“Hoyun! This is our seat!” I just kept nodding absently while fiddling with my ear. It felt like my nerves were stretched razor-thin. ‘That sound earlier... fuck, that was ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) just my imagination, right?’ I really wanted to believe that. “When is it supposed to start?” “Probably once those kids finish rehearsal and the stage is ready.” Up on the stage, a group of obviously baby-faced kids were doing their rehearsal with heavy makeup that didn’t match their age. “Oh! Hello, sunbaenim!” “Good work. I’m looking forward to your performance.” They were probably nervous with the broadcast right around the corner, but the Daepaseong trainees I’d seen around the company still bowed 90 degrees as they passed by. It was expected from our company’s own trainees, but I glanced over at the others out of curiosity—and yeah, nothing to say there either. ‘It’s gonna be a hell of a job if they plan to push these kids.’ Follow current novᴇls on novel·fıre·net As someone who used to be the main PD of a survival show, I could see it crystal clear. Blatantly lacking skills, half-assing their rehearsal despite that. Unfocused eyes and hollow expressions. Sure, just like how I misjudged The Dawn at first, whether you make it or not depends on your own effort—but when the person in question has zero drive? There’s no hope. Comparing them to the mentor lineup just made it feel ridiculous. ‘So that’s why online reaction was like that.’ Every time the beat thudded—boom, boom—my head pounded harder. I pressed on my temples with my fingers until I eventually stood up. Sung Jiwon looked up at me, eyes wide. “Hoyun, what’s wrong?” “I’ll be back when the show starts. It’s just a bit too loud...” Behind Sung Jiwon’s nod, Kim Sunghyun and Jung Dajun both gave me worried looks. But none of them pressed the issue—they just turned away. I walked slowly down the broadcasting station hallway I’d grown used to while filming Shining Star and opened the door to the emergency staircase. Within my current range of movement, it was the quietest spot I could get. “A mentor performance?” That’s when I heard voices echoing up the stairs. “Was that mentioned beforehand?” “Ugh, we’re already scrambling for screen time down to the minute...” “Fuck, you think we’ll actually get more popular after this show ends?” Right. It’s quiet, so people think no one comes here—and that’s exactly why it’s a hotspot for shit-talking. But in places , the daytime whispers are heard by broadcast rats, and the nighttime ones too. Gripping the railing, I cautiously checked up and down—then spotted a shadow moving below. It was mostly just grumbling and whining, but even for trainees, you’d think the company would at least teach them to shut up properly. Their mouths were lighter than feathers. I was debating whether to go down and lecture them about not running their mouths in places when a familiar name popped up. “But isn’t Kang Ichae seriously scary?” “...Yeah, fuckin’ scary.” “So scary. He’s literally the only mentor who doesn’t scream at us, and I’m still scared shitless.” “I thought he was funny and cheerful from watching variety shows, but no. I dunno if that was just an act or what, but he gives off crazy vibes. One time I cracked a joke and he just stared at me—I almost pissed myself...” Wow, they actually had a pretty accurate read on Kang Ichae. My head was still spinning. I figured there was no point in listening to nervous little kids whining out of anxiety, so I turned back to return to the others—but before I could open the door, someone else opened it first and popped out.