🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter 41
“MenuChor” Group Chat
Producer Oh:
The kitchen and living room cameras are now ON.
Seeing Producer Oh’s text first thing in the morning made my stomach churn.
It was a group message—basically telling us to behave since the cameras were rolling.
Wouldn’t want any wardrobe malfunctions making things awkward for everyone.
“Yaaawn…”
As always, morning comes back like a ghost… but my stamina doesn’t.
Yooncheong’s body had zero muscle. Compared to my own 30-year-old body, it was in terrible shape.
First thing after this program ends: personal training. No debate.
You can’t survive in the idol world without muscles.
Out of habit, I pulled out a chicken breast and started eating.
In COLORS, we weren’t forced to diet.
No one told us to lose weight or get plastic surgery.
But… trainees managed their diets on their own.
Not too severely though—since the training was so intense, just eating normally was enough to make you lose weight.
No tteokbokki… mostly chicken and vegetables.
“Unnie, what are you eating?”
Yeon Juhong peeked over my shoulder.
The most annoying one.
She eats the most but never gains weight.
She says it’s just her body type.
But the real annoying part? Most of the food she eats comes from my stash.
“Chicken breast.”
Still, the cameras were rolling, so I said it nicely.
“Ew.”
She immediately changed targets.
“Geum-geum unnie~ What are you eating?”
“Can you not call me that, you little punk?”
Kim Geum grimaced and pushed Juhong with her foot.
I exchanged a glance with Kim Geum and gestured subtly toward the camera.
Too much violence would get her backlash.
Noticing my signal, Kim Geum clenched her teeth into a smile and replied,
“I’m just having a protein shake.”
“You can survive on just that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Denied.”
“Who are you to allow or deny anything?”
“We’re fated companions… after all.”
“Nope.”
…Why do these younger kids talk in such short sentences?
Maximum efficiency?
“Who wants to eat ramen with me?!”
No one even blinked.
It’s not like the girls were on extreme diets, but ramen in the morning? Yeah, no thanks.
“Oh my gosh, Bora-bora unnie!”
“…What.”
Ryu Bora came out of her room, shuffling.
“Eat ramen with me! I’m a ramen master—certified by my mom!”
“I have recording today.”
“Ah—okay. Bye.”
Juhong was brutally rejected, sniffled, then cooked ramen by herself.
That smell… damn.
It made me tear up inside.
While trying not to cry between the scent of ramen and the blandness of chicken breast, I had one thought:
Why hasn’t someone invented ramen-flavored chicken breast yet?
Then Ryu Bora nudged me.
“Yooncheong unnie.”
Putting ‘unnie’ with my full name made it sound so distant.
“Yeah?”
“Do you have anything going on this morning?”
“Nope. I was just planning to hole up in the practice room.”
“If you’re free, want to come with me to my recording?”
Both Kim Geum and Yeon Juhong looked at us, surprised.
They looked really surprised.
…Is this really that surprising? Huh?
“Uh… why?”
“You can totally say no if you’re busy.”
“N-no, I’m not busy…”
I was just curious why she was asking.
I’ve been thinking this for a while—why do I feel so weak around this girl?
Her tone is kind of similar to Kim Geum’s, but they feel completely different.
They’re both blunt, but Kim Geum’s bluntness feels friendly.
Ryu Bora’s feels… intimidating.
It’s weird.
Especially since Kim Geum is expressionless while Ryu Bora always talks with a gentle smile.
“Originally I was going with Kyungah unnie, but her recording got rescheduled to tomorrow.”
“Oh, why?”
Bora just shrugged.
Clearly didn’t know.
She’s been doing a lot of solo stuff lately… hmm.
“Anyway, are you coming?”
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
Not sure why she invited me, but hey—might as well get some screen time out of it.
Definitely not because I’m worried about her.
I just want airtime with a popular member.
Totally.
“You guys all done recording?”
“Yep.”
Juhong nodded right away, surprisingly.
“The song’s not easy. Did you get the OK on the first try?”
“Um…”
Juhong made an awkward face.
“Well… the recording’s over, at least. So that’s good, I guess…”
What?
I felt uneasy, but she didn’t look like she wanted to say more.
Probably because the cameras were still rolling.
“What about you, Geum?”
“Not done yet. The arrangement’s taking forever.”
“Yeah, figures. Since it’s just the two of you, you must have a lot of parts.”
“It’s basically like creating a whole new song. Poor Producer Danha is suffering because of us. I feel super guilty.”
“Let’s make it up to them with an amazing performance.”
“Obviously.”
That bold personality of hers…
No wonder she’s so popular.
Even before MenuChor, Kim Geum was already well-known online.
It wasn’t just because she had fans.
It was because of her personality.
Thanks to her, there were tons of memes and catchphrases.
Especially from her time on the hip-hop survival show Unpretty Money:
- [Geum: Just because it comes out of your mouth doesn’t mean it’s language.]
- [Geum: Oh… how creatively stupid.]
Because of that, people either loved or hated her.
Kim Geum didn’t hold back just because someone was older.
She only spoke like that when she was close to someone, but the public didn’t always see it that way.
I heard the company warned her a few times.
Idols have to “watch their mouths” and all that.
But she didn’t seem to care.
“Hey, Juhong.”
“Yes?”
“Remove your limbs from my body.”
“Aw…”
“Let’s maintain a 1cm² no-contact policy. The humidity’s messing with my mood.”
“Waaah…”
But despite all that—
She’s actually the only one who gets along with every trainee.
Even the fortress-like Ryu Bora talks to her freely.
“Yooncheong unnie.”
“Yeah?”
“We’re leaving in an hour. You’re not gonna shower?”
…Yeah.
That fortress.
Back at Han Jae-yi and Danha’s studio again.
The two producers/idols didn’t seem even slightly curious about why I was there.
Actually, it looked like they didn’t care about us at all.
“Ryu Bora trainee, let’s start. Warm up your voice.”
“Yes.”
Bora didn’t seem bothered either.
Feeling like a third wheel, I looked around the studio.
Maybe I could find a clue about how to interpret the song.
But there was nothing like that.
Instead—
‘The Pendulum – FinalFinalFinalFinalFinal Version’
…Seriously, how many times did they revise it?
That was The Pendulum, the song for Dance Position A.
Yeon Juhong, Seo Baekyoung, and Kim Ryeoyu’s team.
So many revisions—and yet they’d already finished recording?
Curious, I shifted a bit to get a better look at the sheet music.
The moment it came into view—
“We’ll go again. That part.”
—I was shocked.
It was totally different from the version I knew.
Originally, The Pendulum was a cult favorite.
It often showed up on “underrated idol songs” lists.
Fast beat, intense melody, grand instrumentation.
It was perfect for performances—but with a big downside.
It was really hard.
Fast tempo, no room to breathe, insane octave jumps.
Trying to sing that while dancing? Brutal.
In position evaluations, using AR backing vocals was usually allowed.
But COLORS’ agency insisted on live vocals—always.
Even in dance evaluations.
So dance position became the hardest of them all.
Even if expectations for vocals were lowered, you couldn’t completely drop them.
That’s why The Pendulum was such a gamble.
Done well, it’d be historic.
Done poorly? Total disaster.
In my past life, Seo Baekyoung had crushed it.
Her team had been Seo Baekyoung, Lee Jooseon, and Shin Yoohyeon.
Baekyoung, who was obsessed with vocals, took all the hard parts and nailed them.
Because of that, her ranking skyrocketed and she secured a debut spot.
But this… wasn’t the same song.
It had been way too simplified.
Why?
I need to ask Baekyoung later.
While I was still processing that—
“Let’s go again.”
Bora was struggling.
Hard.
Even though I’d given her interpretation tips before, she was still stuck.
I listened closely.
Her pitch and rhythm were still flawless.
It was hard to believe she came from an acting background.
But—
“…Ryu Bora trainee.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t really put it into words, but the emotion just doesn’t come through.
You probably feel that too, right?”
“…Yes.”
Something was missing.
Like Han Jae-yi said.
Even to me, someone who didn’t make the song—it felt flat.
Bora looked downcast, clearly realizing it too.
“Hm.”
The producers whispered to each other, then called out:
“Yooncheong trainee.”
“Yes?”
“Go in.”
“…Me?”
“Yes. Try singing it together.”
Hmm.
I agreed immediately.
I had a feeling I knew what they were trying.
Once inside the booth, I could see how tense Bora really was.
Her lyric sheet was crumpled.
She must’ve been gripping it way too tightly.
She didn’t look like someone who got nervous—but she really was.
I put on the headset and stood next to her.
Bora opened her lyrics again.
But I said:
“Let’s try it without looking.”
And gently took her hand.
“Together.”
