In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

“Ask Anything You Like! – Black List Teaser”

Black screen.

The intro to Junghyun’s mixtape from the album’s tracklist plays.

A deep voice intones, “It’s The New Black,” over footage of NewBlack performing.

A breezy fireworks routine in flowing shirts.

The Masquerade stage in a red suit at the Mango Chart Awards.

And after “Windflower” in Japan, the “Flower Dance” performance at the K-Pop Concert.

Just as these glamorously costumed idols performing seem from a different world entirely, the members’ voices overlay:

“Don’t be scared.”

“We’re insignificant.”

With a shattering-glass effect, we cut to the members roaring with laughter.

Uju guffaws and teases,

“Hey! Who just said that? Was that Ji-ho?”

“That was me. Are you stupid? How does ‘we won’t hurt you’ become ‘we’re insignificant’?”

“I got too into character, sorry.”

The screen freezes on Viju flexing his shoulders powerfully as the hubbub continues.

Ji-ho groans,

“Ugh... people who don’t even know an ounce of acting really... My ad-lib would’ve fit so much better, you know?”

“Deputy, can we scrap this and redo it?”

“Ji-ho, why are we ‘insignificant’? We’re elegant. Graceful. Bursting with cool.”

“Aren’t those the same thing twice at the start?”

“Ri-hyuk, that’s why you only have us as friends.”

“Ha-ha! Calling me a friend and look how flustered Ri-hyuk is!”

Just as Souffles are smiling warmly, “Our boys—can’t stay serious for a second,” we hear:

“All right, let’s try again!”

“Deputy, you’ll definitely edit this, right?”

As if in reply, muffled voices of the members re-recording lines fade out. Instead, we hear Uju’s line from earlier fill the audio:

“Elegant.”

In the top-right, “TBC” blurs as Junghyun tumbles with a black goat down a dirt path.

“Graceful.”

Uju, having sipped a non-alcoholic cocktail, passes out thinking he’s drunk.

“Bursting with cool.”

Viju and Ri-hyuk stand with kimchi juice splattered everywhere after a jar explosion.

The maknae, dressed as King Yeonsangun, forcing a dance break on court ladies and royal emissaries, laughs—then Deputy Manager Jo appears, dragging Junghyun away for a royal petition.

Completely opposite the polished stage personas, these unguarded moments feel more intimate than anything. As the screen goes dark, text appears:

“Feel free to ask our boys anything, with an open heart.”

A zen-like font displays the site to submit questions. Released ahead of the Y App launch, the video quietly became a hit in idol communities:

—“LOL what is this?”

—“What drug did they take wtf lol”

—“Lemon staff need doping tests ASAP”

—“If you’re curious, go ask there”

—“Actually, this looks fun...? Can I ask?”

—“Souffles, can I ask a crush question? (shy)”

—“Yeah, they said anyone can ask—even non-fans!”

—“Hold on, rolling up my sleeves rn”

And that’s why not only Souffles but anyone who felt friendly toward us joined NewBlack’s first Y App content.

“How many questions?”

“Around eighty thousand.”

We stared at each other, stunned. Ri-hyuk calculated aloud:

“That’s sixteen thousand per person. One hour has 3,600 seconds, so at one question per second, it’ll take five hours.”

“....”

The number was so absurd that we laughed. We worried our teaser would feel pointless if response was low—clearly it wasn’t.

“We must be more popular than we thought.”

“Or maybe we’re so mysterious people flooded us with questions—who are these shady guys, right?”

“Makes sense, Junghyun.”

As we nodded, Ji-ho piped up,

“I asked my dad to submit questions—look for the nickname ‘JihoDad.’ That’s my dad.”

Deputy Manager Hong pressed Ctrl+F—zero results. During our laughter, Ji-ho sniffed, blocked his father’s number, and smiled sheepishly.

When we quieted, I scratched my chin:

“But what do we do with all this...?”

“Right.”

The question deadline had passed, so we’d planned to review each one ourselves—only to find eighty thousand. With our busy schedule, there was no way to read them all.

Viju spoke up:

“Oh! Some could be negative. If we filter those....”

“Right.”

We’d surely get angry comments about album sales manipulation, so after filtering those out... Deputy Manager Hong smiled:

“We already filtered them.”

“....”

“We removed about ten thousand based on fan reports and our keywords.”

We applauded, impressed that even hate comments had reached “supersystem” level.

She continued,

“There are plenty of comments from non-fans and other fandoms too. PR has been a great success. Y App even called to express interest.”

“Ooh...”

“We can’t review these all ourselves, so we’ll handle it.”

Indeed, the PR office was silent. Usually phones ring, staff head out on assignments, and keyboards click—but today everyone sat clustered around A4 printouts, highlighting names with fluorescent pens.

“So you’re all reading....”

“Yes.”

“....”

The PR team looked up at us with rueful smiles:

“We’ve been reading your questions since morning...”

“Viju—did you know ‘bisou’ is French for ‘kiss’? One fan wants to introduce you by that name to a French person.”

“Junghyun, how many burgers can you eat? I saw 300 questions on that.”

“Ri-hyuk, remember that foundation you raved about as MC? Lots of questions on coverage.”

“Uju, if you could re-enlist in the military for either 100 million or 10 billion won, which would you choose?”

“Ji-ho, we want to see your night-study sessions.”

We howled at the gems, then grew serious and answered firmly—Ji-ho fumed, “Why not? It’d be so much fun!”

“All of us on the team are working on your Y App and YouTube content now.”

We said “Oh,” then noticed empty seats.

“What about Director Bae and Deputy Ha?”

“They’re out filming with Scarlet.”

Ah—our senior girl group Scarlet was also joining Y App.

“What are they filming?”

“A mukbang.”

“...”

“A beef mukbang. Doing 1.2 million won’s worth of specialty cuts....”

We could hear Scarlet’s giggles and applause as they posed with mountains of raw meat. They love their meat. I pictured them weeping tears of joy: “So much meat!” and felt a pang of envy.

“Should we have done a mukbang, too...?”

“But are you sure you could out-eat those unnis? Scarlet really eats all day.”

Suddenly realistic, we poured coffee for the PR staff. They accepted cake and coffee gratefully and continued their work.

“Well, this is doable,” someone laughed.

“At least it’s not damage control or a crisis—nothing major to distract from. You’re not about to cause a huge scandal, right?”

“No, not with the album and concert next month...”

Reassured by their smiles, we laughed. But none of us realized we were all forgetting something.

If our album progress were a percentage, we’d say eighty percent. We’d finished mixing and mastering “Nine,” pouring countless tears and souls into it. With the album-design mockups in hand, the physical album was almost ready. Compared to the last release, the pace was breathtaking—thanks to the CEO’s generous investment. We now matched major agencies in spending power—even to the point of safely affording flying trapezes and elephants for our comeback stage.

Most of the budget went to people: hiring the industry’s top designer for the album art, and engaging a renowned Latin American choreographer, introduced by Clay, for the dance—delivering amazing results. At this point, it felt impossible to fail. Maybe we’d break records; at worst, we’d simply not flop.

Of course, someone was suffering.

“This is supposed to be easy choreography—easy!”

“Calm down, my pirarucu.”

“Do I look calm? This is easy? Viju hyung, you said ‘it’ll be easy’!”

“Uh—was it not?”

“If it’s not easy, come here! I’m going to take you down today!”

Ri-hyuk was in agony over the epic choreography. We pulled out a ten-thousand-won note—his favorite—and tried to calm him. Viju, genuinely bewildered, checked the steps. He asked gently, “Is it hard?” while twisting like a pretzel; Ri-hyuk flailed like a gnat.

“But it is hard, Viju hyung.”

“Oh? Really?”

“About one and a half times harder than Masquerade.”

“Is that so?”

Our main dancer genuinely seemed baffled.

“Uju hyung follows along perfectly.”

“Well, I can follow, but...”

He was overwhelmed. The choreography was very fast with many footwork changes—every set drained him. Sweat literally dripped onto the floor. The routine required dynamic strength control, so punching in and out of power made it even tougher. And we’d just resumed dieting.

“Uuurgh...”

He’d collapse, then stagger up and try again. Meanwhile, we admired Viju practicing moves solo in the mirror during breaks.

“He’s leveled up, right?”

“Exactly—he’s a dance-crazy hyung.”

“What did he do in his personal time?”

Even during solo practice, our brothers had clearly pushed themselves to dance workouts, leveling up further. Director Jo, who came to observe, couldn’t avert his gaze from Viju. Watching, you’d think Viju wasn’t dancing—he was just moving his body naturally, a state of flowing with the music.

“So let’s step it up, Ri-hyuk.”

“...Vocal practice time—prepare yourself.”

We chuckled at his bravado, but when vocal practice started, he really got scolded.

“Who told you to belt it like that? If you sing low like that, you’ll damage your voice.”

“....”

“You’ll answer me.”

“I’m sorry....”

Even though he’d worked hard at vocal practice, the bar was stratospheric. While I worked on songs, each member’s specialty had grown immensely. It felt like we’d ascended a staircase with each album. At first I didn’t notice, but preparing for album four, I saw every one of them had improved: Junghyun’s rap, the maknae’s mastery of stage-face acting. The members themselves might be unaware, but audiences could see these changes.

Junghyun shook his head,

“Hyung—you’ve improved too.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah—you’re like a caterpillar inching up toward Viju’s chin.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

I couldn’t catch up with my brothers’ upgrades while writing songs, but thanks to my endless practice, I held the number-two spot in each field. When my relieved brothers asked when I found time to practice, I said I’d work harder—and they immediately guarded me:

“Sir, please rest. For real.”

“No, why are you always chasing me?”

“I hit seventy kph, and it feels like a ghost stuck on my windshield, won’t come off.”

Junghyun’s bizarre metaphor nearly corrupted my mind. The others echoed that they couldn’t rest because I was on their heels—so they sprinted too. I laughed.

“You jokers.”

“....”

“Right?”

They nodded.

“Please rest.”

“Yes—six-pack idol, right? Just enjoy the six-pack and rest.”

“...Six-pack, maybe hexagon-pack.”

We teased each other in brotherly fashion: “You rest first,” “No, you do.” After a spirited squabble, we all agreed to work hard—dramatically. Then we poked dance trainer Joo Ye-hyung, slumped in the corner of the practice room.

“Wake up, Ye-hyung oppa.”

“Oppa, you need to see our practice.”

Joo Ye-hyung, eyes wide in alarm, looked up at our bright smiles.

“You have to watch us practice.”

Amid rushing through projects, the live broadcast of “Men on the Go” steadily approached.

—“’Men on the Go’ first external special... ‘Police Special Forces’ draws netizen interest”

—“‘Police Special Forces’ teaser explodes interest—can it make up for low ratings?”

—“From bomb-disposal training to police dogs, PD says ‘Stay tuned’”

After the recent army special, a one-minute teaser generated buzz. With grand BGM and explosives detonating, Special Forces in gear breaching and rappelling down—you couldn’t help but watch. Audiences had grown tired of army and navy specials, so reactions were positive:

—“Wow, Police Special Forces lol so cool”

—“I might tune in next week”

—“They’ve been milking the army theme—hoping this is different”

—“Finally something interesting after ratings drop”

—“Still feels meh? Haven’t seen the teaser—probably obvious.”

—“Guest is NewBlack.”

—“Oh, then it’s different.”

—“It’s different—wow look at this switch.”

—“NewBlack isn’t idols—they’re something else.”

—“Can’t wait—my laugh bell.”

Monitoring these comments from the PR team, I wondered how our image had been perceived. Meanwhile, as “Men on the Go” buzzed online, we met the production team.

“Hello!”

“You’re here—our ratings boosters.”

“The real broadcast hasn’t aired yet—we’re nervous, PD-nim.”

Producer Do Jun-gi’s eyes lit up as he looked at Junghyun and me; we smiled back. He shrugged as if not to worry. Then he scanned Viju, Ji-ho, and Ri-hyuk, as though gauging their on-screen charisma.

Yes, PD-nim. And them too...

“...?”

He shook his head—not fit for a military variety show, he seemed to think—then nodded at Junghyun and me. I resolved: after today’s shoot, I’d block his number.

“Ha-ha, shall we start recording? Who’ll slate—Junghyun?”

“I will.”

Junghyun clapped in front of the camera, and we began filming. In a quiet hospital lobby, people stared. Today’s goal was to revisit that moment when, impressed by Junghyun’s strength on the Police Special Forces, the PD had suggested he get a medical checkup. Originally Han-jo was to join us, but Street Boys’ schedule was too tight.

As cameras rolled, we cracked jokes to create footage.

“Junghyun, how do you feel?”

“I’m nervous.”

“What makes you nervous?”

“The thought of exposing my body to the whole nation...”

“Junghyun!”

We scolded him for ambiguous phrasing, but PD-nim laughed behind us.

“All right, I’ll be back,” Junghyun said in a brooding voice, donning a medical gown as he backed off. We couldn’t help but laugh at our maknae. Then we and the managers waited while Junghyun’s tests ran. In between, if someone recognized us, we posed for photos or answered questions. An elderly man in a canteen cap greeted me warmly:

“Noblack! Juni!”

“Hello, Noblack here.”

“Ah, nice to meet you. I’m also Seon-u. Hot-hot.”

Then he peered at the camera curiously:

“But why are you here?”

“We came for his checkup.”

His pupils shifted, glancing at the camera.

“Oh—you have a child?”

“No, the bigger child.”

“The bigger child...?”

“No—an even bigger one...”

My brothers and I mimed a giant baby, arms wide.

He murmured, “Very big indeed...”

The PD team, watching the exchange, burst out laughing. Only after showing the ID photo did the man exclaim, “Ah, a bear-boy!” Our managers laughed uproariously.

“Whew...”

When we caught our breath, Junghyun’s tests were done. He changed back into street clothes, and we waited outside while they checked the results.

“Hello!”

“Yes, hello.”

A doctor clicked his mouse while we sat tensely on swivel chairs. We swallowed. Then he asked,

“You said your profession is idol singer?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm...”

His face grew serious, and we braced for his words. He spoke carefully:

“Pardon my saying so, but I’m afraid you might have chosen the wrong profession....”