Chapter 53
A few days after the 2nd evaluation of <Design Your Idol> had ended.
“Hey, did you vote?”
“Vote for what?”
“You don’t watch <Dear Doll>?”
A high school fan, currently enduring the “military hiatus” of her favorite 9-year-old idol group C.X—after most members enlisted—tilted her head at her friend’s question.
“They’re doing the battle stage voting from yesterday to tonight. Two teams of six go head-to-head with the same song. They combine the MeTube views, likes, and on-site votes to eliminate one team and pass the other.”
“Ugh, I don’t really like survival shows.”
“Your group’s song was used, though. Their center pulled it off pretty well.”
“C.X’s song is a performance track?”
Curious, the high school fan scooted closer to her friend and looked at the tablet screen. Her friend was watching a team dressed neatly in silk shirts.
“…This isn’t a C.X song though?”
“This is the other team. The one facing the team my one-pick is in.”
“Who’s your one-pick?”
“Do Ji-hyuk.”
Do Ji-hyuk… wasn’t he the “runaway” guy? She’d seen something on the community boards.
The thought appeared for a moment, but the high school fan kept it inside. Saying that nickname out loud—clearly a slur—would instantly freeze her friend’s expression.
Instead, intrigued, she sat down beside her friend and naturally borrowed one of her earbuds.
Together, she watched the trainees perform passionately on screen. The melody under the R&B-style rearrangement felt familiar, so she asked:
“Don’t tell me the evaluation song is same and different? That fairy one?”
The airy, floating tone of the original was dropped down significantly, with heavy drums instead of strings, giving the song an entirely different feel—yet some of the softness of the original remained.
‘The rearrangement’s good. The concept too.’
It seemed the concept had changed from a fairy in love to something like a changeling boy falling in love. Since she’d never liked the original fairy concept, the combination of a decent arrangement and mild staging made this version easy to watch.
But then she noticed something odd.
“You said each team has six members?”
According to her friend, each team should’ve had six—but this one was missing one member.
Her friend clicked her tongue and answered.
“Oh, someone from this team dropped out.”
“Dropped out?”
“Yeah, they got injured and left right before the stage. The trainee who dropped was the main rapper, so their spot was taken by Joo Dan-woo.”
“Who’s Joo Dan-woo?”
Her friend pointed to one trainee stepping into center position. He had a sharp, glamorous impression, a tall frame, and solid build—slightly intimidating at first glance.
But as he started singing in a low voice along the soft melody, then shifted into singing-rap, the high school fan unconsciously let out a small exclamation.
‘He’s good.’
She had already thought he sounded skilled during his brief singing parts earlier, but once he started rapping, the high school fan had to reassess him entirely.
His confident gaze, charismatic camera presence, and assured voice, combined with the way he laid his singing-rap smoothly over the beat, elevated the entire song.
Thinking she should look him up later, she watched the stage until the end. The other members were decent, but only Joo Dan-woo remained memorable.
‘Not bad.’
The high school fan decided that maybe she should check out the reruns of <Dear Doll>, which many of her friends had recently fallen for. Until now, she had intentionally avoided the show out of loyalty to C.X, but it actually seemed pretty enjoyable as a casual survival watch.
‘The stage quality’s better than I expected. I’ll look it up later at home.’
But that was it.
For someone who had long loved C.X—known for strong, sexy concepts and razor-sharp choreography—the <Dear Doll> trainees’ stages still looked like amateur performances in comparison.
No way I’m stanning them, she thought, taking off the earbud and about to return to her seat—
until the next video auto-played.
“My one-pick is in this one!”
Following her friend’s excited voice and intense focus on the tablet, the high school fan silently sat back down.
The group with her friend’s “one-pick,” Group 2, Team Nemaumyeolsoe, wore—
‘A harness? No way I’m skipping that.’
The classic combination every idol fan wants to see at least once: black pants, white shirt, and a harness.
On the screen, six trainees dressed in white shirts and black pants crouched low together at the back of the stage, almost merging into a single silhouette.
The stage lights were almost entirely off except for minimal illumination. Fog drifted around their legs, revealing only faint outlines and shadows.
‘…Why is this so dramatic?’
Unlike the bright, lively original by Orchid or the gentle, sweet staging of the previous team, the atmosphere here was completely different. Without realizing it, the high school fan leaned closer.
As the caption showing the team name and song title slid by, a low snapping sound echoed.
Before she could process what was happening, one trainee rose alone from within the huddled formation, still facing away.
The pin light flickered—
and as he lifted his hand, snapping his fingers precisely to the beat—
Pop—
The lights all shut off, and the stage was thrown into complete darkness.
“…….”
Right after that, the backdrop on the screen shifted—showing a city packed with skyscrapers and the noise of a loud, bustling metropolis.
Car engines passing, crowds talking, all layered beneath an electric guitar wail that sounded almost like a warning siren.
With the heavy bass rumbling beneath it, the trainee standing center stage slowly turned his head.
Smoky eye makeup shadowed his sharp gaze, his eyes slicing through the darkness.
With just the slightest distance between him and the center, Cheon Se-rim launched forward, his body pulsing with the beat as if jolted by an electric wave, while the other trainees stared into the camera as though ready to devour it.
—woo— A word left behind by a strange gaze
Cheon Se-rim reached out lightly, as if brushing the air, matching the warped, uneasy guitar sound.
As another trainee stepped in behind him to continue the singing, the trainees kneeling on the ground twisted their heads in precise, unnerving movements, watching him like predators tracking prey.
—In the illusion, like staring into a mirror
A feeling like I’ve been pushed into another world
—Unavoidably, I focus on you
The world inside my view fades away
A trainee approached Cheon Se-rim’s back. Moving like his shadow, Yoo Chan-hee synchronized perfectly, mirroring every gesture as he naturally nudged Se-rim aside and stepped into center.
He raised his hand for the point move, covering his eyes as he stared at the camera—and behind him, the others began rising one by one.
—I know your everything
Anywhere, whenever
—Twins that push away your distractions
—Look like me, another me
The intense question tempts me
Once again, two stepped forward with smooth, fluid waves. Hwang Young-oh softened the atmosphere with a silky vocal, dripping with drowsy temptation, while Yoo Min-seong crossed behind him, gripping Young-oh’s shoulder as he slid into his part.
As they drifted left, the remaining trainees snapped their shoulders and necks with sharp, angular movements, building rhythm while continuing the group choreo.
—As if you’ll disappear any moment
In the blurry life I lived
—The hidden noun that was you
Defines the emptiness of my life
The two at center broke to each side—and two new silhouettes entered.
“Hrk…”
The high school fan heard a stifled gasp from her friend, but she herself simply stared blankly at the screen.
Among the two who appeared, one had gently upturned eyes and full, lush lips—an alluring, seductive beauty.
And the other—
—Makes it impossible to hide
(fade away)
—was a trainee with a breathtaking, almost magnetic aura.
With long strides and arms sweeping from head to waist, Won Yu-ha and Do Ji-hyuk stepped forward like reflections in a mirror, moving in identical motions. Then at one moment, Won Yu-ha slipped outward from the pair.
Yu-ha smiled faintly, running his hand down his face—and with dramatic harmonies swelling, classical piano struck sharply over the beat, sending the song surging upward.
—same and different
other and another
(keep on calling)
With a turn, the trainees dropped to the floor as if collapsing, then pushed themselves outward using only leg strength.
Gathering back around Cheon Se-rim, they spun like a wind-up toy, then reformed into a tight, precise group choreography.
—same but different
other and another
(keep on calling)
The richer, fuller sound carried into a moment where the members, arranged in a circle back-to-back, spread outward like butterfly wings. They mirrored the same shapes but intentionally shifted directions, performing crossed, contrasting motions.
Then, with staggered timing, they shot their arms forward like Do-minoes—reaching as if to grab something—flowing into rapid, striking moves.
And through all of this, the high school fan was watching only one face.
—Makes it impossible to hide
Amid the complex and flashy choreography, one trainee stood out—his moves clean and disciplined, giving the choreography structure, never glancing away even once. His eyes remained fixed, piercing straight into the camera.
His presence kept dragging her gaze back.
The high school fan found herself asking blankly,
“…Who is that?”
“Huh?”
Her friend, still hypnotized by the screen, didn’t even look away. The high school fan pointed at the trainee dancing powerfully in the formation.
“Won Yu-ha.”
Hearing the answer, the high school fan stared blankly at his face—the one now surging into center again, the one looking at her through the screen with those fierce, burning eyes.