The scramble for positions before the opening.

Though the writers had clearly assigned spots, everyone had stealthily taken the places they thought would look best on camera.

It was an obviously strange formation.

While PD Koo Jae-young frowned, another main PD, Oh Tae-jun, raised his megaphone.

“Line up again.”

Everyone hesitated.

“Move as announced earlier! Now!”

At his sharp order, they all returned to their original spots.

It was the exact scene I’d expected.

That’s why when Seo Ji-hyung occupied my spot, I hesitated. The crew would tell us to move anyway—did I really need to confront a senior entertainer?

But I also felt I had to protect my own bread and butter, and I suspected other problems would arise.

Sure enough, PD Oh Tae-jun targeted the rookies.

“Han Yeoreum, Bae Yeong-hun! Don’t you know your spots?”

He barked at them as they looked sheepish.

“If someone’s standing in your spot, say, ‘That’s my spot!’ Were you planning to wait until the crew told you?”

That was exactly the issue. When there are so many people and no one’s in control, producers usually clamp down early to set the tone. From my military days, I knew they picked on the easiest targets: people they could speak roughly to with no fallout.

In other words, rookies.

If back when Seo Ji-hyung told us to move we’d simply said, “Yes, we’ll move,” we’d have been scolded just the same.

Luckily, we sidestepped that crisis. I nodded at my brothers, who were giving me curious looks.

Meanwhile, the angry PD had the guests stiffening in place. They understood his point: if they didn’t behave now, the editing would be a snooze later.

Just then, Ju Se-han’s eldest and “grandfather” figure, Mr. Woo Jae-yong, spoke up.

“PD Oh, why’re you wrangling folks first thing in the morning?”

“Sir, it’s just that controlling everyone—”

“The weather’s fine, the guests are here. Do you think snapping at us will build atmosphere? Look at their faces. This isn’t a Chuseok special, it’s a funeral special.”

His folksy joke set off laughter around the circle. Another senior actor, “grandmother” Yang Ok-bun, waved her hand.

“Yeah, Tae-jun. Do you really think bossing us sets the mood? We’re all here to have fun filming.”

“Yes... sir.”

“Oh, everyone smile. Smile! What good’s these pretty faces frowning?”

With the two elders defusing tension, laughter rippled out. Yet thanks to the PD’s earlier roar, the group obeyed far more orderly than before.

When Ju Se-han’s youngest line, Hee-chan and Hee-yeon, arrived, the chatter surged again.

Their eldest and “father” figure, comedian Oh Hyung-seok, clicked his tongue.

“Hee-yeon, Hee-chan—try to be on time. You call guests and then embarrass yourselves like this?”

“We didn’t expect a flat tire,” said Yeo Hee-chan, leisurely.

Oh Hyung-seok gave a rueful chuckle.

“What are the odds of a flat tire at the worst moment? The variety gods sure hit you at the wrong time.”

As the siblings exchanged greetings, they found their spots. Girls On Top nearby gave them a friendly wave, but the two ignored them and stood next to us.

Especially Yeo Hee-yeon, who nestled right beside me.

...What?

It felt awkward. She’d intruded too close for comfort.

Seeing my discomfort, Yeo Hee-yeon beamed.

“Hi.”

“Uh... hello.”

But the way she looked at me was weird—almost familiar. The other guests were whispering, “Are they close?”

Moments later, Yeo Hee-chan cleared it up.

“She said she likes you.”

“Excuse me?”

“She said during the basketball mission she thought you were great. It’s been a while since a guest could move like that. She said it’ll be fun working with you today, too.”

“.......”

Yeo Hee-yeon nodded and whispered to me.

“Let’s get along well today.”

A chill ran down my spine. Never had “get along well” sounded so threatening. Her gaze was like a farmer eyeing a strong ox. I instinctively touched my nose, imagining being led by a nose ring. My brothers snickered.

Finally, the opening shoot began.

Jibimi jib cameras rolled, capturing the cast as Ju Se-han’s members shouted,

“Roll it, roll it!”

The guests cheered back.

“Dice!”

Amid applause, the opening kicked off.

Comedian Oh Hyung-seok, holding the cue cards, looked around.

“Wow, how many people is this? So many! Jae-young, how many guests did you say for today’s Chuseok special?”

PD Koo Jae-young held up three fingers. The cast exaggerated surprise.

“Wow, thirty people!”

“Thirty? That’s the largest since the idol special, right?”

“But less chaotic than then. We gathered a hundred for a chase segment last time.”

“What were the seniors doing then?”

“We were in the control room eating ice cream.”

The members began chatting about the broadcast. The energy was surprisingly low-key—no lightning-quick wit or zingers every moment as on TV, maybe one funny line every ten minutes.

Meanwhile, the guests, convulsing with laughter, provided the reactions.

Next, the guest introductions. Each self-introduction was met with theatrical fuss, but one was especially grand.

The person whose mere presence seemed to light up the room smiled softly.

“Hello, I’m Lee Gyeon-u. I played painter Kim Young-shin in this year’s drama Brush of Memory. This is my first variety show, so I’m very nervous. Please take care of me.”

“Wow, you shine from the face up!”

“Seriously, with China and Southeast Asia going wild, how did a Hallyu star end up here?”

“Not ‘end up’—I’m a fan of the show.”

Even amid a hectic schedule, he said, he watched whenever he could. It was the textbook answer.

He bantered for almost five minutes as the hottest star, then introductions continued.

Though the celebrities were fawning, the overall vibe was supportive.

Then it was our turn.

“Hello, we’re NewBlack!”

Polite applause followed.

Actor Song Jin-woo, the “uncle” figure, asked Oh Hyung-seok,

“Hyung, I feel like I’ve seen these guys somewhere.”

“They’re the ‘Something’ singers!”

“Oh. The guys who sang Something? No wonder the voices sounded familiar.”

Of course they didn’t truly know us—thanks to the sketchbook held up reading Something! they cottoned on. Some people went “Ah!” in surprise.

Oh Hyung-seok asked,

“This is NewBlack’s first variety show, right?”

“Yes! It’s our first time on one!”

“It shows. Fresh and cute.”

Then Namiri, the “mother” figure, spotted something.

“Look at her leg shaking. She’s really nervous.”

She was pointing at our main vocalist. Amid giggles, Ri-hyuk cleared his throat.

“I—I have the shakes.”

“The shakes means your hands tremble, right?”

“Yes, so my hands tremble too.”

He sounded like he’d blurted out anything to explain, and laughter broke out.

“Her eyelids are twitching too. Is she okay? Should we give her a herbal pill?”

“Oh, her ears are red too.”

Seizing the opportunity, the members riffed on Ri-hyuk, and we clapped along.

I’d always thought our fourth’s ears were a variety-show cheat code. They gleamed on cue whenever we needed screen time. I decided to call them “ear-keys” rather than “true ears” from now on.

Thanks to that, the situation smoothly transitioned to a song. Ri-hyuk and I sang a brief line of Night Sea with smiles—covering both promotion and airtime.

When the opening wrapped, the great migration began.

The crew loaded equipment onto vehicles, and the guests parted fond farewells with their managers.

Usually in variety shows managers don’t accompany talent, but ours were all smiles.

“Hyung, at least look a bit sad like the other managers.”

“Like this?”

“No, more regretful.”

“Sorry. Managing you guys lately has been so tough.”

When Seok-hwan hyung smiled blissfully, Bi-ju feigned hurt.

“Manager-nim, are you sorry to see us go?”

“Of course I am. I feel like I’m going to fly. I never understood why you smile when your friend visits his wife’s parents, but now I get it.”

“We’re disappointed, Manager-nim.”

Joong-hyun chimed in huffily.

“You’re not bringing back souvenirs, are you?”

Everyone laughed. Our kindly manager urged,

“If anything happens, call me right away. I set your ringtone to an ambulance siren.”

“Got it, hyung. Thanks.”

“Rest well while we’re gone, Manager-nim.”

“That won’t do. If I rest, your schedules disappear.”

Even after sending us off, he had plenty on his plate. The more NewBlack’s name spread, the busier Seok-hwan hyung became. That’s just the job of a manager: hustling, distributing business cards, promoting, drinking. Nowadays, most schedules were handled by road manager Min-gi hyung and other dispatched staff. As the lead manager, Seok-hwan hyung only appeared for key events like ads or variety. Today’s shoot didn’t require him—just a drop-off and goodbye.

I felt grateful for the manager who didn’t mind the hassle.

“Hyung, wait for me. I’ll charm the elders in the countryside and bring back tons of kimchi cabbage.”

“That won’t work.”

Ri-hyuk said,

“Kimchi cabbage seeds are sown in August.”

“Right. Autumn cabbage is sown in August and harvested in October.”

When the farmer and the encyclopedia glared at each other, they flinched.

I ordered our third brother,

“Joong-hyun, take away that troublemaking red-eared rascal.”

“Yes, hyung.”

“...Why do I always end up being his lackey? Oh—don’t piggyback him. Everyone’s staring... ah!”

We all laughed as Joong-hyun forcibly carried Ri-hyuk on his back. Ji-ho pulled out his phone.

“We have to capture this. Look here, Ri-hyuk. One more shot.”

“This is unreal...!”

The other guests chatting with managers laughed behind hands. VJs holding cameras recorded it, and Seok-hwan hyung tapped my back with a smile.

“You already snagged airtime.”

PD Oh Tae-jun of Team C stood with the rolled-up script in hand.

“We’ll split into two vehicles. The members will drive. First, Mr. Gyeon-u will ride shotgun with Hee-yeon. That’ll look good on camera.”

The handsome pair nodded quietly.

Lee Gyeon-u was Team C’s most important guest. He wasn’t here by whim but to promote the pre-produced TBC drama Throne of Emptiness airing soon.

Next were two guests: SNS celebrity “Maxi” and dreadlocked rapper Haysion—both looking like they’d stepped out of an Impressionist painting.

One wore heavy eye makeup and leopard-print pants, tall and slender. The other so intense even Seo Ji-hyung kept his distance: lean, in shorts and a tank top revealing dynamic muscles.

“Maxi,” PD Oh said.

“Call me Maxi, PD-nim.”

Despite his fierce look, his voice was mild and languid. PD Oh nodded.

“Maxi, join Hee-yeon’s car. Haysion, please ride shotgun with Hee-chan. And...”

He scanned us, then made a succinct decision.

“You guys are free to choose.”

At that, Yeo Hee-yeon raised her hand.

“Oh, then I pick Woo-joo.”

“Me too.”

“Why you?”

“Why? To protect him from your brother’s clutches.”

Thank you, sunbaenim...

The siblings launched a serious debate. Soon they proposed deciding by rock-paper-scissors. I asked,

“Um, seniors—don’t I get a say?”

“No.”

“There isn’t.”

“...Okay.”

As my brothers giggled, a VJ filmed the scene.

The winner was Yoon Ji-ho.

While Yeo Hee-yeon looked disappointed, my brothers turned to me.

“Me! Me!”

King Ji-ho threw up his hand.

“Last night you promised to stick with me during the broadcast.”

“Did I?”

I feigned ignorance but the maknae nodded.

“You haven’t forgotten, right? We promised lying face-to-face in bed.”

“Hey... no, that wasn’t! Camera director, that’s not it. Hey, you shouldn’t say things like that...”

“I made the effort to come to the other bed, you know.”

“Just be quiet. Really, it’s not like that.”

Maxi, lowering his window, laughed at my panic.

I said,

“No, I’m not a variety-god. Just pick whichever car.”

“No.”

Ri-hyuk shook his head.

“You have to ride together on camera. You’re like a totem that reassures me when I hold you.”

“You’re out.”

“I’ll worship the leader as much as that totem.”

“Okay, you’re back in.”

“It’s like a dolmen you are...”

“Just get in that car.”

Then Joong-hyun tried to appeal.

“I have loads of snacks in my bag.”

“You’re in.”

...That wasn’t my decision; Yeo Hee-chan decided. Joong-hyun blinked and was whisked away like a fooled prince.

The remaining seat belonged to rock-paper-scissors champion King Ji-ho. Meanwhile, other /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ teams debated their seating seriously, unlike our playful method.

Watching them, I climbed into the Starex and sat by the window, Ji-ho between us. In the driver’s seat, Yeo Hee-chan grinned.

“You were great on camera.”

“Oh. That’s just us.”

“Hope you keep it up here. There’s a mini-cam in the car too, you know?”

I knew—I checked as soon as I got in. He tapped the camera between the front seats, and we waved at it.

Through the rearview mirror, I awkwardly greeted the fierce-looking musician.

“Hello, sunbaenim.”

“...Hi.”

It wasn’t exactly enthusiastic—Haysion, one of Korea’s top hip-hop legends. Famous for his antics, but a near-myth in underground hip-hop. Though variety shows lately portrayed him as the neighborhood’s fun uncle, his main career was phenomenal.

His problem with idols was legendary—he once dissed them:

– Burn away those flashy shells.

Today, to get good footage, we had to get on his good side. Just as I contemplated making small talk, a walkie buzzed. It was Yeo Hee-yeon.

– Tall guy, the local toughs are here. We’re departing; follow us.

“Okiedokie.”

With that, TBC-marked trucks rolled out, and the Starex convoy set off.

The real shoot had begun.