IMHTR 08

Chapter: 08

“Yeah, panic more.”

As Yechan walked in smiling calmly as if he had just met neighborhood acquaintances on a stroll, it was actually the trainers and judges who were the ones flustered.

—

“We expected the trainee to be shocked seeing us, but Ha Yechan just greeted us so casually that we even wondered, ‘Wait… is this a hidden camera prank?’ Haha.”

Later in an interview, Iga-won from Jupiter recalled this moment with a wistful expression.

“Shall we begin?”

Yechan picked up the microphone prepared in the booth and asked the judges, who were still standing there with blank expressions.

Only then did the trainer cough awkwardly.

“Ahem… r-right.”

Familiar instrumental music began flowing through the speakers.

Yechan decided not to forcefully relax the tension crawling up his body, but to simply enjoy it.

“Choose your prince. In the world you choose, I hope I am at its end.”

A song and choreography he had performed and sung countless times flowed smoothly from him.

Difficult moves and high vocal parts were passed as naturally as water flowing downward, and admiration slowly began to appear on the judges’ faces.

“Choose me princess. In the world you chose, I am at its end.”

The four-minute performance ended with Yechan’s wink, and a red-haired young man in the judges’ seat suddenly stood up and clapped loudly.

“I heard from Gawon that there were some really good singers, so I came expecting something—but this is beyond expectations. You weren’t even surprised by us waiting here?”

Joo Taehyun, a member of Jupiter like Iga-won, asked while openly expressing admiration.

“I was surprised.”

Yechan answered politely, but with a face so calm it almost looked shameless.

“…You really don’t look like it.”

Kye Jeong-yeop, one of the top composers of the time, unintentionally interjected in a foolish-sounding voice.

Turning toward him, Yechan replied again calmly.

“I just don’t show expressions well.”

That’s not just ‘not showing it’ at all…

About half of the judges looked puzzled.

The other half, like Joo Taehyun, looked at Yechan with sparkling eyes.

Ignoring all reactions, Yechan blinked with an unreadable expression.

Good.

Of course, inside he felt relieved that everything was going according to plan.

After all, thanks to those bizarre lines from the selection window before, he was already beyond the point of appearing normal.

Even if he somehow fixed his earlier behavior, there was no guarantee that that damn selection window wouldn’t pop up again and ruin everything.

So rather than trying to act normal, it was better to become someone unpredictable—so that no matter what he said, people would think, “Yeah, he’s just a weirdo.”

And then, gradually, that “weirdo” would become familiar. He’d start to stand out, then become memorable, then someone they think about while eating, before sleeping, even appearing in dreams… and eventually they’d feel something was missing if he stopped acting strange.

In other words—becoming ingrained as a quirky presence.

That was Yechan’s strategy.

—

“Hmm… let’s leave it at that.”

After Kye Jeong-yeop finished speaking with a slightly unsettled tone, the judges who had regained their rhythm began praising him one after another.

“Ha Yechan trainee, your singing is impressive, but your dancing is also excellent. You’ve improved a lot since last time.”

“You clearly understand how to present yourself on stage to look appealing.”

In particular, external judges brought in from outside the show praised Yechan more than the trainers from ChuMap 99.

Yechan casually observed the judges again.

It was true that the trainees’ visuals and skills were a major factor in ChuMap 99’s success.

However, the mid-evaluation judge lineup leaked before broadcast—so impressive that people said, “How did they gather this lineup?”—also played a huge role in the show’s hype.

From Olympus, one of the top three idol agencies, they sent Iga-won as a trainer and even Joo Taehyun as a judge.

The other two major agencies had even sent their CEOs personally.

On top of that, famous composers, lyricists, choreographers, and high-ranking industry figures filled the seats.

Agency personnel seemed particularly interested in Yechan being a solo trainee.

Solo trainees usually don’t make it far in these shows.

At most, only one or two make it into the debut lineup, so if they fall here, agencies often try to recruit them afterward.

Yechan pretended not to notice their intentions and just bowed politely.

—

They didn’t touch this lineup.

In his 3rd and 4th resets, Yechan had interfered in advance to prevent this judge panel from forming.

From the 5th reset onward, however, he stopped bothering with small details like this, since he could already bury ChuMap 99 through bigger disruptions elsewhere.

I was too busy to deal with this anyway… but why didn’t Jung Chanyang interfere? He seems to just be following my path.

Maybe he was finally living a normal life after escaping the reset system and became lazy—or maybe he was forced to follow Yechan’s last decision.

Either way, it benefited Yechan.

If possible, I hope it’s the latter.

—

“Anyway, good job. We’ll announce the results after watching all trainees’ performances. You can go rest.”

“Thank you.”

Yechan bowed deeply.

Politeness was a basic requirement not just for idols, but for human beings.

In Korea, even a “weirdo” had to be a polite weirdo to survive.

Yechan received a spare key to the dorm from staff and exited through the back door as instructed to avoid meeting other trainees.

This marked the successful completion of the first major phase of the group training stay.

Compared to the first day, things were now flowing as expected, and only now did it feel like the rhythm was correct.

He would obviously maintain his S-rank; what remained was the theme song center position.

The center position was decided after the second evaluation round.

Before the reset, it was Shin Sang-rok, and even after Yechan began interfering, it remained Shin Sang-rok most of the time.

He was the most suitable for early popularity.

Yechan recalled ChuMap 99 teaser clips that always featured Shin Sang-rok.

No point thinking about things that are already out of my hands.

The center position was never part of his main plan anyway—it was just “nice if it happens, fine if it doesn’t.”

He grabbed a towel and change of clothes and left the room.

The dorm building was completely empty, as if no one expected anyone to return so early.

Taking a relaxed shower as if he owned the place, Yechan looked at himself in the mirror in the changing room.

Dark circles had formed under his eyes from lack of sleep.

He rubbed them and sighed.

Presenting such a disheveled face in front of cameras—his past self would never have done that.

He believed in perfection.

Even if his appendix burst right before a live stage, or a group member was arrested for a drug scandal during a concert, or news broke that the company had been involved in an investment fraud during a tour—he would still smile and go on stage calmly.

That was what an idol meant to him.

A flawless being shining at the top like a swan gliding above water, no matter how violently it struggled underneath.

Indeed, Olympus and Respirit idols were admired as such transcendent beings.

But in survival audition programs, viewers wanted something different.

They wanted a story—why this trainee wanted to be an idol, how desperately they wanted it, what effort they had put in, or tragic circumstances that brought tears.

Even with skill and visuals, ranking first was difficult without “narrative.”

Viewers wanted proof of desperation—and ranked it.

To Yechan, this was incomprehensible.

How do you score something like emotion? If someone is desperate, they should naturally work hard and improve—that should be enough.

In this industry, many people were skilled at packaging themselves.

Yechan, who had seen countless people act differently on and off camera, knew words meant nothing.

So he proved his sincerity through actions, always doing his best.

But in ChuMap 99, it was not Yechan who chose idols—it was the viewers.

To reach the top, he had to match their expectations.

His exhausted, tired face was actually something viewers might like, so he didn’t cover his dark circles with makeup.

Too bad the producer won’t even air all-night practice footage.

Aware of cameras in the hallway and rooms, Yechan deliberately styled his hair messily, hung a towel around his neck, and returned to his room.

He planned to sleep while he could before intense practice and filming began.

Just as he was about to close his eyes—

Something flashed in front of him.

—

<Linked Quest Triggered!>

– Help Kang Haesol maintain S-rank in the theme song evaluation!

(Time remaining: 8 hours 11 minutes)

—

If it was going to show this, it should’ve appeared before he got into bed.

Yechan glared at the floating hologram in annoyance and sat up.

What exactly was he supposed to do now that he had already returned to the dorm?

He grabbed his phone—the only way to contact other trainees—and quietly went back to the shower room where there were no cameras.

After closing the door to block hallway cameras, he frowned and thought.

What could he possibly say to help Haesol maintain S-rank after only one practice session together?

After thinking for a while, he opened his contacts and searched for Haesol’s name.

Then he suddenly remembered something.

[Haesol hyung 010-XXXX-XXXX]

The 11-digit number he had saved right after the reset.

It was a number he had arbitrarily stored from memory after the reset—

but in reality, Yechan had not yet exchanged phone numbers with Kang Haesol.