In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

The producer at Lemon Entertainment said,

“It seems we’ve found our final member.”

The moment Yoon Seok-hwan heard those words, he said he got goosebumps all over. Because the person Director Jo Gyu-hwan had zeroed in on was someone whose contact information he already had.

“I was really surprised. Isn’t it amazing?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty amazing.”

“You seem a bit lukewarm about it?”

When Yoon Seok-hwan wondered why I didn’t look excited, I explained.

“Maybe because you know Director Jo, hyung, but to me—as a third party—it feels strange.”

“In what way?”

“Honestly, sure, he’s supposed to be a fortune-teller who’s always right, I get that. But suddenly seeing someone’s face on TV and being instantly sold on them? Isn’t that a bit odd?”

“It does happen. You know those casting stories about famous actors? Casting directors will track someone down to their high school from a brief news clip.”

“I see.”

While we talked, the meat vanished. As the restaurant owner brought us doenjang-jjigae and bowls of rice, I drifted into my own thoughts. Lifting the lid off my rice, Seok-hwan hyung spoke.

“Enough background—so what will you do?”

“Huh?”

“The audition. Are you coming or not?”

Noting my hesitation, he reassured me.

“Just come and watch. I know you’ve been off practice for two years—I’m not expecting grand skills.”

“Oh, that’s not why I’m hesitating.”

My hesitation had another reason. This ability might only last for today because of the concussion. It could end in a few days with a pop-up message: “Trial version expired.” So I had to be cautious.

Smiling, I answered,

“I’ll come.”

“Really? I’ll tell the company so.”

“But there’s one condition.”

“Condition?”

As he excitedly reached for his phone to text, I said,

“I need some time.”

“Anything wrong?”

“I need a few days to see how things go. I’ll come as soon as I’m ready.”

Curiosity flickered in his eyes, but he seemed to decide not to press further.

After the CSAT, I spent two weeks watching what happened. Thankfully, nothing unusual occurred. The ability, now a familiar guest, showed no sign of disappearing. When I felt confident enough, I scheduled the audition.

Still, I lacked practice time. After all, a lot had happened in two weeks:

–“CSAT Student Who Saved 70-Year-Old Receives Police Commendation”

–“KG Group Sponsors ‘Galhyeon-dong Hero’ with ₩30 Million”

–“HyperStudy Provides One Year of Free Courses to the Hero Student”

Seeing these headlines on my phone made me click my tongue. The media coverage was incredible. Just one news appearance and sponsorship offers poured in. A major test-prep company offered free online course vouchers, and KG Group sent ₩30 million. Thirty million won. Seeing that sum in my account, I gaped. A strange ability, plus sponsorship money. In a way, missing the CSAT turned out to be more beneficial. I recall the proud feeling when I wired the entire ₩30 million to Grandma. She pretended to refuse but finally accepted. Our Kim Deok-soon is notoriously insincere.

Ding-dong. Switching to messenger alerts, my phone screen filled with messages:

KingGodKimDeoksoon [Do well on your exam]

KingGodKimDeoksoon [Humbly now—no arrogance]

KingGodKimDeoksoon [emoji]

I chuckled at the “fighting” emoji of a headband-wearing fist and sent ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) an affectionate reply before pocketing my phone.

I was in a back alley of Sinsa-dong, near Lemon Entertainment’s building. Following my phone’s map, I paused to check my outfit in a building’s glass: jeans, gray coat, scarf—the interview attire recommended online. I smoothed my hair sprayed into place and smiled. First impressions were fine. Now only the real thing remained.

A short walk brought me to Lemon Entertainment’s five-story office. A simple building with a black sign reading Lemon Entertainment in yellow letters. Before entering, I called Seok-hwan hyung.

“Sun Woo-joo?”

A pleasant, mid-low voice answered. A tall man in a coat holding takeout coffee—model-like proportions.

“Yes, that’s me. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jo Gyu-hwan. Hyung Seok-hwan told me about you.”

“Oh, yes. Hello.”

He had manners. Bowing slightly, I introduced myself.

“I’m Sun Woo-joo. Pleased to meet you.”

“It’s I who should say that.”

Director Jo Gyu-hwan smiled gently. I expected a reclusive, emotional artist, but he looked more like a successful businessman. He didn’t match the “fortune-teller” image at all. Handsome, but with subtly fox-like features.

He said,

“You must be surprised—being asked to audition so suddenly.”

“A bit.”

“Honestly, it’s rare for me too. It’s uncommon to see someone and think, ‘That’s the one.’”

“I’m honored.”

I smiled and added,

“I hope I’ll be good enough to meet your expectations.”

“No need to worry. Today, we’re looking at potential, not skill.”

Director Jo’s smile vanished into a thoughtful look.

“Ah, I almost forgot your gift.”

“Gift?”

“I had a feeling we’d meet, so I prepared one for you.”

He handed me a paper cup of coffee.

“Thank you very much.”

“Please, call on me if you need anything.”

“Likewise.”

“I’ll head in first. Take your time. If you wait in the practice room on B1, we’ll come down.”

Director Jo strode off, showing off his long legs. I took the cup and gave a wry smile. Coffee—like alcohol—didn’t agree with me. Too much caffeine made my heart race. Yet when I lifted the lid, the rising steam smelled of cocoa. Hot cocoa—my favorite drink. I thought it was a lucky accident, but recalling hyung’s story about Director Jo’s fortune-teller nickname gave me a strange feeling, as if bewitched by a fox. Well, probably just coincidence.

I sipped the cocoa and found the practice room in the basement. Only one door was open, so it was easy. While waiting for staff to come down, I admired the surroundings. As the proverb goes, “After three years, even a village dog can recite poetry”—just one glance gave me an impression of the place. A practice room reveals much about a company’s investment. Everything here was state-of-the-art. With such an environment, they must rank in the top one percent. Solid support for trainees—it made me glad I came.

As I hoped, company staff began arriving. One middle-aged man with glasses and a shaved head walked directly toward me. He had the friendliest face I’d seen, with a faint Busan accent.

“I’m Park Gyu-ho, CEO of Lemon Entertainment. You must’ve had a hard time getting here—from Gunsan, right?”

“Yes. Thank you for having me.”

“Let’s have a good time today.”

CEO Park smiled warmly and gestured to a seat. Once seated, he introduced the panel one by one: Director Jo Gyu-hwan; Director Yoon Seok-hwan; New Talent Team Leader; vocal trainer; dance trainer. Their evaluative gazes made me tense briefly, but I took a deep breath and relaxed.

“Shall we begin?”

The first stage was the camera test—to see how well I showed up on camera. No matter how handsome or beautiful, real-life and on-screen can differ. I struck various expressions and poses, and memories of elementary school auditions at TJ came back. How had that gone? Probably just as well as now...

“Amazing.”

CEO Park exclaimed.

“You look great in person and on camera. No wonder, given how tough TJ’s auditions are.”

The panel nodded in agreement. As expected, I passed the camera test with no question. The New Talent Team Leader looked at me as if I were top-grade Hanwoo beef—he seemed delighted. Perhaps because of my visuals plus something unique.

“I see you were discharged as an Army sergeant?”

“Yes. I enlisted as soon as I became an adult and was discharged shortly before the CSAT.”

“So military service won’t be an issue?”

All the judges were pleased to hear it wouldn’t interrupt activities. I smiled and acknowledged them. Since the company trusted Director Jo to the point of calling me in, it felt almost like I was pre-selected. But I couldn’t relax yet. It always felt good up to this point. Other companies worked the same way—initial interest in my looks or voice would vanish when I danced. That trauma made my mouth go dry. This time would be different. Clenching my fists, I resolved it would go well.

During a short break, cameras were reset and the panel watched eagerly. Sun Woo-joo, twenty-one this year, with six years as a TJ trainee and discharged Army sergeant in his background—and—handsome. CEO Park actually wrote that down. Someone people would look back at on the street, someone who looked like a store clerk might buy you dinner or an umbrella. Not just trendy handsome, but a timeless, universally appealing look. A slightly youthful face. I could understand how I survived six years despite poor dancing, but why insist on idols with such visuals was puzzling.

“Shall we hear your prepared song?”

“Yes.”

“What will you sing?”

“I’ll sing Jang So-won’s ‘Red Moon.’”

The judges nodded. The same thought passed through their minds: “Good song choice.” As a sixth-year trainee, choosing a piece like this showed poise. Picking a song with shrieking high notes or spotlight-grabbing choruses doesn’t improve odds. Entertainment execs hear top singers daily. Unless someone performed a stunt, they’re not shocked or awed by auditioners. “‘Red Moon’ has a wide range,” they thought. Red Moon is a solo by Jang So-won of the now-disbanded girl group Sugarfish. No explosive chorus, but varied pitch and tonal shifts—a great piece to gauge overall vocal level. The only drawback was its original key was for a woman...

Just then, an intro arranged for a male key played over the speaker. Clearly prepared for the audition. “Good thinking,” they murmured.

I calmly began to sing.

How I wish you’d just disappear

Don’t ask why

My wounded heart is already

Six feet under

At the first lines, CEO Park instinctively recognized:

“He’s talented.”

Objectively skilled. Despite a two-year break, he outdid most trainees. Did he manage the karaoke room in the military? “With three months of intense training, he’ll hit his natural level.” His breathing and resonance were perfect. A rock-solid technique. No embellishments were a drawback, but for an idol with under thirty seconds of solo, that didn’t matter. “His eye contact and expressions are steady and draw attention. No wonder a major company held onto him despite his dancing.”

Proud yet anxious at finding a gem discarded by others, I recalled that I’d been slated as the main vocal in TNT. In the idol industry, main vocals are rare. If someone with actor-level looks and strong singing skills still gets cut, how bad must his dancing have been?

Suddenly I remembered Yoon Director’s warning before the audition:

–You’d better not expect much dancing—it’s better for your mental health.

Now the song ended, and it was time for freestyle dance. CEO Park looked toward Director Yoon, closing his eyes tight as if bracing for disaster. “How bad can it be....” My heart pounded for the coming performance. Director Park took a gulp of water and waited. Then Director Jo pressed play on an instrumental electronic track. “...Huh?” When I began to dance, CEO Park could only look on in bewilderment.