In This Life, The Greatest Star In The Universe

Hanjo blinked at me.

“So basically...”

“Yes.”

“Chief brought a one-act drama schedule?”

“Ah, yes.”

To everyone wondering what on earth had happened, I explained from the beginning.

It started when I took coffee and dropped by the PBS variety department.

I said hello to PD Shin Murok and the writers I’m close with, and as a fellow variety worker I shared ideas if there were any good pitches.

And while I was at it, I promoted our new song.

—The “Goblin” promo this time was insane. From the treasure hunt to “This Is My Hometown.” As an industry person, I was impressed.

—We learned it all at MiF~

—Hahaha! Oh, come on... In that spirit, would you come on MiF once? Short segment?

—Sounds great!

So that’s how we got ourselves a schedule.

We also decided to do a short “Goblin” stage; when we brainstormed, the chemistry with the writers was perfect.

“...So when does the drama enter the chat?”

“Just wait a sec, Hanjo.”

While talking with PD Shin Murok about the holiday special and all that, I mentioned we’d landed a schedule.

In that conversation, the friend he introduced was PD Oh Myeonghan here.

“I also did some heavy sales on Hanjo’s acting. Handsome, tall, and looks upright.”

“Ah...”

While Hanjo got a little shy, the other Street Boys wore faces like they’d overheard something they shouldn’t have.

Right around then, PD Oh cut in.

“It’s a script that won last year’s drama contest, but it hasn’t been produced yet.”

“Ah, I see...”

“I’d love it if you’d consider it positively, Hanjo.”

Then he handed over a drama script, saying to have a comfortable read, and left.

“Goodbye!”

“See you.”

While the crew filmed the PD’s tired back as he walked off, we all gathered around the script in Hanjo’s hands.

LB touched it with a fascinated look.

“Wow. First time I’ve seen a drama script.”

“But what exactly is a one-act?”

As the Street Boys murmured, Jiho cleared his throat.

“A short drama’s called a one-act. Two episodes at most, usually just one.”

“Ah. So a short drama.”

“Terrestrial networks run a yearly contest.”

Networks hold script contests every year to hire new writers.

They often produce the selected scripts; a lot of new actors and directors debut through it.

Senior Seo Noeul, who appeared with me in Our Family Is Alien, also debuted in a one-act.

Along with web dramas, it’s basically the first step to try acting.

“...”

Even getting into the car after leaving PBS, Hanjo couldn’t take his eyes off the script.

Shff. Shff-shff.

Swallowing hard, he studied the script and let out a long breath.

“How is it?”

“...Good.”

“Decent, right?”

“It’s really good. Better than I expected—I’m honestly surprised.”

Naturally, he hadn’t just brought anything.

Our maknae beside me popped his eyes round.

“What is it? What’s it about?”

“A vet running a failing animal clinic gets into an accident one day and swaps souls with his dog.”

“Oh.”

“And from then on, business booms.”

Unlike the original prickly vet, the dog-possessed vet crushes it with insane salesmanship—that kind of story.

Since he used to be a dog, he can communicate with other dogs, too.

It’s a one-act where the owner and the dog bicker and comedically run the clinic.

“But the end’s a little sad.”

“It is.”

It had that trademark one-act bittersweet twist and wrapped in a wistful, memory-laden tone.

At first I wanted it for our maknae, but—

Because it’s a profession with a long training period, it fit poorly for Jiho, who tops out as a college kid at best.

“So bottom line: you like the script?”

“Hugely.”

Scratching his cheek, Hanjo said,

“But I’m not sure my acting’s up to it.”

“Don’t worry about that part. You’ve been taking acting lessons, right?”

“Right.”

“And...”

Jiho and I knocked shoulders and—ta-da!

“If it won’t work, we’ll make it work!”

“Acting on-site service!”

“Can’t act? We’ll make you a genius actor in 24 hours!”

“Still can’t? We’ll refund you, take your money again, and do another 24 hours!”

Jiho and I, perfectly in sync, did a little dum-chit dum-chit dance, and the Street Boys burst out laughing.

“Hanjo hyung’s done for. Done.”

“Those two never let go once they bite.”

Smiling contentedly, Hanjo looked out the car window at the road.

“...There’s nowhere to run.”

“Want to run? We’ll make sure you can’t!”

“Stopghrrk.”

“Stop? That word isn’t in our dictionary~”

We giggled at his gritted-teeth reaction.

By Tuesday morning, the three-day, two-night “manager special” shoot wrapped safely.

We ran events together.

We did a pictorial shoot schedule together and had a great time in all kinds of ways.

“...Don’t ever come back.”

“Bwahahaha!”

At the goodbye after the special shoot,

Hanjo sprawled on a company lounge sofa, lifted only his head, and flopped as he looked at me and Jiho.

“I seriously don’t want to see your faces for a while...”

“What’s wrong, hyung?”

The maknae crouched to meet his eye level.

“Still, it’s true you got better thanks to us, right?”

“I did... I did get better... but my life got shorter.”

The skin under Hanjo’s eyes was dark and hollow as he said it.

He creaked like a puppet with cut strings, and the other Street Boys smiled.

“I’m never doing acting stuff.”

“Look at the pen marks on your lips. He bit that and ran lines for six hours last night.”

“He’s not Hanjo anymore, he’s Half-jo...”

“He’s just ‘Jo’ at this point. The ‘Han’ is fading.”

Hanjo’s brow twitched at the teasing, but he looked too spent to answer.

Sway.

“Ugh... ngh... up we go.”

Groaning, Hanjo stood in front of us. Both cheeks were hollowed, his gaunt face creaking as it turned.

“Junhyun.”

“Yes.”

Junhyun walked up and grabbed Hanjo’s neck.

While the Street Boys watched, thinking he was about to slam him!—Junhyun wiggled his fingers and massaged his neck.

Ten seconds later—

“Huh...?”

Hanjo’s eyes widened as he smoothly rolled his neck.

“It moves.”

“So you use Heal now, too, Junhyun hyung...”

“Kill then revive, that was wild.”

“Hey!” Hanjo barked, then noticed his voice was back to normal and went, “Oh.”

“Even my voice? How did you do that...?”

“We don’t know.”

“And I don’t know either.”

Junhyun answered with a gentle smile.

“I just did what I used to do when we had Baekgu as a kid, kneading like this...”

“Baekgu!”

Clapping in delight, the Street Boys turned their heads.

“Then this guy’s Hanggu...”

“Khz mr.”

We all cracked up.

“You guys always get me into something,” Hanjo said, laughing.

“Anyway, thank you so much for the last three days. It was a blast.”

“Waaaaaah!”

“If I’m being honest... I want to say let’s keep working together. The schedules you guys pulled in three days are more than our company got in three months.”

“Bwahaha!”

“I’m not joking, seriously...”

“Facts.”

“Don’t go... stay with us forever...”

I patted our teary-eyed peers.

Ri Hyuk chuckled softly.

“Well. We had fun in our own way. It was fun being with... people we’re close with.”

“It’s really a shame we couldn’t hang out.”

Everyone agreed with Biju.

Even last night, we all passed out the second we got back to the dorm.

Lex grinned and waggled his brows.

“Are you free after Lunar New Year? If you are, let’s meet up then.”

“Love it.”

“We can swing by NewBlack’s dorm, too.”

That made everyone murmur.

“Come to think of it, we’ve never been. Only heard stories from the Teen Spirit seniors.”

“Yeah? What’d they say?”

“They said it’s heaven.”

Eyes shining, Giwon said,

“If you open Fridge 1, there’s chicken, pork, and beef all lined up by cut. Fridge 2 is full of desserts. Fridge 3 has drinks lined up like a vending machine.”

“They said you’ve got a ton of game consoles.”

“And there’s a Junhyun Gym on the first floor.”

“They said just don’t go to the second floor. Don’t even approach the second-floor studio.”

Clearly a game of telephone had gone wild.

“That’s exaggerated.”

“Not that much.”

We shook our heads.

Then, to our peers dreaming of NewBlack Land, we sent an invite to come by sometime.

“...You say it’s exaggerated, but why do you have mobile invites.”

“People wanted to come so badly we switched to an invite system.”

If you behaved, we handed out one ticket each—such was the system.

We waved at the chuckling Street Boys.

“You’re on Korea Music Awards the day after tomorrow, right? See you there.”

“See you then!”

“Great work!” We high-fived and waved goodbye.

It was a bittersweet parting with peers we’d grown fond of since debut.

As we shut the door and stepped out, leaving them waving with gloomy faces—

—Don’t go...

—We’re still standing right behind the door, okay? Open it and come back in! Quick!

—NewBlack... S.T.A.Y...

Their voices dripping with regret made us burst out laughing.

After handing things over to the PR staff and management team at the DNS Media building,

We got in the crew’s car and headed to the TBC building.

It was time to decide the winner of the three-day, two-night manager showdown.

“Hello!”

“Oh hey! You’re here?”

It had only been about two days, but the Sagan cast already felt dear.

Even Eunseong.

“Manager Bbang~!”

“Eunseong-ahhh!”

“Did you do well?”

“You?”

“I crashed and burned!”

We laughed at Eunseong’s line.

He must’ve had a brutal three days; he grabbed me and started chattering.

“I mean, the writers could’ve thought it through a little. Because it was a girl group, there was nothing I could do.”

“Right.”

“I mean I shouldn’t be thinking, but I keep worrying like, what if it looks like this? And I keep being self-conscious! Me!”

“So you were upset you had to think. Yeah. That happens.”

“Right? You know I’m good at living without thinking~?”

“What a thing to brag about.”

Because it was a boy group assigned to manage a girl group, he was going crazy not knowing what to do.

Park Hobeom came over and slung an arm around Eunseong’s shoulders.

“Quit whining. He talks like that, but he did great.”

“Yeah. Eunseong’s good at everything.”

As Eunseong’s mouth curled into a wide grin, Park Hobeom asked us,

“How was it as Street Boys’ managers?”

“Fun.”

“Nothing special happened? Like some funny incident.”

“Well...”

We lowered our voices and chuckled darkly.

“You can see for yourselves in the VCR.”

“Aw. What a waste.”

He must’ve been trying to gauge how the results went.

Patting Eunseong’s shoulder, Park Hobeom said,

“I wanted to lull you and probe. Guess the smokescreen op failed.”

“I was a smokescreen?”

“Yeah. A smokescreen only works if you don’t know you are one.”

“Knew it...”

Smokescreen op failed with the guy who didn’t even know what a smokescreen was; Park Hobeom wandered off with Eunseong in tow.

“Alright, we’ll start prep for filming soon! Please take your seats!”

“Okay!”

This was a studio borrowed from People Go.

Now it was time to watch the manager ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) evaluations after monitoring the footage.

We sat five on one side and seven on the other, and the folks across narrowed their eyes.

“Why do you look so relaxed...”

“How about our NewBlack folks? Did you do well?”

“Well...”

We answered modestly.

“To be honest, we don’t think we can win.”

“Oh.”

“We don’t think we can lose.”

We flashed the cocky variety smile with the kids.

Honestly, after landing two schedules on top of everything, it didn’t feel like we’d lose.

Our confident reaction made the Sagan cast murmur.

“What is that?”

“There’s definitely something.”

Mr. Min Taewon rubbed his shaved head.

“What, did you even land a schedule? I can’t think of an explanation other than that.”

“...”

His words hit the bull’s-eye, and as we were about to answer—

The other cast members pushed back.

“Come on. Be reasonable, hyung.”

“Who lands schedules on a variety show. You visiting a fire station doesn’t mean you fight a fire.”

“That seems off to me.”

Min Taewon’s shiny head dimmed like a sad lightbulb.

We met the kids’ eyes.

“What do we say.”

“They’ll react when the time comes... I guess.”

Meanwhile, the ending shoot for People Go finally began.

As we all chanted “Go go, People Go!”, PD Do Jungi grinned and asked,

“How was it? Your thoughts on working as managers, not entertainers, these past three days?”

“Hard.”

“Brutal. You have to manage all day.”

Everyone agreed.

Singers sing, actors act, variety folks do variety—but managers have to manage everything that happens on site.

At an event, is the audio okay, is there debris on the stage floor, is there a decent waiting space for singers, what’s the artists’ current condition, are there any weirdos.

They shared how it wasn’t one or two things to worry about.

“Alright. Then we’ll show the results evaluated by working idol managers.”

The studio monitors lit with the VCR.

Our footage rolled first.

From waking the Street Boys in the morning to the live music show, everything flashed by in summary.

The managers sitting with score sheets watched quietly, then went oh.

My heart thudded.

[They’re genuinely good.]

While the Sagan cast went “we knew it” and sighed, a shot of Ri Hyuk setting up water bottles went by.

One manager stroked his chin with a pleased face.

[From the start of the music show to the end, it’s perfect. There really are days like that. A day when the schedule goes perfectly smooth? It feels like watching one of those.]

[Perfect.]

[Honestly... we could use this as training material for new managers as is.]

Everyone nodded at the veteran team manager’s words.

We licked our lips and swallowed, and only then did we relax. At least we were far from the penalty zone.

Then one manager offered a different take.

[But I think we should factor in that they’re working singers. They know music shows really well. Compared to ordinary variety guests, they have that advantage.]

As the Sagan cast bobbed their heads in agreement,

The veteran manager shook his head.

[I disagree.]

[Sorry?]

[Sure, being singers means they know music shows better... but if you look closely, from setting the water to everything needed for rehearsal, they just tick through it.]

[True.]

[That’s not something you learn in a day. It’s possible because the artists themselves always know exactly what their managers are doing for them.]

As the other managers went ooh, he continued.

[Put simply, they pay attention to what their managers do for them day to day. That’s why they’re good on site.]

[Right.]

Other managers agreed and added,

[Honestly, these are the people we’re most grateful for when we meet them as managers.]

[But they’re scary too, these ones. It means they watch and remember everything managers do behind the scenes.]

[That’s also true. Oof...]

[You can’t let your guard down.]

We suddenly became scary people.

While the managers had a serious talk like, “NewBlack, scary folks, huh...”, we blinked.

“That’s not it, though...”

We’d never thought that deeply.

We just remembered what we should do in case our managers weren’t there.

Not that it would ever happen, but if we had to do something in a hurry, we couldn’t be flustered.

“Hyung. They say we’re scary.”

“Scary people...”

My heart fluttered at our first evaluation that didn’t treat us as trivial.

I pulled a suitably fearsome face and basked, and the Sagan cast let out a helpless laugh.

Next was the Sagan team’s turn.

As managers for girl group Serenity, the seven dashed around.

[Oh no, that mic looks loose.]

[Managers should catch that.]

Since it was their first time doing a music show, they stumbled at first.

But the faster they improved as time went on seemed to earn them bonus points.

One person in particular was getting great marks for hard-carrying.

[Sunbae, the monitoring is ready.]

[Anything uncomfortable on stage? Is the outfit okay?]

As Sagan’s maknae Eun Kevin periodically regained his senses and zipped around, the managers were impressed.

[He’s good. Kind of similar to NewBlack earlier...]

[He knows what he needs to do.]

[So he just wasn’t doing it normally, Kevin.]

Puffed-up Eunseong bristled at the follow-up comments, but everyone laughed and agreed.

And so the score was tied.

[It’s hard to say one side is superior. Objectively, NewBlack did much better... ]

[But you have to consider Sagan’s disadvantage.]

[So we’ll call it a tie.]

As word came that both sides tied at 30 points each for music show schedule management, tension filled the air.

Across the other categories, there wasn’t a big gap either; it swung back and forth.

And—

“Huh?”

The final category appeared.

[Sales Score]

Maybe because the keyword felt random, the Sagan cast buzzed.

“Sales?”

“Do they mean promotion?”

“Were we supposed to do sales too?”

As the Sagan cast looked flustered, we smiled.

“Uh...?”

“Oh, what’s that?”

The videos we’d been waiting for started to roll.