"No, hyung."
While everyone hesitated, unsure of how to respond to Hwang Young-oh's request, the one who cut him off decisively was Aiden Lee.
"…Why?"
Perhaps he hadn't expected such a firm rejection. Young-oh's expression stiffened awkwardly. Aiden replied in a calm, unreadable tone.
"For a more certain victory, I think we need to send Yu-ha."
"…So you're saying I'm not good enough?"
Because Young-oh reflexively shot back in a sharp tone, I glanced toward the cameras scattered around us.
With a hundred trainees gathered in the same hall and this being a light, in-between mini-corner, the cameras weren't closely marking every movement.
The PDs wandered around the auditorium with handheld cameras, hovering near trainees who reacted big or seemed worth filming. They weren't paying attention to us at the moment.
Which meant we absolutely shouldn't show anything hostile. Otherwise, cameras would swarm in and turn Team 2 into a conflict storyline in seconds.
"Do whatever you want. I'm fine with it."
I quickly spoke to prevent things from escalating. Young-oh's face brightened—but in contrast, Aiden's expression hardened more than ever.
"No."
"…Aiden, I said it's fine."
"It might be fine for Yu-ha, but it's not fine for me."
"You're acting too authoritarian when Yu-ha said he'd give me the spot, don't you think?"
The moment Young-oh, unable to hold back his rising anger, snapped back, Aiden's face went cold. Then I saw Aiden open his mouth, ready to say something.
"Wait, Aiden—"
Young-oh was already hurt. If Aiden responded with anger, the situation would spiral into a complete disaster.
Wanting to stop that, I reached out to hold Aiden back—
"The most authoritarian person here is Yu-ha."
"...!"
Aiden's sudden words left me speechless.
"You can't just do everything alone. You have to think of the team. It's important to choose when to step forward and when to step back. Choosing what to protect and what to give up is essential."
"Hey, Aiden…"
"But neither Yu-ha nor Young-oh hyung is doing that right now. Don't you want the video PR rights? Is solving what's right in front of you all that matters? Why aren't you thinking about the whole thing?"
"Aiden, hold on—"
Joo Danwoo stepped in, trying to stop the situation from getting worse. Young-oh shut his mouth, looking stunned, unable to say anything.
Seeing his teammates frozen and Danwoo carefully grabbing his arm to calm him, Aiden let out a long sigh. Then he roughly swept his hair back and sat down.
"Anyway, no. That's my opinion. I don't intend to lose. If we're not going to do this right, then I won't go out either."
"..."
Young-oh, sensing the atmosphere, quietly sat down. After hearing all that, there was no way he could insist on competing in 'Visual Gap.'
"Contestants for the 'Visual Gap' battle, please come up to the stage!"
Right then, the MC's voice echoed through the hall. The team members exchanged awkward glances, forcing bright smiles as they gave reluctant encouragement to Aiden and me as we stood up.
"Do well, hyungs!"
"Fighting!"
"The video PR rights are o-ours!"
Aiden nodded slightly and began walking. I followed one step behind him toward the stage.
"Wow, as expected of the visuals~ Every single one of you shines no matter where I look!"
As the MC joked theatrically, the cameras swept across the faces of the trainees on the stage. During that time, Aiden had already returned to his innocent smile, as if his earlier expression had never existed.
"..."
I could only watch him with a complicated expression.
—You can't just do everything alone. You have to think of the team. Choosing what to protect and what to give up is essential.
Aiden's words churned in my mind.
Choosing what to protect and what to lose… is essential, huh.
I looked across the trainees standing on stage. And here and there, I recognized faces who had already participated several times in the previous '~Gap' missions.
They were trainees who had been strategically chosen by their teams—someone had given up their chance for camera time so that these people could stand here.
Moves made for the sake of one shared goal, a better reward.
At that moment, the members of LIGHTNING flashed through my mind.
—Seriously, it's hilarious. If you're going to act like this, why even be in a team? Just go solo. You being this way is exactly why the rest of us get overshadowed, got it?
"..."
LIGHTNING had never escaped being called useless idols—but there was a brief moment when we had shined a little. And it had started with a single personal fancam.
The song we were promoting when that fancam was filmed was embarrassingly bad. A senselessly aggressive beat, lyrics stuck in an outdated macho-man concept, styling that was awful—there wasn't a single redeeming point.
But at the time, I still hadn't given up on LIGHTNING. I believed that if we kept pushing forward, we'd eventually shine. As leader, I believed I had to take care of the members.
I believed these guys would eventually get their act together—that we might actually have a chance to "blow up." That fancam was footage of me from that era.
The fancam itself wasn't anything special. During a regional event, a sudden downpour came from the sky, and the already exhausted members kept slipping on the stage.
What I did was simply cover for them, support the stage, and somehow keep the performance going.I was the only one smiling among the grimacing faces, the only one who didn't stop my facial expressions—doing something that was, in a way, nothing more than the bare minimum.
And because of that, the fancam briefly gained attention under the title:"Typical Boy Group Leader Handling a Stage Mishap."
—Must be nice, hyung.—Why do you even need a team? You should've just debuted solo.
The members couldn't stand it.
…I should've known better.
When we went on stage and some fans—along with a few from other groups attending the event—recognized me, the members openly showed their displeasure. And that eventually bled into their behavior.
Their lack of motivation mixed with their frustration, and the already half-hearted performance quality dropped even further. Meanwhile, the members watched me with the clear hope that I'd make a mistake on stage.
So that the popularity I'd gotten from that fancam would drop.So that none of us would stand out, so we could all remain equally held back.
What more could I have possibly done on stage in an environment like that?
The brief attention we'd received faded away before long, as both I and LIGHTNING continued to struggle without any momentum.
That's when it happened.That's when I gave up on LIGHTNING.
Back then, I really thought that was the best I could do.
Being the leader of LIGHTNING was incredibly difficult.
The members constantly caused problems, wanted to quit, had no motivation to practice, and above all—despite lacking any affection for the team or the stage—they still kept each other in check.
So the fact that it all spilled onto the stage had been inevitable.
Poor practice was an issue, but LIGHTNING's biggest problem was the sheer lack of energy.
…We couldn't pull the audience in at all.
Lifeless dancing, emotionless singing, going through the bare minimum motions.
Performances in which none of us put in our best.We only aimed to get through the moment, never thinking about giving surprise or emotion to the audience.
How could anyone love an idol group that didn't give anything?
LIGHTNING might've failed because of that.
Yes, dancing out of sync was a problem, but who would like a group that couldn't deliver any fun, any excitement, any impact?
We were a team that shouldn't have stepped onto a stage in the first place.
"...."
Then… was I doing the same thing now as the old LIGHTNING members?
Repeating only what I considered my part.Never giving more, never taking less.Never sacrificing or reaching for anything on behalf of the team.
Just holding the safest, vaguest middle ground—
Just like back then, when fading quietly into obscurity felt inevitable.
…I see.
At last, I felt like I understood what Aiden Lee had wanted from me.What the mentors meant when they told me what I needed to do more of—and what I needed to let go.
"Visuals are an unshakable charm point for idols. So when does that visual impact reach its peak on stage? That moment is…"
"The ending fairy!!"
The trainees below the stage cheered. Satisfied, the MC nodded and had a video appear on the screen.
The video was a performance of "Look."The center, Kang Hyunjin, was breathing heavily as he stared at the camera with a serious expression.
"Contestants on stage will perform the final choreography of 'Look' followed by a ten-second ending pose. Since it's the moment to show off your maximum charm, wit and focus are crucial."
Soon, the spotlight swept across the stage.The first to be illuminated was Kang Hyunjin, the 'Visual Gap' contestant from Team 1.
"Now then, who will become
Hyunjin accepted the mic, looked across the trainees, and briefly met my eyes.He held the gaze for only a moment before turning away, then spoke with a tone that sounded casually sharp—like he intended the edge.
"Everyone here has their own charm… but there must be a reason the Idol Makers chose me as center. I don't think I'll lose."
"Confident as expected of the center! The evaluation will begin with Kang Hyunjin! Trainees below the stage—please vote for the contestant who shows the most perfect visuals, excluding those in your own teams!"
The heavy beat of "Look" boomed through the auditorium.Every pair of eyes turned toward Kang Hyunjin.
And while he performed the final segment of "Look," I quietly murmured:
"…Status Window."