In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

“Wow......”

I stared fixedly at the white A4 sheet on the waiting room door until the managers grabbed us and half-forced us inside.

“Room!”

“Room!”

Though it wasn’t a large room, the fact that it was a room mattered.

We got a room in the first week of our comeback!

Like dogs moving into a new house, my brothers and I bounced around excitedly.

“Room!”

“Room!”

“It’s a room!”

Mingi hyung laughed in disbelief and called us over.

“Come have some bread.”

We glanced at each other.

“Bread!”

“Bread!”

We munched on the toast the managers had bought as we looked around. Stylists hung clothes on the garment racks, hair coaches plugged in their devices, and staff unpacked equipment.

“A room......”

It felt unreal, so I kept glancing around.

Biju said resolutely,

“Hyung. Let’s take that door sign later.”

“Yeah, let’s keep it as a souvenir.”

If anyone saw us, they’d think we had a score to settle with rooms—but it meant so much to us.

Usually 13–17 acts perform on a music show, but waiting rooms are limited. Only music shows have that many performers; even then, popular programs host only four to six teams. No matter how many rooms a station has, accommodating everyone on show day is a struggle. Lower-profile acts get crammed behind a flimsy partition—no privacy, everyone hears everything, and you sleep jammed together.

Mingi hyung, still eating toast, said,

“Getting a room from day one of comeback—surprising, huh?”

“Hyung, you’re not used to it either, right?”

“Yeah, but it shows you guys really made it. It’s nice not to sleep in a corner.”

His smile was genuine. Not just managers, but other staff looked as comfortable as if they lived there. To gain the right to rest comfortably on music shows means you’re experienced or successful—one or the other.

We’d had rooms on some networks before, even shared with senior groups, but this was our first full dedicated room. Especially since K-Net, which isn’t close with Lemon, gave us one on day one—others would follow suit.

Staring at “Baramkkot” still at number one on the charts, I took in the waiting room again.

“.......”

I thought to myself and couldn’t help laughing. A poet said you wake up famous—now I began to understand.

Though we’d felt our rising status on Myung-gok-dan and History Exploration Team, nothing felt as surreal as today.

“......?”

Before our pre-recorded comeback stage, we all rubbed our eyes.

“Am I seeing things?”

“Right? I’m not the only one confused?”

“Check the recording location. We might be wrong.”

Peeking through the door crack, the number of Souffle gathered was staggering. At first, I thought, Surely those are just our fans—but placards reading “Jemin,” “James,” “Daegil” confirmed it.

“Waaa—!”

Cheering erupted as soon as we entered. Thrilling, yet we kept calm faces walking onto the stage. A hush fell.

“......Hss.”

I swallowed as spit almost dripped out; the sound spread softly. My brothers clapped and laughed, and Souffle joined in. I quipped,

“Oh, I was aiming for the ‘I’m not fazed by this’ concept, but I failed.”

“I saw your eyes shaking since you stepped on stage, hyung,” Souffle laughed.

Filming staff prepared, and we chatted with fans—an odd feeling. None of us were used to chatting casually before so many fans, nor were the fans used to seeing us that relaxed. We were accustomed to tip-toeing around station staff, not recommending nearby restaurants.

“Waaa—!”

Every take of pre-recording, Souffle’s deafening cheers gave me goosebumps. It felt surreal. I should’ve been bouncing with joy, but I just stared wide-eyed.

“Guys, is this real?”

“Shall we pinch ourselves?”

“Pinch each other and report back.”

Ji-ho and Biju gently pinched each other, nodding gravely.

“It’s real.”

“It’s real.”

Ri-hyuk, reading a Japanese textbook, gave us a disapproving look. Jung-hyun argued that if it were a dream, at least food would be zero calories.

“Fair point.”

Just as we began to settle in, a knock—door opens—

“Fly, fly, fly to the dream! Hello! We’re Dream Ticket!”

A rookie boy group that debuted this month greeted us, handing us a CD and calling us “senior NewBlack.” I cringed inwardly, managed a casual “Oh, hello,” then burst, “Uaaah!” with my brothers once they ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) left.

“They’re not seniors...!”

“I don’t want that!”

“Uaaagh... my stomach’s queasy.”

I imagined the TNT guys mocking me. Ugh—my breakfast toast felt like it was churning. I couldn’t get used to “senior.” I’d loved being called Corporal in the military—why not this?

Another girl group that debuted this month came by. The maknae said, “Hello, I’m Wang Ji-ho,” and we nearly burst laughing, teasing him after they left.

Even senior singers treated us differently. While handing out our CDs in another waiting room:

“Oh, NewBlack. Nice new album. I felt something in your song.”

“Congrats on your number-one.”

“I saw your drama cameo.”

A boy group that once brushed us off now greeted us warmly:

“I always thought you’d make it big.”

“Woo-joo, heard you composed this. Hey, did your number change? I lost your contact.”

We’d never swapped numbers. They all begged, “Save mine too.”

I realized Daisy was right: everyone wants credit with a composer-idol. In K-pop, a hit song is power.

“...That’s amazing,” Ri-hyuk said in awe.

“I thought you were different people.”

Not even our second album success garnered this reaction. The industry is fickle, but people’s abrupt change shocked me. I felt embarrassed—can attitudes flip so easily?

Even music-show staff treated us differently:

“Could we get your autographs? My nephew’s a fan.”

“Of course!”

I remembered someone who once shoved me in the hallway now asking for my signature. I was stunned. In the waiting room, faces swirled: left side scowled, right side smiled. I pushed it aside. All I wanted was Kim Deok-soon and Souffle.

– The K-Net number one goes to Serenity!

– Congratulations, Serenity!

Serenity, a girl group from MOP Entertainment that debuted last year, took first place—second week at number one and this was their last broadcast. They had the second-best results after us among debuting groups last year. So Serenity was the official winner, but...

“Hyung, people keep staring at us.”

“I know...?”

After the show, all acts lined up in the hallway. Many glanced at us more than at Serenity or other senior idols. What’s happening? Less than 24 hours since the song’s release—why this reaction? We were baffled.

“That makes sense,” Seok-hwan hyung said calmly in the management office.

“Songs usually follow predictable trends. ‘Baramkkot’ is off the charts.”

“Really?”

“Did you see the MV views?”

“No...?”

I’d stopped checking the internet during comeback prep, only glancing at charts and fan cafés.

“It’s three million.”

“Huh...?”

We read “3,034,612” on YouTube and freaked.

He smiled.

“The promotions team says you’ll top the weekly chart. Early to tell, but it could be Something-level. This time it’s purely your song’s success.”

“Oh...”

“So industry insiders sensed it too. Why wouldn’t they?”

When we stared blankly, the manager teased us for being so oblivious. When he mentioned album sales, I asked him to tell me later.

“It’s clearly a hit. Scheduling your appearances has never been so easy,” our director said, beaming.

“May university events are flooding in. At this pace, you can choose variety shows freely.”

He looked fondly at the stack of papers on his desk—all about us. He said his workload exploded and he was thrilled—it’d been ages since he looked this happy.

“I’ll hand out the schedule—check this month’s dates. A few important ones need separate explanation.”

We sat up straight. He slid a script to Ri-hyuk.

“PBS MusicOn...?”

“Music shows have scripts? Oh, this is for MC?”

Ri-hyuk looked confused holding it.

“Next week on MuOn you’re the special MC.”

“Me?”

“The PD liked you from Myung-gok-dan. You can do it, right?”

Ri-hyuk nodded, then blushed flipping through the script’s lines like “I’m the ice prince!” The maknae, who’d been jealous, burst out laughing too.

“Wow, we have to save this broadcast!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Just as someone glared, Jung-hyun pointed out,

“It says Ji-ho here.”

“...?”

Ji-ho, mid-giggle, looked at the script seriously. His face grew grave, Ri-hyuk’s reddened. The maknae backed away.

“Oh no. Director, is this the other Ji-ho? Kim Ji-ho or Shin Ji-ho?”

“You keep at it, Ji-ho.”

Seok-hwan hyung handed Ji-ho another script, enjoying himself. I couldn’t help smiling at their despair.

“You two maknaes—I envy you. I’ve wanted to read lines like these.”

“Right, hyung. I wanted that too.”

“Me too.”

As we teased them, they shot us dirty looks. Then I laughed and asked:

“By the way, Woo-joo, you’ve got two offers for terrestrial variety shows—both from TBC.”

“Oh? Which ones?”

I smiled, then he said,

“One is ‘A Man Goes...’”

“No.”

My back stiffened. I sat up straight.

“What do you mean ‘A Man Goes,’ Director?”

“He’s a PD known for persistence—called Axe PD. Once he targets you, he won’t let go.”

“....”

“You hit his radar.”

I felt cold.

“Well, your opinion matters. You’d probably film after music shows. It’s high-risk for injuries.”

“Why do I have to go?”

“That’s what fans want, right?”

“Our fans wouldn’t...”

I tried to deny it, but comments flickered in my mind:

– So great!

– Woo-joo! Shall we revisit the army~~?

– Eehee!

– Worried about injury...

I didn’t know why the same comments appeared.

Seok-hwan hyung showed an SNS post from a Souffle at our fan showcase with a flower wreath bearing “A Man Goes” taunts.

I wanted to shout, “We’re not going!” but swiping brought up articles:

– NewBlack Woo-joo to appear on ‘A Man Goes’? Production: “Can’t confirm yet.”

My siblings covered their mouths to laugh. I took a deep breath.

“What’s going on, Director? Explain.”

“Calm down, Woo-joo.”

“Do I look calm? The army... the army...”

He stifled laughter.

“It wasn’t me. A Souffle’s SNS post went viral—‘Are they on?’ became ‘They are on!’”

“Like Seodongyo.”

“Exactly.” 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

I glared at Ri-hyuk for the pun, he looked away. While the siblings laughed, Seok-hwan hyung said,

“The PD said after seeing you dig trenches at Jusehan, he felt destined to cast you.”

“...Agh.”

“Want to think it over?”

I nodded firmly.

“I’ll consider the army show.”

“Hyung.” The maknae poked my side.

“Just do it. Show the dignity of a veteran—‘Viewers! I am the Republic of Korea army!’”

“Close your eyes and go. It’ll be fun.”

Watching them laugh, I turned to Seok-hwan hyung:

“Can we all appear together?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea.”

“...Sir?”

“Sir, what does that mean?”

But he was already jotting notes. The siblings looked pale; I smiled warmly.

“Hyung will never go alone.”

“....”

“Even if I drown, I’ll pull you all down with me.”

“....”

They looked at each other, then cried, “Director, please don’t send hyung to the army!” Their pleas were pitiful, and I smiled. Returning to business:

“As for the other TBC show, I’ll definitely do that.”

“You don’t need to know what it is?”

“I’ll go anyway—promote the third album. Whatever the format, it doesn’t matter. I’ll give it my all.”

He smiled, but why did it feel ominous? From the drawer emerged a pre-prepared proposal titled .

I recognized it. The siblings gasped.

“Oh, this.”

“This is it—the show revealing weaknesses.”

“Why hadn’t we thought of sending Woo-joo here before?”

TBC’s “Sintokki” invites guests to share past stories—school days, testimonies...

I asked,

“It’s the show that exposes dark histories.”

“Exactly.”

My face fell as the siblings chattered like nutcrackers. We couldn’t refuse—ratings are huge, and they only invite select guests.

The proposal read “Boy Group Leader Special,” and Seok-hwan hyung smiled warmly:

“At first staff wondered who to send, but in less than a second they chose you.”

“....”

“There’s no one more fitting.”

The siblings sang, “Congratulations~ Congratulations~ We celebrate your dark history~” brightly while he clapped proudly.

“....”

Truthfully, I’d never felt more surrounded by irritating people than at that moment.