I only realized it on the day Go Hangyeol died. The ten years without making music with my members had been nothing but blanks for me. Even the stadium show I’d thought was the best moment of my life turned, in an instant, into the worst.
—“And, I have one more announcement.”
It had already been a month of lying low since Bae Shinwoo signed with JW Entertainment. Our Witube account, which had no more uploads, was flooded every day with comments asking how we were doing.
[Hot rookie ‘ASH’ debut imminent… Debut album ‘ASH’ to be released March 2.]
With even Bae Shinwoo’s debut date set, the members’ patience was starting to fray. I judged this was the perfect timing.
—“I think it’s time we got back on stage.”
—“Hul!!!”
—“For real?? We can perform now?”
—“SNS! What about Enstagram?”
—“That’s still a no.”
—“Why? Why? Naje?”
—“Oh… Dojae speaks three languages now?”
—“Told you—we’re going global, easy.”
Cha Seonjae shook his head. Why was Hangyeol nodding along like that was impressive?
—“When? Where? How?”
I hadn’t realized they were this thirsty for a stage.
—“That’ll…”
All those eyes, full of expectation, fixed on me.
—“I’ll tell you later.”
—“Oh, come on!”
—“Not even a ‘find out in 60 seconds’?”
—“We might go on all of a sudden, so don’t relax, okay?”
Their bursting energy satisfied me. Truth was, I’d planned the busking set a week ago. I remembered that around this time the famous busking Witube channel Street Busker took weekly applications for performers.
They had no idea, but we had exactly one week left. The venue: the holy ground of busking, Hongdae.
—“Whatever it is, I’m pumped!”
Were these the same guys who were sulking just a moment ago? I’d felt it then, too—their resilience was insane. On the other hand, it drove home how big the original incident had been—big enough to change them to the core.
—“But what are we going to play? We can’t do our old songs, they’re already on video.”
At Seonjae’s question, I pulled a USB from my pocket and gave it a little shake.
—“Just the tracks Hangyeol and I worked on together are over ten.”
—“When did you make all that?”
—“You were sitting on that gold mine by yourself?”
—“Hangyeol, you can write songs too?”
—“I—I only did a little bit of lyrics…”
With how shy he was, there’s no way he would’ve brought it up first.
—“But those are on hold for now.”
—“Huh? Why?”
—“Really playing hard to get, huh?”
—“Since when did Choi Juyeon get so sly—”
I couldn’t blow our precious originals yet.
—“We’re hiding our identities and even wearing masks—so the songs should be ones people already know.”
—“Ooh—”
—“Not bad. That’s actually strategic.”
If I pushed just a little more, I was going to end up as their cult leader. Felt like whatever I said would make them gasp.
—“We’ll arrange big popular songs into band versions and play those.”
—“Oh, then anime OSTs are fair game?”
—“Dojae, please…”
—“Be real—anime songs are way more famous than whatever you listen to.”
—“Th-that’s… kinda true, Taejin.”
So very like Go Hangyeol. He might be timid, but he can’t tell a lie.
—“I’ll let each of you throw in a wish list too, so pick something. Whatever you choose, I’ll arrange it to kill.”
—“Damn, Choi Juyeon’s confidence is nuts.”
—“Yeah, I actually believe it now. Jumen—”
—“What the hell is ‘Jumen,’ you freak.”
—“I like it. Jumen. In Juyeon we trust.”
Ah. My mistake. I was already their cult leader.
Their picks were all over the place—from domestic and foreign band tracks to anime OSTs to idol music… it felt like ingredients perfect for cooking were flying at me. Time to select and focus.
We settled on two songs total. Without anyone saying anything, everyone drifted back to their spots and started practicing.
—“Hey, Kwon Taejin. I can’t even hear your bass—why are you acting all cool?”
—“Maybe because only good people can hear it? And you seriously can’t hear this?”
—“Even if I cloned you fifty times and had all of you play bass full power, once I start guitar, no one will hear a thing.”
—“I’m not sharing a table with a punk who doesn’t know the romance of bass.”
—“Just don’t snap your drumsticks, sir—”
I remember. In the last timeline, those faces didn’t have even one percent of the fire they had now. In the mirror, my own eyes held a different flame of resolve than before, burning every second.
Through the gap, I spotted Go Hangyeol nodding off. It was already close to 2 a.m.
—“It’s late. Want to just crash at my place tonight?”
—“Yeah, we should. Hangyeol’s about to pass out.”
—“Hell yeah, Choi Juyeon’s place is big as fuck! Can I have the biggest room? And can we get late-night snacks?”
So this is what it feels like when your ears start bleeding.
—“Kwon Taejin, you stay and practice.”
—“C-can’t I make a joke? Obviously we’ll wash up and sleep as soon as we get there. Bright little child of the new—oh shit, we’re adults now, huh?”
That house that used to be quiet and too big—tonight it would feel noisy and cramped.
—“Why is it so quiet?”
—“What is, Shinwoo?”
—“Ah, no. Nothing.”
With the debut less than a month out, my schedule never stopped. The debut at JW Entertainment I’d never even dreamed of—it was more thrilling than anything I’d imagined.
A special team assigned just for me, debut posters plastered all over the city. We even went to Jeju Island for the music video. Everyone was moving for me.
Even as I recorded, shot the jacket photos, filmed the MV, unease kept pricking at me.
Why the hell is it so quiet?
When I signed with the agency without the band, of course I worried about a lot of things. The biggest worry was obviously how the others would react. Cha Seonjae and Seok Dojae—and especially Kwon Taejin—were not the type to sit still. I kept expecting them to rush the company any day now. Watching my surroundings on my commute became a habit.
If things had gone according to plan, I wouldn’t have needed these stupid precautions.
The label and I had already prepared a scenario. We needed a narrative to explain recruiting only one member from the band. There had been bullying from the members, but because he loved music so much, brave Bae Shinwoo stepped forward—embraced by the benevolent JW Entertainment.
I would debut with the public’s sympathy votes, and the agency would gain a good image—two birds with one stone. That was the original plan. But because Choi Juyeon needlessly uploaded that video first, I ended up in a tight spot.
When the company suggested I go to the graduation to shoot content, I refused point-blank—because I didn’t have the guts to face the members again.
If it were Kwon Taejin, he’d have come swinging.
What I envied, and hated, most about being with them: they had no fear. None. Maybe because they were born with looks and skill, the ideas that someone might hate them, or that they might fail—those ideas just didn’t exist for them.
So fucking smug.
The smuggest of them all was, of course, Choi Juyeon. No matter how many times I sang, one line of his backing vocal sounded better. We were the same age, but he had that unflappable calm and insane playing that made it feel like nothing could ever surprise him. All of it made me feel small.
I’d always believed the vocalist was everything in a band, but what I truly wanted was to sing while playing guitar. I wanted that iconic image that symbolized a band—that was why I wanted to be in one.
But the moment I saw Choi Juyeon play guitar, I decided I would never play guitar in this band.
Because the comparison would be obvious.
That was why—even when countless agencies reached out to cast us, the first person they all wanted was always Choi Juyeon. Even when I was the one standing front and center.
Guitar kid, handsome kid, looks-like-the-leader kid. Every single one of those labels pointed to Choi Juyeon, Choi Juyeon, and Choi Juyeon again.
—“Fuck…”
—“Shinwoo?”
—“Yes?”
At least it was a blessing that bastard looked scary. If I just trailed off with, “His past is a little…” the agencies flinched. I didn’t even need to lie. If I started to speak with a troubled look, they jumped to conclusions and assumed Choi Juyeon had some kind of checkered past.
He looks like a thug at a glance, anyway.
—“We need to roll.”
—“Yes! Ready to go!”
The opportunity I’d wrung out tasted so sweet. Now everyone’s eyes were on Ash, on me, Bae Shinwoo.
—“Shooting alone without an instrument does feel a bit empty.”
But the offhand chatter from the crew burned my insides. I’d originally planned to debut as a singer-songwriter who could also play guitar. During recruitment, we even emphasized that I could play. Male soloists who sang and played at the same time were rare.
But in the video Choi Juyeon uploaded, he’d made it clear I couldn’t play an instrument and was lying to switch to vocals.
If the bullying narrative had gone out as planned—
I could’ve lied that I could play guitar, but because of Choi Juyeon’s greed and jealousy, I was forced to do only vocals!
As if anything ever helps my life…
—“…Cut! Why did your face just freeze up like that?”
—“I—I’m sorry!”
—“Jeez. I know we’re in a rush for rookies, but taking a kid who was a civilian until just recently…”
At the director’s sighing mutter, I bit the inside of my cheek. It was a habit I’d picked up lately to avoid leaving visible marks. A faint blood taste spread over my tongue, and I smiled like I didn’t have a care in the world.
Why were those bastards staying quiet? Simple. Because they didn’t have the power to go up against me and my agency. They couldn’t sign with anyone else anyway, and they’d live out their lives quiet as mice.
—“I’m sorry! I’ll do it right this time, no mistakes!”
I bowed deep enough for my head to almost touch the floor. Fine. I’d already started down a different path from those nobodies. This level of humiliation was just another quest to climb higher.
—“Rise and shine, everyone!”
—“Uuugh…”
—“Mom, five more minutes…”
—“I’ve never had a son like you. Up. Last one up cleans the practice room.”
From the other rooms, Seok Dojae and Cha Seonjae shot up like springs. They still didn’t skip making their beds—so polite it was funny.
We kept practicing right up to the busking day. Since we stayed late every night, the five of us ended up spending almost the entire week at my place.
I rousted the stubborn ones and headed for the kitchen. Go Hangyeol, already prepped, was measuring water for rice like he’d done it a thousand times. I pulled out the cutting board and started working on the ingredients.
—“Bet you those punks can’t even cook for themselves.”
—“They clean up well, though. You making stew?”
—“Yeah.”
At first, it was awkward. We ate instant a lot. It wasn’t until I saw the fridge stuffed with expired food that I came to my senses and started learning to cook bit by bit.
—“Hangyeol, you cook a lot too?”
—“Kinda have to, when Mom gets home late?”
I already knew, but I asked anyway.
—“It’s surprisingly fun, though.”
—“Those punks don’t know how lucky they are. I’m busting out my finisher today.”
—“Don’t tell me it’s that kimchi stew recipe you taught me last time?”
The excitement in Hangyeol’s voice made me quietly proud. It was the first dish I’d made with my own hands after I got my head on straight. I practiced it with the stubborn vow to make it better than my parents’ cooking, at least.
—“Holy crap, we could sell this.”
—“Dude, open a kimchi stew shop as a side gig. Hire me part-time.”
Watching them wolf it down, I felt relieved. They’d need the fuel—today was a heavy-lifting day.
—“But why Hongdae all of a sudden, instead of the practice room?”
—“To have some fun and clear our heads.”
—“…Sounds like a lie.”
Kwon Taejin rolled his eyes.
So the saying’s true—sit in the village school long enough and even the dog recites poetry…
He was annoyingly sharp where it didn’t count.