In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

That evening at PBS Broadcasting Station, a variety of figures began arriving at the “Mister Producer” studio.

“Welcome, Composer! You’ve dressed so sharply.”

“Oh, it’s good to see you.”

“I love ‘Song Discovery Challenge’—you’re even taller in person~”

Composer Pyo Hyung-won, a judge on “Challenge! Masterpiece Discovery,” offered a cool smile as he entered. Next came a famous musical director and a vocal trainer, followed by a stylish woman with an eye-catching single earring.

“And the choreographer is here too! Welcome!”

“Hello~”

It was world-renowned choreographer Han Ah-yoon. This dream-team lineup of producing talent had assembled—then the final guest walked in.

“How have you been?”

A man in his forties, whose fashion sense made him look a decade younger: Huh Gang-min, CEO and executive producer of KM Entertainment, one of the Big Four agencies.

“You said you’d be right here—took you a while.”

“The Olympic Expressway was gridlocked. I nearly got off and walked.”

Adjusting his snapback, Huh said gruffly,

“When I offered to write a song for 500 won, you wouldn’t look at me... now you say you need producing?”

“Ha ha ha!”

“Sigh. I’m busy, but I came.”

“You’re very busy? You can leave if you need to.”

Ignoring the offer, Huh swiftly pulled out a chair, making the cast laugh. As the experts exchanged polite introductions, MC Kim Ui-ji began:

“We’ve gathered you all for the successful debut of our rookie boy group ‘A-TEN,’ from ‘Mister Producer.’”

“A-TEN?”

“First, let us greet you.”

The six members raised index fingers and beamed:

“One, two, three!”

“It’s 10’o clock! Hello! We are A-TEN!”

Applause followed, and Han Ah-yoon laughed, “Great name.”

“Great, right? NewBlack sunbaenims named us.”

“Ah.”

“Inspired by our average age of 33.5...”

Huh Gang-min raised an eyebrow. Mo Beom-ju asked,

“Representative, what do you think of our name?”

“It’s brilliant—100 points out of 100.”

“Oooo!”

“Snappy and memorable.”

Impactful names matter, especially for a one-off project. Huh sighed,

“A name has to stick. Just like a singer’s life can follow their song, a group can follow its name.”

“Ah, well...”

They all thought of one infamous duo from the past—Sixty Seconds—outranked by a leaked tirade and banished from the industry. Huh’s face grew sad as he said,

“Idols are about character.”

At talk of choosing talent on skill alone and regretting it, everyone smiled wryly. Then choreographer Han Ah-yoon got to the point:

“Before talking producing, may we see your skills?”

“Skills?”

“Yes. We need to see your level to fine-tune details.”

The vocal trainer and other experts agreed. All wondering, “Please don’t let their dance still be that puppet-level we saw three weeks ago...” A video the staff had sent then played: a wooden-doll routine so awful it would scare any choreographer. The experts sat forward in shock as a new video began.

“Uh...?”

In just three weeks, their dancing had advanced insanely. Han Ah-yoon’s eyes went wide.

“Did your lesson teacher change?”

“...Yes?”

“How did you improve so fast?”

Beaming, the MiF members explained,

“The trainer helped, but NewBlack sunbaenims really pushed us—especially Bi-ju.”

“NewBlack...?”

Not that they didn’t know, but even Bi-ju—ranked among top idol dancers yet notoriously directionally challenged—could talk. “What did they do?” they wondered. Kim Ui-ji said,

“We anticipated your curiosity, so we prepared practice videos.”

The experts watched, then burst out laughing at the sight of the TV pushing them through drills:

The TV’s gentle voice pursued the frantic idols; its next advice had everyone howling:

During the fitting BGM, the experts couldn’t stop laughing. The members said,

“That’s true—we didn’t die.”

“And we rested only the exact allotted time—if we went one second over, the TV played a recorder sound.”

“It was total Spartan training. Ha ha.”

Huh scoffed,

“Even Sparta would have arrested you for that—labor-law violation or something...”

At his joke, they all laughed. Han Ah-yoon, watching the TV’s Bi-ju, said,

“You’re not overworking them. You just set a super-tight routine. Hard, but doable, right?”

“Yes...”

The choreographer grinned,

“Bi-ju designed the routine beautifully—so it quickly fixes weak points.”

Blinking, the MiF members said,

“You seem... very interested.”

“I haven’t seen such a sleek practice routine in ages. Fun, right?”

“....”

“Wow, it’s beautifully designed.”

Admiring them, the experts nodded until Pyo Hyung-won shifted the topic:

“And your prospects look bright—your dance will keep improving, and your vocals are strong.”

“Indeed. Maybe we can add some complexity to the choreography.”

With choreography no longer limiting staging, Huh Gang-min stroked his chin:

“So we’ll need to refine small details. The concept is disco-style, right? Whoever came up with that idea did great.”

“Yes. When we saw the production plan, we thought, ‘That’s perfect!’ Age-appropriate, right difficulty level, and audience-friendly.”

“Who decided that? You members?”

An Jae-hee answered warmly,

“Also NewBlack sunbaenims.”

“...Again?”

“Yes—more specifically, Uju-ssaem pinpointed it.”

Huh’s jaw dropped:

“So what did you do...?”

“We practiced our hearts out like trainees. What else would trainees do? You’re a CEO, you know how it is.”

“Well, trainees follow orders....”

Shaking his head at their brash faces, Huh clicked his tongue:

“Anyway, these old folks really milked you kids for all you’ve got.”

“Please watch your words. This is our pro-du-cer, whom we all respect.”

They glared at him in mock outrage. Huh blinked, thinking, “What’s with them?” Especially toward Uju—like first-generation followers of a “Uju cult.” Puzzled, I grasped why when Uju’s co-composed title track “Attention” played again.

“So that’s why my song got roasted...”

At Pyo Hyung-won’s wry remark, everyone made bittersweet faces. Then the KM CEO exclaimed,

“Wow...”

“Why?”

“How much did you pay for this song?”

“50,000 won.”

“Geez.”

At the CEO’s “air dagger” glare, the members laughed awkwardly.

“If this weren’t TV, I’d pay you billions for it.”

Though exaggerated, he half meant it:

“A hit song is worth any amount.”

Managers spend hundreds of millions to push idols—if such a song existed, they would. To laypeople it might sound “nice enough,” but professionals saw its value. Huh thought ruefully, “Lemon Entertainment, right? Can’t poach your own neighbors’ kids.” As he eyed the laughing MiF members, he muttered, “No wonder you’re overjoyed—look at what we gave you.”

They’d trained them into performers, set their concept, and now delivered a killer song—almost as if PD Shin Mu-rok’s ancestor deity had anointed NewBlack with a golden aura, chanting “Descendants, may your ratings soar!” Huh winced at having a hit song wasted on another company’s idol. Then he addressed them slyly:

“Be honest—this song’s overkill for you.”

Eyes wide, the members listened as he continued,

“All I’ll say: from now on, bow every morning toward the person who writes your songs.”

“We already do.”

“Do it three times—morning, noon, and night.”

As laughter bubbled at the “three bows” joke, the industry pros—originally there for TV exposure—began to light up with professional interest:

“I want to take this on.”

The song’s quality and concept were too good. After so long without a compelling project, they felt the urge to work again. Because NewBlack had laid such an impeccable foundation, it was possible. While feeling newfound professional admiration for this group they barely knew, the experts began enthusiastically pitching ideas.

One hour, two hours, three hours...

With MiF members joining the marathon meeting, Huh proposed,

“I think we’ve reached consensus. Let’s call the producers and get their input.”

Seeing the experts nod eagerly, the cast narrowed their eyes:

“Honestly, this is just an excuse to talk to NewBlack, right?”

“Ahem...”

As the experts cleared their throats and a manager dialed NewBlack, the camera switched to them.

“They must be shooting an MV.”

“Preparing an album.”

As NewBlack members filled the screen, the experts’ curiosity and admiration shone:

“I wonder...”

They knew NewBlack’s variety and YouTube images well, but were curious what they were like in person. How had they set up such flawless groundwork? And how exactly did they write that song? As many questions swirled, the screen cut to NewBlack’s leader, whose pale skin and sculpted features, accented by dark eyeliner for the MV, made him look like an orchid in an ink painting. Experts murmured in awe—then actor Nam Do-hoon asked,

“Uju? Why do your eyes look like that? Did you film a crying scene for the MV?”

—“No.”

The solemn beauty replied. Everyone froze—those definitely looked like post-cry tears. But then Uju held up a special lunchbox:

—“The spicy pork is unbelievably good...”

—“So delicious...!”

—“If happiness is scored from 1 to 10, it’s an 11.”

His alabaster makeup made the five fluffy dumplings of rice and vegetables seem to float in the box, and everyone burst out laughing.

Then Huh Gang-min, the KM CEO, intervened with a kindly smile:

“You like meat?”

—“Uh...?”

The NewBlack members recognized him and widened their eyes.

“Yes—I’m Huh Gang-min of KM. Want to visit our company cafeteria? It’s like a hotel buffet with unlimited beef... guwaak!”

About to finish his pitch, he was pushed aside by the laughter-filled melee.

“Bi-ju, have you ever been to a dance studio?”

“Hello again—this is Pyo Hyung-won of ‘Song Discovery Challenge’.”

“I loved ‘A Thousand Dreams’—the musical...”

As everyone lunged to make their own points, the KM CEO tried again to steer the discussion under the guise of variety fun, but lost out. Producing talk fell by the wayside as everyone sprang their own agendas, and the set became a sea of laughter.

Suddenly, their network expanded.

“...What is happening?”

The experts gathered for A-TEN’s production showered us with attention. Only later did the cast explain it all: they’d known these industry giants since my trainee days at TJ. They’d obviously been struck by “Attention” and showed overwhelming enthusiasm—embarrassing yet gratifying. Especially for Bi-ju: after getting a choreographer he respected in his contacts, he grinned all day.

“She said my dancing is so good—if I ever want to film a cover, come hang out.”

“Oh...”

“That’d be so fun, right?”

Well, maybe not. That choreographer also seemed to love grueling, intense work. They shared only warm smiles.

“The lineup is incredibly stellar,” Ri-hyuk said, referring to the published producing roster: Pyo Hyung-won, director Yoo Young-ha, CEO Huh Gang-min. All assembled in one place—unprecedented.

“By the way, you said the cafeteria has a buffet. Is that true?”

“Hold on,” Jung-hyun tapped on his phone so fast it left an afterimage, then showed them a photo:

“It’s real.”

“What, Ashley?”

“I know I’m from the VIPS generation, sir.”

“Some of us don’t even know Canmore...”

Their company cafeteria looked like a franchise buffet. A celebrity chef grilled unlimited meat as Blink’s members posted shakily triumphant selfies of veggies in hand. We all nodded in agreement.

“We should build that at our company—grill tables and dining setups.”

“Great idea—then we never have to go out.”

They planned to turn Lemon Entertainment into a massive barbecue joint with in-house aged Korean beef. Mingi and Won-seok laughed at the joke, while Huh Gang-min simply swallowed. In that joyful atmosphere, we wrapped the MV shoot.

“Thank you for your hard work, director!”

“Pleasure to work with you—let’s never meet again.”

“I find we always do meet again~”

Having warmly completed the “Nakhwa” music video, we moved into full concert prep. We also recorded the MiF fan song in between.

“For this part, let’s come in half a beat earlier.”

—“Yes!”

“In ‘song,’ you want to say ‘sŏng’—please be mindful, sunbaenim.”

—“Yes!”

Since the entertainers had recorded many times before, it went smoothly. The shoot energy stayed bright, even though we spent two hours on one line. Kim Ui-ji cracked a joke,

“I have a good feeling—this is just like that curling special three years ago.”

“Right? It’s total déjà vu.”

“And the songs are so good.”

Perhaps wishful thinking, but hearing “just like three years ago” made us laugh. We’d heard the staff say there was “too much good footage to cut.” As the first episode of “Mister Producer” approached: we also appeared on other shows.

A TBC promo clip. Our faces were hidden by animal emojis to avoid spoilers.

“Why am I a fish?”

“Why am I always a bear?”

“Think, hyung.”

Even without faces or voices, everyone recognized us. Comments flew:

I chuckled as my siblings protested:

“Not two on each side!”

“That comment’s nonsense—when did we ever line up two and two....”

“....”

“Ji-ho! Move over here!”

We laughed at them reconfiguring into groups of two and two. Regardless, we were happy they expected our screen time.

And on the variety travel-reality front:

...the response to our healing-themed travel reality was overwhelmingly positive. I’d heard the main show ratings were strong for a reality series, but our clips dominated video rankings under “NewBlack’s Travel Diary.” The PD’s titling skills even improved over time. Though we’d built this feast for our Sup’le, it felt odd to have guests saying, “This place’s a hidden gem.” We were just glad fans seemed to enjoy it. Especially our part in last night’s edition—my pre-meeting video—drew tears in the comments:

“Whoa...”

Though my juniors sobbed on set, I didn’t expect that level of emotional response. It must be the bittersweet edit and the soft playing of “Night Sea”—that song is practically cheat-code for mood.

“Boo hoo...”

“Hee....”

We tried to feel moved, but the sniffles around us made the tears retreat. Then the maknae poked a vegetable with his fork and asked,

“By the way, they must have edited out the ghost.”

“Seems so?”

“Strange—they filmed the set on phone cameras, didn’t they?”

Indeed, comments on the travel diary’s bravery episode included:

Though other clips buried it, multiple viewers had sensed something odd.

“The production team might include it in a behind-the-scenes push, or just not air it.”

“Hmm.”

“Everything’s intentional.”

So, in the company lounge, scrolling phones and enjoying a quiet dinner with my juniors, Bi-ju, glancing at the TV, tapped my shoulder:

“Hyung, it looks like it’s starting.”

“Oh, here we go!”

The TV screen displayed the “Mister Producer” logo—Saturday at 7 PM. At last, the long-awaited idol-debut project’s first broadcast was beginning.