When I first handed out the masks, the members all tilted their heads. Their faces said, “Why are you giving this to me?”
Well, fair enough—this wasn’t a masquerade ball. What band used masks?
—“Masks? Out of nowhere?”
—“Do people even throw masquerade balls these days?”
—“From now on, we’ll wear them on stage, so take good care of yours. If you lose it, I’ll replace it with something even tackier, got it?”
Thud.
The puppy mask dangling from Cha Seonjae’s fingertip slipped and hit the floor. His lips plummeted along with it.
—“By the way, during practice too.”
—“Hey, Choi Juyeon. Did our new band name change to the Bremen Town Musicians?”
—“Seok Dojae, you sure you’ll be okay? What if the mask kills your swagger and you can’t play drums?”
But Dojae was already in front of the mirror, fiddling with the mask in all sorts of ways.
—“If your swagger disappears over something like this, then it wasn’t real swagger in the first place.”
—“As expected of a high schooler who’s basically a PhD candidate in Swagger Studies.”
—“Wow, I didn’t know there was a university that would even accept Dojae!”
—“Taejin, how many times have I told you I chose to give up college for music?”
—“You know the whole school calls you the Galaxy Railroad, right? The legendary Liberal Arts 999.”
—“Coming from Kwon Taejin, who got into college on early admissions, that’s rich.”
—“Cha Seonjae, stay out of this!”
God, it was chaotic. What the hell goes on in a high schooler’s head? I had passed through this age once myself, but current high schoolers were impossible to beat.
—“Why masks, though?”
Because it was the most honest way to show our skills while still grabbing attention. Back when our band name was stolen, it wasn’t like we just sat there and took it. We appealed to the press, shouted out our unfair treatment, tried every possible way to reclaim the name.
But there was no way a bunch of high schoolers could win against a corporation. Once the “Bae Shinwoo was bullied” narrative had taken root, our pleas were dismissed as nothing but “crocodile tears,” “the shameless excuses of the aggressors.”
This time, I had shaken off the “perpetrator” stigma, but if we started music activities now, JW Entertainment would absolutely move to crush us. Like it or not, we had already boarded the same ship as Bae Shinwoo.
But we couldn’t just stop performing altogether. If we didn’t perform, how could we even call ourselves a band?
So we would perform behind masks, hiding our identities. That way, people wouldn’t connect us with the old image of ASH when they heard our music. We might even gain an unintended aura of mystery. At the very least, it would spark curiosity in the public.
In every way, it was the right move.
—“We hide our identities, and compete purely on skill.”
—“Is that really necessary? We’ve already proved our skill.”
Good. He brought it up himself.
Which meant it was the perfect time to scratch their pride just a little.
—“Taejin, be honest. Why do you think our video blew up?”
—“Well, because our performance was sick, duh.”
How the hell did the three of them, excluding Go Hangyeol, give me the exact same answer?
—“Uh… because the music was good?”
I shook my head. Their reactions were clearer than glass beads.
And Kwon Taejin already looks a little stung in the pride.
—“The visuals played a big role.”
—“What are you talking about?”
Time to stroke their egos first.
—“Simply put, it was thanks to your looks.”
—“Ah… okay, that’s fair.”
—“Hey, say it properly. Except for Kwon Taejin.”
—“Cha Seonjae, you’re seriously out of control today. Didn’t you read the comments? Tons of people asked who the bassist was. Even foreigners went ‘Bass who? Sexy who?’ I swear!”
—“Wow, you can actually read English?”
—“You little—”
And then to jab them right where it hurt.
—“Let’s be real, your skill alone wasn’t enough to make that kind of splash.”
The two who’d been growling at each other just seconds ago both snapped their heads toward me in unison. Their eyes said, “What the hell did you just say?”
—“Yeah, my keyboard skills weren’t really there yet…”
Crap. Now I was just tanking Go Hangyeol’s self-esteem. Time to reignite the others’ pride before it collapsed on him alone.
—“Which is why this time, we’re gonna show them properly.”
—“Stripped of everything else, proving ourselves with skill alone?”
—“Exactly.”
The two who had been holding their masks askew finally began slipping them on.
—“If that’s the reason, I’m in. This Kwon Taejin won’t stand for his skills being overshadowed by his face.”
—“Still, I’m kinda worried, honestly.”
Cha Seonjae’s retort always carried more bite than Taejin’s. It put me on edge.
—“Because this face won’t be hidden by a mask.”
God, never mind. No wonder those two were still friends ten years later.
—“Cha Seonjae, you know what we call that? Delusions of grandeur.”
—“Stop using that word like you just learned it yesterday, Taejin.”
The noisy room was finally settled down by Go Hangyeol, who stepped in like a traffic cop.
—“I, I’m totally in! Honestly, if we perform in masks, people will pay attention. It could even become our signature someday.”
—“Yeah, I kinda like it too. If we reveal ourselves later, the surprise factor would be insane.”
Come to think of it, everyone but me was already wearing a mask.
—“But, Choi Juyeon. What was your standard in picking these? Why’d I get a dog?”
—“I picked masks that matched each person’s image.”
Looking them over, the choices did fit pretty well with what I had imagined.
Kwon Taejin, with his narrow double eyelids and “trendy pretty boy” looks, got the cat.
Cha Seonjae, with his gentle, downturned eyes, got the puppy.
Seok Dojae, tanned and broad-shouldered from years of sports, got the bear.
Go Hangyeol, the “pale kid” wherever he went, got the rabbit.
The idea was to stamp the most basic animal images into people’s minds first. A stopgap measure. After that, the public would take over and create the rest of the image themselves.
—“I was about to call you a sneaky fox—but you’ve already got the fox mask, so never mind.”
There wasn’t any deeper meaning to me picking the fox. No other animal felt right for my face, and it came down to either cat or fox.
And I’d rather die than pick cat.
So I gave that one to Taejin.
—“Kwon Taejin’s touchiness matches a cat perfectly.”
—“Yup. And you really do look like a mutt, Seonjae.”
—“…Could you at least call me a puppy instead?”
—“Nope, you’re just one real dog, Seonjae. Bark for us—woof!”
Watching these grown boys bicker in animal masks, I couldn’t tell if this was the Bremen Town Musicians or a damn petting zoo.
It’s a good time in their lives…
—“I’m glad.”
The quiet mutter reached my ears. Looking down, I saw the round top of a head a handspan below me. Ignoring Taejin’s shriek, I placed my palm on it and leaned my chin on top, pushing the long rabbit ears to either side. After a few shakes of his head, he gave up and went still.
—“You’re seriously saying you’re glad after seeing that?”
—“We’ll… still be like this ten years from now, right?”
“….”
I knew that number wasn’t meant seriously, but the words still made me flinch. Because that question carried one unavoidable premise—if we’re still a band then.
—“Too far off? Yeah, I guess—”
—“Of course we’ll still be like this ten years from now. You think these idiots are gonna change? But seriously, shouldn’t they at least grow up a little? We’re about to blow up big time.”
I regretted even hesitating for a second. I came here to change the ending, after all.
Go Hangyeol gave a small nod. When I glanced down at him again, his lips had curved into the faintest smile.
—“What, stacking masks now?”
Seok Dojae stood behind me, resting his chin on my head. Without even standing on tiptoe, his head still rose a full one higher than mine. He really was bear-sized.
Taejin, in his frantic escape, wedged himself between me and Hangyeol. Using him as a shield, he peeked in and out like a whack-a-mole. Cha Seonjae, deterred by Hangyeol’s presence, couldn’t get his hands on him either.
In the mirror opposite, the scene was absurd: animal-masked faces stacked like scoops of ice cream.
—“What the hell are we doing, so childish.”
—“Seonjae, just admit you wanna join in.”
—“Yeah right. Why do I have to be at the bottom?”
—“Because you’re shorter than Dojae, duh.”
With a snort, Seonjae circled behind Dojae—only to come back and quietly plop down in front of Hangyeol. He’d obviously been straining on tiptoe, but I decided to keep that little secret to myself.
Click.
I snapped a picture. I’d find a use for it someday.
[Yuseong High School 37th Graduation Ceremony]
“…Even this is the same.”
Snow fell, just like in the last timeline. Back then, I’d only watched it from behind the window at home. Truthfully, today was a blank page in my memory. I had no recollection at all.
Because by then, rumors about “Bae Shinwoo being bullied” had already spread through the press. I couldn’t even leave home without a mask on my face. Attending graduation was suicide. Go Hangyeol hadn’t gone either. Taejin and Seonjae, from what I heard, got punished for fighting punks even on graduation day.
Leaving my empty house behind, I made for the school. The campus was more crowded than ever. I pushed through the throngs toward the auditorium. Thankfully, this time, everyone was present—everyone except Bae Shinwoo.
Another future, changed.
If not for his betrayal, we’d have been performing on that stage, putting a finale on our high school days. I’m sure everyone carried a bitter taste in their hearts.
—“Congratulations to all Yuseong High School graduates, and best of luck as you take your first steps into society. This concludes the graduation ceremony!”
What had once been the worst memory of my high school life was now just another ordinary day. Quietly clutching my diploma, I was about to slip away—if only I hadn’t been snagged by hands I hadn’t even seen coming.
—“Mom, this is Juyeon! Our band’s guitarist and vocalist!”
—“Ah, hello! I’m Choi Juyeon, Hangyeol’s friend.”
After greeting all four families, my head was spinning. I thought they’d all leave with their families after the ceremony.
—“See you at home later!”
—“Mom, can I get 50,000 won more allowance…?”
—“If you need errands done, send him over!”
—“Wait—why aren’t you going home with your families…?”
Why were they still here, next to me?
—“Let’s go eat jjajangmyeon!”
I never imagined a graduation I’d always known as lonely could be this loud and full of life.
We headed straight for the shopping district. We smeared sauce all over our faces as we ate black bean noodles, went wild in a coin karaoke booth, and crammed ourselves into a tiny photo booth to take pictures.
—“Get home safe!”
I watched until their backs shrank to dots, then turned, out of habit, toward the practice room. The city was still buzzing with graduation season crowds. Yet I felt no loneliness. My whole mind was busy trying to hold onto the melodies and lyrics welling up inside me, so they wouldn’t slip away. My walk quickened, until I was sprinting.
The moment I reached the practice room, I grabbed my guitar. Breathing hard, I scribbled lyrics onto whatever scrap of paper was in reach.
I wrote the song that would fill my very first blank. Words and melody poured out with no hesitation. Within two hours, the song was finished. I hadn’t even named it yet, but even just humming it, I had a good feeling.
I was about to arrange each instrument’s melody line when the door clattered open.
—“What, you lost the staring contest and had to bail?”
—“Holy crap, Juyeon’s here too?”
—“We wanted the place to ourselves today—did you all plan this behind my back?”
—“Juyeon-ah. Crazy, right? We just ran into each other on the way here!”
I’d spent all my energy, but I couldn’t stop smiling. If it weren’t for Hangyeol, I might have suspected this was some elaborate prank. But the way he was grinning wider than anyone, blurting it all out—how could I not go along with it?
I’d considered waiting a little longer to announce it, but this timing was perfect. I strode over to the whiteboard in the corner of the room.
—“Big announcement.”
—“Wh-what is it? Why so scary?”
—“See, Taejin? Every time he gets serious, I get nervous.”
—“Masks weren’t enough? You bringing out a magic wand now?”
Such a trusted leader, huh.
—“I’m announcing our band’s name.”
I turned my back and wrote, one letter at a time:
[BLANK]
—“Blank. A band that fills emptiness—and gets filled, in turn.”