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Chapter 12
The Trainee Who Refuses to Debut (3)
The trainee in crisis, Dan Haru, thought to himself.
‘Life really is a real-world simulation.’
It was a truth he had realized many times throughout his life, but this time the situation felt especially complicated. He was holding back tears on the thought that crying here meant losing completely, but that didn’t make his headache any less real.
‘What do I do. This can’t continue like this.’
His stress was nearing its limit. Rather than end up as a shrimp caught in the crossfire between sharks, it almost felt like it would be less humiliating to become shark food outright.
“Do sharks even eat shrimp?”
Even while being this angry, Dan Haru managed to entertain such a ridiculous question—and it was at that moment that Kang Hajin, the newcomer who had joined not long ago, came to mind for surprisingly logical reasons.
- If you ever have something hard to talk about, just tell me to go to the vending machine. I’ll buy you a drink.
He was a strange older brother. Someone who had felt oddly approachable from the very first meeting. Before he knew it, Haru had ended up telling him everything—from hobbies to current training worries. A man who had become the center of gossip the moment he joined the company.
- “The Zhuge Liang of Miro.”
- “I heard he’s close with Seo Taeil from Euphia.”
- “The team leader is personally managing him.”
- “They say he’s so talented even Rene wanted him.”
- “No, I heard he’s from some powerful family so no one can touch him.”
It was impossible to tell how much of that was true, but one thing was certain: his current position as a newly hired trainee was surprisingly strong.
Since he had just joined, he wasn’t entangled in existing power structures. And yet, after listening to Haru’s story, he was the kind of person who could actually speak up and influence things.
Having calculated that far, Dan Haru moved without hesitation.
“……”
“……”
And so, now.
After boldly shouting about going to the vending machine, causing the practice room to erupt in laughter, Hajin—flustered—had brought Eunchan and Haru to an empty break room.
What remained was a silence heavier than awkwardness.
[System alert: It feels cold.]
Shut up before it stabs my chest.
Glancing sharply at the system that kept making commentary, Hajin, who had been quietly reading the room, began speaking again.
“Hm. If you don’t have anything to say, should I leave?”
“Ah, uh—!”
“Yeah?”
“You—you said before that if we had worries, we could talk to you!”
“Right. So what is it?”
Finally gathering courage for his first sentence, Haru looked at Hajin with a face full of frustration.
“…The company keeps trying to make us debut!”
“…What?”
For a moment, his mind went blank at the completely unexpected statement.
“Uh…”
He tried to sound calm, but his voice cracked. Damn it, my dignity.
“Ahem. Companies, usually, try to make trainees debut. That’s… why you joined as trainees too.”
He tried to stay composed, but even he could tell it didn’t sound convincing. Teenagers are really difficult these days. He couldn’t tell what this seventeen-year-old was thinking at all.
“Well, that’s true…”
Haru’s energetic voice softened slightly. Eunchan, sitting beside him, watched silently with an unreadable expression. This eighteen-year-old from Miro was no less unusual.
“But there’s a plant…”
“A plant?”
“There’s a nepotism pick the head director is pushing into the debut lineup.”
“Nepotism pick?”
“They’re trying to debut me and Haru together just to cover it up.”
“Why you two?”
The absurdity of the story made Hajin lean forward.
Eunchan, in a calm low voice, added:
“I’m from a wealthy family.”
“…?”
What the hell are these kids talking about?
Meanwhile
The situation went like this.
Head Director Song Hyung-gu of Miro, once hailed as a founding contributor for launching Euphia successfully, had recently missed a promotion due to poor performance and several incidents. Feeling pressured, he began frequenting elite social gatherings.
And one of those “important people” happened to have a son who had recently become interested in becoming an idol.
“It’s something everyone kind of knew. That the head director was taking money to push certain trainees.”
It was obvious there were trainees receiving unfair opportunities. But in a cutthroat survival environment like this, no one at the bottom had the power to protest.
And as the director’s greed grew, things became increasingly blatant.
“Because of that so-called nepotism pick, the Special Class basically got reshuffled to match the director’s preferences.”
“Special Class?”
“The A-class. It’s called A-class, but it’s basically the debut management class.”
Hearing that, Haru remembered what Jisoo-ho had explained on his first day.
- “All new trainees start in B-class. Miro has monthly and quarterly evaluations. Only the top seven from the quarterly evaluation move up to A-class.”
- “So it’s like the debut team?”
- “Not exactly… but they get more opportunities and are considered more seriously when forming debut groups.”
At the time, he thought it was just a harsh system for teenagers. But that was all.
“If it had just been one person getting pushed, like Sung-woo hyung, it would’ve been fine. He wasn’t even a stable candidate to begin with, so no one could openly complain. But then one of the A-class kids got called into the director’s office one day… and the next evaluation he dropped to 11th place. He was usually around 5th or 6th.”
After that, A-class trainees who clashed with the nepotism pick were gradually removed—either demoted or forced to leave.
And then an unexpected name came up.
“Even Minseok hyung left because of it…”
“Minseok? Rene’s Cha Minseok?”
“You know him?”
Ah. So he hasn’t debuted yet.
Hajin quickly brushed it off, pretending he had only heard it indirectly from Rene’s manager, and changed the subject.
“Anyway.”
“So…”
“The reason the director wants you to debut, and why you don’t want it—is it because of nepotism?”
Frankly, once they signed a seven-year contract, they’d all be on the same boat. If you looked at it purely rationally, someone with powerful backing might even be beneficial. The company could invest more. In an industry full of exploitation, such a group might even have protection.
‘Of course, if I were actually twenty, I’d probably be furious about the injustice.’
But he wasn’t. He was a 29-year-old (+a) regressor who had already lived this life four times over.
After a moment, Dan Haru spoke.
“…I just don’t like the director.”
“Very seventeen-year-old answer. Next.”
“And even if we do this, we’ll just end up being backup for that nepotism guy.”
“That’s capitalism for you. Next.”
“I don’t want to be on the director’s line. Even W Group disbanded because of that.”
W Group referred to a four-member rock concept project group that debuted strongly but collapsed after a hand-sync controversy during their own concert. So that was also the director’s work.
“That one I can understand. Next.”
“Is that still not enough?!”
“It’s a case of criticizing a director and a backed trainee. You need a decisive punch.”
“But!”
“Honestly, once you debut, after that it’s survival. Everyone has to make it on their own. The public isn’t stupid—they know who has skill.”
“For something as small as ‘I don’t like him,’ refusing debut sounds a bit spoiled.”
At his cold words, Haru fell silent, visibly deflated like a drenched rabbit.
It stung to say it, but he wasn’t going to take it back.
There were people who spent years training and still never even got to step in front of a broadcast camera.
No matter how desperate or talented you were, in an industry where even debut didn’t guarantee success, refusing debut over something as simple as dislike could seem like arrogance to some.
‘I can’t move just on that level.’
He was the same. Since he had entered this path to end his regression, he needed to complete the quest—and that quest was to form a “successful debut team,” not a “morally righteous one.”
If the nepotism pick was a capable and successful member, then Hajin had no reason to eliminate him.
“Didn’t I tell you earlier?”
Finally, Eunchan spoke again, his calm voice unchanged.
“The director is trying to frame us.”
“…What?”
“I’m from a wealthy family.”
“Yeah, that’s nice. But you’re still B-class. Not A-class.”
“Exactly. During the Euphia concert, I was the only B-class trainee who got to perform as a backup dancer. That was ordered by the director. Even some A-class trainees who were better didn’t get that chance.”
“…Oh?”
“He knows I’m close with Haru. He’s threatening me. Either I take the nepotism label, or I rewrite my contract and debut. I know you can’t help me, hyung, but I just… I just can’t stand this—”
“Stop. What do you mean rewrite? Rewriting a contract?”
“To debut… so they said we have to rewrite the trainee contract…”
“You already signed one when you entered Miro, right?”
At his words, both boys’ eyes widened at the same time.
Oh?
A signal rang in Hajin’s head.
He didn’t need a “bomb detection” skill for this. Instinctively, he knew.
‘This is a bomb.’
Got you, bastard.
‘So the director was planning to pocket people on the side.’
A classic trainee poaching scheme. Not common, but not rare either in this narrow industry. His frequent presence in elite social gatherings was probably for securing investors for the company.
“Hah. This changes things.”
“…Can you help us?”
Eunchan looked at him with lingering doubt.
At first, he had seemed just calm and detached. But now he looked different. Not calm—just exhausted. A face worn down by injustice. The resignation of an eighteen-year-old who had learned helplessness too early.
And in that moment, Hajin saw a glimpse of someone else.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Accepted.”
“…!!”
Now then.
How should I dismantle this?
