Idol Hides His Military Service

“Will there ever be another group like GG...?”

Lee Jiyeon, now a high school junior hanging onto the last threads of her “schoolgirl” title, had skipped lunch and sat at her desk wrapped in a blanket, staring at her phone screen.

— A member D of a popular idol group was caught last night driving under the influence...

Another drunk-driving article heating up the entertainment news.

Reading it, Jiyeon felt so burned out she couldn’t even get angry anymore.

'It’s not like I’m asking idols not to drink! If you drank, at least call a driver!!!'

She felt wronged enough to scream loud enough to shake the school.

Her problem was “Death Perado,” the boy group she’d fallen for hard starting a year ago.

Known as DP, they were honestly mediocre at singing and dancing, but their looks were good enough to rival first-tier boy groups—that was their strength.

So as a high school girl faithful to faces, Jiyeon had fallen for them on looks alone.

The problem was that DP’s members acted exactly like guys who coast on their looks.

It wasn’t the flu, but the dating rumors with girl idols that popped up member by member—she’d put up with those.

At a fan signing that people paid a lot to attend, one member fired off eighteen rounds of “Oh, really?” and killed the mood—she’d swallowed that too.

A member who skipped a pre-recorded broadcast “because he was sick” got snapped partying and drinking the next day—she endured that as well.

But when even the team leader—the one who’d been the only clean slate and last hope for fans—finished it all off today with a DUI...

—I’m done stanning. These bastards are hopeless.

—Did I ever ask you to drop a great track? Or at least dance like you mean it? We even put up with the trashy outfits!!! Just breathe, for God’s sake, just breathe!!!

—F***, if even you’re like this, you’re basically telling us to get lost!

Their fan café was already flooded with laments just like Jiyeon’s, copied and pasted across the page.

“It was fun when I was into GG...”

At this point, Jiyeon found herself resenting G.G., the group that pulled her into the idol world in the first place.

G.G.

Officially Golden Girls, they’d burst onto the scene in 2008 and rewrote the playbook for girl groups.

They were known for synchronized choreography as tight as any boy group and rock-solid vocals—an image of pure skill.

Back in elementary school, Jiyeon had watched their stage and fallen in; even after they disbanded, she hadn’t escaped the idol world.

So even now, she blamed G.G. for inducting her... and then disappearing.

No, to be precise, she blamed herself for joining DP on looks alone.

“Never again... I’m not falling for a face.”

Just then, a new entertainment headline slid into view.

She was about to ignore it, assuming it was another DUI piece, but the title made her pause.

— MPlay’s new program “Idol Ground 100”

Keep your idol alive!

MPlay was a cable music channel she watched often.

'MPlay is doing an idol survival show?'

There had been plenty of idol reality and variety shows, but a genuine survival format was new to her, so curiosity kicked in and she started searching for information on “Idol Ground 100.”

It didn’t take long to find a flood of posts about it.

'Are they insane? What are they doing, dragging in trainees like this.'

For real, making kids that young get voted off? That’s cruel as hell.

'One hundred is a problem too. People struggle to remember names when a group has more than nine members—who’s going to watch a hundred?'

Most of the comments were negative.

Jiyeon couldn’t help but see it negatively as well.

A system that puts a hundred trainees on display and decides eliminations and survival by public vote each round felt way too harsh.

And the fact that only the top seven out of the hundred would debut didn’t sit well with her either.

'So even if I find someone I like, how am I supposed to watch without anxiety when I can’t be sure they’ll make top seven?'

If they were going to make something pointless like this, she’d rather they produced a reality show for the other boy group she was eyeing as a new bias.

'Huh? Pre-interview videos?'

Just as her initial curiosity was cooling, a link caught her eye.

A portal page had a section with pre-interview clips for all 100 contestants.

Curiosity flickered—how had they picked one hundred trainees, and who were they?

She clicked as if hypnotized and landed on the “Idol Ground 100” pre-interview page.

'What the—why does this one have so many views?'

The clips were listed by view count; first, second, and third were trainees from major agencies.

Number one was a trainee even she knew by name.

Ryu Ayeon of TSP—one of Korea’s top three idol agencies.

Despite being a trainee, she’d already appeared in a music video for a labelmate group, so her recognition was sky-high.

On forums, posts like “Who’s the girl in the new Baseline MV?” popped up regularly.

But the thumbnail that was pulling Jiyeon’s gaze wasn’t from those top three.

Number five.

A high rank, sure, but what hooked her wasn’t the number. It was the face in the thumbnail.

It looked like a bare face with no makeup, yet compared to other clips it seemed to glow—like someone had airbrushed reality—a face with a bewitching pull.

'Unaffiliated, independent trainee?'

Most contestants were tied to big or small agencies, but the fifth-ranked trainee’s affiliation field said “unaffiliated.” That stood out.

Jiyeon couldn’t understand how any agency had left someone like this untouched.

'Seriously? This kid is an idol just by face alone, and those bug-eyed agency jerks left her unaffiliated till now?'

After simmering over how pathetic Korean agencies were at spotting talent, she calmed herself and clicked the video.

It started out ordinary enough.

“Hello, my name is Sion Lee. I’m eighteen, and I’m currently training on my own without an agency.”

Listening to the calm self-introduction, Jiyeon suddenly thought: the voice was really nice.

People often overlook it, but to Jiyeon a voice was crucial for # Nоvеlight # idols.

'Even if the face isn’t my type, a good voice makes you keep watching without knowing why.'

Anyway, Sion Lee’s voice—along with the looks—fit right into Jiyeon’s sweet spot.

“What’s your hobby?”

“A game called Legend of Valley.”

“Oh? You play that? Then what’s your rank...”

“... For the record, I’m Silver, but that’s kind of unfair. My real skill—being modest—no, even objectively, I’m at least Platinum. I’ve just had terrible luck...”

Jiyeon, who’d found herself unexpectedly absorbed, flinched a little at the sudden mention of Legend of Valley.

'Isn’t that the game guys go nuts over?'

She hadn’t played it, but boys in her class—and her kid brother at home—were obsessed, so she knew the name.

'It’s popular; girls can play too.'

Usually idols answered “reading, movies, exercise” when asked about hobbies. This was fresh. She wondered if it was a strategic choice...

“Do you get it? I am absolutely not Silver-tier!”

Given how serious Sion looked saying she wasn’t Silver, it seemed sincere.

“Okay, then—do you have a personal motto you live by as a trainee?”

“A motto... I’d say ‘Devotion to the nation.’”

“Sorry?”

“Huh?”

Watching the pre-interview, Jiyeon blurted out her confusion at the exact same time as the PD in the video.

Devotion to the nation?

As in—what the heck did that mean?

***

“You’re going to keep your promise, Aunt.”

“How many times do I have to say it? I’ll pay you!”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

— Is this really you? 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

A few days ago—because my aunt pushed me—I’d gone in and done a pre-interview for the idol survival show.

She’d said it was nothing, just nitpicky questions, so I answered without thinking.

After the pre-interview went out, my KakaoTalk wouldn’t stop pinging.

Friends, relatives—whoever had seen the video—kept asking if it was really me, and whether I was debuting as a celebrity.

Especially:

“My beloved daughter. I worry about you every day. Please come back to our warm, comfortable home.”

Our Madam Sukja did an instant about-face and tried to lure me home like I’d already become a star.

'Didn’t think my peaceful life would crumble this fast.'

Maybe I underestimated TV’s reach. I was starting to regret it a little.

“If you do well at tomorrow’s entrance ceremony, I’ll hand you one million won in cash on the spot.”

“If that’s a lie, I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“You just don’t cause trouble there! And don’t act like you know me at the shoot!”

“That’s the easy part.”

My face was already out there. At the very least, I had to endure through the “entrance ceremony” to secure the promised cash—her minimum condition.

Tomorrow’s shoot—the entrance ceremony—was where all one hundred trainees would appear in turn, show a song and dance, and be sorted into grades.

The judges would divide the hundred into five groups, from A to F. Brutal.

“You prepped your song and dance for tomorrow, right?”

“Of course.”

They were trainees, which meant barely weaned kids, as far as I was concerned.

My aunt kept pressuring me to at least fake it so I wouldn’t embarrass myself, but I wasn’t about to get spooked by a newbie talent show.

She also explained that once grading ended at the entrance ceremony, the training camp would begin, and I’d be stuck there for at least two weeks.

“The first week is practice for a 100-person joint stage, plus the first mission assignment.”

“A hundred-person joint stage?”

“That’s the early highlight of the show.”

At first, it sounded epic. Then I thought about it again—nothing special.

Back when I was a company commander, I’d led a hundred soldiers through drill just fine.

This wouldn’t be a problem either.

“Then the next week you practice again for the joint stage, and the stage is on the last day. After the performance, the first ranking announcement.”

“Hold up... Aunt, so I’m tied up for a minimum of two weeks?”

“That’s right.”

My mind started calculating fast.

In 2015, minimum wage was 5,580 won.

If I consider the shoot as a live-in job at twelve hours a day, that’s a daily wage of 66,960 won.

Two weeks of that is 803,520 won.

And I was paying the price of having my face exposed on top of it, so factoring that in, a one-million-won allowance wasn’t just fair—it was low.

'I got played.'

She dangled a million won to short-circuit my judgment and laid this trap.

I felt like Sima Yi walking straight into Zhuge Liang’s snare.

Kim Miyoung.

Scarier than Madam Kim Sukja.