After that, Bae Shinwoo screwed us over exactly the way I already knew he would. Since I had lived through it once, it didn’t shock me much. But for the others, it was a different story.
We had gathered in the practice room under the pretense of an “emergency countermeasures meeting,” but in truth it was the same as always. The five of us were sprawled on the floor, heads close together, when Seok Dojae suddenly sat up.
— Damn, you scared me…
“The number you have dialed is not in service.”
— What, he even changed his number already?
If that alone surprised them, they were in for a lot worse. In every sense, Bae Shinwoo was a piece of work. With ambition like his, of course he would steal everyone’s chance.
— I never thought that call would lead to this… — I carefully set the bait.
— A call? What are you talking about?
— I overheard him on the phone once.
Their eyes widened even further.
— He was talking with JW Entertainment. He said Black Record had offered him a higher settlement percentage if he signed with them, and he was using that to negotiate.
Of course, claiming I had overheard was a lie. But it was exactly the kind of call he would have made.
— No way, so Black reached out too?
— Then why didn’t he tell us?
Kwon Taejin and Cha Seonjae sat up as well.
— Back then I assumed he meant it for our band. I thought he was comparing terms to pick the better company.
— But couldn’t we have talked him around…?
Hangyeol looked like he was about to cry, and I felt guilty. But that choice had never been on the table. The future I wanted belonged only to the five of us.
— Wait… then that video—
Seonjae’s pupils wavered violently.
— That was really just a coincidence. Sure, after hearing that call I figured we’d be signing soon, so I got excited and pulled an all-nighter making a video to commemorate it. But in the end… maybe that’s what pushed JW to announce Shinwoo’s signing earlier than planned.
I hadn’t known I could lie this shamelessly. But if I was going to lead these naive high school kids through a brutal world, I needed at least this much audacity.
— Anyway, I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?
— …
— Taejin, you pick.
— Hit me first. What’s the bad news?
— That right now, to every other label, our image is garbage.
— What?
From here on, I was recounting facts I had actually lived through.
— The day the article came out, I emailed Black Record, just in case. They called me back right away. Apparently Shinwoo had been shopping himself around pretty hard. They said signing now was pointless. And it won’t just be Black; the others will be the same.
The color drained from their faces.
— Then what’s the point of being a band?
— Shit. If we’ve already pissed off those companies, we’ll never debut.
It was a reasonable disappointment. But this was no time to wallow.
— Now for the good news.
They all looked at me with no expectation at all. Except for Go Hangyeol.
— We can flip all of this around.
I brushed past their doubtful stares and picked up my guitar.
— Honestly, I kept quiet so you wouldn’t get discouraged, but—
— What, did Seok Dojae’s try-hard energy rub off on you too, Juyeon?
That bastard, Kwon Taejin.
— I can sing pretty well, you know.
— Yeah, of course. You were our original vocalist.
— And I play guitar.
— Seriously, who here doesn’t know that?
Was I supposed to thank him? Taejin said it like it was obvious, and for a second it threw me.
— Better than you think.
— Wow, amazing.
— I wondered what speech you were building up to.
Taejin and Seonjae started to get up, interest fading fast. Impatient bastards.
— I’m serious.
I couldn’t help smiling, imagining their bored faces flipping 180 degrees.
— Just listen.
Seeing is believing. I plucked a string lightly, tightened the strap, and readied myself.
Time to show some skill again.
But my hands landed not on the strings, but on the body of the guitar. If I was going to deliver a kill shot, I needed the performance too. For boys like us, looking cool was everything.
Tuk. Tuk.
With the smallest motions, the practice room became a live stage.
A guitar is a stringed instrument—but it can be percussion too.
The beat, which began in big chunks, granulated like sand. The hand that had been thumping in rough strokes started to move with a groove. The expanding arcs of motion finally shifted onto the taut strings.
The collision of fingertip and string—meeting it never failed to thrill me. My pulse leapt with it.
It’s like a deja vu.
Over the lush bed the guitar laid down, my voice dropped in. With the very first belt, Taejin’s eyes went wide.
The scene I dreamed last night
is real today.
“Deja vu.” The first song I wrote after coming back.
Isn’t it strange?
Isn’t something wrong?
The questions keep coming.
The moment an impossible miracle I thought was only a dream had been given to me. The joy—along with the fear that it might vanish any second—and the hours I wrestled with it alone.
Only a hunch, no proof at all,
but a meeting that certainly existed—
and one piece of evidence etched in memory:
you and I are alike.
As the guitar swelled, my voice climbed with it. Even without a mic, the sound filled the room. I had sung countless guide vocals, but it had been ages since I sang in front of people.
The last stage, which lived on as a nightmare, was still vivid.
My heart was going berserk. It might have been beating faster than when I played guitar before a hundred thousand.
It’s like a deja vu.
Even if there’s no trace, it doesn’t matter.
All that’s left is conviction—
we’re definitely alike.
Four audience members, right in front of me. A song made only for them came to an end.
Silence followed. With these guys, who could never be quiet for even a second, the hush felt massive.
— Holy…
— Juyeon, that was insane.
— Stop shaking me, I’m getting dizzy.
Taejin was rattling Seonjae’s shoulders back and forth.
— For real, I’ve got goosebumps. Feel this.
He yanked up his shirt to show his arm.
— Gross. Why would I touch you?
— What? Gross?
The quiet lasted only a moment before the noise burst back.
— But what song is that?
— Yeah, I’ve never heard it.
— Of course you haven’t. It’s mine.
— Ah… right. If it’s yours… wait—yours?
Taejin, who had been nodding blankly, suddenly shouted.
— You should’ve said so earlier!
— I was about to, and then you looked at me like I was crazy.
— Damn right I did! Sitting on talent like that?
— Wow, Taejin switching sides at the speed of light.
Seonjae’s quip landed, half shocked, half dumbfounded.
— I believed from the start.
— M-me too!
Meanwhile Dojae and Hangyeol were moved almost to tears. Their characters were all too clear.
— Well? Think it’s worth doing again?
— Is that even a question?
— How the hell did you hold back till now?
— For real. Must’ve killed you listening to that bastard Shinwoo sing.
— You showed us what “if you’re frustrated, step in yourself” really means.
Thank god they were young. This was exactly the reaction I’d predicted.
— And this part is a real secret—
Time to hammer the nail in.
— What, don’t tell me now you’re good at drums too?
— Not bass.
— Or keys…
They all looked tense. So they were guarding their turf, huh?
— Soon there’s going to be a large-scale band audition.
— An audition?
— Yeah. I don’t know the details either, but I caught that much in Shinwoo’s call. Let’s enter.
“Band Again”—a survival show launched with the ambition of bringing back the band era, and it was a runaway hit. Even though the contestant pool for Season 1 wasn’t that strong, countless bands still drew the public’s attention.
From Season 2 on, it got brutal.
Thanks to Season 1’s success, the bar soared from the next season onward. But for Season 1, our chances were good.
When the band broke up, not long before the announcement dropped, I had cried oceans.
If Shinwoo hadn’t abandoned us; if the video hadn’t blown up so early; or at least if our first regrouped stage hadn’t ended under a storm of boos. There were endless what-ifs—but everything ended before it began.
This time is different.
A vow to keep making music with these guys for a long time, to lose no one.
For that, we needed real preparation.
— Now… do you all trust me?
Thus began the hellish Spartan training.
***
Choi Juyeon had lost his mind. For better or worse, he was out of his mind.
The Juyeon Kwon Taejin knew had always been a walking contradiction. He looked terrifying, but his personality was soft to a fault. Embarrassing how spooked Taejin had been by that blank face at first; when Juyeon smiled, the whole room brightened.
A multi-talented angel of a leader who had never once raised his voice since the band formed.
But that guy now—
— Demon bastard.
— Sadistic freak.
— Psychopath.
— was the worst drill sergeant on earth.
— Doesn’t matter. No mercy. Again—
— My fingers are gonna explode.
Taejin waved his reddened hands in Juyeon’s face, but he didn’t even blink.
— Good. So they haven’t exploded yet.
— F**k—
That was the forty-eighth “again.”
— My sin is falling for the devil’s whisper.
— I didn’t whisper.
— Yeah. You yelled.
— Don’t drop a single note. The sound collapses.
Sorry, but unless you’ve got his freakish ears, who would even notice? Who in the world hears bass this well?
I’d thought he was just beyond-human in looks. I was wrong. Beyond-human temperament, beyond-human skill, beyond-human body. Not a trace of ordinary human anywhere.
He even gave us homework.
— No SNS. Absolute ban.
— Not even photos?
— Nope. Absolutely not.
— Bruh…
— Especially you, Cha Seonjae. No moody posts.
— Moody posts? I’m just expressing my feelings!
— Right. That’s what’s banned.
Live like we’d vanished. For high schoolers who had just had a taste of attention, it was the hardest assignment.
— Think about it, guys.
— About what?
— We show up at the audition right when everyone’s dying for news about us.
He told it like a fairy tale, voice dripping drama.
— Imagine the spotlight. On top of that, the former vocalist is off doing solo, and we show up with a new one.
Had he been a drama writer in a past life? He even packaged the story so you couldn’t help but bite.
— Don’t you think people would eat that up?
— Yeah. The buzz would be insane.
Dojae was already nodding like he was under a spell.
— But if we can’t hold it in and keep popping up in dribs and drabs? Interest dies fast.
Exactly. That was the problem.
Choi Juyeon suddenly talked way too well. He’d never been this talkative. Maybe he awakened when Shinwoo bailed.
Whenever the murderous practice load looked like it might break someone, he dangled a carrot at the perfect timing.
Isn’t false hope the cruelest torture?
Just listening to him, you could see success right in front of you. Look—the guys’ eyes were already glazed over.
We’re doomed.
And his ability. For someone our age, his skill was overwhelming—enough to stoke everyone’s competitive fire every session. Especially Seonjae, who shared the guitar slot—his case was the worst.
— Once more.
It got to the point those words came out of Seonjae’s mouth, not Juyeon’s.
No one had to say it first—we stayed up nights practicing; fingers blistered, drumsticks snapped—our passion overflowing.
Thank God Shinwoo had already left. With this insane regimen, he would’ve bolted for sure.
— Whoa, that take was really good.
— Really?
How had it come to this? We were dying—and still went slack-jawed at a single word of praise from Choi Juyeon.
And then there were these embarrassing animal masks on top of it?