Free Web NovelStreet Boys.
At the name of the boy group that had long been our rivals, we all nodded calmly.
Since talking in the lobby risked others overhearing, we stepped outside.
In the alley, the five of us huddled in our padded jackets.
“Well, it’s not bad,” Ri-hyeok said, exhaling a cloud of white breath. “They really have skill. If we mesh well, we can put on a quality stage.”
“That’s right,” Bi-ju added. “They’re so good we lost to them a lot.”
“...You shouldn’t hurt their feelings, Ji-ho,” I said softly.
Bi-ju poked the maknae’s side and laughed.
Before I joined, they’d always said we lost to Street Boys in every joint evaluation. My younger brothers wore wry smiles.
A long history of defeat flashed through my mind.
I stared into the distance, rapt in thought. Then, at some point, their thoughts halted and they all turned to look at me.
“.......”
Their gazes felt subtle—almost as if they were looking at something dear...
...An object?
“...What’s with these disrespectful looks?”
“Nothing,” they insisted, but contentment glowed at their lips.
It was like corrupt officials discovering a hidden golden toad in a cabinet.
Absurd.
“Hey, how can you look at me like I’m a thing?”
“A thing? Absolutely not,” Bi-ju shook his head, then gripped my shoulder with utmost seriousness. “Hyung, you’re a treasure.”
“.......”
Ri-hyeok chimed in. “You’re like a totem. A songwriting totem.”
“.......”
“Exactly. You’re the egg in the cold noodles.”
When Jung-hyeon delivered the coup de grâce, I grabbed the back of my neck, and my brothers giggled. If only the camera had captured this—I have to show it to the soufflés.
Everyone, look. They may look like fairies, but their hearts are goblins.
“It really is surprising,” the maknae said, resting his head on my shoulder. “Back when we tried so hard to beat Street Boys, it felt like an unbreakable wall.”
“Not anymore?”
“Nope. Ever since you joined, hyung, things feel different. Like we can do it.”
“Hmm...”
Indeed, their expressions carried newfound confidence. We’d been leading on various charts, and our recent [N O V E L I G H T] opponent—TNT—was a heavyweight. After facing TNT, any group looked comparatively weaker.
But we shouldn’t take any group lightly. The entertainment world shifts daily. Even if we’re ahead now, a viral fancam tomorrow could turn tables instantly.
I watched my brothers’ faces carefully, worried they might think we succeeded solely by our own merit. Confidence needs a firm foundation. If your basis is ever-shifting results, your mentality will collapse when you lose.
That lesson came from starting as an elementary-school trainee. My brothers aren’t that reckless, but as leader I worried.
Just when I tried to speak gently,
“Ugh, Wang Ji-ho,” Ri-hyeok clicked his tongue. “Since when have we been so arrogant thinking we’re better? You guys are full.”
“I know that,” the maknae mumbled, pouting with his chin on my shoulder. “I just wanted to feel it a bit. And give you some uwu attention, Woo-joo hyung.”
“Uwu attention?”
I turned, incredulous, and he reached out to tickle my chin, cooing “uwu uwu.” We all burst out laughing.
As I playfully grabbed his collar, Bi-ju scolded him, “We got lucky, you know, Ji-ho?”
“...I know, hyung,” Ji-ho said, his face falling. “It’s not that I’m clueless... I know we got lucky.”
He let out a long, drawn-out “uuuuh,” then continued, “I just said one thing and got nagged at so much already... Luckily today you didn’t grin at me all gooey and say ‘Ji-ho, snap out of it,’ Woo-joo hyung.”
I winced but pretended not to care.
“Hmph,” I murmured.
Inside, though, I felt relieved. After winning Rookie of the Year and first place on music shows, I’d nearly let myself relax. I snapped back immediately, but I’d been tempted. So I worried my brothers might feel the same—thinking our results were purely our own doing.
Even our most naive maknae acknowledged our luck. No need to ask the others. Jung-hyeon said nothing, but when he cupped his hands around his mouth and chirped “ggu ggu ggu” at the magpies overhead, what more needed saying?
“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“No clue. Maybe magpie-summoning magic. I doubt any magpie will answer...”
Caw! Caw!
“.......”
We all cracked warm smiles, then returned to reading the document.
“Running time: about 2 minutes 10 seconds...”
“Tight,” someone noted.
We’d expected that. At TBC’s year-end song festival, we wouldn’t only do the joint stage. Separately, we’d prepared a 2-minute-30-second arranged ‘Masquerade’ performance. Even for the Big Four agencies, rookie acts rarely get over five minutes total airtime.
What should we show in just two minutes? As we pondered how to make that constraint work, our eyes fell on the theme suggestion.
“How about covering a ’90s song?”
“That’s trendy now, right? They do those stages on TV.”
Since December a trend had emerged: reuniting ’90s or early-2000s stars for nostalgic performances that make viewers laugh and cry. It started with Joosehan’s memory trip special.
“So many great songs,” someone sighed happily.
Recalling childhood hits lifted our spirits. Perhaps because Mom and Dad were around then, songs from infancy all sounded lovely. I could still recite some lyrics from start to finish.
Jung-hyeon blinked. “Hyung, aren’t you two years older than me?”
“...Let’s see. What song would make us famous?”
In the end, we’d discuss with Street Boys, but we first exchanged ideas. Various song titles flew around until Bi-ju offered a key thought.
“For a joint stage, it should suit both groups. Street Boys lean hip-hop, so maybe a song blending hip-hop and vocals.”
He was right. We needed something that fit us and them.
As we deepened our discussion, Ji-ho sniffled. “Brr, it’s cold. Why haven’t the managers come down yet?”
“Probably because of the jingle negotiations,” I said.
“Wow—they really are using it? I thought that was just lip service the seniors gave us.”
“Don’t you have ears, Wang Ji-ho? The moment they heard it, they knew.”
“My ears are trash, hyung.”
The maknae grinned.
“But at least the melody’s still ours, right?”
“...Huh!”
The two boys began a mock battle with their padded sleeves when suddenly someone huge pushed open the front door.
“Oh—were you waiting outside?” It was our road manager, Do Won-seok, looking even larger in his padding.
He scratched the back of his head apologetically. “You must be freezing. I had to help the managers with calls... I finally had a free moment to come down.”
“No, not at all—” I waved him off, and at that moment Ri-hyeok sniffled loudly.
“....”
Our manager’s apologetic face twisted into guilt.
“I thought you’d be cold, so I brought these.” He handed each of us a warm hand warmer.
“Th-thanks.” We gratefully accepted.
As we followed him to the parking lot, my mind filled with thoughts of the joint stage.
At the same time, in another meeting room:
“For the jingle, coordinate with Team Lead,” Seok-hwan said, ending his call and pocketing his phone. He smiled at the man across the table. “I had urgent messages come in.”
“Oh.” Mr. Park from DNS Media sipped his coffee and narrowed his eyes. “The jingle—you mean that friend Woo-joo made something new?”
“Something similar,” Seok-hwan replied ambiguously. Mr. Park pursed his lips, clearly curious yet hesitant to press further. Though the news about Woo-joo’s exploits intrigued him, social decorum prevented deeper questioning.
Seok-hwan smiled politely while inwardly beaming: Well done, Woo-joo.
Through Min-gi, he’d heard that the idol-show jingle Woo-joo demoed delighted the two MCs and production team. But that wasn’t the main news.
“They’ve slotted us for Part 2...”
Originally, we’d only promised to appear as first-episode guests, never considering Part 2. The on-site crew, after tallying footage, judged it worthy of a second part—proof NewBlack had truly shone on that broadcast. Seok-hwan felt proud. A manager’s job is delivering opportunities; nothing matches the joy when the talent outperforms everyone’s expectations. freёwebnovel.com
Though it stemmed from PD Bae’s lobby suggestion, the pride felt no less sweet. He laughed and said, “Either way, our year-end stage at TBC brought us together. I look forward to working with you.”
“Likewise,” the DNS team lead replied. Despite being rival companies, their smiles were warm as the meeting began.
The sole agenda: dividing tasks for the TBC year-end joint stage. Special year-end stages usually start with the network PD’s concept; agencies OK it and prepare. But with multiple stakeholders, many details required coordination: who prepares outfits, who choreographs, who selects the song, and so on.
As NewBlack’s and Street Boys’ managers negotiated the tasks, the final topic—song selection—arose. Mr. Park asked, “How will you choose the song?”
“We’ll have both groups’ members share opinions first. The performers are the artists, after all.”
“...Excuse me?”
Mr. Park frowned. “You’re leaving it to the kids? The company should decide.”
“Our policy is to prioritize artist input. We gather their opinions, good or bad, then decide.”
“Hmm, we differ on that,” Mr. Park said, a gentle clash between Lemon’s laissez-faire approach and DNS’s strict oversight. Soon, though, he nodded. “Since Lemon’s to pick the song, consulting the artists won’t hurt. I’ll arrange a meeting soon.”
“Thank you.”
“Though I remain skeptical,” he added. “Is it meaningful to have them discuss? I doubt they’ll produce much...”
“Oh.” Seok-hwan smiled. “You’ll see once you watch.”
After the afternoon schedule, we returned to the company, and Seok-hwan handed me a slip of paper.
“What’s this?”
“Street Boys’ number.”
“Ah.” I looked at the note and my brothers did the same—only to notice something odd.
“There’s only one number.”
“They share one phone.”
“Oh, right.” Back in July, when we met on the radio, they’d said they used a single, older phone for contact, since the company strictly manages them.
“Wow.” The maknae eyed the phone. “Poor them, only one.”
“Come to think of it, you almost couldn’t use your phones either,” Seok-hwan said, as if recalling something. “Before your debut, there was talk about banning your phones.”
“What talk?”
“That our agency should forbid you from using phones, like other companies.”
Our eyes lit with intrigue—news to us.
“And what happened?”
“It was shot down immediately.”
“Why?”
Seok-hwan chuckled at the memory. “Because you all worked so hard.”
“...?”
“Usually if you give trainees free time, they’d party. But you practiced every holiday. When we wouldn’t let you into the building, you went to karaoke and practiced.”
“We did work hard,” we admitted proudly.
So moved, I thought the company must’ve been touched by our dedication and allowed phone use as a reward. I braced for a heartwarming story of gratitude.
“We gave in because we felt sorry.”
“...Sorry?”
Seok-hwan sighed. “Not sorry exactly.”
“...”
“Well... um...”
He tried to recover. “Of course it’s partly because we admired your work ethic. We wanted to support you since you worked so hard.”
“...”
But it was too late to rescue the moment. Realizing he couldn’t revive our mood, he resorted to drastic measures.
“Food.”
“...Food?”
“I’ll order something expensive for dinner.”
“...That’ll...?”
Before we knew it, smiles crept across our faces.
“Keep that smile on your face, you two.”
Watching our sullen faces bloom again, Seok-hwan afforded a wry grin.
After devouring the sweet-and-sour pork and black-bean noodles our dear manager ordered, we returned to the practice room feeling warm and content.
Bi-ju sliced an apple and the maknae took a bite, then said, “But I still can’t agree.”
“To what?”
“Where else do you find people who have this much fun?”
“True,” agreed voices. Ri-hyeok, who had been reading an advanced Japanese textbook, remarked, “Why must we conform to others’ standards? I’ll do what I find fun.”
“Whoa, Ri-hyeok, so wise for once,” I laughed.
“I’m always right,” he answered arrogantly, and we laughed.
As I opened my laptop to search ’90s songs, I asked my brothers, a thought suddenly striking me.
“Hey, what did we usually do for fun?”
“...?”
Silence followed. We searched our memories but none of us recalled much.
“What? Why can’t we remember...?”
“Um, that one time,” Bi-ju raised his hand. “Chuseok, when our families gathered.”
“When you collapsed and we couldn’t do the after-party, had to go straight to hotels? Stayed glued to your bedside nursing you?”
“That was tough.”
“....”
We reminisced briefly, but aside from family times, nothing special came to mind. Then it dawned on us.
“...We really were boring.”
“But our activities were fun, right?”
As we said this, Ri-hyeok frowned and said, “Even if we did have fun, it wouldn’t change much.”
“How so?”
“If you had a free day, what would you want to do?”
One by one:
“All day gaming.”
“Only if we can’t come to the office. Then I’d go to a famous café for dessert.”
“Tend the vegetable patch.”
“I’d lie down and listen to music all day. Ri-hyeok, you?”
“Go to the bookstore and pick out books.”
Silence again, then shock dawned on all our faces.
“We were hopeless from the start...”
We gazed at each other with pity but soon nodded warmly.
“Since we’re hopeless, let’s just work.”
“That’s right. Maybe we’re just meant to work.”
By then it was about time.
Almost 7 PM—the time to call Street Boys about the joint stage.
As I flipped through my phone’s contacts, the maknae asked anxiously, “How do we talk to Street Boys? Will they think we’re totally boring?”
“I know.”
“This is bad.”
We all wore worried expressions. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com
At the same time:
Street Boys’ dorm.
Nine members sat in a circle, a single phone in the center, all wearing serious faces.
“This is bad.”
“What do we say when we talk to NewBlack?”
“Exactly. Won’t they think we’re boring?”
Sighs echoed.
“They all speak so well and seem so fun...”
“This is serious. What do we say?”
“Aren’t we going to get exposed as total snoozefests?”
They worried over something so trivial.
