The moment the sound of the instruments cut off, the members’ playing faltered as well, thrown off by the sudden incident. It must have been because it was an outdoor performance—the amp seemed to have broken down. And of all times, it had to happen in the section that had to be filled with a guitar solo without drums. About five seconds of silence passed.
My first thought was, We’re screwed. For a brief moment, I couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed by memories of the past. But I didn’t want to leave behind the same trauma as back then. And thinking about it carefully, this was a chance.
Because this part of the song, the one everyone knew so well, fit the situation perfectly.
I quietly raised both hands and clapped.
“…Huh?”
“You’re gonna do it without accompaniment?”
Ignoring the murmurs, I turned my back toward the crowd and nodded to the members. The others looked bewildered, not knowing what I was doing, but Seok Dojae immediately caught on and began pounding out a drum beat to follow me. Like ink spreading in water, one by one, people began clapping along.
I stepped back in front of the mic to that beat.
[Raise both hands high
and clap them together strong]
It was two bars later than where I’d normally start singing, but right now, this was the exact timing for these lyrics.
[So my heart reaches you
And if it does
Then there’s nothing for me to fear]
It was a moment straight out of a famous scene from a manga. The hero, cornered in a desperate situation, breaks free with the strength of countless people cheering him on. Anyone who’d ever watched that anime would recognize it instantly.
The audience, realizing what was happening, began to clap along as well. I gave Dojae a look in time with the next lyrics.
[Here, where the sound gathers
I can hear our hearts as one]
Dojae’s drums naturally joined in. I turned my gaze to the other guys in turn. Even if the sound didn’t come through, the performance could still continue.
[The points layered over and over
Will become a map lighting our path forward.]
I could almost hear Go Hangyeol’s keyboard melody, Cha Seonjae and Kwon Taejin’s rhythmic playing, just as we’d repeated countless times in the practice room.
And finally, as if the sound problem had been resolved, the instruments came back. Not a single one was too fast or too slow. They were all playing in perfect time, as if the sound had never cut off in the first place.
Because we practiced that hard.
I told myself it was only natural, but I couldn’t suppress the swell in my chest.
As the sound built up layer by layer, the crowd’s reaction grew even hotter.
[Someday when we’re grown,
When yesterday feels far away,
Don’t be sad—
We’ll just run on toward tomorrow!]
To think the quick wits I’d honed over ten years of stages and unexpected incidents would come in handy here. Still, by the time I noticed, the hand gripping the mic was drenched in sweat.
The brief silence passed, and the space filled with applause and cheers. Even though the gap had lasted only a few seconds, I was reminded of the past. But the audience’s reaction now was completely different. I was stunned.
It had been ten years. Ten years since I’d sung on stage.
The truth was, after Bae Shinwoo left the band ten years ago, I had taken over as vocalist in his place. Because even without Shinwoo, we all wanted to keep the band alive. Since I’d been the one to cover vocals before Shinwoo volunteered, practicing wasn’t much of an issue.
We all barely managed to collect ourselves and pushed each other to keep rehearsing.
But our first busking performance, after all that preparation, turned into the worst day of my life.
Before I could even get the first line out with my trembling voice, a terrible silence fell over the plaza. Someone had unplugged our amp cable just to ruin our performance.
And the nightmare didn’t end there. The jeers and sneers that followed. Fingers pointing at us, calling us shameless bullies. In the end, one after another, we bolted. Dojae ran without even grabbing his drumsticks, Taejin and Seonjae’s faces burned bright red.
And me, clutching Hangyeol’s trembling hand to drag him away, when he couldn’t even move his feet and just shook in place.
Every scene was burned vividly into my mind. The ones who had loved music more than anyone else ended up flinching from it after that.
I went back to them, begging to try again and again, but the result was always the same.
I resented them for giving up on everything, but I also understood. Even I hadn’t dared to sing again or step on stage since.
That’s why I wore the mask for so long.
But now, everything was different. Everyone was enjoying our performance. One by one, I would give these guys back what had been stolen from them.
—“There was a sound issue in the middle, but you handled it so naturally it was surprising.”
—“That was all thanks to the audience helping us. Thank you!”
—“How did you think to lead them into clapping like that?”
—“It’s just… it was from a cartoon I loved as a kid. It was my favorite scene, and it just popped into my head. I tried it, hoping our band might get a miracle moment too.”
—“The comments right now are crazy—people are saying they teared up, they feel like they went back to their childhood.”
In truth, picking an anime theme song in the first place was all about stirring up nostalgia and childhood feelings. With an audience who knew nothing about us, there was no better way to build empathy. Considering the majority of Hongdae visitors and the subscriber demographics of Street Busker, I was convinced this was a song that couldn’t fail.
I just didn’t expect it to be this dramatic.
While the host marveled and read aloud the stream of viewer reactions, I checked on the others. All four still looked like their souls had left their bodies for a moment.
“Dojae, I knew you’d pick up on it right away.”
“Was my drumming okay? I suddenly got so overwhelmed I went wild.”
“Yeah. It was fine.”
“Man, I was blanked out for like three seconds after the sound cut.”
“I almost burst out laughing at Taejin’s dumbfounded face.”
“Bullshit. You dropped your pick in shock.”
“Call it performance art.”
The others quickly bounced back, but Hangyeol was still shaking in both hands. But I wasn’t worried. I’d glanced at him during the set—his fingers had trembled, but he hadn’t stopped playing till the end.
“I… I didn’t mess up, did I?”
“No. You came in perfectly on time.”
“Thank God…”
It had been an unexpected mishap, but maybe that’s what made the moment all the more thrilling.
The next stage, covering an idol song, didn’t hit quite as hard as the first, but it still went over well. Here and there I caught voices in the crowd, curious about the people behind the masks.
This level of reaction is enough for now.
If we drew too much attention right from the start, our identities would be exposed too quickly.
“This was Band Blank up till now—thank you!”
Since we absolutely couldn’t be exposed before the survival show, we hurriedly bowed and left.
“Hey, wait—!”
I heard Street Busker calling out, but without looking back, we ran. Only once the members piled into my car did they tear off their masks, gasping for breath. I naturally slid into the driver’s seat and grabbed the wheel.
“Holy crap, my heart’s about to explode.”
“I was holding onto my mask the whole way, afraid it’d fall off.”
“My heartbeat was louder than the drums.”
“I swear I got chills when the crowd joined in the chorus. When do we busk again? Can’t we just do it every day?”
“You’re so different on stage compared to practice!”
Even with their noses reddened from the cold, their eyes still gleamed with the thrill of the stage. The pent-up frustration of hiding away for so long had been eased a little. Without realizing it, I was watching them with a warm smile.
But then, Dojae’s expression shifted oddly.
“…Huh?”
“What?”
“Choi Juyeon, do you even have a driver’s license?”
Ah. I’d forgotten. That I didn’t have one yet. This morning Dojae had naturally taken the driver’s seat, so no one noticed.
“Wait, wasn’t it just last month people were calling you a crazy bastard for buying a car before even getting your license?”
Right… when my mom pestered me about what I wanted for my birthday, I’d picked something expensive I didn’t even need. That was the car.
She didn’t even ask why I’d buy a car without a license.
Not that she ever cared whether I had one.
This was the biggest crisis since coming back. More flustering than the amp breaking down. I hadn’t noticed, since I had both Korean and U.S. licenses in the past. Thankfully, since we’d been busy sharing our impressions, I hadn’t even started the engine yet.
“I just climbed in by mistake in a rush. I don’t even know how to start it, so relax.”
“Yo, Dojae, swap seats with him quick. I don’t want to die because he fiddled with something.”
Guess I’ll need to actually get my license…
I switched seats with Dojae. Once the tension let up, drowsiness set in. From the backseat, the others were still chattering excitedly about today’s performance.
Leaning against the window, I closed my eyes. Strangely, the moment I did, the performance came back even more vividly. Just as I was about to drift off, my phone buzzed violently.
The caller ID read Street Busker. I gestured for the others to be quiet.
—[You’re the one with the fox mask in Blank, right?]
“Yes, what can I do for you…”
—[What would you think about being a regular on our channel?]
“What? A regular?”
An offer I hadn’t expected.
—[You’ll see when the video goes up, but no band’s gotten a reaction like Blank.]
“Ah…”
—[So here’s the idea: Blank gets stage experience, I get my subscribers fired up again.]
“I’ll need to discuss it with the members. I’ll get back to you.”
—[I’ll be waiting for a positive answer!]
The moment I hung up, the guys swarmed me like hyenas.
“They want us as regular guests on Street Busker.”
“No way—of course we should do it!”
Obviously not. It was a good opportunity, but every week would be too much. What we wanted from busking was experience, not popularity. If we appeared every week, the band’s visibility would rise, but the novelty would fade. People would stop being curious about us.
“If we show up too often, people will get used to us and lose interest.”
“Yeah, true…”
“How about every other week instead?”
The ones sulking just a moment ago snapped their heads up. Their eyes sparkled so brightly I had to look away.
“Until the survival show, let’s appear every two weeks.”
“I’m in!”
“Me too.”
Street Busker kept pressing for weekly appearances, but finally waved the white flag.
While the others rejoiced at the unexpected good news, I was staring intently at the calendar. February was almost over. Which meant—
It’s about time to start preparing.