The beat dropped. That beat. The opening siren of "BANG BANG BANG" that every person in South Korea in 2015. This song took the country by storm.
I didn't wait for Jun-seo. I clapped my hands high above my head, demanding the rhythm, and turned to him, giving a sharp nod. Let's go.
I brought the mic up and launched straight into the opening verse.
I wasn't G-Dragon. I was a Ukrainian teenager in a mask and a baseball cap. But I had spent hours in my room in Cherkasy rapping along to this. My flow was aggressive, deep, and surprisingly on beat.
Jun-seo's eyes went wide behind his own mic. He clearly expected me to be a mumbling, shy fan. Instead, he had a hype man.
He grinned, the exhaustion falling off his face, and jumped in for Taeyang's part.
We moved to the center of the stage. I wasn't a dancer—my limbs were too long and my coordination was usually tragic—but I knew these moves. We did the gun-finger choreography, bouncing in unison.
I was a little awkward, sure—my "swag" was about 60% enthusiasm and 40% panic—but the crowd ate it up. They were screaming. They were jumping.
Usually, "Sing with a Star" is a cringe-fest where a drunk salaryman butchers a ballad. But this? This was a vibe.
I hit T.O.P's rapid-fire rap verse, my tongue tripping only once, my voice gravelly and loud.
Jun-seo looked at me, genuinely impressed, laughing into his mic as we hyped the crowd for the final chorus.
BANG BANG BANG!
The club exploded. Confetti (where did that come from?) rained down. I was panting, sweating, and feeling like a god of rock and roll.
And then, my pocket vibrated.
It wasn't a text. It was a call. A long, persistent, demanding buzz against my thigh.
I pulled my phone out, shielding the screen from the stage lights.
Caller: Mr. Lee (Abeoji)
My blood turned to ice. The music faded out, the crowd was roaring, Jun-seo was walking toward me for a high-five... and I was holding a vibrating death sentence.
I brought the mic to my lips one last time.
"Thank you!!!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "Here you are!"
I shoved the mic into a bewildered Jun-seo's chest, turned, and jumped.
I didn't use the stairs. I vaulted off the front of the stage, landing in the startled front row.
"Make way! Emergency! Diarrhea!" I shouted in English, pushing through the sweaty mass of bodies. There was no better of getting people of your way.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea, mostly because of the "diarrhea" comment. I sprinted for the exit, the "Exit" sign glowing like a beacon of salvation.
I burst out into the cool night air of Hongdae, gasping for breath. I answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"SAN-GUN!" Mr. Lee's voice was so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. "Where are you?! Myung-Dae is home! Chae-rin is home! Even Ha-neul is home! I have checked every room! Where. Are. You?"
"I'm... I'm safe, Abeoji! I'm just... out for a walk!"
"A walk?!" I could hear the stress in his voice. "I hear wind! I hear... are those cars? You are running! Why are you running?"
"I'm exercising!" I lied, slowing to a jog. "I'm near... uh... Hongdae."
There was a silence on the other end. A long, heavy silence.
"Hong... dae?" Mr. Lee whispered. Then, darker: "Shibal."
He swore. The polite, dentist chaebol swore.
"San-gun," he said, his voice trembling. "That is almost twenty minutes away by car. How did you get to Hongdae?"
"I... took a bus? Earlier?"
"Where are you exactly?"
I stopped spinning in a circle. I saw a bright sign.
"There's a CU convenience store! A big one! Near the... the main crossing!"
"Go inside," he commanded. "Ask the clerk for the address. Read it to me. Now."
I ran inside, startling the poor part-time worker. "Address! Please! Address!" I panted in Korean.
He pointed to a plaque on the wall. I read it out loud to Mr. Lee.
"Stay there," Mr. Lee ordered. "Do not move. Just wait. I am taking a taxi."
"A taxi? But you have a car..."
"I had wine with Taek-young and Jae-man, San! I cannot drive! Just wait!"
He hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, a silver taxi screeched to a halt in front of the CU. The back window rolled down. Mr. Lee was sitting there, looking like he'd aged ten years in the last hour. He was still wearing his dress shirt, top button undone.
He forced a smile. It was terrifying.
"Get. In. Faster."
I scrambled into the backseat. The taxi driver looked at me—mask hanging off one ear, hat crooked, smelling like club smoke—and then at the respectable Mr. Lee. He didn't ask questions. He just drove.
The ride back to the elite neighborhood was quiet for exactly three minutes.
"What were you thinking," Mr. Lee stated, staring straight ahead.
"I'm sorry, sir."
"You went to Hongdae," he continued, his voice rising, "without a penny. Without a credit card. Without knowing the way home. What if your battery died? What if you got hurt? How would you pay for a taxi? Would you walk all the way home?"
'Well, that's how I got near Hongdae... On my two.'
"I... I didn't think..."
"That is the problem!" He turned to me, his eyes angry, but mostly scared. "I am not angry that you went out, San. You are a teenager. Teenagers explore. I am angry because you did not tell me."
He took a deep breath.
"Listen to me. For this year... I am your father. Mrs. Lee is your mother. We are responsible for you. If something happens to you, how can I face your parents in Ukraine? How can I live with myself?"
Guilt crashed over me like a wave. "I'm sorry, Abeoji. I just... I got a little lost. And then I saw lights... and I just kept walking."
It was a lie, but I couldn't tell him I was stalking the Student President in an underground club and running away from some weirdoes.
"Lost," he sighed, rubbing his temples. "Next time, you use the phone. You call. You say, 'Abeoji, I am going here.' Simple."
"Yes, sir."
"Your credit card will be ready in two days," he grumbled. "Until then, if you need pocket money to go to... Hongdae... you can ask me. Don't walk around Seoul like a beggar."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
The taxi pulled up to the Lee residence. The house was dark, the party long over.
"We will not tell Eun-sook about the... distance," Mr. Lee whispered as we got out. "She worries too much. We will say you were just... walking in the neighborhood park and lost track of time."
"Yes, sir," I said, nodding vigorously.
We walked into the foyer. The house was silent. I was safe. I was home. I just wanted to collapse into my soft bed.
Mr. Lee stopped at the foot of the stairs. He turned to me, a small, sadistic glint returning to his eyes.
He pointed a finger toward the kitchen.
"Don't think I forgot," he whispered. "The punishment."
"Punishment?"
"The dishes," he said, checking his watch. "From the barbecue." Mrs. Lee said, "Go."
I looked into the kitchen.
It was a mountain.
Plates with dried steak sauce. Bowls with sticky rice. Greasy grill pans. Wine glasses stained red. It looked like the aftermath of a war.
"But... Abeoji... I'm so tired..."
"Good night, San-gun," Mr. Lee chuckled, patting my shoulder. "Sleep well... after you finish."
He turned and disappeared into the master bedroom on the first floor, closing the door with a soft click.
I stood alone in the dark kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound. I looked at the pile of dirty dishes. I looked at my hands, which were still trembling slightly from the adrenaline of the stage.
I sighed, a long, deep sound that came from the bottom of my soul.
"Welcome to the high life, Motuzenko," I muttered, and reached for the sponge.