Surviving in The Idol Game (2)
Is this what they call reincarnation? Or maybe possession? No, regression?
The jumble of “reincarnation, possession, and regression” that my army buddy constantly chattered about while obsessively reading web novels beside me—while I clung to my games—came flooding back vividly.
“So, what I mean is, I can promise you, personally, that I’ll lay out the red carpet all the way to a successful debut. But of course, you’ll need a concrete plan, right? Speaking of which, we’ve got a commercial project in production at our agency. Would you be interested?”
Suddenly coming to my senses, I realized I was sunk into a plush sofa in a cozy office.
It felt strange.
Judging from our eye level, I was clearly taller, but I’d been dragged along like a sheet of paper.
A true bulldozer.
Someone once said that the quietly insane are the most frightening. That was dead on.
Still, I couldn’t keep zoning out while someone was sitting right in front of me.
I accepted the neatly extended document under a kind smile and spotted a familiar logo.
What are you doing here?
“〈Idol Survival〉?”
“Oh! Yes, that’s right. It’s still a working title, but they’re going for something that intuitive. Have you heard of it? Not much has been released yet, so you must be quite tuned into this industry, huh? Well, with a face like yours, staying anonymous would be a crime against humanity.
Anyway, this program’s creating a lot of buzz in the industry. They’re going all out.”
They were basically pouring money into it.
The voice murmuring softly carried a bright tone.
“You might already know, but they’re partnering with an OTT platform to hold a massive audition. Some are skeptical due to the bold direction, but I’m convinced—it’s going to blow up. I guarantee it.”
OTT… that rang a bell.
Perhaps I looked confused, because the explanation continued kindly.
“You know Xflix, right? Think of it like that—original content produced directly for a streaming platform. I’ve seen some of the promo materials, and they’re seriously impressive.”
Though it was all confidential, the speaker added with conviction that this would be a great opportunity for me.
“So what I’m proposing is this: would you consider signing with our agency and participating in producing promotional material for this program? A few studios have taken on the video production gig, so there will be multiple versions, but if you appear in ours, I’m sure it’ll be the flagship.Once the auditions start, this is going to be everywhere. There’s no better way to get your face out there.”
Before I knew it, a portfolio of the studio’s past projects was in my hands.
As I looked through the examples, our eyes met—and the words came spilling out, like they’d been waiting.
“As you know, the audition’s goal is to discover the next big star following in BE:STAR’s footsteps. We want to ride that wave. With your face, even three seconds of screen time could make you famous. Have you heard of K-plus? It’s a new platform, but it’s growing like crazy. K Holdings is known for having deep pockets, and this program has an exclusive deal with them. They’re going to make it their flagship show.”
During the conversation, data and charts kept appearing, neatly presented.
“They must want to flaunt their capital or something. K-plus has been cherry-picking only the best dramas and films lately, so their size has grown a lot—and not just in Korea. If you look here, you’ll see how many international users are joining. The global response is strong.”
Sure enough, the chart showing international subscriber trends was on a sharp upward slope—especially over the past few weeks.
“K-plus is going all-in to expand their market and pull in subscribers, and this program will be leading the charge. Meaning they’ll be promoting it like crazy everywhere. If you join in at the right time, you’ll get your name out across the board.”
I got the strong vibe that this person was the type who always led the team presentations in college—aced all those painful group projects, no doubt.
Anyway, it seemed like the plan was to piggyback on a promising show from a hot streaming platform and build name recognition.
“Of course, with your looks, you’re bound to become famous even without all this—but why not take the easier, faster route? If you debut through a slogan announcing the birth of a new star… your face will become the talk of the town as the ads keep airing. And when everyone’s dying to know who you are, bam! A pre-shot pictorial gets released. Just imagining it feels healthy and happy. By then, the job offers will be pouring in, and you can just pick what you like. So, may I ask what direction you’re aiming for? Whether it’s modeling or acting, we’ll support you all the way.”
I listened, a bit overwhelmed by the unrelenting, passionate pitch.
Someone was offering an opportunity—something precious and likely desperate for others—to a total newbie who hadn’t proven anything.
It was incredible, and I was grateful.
But even though this enthusiastic person was offering me such a golden chance… I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of this was real. Not with that familiar status window still floating in front of me.
“…An idol.”
“Sorry?”
“An idol.”
The words just slipped out. And the shocked look on his face—like he’d heard the last thing he expected—mirrored my own feelings.
What even was this situation?
[〈Idol Survival〉 entry complete]
[Status window unlocked]
[Civilian]
Name: Lee Hanhee (19)
Singing: 79 (C+)
Dancing: 74 (C0)
Charm: 98 (A+)
A simple format, stripped of detail—but the UI was familiar.
“I was in such a rush, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Heo Jung-in.”
“I’m Lee Hanhee.”
“Nice to meet you, Hanhee. May I ask your age?”
“Nineteen.”
Heo Jung-in, a 33-year-old professional used to looking young.
On his way to work, Jung-in had spotted a stunningly beautiful person—so striking that it made him want to shout “god damn!”—and brought him to the office without hesitation.
“Sorry. I’ve never heard of a trainee like you, so I just assumed you weren’t in the industry. Are you signed with an agency?”
If you were in the business, I’d have known. But I didn’t recognize you at all. From the moment I saw you, I was filled with the conviction that you had to debut, and I sort of lost control.
You looked poised between boyhood and adulthood—so beautiful that it broke my brakes. The world needed to see this face.
Heo Jung-in was utterly disoriented by the sudden surge of professional instinct. This was beauty on another level. He had to bring this teacher of a new aesthetic into their camp.
But… an idol? Now they were dying to find out which company had hidden such a gem.
Nineteen years old and still not debuted? How could no one have captured this face on camera at an even younger age? Someone had to pay for that mistake. But—
“…I’m not signed.”
Eureka. Jung-in felt both regret and joy hearing that.
Trying not to be too intense, he clung to his fading self-control.
“Then… may I ask once more, would you seriously consider signing with our agency?”
He was planning to promote him as an actor, though. But Jung-in swallowed those words—he didn’t want to lose him.
“Thank you for your offer. May I take some time to think about it?”
“Of course. This is important—you should take your time. Here’s my card.”
Despite being only nineteen, he spoke calmly and maturely. He was firmer than expected.
“Thank you. Then I’ll be going now.”
His steps showed no hesitation. The boy, who had seemed precarious, left with certainty.
From the first encounter, Lee Hanhee had drawn Jung-in into all kinds of feelings.
Though his expression was composed, Jung-in felt a sense of unease—like he was filled to the brim with something unknown, the surface trembling like a full glass of water.
It was like an aura.
That, combined with the thin clothes in the January cold, made him so poignantly beautiful that even busy commuters on their way to work had stopped in their tracks.
He’d simply been standing still in a corner near the main road—but he caught everyone’s eye. Not just Jung-in’s—there were at least a dozen others also frozen in place.
Yet the boy seemed oblivious to it all. Or rather, he didn’t have the mental energy to care.
What kind of situation had he been in?
Jung-in knew he was lost in thought but made extra noise on purpose to draw attention.
People often said Jung-in had good instincts—and they were screaming: Go now, or he’ll disappear like a mirage.
At the same time, Jung-in felt an overwhelming desire to stay by his side.
The same instinct that always sensed success was now telling him: Grab him.
“If you ever have questions, feel free to reach out anytime.”
Honestly, even if he called at 3 a.m. on a weekend, Jung-in would answer with joy.
But deep down, they already knew. He wouldn’t call.
Jung-in’s heart screamed to roll out the red carpet for Lee Hanhee, but their rational mind—having read the boy’s expression when he said “idol”—knew it was time to let go.
Seeing him off at the front gate, Jung-in slowly trudged back and collapsed on the plush sofa Just feeling… regret.
Their agency mainly supported actors, not idols. So they didn’t even have the proper foundation for launching a group.
If his dream really was to be an idol—and if he wouldn’t change course—then there was no reason for him to choose this agency. Their paths were different from the start.
If he’s set on becoming an idol, there’s actually a great opportunity right now…
Jung-in stared blankly at the 〈Idol Survival〉 marketing proposal on their desk. Lee Hanhee had a face destined for success—but they were on different roads.
“Ugh… why didn’t I invest in an idol company sooner…”
Even if it was a slightly different vibe, all of Jung-in’s instincts, honed through years in the industry, shouted:
Lee Hanhee will become a star.
“If he’d wanted to be a model or actor… seriously, really…”
It was the kind of night that made you crave a drink.
***
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