In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

In the end, all of our lightstick designs were rejected in the internal review.

“...Really?”

“Yeah.”

At the news delivered by the PR manager, we all wore sad faces. I muttered gloomily, “How could this happen...?” Rih-yeok clicked his tongue. Disgraceful. When I waved my hand in annoyance, Junghyeon promptly removed the troublemakers for me.

Biju asked, “So are all our ideas just going to be discarded...?”

“No, no,” the PR manager said hastily, seeing our dejected faces, waving his hands. “We’re not throwing out all your ideas—we’ll compile bits and pieces. We’ll take one idea from Biju, one from Rih-yeok, that sort of thing.”

“And what about us, Manager?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Of course we’ll incorporate Junghyeon’s and Jiho’s ideas too,” he said with a smile. Our eyes met, and I flinched.

...Flinched?

I swallowed and asked, “Why did you do that?”

“Oh, nothing... really.” He diverted his gaze.

“But you’ll include my idea, right?”

“Uh, let’s see. First we’ll compile all the lightstick mockups...”

He was scrambling to change the subject, and I narrowed my eyes. Was the flower fan really that terrible? We had even submitted a second version with different colors: black petals for NewBlack and a brown soufflé in the center. Instead of praise, everyone recoiled.

–Looks like a radioactive sunflower.

–Oh, a flower returned from hell.

–There’s a flower monster like that in some game, drops in low-level areas.

They were vicious. Watching °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° them, I turned to the PR manager.

“The flower-fan design really was bad...?”

“Uh, it’s... depending on perspective it could be really pretty... pretty.”

“Thank you, Manager. But my feelings are already hurt.”

“Ha ha.” When I pretended to sulk, he laughed. The mood lightened. It was disappointing but unavoidable. If we’d released a bizarre design and called it the “Dark History Stick,” what would our fans think? It was better to hide it in our bags until just before the show than to have other fandoms mock us.

“So what will happen to our lightstick?”

“We’ll hire an external designer. They’ll take your ideas, combine them, and produce a great design.”

“Oh...”

“Expect something beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

As we bowed, the PR manager added, “By the way, we’ve allocated a large budget so we’ll produce plenty of lightsticks, with high specs as Rih-yeok requested.”

“Whoa...”

Rih-yeok opened his eyes wide for a moment, then cleared his throat and tried to look calm—though his fists were clenched so tight he didn’t look calm at all.

“So, will solar power be included?”

“No.”

“How about hand-crank power, for emergencies?”

“Uh... that too.”

“Oh, okay...”

While Rih-yeok pouted, I stifled a laugh, imagining the scene: fans furiously cranking their lightsticks before every show, the handle whirring “whiiiiirrr,” and the station staff staring in disbelief.

I teased, “Rih-yeok, why would you need your lightstick in an emergency? The flower-fan was better.”

“...”

“Does no one agree?”

“...” The four of us shook our heads.

As I pondered who to take to the military, the manager smiled and said, “Anyway, we’ll get something great, so look forward to it.”

“Thank you!”

“All right, take care.”

He smiled and walked away. We were about to head down the hall again when he suddenly stopped and called back, “Hey, Woo-ju.”

“Yes?”

“Were you any good at art classes in school?”

“Uh, no...?”

I racked my memory. “I was always last in the class.”

“Ah.”

“I was only good at music...”

Even in elementary school I got top marks in music and PE, making my grandmother laugh.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

At that he brightened, as if he’d solved a mystery, and turned away. Why did he ask? Our juniors all looked at each other and said, “Ah,” as if some long-hidden secret had finally been revealed. They looked strangely convinced. I was about to ask what he meant when all four of them froze and turned to me.

Ji-ho looked baffled. “So you really were bad at PE?”

“I can’t believe it,” Rih-yeok said, narrowing his eyes. Junghyeon tilted his head. Biju asked, eyes full of doubt, “Hyung... you were bad at PE? Like, not joking?”

“Yeah.”

“Then did your PE teacher hate you or something...?”

“No, they liked me. Nothing like that.”

I laughed. “I just wasn’t very good at the time.” You can’t imagine: I’d never been hit by a soccer ball anywhere but the shin. I tried so hard to join in, but of course I wasn’t any good. Every time I came home covered in bruises, my grandmother would nod and ask, “Did you play dodgeball again today?” I once practiced shots by myself and kicked my own left leg with my right foot—I still remember the pain. Compared to then, this is a whole new world.

Lost in those memories, I noticed everyone staring at me like they couldn’t believe it. “What’s wrong?”

“I just can’t believe you were bad at PE.”

“Why?”

I smiled. “Does that clash with my usual image?”

“Yes.”

They all nodded. True enough—I did pretty well at the idol Olympics, and now I’m known as athletic. My heart raced as I looked at them. “What did you imagine I was like?”

“Hyung?”

Ji-ho smiled innocently. “Like the final boss in a game.”

“....”

“In weird clothes, super tough boss... Aaaagh!”

“...” As the maknae held me and screamed “Eek, it’s the floral monster!” the others laughed.

GTV drama ‘Slip’ filming set.

“Okay, rehearsal. Here we go... cue rehearsal!”

On a quiet street.

At the director’s signal, Ji-ho, in uniform, walked calmly. Beside him was the junior actor who’d appeared earlier; across from him was Lee Kang-jin—who had just been calling us “NewBlack—shining again today!”—now in makeup as Detective Park Cheol-jin.

“Oooh...” We watched from a distance. We couldn’t hear the lines, but the mood was grave. They were re-shooting part of Ji-ho’s cameo for episode 10. The lead, Lee Kang-jin, after episode 7’s shocking twist, was seeking a way to change the future. Having lived years in a post-apocalyptic future, he finds the tunnel back to the 1980s. The story goes that though he succeeds in traveling to the past once, he has only one chance to prevent the catastrophe. The protagonist realizes the notes that helped his investigation were written by his past self, discovering he’s in a time loop. Torn between saving loved ones and saving everyone, he chooses the latter, watching in anguish as those he cherishes die. Now aged into an old man, he finally seeks out Officer Huh—the only lingering weight on his heart.

Now the scene: Officer Huh meets the past Lee Kang-jin. In special makeup, Lee Kang-jin approaches Ji-ho, who kindly responds to the nameless old man’s greeting. The key moment is the contrast between the craggy older Park Cheol-jin’s regretful gaze and Officer Huh’s blissful ignorance.

“Time paradox much? They said he couldn’t go to the past before, now they’re at the same point...” Rih-yeok’s comment broke the mood.

“Rih-yeok, have an apple. Here.” I gestured to Biju, who’d offered one.

Junghyeon said disappointedly, “So Officer Huh still dies, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s really a shame...”

Just then—

“Hyungguuuuuul...!” Rehearsal over, Ji-ho charged over shouting “Waaah!” Bring back my Officer Huh. The poised officer from moments ago was now my maknae again.

“Phew, look at all this sweat. I thought I’d die of heat!” We and our manager fanned him with a handheld fan and a mini electric fan. When they first shot the Officer Huh scene it was chilly; now it was late spring in May, sweating beneath his thick jacket. Condensation drifted off him as he chuckled.

“Guess what? I got praised today too. The director and Lee Kang-jin sunbaenim said I’m a natural actor. If there’s a season 2, they insisted I must appear.”

“There’ll be a season 2?”

“Yeah, they said I’ll come back to life.”

“Come back to life?”

“They’re going to add a scene where I ‘Gasp!’ and come back. I tuck the item Grandpa gave me into my jacket chest. They’ve already filmed it.”

Originally, they’d shot the scene assuming Officer Huh survives, but Ji-ho protested “Please kill me off,” and it was cut.

“You know that scene they tease in the finale hinting at season 2?”

“Ooo.”

“After the old Lee Kang-jin and Seonoeul reunite at the teahouse, that scene will play.”

I hadn’t known that. Season 2... My mind flashed with a thought, which Ji-ho voiced.

“But adding that scene means season 2 is unlikely, right?”

“Why?”

“Because they’re using a cliffhanger before confirming my casting.”

I laughed silently. Sharp. They just want viewers to go “What? What?” and hope for season 2—while the real odds are low.

I said, “You never know. They might do season 2 years from now.”

“Right. I hope I can appear then too.”

Ji-ho grinned “Yay!” He seemed twice as hyped as usual here on the set. Just watching him cheered me up. Whenever they touched up his makeup he’d get so animated that Biju calmly handed him dried grain treats.

But is acting really that fun? I remembered filming the magic school CF. People said I was good, but I didn’t find acting itself thrilling. Maybe because I was over-nervous only two months after debut.

Before the main shoot, Junghyeon ran lines with Ji-ho.

“...Looks like it might be fun.”

He seemed to want to try it himself.

“Ready for the take!”

“Oh, I’m off! Hyungs!” Ji-ho’s uniform and his own speech mixed together. He loudly waved, zipped up his jacket, and walked off.

His hurried steps became calm. His posture shifted slightly. Watching my maknae transform flawlessly for the main shoot, I marveled.

“All right, going in. One, two, three... Officer Huh, walk in!”

At the director’s hearty cue, the actors launched into their scene. We observed their nuanced facial expressions as the cameo shoot wrapped successfully. freewёbnoνel.com

“Great work, everyone!”

We greeted the bustling staff. Though we were done, the production team was on a tight schedule and needed to move to the next scene.

Stepping out to see us off, the director tapped my shoulder.

“Our composer worked hard too.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“If not for ‘A Poem About Yesterday,’ that direction couldn’t have happened. Good job.”

He gripped my arm with a pleased smile.

“Next time I need an OST, you’re the one I’ll work with. Got it?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

I smiled lightly, and he kept insisting he was sincere.

“Your song was amazing. Maybe it’s because I film mostly genre works, but it’s the best OST song I’ve heard.”

After nearly five minutes of “I choose you, I choose you,” I finally agreed with a smile.

As we wrapped up, he suddenly remembered his original question and asked, “By the way, Woo-ju, are you interested in acting?”

“Me?”

“Every time I praise you, Ji-ho says, ‘Woo-ju hyung is even better than me,’ saying you’re a great actor.”

No wonder I’d heard I was the best at the scoundrel scenes.

“No, that’s Ji-ho exaggerating. I’m... not that good.”

“If an opportunity comes up, would you try? You’ve got a face too good to waste...”

“Hmm...” I thought it over. I didn’t plan to pursue it seriously, but if an opportunity arose I might give it a shot. Given that the group gains even more footing, that is. Same as Ji-ho said before. But it’d be odd to say “I’m not interested.” So I smiled and replied, “Yes, if the chance comes.”

“Hm, got it.” He asked as confirmation, “Ji-ho says you use your body really well?”

“...”

“He always says you’d be great at action scenes.”

I felt uneasy.

At last, May 21 arrived. We kicked off promotions for “Flower Dance.” While “Wind Flower” centered on vocals, “Flower Dance” lived up to its name—focused on dance. “So the third album was vocals-focused... third album vocals...” Rih-yeok murmured in a daze returning to the waiting room. The choreography was brutal. If “Wind Flower” fluttered like petals, “Flower Dance” was “FLA! FLA! SHAKE!” The melody was far heavier than “Wind Flower,” a natural sequel to “Masquerade.” Although the public response was exploding for “Wind Flower,” our soufflés seemed even more obsessed with “Flower Dance.”