After sending the Zero One members out and having even the lower-level staff return to their posts, only a small group remained in the conference room: the CEO, the A&R department head, the choreographer, and the producer.
They were the key people who’d been together since back when DD Entertainment had been a very small company.
CEO Kwon Daedo scratched his forehead and hummed low.
“Hmmm… it’s definitely different from usual.”
“Yeah. But it’s not a bad thing.”
“How could it be? It’s way better. You know this too, Nam Gihyeok. I’m pretty sure that was the first time I’ve ever seen Go Youngin talk that long when there aren’t cameras around.”
“You won’t be the only one thinking that.”
Nam Gihyeok, who’d been the presentation speaker, quietly agreed, and the choreographer Hwang Nabi, who’d been listening, quickly chimed in too.
“Right! Earlier, when I heard Youngin say he wanted to try doing their music, I seriously got so shocked I almost passed out. Isn’t it the first time he’s ever directly pushed his own opinion like that?”
“And you guys don’t even know how shocked I was earlier when Manager Do Sajin came and said Go Youngin wasn’t picking up his phone.”
CEO Kwon Daedo recalled Zero One’s manager, who’d been flailing with a panicked face while holding up his phone screen. Like not picking up a call was some huge deal.
But if it was Go Youngin, the story was a little different.
“It’s nothing, but hearing it out loud is surprising.”
“Our DD’s Kant slept in by a whole thirty minutes—of course it’s surprising. From pre debut until now, for over ten years, unless it was a day he practiced all night, he would always wake up at 4 a.m. and clock in at 4:20. You know? Huh?”
Did he have a revolution in his inner world or something.
Kwon Daedo muttered to himself, rolling a pen back and forth.
At the fidgety behavior, Nam Gihyeok stared at Kwon Daedo for a moment, silently signaling him to stop.
“Manager Do Sajin was even saying he thought Youngin had collapsed and asking if they should call an ambulance.”
“If it hadn’t been something I told him to do, he probably would’ve sprinted straight into the dorm the second it showed ‘missed call.’”
“Huh? Really? Even if he was sick, Youngin always came to the practice room on time.”
Choreographer Hwang Nabi asked back at Kwon Daedo’s joke.
She’d also watched Go Youngin since trainee days, so it didn’t sound like a simple joke.
“Youngin’s been diligent since he was little.”
Hwang Nabi still vividly remembered the eyes of the young Go Youngin when he’d first shown up with Kang Bada.
Back then his expression looked like he had no willpower at all, so she’d thought he’d quit within days.
“Ugh, don’t even start. Still, thank god his face is good, he’s talented, and his skills back it up. If he’d gone that hard, like life or death, and all he had was diligence and nothing else so he couldn’t grow any further—what would we have done?”
It was a cruel thing to say, but it was true. In the entertainment industry, where people bloomed and withered overnight in droves, having talent was basically a blessing.
Of course, Go Youngin’s talent had been built on countless failures, but still.
“And what else. Um… he’s usually kind of…”
Kwon Daedo pressed his hand to his head and groaned, trying to find the right word.
To most people, Go Youngin looked like a guy who was neither here nor there—like watered down alcohol, watered down water—an image of someone nice who did whatever you told him and never complained.
But the people who’d watched Go Youngin up close for a long time knew that wasn’t all there was.
Somehow, Go Youngin was the kind of person whose every action carried a faint sense of mismatch.
That didn’t mean it was fake or bad.
It wasn’t obvious enough to feel stiff or contrived, but if you had to put it into words, it was like he sometimes looked like an empty shell.
As Nam Gihyeok listened, he tossed out a line.
“He’s kind of… oddly low energy.”
“Yeah! Exactly! He’s got no spark!”
“But it’s not like he looks totally unmotivated.”
“Who knows. Even if you tell him to speak up, he always just says he’s fine. He always looks strangely wilted.”
“That too, but…”
Hwang Nabi, who’d been listening, cut in with a worried tone.
“Was it really the right call to make Youngin the leader?”
“We already did it, what do you want me to do.”
Kwon Daedo leaned back in his chair and said flatly.
“And out of those guys, if you judge purely by stats, Go Youngin is the best. He’s a genius.”
Kwon Daedo recalled the day he’d first met Go Youngin together with Kang Bada—who’d now become a team leader.
The kid’s expression looked like an old man, making him seem more mature than his peers, but his skill was even more than that.
Singing was singing, dancing was dancing.
And beyond that, his natural sense was outstanding—he didn’t just take pre made songs and choreography and perform them; instinctively, he could listen, move, and even show talent in the realm of creating.
So early on, they’d even debated which lane to push him into.
They’d made him try all sorts of things, and he did everything they threw at him with no gaps, one after another, which had shocked them.
It had been a moment that made him think again about how unfair the world was, but either way, from Kwon Daedo’s perspective, it was something to welcome with both hands raised.
Because he was their agency artist.
‘Yeah. It really was the right call to take better care of Team Leader Kang Bada’s incentive.’
“How hard do you think it is to find a guy who’s excellent across the board.”
“I know that too. Who do you think has been watching Youngin dance and sing up close all this time. Still, being a leader isn’t something you can do with only those idol ‘stats.’ I’m worried, that’s all.”
Hwang Nabi didn’t think Go Youngin outright couldn’t do the leader role. It was just that, without saying it, he didn’t look like he wanted that role.
“Leadership and social skills are definitely better on Cheon Sayun’s side.”
A leader had to take care of the members, but at the same time, they also had to constantly communicate with agency people and serve as the bridge between the members and the company.
When you weighed all of that, Nam Gihyeok thought Cheon Sayun was closer to leader material.
If Kwon Daedo hadn’t pushed it through, Cheon Sayun might’ve ended up as Zero One’s leader.
“Manager, you think that too, right? Youngin was kind of… indifferent to people around him since he was young, too…”
If you got down to it, Nam Gihyeok preferred Cheon Sayun because of communication with the company, but he didn’t bother correcting Hwang Nabi’s misunderstanding.
It wasn’t wrong, and he related to it to some extent.
“Anyway, when you see stuff like that, I still don’t get how he got close with Jaeho. And bringing in Sebin, too, and then…”
“Go Youngin really is insanely good at gathering the kids.”
Kwon Daedo agreed with the line Hwang Nabi tossed out like a joke.
Not all of them, since some had already been trainees, but still—at least a few.
He didn’t know the detailed circumstances, but he figured the kids had talked among themselves and something had gotten settled, one way or another.
“That’s true. They’re all diligent, so teaching them is satisfying!”
“But that doesn’t really connect to leadership, exactly—”
“Hey, what are we supposed to do, we already gave him the job. You want to take it back now? Huh? He’ll figure it out. And it’s not like they’re hard kids to handle. Don’t say anything else! That’s it!”
Nam Gihyeok let out a sigh at Kwon Daedo.
It was very like CEO Kwon Daedo to cut off anything he didn’t want to hear once he got sick of it.
Anyway, this wasn’t what mattered right now.
‘You can tell with your eyes how much Kang Bada cares about him, so you can’t not pay attention, either.’
Jesus… guess I’m the only one who got played, working so hard to persuade him.
Whether Go Youngin intended it or not, that tiny change from before had successfully turned Kwon Daedo’s decision.
Nam Gihyeok lightly shook the planning document as if to confirm one last time.
“Alright. Then we’ll proceed according to the original plan.”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’s the first time he’s ever said he wants to try it himself. It’s not even some hard thing—if he’s finally saying he wants to put their story into the music, of course we have to listen. So he finally said it, huh. Man, I was seriously worried that until those kids’ contracts ended, not a single one of them would ever say something like that. I kept waiting to see when they’d say they wanted to make their own music.”
That’s it. Done. We don’t have to spoon feed them anymore. Hahaha.
CEO Kwon Daedo laughed loudly, looking relieved.
“You could’ve just told us what you wanted from the start.”
“That’s different! Is it the same when someone forces you to do it, and when you get pulled into it yourself?”
CEO Kwon Daedo smacked the table once with his clenched fist and started passionately going off.
Nam Gihyeok understood what he meant and didn’t add anything further.
“Oh, thank god, that Jaeho brat. Your heart must’ve been in your throat.”
DD Entertainment producer Baek Geon exclaimed in a playful tone.
In fact, the reason a song had come first this time was because Baek Geon had happened to discover a track Pyo Jaeho had worked on before.
Baek Geon had seen potential in the unfinished song, persuaded Pyo Jaeho, passed it to the CEO, and the end result had come out of that process.
“I’m not gonna lie, I was really sweating earlier. If it hadn’t ended like this, he would’ve pushed it through however he wanted. Just imagine—if we put that vibe on top of this upbeat music because it’s ‘what the CEO wants.’ Jaeho, with his personality, probably would’ve told us to cut out his music and just use some other track.”
“He really is the type who’s insanely uncompromising when it comes to his own music.”
“I’m telling you, right? Anyway, for his age, he’s pretty damn usable, isn’t he? You could always tell he had potential, so if it went well I was thinking of raising him as a producer, but who knew he’d say he wanted to be an idol.”
“Even talking about his melodies is a waste of breath, and he’s got talent in arranging too… Tsk. But then what good does it do, is the point.”
It was true that CEO Kwon Daedo couldn’t let go of the lore and got overly immersed in it, but more than that, Zero One overall lacked storytelling, so it was more accurate to say he’d focused on the lore even more to fill that gap.
Even Go Youngin—he didn’t know it himself, but he’d never once pushed his own opinion. And the other members also tended to act like it didn’t really matter either way.
So if you suddenly told guys like that, now put your story into your music, who would do it properly?
“Look at Pyo Jaeho, too. He makes songs, but he’d rather die than put his own story into them.”
Ohh, so that’s how it is. If this is how it’s going, maybe it wouldn’t be bad to use this chance to grow these guys’ talent.
These days, what idol doesn’t make their own songs? Finally, Zero One had a chance to get that title attached to them too.
The lore was a little—just a little—regrettable, but it wasn’t like they were never going to use it again, and waiting forever was starting to hit its limit anyway, so he’d been thinking he needed to make a change somehow.
“It could be fun to divide up roles, one by one. There are no lyrics yet, so maybe we should try assigning someone the lyrics.”
If they worked together, they’d get closer, build trust, and all that.
Now that it was like this, Kwon Daedo hoped Zero One wouldn’t end as simple business, and that they’d become a team who could rely on each other.
‘By now, they’re probably talking among themselves over there, right? If they’re together, maybe it’ll get a little noisy.’
To Kwon Daedo, Zero One was a group full of kids who were overall quiet and well behaved.
Since they weren’t kids with big sharp edges, they’d probably be having productive talks and helping each other.
At that young age, if you couldn’t even trust the people around you in this bleak entertainment world, who could you trust?
‘Man. How did I end up gathering nothing but good kids? This is all blessings too.’
Kwon Daedo hummed to himself, thinking he really had a good eye.
If Kwon Daedo had actually known Zero One’s personalities properly and knew what was happening outside right now, he never would’ve thought something like that.
***
“Fuck, shut your goddamn mouth. You nausea inducing piece of shit.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a rag in your mouth. If you go bastard, bastard at the end of every sentence, how do you think the bastard listening feels?”
“Compared to the shit you pull, you think a dirty mouth matters?”
“Yes, if that’s what you say, then that’s what it is. It’s nice that my mouth is dirty.”
Cheon Sayun finished as if muttering to himself, wearing an intentionally gentle expression.
Of course, for something that was supposedly a mutter, he said it loud enough for everyone to hear, and the content wasn’t gentle at all.
‘Hahaha.’
It wasn’t just Cheon Sayun. These fucking bastards are all the problem. Every last one of them is the problem!
[ Condition 23│A kind idol leader must also be able to properly mediate members’ conflicts. ]
Mediate, my ass—this was a total shitshow.
Go Youngin stared blankly at the fight like he’d lost his mind.
Even though the blinking Status Window blocked his view, his ears were working just fine, so whether he wanted to know what was happening or not, he had no choice but to know.
At Cheon Sayun’s provocation, Kyeon Inwoo looked like he was about to smash Cheon Sayun in the face any second.
Meanwhile, Pyo Jaeho didn’t say a word, and Im Sebin openly made a disgusted face and dragged his chair away, like he wanted nothing to do with it and was creating distance from the two of them.
‘This is the company, you insane fuckers.’
In the end, Go Youngin couldn’t stand watching it anymore and dropped his gaze to the table.
‘I can’t fix this. You fucking system bastard. What do you want me to do with guys like these.’
To trace back why things had gotten this bad, he’d have to rewind at least thirty minutes.