlike the person who had shouted first, she looked startled as if she hadn’t realized her voice would carry so clearly, her expression suggesting she had spoken her inner thoughts aloud by mistake.

Fortunately, the awkward situation passed quickly. There were many other idols waiting behind Pentagram to have their commute photos taken, and the photographers didn’t want to waste their remaining time.

“Pentagram is heading in now. Next group, please get ready!”

“Ahhh, just a little longer!”

“Se-han! Look over here one more time!”

The fans expressed their disappointment loudly, as if the previous silence had never happened. Most of them would likely be attending the pre-recording as audience members anyway, yet even a momentary parting from their favorite idols seemed to grieve them.

‘I wonder if there’s even a single fan among them who came to see me.’

As he turned his back to them and entered the broadcasting station building, Ji-ho found himself suddenly curious. Everyone had moved on as if by unspoken agreement, but his face was still hot from the public insult and embarrassment.

Perhaps his steps had slowed along with his dampened spirits; Ji-ho, falling slightly behind, watched the backs of the other four members.

They were four people whose presence felt extraordinary even from behind. Their frames were so striking it was hard to believe they had spent years in obscurity. And Ji-ho knew better than anyone just how incredible their individual charms were.

He was certain that their future—Pentagram’s future—would be nothing but brilliant. The number of cheering fans would grow, and Pentagram would climb higher and higher.

Perhaps… without him.

The four of them never once looked back. It was as if what Ji-ho had just experienced had nothing to do with their world—as if even a moment of obligatory comfort for a fellow member was a waste of time.

‘No, this is just my victim complex. Everyone is just pretending not to notice because this kind of thing happens all the time.’

Ji-ho hurried his pace to catch up. But strangely, despite the closing physical gap, he felt as though the distance between him and them was vast.

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

The reason Pentagram had bustled about since dawn was all for a single stage. When an idol releases an album, the promotion period usually lasts from one to three weeks, and the music show stages packed into that time were the core of the schedule.

That meant a massive amount of manpower and sincerity were poured into every single broadcast.

They were in a waiting room that was now exclusively reserved for Pentagram—a sign of their status. They didn’t just rest while waiting for their rehearsal turn.

“It’s been bugging me, so I can’t let it go. Se-han Hyung, I think we really need to switch to the modified version of the choreo right before the chorus.”

Noah, who had been quiet and seemingly in a foul mood all morning, was now in his element, offering opinions as they practiced in the waiting room. As the main dancer, he was always proactive when it came to anything related to the performance.

Even if that meant pushing for a last-minute choreography change with less than an hour until they were due on stage.

Assuming the other members would naturally agree, Noah focused solely on persuading the leader, Se-han.

“Kang Noah, I told you before: if we change the choreo right before the stage, people get confused and make mistakes.”

“We practiced both versions. It’s just that I didn’t realize today’s stage set would feel this ‘hard.’ The original choreo focuses too much on the upper body, so it lacks dynamism. We need to split the beat one more time and add a fake so we don’t get buried by the background during the chorus.”

To an outsider, it might seem odd for an individual member to change choreography created by an expensive dance team. But for Pentagram, there was a good reason.

Pentagram consisted of only five members. For a modern idol group where performances were becoming increasingly flashy, this was a very small number. This was Pentagram’s unavoidable weakness, and the producer in charge of the 3rd mini-album had applied a new method to compensate for it.

It was a crazy, labor-intensive strategy: changing the formation or choreography for every single stage.

A catchphrase that promised: Even if the song is the same, no two stages are identical. Pentagram, the amazing performance group that always shows a colorful spectacle.

This was the powerful masterstroke that had fueled their post-viral success and made the new album a hit.

While it was impossible to change everything for every stage, there were over a dozen different formations based on a core framework. Continuously swapping out parts of the choreography to present diverse stages was a method that hit a limit even with a massive investment in an external dance team.

As a result, Noah had naturally stepped in to help produce the choreography. He even consulted directly with the choreographers, drawing on his experience from the street dancing scene.

“If I have to, I’ll even get confirmation from the dance team. But if you see the stage background today, the teachers from the dance team would say I’m right too.”

With Noah continuing to insist on the change, Se-han had no choice but to let out a light sigh and give in.

“Alright, alright. We don’t have to change the backup dancers for that version, right? Then let’s just check it together among ourselves and go.”

“Ugh, if I get confused and mess up, it’s Noah Hyung’s fault!”

“You’ve been getting cheeky since earlier, Lee Ha-un.”

“The other version went like this, right? The spacing is different from the original, so we’ll have to be careful.”

“Jung Ji-ho, the part Go-un pointed out, you do it in a bit…”

Matching choreography while looking into the small waiting room mirror was second nature to them. Dealing with a packed promotion schedule, stopping by the practice room in between, and sudden choreo changes like this were all part of the job.

It was a struggle to sustain their luck-given popularity—no, to climb even higher. It was proof of Pentagram’s professional spirit as idols who strove to show an even better stage.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Ji-ho had more than a few roles to play in the process.

A short while later, as Pentagram’s rehearsal was about to begin.

Leaving behind the members who had large name tags pinned to their chests for camera blocking, Ji-ho was the first to step onto the stage. The stage background wasn’t fully set yet, and everyone on set was busy ahead of the rehearsal, but Ji-ho approached a nearby staff member without hesitation.

“Excuse me, would it be okay if I put some tape on the stage?”

“What are you talking about? The center markings are all don—… oh?”

The staff member, who had turned around with a frown at the sudden call, quickly smoothed his expression upon realizing it was an idol. His gaze flickered between Ji-ho’s face and the large name tag on his chest, showing his confusion.

Another staff member nearby cleared up the mystery.

“It’s Pentagram. Their formation changes for every stage, so it was already agreed that they could add auxiliary markings.”

“Ah, so this is that Pentagram everyone’s talking about lately. I guess it makes sense to have extra markings then. Let’s see… the marking tape is right here. Take it. This won’t be caught by the cameras anyway, but don’t make them too big.”

“Thank you!”

“But you have to remove them when you’re done. We’re going to be swamped trying to strike the stage. Ideally, it’s better if you don’t use markings next time.”

Even though he was polite because Ji-ho was the star of the stage being set up, it was clear he found the request for extra work annoying. In on-site work, even a small added task could spark irritation.

Marking—the act of marking positions on the stage floor to help with positioning.

For typical idol performances, they didn’t usually add extra markings beyond a few major movement points. They were people who practiced a single formation until they could perform it perfectly with their eyes closed. Asking for extra markings on stage every time, and even seeking prior cooperation from the staff, was rare, and Ji-ho’s request could easily be seen as being “extra.”

But it wasn’t as if Ji-ho hadn’t dealt with such reactions from staff before. Knowing they were constantly busy, he chose to borrow the tape and do it himself rather than asking them to do it.

Originally, of course, the manager Yong-ha had handled this, too—

‘What? This isn’t the spot? The movement changed again? I mean, seriously… can you guys really promote like this? It’s too confusing!’

It was impossible for the constantly busy Yong-ha to memorize stage formations that changed by the hour. And hiring an external dance team for such a brief task was out of the question, given the high labor costs.

The best option would have been for Noah, who directly participated in the choreography, to do it, but it was easy to predict how coldly someone with his prickly personality would act toward the staff.

In the end, the stage taping had become Ji-ho’s responsibility. He was the member who could perfectly memorize any formation or choreo in an instant and knew how to be as affable with people as Yong-ha.

Ji-ho bowed his head, recalling Yong-ha’s words: “You absolutely cannot get on the bad side of the people on set. Those music show folks still act like they’re the ones in power. I’m counting on you, Ji-ho, okay?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure all the extra tape is removed after the main shoot is over. Thank you once again.”

As Ji-ho turned away after a polite bow, he heard a few quiet voices from behind.

“But why is an idol doing that himself? I thought he was a manager or something.”

“Shh, be quiet. He’ll hear you. Who knows? He’s been doing that alone since their first broadcast of this promotion. It’s probably that: an artist dedicated to the stage. Some kind of image-making.”

“He’s really doing everything to get famous. Well, I guess he has to, since I can’t even recognize his face.”

Whether they thought he couldn’t hear or simply didn’t care if he did, the words pierced the back of Ji-ho’s head like needles.

However, the preparation for the upcoming stage was more important than his own unpleasant feelings, so Ji-ho moved quickly, keeping in mind the little time remaining for the rehearsal.