Free Web NovelI felt like I wanted to hide right this second.
Online, people were cracking up:
– LOL I’m dying for real
– Do they always go nuts like this on broadcasts?? Answer us, charcoal grills
– LOL how many times have I laughed today
– Even muggles would find this hilarious LOL freewebnoveℓ.com
On screen, I stood with my eyes closed and arms outstretched while my brothers teased me close by. But that embarrassing moment wasn’t the real problem—it was what came next.
“Ugh...”
I covered my eyes while my brothers, like fans at a soccer match, clenched their fists and cheered:
“Please, let Woo-joo hyung’s letter to us play already!”
“I want flashy gold-lettered subtitles around the screen: ‘DEOKSOON IS MINE.’”
“Where’s the popcorn? I suddenly need popcorn.”
I howled:
“Are you even human? Huh? Are you human?”
“Want me to bring the cat on-screen? Meow.”
“Hey! Ji-ho, get over here! I’m going to pull this laptop cord out!”
The more I suffered, the more excited they got, giggling harder. Only Biju, without a word...
He came back silently—with popcorn. Thanks, Biju.
I pressed my trembling ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) cheeks together and watched. I begged in my heart for it to be edited out—but, to the heavens’ dismay, my wish was not granted.
– So since it’s come to this, shall we leave a video letter for the cat?
– For the cat??
I shouted at the screen:
“No! Don’t do it!”
“Pfft hahahaha!”
When the eerie warning-music played for the angelic girl’s alert card, I opened my lips in a grim whisper.
“Feed the cat some food, will you?”
Real-time, our fans exploded in delight:
– Rookie idol S— “jealous of a cat”
– LOL so serious
– Woo-joo 😭😭😭 this is too good
– I expected some bait, but not this kind of bait
– I’ve decided: I’m going to the district office to legally change my name to Kim Deok-soon
I decided to stop looking at any more reactions.
Half resigned, I watched as the on-screen me pointed a finger at the camera, expression utterly serious—like a prosecutor interrogating a suspect—then spoke: freeweɓnovel.cøm
– “Be. Re. Member. Deok-soon is mine.”
– Remember. Deok-soon is mine.
A close-up flashed with gaudy golden subtitles.
“Pfft! Pfft hahahaha!”
My brothers tumbled off the sofa, hitting each other with cushions in laughter—and I surrendered. Was the ceiling blurred or was it just me?
“Man, I laughed too hard.”
“I feel totally refreshed from gaming fatigue. Hey, Street Boys are messaging in our chat—they’re watching this on TV and dying laughing too.”
I whirled in disbelief.
“They have time for this? Why on earth...?”
“They said they’re monitoring since they record next week. And Han-jo hyung’s laughing the hardest.”
“...Fine. Let them laugh.”
I forced a resigned smile. Everything that could appear, did appear—what else could be more humiliating?
Then my phone buzzed.
‘Kim Deok-soon’—the name startled me back to reality. I’d forgotten.
I opened the chat to find 37 selfies of Grandma and the cat snapping selfies together—and messages:
Kim Deok-soon [I’ll do a three-line acrostic with your name!]
Kim Deok-soon [Seon-ja nom-ah]
Kim Deok-soon [Why are you jealous of a cat?]
Kim Deok-soon [Don’t pout—widen your heart]
I threw my phone onto the sofa and buried my head in cushions.
“Ughhhhh!”
Rage rose in me.
Idol Show episode one finally ended safely.
Over its 43-minute run, Idol Show flew by, finishing just before my logo song. The preview for next week rolled, and the highlight was—of course—Jung-hyun.
When the legendary long-horned beetle appeared, they covered Jung-hyun with a giant sticker so he vanished from view—and instead we just saw Seri and Bukbuk and everyone collapsing in laughter, clapping.
– What?? What’s Dae-gil’s friend doing now? LOL
– Don’t know what it is, but I’m already cracking up LOL
– Why are these guys so funny LOL
– Who would’ve thought they’d have such variety-show talent
– NewBlack should join the Comedy Club, fast
– These guys give me major comfort energy LOL they’re like neighborhood kids, so cute
Idol communities were ablaze:
A bizarre police-station set, the legendary absurd opening on offering tables, the show’s bombastic subtitles and editing, Seri & Bukbuk’s slang battle, my “Deok-soon is mine” video letter to the cat, Ri-hyuk’s breakdown timing, and my impromptu composing.
On a quiet New Year’s Friday, this random comedy show was a riot—and not surprising at all that idol fans loved it. Articles already appeared:
– “Idol Show Premiere: NewBlack Show Variety Skills of a ‘Trend Idol’”
– “‘Idol Show’... NewBlack Woo-joo’s Video Letter to Grandma’s Cat?”
– “NewBlack Ri-hyuk’s Weeping Has ‘Idol Show’ MCs Cracking Up...”
Our manager sent article URLs with messages:
악마 [PD wants to know when you’re free again]
악마 [Viewer response’s amazing—he said thank you]
악마 [Good job ^^]
Everyone was laughing. Our soufflés (the members) and the viewers were mass-producing memes, rolling on the floor. The manager and PR team celebrated the publicity. And everyone around us smiled.
Already drowning in “LOL” from everyone. I threatened to block people, but none feared me.
Only three of us were left laughing sadly: the one who wrote the cat video letter, the one who confessed the embarrassing truth, and the youngest, who’d be mortified by next week’s “Growth Phase!” song release.
“Why are you all eating so sadly?”
Director Jo, holding a paper plate of pork belly, laughed.
Friday evening, gathered on the terrace, we bit into sizzling pork belly with tears in our eyes.
“I’m not crying, Director. It’s just so delicious.”
“That was fun.”
Zinger.
“Well, you’ve all grown up like Scarlett—able to glare.”
I explained. “My eyes narrow for acting effect.”
Director Jo laughed, then placed a generous slice on my wrap:
“Good job. Even if it’s awkward, this is great. You increased your exposure from the start of the year.”
“That’s true.”
“Think positively. Maybe a cat-food brand will offer you a commercial.”
“...Please, Director, don’t say that.”
“You don’t like it, huh?”
I handed him the wrap I’d just made with a big chunk of meat. Then surveyed my brothers, laughing and eating—they looked like the right audience to discuss work.
“How’s the project coming along?”
“It’s definitely easier with great equipment,” I said. “The gear’s top-notch, so work flows.”
“But your face doesn’t look like it’s flowing.”
“It’s tough sometimes.”
“...Hmm. Talk to me.”
As Jung-hyun flipped meat with tongs, Director Jo sipped his cider and came to my side. I told him the story.
Three hours earlier:
“Hmm...”
“Ugh...”
Biju and I rubbed our chins in silence at the laptop monitor. Biju clicked the mouse and a melody played.
I asked again, “So this melody you just made—it isn’t exactly what you want?”
“No. It feels kind of close... but it needs to be more lyrical.”
“Wait—what about this?”
I played a variation immediately, improvising it on the keys.
“How is it? More like what you have in mind?”
“Hmm...”
“You can say no if it’s not.”
“No...”
That was “no” number forty-nine.
Working with Biju was a challenge I’d never faced—call it the “test of communication.”
“If you were making my song, I have a feeling in my head of what I want,” he’d said. I thought it would make things easier, but the problem was he couldn’t express that feeling in words. He’d piecenotes around it, but each attempt I played, he’d say no again. I was at a loss.
Biju looked helpless, seeking my cue. I said:
“Don’t apologize. This is just communication. If you have a vision, I’ll match it.”
“I’ll try harder.”
After several more attempts, I realized the situation was like explaining an elephant to someone who’d never seen one. No matter how you drew or gestured, the concept might not translate.
Similarly, Biju had a sound in his head, but I didn’t know it. After nearly three hours of struggle, Biju asked carefully:
“Hyung, what if I let go of the feeling and... start with choreography instead of melody? I mean, it’s not like we insisted on a blockbuster title track... if we lock ourselves onto this, we might get nothing.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Let’s keep trying. Something’s here.”
“Is that so?”
Director Jo looked intrigued. “What did you sense?”
“Just a hunch. I feel that if we match Biju’s direction, we’ll get a great song.”
“Mm... that happens.” He nodded knowingly, like a pro composer. “When I made Chan-hyuk’s title track, he said he wanted something specific—even though he never cared about composing. We matched it, and...”
“Was that ‘Standard of Farewell’?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it fit Yoon Chan-hyuk best.”
That song—#1 annually—had behind-the-scenes stories I’d read in articles. Director Jo said:
“It wasn’t just him. Scarlet does that too. They hold meetings—bring drawings of concepts they want, and we produce accordingly.”
“So you produce based on their ideas?”
“Exactly. Usually Ara or Na-yun leads, but sometimes quiet members speak up. When Bom or Rina say, ‘I want to try this,’ we go with it.”
He continued, “Picking the concept they love—then the song always succeeds. Like clothes they choose themselves suit them best.”
“Right. I can’t give up on this,” I said.
“Then let’s solve it.” He gave me a sly smile.
“Do you have any tricks?”
“I know a few—tips for when work stalls.”
“Oh?”
“But it’s better for you to discover them yourself. You figure it out.”
Director Jo handed tongs back to Jung-hyun as he left his post. I stared into the dark night sky, wondering for a method—no telepathy, no charades.
“What are you thinking, hyung?” Biju asked.
I smiled at him. “I was thinking about next week’s broadcast. I want to make sure there’s no black history I’ve forgotten.”
“Hm, I think it was fine.”
“You don’t know. Biju, from experience, black history is like cockroaches—pops up everywhere.”
“You really know from experience,” Biju said, nodding.
“Hey.” I gave him a mock glare, and he looked away grinning.
“But you’re lucky—you have no black history this time.”
“No, I was embarrassed by your new slang. Remember Min-joon texted me ‘Are you an idiot???’?”
He showed me Min-joon’s messages: [Hyung, really??], [Idiot???], and I laughed again.
Pointing at my profile picture, I teased, “Your hair’s grown long, Min-joon.”
“Yeah—since I started school, I’m so proud, I’ve been strutting.”
We chatted warmly for a moment, then circled back.
“We have a week. No rush—let’s work slowly on it.”
“Got it, hyung.”
“It’s a bit frustrating...”
“Yeah—can’t really express this physically either.”
Biju’s arm rose and fell in the darkness, rippling like a wave. The instant I saw it, inspiration struck.
I remembered Biju’s special talent in next week’s broadcast:
– “I can dance to any song.”
He’d danced to Arirang and pansori, no matter the style—and matched it perfectly. That meant the opposite could work, too: start with choreography, then compose the song around it.
And recall what Director Jo said:
– “...they bring drawings of concepts they want.”
In songwriting, the raw material need not be pre-written melody—it could be movement. I’d been thinking wrongly: with Biju, I needed a different approach.
“...Hyung?”
“Biju, I just thought of something.”
“Yes?”
“Forget composing for now. Before making the song, let’s first create the choreography in your head.”
Biju looked puzzled. I explained:
“Take the feeling in your mind and turn it into dance moves. I’ll write the song to match those moves.”
“Ohh...! That’ll work!”
Biju and I beamed and nodded. At last, we had our breakthrough.
9 p.m., Director Jo was reading in the second-floor study when a ruckus downstairs made him rise.
‘What’s this?’
He peered over the railing at the living room, dimly lit. Woo-joo and Biju stood there. Biju whispered:
“Director Jo seemed busy reading—won’t we be too loud?”
“It’s fine,” Woo-joo said. “Even if you do sky-bounce here, it’s quieter than Jung-hyun breathing.”
Director Jo stifled a laugh—though that comment would only make them bounce louder. Intrigued, he watched the scene unfolding in the living room.
