Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Where does our story leave our singer on his pilgrim’s progress? Has he passed the point of certain destruction, and done battle with the one and almighty evil, or do further trials line his path? Behold, the road is yet to end, and before looms another summit to surmount. To best the meddling of the archdevil will prove a tough battle, but the singer must persist to reach his goal. This is the point of no return, from which he must fly or fall.

The singer, though, is supported by friends. As he will find, these friends will be invaluable in his quest to master singerhood. Too he will find the pillar of strength that is culture, beliefs and traditions which touch all that his voice does. Years of training have prepared him for this moment, even if it is not the training this battle requires. His conviction may touch hearts yet.

Onward we shall go, as lightning and thunder gather.

There is no elimination that is not cruel, but this elimination, at the very least, spares the majority of the trainees. It is never easy to choose which of your fellows to save, but at least there is an option to save two. It is to Minjae’s relief that Jaeyoung is snatched from the jaws of non-existence, swallowing his tears, and Jiho, who takes his place with a relieved acceptance. The only disquieting outcome is Sion’s drop from top three to a middling ranking, but the closer one gets to the end of the show, the less time there is to let doubt take over. There is a new round to compete in, with new teammates to boot. So it goes.

Minjae is often one of the first to arrive at the company’s practice space in the morning. He switches on all the lights in the hallway, as per usual, and unlocks the restroom door. He passes the balcony by the entrance, which, in the afternoon, is the increasingly regular haunt of one Seo Yundeok. He would have sat down in the common area to complete his journalling exercise, but his ears pick up soft, uncertain chords drifting out from one of the vocal practice rooms. Before long, he stands before the door, fingers pushing down the handle. He encounters no resistance.

Seungho sits on a bench facing a keyboard. It is the Seungho that is older, who lacks the boisterousness of a boy and the burgeoning muscles of a man. His arms are stiff against his sides, a statue newly chiselled out of its mold. His head is bent, picking out white and black notes with deliberation. An F# becomes a G becomes an A, spelling out an ubiquitous melody. All men will become brothers….

Minjae must have made a noise, because Seungho turns around, shyness and consternation in his wide eyes.

“Is that Ode to Joy?” asks Minjae, by way of explaining his presence.

“Ah,” says Seungho, shoulders relaxing in relief. “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.”

“It wasn't written for piano, though,” says Minjae. He moves towards the keyboard and places a casual hand on the keys, made familiar to him by spending months in these training rooms. With the slightest pressure, a chord sounds in the cheerful tonic of D major, shifting in tonality as his fingers move of their own accord. Harmony does not make a song, of course. For completeness, his right hand joins his left, solid but light in its approach. It strikes out the pitches of let the man who has had the fortune to be a friend to his friend…  let him join our songs of praise.

Here is what Beethoven orchestrates before the choral part of Movement IV of Symphony No. 9, better known as Ode to Joy . After a frenzy of instrumental chaos, the ensemble quiets down for the cellos and double basses to state the theme. As the theme repeats, other instruments flesh out its intricacies in the fashion of instrumental variation. Maybe there is some fun to adding embellishments to the original tune, to adding octaves to a single line, the equivalent to singing up the octave instead of following the score. Before long, though, Minjae’s conscious effort to produce new iterations of the tune interferes with his muscle memory, and his mind goes blank. He drops his hands away with an abashed grin. Seungho claps nonetheless.

“Very impressive,” he says. “It’s hard to improvise.”

Minjae shrugs. “I was just playing around.” He is almost certain he would have done better as a child, when all of his ten-year-old energy was devoted to learning piano sonatas and winning competitions. He can still see his father’s long fingers striking the keys, his careful hand gesturing for Minjae to repeat, to follow.

“Still,” says Seungho. “You play really well.”

Seungho picks up the tune on the keys again with more force, weaving the music together like fitting pieces in a puzzle. Minjae listens to him hum under his breath, the lyrics of the song lost in another language. It is enough motivation for Minjae to add his voice to the non-lexical choir, ushering Seungho to the end of the verse with a triumphant finish. Sometimes, all you need is an organising force in the guise of a human voice.

“Minjae-hyung,” asks Seungho, “why do you love singing so much?”

Is there an easier answer? “It makes me happy.”

“I get that,” says Seungho, in the tone of a patient, understanding dongsaeng . “But why do you like to sing with other people?”

This is a harder question. A more verbose artist would have waxed poetic about the beauty of multiple timbres, or the role of duets in establishing affective bonds. As it stands, though, Minjae is just a singer aiming to become a myeongchang , a master. Any words would have fallen short of his soul’s expression, so he settles on this: “It’s more fun to share a song with others, I guess.” For as long as he can remember, his father had sung with his brothers, at least before their solo careers. His aunts, with careers of their own, would sing together before mealtimes and the cleaning up after. Singing together had simply settled in his bones as the right way to go about making music.

“I see,” says Seungho seriously. He flattens his fingers against the keyboard, producing a dissonant chord. “Well, I guess I wanted to tell you that I won’t be singing with all of you anymore.”

Minjae’s mouth drops open. “You’re leaving?” Trainees have left the show before it had begun airing, but not during it. “Really?”

“I don’t think I can avoid it,” Seungho says. “It’s a shame I couldn’t complete the show, but I have no regrets.”

Minjae stills, letting Seungho’s words sink in. Janghee, Seungho’s same-aged friend, has been eliminated. So have his other friends, the ones he sits in the cafeteria with, Jaehyeon and Sunyub and Hangyeol. At some point, maybe sharing songs with others had stopped being fun for him. Maybe this sort of singing is not part of his envisioned future, and perhaps the experience of this show does not fit into it, either. Of course, this is only an assumption.

“We’ll miss you,” Minjae says. The back of his mind snaps back to practical realities, like Seungho’s team—Sion’s team—having to perform as five instead of six. Easier to coordinate, perhaps. Harder to get a win with. The forefront of his mind remains truthful to his strongest sentiment: “It was fun spending time with you.”

A few months ago, Minjae had hovered over Seungho’s shoulder in front of a vlogger’s camera and called him princess . Now, he is hovering over Seungho’s shoulder again, in front of a keyboard, in front of a song that calls for jubilance in the face of another departure. Here is, at least, another memory they have created, one song shared.

“Let’s keep in touch when this is over,” says Seungho. He smiles, a lopsided thing that captures all the charm of an eighteen-year-old. “Good luck, hyung. Fight for me too.”

“What’s our concept?” asks Hyeonuk, after the staff sit them down to film a discussion scene, as they always do on the first day the teams practice together. The atmosphere is best described as jovial. It is rare to get so many same-age teammates on one team, and Lin stands up for himself just fine.

“K-rak,” Takuma answers, then blinks in spite of himself. “K-rak … what’s that?”

Hakseong strums the air in an imitation of playing an electric guitar, the ones used for rock and roll.

“Ah, rock,” says Minjae, copying Hakseong’s motions. His left hand, though, accounts for the frets on the neck.

Takuma mimicks Minjae's strumming like they are playing a telephone game. “Is it just rock?” he says. “Ahhh…”

“It’s the character for ‘enjoyable’,” one of the staff informs them, to get them back on track. Hakseong immediately deflates in hissing laughter. Hyeonuk matches him by guffawing openly.

“Rak as in ‘enjoyable’?” Minjae turns towards her just in time to see her nod.

“So it’s not rock,” Takuma exclaims.

“It’s ‘enjoyment’, then?” says Minjae.

“Yes.”

“Oh, Hakseongie-hyung,” says Lin, almost pitying. He gives Hakseong a look, as if saying, traditional Korean culture does exist in this country, you know?

“So that’s why it’s not the English ‘rock’, but ‘rak’,” Minjae confirms. The staff member nods and gives him the thumbs up.

“I really thought it was—” Hakseong says sheepishly.

Yuseop, who has been listening to them all, speaks up. “The vibe feels a bit like the ganggangsulae dance.”

“We’re not dancing in a circle, right?” says Hyeonuk. “That would be a bit boring.”

“It’s about Korean spirit,” Yuseop retorts in jest, exaggerating each syllable for the cameras. “Put some heart into it.”

The staff ask them to talk about various topics: the opposing team Boy in Luv , for one, and the strengths of its members. Then they drop the news.

“The Interim Check will be held tomorrow.”

“Really?” tears out of Minjae’s mouth before he gives it a second thought. Next to him, Yuseop groans and buries his head in his hands.

“To… tomorrow, you said?” Hyeonuk says, lost. At the staff member’s confirmation, his head joins Yuseop’s in its downward arc.

Takuma, however, has no misgivings. “We have to win.”

“The benefits,” says Hakseong, as if he is waking up from a dream. “We have to get them.”

The Thunderous boys are a team. Not that Everybody had not been a team, or Ringa Linga had not been a team, but Thunderous is a team in the sense that everyone has a part to play without overshadowing each other.

Hyeonuk, strategist extraordinaire, brings everyone to the same page: in order to win, we have to increase the lowest score. Because the individual scores are totalled, all six of our members must aim to get the perfect score of 800 points to win. Takuma, their drill instructor, makes this goal a reality, checking everyone’s formations, showing that the title of Akuma Takuma is not just for show. He corrects Hakseong the most, but it is Hakseong’s and Yuseop’s banter that boosts morale. Lin is no slouch either. He executes every motion perfectly, and when Minjae asks him to explain a movement, he demonstrates it and makes it digestible.

It is familiar, this team. Half of the Growl team are present, and Hakseong had performed with Minjae in Ringa Linga. Hyeonuk has a personality that makes him an affable teammate, and then there is Yuseop, who is quick to pinpoint priorities.

“Let’s divide up the parts,” Yuseop had said, the olive keffiyeh he always wears during practice draped loosely over his shoulders. He leans forward, a picture of casual self-assurance that comes with training and experience. No one had contested him temporarily taking centre stage. Having been in a big show lends him an air of gravitas that neither Takuma, another survival show veteran, or Lin, a trainee with a company, can match.

“I want that,” says Lin, pointing twice. “The I was born crooked.”

The six of them laugh. Of course Lin would be fond of his greatest performance on the show thus far.

“Crooked you’ll be,” says Yuseop, writing his name down. “And how about the intro? You’d start us off great.”

Yuseop moves through the distribution with an ear open for everyone else, asking for counsel, weighing opinions. He takes Hyeonuk’s penchant for sing-talking into account, and lets Hakseong choose whatever he is comfortable with. Takuma takes pleasure in announcing that he will spit—“and then lead the dance break!” which Yuseop notes down with an assenting thumbs-up. It is a far cry from Jang Hyunjun’s iron fist.

“Minjae, you said you wanted the vocalists’ lines?”

“Yeah, from here they come,” says Minjae. He tests it out, breathing from his core, and the casual undulation of the melody flows freely from his tongue. Yuseop claps his hands.

“That’s it. No one else here can do better with that.” He scribbles Minjae’s name next to each of the lines. “Then I can follow you with all eyes on the gathering….” His voice rises, high and sustained, drawing in stagnant air and letting it ring out with twofold force.

Back and forth, catch and flow. Where collaboration with Hyunjun is meticulously tested and earned, singing with Yuseop is an impromptu affair. It is as easy as being in an empty classroom, warming up their voices for band practice. Here are two singers laid bare, talking to each other.

“That will sound good,” remarks Hyeonuk. “The song’s structured well for us. Two vocalists, two rappers, a dancer… Hakseong…”

“Yes, I’m a unique existence,” says Hakseong, prompting general laughter.

Yuseop stretches. “All set, then. Let’s get practicing.” He rakes back his hair, the pinnacle of coolness, and clasps Minjae’s hand, pulling him up.

The concept, according to Stray Kids, can be illustrated on a Korean folding screen. Picture this: clouds, rolling drums, and a lightning-blue flame. The air is acrid with ozone, bitter on the tip of your tongue. You stand on the dais of the city wall, and, if you strain your ears, you might hear the sound of incoming rain. You wait for the slightest touch of the wind. As your clothes flutter, you let yourself leap to its music, that rumble of thunder. In the story that Thunderous narrates, you are the ghostly fire that possesses ardent revolutionaries, here to silence naysayers and overthrow false kings.

The first time they run through the first chorus, Minjae lets his feet move in step with Takuma’s animated gestures and Hakseong’s solid encouragement. He imagines Yuseop’s knife-like hand as his: olive keffiyeh on his arm, tassels shaking in the dance-induced breeze. Hyeonuk’s easy speech buoys his transition into the dance break, and with Lin leading at the front, following choreography has never seemed easier. Each of their movements become an extension of Minjae’s own. As they roll and snap their shoulders, their goals blend into one common, burning flame: victory and debut.

What is a singer? Or, more precisely, what is a sorikkun?

We already know the basic definition of this term. A sorikkun is a singer of pansori. When scholars want to emphasise their performerhood, they are called gwangdae, and gwangdae are lower-class artisans, jesters and fools who prance around in masks. A sorikkun, however, is only used for singers of pansori .

What is pansori?

Gathering sound. A place for sound. A dais on which singers perform a story, folding fans outstretched to company both polite and profane. A performance of pansori consists of four main elements: aniri, the narrative driving the song; jangdan, the rhythmic cycle of the performance; balim, the expressive gestures; and chang, the singing. In the olden days, pansori was the people’s song.

That was in the past.

The people’s songs now are pop songs. The live performance called pansori has been relegated to an ossified art, protected by UNESCO as Korea’s Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity. Its sorikkun struggle to remain relevant, borrowing from popular modes of presentation: videos, recordings, microphones. K-pop musical acts, struggling to distinguish themselves in the industry, appropriate aspects of pansori for financial ends. Masters of another sort distinguish themselves, becoming household names: Big Bang. EXO. BTS. Blackpink.

In these genres’ struggle for airtime and fame, perhaps we can glimpse commonalities in between: pop singers and sorikkun both desire to command the attention of the world around them, and no one makes it more explicit than Stray Kids.

After all, the Korean name of Stray Kids’ Thunderous is Sorikkun. These thunderous ones are, in effect, singers of a sort of pansori.

“What’s the concept for your team?” asks C-Mate Solar, during the interim check the next day.

“It’s K-rak ,” answers the Thunderous team in a chorus.

“What kind of concept is K-rak ?” says C-Mate Solar.

“The enjoyment of Korea?” Hyeonuk offers.

“The enjoyment of Korea…”

“With the Chinese character rak for enjoyment,” adds Minjae.

“What do you know about Korean enjoyment, Lin?” C-Mate Ingyoo challenges the team.

“We’re injecting the concept into him,” is Yuseop’s solid answer. It charms Solar into laughter.

“Lin’s father is Korean,” says Hyeonuk, ever-helpful.

“Oh, is that so.” Ingyoo feigns surprise.

“What about Takuma?” says Solar, cheerful now.

“We’re injecting the concept into him,” Yuseop says again. That leads everyone to smile, even the opposing Boy in Luv team.

Indeed, what is K-rak ? Here is what the C-Mates will say, for feedback: There’s no added flavour to your version of K- rak right now. you have to approach it like a period drama. You must think of yourself as Confucian scholars. Or think of yourself as “Thunderous Talent”.

You know how Confucian scholars walk with their hands behind their backs? I think you need to take that scholarly feel by using gestures like this. As if saying “I have arrived” or something like that. Head raised, back arched, hands folded: Solar embodies the pinnacle of ancient masculinity.

You must write your own narrative.

Is a narrative all K-rak is, then?

“That’s it!” C-Mate Hanhae points at Hyeonuk. The Thunderous team has been performing their lines for the vocal interim check, one by one. “Repeat that, will you?”

Hyeonuk does not bat an eyelash to being put on the spot. As he raises his microphone, his eyes grow lofty, distant. His tone evens out, and his speech becomes a poem imbued with a predetermined cadence: “Go back woodcutter, there’s nothing to cut here. There’s no way they can lower my ego, for I stick to my jutdae.”

Spiel finished, he slouches back to the everyday Hyeonuk: a boy wearing a self-deprecating smile, who would not look out of place in at the local university. Someone should have clapped at the transformation.

“This,” says Hanhae, “is what you need. He’s telling a story. Not only that, but he’s telling you something about his character. It doesn’t sound like the original. Notice how he starts off laid-back and punches the syllables at the end—that’s the contrast I want to see. That’s the energy this song needs.”

“Thank you,” says Hyeonuk, bowing, and valiantly ignores how a flummoxed redness creeps up his ears as Hanhae beams at him.

“With Hyeonuk and Lin, you can create a strong flow,” Onestar pipes up. “You also have other elements in your team. Think of how to combine them and create a truly outstanding performance.” He catches Minjae’s gaze. Onestar is not a smiler, but it is not hard to see the kind of unflappable pride and trust he conveys. All at once, Minjae is seven again, searching for his father on the wide stage of a national singing competition.

“We’ll do our best,” Yuseop says, nodding out of the corner of Minjae’s eye. Minjae looks at his sneakers, too far away from his torso and too large to be a boy’s, and his seven-year-old self settles back into his twenty-year-old chest. “Thank you for your feedback.”

The Thunderous ones walk away from the interim check with motivated spirits. According to their mentors, they have one component of the performance collected. It now falls upon them to realise the rest.

Pitted against the K-rak concept is the energetic concept: Boy in Luv. Or, in Korean: Sangnamja, meaning a real man, a man’s man.

Many of this team’s members certainly look the part of real men. There are classically handsome figures like Gihyeon, and Hyunjun embodies manliness in every motion. Yundeok is the pinnacle of a man’s man, with his sculpted muscles and immaculate form. With high-ranking individuals and a suitable concept, it goes without saying that they are favourites for the win. At this stage, though, it seems like a fallacy to call this team “competition”. Two thirds of them had been Minjae’s teammates, once, and Miraku is a dear dongsaeng. Soft-spoken Jaeyong, who sits with Minjae at mealtimes, is no enemy either.

It should not have gone like this.

The interim assessment should not have gone like this.

A washout is what this interim check is. The real men are not real men, or perhaps they are real men, because men who do not care enough about the art of performance would fumble through dance like this. Perhaps “men” is too big of a word for boys, struggling to fill the shoes of an inimitable idol group. Perhaps all are true. Whatever the cause of the outcome, Boy in Luv gets a blistering scolding. They are lucky it is only a scolding, and not a one-way ticket to elimination via on-site and online voting.

“How was it?” says Sion, bouncing with anticipation when the Thunderous team reenters the waiting room. He is standing in a loose semi-circle with Jaeyoung and Jung Hyunjun, fellow members of the But I Like You team. “How was the interim assessment?”

“We were okay,” says Minjae, letting his arm wrap around Sion in a one-armed hug. It does not seem appropriate to brag about their performance, not now. “They suggested that we go to the Hanok Village to get more immersed into the concept.”

“Ah, I’m jealous.” Sion pouts. “When will I get to do anything with you, hyung?”

“You’re already monopolising Minjae-hyung ’s time outside of practice,” Jung Hyunjun points out, as he flips his hair out of his eyes.

The hubbub of the room is loud, almost normal enough to mask the sound of the door opening and a new team piling in. Miraku, shoulders weighed down by weariness, is the first to enter. Sion, always on the lookout for a same-aged friend, ignores Hyunjun and peels away to meet him.

“You don’t seem happy about the fact that you get a trip to Hanok Village,” says Jaeyoung. His brows are arched, almost quizzical.

“It was a minor thing.” Minjae’s fingers find the collar of his sponsored t-shirt, adjusting it, picking it up by the shoulders. “It just feels so…” It is hard to word how he feels without the microphone on his chest picking up what he says and presenting it to editors on a silver platter.

“Ugh, I feel weird about myself,” Minjae hears in his periphery.

“You made too many mistakes,” says Jang Hyunjun’s voice accusingly.

Minjae tries to say, over the chatter, “It would be nice to go. But when I saw the other team, it just felt—”

“He apologised during the performance,” Gihyeon announces to the room. Minjae turns just in time for Gihyeon to stab a finger at Yundeok’s chest, for him and Hyunjun to rib him with a chorus of: “Why did you apologise? Why did you apologise?”

“I wish there was a better way,” Minjae finishes, “to do these kinds of tests.”

“I wasn’t trying to apologise. I bowed my head out of habit,” Yundeok protests, but the damage is done. A wave of human mass surges towards Yundeok, all elbows looking for soft flesh to jab into.

Outside of practice, Yundeok has a charm that gathers others around him, a gameness that allows him to suffer any setback, respond with twofold the energy, and include others in that fold. It looks as if Yundeok is game for teasing right now. He laughs off any attempts of pity with a puffed-up chest, flashes a wide grin at whoever comes forth in attack, and is blithe in his description of his recent ordeal. Liquid glee and jest drip from the trainees’ laughter, and they do not seem to see how Yundeok’s eyes never meet anyone else’s for much longer than a glance, how his feet shift back and forth, never staying still.

Jaeyoung sucks in a breath and claps a hand to his forehead. “Ugh, this is really difficult to watch.”

A laugh escapes Minjae as dramatics answers to dramatics. He watches himself shrug, going through good-natured motions. “Isn't that how he always is, though?”

“He never learns,” says Jaeyoung despairingly. “He’s been like that since Everybody . Junpyo-hyung kept him in check during that and Black Mamba, but he can’t always rely on others to whip him into shape.”

In Everybody, Yundeok had fulfilled the role of a mischievous robot. In Black Mamba, he had ridden the waves of a rock show with the skills of a surfer. Embodying something as simple as a man, somehow, seems far more inscrutable—harder than just training a body to peak condition, or imitating postures of bravado.

The worst part is that there is nothing Minjae can do to help with that.

In a lull, trainees melt away in twos and threes, leaving Yundeok’s back in the open. Minjae takes his chance.

“Yundeokie,” he says, shaping the name with care, vowels pulling back into the soft click of consonants. His hands wrap around Yundeok’s middle, so easy a motion he does not think twice about it. Neither does Yundeok, who sags forward at his touch, shoulders slumping as they stumble forward like a two-bodied, four-legged creature.

“Hyung,” he says, eyes flickering down. Minjae squeezes him, finding all hard planes of muscle, like before. If anything, the flesh through his thin t-shirt is even tougher now, all traces of fat eliminated from hard days of dancing.

“What’s wrong?”

Yundeok’s fingers find Minjae’s, picking each digit up, rubbing his thumb across Minjae’s knuckles with half-hearted intention. He shrugs. “Nothing.”

News of Yundeok’s mishap, as breaking as it seems, is not enough to stifle the flow of conversation. Internal matters, after all, are usually kept to their respective teams. The Love Killa and But I Like You teams swarm towards the door as a staff member pops her head into the room. “The mentors are ready for the other two teams now!” In counterpoint, Thunderous and Boy in Luv fall into opposite corners without much thought, and Minjae complies with the mass. There might as well have been a line dividing the room in half.

“Hey, should we do Boy in Luv?” quips Hyeonuk.

Yuseop nods sagely, pressing the fan against his neck. “I think I would do it much better.”

As if on cue, Yundeok drifts into Thunderous territory, as if he has not seen the unspoken divide that separates the room. He sinks into Hyeonuk without a word.

“Ow,” says Hyeonuk, shaking him off. “Yundeokie, this isn’t your team.”

“You said this was the Boy in Luv team.” Yundeok drags out each sullen syllable. Hyeonuk inches away, grinning.

“That’s right, you’re part of the Thunderous team over there now. Go back.”

“No…” Bereft of his remaining support, Yundeok collapses sideways on the floor and curls up. “I don’t want to go back. Please don’t make me go back.”

Yuseop snorts. “To think you were so excited about performing Boy in Luv when you were chosen for it.”

“I was. So here I am.” Yundeok looks up at Yuseop from his prone position, only for the latter to shake his head and turn the fan in Yundeok’s direction. The blunt force of electric-powered wind presses Yundeok’s fringe into his eyes, and he rolls away from the disturbance forlornly. “Hyeonukie- hyung …”

“My team is busy, Yundeokie.” Hyeonuk raises an arm, showing a deconstructed vlog camera for all to see. The log that is Yundeok groans and rolls the other way, continuing its aimless journey.

Maybe induced by some mixture of amusement and pity—he does not know—Minjae sticks a leg out from his seat. Yundeok catches on it, rolling to a halt.

“Please, hyung,” he says, with imploring eyes. Junpyo had complained about that face, once. I’ve been in two teams with him, he had said, but I still haven’t built up a tolerance to it.

“Please what?” says Minjae, biting back a laugh.

“Help me,” says Yundeok. He drags himself up by the elbows, hands clasping around Minjae’s ankle like a devotee in prayer. “Save me from my team.”

Yundeok’s fingers, solid weights, drag Minjae down and away from the hard plastic back of his chair. The sound that leaves Minjae as he slides to the ground is not quite indignant, but not quite delighted. Perhaps it is acquiescence reflected in his vocal cords, scraping the limit of acceptability before it turns into the screech of tyres on gravel. Before long, Minjae is flat on the floor, a casualty for Yundeok to flop on. 

“ Ar Eye Pee, ” Yuseop crows in English, as the bulk of Yundeok crushes Minjae’s stomach. Hyeonuk, holding back a giggle, mimes taking footage with his camera.

“Yundeokie, you’re really heavy.” Minjae wriggles to escape. He only succeeds in flipping himself over in a mess of loose clothing and human limbs, and his backbone creaks as Yundeok’s knees dig into it. Whatever alleged barrier there is between the two teams now lies in the space between them, subsumed.

“What do I do,” Yundeok whines, shoving his face up close. “Everyone’s going to be so mad at me.”

Minjae manages to find his arms attached to his shoulders in the multi-limbic mess, so he stretches them out, paddling the air in an effort to get away. “Yundeokie, let me go.”

“No.” Yundeok throws a leg over him.

“Hey!”

Yundeok’s knees clamp around him with a shudder, and Minjae has no choice but to admit defeat to the rings of muscle sandwiching him. In the mirror in front of them, he sees Yundeok give a pleased little hum as he draws out a crumpled lyrics sheet from his pocket. “Teach me this first.”

“Seriously,” exclaims Minjae.

Yundeok delivers his best impression of evil laughter and falls to the ground. If anything, that only makes his thigh grip stronger. His shinbone rests against Minjae’s sternum, but the solid mass is reassuring, warm.

(In an act of karma, Jaeyong later comes to rest his head on Hyeonuk’s stomach. Yuseop, already sitting on the ground, becomes a spineless heap against them. From a distance, with neither A Group nor B Group in sight, they could have been a team of five.)

The most famous piece out of all the pansori pieces is a love story. The story is named after its female protagonist, whose name means the fragrance of spring. Some call this story the Korean Romeo and Juliet. It is also a story against injustice and meaningless, hierarchical divides.

Centuries ago, in ancient Korea, or the kingdom of Joseon, a scholar fell in love with a courtesan’s daughter. They had met in the city of Namwon on Dano festival, the fifth day of the fifth month, where he ventured to observe the celebrations of the commoners. She was riding on a swing, her red dress floating like a fairy’s gossamer wings. He was smitten from the start. Alas, they could not court each other, for he was a noble, the governor’s son. A daughter of a courtesan, while not a courtesan, was still of much lower class.

“If the governor saw you, he would chastise you for fraternising with the likes of her caste!”

A foolish boy of sixteen, he loved her regardless, and wanted to marry her. Her mother, the clever courtesan, made him write a sworn vow before she gave her permission.

“Even if the mountains are ground down to the sea, even if the seas dry up to become barren land, we shall not desert each other.”

Months passed and he remained as in affectionate with her as she was devoted to him. Alas, there came the day that the governor was recalled to the capital. The governor’s son, too, had to follow him home. He swore to remain faithful, and to return after he had passed the state exam. She, clinging onto that faith, swore to remain the same. Such was the order of the world that forbade them from meeting.

“My foe is not a human being but the rule of the high class.”

They could only exchange gifts in parting. He gave her a mirror for a clear conscience, and she gave him a jade ring. Though parted by churning rivers and heavenly mountains, their loyalty to each other echoed through the cosmos.

Getting to go to Bukchon Hanok Village is, all things considered, a reprieve. Of course, the staff herding you from location to location makes it feel like a chaperoned field trip, but it is a field trip you are going on with your best friends. Time slips as you thread between rows of traditional houses, your beaten trainers peeling back into leather shoes. Hundreds of years ago, itinerant troupes of performers made the same pilgrimage through cities and villages. Photoshoots, sauntering down the main street, even dancing in an open plaza—this is the kind of activity worthy of a sorikkun. For this reason, Takuma and Yuseop, who have been there before, still find new ways to entertain themselves.

“Hey,” says Yuseop, as they are en route to return their hanbok. “A guitar!”

Sure enough, a pop-up music store emerges at the turn of the corner. Yuseop shoves his hands into his robes, worrying the fabric. He glances at the staff member accompanying them at the corner of his eye, then at the rest of the team still behind them.

“Can we play it?” asks Minjae. It is not often one gets to do some real busking in the streets.

The staff member pauses momentarily, but all seems in order as she makes her way to the store and explains their situation to the store owner. In light of an agreement, she sets up the crew, readjusts the mics on the Thunderous team’s robes, and lets the cameras roll. The store owner hands the guitar to Yuseop, who takes it with relish. Traditional clothing aside, he could be the lead singer in his high school band again, eager to display his talents.

“What should I play?” he says, pulling the strap over his shoulder.

“Something befitting of a Confucian scholar,” suggests Hyeonuk, who has caught up in the meantime.

“Trot?” says Takuma, a few steps away.

“That’s just old. It’s not Confucian enough.” Minjae hears himself join into the fray.

“I have just the thing.” Yuseop sucks in a breath, eyes narrowing with mock-seriousness as he breaks into a warbling tune with exaggerated vibrato. “Come closer and play on my back. Love, love, love, oh my love… ”

Wandering off pitch, swaying onto it, the melody is at once familiar, yet foreign. Its pinched tone sublimates any evident mannishness in the singer, but Yuseop’s voice has never been gravel or growl. No, Yuseop lets his voice be light in its strength. His body moves to the words as he strums the guitar every two or three beats, airy Western chords clashing with pentatonic tonalities. It is a perfect fit for his attire of hanbok and weather-beaten jeans.

Just as the rest of the team leans in to listen, Yuseop trails off. Any potential embarrassment is remedied as he opens his chest and strikes a pose. Ta-da, perfection in Yuseop’s style. Minjae claps.

“Okay, loverboy,” he says, delighting in how the American accent stretches in his mouth. Yuseop throws his head back and gives a final flourish on the guitar, ever the seasoned performer.

“I am full of the romance,” he says, blowing a kiss to his imaginary sweetheart.

“That’s it.” Hyeonuk snaps his fingers. “Maybe that’s our concept—hey, what’s wrong with that?” He rounds on Lin, who has already turned away to contain a burst of laughter.

“What’s wrong with being a loverboy, Hanzhong-ah ,” says Hakseong, before he, too, is infected by laughter in spite of his reprimand. It is hard to deny the strangeness of the traditional and modern, the Confucian scholar and the playboy, all mixed into one, and even harder to deny that it fits their story like a kid glove. What is the enjoyment of Korea if not infused with the hybridity of its history, or the sentiments of those who inhabit it?

It is not long before Yuseop hands the guitar to Minjae, limbs loose and relaxed. “Your turn, loverboy,” he says, a friendly challenge in the tilt of his head. 

Minjae hikes an arm over the warmed body, robes trailing on its tan surface; lets its neck settle in his palm, fingers already configured on expectant frets. He lets Yuseop’s last chords ripple through his fingers, another man’s pleasure in play vibrating under each plucked string—lets phantom calloused fingers close over his own, in guidance and in comfort. Music is a companion old as time, yarns woven into the fabric of Minjae’s being. Each sound, strengthened by repetition, forms a pattern of a life. Its fibres intertwine with another, and another, stitching together multi-dimensional tapestries that traverse space and time.

I am full of the romance, Yuseop had said.

In this moment, with a heart’s music answering to his, Minjae believes every word of it.

On the whole, the show’s trainees play nice with each other, albeit with occasional disgruntled opinions finding their way through the grapevine. There had been consummate envy of the Boy in Luv team for having the three highest-ranked members. Hyunjun, Bingfan, and Gihyeon are a triforce to be reckoned with. The interim evaluation dispels this illusion, however. The new hot-off-the-press item is a reenactment of a comic scene, a staple in canteens and hallways: a bow and an awkward half-grin. They underestimated the enemy. The tides might turn after all.

One of the enemy in question is returning from a convenience store run when he sees a half-bent back on a familiar overhang. It is instinct by now to push open the door and let the hot air of the LG conditioners blast by his ankles, to hold up his bag and unpack its contents within. It is routine to sit next to hugged knees, sometimes at a distance, sometimes pressed up against it, and to offer a snack or a drink: “Hey, do you want this?”

Yundeok takes the offered plastic package with a mumbled thanks. The light of the remaining day, refracted through the glass railing, scatters against the bridge of his nose as the sun slips behind the concrete metropolis that is Seoul. His fingers bounce against his knees in an unsteady drumbeat, and he does not so much as stir as Minjae settles on the faux wooden floor. Minjae counts the space between him and Yundeok in plank-shaped tiles: one, two, three. This seems like an appropriate distance today, with Yundeok’s avoidant gaze.

“You didn’t come to lunch today,” he says, broaching the silence.

Yundeok fiddles with the snack in his hands. “Was practicing.”

“With Jaeyongie?” That dongsaeng had not been to the canteen, either. Yundeok sighs and leans back, head hitting the grey wall behind him.

“Yeah.”

A monosyllabic delivery is not an indicator of a successful practice. “Have you eaten?” Minjae presses.

“No.”

“You must be hungry, then.”

Yundeok’s arms remain limp, the offered snack loose in his palm. “Not really,” he says, looking through the glass railing. The faint buzz of rush hour fills the air, office workers rushing back to their rightful abodes in buses and cars and the metro. It will be hours before Yundeok and Minjae are allowed to do the same, because that is the lot of a trainee: hard hours of practice for the prospect of debut, a prospect that, at this stage, could be within reach.

“Come on,” says Minjae. Their time here cannot be whiled away on low energy and an empty stomach, something they both well know. “It’s not like you to—”

“I made an Instagram account,” Yundeok blurts out. His next words are subdued, as if saying them out loud will break the glass before him. “I did it before we started filming, back in April.”

Filming a show means existing in the now like its audiences do. You are not supposed to talk about the time before it, or the time after, unless it increases your in-show assets. “Yundeokie,” says Minjae, a warning creeping into the name. There may not be cameras here, but the point still stands.

“They had me film a confessional.” Yundeok shrinks back into himself, arms gathering around his knees. “They’re going to show it, because it’s good material. And you know how—” his voice hitches around the common culprits: television-worthy , or opinion-influencing material —“You know how that will go.”

One mistake is enough to decide the trajectory of your future. Not conforming to the concept, not taking criticism as a real man, falling short of expectations: that is the worst mistake of all. The fact that a single slip-up can be called a mistake at all is abhorrent, but it is also an immutable decree of the industry.

An aborted journey to singerhood is a fate that Minjae does not envy.

“You’re not going to get eliminated because of that,” says Minjae in as firm of a tone as he can muster.

“I hope so,” Yundeok says fervently. “I hope so, but even with Fannie and Hyunjun-hyung, you guys—”

“Nothing’s guaranteed.”

“No,” says Yundeok, throwing a punch at the air, “but that’s not the point.”

He groans and tips to the side, eyes squeezed shut, away from Minjae and the alleged enemy. The early summer air suddenly feels electric, raising hairs on Minjae’s forearms.

That has been the crux of the issue, has it not? Maybe they could have pretended, if they were not directly facing each other in the upcoming match, that a benefit and rankings were not too wide of a gap to cross in rapprochement. Worse yet, by the time this impasse ends, one of them may no longer be here to brave the barbed wire that separates them.

Right now, though, that gap is just a strip of floor, and Minjae is in no mood to entertain imaginary barriers. He lowers himself on his hands, crawls over, and savours the satisfaction of not being electrocuted or torn up. He places a palm on Yundeok’s shoulder, its breadth long worn into familiarity. “Yundeokie,” he says, “will you walk with me tonight?”

Yundeok’s eyes flutter open. “What?”

“We’re still good, right?” says Minjae. He takes Yundeok’s uncertain nod as a sign to forge on. “So walk with me, at least to the bus station.” There will be other trainees with them, too, but it is the thought that counts. “And if you like, we can do it again tomorrow.”

This, at the very least, is what Minjae can do: be a friend outside the insurmountable gap that is the competition, in defiance of despots that pass cursory judgement with the click of a finger.

Yundeok does not move for one second, then two. Then, he picks himself up from the floor, each motion painstaking. The floor pattern is stamped on his rounded cheeks, and flickering in his eyes is a tentative, hesitant wonder. “Let’s do that?” he says, in the tone of a question.

“Let’s do that,” Minjae affirms. He scoots closer, leaning over Yundeok’s body, and grabs the still-untouched snack. “Now, if you don’t eat, I’m feeding you this.”

The indignant squawk that answers him and the ensuing wrestling match for the item in question ensures that they will be eating well tonight.

The drum, the buk, is the constant companion to a pansori performance. A quiet backdrop when need be, punctuating the sorikkun’s song where appropriate, it operates in rhythmic cycles, or jangdan, to determine the pace of the song.

The rhythmic cycles in pansori are like stock phrases used in idioms. One conveys a cheerful mood, another a sorrowful one. Take, for instance, the tale of the two lovers. When the scholar boy courts the courtesan’s daughter, the buk proceeds neither quickly nor slowly. For all their hearts quicken in young love, their naive wonder injects a sense of hesitancy. When the young couple must part, the scholar’s wife stretches her sorrow over a ponderous sequence, the weight of her agony choking up each beat. (We can compare their separation to the celestial couple of the cowherd and the weaver, separated by the Milky Way.) When a new governor of the town arrives, three years later, the buk springs into a lively military march. A drum and a double-headed drum are beaten . In the universe of separated lovers, too, the drums play their part in keeping rhythm.

The new governor, whose rapacity for drink and women is well-known, sends for a famous beauty of Namwon to his bed. She refuses to submit to his advances. When she announces she is the wife of the old governor’s son, her quavering voice is made defiant by the buk’s regular undercurrent. The new governor flies into a rage, ordering to punish her for her refusal. His abuse of the law is made clear by the hiccuping, limping beat. The drum weeps for injustice as the girl is tied up and bloodied with cudgels. Its muted sound leaves room for her to declare her fealty to her oath-sworn love.

When the tones of the singer are muddied, their expressions distorted and hidden, listen to the drum. It holds the core of the story, the raw truth of emotion.

On a particular day before their performances, a certain someone graces one of Blue Square’s practice rooms. It does not take long for word to spread, sending everyone running to peer at an ongoing masterclass through the corridor.

“Wow, it’s a real celebrity,” says Jang Hyunjun enviously, nose pressed against the observation window. “How privileged are they?”

A series of oohs and ahs answer him as said celebrity demonstrates the moves to his own song. The ruckus grows as he lets the remaining trainees into the practice room, and he is all they will talk about for the remainder of the day. It is not until well into the evening, when each team is sequestered in their own practice rooms, that the question they all want to ask makes itself heard.

“Why was Monsta X Shownu here?” says Hakseong, to no one in particular.

The Thunderous team remains wordless, no one partial enough to their opinion to sacrifice precious rest time. Lin turns his water bottle upside down, lapping up the last drops with the tip of his tongue, and shrugs. Yuseop, a little further away from the rest of them, monitors their practice video for missed details on the show-provided tablet.

“No, seriously,” says Hakseong, undeterred by their lack of enthusiasm. He turns to his neighbour. His eyes are only earnest in the wake of his frankness, which a less scrupulous producer could have made mean-spirited if they had so desired. “Why only Shownu?”

“Who knows,” says Hyeonuk, voice carefully nonchalant as he leans back against the mirrors. “Hey, Hakseong, have you ever wondered why this is a reality show?”

Hakseong sits still for a moment, putting his hands together. He would have been no ancient scholar of the Joseon dynasty, but his pursed lips might have hinted at an honest upbringing that has cultivated a mind determined to set wrongs to rights. Five centuries ago, there would have been a writing desk in front of him, and ink and brush beside a petition: Various personages have disadvantaged Kim Hakseong and his companions in taking the imperial exams. He humbly requests a secret royal inspector to investigate the corruption of the following individuals… a complaint once regular as clockwork, now absurd to voice.

“Maybe it’s a scheduling issue,” Takuma offers, glancing at the ceiling. The unmanned camera blinks slowly at them, indicating that it is running as usual, not that there is anything to fear. Discussions of Monsta X will not be used for footage for the Thunderous team. “Stray Kids is popular nowadays, so they must be busy.”

“Even so,” Hakseong insists. His knuckles are white as he twists in his seat. “This is the last match before the finals. They should have made an effort to keep everyone on equal ground.”

Hyeonuk laughs. “Hey, a Hanok Village trip is just as good as Shownu.”

“That’s not the same as getting training. If the Love Killa team can get the original artist to coach them, isn’t the opposing team doomed to lose?”

Minjae sucks in a breath. The practicing figures of the But I Like You team burn bright in his mind, all smiles and exuberance. We went to a prop shop , Sion had told him the other day, still vibrating with excitement. It was really fun.

Cuteness, in Minjae’s book, reigns supreme in terms of taste. Sion’s cuteness is the tallest order of all. It is much different in the world of fans, where sexiness is a form of appeal, the concept most fans root for. One would be a fool not to notice what this entails for Love Killa and But I Like You. This is not to say that all reality shows follow a predetermined script, but the presence of special coaches only widen a certain imbalance.

“Who cares?” Yuseop breaks in, shutting off the tablet. “We don’t need to Stray Kids to teach us anything. At the end of the day, we’re performing in our style.”

“We have our own team name,” Lin adds quietly. “We have our own concept. K-rak.”

He flips his water bottle, as if this line of questioning was a regular request for a bizarre ritual of prediction, and seems to take the bottle landing upright as confirmation of his verdict. In any case, the solid thud of plastic hitting wood seems to loosen Hakseong’s limbs, even if it does not ease the storm in his gaze.

“I guess so,” Hakseong says.

“Matter settled.” Yuseop pushes his hair out of his eyes and sticks his cap on backwards. “Let’s go home for the day, guys. We’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Faced with the onslaught of reality, Hakseong nods. He is the first to get up, passing them their belongings by the door: dutiful, dependable, and uncomplaining again. The rest of the team follow in his wake, resuming the rhythm of their chatter as they file out of the practice room doors.

“That’s right,” says Hyeonuk. “We’re the new sorikkun, guys. The others better watch out for us.”

His smile wavers once out of camera-shot, even as his tone remains encouraging.

It is however late in the night and Minjae is still in the practice room. The speaker reverberates with the synth of a plucked zither and the thump of the bass, the rearrangement even more sonically Korean than the original. The lights are half on as Minjae whirls in front of the mirror, intent on polishing every last part of Thunderous . He pulls out his best in-dance smile, his best crowd-pleasing heart-cheek. Not good enough. Not for the live performance, not to be shown on the small screen, nor the big one. He imagines dancing eyebrows, a sinister grin. Try again. Repeat.

“Minjae,” exclaims a voice by the doorway. Takuma’s pale face emerges into stark, crestfallen relief. “You should really go home now.”

Minjae wipes the sweat from his forehead. His eyelids are throbbing, and he is pretty sure his body is one giant sore. He tries to pick up from where he had left off, the strum of a lute ringing in his ears. “I’m not done yet.”

“No,” says Takuma, striding towards Minjae. “Look at you.” He grabs a hold of Minjae’s arm, stending him stumbling, and switches off the music. “What are you even practicing?”

The floor tilts beneath Minjae, and if not for Takuma’s grip, he probably would have tripped on air. “Expressions,” he says. His tongue is thick in his mouth and refuses to cooperate. “You’re good at them.”

Takuma sighs. A chair shoots towards Minjae, jabbing him in his calves, and he folds into the seat. A towel hits his shoulders, and he fumbles at his neck with it. “Look,” Takuma says. “Just because your expressions are different from mine doesn’t mean you’re bad at them.”

Minjae’s mouth tastes like a desert. “I’m always looking for ways to improve.”

“Those ways can come tomorrow.” Takuma makes a beeline for the water cooler and fills a paper cup. He stalks back to Minjae and hands it to him. “Drink up. Don’t pass out.”

There are good motivating factors to pass out: Boy in Luv. Shownu. And above all, a sweet smile that says But I Like You. It would be cruel of Minjae to protest, though, when Takuma’s lips are pressed so tightly together.

“You know,” says Takuma, “you’re capable of nice expressions.”

“Am I?” croaks Minjae.

“Remember when we performed Growl? I watched any videos of it that I could.” Takuma’s choreographer side takes over now, pride filling him up to the brim. “We all looked the part, but you were smiling so brightly back then.”

Growl seems like a lifetime ago. All five of the team members had been newly (re-)anointed performers, excited to partake in the song as much as the audience would. Minjae had stood there in a fresh perm and a schoolboy’s uniform, conveying his sincere love through gestures that could neither be categorised as cute flower boy nor beast idol, neither But I Like You nor Boy in Luv. Love, yes, love is the word. Jo Minjae’s love, undiluted and unbastardised, is for the medium through which emotions are conveyed as much as the fans who receive it.

“Just remember what it’s like to perform Growl,” says Takuma, giving him an encouraging pat. “As for the rest, it’ll sort itself out. Trust me.”

You have held breath after fiery breath for weeks, even months. It feels like eons since you have come up for air. Better to be safe than sorry, you had said to yourself, because of a wrath that was not worth risking. So you had waited, minimising your role and letting others take your spotlight, because they needed it, wanted it desperately. And you wanted to give it to them.

There is banging on the practice room door, urgent and sustained.

“Yundeokie!” says Takuma, surprise colouring his voice. “Why haven’t you left yet?”

Yundeok pokes his head in, then the upper half of his body. He wears a sleeveless vest today, and his cap is snapped back, uncovering a twinkle in his eye. If it were not for his dripping wet hair, he could have been a fresh performer, ready for a round of Boy in Luv.

“I waited for you,” he says, waving at Minjae. “Let’s walk home together, hyung.”

One day, it will do you well to realise your gifts can coexist with your strengths. The balladeer you were and are will live on in your vocalist self, and your team will receive the promotions and honours you all long for. Maybe you can swim against the current that swallows your story, leaping through the surface of a milky river in artfulness and showmanship. Perhaps, in this story, you will take pride in your place in a pod of thirty-six—thirty-six, for no audience vote or constructed rules can divest you of the comrades who carry your memory, just like you cherish theirs—and act as a guiding voice. Audiences will come to love your love for music, as well as your love for others—pure you.

Pansori is performance. Performance is gesture. Gesture is balim, expressions of character. The sorikkun must present multiple roles in one body.

In our love story, the sorikkun is the rapacious governor and the stalwart woman who refused his advances. Behold how the sorikkun thrusts out his chest, boasting like an old man about how he will execute the despicable woman on his birthday. Behold how the sorikkun cowers like the lily-livered men of court behind the folds of their sleeves, intent on winning the governor’s favour. Behold the mimed scene of celebration, a pavilion full of feasting delineated with a sweep of a flat fan, the soft clothed bodies of courtesans bustling about.

The sorikkun is noble and peasant, both fed on a silver spoon and broken bowls. The sorikkun is a beggar that interrupts the birthday celebration, asking to be served with a hunched back and supplicant hands. See how he fumbles with writing a poem, to the pointing and jeering of this false court, who intend to send him on his way again on the excuse of illiteracy. The paper is passed down the table as the sorikkun turns one way, then another, their fan folded. All of a sudden, noble faces tighten. Their heads snap back, as if struck by lightning.

The fabulous wine in the golden jars is the blood of the people.
The luxurious food on the jade dishes is the fat of the people.
When the drops of candle wax fall down, so do the tears of the people.
Where the sounds of songs are high, so are the resentments of the people.

The sorikkun swoons. Who is this beggar, who knows the sufferings of the populace under a corrupt administration? 

Not to be outdone, their accompanist drummer produces a mighty rumble. The sorikkun claps their hands over their ears at the sounds of gongs and bells. They whirl about the stage as men pour in, flashing the royal seal of the king. The secret royal inspector has arrived!

At the corner, the beggar straightens his body and sheds his disguise. He holds up the seal of the royal inspector as the sorikkun raises the fan high above his head. He orders the arrest of the governor with the flick of his wrist. Arms folded behind his back, he entreats for the prisoner to be delivered to him, and asks why she, a courtesan’s daughter, does not serve other men.

The sorikkun ’s body contorts into a heap. Bowed beneath the weight of her chains, the faithful wife repeats her oath: Even if the mountains are ground down to the sea, even if the seas dry up to become barren land, I shall not desert my husband.

The royal inspector’s face breaks into a smile, and he asks his men to present her with a gift. Kneeling, the sorikkun holds a jade ring made of thin air. They drop it into the palm of a waiting woman. The prisoner raises her head, seeing the royal inspector for the first time. He is the scholar boy of three years before, made man by ranking first in the imperial exam.

A sorikkun dances through each role like wearing and shedding skins. Their eyes open wide, their noses scrunch and sniff, their mouths stretch in smiles and frowns and fall open. Lives live in their palm, each tableau they create worth a thousand tales. Our master singer spins us the end of our yarn, a knot that ties the story together in its complexity. All of the woman’s suffering is made worthy when she sees her one true love.

Styling is not normally an issue for Minjae. It is, however, an issue for the more fashion-conscious members of his team.

“You need a haircut,” is what Yuseop says. “Look.”

He plunges a hand into Minjae’s scalp and shakes it. Strands of hair cling onto Yuseop’s fingers as he retracts them, leaving a stirred nest on top of his head. Summoned by static, half of Minjae’s fringe tries to follow, sticking up in the air. The corners of Minjae’s mouth, too, seem affected, because they rise without his prompting.

“You electrocuted me!”

“Wow, thunderous,” says Hyeonuk, admiring his friend’s handiwork.

“I think I proved my point.”

Arrangements are decided on by haircut day and fitting day. In the industry, there are certain elements you cannot compromise on.

“Sure you don’t want to dye your hair or something?” says Hyeonuk, leaning over from his chair. He has some sort of foil plastered onto the crown of his head, which pans out to either side like a child’s space station project. When shown all the shades of dye he could have, he had chosen a garish orange. Yuseop had chosen a more subtle shade of dark grey. When Minjae shakes his head, Hyeonuk finds another target. “Hey, ’Kuma, what do you say?”

“I think not,” says Takuma, eyes closed. Shavings of hair already surround his seat in a circle of lines.

“Not everyone is an attention-seeker like you,” says Hakseong, from the opposite seat.

Hyeonuk rolls his shoulders in lieu of spreading his hands, which are currently trapped by the hairdressing sheet. “Why keep to the exact same hairstyle when you can change it?”

“I’m fine with what I have, thanks,” says Minjae, and he means it. “Simple is best.”

Your body is perfectly normal and average, the body of a boy from hair to shoulders to knees to toes. Without the protection of makeup, it is not pretty. Your features are not perfectly proportional in the way that Lin’s are, or ruggedly handsome the way Yuseop’s are. You have grown since your childhood, but you have no bulging muscles for fans to focus on, no perfect contours of body and bone to call yours. Your voice is the redeeming factor that spares you from the criticism you might have received for your plainness. The rest is the work of stylists, who make an effort to perm your hair and contour your nose. If there is one thing you have always prized, though, it is staying true to yourself—your jutdae. Sometimes plainness is necessary, not rejected and unwanted, and even comfortable.

When the fashion stylists give you the all blacks fit for an ensemble member, and a loose shirt on top instead of a stylised hanbok robe, you accept with a smile and a bow. After all, you still have golden accents for a collar, and a black backdrop highlights Takuma’s white top nicely. Your clothes fit like a second skin, and you are who you see in the mirror: lithe in comparison to your comrades, form suited to exploiting gaps and appearing in a surprise attack. A shapeless assassin. A secret weapon. With your help, your teammates can make a grander statement, and you would much rather benefit your team than glorify yourself. More than benefits, more than accolades, a group victory is what you believe in.

Number one as a group? You can almost see Onestar shaking his head, all the way back on your showcase stage, and Ingyoo laughing. This is a survival show. There’s no such thing.

They fail to account that victory, to you, means much more than that show.

“Minjae-ya,” says Yuseop, “what song is that?”

They are sitting in one of the vocal practice rooms after lunch, waiting for the rest of the team to return for one of the last sessions of this mission. Minjae has claimed the chair and keyboard, and Yuseop sits cross-legged on the floor, a tablet open in front of him. His olive keffiyeh is draped loosely on his shoulders. It gives off the impression of love and peace, as Jiahao might have said, a sense of ease.

Minjae lifts his hands off the keyboard. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m just playing what I remember.” Aspirational melodies, conjured up by some bright-eyed youth before he left.

“Ah.” A soft song plays on the tablet, Yuseop’s voice and another underscored by arpeggios on the guitar. I produced a track, Yuseop had said once, with a trainee in the last show I was on. Before he knows it, Minjae has dragged his chair closer.

“Pretty cool song.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Yuseop affects a little bow. “We worked with what we could.” His head bobs as the other trainee raps over a crackly beat, and he lets slip a fond smile as the verses spit out an offhand English expletive. How very unbroadcastable.

“Does he know you’re here?” says Minjae, pointing to the voice in the tablet.

“I texted him before I joined this show,” says Yuseop. “He wished me good luck. There wasn’t much else he could do.”

“That’s a shame.”

“It can’t be helped.” Yuseop closes the tablet with a click.

A long time ago, when Minjae had been a child, his father would bring him to big family gatherings. It would be a special time that occurred on select days throughout the year. There would always be a speaker playing pop classics, and an instrument displayed somewhere in one of the rooms. The adults would dote on children like him, pinching cheeks, taking photos.

Sometimes, Minjae’s cousin would be there too. Minjae had liked that he had a boy of a similar age to play with. He and his cousin would gambol around the grand piano in the room, trying to impress each other by inventing a particularly nice tune, and, when they got tired of that, sing along with the songs on the speaker. Ensconced in the cradle of music creation, they would be lost to the world, until the gatherings ended and they had to go back, however reluctantly, to their daily lives.

It must have felt like that for Yuseop, to work with a fellow creative. It must have felt lonely to part ways.

“Do you think you’ll ever work with him again?” says Minjae. The subject is delicate, but Yuseop has only shown good humour about his background. You do not make it through a survival show without some type of mental fortitude.

“Well,” says Yuseop, stretching his legs out. “I just have to make it through this show to do that, don’t I?” He looks at Minjae, expression so matter-of-factly that Minjae has to grin.

“I’ll root for you, Yuseopie.”

Yuseop raises a hand in a mock toast, or a Yuseop-style display of solidarity. “Let’s fight the good fight together.”

Debut, for Yuseop, is no certain thing. Of this Minjae is sure, as much as he is sure that the Thunderous team will perform with one heart and one mind. But here is the confidence of a man who knows how much he has to offer, who knows what to say and what to do for his dreams, who will use it to his advantage to climb his way to the top.

“Maybe I can add you into the mix,” says Yuseop thoughtfully. “Piano, guitar, duo vocals. Magic combo.”

For a moment, Minjae’s heart leaps. “Are you for real?”

Yuseop looks at him, incredulous. It would be a waste not to.” His hands push apart in rectangular planes, miming a fancam screen. “Picture this: comeback stage on Music Bank. Composer: some hotshot producer. Arranger: Yuseop and Minjae. Lyrics: Yuseop and Minjae. Boom.”

In this untold story, you are part of a nine-man team, or one of seven. You are the first idols of a small company, but a company that will do their utmost to promote you with all the connections they have at their disposal. You will be given concepts to digest that are not quite your direction, but eventually, you will learn how to fit them. Then will come the exciting part: singing out your heart’s desire. Creating art with a fellow groupmate and getting accredited as a songwriter duo, recognised as a talent like your father before you. How nice of a story would that be?

“I’ll hold you to that vision,” says Minjae. Maybe that is what you can trust in: bringing a teammate’s ambitions to fruition, with the confidence that they will also nurture yours.

“Hey, put some effort into it too.” Yuseop jabs a finger at him. “Seriously, you’re so fun to sing with, Minjae-ya. You better make it.”

There is only the last obstacle to conquer before that, now.

What is love?

Your teammates, the Loverboy Players, prepare themselves in the waiting room, careful not to ruin their styled hair as they readjust slipping sleeves and mic packs. When Lin’s mic falls from the side of his face, everyone fusses over him, even if he is self-sufficient, because he is the precious maknae. Here is brotherhood, irreplaceable camaraderie.

What is love?

The crowd is deafening as always, filled with encouragement for your team. So many voices are screaming, Yuseop, Lin, Yuseop, Lin. Hyeonuk hypes the team up, and Takuma greets everyone with a smile that stretches for miles. A blast of air whips through your clothes, and you see everything in high-definition video. Here is affection for your persons, excitement for your performances, as you assume a Confucian formation.

What is love?

Love is the thrill of adrenaline that runs through your spine as the pounding beat of a buk builds anticipation in the introduction of the song, as the distorted sound of a war-horn blows over the stage. Love is the ostinato of traditional instruments form the backbone of your music, the sound of spitfire storytelling the driver of your clean choreography. All the pieces that constitute yourself coalesce into a dense, crystalline mass. The plucked notes of a piano meld with your thin, childish gratitude, accepting praise for feats beyond your years. Hours spent whiled away with a kindred spirit cut glittering carats in your facade. Practice whets your rough edges, and you emerge from your cocoon fully formed. The inheritance of a sorikkun is preservation. The purpose among the famed, the masters, is dazzling innovation.

Lin’s harsh tone commands attention from the rabble, tearing up the stage as he attacks his lines. Hyeonuk swoops in to soothe expectant ears with an unhurried, conversational ease, tossing the narrative back and forth between them. Hakseong forms a solid foundation that keeps you all from rushing artistry. The core of a song is just as important as its flowery surface, and his long limbs make sure to stretch and cycle on the beat. Takuma contains a graceful, deadly sort of fluidity, the angles of his knees an art to behold. Each flick of his finger tells a tale of its own, each frame capturing him a story in expressiveness. Thunderous, his body booms, a personification of the chorus. You encourage each other with shouts of kick it! and echo each other’s verses. You combine into one sound, gathering momentum in the rhythm of the music.

As you near the summit of a sky-touching mountain, the percussion fades into a murmur, leaving the tune of a lone plucked zither. Yuseop swaggers into the scene as you duck and bob like storm-beaten saplings. The Thunderous ones have arrived, he announces, waving a defiant hand. (Out of the way , Hakseong sneers.) You see Yuseop’s growing grin as you all circle around Hyeonuk, hear his roar of GET IT! that deafens the crowd as he rides the high of the performance. You wait for the tension to mount, biding your time as you relish in the chorus. Then, you unleash it—a lightning strike of your voice, blinding. Your thunder, crowning the climax.

Yuseop lets you hold court, laughter in his voice as he mimes the crackle and snap of a hurricane. His voice supports yours, lifting your harmony aloft in the wind. For all that you give, he responds in equal measure, joining you in your songs of praise. This is what it means to sing together—a friend and a friend, made brothers in jubilation.

Never forget the roots of Sorikkun , stemming from the tradition of farmer’s music. The racket the instruments make in an open field not only mimic natural phenomena, but lends itself to protests and parades. You, as players of sound, strike fear into the hearts of your opponents, zipping their mouths shut with pure sonic force. As you declare your version of justice with pride, you assert your rightful existence, a warrant to live by your principles. In blending your dissenting cry with your group, you taste the divinity of your dream.

As you have demonstrated your resistance and laid down your provocations, it occurs to you that you are on top of the world. This is how you mount the glorious throne of kings: smiling.

Here is a song that we cannot sing praises of.

You watch Noh Gihyeon tumble from Jang Hyunjun’s back, his sound distorting as he rolls. He does not stop even so, climbing back to his feet and hitting every single beat of the music, desperate to recapture rhythm and flow. Maybe your vision blurs, but your hand does not dare wipe your eyes. You swallow the flip-flopping in your stomach that rises to your throat, your teammates’ cajoling of get it together ringing in your ears.

You watch Miraku growl into the cameras, all sixteen-year-old desperation, flinging himself against a brick wall of stymied rankings with a dynamic body. You watch Bingfan and Hyunjun, your former teammates, pull off a clean harmony, leaving a lingering high note in an attempt to establish their superiority. You watch yourself match up to Yundeok in the personal rankings, both fifth. You win by a margin. Your team keeps winning. Gihyeon’s glazed eyes are fixed on the scoreboard, a dark reality sinking in.

Maybe, in the face of everyone else’s tears, your victory should not taste as sweet as it does. Maybe your singing is not enough to show the world how much you want this victory that you have obtained, and keep obtaining. After all, it seems baseless to compete against those who have trained for idolhood with their lives on the line. Perhaps it is alright to become part and parcel of their journey, an amicable wayfarer, and remain a part-time vocal guide. Are you meant to do such battles in your pilgrim’s progress? Can you not achieve your shared singerhood dreams through other avenues, open to only you?

In time, you will know how your story ends. For now, you are triumphant once again, after trembling and waiting for your verdict, your breath caught on recording. You need not have been scared, because your team did battle with the dragon of public opinion and slayed it despite the obstacles that were placed in your way. Your saving grace, Kim Sion, achieves a victory against an almost predestined defeat. You sink to the floor, weak with relief. B Group will receive the benefits of ranking higher, and you are well on your way in the flowered path of your dreams. The chorus of joy resounds once more, a shining spark lighting your life.