Free Web Novel“Enemies meet on a narrow bridge,” they say.
No sooner had we returned from the pre-recording than a rookie five-member boy group shuffled into the waiting room to greet us.
“......”
They glanced at each other awkwardly, lining up like privates—everyone but one who’d lost a screw and was giggling.
When they silently mouthed “Corporal!” at me and my juniors snickered, their leader shot Eunseong a glare.
“One, two, three, hello! We’re APLB!”
“Hello. We’re NewBlack.”
We returned their greeting. Their leader hesitated, unsure what to say, so I broke the ice.
“Your name is unique. APLB.”
“Yes. When we were trainees we split into Team A and Team B to compete. Now we’ve become one team, so we chose A-plus-B—APLB. Please ta—huff...take care of us.”
He was so nervous his voice cracked mid-line. When JungHyun handed him a bottle of water, he accepted it gratefully.
“Th-thank you.”
“Drink plenty.”
JungHyun smiled warmly; I looked over at him.
“JungHyun.”
“Yes, hyung.”
“Who gives someone two liters just for being thirsty?”
He stared at the giant PET bottle, unsure how to drink from it, and I laughed. Viju handed each of them a paper cup—five cups appeared in their hands.
Drip-drip. As JungHyun poured water, the scene felt absurd: rookie idols holding paper cups and JungHyun, like a commander, pouring them water. It called for a toast of “To us!”
Jiho couldn’t resist teasing.
“By the way, Uju hyung, you said you have a junior?”
“Right here!”
Eunseong proudly raised his hand. Rihyeok, hiding his excitement, asked,
“I have so many questions.”
“Ask me anything. I’ll answer even if it keeps me up all night.”
They sat there with bright, eager eyes in pairs. I sighed and said,
“Let’s skip small talk. I don’t think I’ve heard your names—shall we introduce ourselves?”
“Oh, yes! I’m Haru, the leader.”
They each gave their stage names. When Eunseong’s turn came, he burst out laughing.
“I’m Kevin.”
“Kuhh.”
Suppressing a laugh, their eyes narrowed. Jiho asked, astonished,
“That’s just like the Home Alone protagonist’s name.”
“Oh?”
Eunseong’s eyes went wide.
“No way. How did you know? We did name it after that.”
“......?”
“Wow—I’ve never met anyone who guessed that.”
Jiho wore a puzzled look, then turned to me like a cat discovering a new creature. ‘What is this? Who is this?’ I nodded happily. They must be seeing a creature who just breathes and lives for the first time.
We introduced ourselves warmly ourselves:
“This is our CD, sunbaenim.”
“Thanks. We’re on week seven so we don’t have CDs yet...”
“This is my photocard~”
“......”
Who else has received an idol album photocard from a junior who just debuted in the military? When I paused, Haru glared. Shrinking Kevin retreated to a corner, still trying to persuade us to “talk more.”
After saying goodbye to APLB, I stepped outside the waiting room and called Eunseong aside.
“Eunseong.”
“Corpoooraaal...!”
“Sunbaenim called yo—”
“Sunbaenim!”
He clenched his jaw and laughed. As I tried to continue, Viju poked his head through the waiting-room door.
“Can we join the conversation?”
Viju’s face lit up like someone discovering a gem, thoughts shining through. I said,
“No.”
“But I haven’t used my birthday wish yet—”
I closed the door on him politely, then took him to the vending machine and bought him a drink.
“How’s debut life? Worth it?”
“It felt good for three seconds. Exactly three seconds. Already it’s tough.”
His honest answer made me laugh. Seeing him in person—after only talking about meeting since discharge—felt welcoming.
“Oh, right.”
He turned to me, eyes wide.
“I know the elevator ride earlier was scary. Look—your outfit’s buttons are dangling.”
“Why is that my fault?”
“I’m disappointed.”
“Eunseong. I’ve told you again and again—your disappointment is not my concern.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Man, your character...just wait.”
“What will you do?”
“I...will buddy up with other senior idols so I can match them.”
I was speechless at his audacious plan to network instead of focusing on success.
“Eunseong.”
“Yes.”
“Focus on success first, please...”
His ambition to schmooze rather than excel baffled me.
“You know, your leader must struggle a lot.”
“Haru? No...he’s all flair and no grit.”
“Is he younger than you?”
“He’s the maknae.”
An interesting dynamic.
“The youngest is the leader?”
“When the CEO skimmed the debut lineup, he said, ‘This is hopeless,’ then gave the leader spot to him. They say he’s the most decisive—he even breaks us seniors every day.”
“You could break a little yourself.”
“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m a junior idol now! I need to boss someone around once!”
“If you feel wronged, join the military first.”
We laughed; he looked put out, then changed the subject.
“Right, the CEO stopped by at dawn and left you this.”
“What is it?”
“A gift card, I think.”
He produced a crumpled envelope. Inside was a gift card and a note from CEO Jung Dowan, saying he was happy for my success and asking me to look kindly on the juniors he sometimes meets.
“You know him personally?”
“Yeah. We have a brief history.”
I had recommended Hidden Entertainment to him: when I first entered as a trainee, he’d been a director at TJ and suggested I try composing. He remembered every trainee’s name, was beloved, then later founded Hidden Entertainment. Looking back, it was the kindness people show just before launching their own venture...
“Tell him thanks,” I said.
“Got it.”
He continued,
“He always plays NewBlack videos for us, lectures us: ‘See that? That’s dancing. That’s singing.’ Even in meetings, he analyzes your performances.”
“Really?”
“They say you’re a small-agency miracle and worth benchmarking.”
The earlier members peeking in said, “Wow...”
“A small-agency miracle” felt grand, so I just smiled.
Glancing at him still grinning, I said,
“Don’t smile too much. Like in the military, some don’t like juniors smiling.”
During fireworks, Jiho and I were laughing down the hallway when a boy-group member asked, “Want me to turn on the lights?” I still remember that face. Now they pretend to be close, shouting “NewBlack!” but—
He shook his head.
“I pick up on everything, so it’s fine.”
“I know. You notice everything—and don’t care.”
“Exactly.”
Though outsiders see him as oblivious, he notices everything and chooses not to care.
Recollecting a frustrating military memory, I let it go. He’ll manage himself—he’s not my junior anymore, but from another group; I’m busy with my guys. No time to worry beyond that.
“Hey!”
“What is it?”
“I thought of a way to look after you.”
“Oh?”
“Know that show ‘Men on the Go’?”
He bolted away. He’s fast.
What a shame. Eunseong would be perfect for a military show.
But he’s from a small agency and just debuted—he can’t be cast.
Such shows require at least some recognition—a platform for established celebrities to roll around for laughs, not rookie idols to build fame.
“Aaaah!”
He dashed off as if an evil spirit had appeared. He clearly misunderstood, but I didn’t correct him—it was fun watching him flee.
“Is something entertaining?”
“Yes. There is.”
I swallowed a chuckle and looked to Hanjo, who sat nearby.
“Ha-ha-ha!”
“Eek-eek!”
“Ee-ee!”
“......”
My juniors on both sides sounded like monkeys screeching at a movie. They were thrilled after a long time apart. Before, a manager from another group would glare if we spoke too loudly in the partitioned room. Now in our own room, we could be loud.
“This room is amazing...”
“This is the taste of success?”
“Remember, I’m changing my dream to NewBlack from today.”
Street Boys’ members joked while touring the room, and my juniors seal-clapped in delight.
Back with their new album, Street Boys looked completely transformed—still slim, but with sculpted muscles and sun-kissed skin like elementary friends back from summer camp at grandma’s.
“Our wish is to get a first place once.”
They told me they wanted a single music-show win. They treated me like a shrine, though I didn’t know why. At least once.
Their eyes burned with desire...
“To get our phones!”
“We were the only rookie-award nominees without phones!”
They craved phones. Then they pestered me about their new song’s quality. When I said it was good, they turned it into a celebration, as if my words were a guarantee.
While my juniors sang “Sun Woo-ju, Oh-oh, Music Grandma” over and over, I held one ear and spoke to Hanjo:
“How long will Street Boys promote?”
“About four or five weeks?”
“Ah...that’s tricky.”
“Why?”
“So we can enlist together.”
“......”
Hanjo froze mid-bite of a Choco Pie. I smiled kindly and offered water.
“Hanjo-ssi.”
“......”
“Let’s go together.”
“......”
“I’ll never die alone.”
I patted his back as he stuttered.
When I told him the shoot date, his face lit up.
“Oh, then I won’t go. It overlaps with promotions.”
“Why not? You can go later.”
“There’s a visibility gap. I was one plus one on ShinTokki; they probably won’t invite just me.”
“Oh, that won’t do...”
I gave an awkward smile. His certainty that they wouldn’t invite me alone—less famous—left me unsure whether to laugh or cry. One thing was clear:
“Hanjo-ssi.”
“Yes?”
“Make sure this album is a hit.”
“Ah, thank yo—”
“So we can enlist together.”
His face said, “What kind of devil is this?”
Six weeks straight at #1.
“Wind Flower,” hailed as the first half of 2015’s top hit, set that record—first since 2nd-gen idols.
Even while promoting “Flower Dance,” “Wind Flower” kept #1.
After seven music-show wins, we’re dubbed 3rd-generation idols’ representative. With 2.5-gen TNT at #1 and 2nd-gen acts dominating sales, 3rd-gen groups struggled—except NewBlack, the only one matching 2nd-gen scale.
Our 3rd album is predicted to exceed 200,000 sales, ensuring a top-10 year end. All before our first anniversary, so as Eunseong said, other agencies focusing on us makes sense...yet it still feels embarrassing.
And “Wind Flower” stays atop the weekly charts. I heard our financial team’s projected earnings—I smiled thinking we could buy grandma a fancy car.
Everything’s smooth sailing:
“Wind Flower,” “Yesterday,” “Something,” “Deoksun-ah”...
At spring’s end, “Something” drifts off the charts and fresh summer hits push in. Summer approaches with rising temperatures.
“Look at the crowd.”
Incheon Airport. Fans and reporters jostled; my juniors gasped. Jiho pressed against the window.
“So many people. Hey, look—someone fell.”
“Are they okay?”
“There are so many. How many? One, two...”
JungHyun began counting. We were about to depart Incheon for K-Net’s K-Pop Concert as performers. K-Net’s parent conglomerate holds an annual show introducing Korean idols to overseas fans. Our agency isn’t close with them, so we never expected an invite—but money won.
It was win-win. The company was planning promotions in Japan, so they approved enthusiastically; Rihyeok was excited to use Japanese.
The problem was...
“I didn’t expect this crowd...”
“Wait a bit, guys.”
Mingi-hyung said, “Security’s positioning. Once they’re set, let’s disembark.”
We nodded. My phone lit up briefly then went dark—I ignored it, assuming a sasaeng. Our amazing success with album three came with downsides, notably sasaengs. They say “sasaengs breed sasaengs”: respond to one waiting fan and word spreads, doubling the number. To prevent issues, we’ve pledged no interaction on unofficial schedules, so our sasaeng count stayed low—until our scale grew impossibly large. My juniors still remember four months ago when someone tried to break into our dorm.
“What should we eat in Japan?”
I smiled to distract them.
“We’ve got some free time—let’s eat all the good stuff.”
“I want pizza.”
“Who goes to Japan for pizza?”
“Exactly! I want something nobody’s tasted.”
“Eighty-nine, ninety...”
JungHyun kept counting. Viju tapped my arm.
“Hyung, are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
He said with a smile. The others were similarly calm—more calm than my worries warranted. I realized why: I was by the window, surrounded by them like a blanket of safety. I whispered,
“Viju, okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay.”
I sighed. No matter how many problems came, I recover with sleep. The plane’s vibrations had given me a headache, but as we lifted off, a lightness and relief washed over me. The takeoff was the hardest part; now it was easier. I told the members not to worry, closed my eyes, and dozed off.
“I made it through...!”
“What do you mean made it through, man?”
“After sleep, I feel much better.”
Rihyeok eyed me, then laughed.
“Your concern for me is touching. Don’t forget that and do well.”
“Yeah, I really feel better now.”
His head-shake smile made me laugh. Indeed, after nearly two hours of sweet sleep, my condition was restored. I’m the type to shake off stress with rest.
Still, sasaengs remained: same plane, ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) same airport—tailing us and snapping photos as we walked.
“Should we run and escape?” JungHyun asked.
“No. What about Viju? He’d run out of energy quickly.”
“I can carry him.”
I admired that friendship, but running might cause a scandal—“idol collapses escaping sasaengs” headlines. So we ignored them—it’s a penalty of idol success. Sasaengs can follow us in taxis or stalk, but at this level, there’s nothing to be done. Thankfully, compared to TNT or Teen Spirit, our sasaeng count is one-tenth theirs. TNT moved dorms when Chinese sasaengs bought the next building; Teen Spirit even provoked sasaengs to increase them. Good things come with drawbacks.
“Ah.”
I had an idea. While staff packed luggage and managers surrounded us, I said,
“I’ve thought of a solution.”
“What is it?”
“We’ll get rich and buy our own plane.”
“.......”
They looked stunned, then perked up.
“Honestly, that’s tempting.”
“A little tempting.”
“Wait, let me check plane prices.”
Viju opened his phone; Jiho scolded,
“Don’t search planes on price-comparison sites.”
“No wonder only toy models showed up.”
“Leave it to me.”
Impatient, the maknae tapped swiftly.
“I found an affordable jet. A Chinese star owns one—they say it costs 30 billion won, so cheap for its class.”
“.......”
“It’s a Gulfstream like Hollywood stars use—about 80 billion won. With discounts maybe 75 billion...?”
“.......”
I asked,
“Could we crowdfund it with Street Boys and other idols, splitting cost equally?”
“Oh.”
Rihyeok asked kindly,
“Everyone gives their entire fortune?”
“.......”
“Realistically, that’s the base price—excludes maintenance and fuel, which cost hundreds of millions annually.”
“Someone said it’s 5 billion won.”
“Really?”
We cheered the low price, then maknae beamed,
“About 5 billion won.”
“.......”
We abandoned private jets. We’d charter flights like other agencies. But charters also seemed unrealistic—everyone’s spirits sank.
“You never know.”
JungHyun said,
“If we really blow up, we’ll fly private.”
“Yeah. Hit #1 on Billboard.” freēwebnovel.com
“I’ll win an Oscar.”
We laughed. Imagining ourselves sipping chocolate milk in a private jet felt so distant. Only JungHyun looked earnest.
“Alright, let’s get huge and buy a jet. At this pace...”
I asked Rihyeok to calculate. He muttered like a spell, then held up five fingers.
“Five years?”
“Fifty years.”
We roared with laughter.
“Just for our 70th birthday party.”
“Wow—50th-anniversary world tour. Bring our grandkids.”
“Subtitle: In Search of Youth.”
We pictured wrinkled us onstage, cheering grandkids with patches on their wrists. “Oppa, you’re still alive!” “You’ve aged, too!” I remembered our dream of a global fan expo—we laughed.
That talk eased my mind about sasaengs. Their thoughts faded.
“Let’s go.”
We followed staff. Seok-hwan PD, after calling the local coordinator, said,
“They say many Japanese fans await you—be careful.”
“Really?”
“They must be more than we thought.”
We laughed. Like Taiwan or Shanghai, fans awaited us here. When I removed my mask, Rihyeok asked,
“Why take off your mask now?”
“Japanese Soufflés haven’t seen our faces. We should show them.”
My juniors eyed me strangely, and I inwardly chuckled at my grand answer—until Rihyeok said,
“Wipe the drool off your mouth first. It’s obvious.”
“Ah...”
As I used my phone as a mirror, my juniors walked eagerly ahead. Rihyeok whispered Japanese greetings under his breath, exultant at the chance to use them in practice.
“Ready to greet in Japanese?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled happily.
“I’ve waited so long to use it for real.”
“That won’t be heard.”
Overseas, fans’ screams drown us out. Sure enough—
“Kyaaa!”
Startled by waiting fans’ screams, I waved. Rihyeok took a breath and attempted,
“Minna-san...!”
“Waaaah!”
“Minna....”
“Aaaah!”
We laughed watching his desperate Japanese.
