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Chapter 18
The fan master A of You Are My Prism.
AKA, Prism Home Master.
She had been a fangirl for almost ten years.
A long time if you think about it, or short, depending on perspective.
But she had one particularly unique trait.
She didn’t just stan one idol—she supported all idols equally.
In fandom lingo, she was a “multi.”
So her social media feed was filled with a well-balanced array of photos of various idols.
Naturally, the new program Make a New Color was one she had high hopes for.
Because it was a show to pick the next idol to feature in her camera lens.
But she was also in her tenth year as a fan.
She was hitting a kind of burnout, or maybe just a fan-fatigue phase.
Not focusing on just one idol, but stanning multiple groups had led to overload—an ocean of information that could feel overwhelming.
And now a new one was being added on top?
It was practically a dopamine overdose.
So her reaction to Make a New Color was somewhat conflicted.
She was looking forward to it—but not really.
She wanted to know more—but maybe not.
The members of the idol group Colors were all very different, but somehow had similar vibes.
Pretty, delicate features.
Members who could sing and dance—true all-rounders.
Whether it was producing, composing, or writing lyrics—they could do it all.
And of course, they had the mandatory “variety show genius” among them.
In fact, they were so perfect that it sometimes created a sense of distance.
Not to mention—Colors was from a major label, right?
Every album they released was like a piece of art.
Truly, in this capitalist world, there’s nothing that can’t be achieved with enough capital.
So what she wanted was freshness.
Still Colors—but a new kind of Colors.
Something fresh… but familiar.
She laughed to herself as she said it.
How could that even make sense?
“I’m your new world.”
But somehow… it did make sense.
“…Are you insane?”
She had been watching the Make a New Color broadcast with mild interest—until her jaw dropped.
“…You’ve really lost it, haven’t you.”
The moment the stage ended, she scrambled to open her SNS.
As expected, her timeline was ablaze.
The unified taste of Colors fans!
The same preferences, the same instincts!
That undeniable truth—we all have the same eyes!
“I felt my frozen heart beating again.”
“I got on my knees while watching—our baby beast main vocal has lost it—let’s get reverent.”
“Wait—is it even allowed for a main vocal to blindfold themselves with a tie??”
“Fine, you can sing. Fine, you can dance. But are you telling me this trainee, with no mentor, came up with that concept solo??”
“Colors, you lunatics, what kind of CG did you create this time??”
“ㅠㅠㅠ Look at Cheongie’s tear mole, please ㅠㅠㅠ The lighting loved it, the Lighting God blessed it.”
Her timeline was filled with messages that mirrored her own feelings.
There had been so many highlights in that stage.
The necktie blindfold, the leather rider concept, and that gleaming tear mole.
“Did you see Yoon Cheong changed the lyrics?”
Original lyrics:
“One step closer, boy
I’m here for you
Taking root and bearing fruit”
Changed lyrics:
“One step closer, girl
I’m here for you
Taking root and bearing fruit”
“Wasn’t that just an indirect death sentence for us??”
“That lyric change was specifically aimed at me, I swear.”
“It’s true. No way it’s not true.”
“Isn’t Yoon Cheong a complete plot twist? I thought she’d show up with an acoustic guitar and sing a folk song.”
→ “Thought she was a baby bunny but turns out she was a baby beast. A baby cheetah.”
→→ “I believed in her from the moment she picked that song (old fan voice).”
The Prism Home Master closed her SNS for a moment and replayed the performance.
The rumors circulating among home masters before the broadcast—and the Yoon Cheong they had just seen—were like two completely different people.
“She can sing but can’t dance and lacks stage presence?”
You kidding me?
Did all the people without presence just disappear?
“Who spread that nonsense… I’m filing a lawsuit as a fan, seriously…”
The fact that she’d come up with that entire concept on her own without a mentor was impressive on its own.
And on top of that, she pulled off the choreography flawlessly?
In just a week?
“…Hoo.”
The Prism Home Master quietly opened her bank account.
It was time to buy a new camera lens.
No, forget that—time to prepare her whole wallet.
The whirlwind of final performances had ended.
“I think I’m gonna pass out…”
“For real…”
“I actually threw up earlier…”
“I had nothing in my stomach, so I was just dry heaving bile.”
In the waiting room, the twelve trainees were in complete shambles.
I was basically fused with the couch.
The choreography wasn’t unusually difficult, but the real issue was Yoon Cheong’s body.
That girl was naturally frail…!
And on top of that, she’d been starving herself to lose weight. Her body was breaking down.
The moment money came in, my first priority would be to hire a personal trainer.
How could she expect to debut with no muscle? Was she nuts?
Strength and skill both come from physical endurance.
I swore to myself—if I ever got to meet Yoon Cheong in person, I’d grab her by the collar and tell her this first.
“How do senior idols manage to perform like this every time…?”
You get used to it over time.
“Music shows are fine since it’s only one or two stages. But how do they survive concerts…?”
IV drips and personal training.
“Everything went white on stage. I thought I’d faint when I saw the audience, but I didn’t even have time to be scared. I couldn’t even see because I was so focused on the next move.”
“Same. I messed up the lyrics.”
“Who stole my four minutes? I blinked and the stage was over.”
Hearing this kind of talk made it hit me just how new to the world these kids were.
They talked like they were tough in interviews, but in reality—they were just high schoolers or barely legal adults.
If only PD Oh had toned down the evil editing… The kids wouldn’t have gotten cursed at so badly.
Some of the trainees’ interviews had been heavily edited and were circulating online.
If you watched just those clips, they looked like horrible brats—but in reality, they were just regular kids.
“I hope we don’t get too much hate for today’s stage.”
“You mean because of your last mid-evaluation performance? It wasn’t even your fault, Ju Hong.”
“You did great today. Why are you so scared? Stand tall.”
Kim Geum and Seo Baekyoung were comforting Yeon Ju Hong.
These days, Ju Hong had been receiving a lot of hate.
Her naturally cheerful but blunt way of speaking came off badly on broadcast.
“I’ve just… kind of given up.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Even if I get lucky enough to debut… I feel like people will just hate me.”
“Don’t even say that.”
Kim Geum, who had been quietly listening, cut her off firmly.
“No one hates someone who worked hard enough to debut.”
“Yeah. Just focus on debuting. Don’t think about anything else.”
Everyone chipped in to comfort her, but Ju Hong’s red nose showed no sign of clearing.
She looked like the type to obsessively monitor online reactions.
I’d seen her scrolling through her phone with teary eyes more than once… She must’ve been struggling a lot inside.
I wanted to tell her to just not look at those things—but she wouldn’t listen to me anyway.
“…The voting results must be done by now, right?”
“Probably.”
As soon as voting was mentioned, the warm, casual mood disappeared.
By now, the audience votes should be tallied and the rankings finalized.
Fortunately, there were no eliminations—no one would be sent home.
But those in the lower ranks wouldn’t be in the debut safe zone… so it was still nerve-wracking.
Just then, the door opened and a staff member peeked in.
“We’ll begin filming the mission ranking announcement now. Please move to the set.”
Speak of the devil…
The ranking ceremony was held in a separate studio.
No one said a word during the ride there.
And now, as filming officially began, the room was filled with nothing but silence.
“Hello, everyone.”
Judge and host Do Heeyoung greeted them from the center of the studio.
“Hello!”
The trainees answered in loud unison.
“Did you all do well on your first performance?”
“No!”
Ah.
So unified when it matters.
“Ha ha, I thought you all did great?”
“Thank you!”
“But even if you all did well, there still has to be a ranking. So, let’s begin the ranking ceremony.”
With a solemn expression, Do Heeyoung flipped a cue card.
“The colorists who will be painting you today have ranked your performances from 1st to 12th. A total of 300 colorists participated today.”
Make a New Color referred to its viewers as “colorists.”
A nickname deeply faithful to the concept.
“1st place gets 12 points, 2nd gets 11, and so on, with 12th place receiving just 1 point. If all 300 colorists ranked one trainee in 1st, they’d earn 3,600 points. Conversely, if everyone ranked someone 12th, they’d receive only 300 points.”
3,600 versus 300.
Everyone tensed at the sheer scale of the gap.
You could literally hear people sucking in deep breaths.
“We’ll announce 12th and 1st place last. First, we’ll reveal the score for 11th place. In the first mission of Make a New Color—the ‘Colors Idol Cover’ mission—11th place scored…”
Do Heeyoung paused for dramatic effect before speaking.
“…1,250 points.”
