'Ah, they said the three-minute phone call with family would happen the day before the re-evaluation, didn't they.'
Only now did I vaguely remember the staff mentioning that on the first day of training in the auditorium. I stood up, telling the others I'd be back in a moment.
Phone calls with family were being conducted simultaneously in three practice rooms. There were simply too many trainees.
A few trainees were waiting in line with staff members outside the rooms. I quietly went to stand at the end of the line.
"The call lasts for three minutes. When we knock, please end the call and come out."
I nodded at the staff's businesslike tone, accepted the phone, and went inside the practice room to sit down.
"...."
And without calling anyone, I simply spent three minutes sitting there.
'Whether in the future or now, nothing's changed—there still isn't anyone I can call.'
In my current life, my parents' deaths were events from long ago. Since I'd died in the winter of twenty-five, it had already been more than six years.
Because of that, I didn't feel any overwhelming grief anymore. The pain that kept me from eating or sleeping was something I'd long since lived past.
However—
—I'll participate on the condition that you don't air any interviews about my family situation.
Even so, it wasn't something I could easily speak about.
When I'd agreed to appear on
—This could become a very important card for your recognition and debut, you know. Are you sure?
What is the most important thing in a survival show?
Remarkable singing ability? Choreography sharp enough to elicit awe? Outstanding visuals? Uncontainable talent? All of those mattered, but the single most important thing was this:
Character.
—Yes. Please make sure none of it is exposed.
My life had been filled with enough misfortune to be called a "tragic backstory," and in the entertainment industry, such a thing could be used extremely effectively.
The public—especially television viewers—were weak to narrative. And among narratives, none was as reliably effective as one that tugged at the tear ducts: the "tragic story."
In that regard, I was perfect material for a "tragic narrative" and a "story of overcoming."
An orphanage kid. A lost adoption opportunity. Adopted late in life only to lose both adoptive parents. A major-company trainee who'd been dropped from a debut lineup due to poor condition.
And if that trainee had fallen into depression after their parents' deaths and wandered for a long time, still unable to fully escape its shadow?
And despite broken stamina and an unresolved slump, if they were appearing on
'You couldn't design a more ideal character for a survival show.'
The production team would want to make use of that character, and my story would be accepted by the public with dramatic effect, probably drawing a lot of attention for a while.
'They could even craft a heartwarming narrative: "With the viewers' support, this trainee overcame hardship and debuted."'
But that would only mean consuming my past. The individual known as "Won Yuha" would disappear, leaving only "the orphaned major-company trainee."
My past would be talked about more than my skills, dissected and passed around from mouth to mouth.
And in the process, my deceased parents would be dragged into countless conversations.
"...."
I didn't want to let people talk about them like that.
Whether I wanted to debut as an idol or not, whether I wanted extra screen time or not, none of that mattered. I simply didn't want even a little of my past being broadcast.
That's why I asked Manager Kwon to remove all family-related information before submitting my profile to ANET, and thanks to that, I didn't have to discuss family matters during interviews either.
The production team surely suspected something was there, but since the company had warned them beforehand, they couldn't push the issue.
'Times like this, it's nice being from a major company.'
If I'd been from a midsize agency, they wouldn't have hesitated to dig through my past already, but it seemed the power of a major label was quite real. The staff still hadn't asked me a single personal question.
'My footage… well, they'll toss it out on their own.'
There were a hundred trainees making phone calls. The show only needed a few interesting ones to air; mine would definitely be discarded.
"Did the call with your family go well?"
"Yeah."
After returning to the cafeteria and sitting back down, I answered Aiden Lee's question like that, then dumped the rest of the food from my tray into the trash.
The morning of the re-evaluation felt completely different from the days before.
Even Aiden Lee, who had always worn a relaxed expression, was unusually quiet, and though Cheon Serim was smiling, he looked sharp-edged. As for Joo Danwoo, he was practically frozen.
Other trainees were busy even in the cafeteria, running through choreography or humming their parts. Even the ones who hadn't been able to focus on practice until yesterday were now scrambling to memorize the moves, some of them rushing to me for last-minute help.
And when the final one-hour practice session in the morning ended, the re-evaluation finally began.
"The re-evaluation will be conducted by class. Please operate the camera yourself, press record, and perform 'Look.' You have only one chance, and there are no retries."
The D-class trainees nodded nervously, and soon the staff set up cameras in front of the mirrors before stepping out.
The order of evaluation had been decided last night by drawing lots. Coincidentally, my turn was quite late, so I had to watch the other trainees perform for a long time.
"Hello! I'm Zixuan from Hui Entertainment. I'll begin my evaluation video now!"
Fortunately, it seemed like D-class's overall performance wouldn't be too bad. Because everyone had sharpened their knives and practiced hard, they were able to present "Look" at a generally decent level.
Of course, there were some trainees whose results weren't as good as what they'd shown in practice. The tense atmosphere, combined with the pressure of having only one chance, kept them from showing their real ability.
And among the ones crushed by that pressure was Zixuan—the trainee who had made the fullest use of me throughout training.
"Ah!"
"Aaah..."
Zixuan was so nervous he couldn't pronounce the lyrics properly, and in the middle he even missed the beat. Near the end, his feet tangled up and he fell.
D-class trainees, knowing how hard the youngest trainee had practiced throughout training camp, all let out involuntary groans of pity.
But even in crisis, Zixuan didn't lose his smile.
"Look, look at the shining me! Your one and only me~"
After falling, he scrambled up so quickly he practically scrubbed the floor on his way up; the way he fumbled himself upright looked like he was awkwardly picking things up, and the D-class trainees couldn't help but burst into laughter.
With his face flushed red in embarrassment, Zixuan still bravely danced to the very end.
'He did well.'
He made quite a few mistakes, but I still expected him to receive a grade higher than D. He hadn't given up and had carried the dance and song all the way to the end.
'Effort is also skill.'
And this was a survival show. The mentors would add points for that kind of perseverance.
After Zixuan returned to his seat with a sheepish face amid the smiles of the other trainees, the next one to step into the center was Joo Danwoo.
"…This is Joo Danwoo from Seez Label. I'll begin my evaluation."
The intro to "Look," a song I'd now heard so many times it was burned into my ears, started to play. Danwoo struck his pose.
Then, keeping to the beat, he began performing the dance and vocals he'd practiced.
"…Wow."
"He's good."
I heard whispers among the trainees. And they were right—Danwoo was handling even the dance he'd struggled with quite well. His vocals had been praised by vocal mentor Cha Mina, so those went without saying.
However—
"Yesterday is now bye, you and my dream is... ah."
As he continued dancing and singing just as he'd practiced, he suddenly stopped as if someone had slammed the brakes on him. He'd tripped up on the beat for just a moment while dancing, and before he could stop himself, he froze completely.
"Ah...."
"Danwoo-hyung..."
"Oh no..."
And there he remained, blankly frozen, unable to continue his dance or vocals.
"...."
I could see his face crumble in real time. While he slowly fell apart inside, the melody of "Look"—with no one matching the beat, no one singing along—rang out in the practice room, painfully fast and cruelly cheerful.
"…Th… thank you."
In the end, Danwoo couldn't start again and ended his evaluation just like that.
"...."
No trainee dared offer any words of comfort as he sat down limply. The agony he felt was plainly visible on his face.
The evaluations continued afterward.
Some trainees performed better than their usual skill level. Some showed exactly what they had (which wasn't great). Some performed worse than the amount of practice they put in.
One by one, evaluations proceeded in the heavy atmosphere, until finally, my turn came.
I stood as the trainee before me returned to his seat. I was about to move toward the center of the room when—
"Good luck, Yuha."
…a soft whisper followed me.
"...."
It was Joo Danwoo.
'…In the middle of all this?'
I couldn't tell if he had a good personality or a stupid one. Shouldn't he be taking care of himself first?
A sigh welled up from deep inside, but I only nodded slightly and stepped into the center. I pressed the camera's record button and bowed.
"Hello. I am Won Yuha from KRM Entertainment. I will begin my evaluation."