Maybe because it was the weekend, the streets were crowded from morning. I made them cover their faces thoroughly with masks in case anyone recognized us. Thank god it was still winter so we could hide our bodies in thick clothes. If it were summer, no way we could hide those visuals.
The moment we got out of the practice room and into Hongdae for the first time in a while, the members scattered like colts slipped from their reins, darting here and there. But whenever they felt eyes on them, they’d instinctively retreat, which was… a little pitiful to watch.
—“So this is what freedom tastes like?”
—“It feels weird not holding an instrument, though.”
—“Hey, hey—if what you’re saying gets into Choi Juyeon’s ears, we’re heading straight back to the practice room, so keep it down.”
I’d heard every word already. Didn’t matter. They’d be holding instruments soon enough anyway.
Time to shift the location…
—“Wanna hit that new place everyone’s talking about?”
—“I was just getting hungry!”
—“Seok Dojae, weren’t you just holding a skewer in one hand and a hot dog in the other?”
—“Those were appetizers.”
So this is how the Pied Piper must have felt? Seeing the four of them trailing after me made me snort a laugh.
As we neared the busking zone, sprightly instrumentals and a vocal line drifted toward us. With evening approaching, the space was filling up, one by one, with people gathering.
Like a cat in front of a fish shop, the members stopped on their own.
—“Wanna watch a set before we go?”
All four looked at me at once and nodded hard. Good. Watching and getting used to it would help. This was where they would be performing in a minute.
—“Up next, the band Blue Day!”
We watched two groups, and once this band finished, it would be our turn. I told the members we should duck into a nearby alley before the restaurant waitlists got too long—plausible enough excuse—and led them away.
Then I pulled the masks out of my bag.
—“…What’s this?”
—“No way. Choi Juyeon, are you out of your mind?”
Kwon Taejin’s startled voice and Cha Seonjae’s “are you crazy.” Their out-of-character reactions told me the shock therapy had landed. I slid on the fox mask first.
—“When that band’s done, it’s our turn.”
—“So what you meant back then—today’s busking?”
—“Told you. You never know when or where we’ll be on a stage, so don’t relax.”
The way they were looking at me like they’d seen a ghost—guess the shock was real. But we’d practiced to perform under any circumstance, and once auditions started, we’d face worse curveballs than this. I felt bad for blindsiding them, but they needed to toughen up. The survival show wasn’t far off.
—“W-what song are we doing? How do we perform without even deciding that?”
—“Did you forget everything we practiced every day?”
—“You’re saying all that practice was for this busking today?”
Taejin and Seonjae were still gripping their masks, wavering like they couldn’t accept reality. Then, from behind me, came a voice trembling so hard it shook the air.
—“L-let’s do it…!”
I almost burst out laughing. Go Hangyeol was fixing his mask with hands that were visibly shaking. Beside him, Seok Dojae already had his bear mask on and was twirling the sticks I’d handed him.
—“A protagonist’s first entrance always comes with an unexpected incident.”
—“Wow, Dojae. You sounded like a real manga hero…”
The way Hangyeol nodded proudly at the praise was low-key irritating, but for now I could only give a thumbs-up.
—“That swagger-brained bastard!”
I’d never worried about those two to begin with. The problems were Kwon Taejin and Cha Seonjae. I lifted the fox mask for a second and met their eyes.
—“Honestly, what are you worried about?”
—“How is that even a question right now?”
The most effective way to move these two…
—“Right. I forgot you’re both bad with curveballs.”
“….”
—“So you’re saying you’re not ready to perform.”
“….”
Any second now, one of them would cut off his own tail.
—“I’m fine. It’s this Kwon Taejin guy who’s the problem.”
—“The hell, Cha Seonjae—I already put my mask on.”
—“Says the guy who pukes when he gets nervous!”
Time to hammer in the last nail.
—“Are you both sure you can go on? If you really can’t, you can sit this one out…”
They both snorted at the same time. Simple, the pair of them. This is why Taejin and Seonjae needed to come as a buy-one-get-one. They were the best possible stimulus for each other.
—“Taejin-ah, make sure you screw up, okay? I’m gonna forge a humiliation you can pass down for a hundred years.”
—“Yeah? I’ll craft a disgrace so legendary your descendants will tell the tale for generations.”
Right then, the MC’s voice announced the end of the set before us.
—“Let’s go. It’s our turn.”
—“Do we get prize money if we win?”
—“It’s busking, Taejin. You really are a crass child who sees music only as money, huh?”
—“You’re not going to… play with personal feelings on stage, are you? No—no way you’d do something that childish, right?”
Their shoulders gave the tiniest flinch. Figures. Could their reactions be any more transparent?
—“W-why would we do something that childish?”
—“Even if Kwon Taejin would, I wouldn’t.”
They weren’t the types to pay lip service, so I relaxed and headed for the busking zone.
—“And that was Blue Day—you all did great today~”
For three years now, Street Busker’s Yoon Jaejin had been running his street-busking channel. Lately, he’d slipped into a slump. Every indie band worth bringing on had already come through in those three years, and the recent acts… their skills just weren’t cutting it.
Same delivery, same arrangements—today’s views are tanked again.
The worst part was the cooling subscriber response. He hadn’t expected the comments—telling him to find fresh bands and introduce them—to stab straight into his chest like daggers.
The bands going viral on SNS turned out, once booked, to be leaning on faces more than skill. And the ones who looked like they’d stir up some buzz showed up in weird cosplay, or with zero social sense—just stoking his temper.
And odds were, the next team would get on his nerves too.
They’re supposed to step out the moment the stage clears—why aren’t they here yet?
—“Kids these days, honestly…”
Meanwhile, Blue Day’s set ended. Another so-so show. He was brooding about the dud reaction and grabbed the mic to fill the looming silence.
—“Okay, next up we have…”
But then—
—“Who are they?”
—“They’ve got masks on, right?”
The audio wasn’t dying. That shouldn’t happen.
—“Who are they? I don’t recognize them.”
—“Doesn’t that fox mask seem like he’s stupid handsome under there?”
—“Bear mask’s physique is insane.”
—“The rabbit sprinting over is too cute.”
What…?
Not once in the past year had he heard a crowd register interest like that all at once. Their voices were full of anticipation. He turned his head toward where all those eyes were fixed—and saw five masked men approaching. In that instant, Jaejin cheered inside.
These are the ones!
A band that stirred curiosity just by existing—the raw gems he’d been waiting for were walking to him on their own two feet. He gestured to the cameraman to close in on the masked band.
The live chat sprang back to life.
-What’s with the masks?
-They’re all so tall;;
-If they’ve got skills too, I’ll come to Hongdae every week
-Finally some decent kids again
-There you go, Street Busker—finally you’re scouting the right ones
-Look how fast the viewer count’s climbing ㄷㄷ
-Sounds like the on-site reaction’s good too?
-Fox mask feels like a pro
The fox-masked man, not winded at all despite having run, calmly took the mic.
—“Hello, sorry we’re a little late. We’re the band Blank. Please take care of us!”
—“Y-you’re not late at all. You’re right on time!”
—“Ah—then could we do a quick sound check?”
If it were any other team, he would’ve ignored them. The venue and instruments were provided—and they wanted a sound check? He’d have started with the prejudice that they were cocky. But they’d already stoked the crowd’s expectations, and now they wanted to tune for a better show?
The fox mask moved quickly and precisely, checking each member’s gear himself.
—“Tuning done?”
—“Drums are spreading a bit—control the power.”
—“Keys, you good? Why are your hands shaking so—”
-Feels like they’ve been a band a while—the chemistry’s there
-Why is fox mask… sweet?
-Fox-mask sir, we’ve just met but I love you
-Rabbit mask looks nervous ㅠㅠㅠㅠ
-Fox is probably the leader
In just a few minutes, the fox mask wrapped the check.
—“Thank you for waiting. We’ll start right away!”
-It’s starting!
-You think they’ll do an original?
-Please be the real deal…
-They prob aren’t lol—feels like hotties clout-chasing together
-Faces are a kind of skill, bro
-What do faces matter in a band lol go stan idols then;;
-You can’t even see their faces why are you all fighting
-You can tell they’re handsome even without seeing
-If they were that handsome why wear masks ㅡㅡ
-Fair point;;
Hoo—
A faint breath slipped through the mic. The busking zone fell silent. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the set to begin.
Tak, tak.
At the drummer’s stick clicks, the keys came in. And the crowd erupted.
—“Isn’t this Aim for Tomorrow?”
—“Holy shit—no wonder my body started moving!”
It was a song no one in their twenties or thirties could not know. The theme from the anime Time Adventure—the show that had set grade-school and middle-school hearts pounding back then. The intro alone poked their memories awake.
[It was another hard day,
Full of scoldings and sighs,
All those embarrassing memories,
Let’s fling them to the sky,
And run toward tomorrow!]
It had even become a famous baseball team’s chant, turning any space into a festival on sound alone.
The pick was great—but if their skill was weak, it would’ve backfired. People get more furious about tainting nostalgia than about breaking something you can hold in your hand.
But this band was better than expected. A voice that sounded like it had never eaten a speck of dust—clear even at the top—never snagged. More than anything, it had that strange pull that made your chest swell.
When a band’s vocal has a light timbre, people often say there’s no power, that it’s bland. But it was hard to box the fox mask’s voice as merely “light.”
Listening, Jaejin was back on the floor in front of the TV, a kid watching cartoons. The show wasn’t about real life, but ironically, he’d learned things from it that had let him live in the real world. In the hamster-wheel of his routine, a hairline crack was forming.
The surge, the awe, the tremor he’d felt back then—every bit of it was packed into the fox mask’s voice.
And the balance around that vocal gave it room to soar. The drums’ force jacked up heart rates on their own, the rhythm guitar and bass filled every gap with steady weight, and the keys kept the original’s emotion while showing this band’s color.
Each man doing his job in his place let the vocal romp without a care.
—“To-mor-row—!”
And the frontman’s stage manner was nowhere near amateur level. He smoothly passed the mic to the crowd.
—“We’ll—run for it!”
A mass singalong filled the busking zone. Jaejin felt a shiver rip through him.
You can’t pull that kind of crowd response with effort alone.
Can an amateur really be that at ease?
Usually, when you try to get the audience to join in, you hesitate. You can’t be sure they’ll answer. But the fox mask looked certain—when he held the mic out, they would respond.
You only do that if you’ve stood on a big stage at least once.
Live viewers had already tripled the usual, donations up nearly tenfold.
This is a total jackpot!
The set climbed toward its peak—the “that part,” where everything compresses and bursts all at once. Expectations were rocketing without end.
Like riding a roller coaster inching to the highest point.
Then an uninvited guest arrived.
Thud.
All the instruments cut out at once.