The Bomb Drops

Lee Hae-jun placed the water bottle he’d brought on the side.

He had been exempted from English class and entered the practice room, but felt no enthusiasm.

As he sank into the solitary chair by the window and steadied his breath, he heard the door.

Shaking an iced coffee as he approached nonchalantly, Joo Tae-rok sat beside him and held out the cup.

“f*ck, my tongue won’t move properly today. If I stayed any longer, my head would’ve exploded.”

Hae-jun took a long sip of the coffee Tae-rok had silently handed him.

Yesterday, without any notice, the debut team selection audition was held.

The managers gathered for the surprise audition and picked five people for the debut team. Neither Hae-jun nor Tae-rok made the cut.

“You’ve only been here less than a year. If you jump in without knowing anything, it could be harder.”

Tae-rok had been doing this for seven years, so he must have been really disappointed this time. Seeing him offer comfort, Hae-jun thought he was a kinder guy than expected. It had been a while since he’d received consideration in this brutally indifferent world, and it felt a bit touching.

“If you had actually made it, I would’ve killed you. A rookie like you.”

…Anyway, this guy was so honest that affection almost stuck, then fell off. Hae-jun tapped the back of Tae-rok’s hand and replied.

“I’ll definitely make it next time. Don’t be too disappointed.”

“Do I have a choice? What else can I do?”

Tae-rok, just like Hae-jun, gulped down his coffee as if it were alcohol. Despite his words, he looked unusually troubled. Hae-jun was just as frustrated, unable to find a way out.

He needed to put up the surgery deposit at the hospital, but all he had was pocket change. He tried to borrow money by any means, but even his friends were getting annoyed. The friend who answered the phone by asking if he needed money had just talked endlessly about partying in Las Vegas before hanging up, saying he was busy. Another guy flat out told him not to contact him since their levels were different now.

He felt truly broke and lonely. Frustrated, he had sought out his busking friends yesterday and let it all out, but when he turned back, the prison of reality awaited him unchanged.

As they started talking about music to change the mood, a commotion arose outside. Both their heads turned toward the window facing the hallway. Outside, people with hair dyed in flashy colors were surrounded by trainees. Even the staff came out, and they smiled broadly—they were a fairly well-known idol group.

“They never miss coming here,” Tae-rok scoffed, opening the lid of his cup and drinking angrily.

“Manager Song calls them. Says to motivate the demoralized kids. They come and ramble on about trends or whatever, and since they’re seniors, they drop by the practice room every time. Well, who wouldn’t debut if they could? Honestly, I’m jealous.”

Tae-rok glanced around, then twisted his body and gave Hae-jun a look.

“That guy scraped through debut, then snagged a sponsor and turned his life around. Someone’s luck is running out.”

“Sponsor?” Hae-jun’s gaze involuntarily turned back to the window.

“What, you’ve never heard of it, Mister?” Now that Tae-rok knew Hae-jun’s situation, he sometimes teased him by calling him that. “Don’t call me that. Sponsors can’t really be a thing…”

“Of course they are. You know how many agencies there are, right?”

Cutting off his words, Tae-rok’s question made Hae-jun recall what he’d heard in class—about two thousand, apparently. Were there really that many entertainment agencies?

“If even one debuts from each of those places, they’d flood out. Once you get popular, the performance fees change. People have to see you before you can show anything.”

He’d heard this before, but it was a reality he didn’t want to hear. He hadn’t even gotten a foothold in that gap yet, and listening made him feel like he was facing a dark cliff.

“So everyone’s desperate. They sell themselves. Our contract just says we must not cause trouble; the company leaves it up to us, but some places push it.”

“…Sell?”

Tae-rok looked him up and down as if asking what he was asking, then gestured with his chin toward the window.

“That guy used to starve and work part-time because his first agency was weak. They didn’t even give a signing bonus, so you can guess the rest.”

Hae-jun turned his troubled eyes toward the window. He knew that debuting didn’t mean endless company support. If you debuted but had no work, you really were neither fish nor fowl.

“That’s when the leader got a sponsor—with guaranteed appearances, ads, and PR as a package. The leader quit, saying he’d rather die, and this guy stepped into the empty spot, then immediately started seducing.”

Hae-jun’s eyes widened. He thought sponsors were only offered by rich people, but didn’t know counteroffers could happen too.

“He snagged a CF with a few eye-smiles, got his face out there to viewers, and made it. Rumor had it that his first album sales were covered by the sponsor, but anyway, he got called everywhere, built recognition, and hit it big.”

Listening, Hae-jun let out a hollow laugh. Was it the same everywhere?

“That bastard has an insane ability in that area. He keeps switching sponsors. His current one is supposedly the son of a well-known conglomerate family, I think?”

Pfft—Hae-jun choked on his iced coffee and spat it out. Tae-rok wiped the coffee off his arm, disgusted.

“Ah, gross, what the hell.”

“Sorry. I think I misheard. Conglomerate family’s son? That senior is a guy, right? A sponsor isn’t just about drinking and playing around, is it?”

Tae-rok squinted as if dumbfounded, then sneered.

“What’s with you, Mister? So old-fashioned. You should see how well he shakes his ass during performances.”

“But… how do you know the senior is gay?”

“Who said he’s gay? That guy got a warning for blatantly hitting on female trainees. Sponsorship is just business. He even talked nonsense about being male being an advantage. I guess he’s an all-weather, all-direction type.”

Tae-rok glanced at Hae-jun’s dazed expression, then added as if remembering something.

“You know Seo Ri-hong from our company, right? Do you know who that great guy’s sponsor is?”

Hae-jun recalled Seo Ri-hong’s irritable expression. Could someone so arrogant also pander to others?

“The CEO worked behind the scenes to place him. You get what I’m saying?”

The shock hit Hae-jun like a blow. So Seo Ri-hong’s sponsor was… the CEO? That man with that kind of atmosphere and Seo Ri-hong, who seemed frivolous… It felt mismatched.

“From the start, he swept through private auditions like he was on a highway. No trainee period. Well.” Hae-jun listened to Tae-rok’s muttering, feeling as if he were drifting on a raft.

“He’s an impressive man. Our CEO.”

Tae-rok lowered his voice and added in a whisper.

“Rumor has it he’s a conglomerate’s illegitimate child. He also has several other businesses. Maybe because such a person is his sponsor, his debut even included a holiday special drama for image making.”

Insane. Using a prime-time holiday drama for a rookie’s image making—it was terrifying.

“But it seems the CEO let him go once he hit the top.”

“If he let go, is sponsorship like a contract?”

“Probably to not leave his raised actor exposed to scandal risk. But Seo Ri-hong still circles around whenever the CEO shows up, like a dog needing to poop, and his jealousy is fierce.”

Hae-jun recalled Seo Ri-hong pushing him with animosity from the start. The CEO had been nearby then. Back then, he hadn’t even known who the company CEO was; he was just passing by.

“When I was young, I thought all that was dirty. But these days, I get a defiant ‘So what?’ feeling. f*ck.”

Tae-rok chewed on his curses with a shaky voice. Just as Hae-jun was about to comfort his bitter expression, the door burst open behind them.

“Lee Hae-jun?”

Tae-rok was startled, thinking he might have been heard, but the rap trainer only glanced at Hae-jun from the start and clicked his tongue briefly.

“Director Park wants to see you.”

“Yes?”

“Go quickly.”

The trainer turned without waiting for an answer. Tae-rok and Hae-jun’s eyes met.

***

“This is you, right?”

“……”

Hae-jun stared at the clip Director Park had played.

It was from when he’d gone busking with friends over the weekend. He’d been worried during the conversation with Tae-rok because the contract had a clause saying external performances without permission were prohibited and could be considered a serious breach.

At first, he hadn’t taken it seriously. He thought they wouldn’t find out. Above all, he needed to relieve stress through music. People needed room to breathe, somehow.

“This isn’t a performance. It’s just playing around with friends, and I didn’t collect any busking tips.”

“What are you talking about? If you do any performance outside, that’s considered a performance. Didn’t you hear that?”

Director Park, correcting Hae-jun’s thinking, sighed at the end of his sentence.

“If you’d done it once or twice, we could have let it go with a warning, but you’ve been doing this consistently, right? There are videos posted sporadically, so it’s gotten complicated.”

Hae-jun grew increasingly anxious. Tae-rok’s casual words came to mind: being called by Director Park, the general manager, meant only two things—either you were picked for the debut team, or they were notifying you of expulsion. Whatever it was, it was a bomb, so his summons was called ‘the bomb going off.’ He’d thought it would be nothing, but the atmosphere was going bad.

“Therefore, the meeting decided to terminate your contract. This is a serious violation.”

Those unexpected words hit Hae-jun’s tense ears. After that, he heard nothing else.

Contract… termination? The world dimmed. What, all of a sudden?

After more explanations and instructions that didn’t register, Director Park handed him something and mentioned returning the signing bonus. Hae-jun took the documents from Director Park, who shook them with an apologetic look. Even when told to sign, Hae-jun just stared blankly at the papers.