Ghosts of the Debut Group

As soon as the formal greetings ended, Jae-in dropped the honorifics as if it were only natural. His tone carried a mix of cockiness and a strange sense of intimacy—which wasn’t surprising, given that Jae-in shared a deep, complicated history with Pentagram.

Long before their fancam went viral, during Pentagram’s two-plus years of dark obscurity, there was a time when they were all just trainees desperately chasing the dream of a debut. Back then, the group was originally slated to have seven members. Jae-in was one of the two who had been cut from that final lineup.

Even though he had technically left of his own volition and eventually debuted with another group, the awkwardness between them never truly faded. In fact, every time they crossed paths at a broadcasting station, Jae-in made a habit of picking at Pentagram’s nerves, which naturally soured the relationship between the two groups.

“Yoon Jae-in, your attitude is as lovely as ever,” Se-han remarked. His expression remained smooth, but his eyes had turned cold. Jae-in flinched slightly under that gaze.

“…I was just complimenting Noah Hyung on how well he’s doing. We’re the ones helping you out here, so you shouldn’t start by scolding me, Se-han Hyung, right?”

But Jae-in didn’t back down easily. When they were in the debut lineup together, he would have bowed flat at a word from Se-han. Perhaps it was his lingering resentment toward Pentagram, or perhaps it was because his own members were watching, but he stood his ground this time.

‘This is exactly why I told Yong-ha Hyung we shouldn’t film a challenge with N-Heim.’

Ji-ho worried that Se-han—already in a bad mood because of him—would have a serious clash with Jae-in. Noah seemed annoyed at his name being brought up but clearly wanted no part of the drama, stepping away to drink water. Go-un just stood blankly next to Yong-ha, who was adjusting the camera.

Knowing he was the only one who could break the tension, Ji-ho spoke up, deliberately brightening his voice.

“Se-han Hyung is just glad to see you. Both our promotions overlap, but we haven’t had much time to hang out. Oh, for our side, Noah and Go-un will be the ones filming.”

“What? What about you, Ji-ho Hyung? You’re sitting out again? I don’t think I’ve seen you once in a ‘Brief’ challenge. Shouldn’t you participate at least this once?”

On the surface, it sounded like he was looking out for Ji-ho, but Jae-in’s drawling tone made it clear: he was mocking Ji-ho for being excluded even from the short “Brief” videos where the challenges were posted.

“Well, there are things coordinated with the company, so it’s not really up to me. I heard both groups’ members will be in the behind-the-scenes video, though. Audio included.”

“Tsk, you still live such a boring life, Hyung. Fine. Let’s just get this over with quickly.”

Fortunately, the tension between Se-han and Jae-in dissipated, and the challenge shoot began without further friction.

Regardless of the undercurrents between the two groups, they were all professionals in front of the lens—whether it was an expensive broadcast camera or the two smartphones Yong-ha had set up.

The beat for Pentagram’s title track, Untamed, began to play. The four of them stood at regular intervals and performed the “point” choreography.

While it was natural for N-Heim to be overshadowed by Pentagram in terms of physique and image—since it was Pentagram’s song—the two N-Heim members expressed the choreography well with their signature playful charm. When the dance ended, Jae-in widened his eyes in mock admiration. It was a complete 180 from his earlier attitude.

“Wow, why is this choreo so hard, Sunbaenim?”

Of course, this was for the benefit of the behind-the-scenes video. The other N-Heim members who weren’t in the challenge naturally added reactions from the background.

“As expected, the performance is on another level!”

“The aura is totally different. Is this how you do it, Se-han Sunbaenim?”

“You’re doing well. But not like that… let me show you again.”

Se-han also joined in with a faint smile, as if his earlier disapproval of his cocky junior had never existed. Even if he lacked Noah’s sophisticated flair, Se-han’s seasoned sense of how to look good on camera made his movements stand out.

The sight of N-Heim radiating youthful boyishness alongside the overtly masculine Pentagram was captured on camera as perfect content.

“I think we’ve got enough footage.”

“Wow, Pentagram’s choreo is brutally tight. It’s almost shameless of you to ask for a challenge with this dance.”

The shoot wrapped up after a few repetitions. Jae-in immediately dropped his affable front and returned to his crooked posture.

Se-han, however, ignored Jae-in and focused on checking the challenge video. Noah, having done his job, announced he was heading back to the waiting room and left, with Go-un following close behind.

Inevitably, Jae-in’s target became Ji-ho, the easiest mark among the Pentagram members.

He draped an arm over Ji-ho’s shoulder as if they were close friends. Jae-in’s pink hair was close enough to brush against Ji-ho’s cheek.

“Pentagram doesn’t have much time left in this promotion cycle, right? That’s a shame. I liked seeing you guys often.”

It was a rich statement coming from the person who picked a fight every time they met, but Ji-ho didn’t call him out on it. In truth, he wanted to shrug off Jae-in’s arm and go back to the waiting room, but he knew provoking him would only lead to more exhaustion. Ji-ho gave the most peaceful response he could muster.

“Our promotions will probably overlap again someday. We can see each other then…”

“Wow. You seem pretty confident that you’ll still be promoting with Pentagram then, Hyung?”

“……”

It was such nonsense that he should have had a proper comeback, but Ji-ho’s mouth stayed shut. His unique light-brown eyes met Jae-in’s.

The sharp malice held by the other boy pierced into Ji-ho vividly.

Ji-ho wasn’t ignorant of why Jae-in hated the Pentagram members—and Ji-ho in particular—even though Jae-in had been the one to leave the debut group voluntarily. He knew Jae-in still blamed Ji-ho for his departure.

‘No, this person is an anti pretending to be a Han-sae solo fan. They stan K-J-I from the debut group.’

The seven members of the debut team were gone, so why did that comment from the post he saw this morning have to pop into his head now? And why was Jae-in bringing up that name as if he had read Ji-ho’s mind?

“Hyung, did you know? I heard some news about Jun-o Hyung recently… It looks like Jun-o Hyung is working on something with your company?”

“What?”

Ji-ho’s eyes widened. It was only natural to be shocked.

Kim Jun-o.

Why would someone who was cut from the debut lineup three years ago and had their trainee contract terminated be in contact with their old company? It wasn’t as if Star Entertainment, which finally had some breathing room thanks to Pentagram, was already preparing its next group. Jae-in’s words had to be a lie designed to provoke him.

But Ji-ho couldn’t easily dismiss them.

‘Ji-ho, do you really not know why I did that to you? I just wanted to…’

‘Jun-o will be removed from the debut team. Officially, we’ll frame it as a voluntary withdrawal. From now on, these six will prepare for the debut.’

‘Since I’m leaving, I hope the five of you have a great debut. Word is already out that the CEO kicked out Jun-o Hyung because of Ji-ho Hyung. Everyone knows, right? Jun-o Hyung had a huge following even as a trainee. Let’s see if you guys actually succeed without him.’

Memories from that time surfaced in a rapid succession.

Jae-in, who stood before him now, had turned completely bitter after his close friend Jun-o was ousted, and that attitude naturally led to conflicts with the other members. Eventually, unable to take it anymore, Jae-in also left voluntarily, and Pentagram debuted as the five-member group they were today.

Jae-in’s parting shot hadn’t been an empty threat.

The rumor that the departure of Jun-o—who had enjoyed immense popularity as a trainee—was actually an unfair expulsion caused by an unknown reason was a massive blow to the newly debuted group. While no official articles were ever published, the idol fandom world perceived Pentagram as a “problematic group” even before they stepped on stage.

Ultimately, they failed to gather the crucial “core” fan base during the vital early days of their debut.

Despite being the final hope of a desperate agency that poured everything into them, and despite having members with distinct charms rarely seen in the industry, this was the primary reason Pentagram had spent years in obscurity.

And the fans who used to follow Jun-o still resented Ji-ho to this day, slandering him at every turn. They archived every mistake Ji-ho made online, spread ridiculous rumors, and even wrote posts demanding his withdrawal.

“You were feeling safe because Jun-o Hyung had disappeared, right? Thinking he’d just stay quiet forever.”

“I never thought that. I said this three years ago, but… there was a clear reason for Kim Jun-o’s removal. And whether he returns to this life or not has nothing to do with us anymore.”

“Jun-o Hyung was so good to you back then, yet you speak like a complete stranger. So, what was this ‘great reason’ he had to be kicked out? You’re still not going to tell me, are you?”

“That’s—!”

Frustration rose to the back of his throat, but Ji-ho couldn’t easily speak. As if he had expected as much, a thin, bitter smile spread across Jae-in’s lips.

“The PR team gave the okay. I don’t think we need to reshoot. What’s this? Did the other guys head back first? Ji-ho, let’s head back too. Look at the time.”

Ji-ho’s chance to ask what it meant for Kim Jun-o to be in contact with Star Entertainment vanished with the manager’s words.

Whatever harsh thing Jae-in was about to say seemed to lose its appeal; he lowered the arm he had draped over Ji-ho and waved. He once again wore the face of the polite junior he had shown in front of the camera.

“The challenge shoot was fun. I’ll be rooting for the rest of your promotions, Sunbaenims.”

“…We look forward to N-Heim’s great activities, too.”

The two groups exchanged formal goodbyes, and Ji-ho left N-Heim’s waiting room.

Even as he turned away, the clear hostility in Jae-in’s eyes did not fade. Ji-ho felt as if that negative emotion—and the name Kim Jun-o—was sticking to his back like something viscous.

‘Maybe everything really was my fault after all.’

It was a gloomy conclusion, but for some reason, Ji-ho felt it wasn’t entirely wrong.

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

“Early this year, a fancam of an idol group dancing passionately until the very end amidst a downpour and audience jeers became a hot topic. The title of that YouTube video was ‘The Reality of a Typical Unpopular Idol in Korea.’ But now, we must clearly call them a ‘popular idol’ group. They’ve returned to dominate the stage with untamable, wild charm. Here is Pentagram, back with their 3rd mini-album title track, Untamed!”

“Shining like five stars! Hello, we are Pentagram!”

The schedule following the morning music show recording was a guest appearance on a radio show broadcast during the lunch hour. Since modern radio wasn’t just for listening but also streamed live video, Ji-ho had to be careful to relax his face, which kept threatening to stiffen.

Fortunately, the atmosphere of the radio show was good, and Ji-ho was able to focus, leaving behind the unsettling story he’d heard from Jae-in. After Pentagram’s short live performance, where he sang more softly than usual, he even felt a slight surge of confidence.

He felt a spark of hope—perhaps on the radio, where the voice mattered more than the appearance, he might be able to garner a little attention.