“Is it going to rain?”

“Yes.”

Jung-hyun scratched his cheek as he explained.

“I’ve lived in the countryside since I was little, so I’ve heard adults talking about the weather before going out to the fields. I’ve experienced it myself.”

“And?”

“The smell of the air right now is kind of like that. And the way the wind is blowing is a bit...”

His large hands waved around as if he wanted to explain something, but he seemed frustrated that the words wouldn’t come out right.

“It’s like the feeling you get just before a downpour, something like that.”

“Ri-hyuk, didn’t you check the weather earlier?”

“I did.”

Ri-hyuk tapped on his phone and showed the screen.

“Look here. It says today’s weather is ‘clear.’ There’s no mention of rain for the next few days either.”

“Isn’t it because of the typhoon? They said a typhoon is coming.”

“That’s still a few days away.”

I’d heard that the typhoon supposed to arrive now would take at least a day or two to reach the ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) southern regions. So here in the central region we’re far from its influence. And the meteorological agency said no rain. Well, I honestly don’t fully trust the agency, but just looking at the clear sky above us, it’s hard to believe it’s going to rain.

The issue was how seriously Jung-hyun was taking his own words. He usually jokes around, but when he’s serious, his observations tend to be spot on. Whether it was when I was debating telling my dad’s story at the music café, or when I spoke sincerely to fans before the signing event. Of course weather forecasts are a different matter, but when Jung-hyun spoke earnestly, it was always worth listening to. That’s why everyone furrowed their brows.

“Mingi hyung, if Jung-hyun says it’s going to pour, shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“I don’t know. This is tricky.”

Mingi hyung scratched the back of his head with an embarrassed look. Of course. How could we go to the organizers and say, “The sky’s clear and the forecast is good, but our guy thinks it’s going to rain”?

“I’ll go talk to the director and let you know. You guys head inside first.”

Mingi hyung added as he walked toward Yoon Seok-hwan.

“Because if it rains hard, it’s a big problem.”

He was right. Rain is deadly for an outdoor event. Especially for singers. Even a ballad singer with minimal staging can’t perform at their best in wind and rain, let alone an idol with intense choreography. Just imagining having to stomp around on that slippery stage... ugh. It was enough to make me dizzy just thinking about it. I recalled all those idol slip-and-fall videos floating around online and worried.

“Can we trust this, Jung-hyun hyung?” Ri-hyuk asked again for confirmation. Jung-hyun hummed before answering.

“I can’t say one hundred percent, but the feeling is definite.”

“Ah, is it really going to rain?”

“Don’t worry too much. My gut’s good.”

“Hyung, we agreed not to use that word.”

“No. Because of Woo-joo hyung, the jinx was broken.”

“Wasn’t there a sound system glitch right after you made that joke last time?”

He shook his head, then turned to me with innocent eyes as if asking for help.

“Jung-hyun’s right. There’s no such thing as superstition.”

No one else agreed. As Jung-hyun and I walked together in solemn solidarity, the little ones ahead began exchanging worried whispers. Of course I was just as worried. I just couldn’t bring myself to believe it. Because the sky was so clear. I couldn’t believe it, so I had to ask again.

“Jung-hyun, do you feel it only when it’s going to rain hard?”

“No, that’s not it. Sometimes the meteorological agency says no rain and the sky’s clear, but the adults heading out to the fields say, ‘Jung-hyun, cover that over there with a tarp.’ On those days, it always rains...”

“Really?”

“Yes. Today feels a bit like one of those days.”

Was it really going to rain? I tilted my head as I looked at the sky tinted red by the sunset.

“Hyung. Um.”

“Yeah?”

“What if I was just talking nonsense? Everyone’s worried, and Mingi hyung had to go talk to the director because of me...”

He said, scratching the back of his head with a troubled expression. He seemed genuinely concerned. He’d meant it as an offhand comment, but with the event coming up, everyone was overreacting. Behind his calm face, I saw a whirlwind of emotions in his eyes. As I wondered how to reassure him, he called me back in a serious tone.

“Hyung.”

“Mm?”

“I said all this, but...”

He trailed off.

“What if it doesn’t rain?”

At that moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. I felt the tension drain away. Half relieved, half amused. This was classic Kim Jung-hyun. I tapped his shoulder to tease him as he tilted his head in confusion.

“What are you going to do, dummy? If it doesn’t rain, that’s great.”

But then it really happened.

“...”

We stepped outside again before the rehearsal and stared blankly at the sky. We weren’t the only ones. Other singers and performance teams were also looking up.

“This doesn’t look good.”

Someone muttered, and the sky indeed looked ominous. Against the dark blue sky, clouds gathered from the far west. The momentum of the storm clouds slowly advancing over the wide field made us swallow hard. Soon worried voices from the performers began to fill the venue.

“Hey, I wonder if the equipment will hold up.”

“What do we do, unni? Don’t we need to change our choreography?”

“What’s our slot now? We might need to ask them to move us up.”

The rock band fretted that their expensive gear would get wet, while the boy and girl groups debated choreography adjustments. The folk percussion troupe looked the most pale. Imagining themselves jumping on the slick floor during their performance made everyone serious. As worry spread like wildfire, the crew scrambled to address the emergency.

“Hey, maknae! Is this all the tarp we have left?”

“Bring some extra cable ties over here and tidy up these lines! Why do I have to do everything myself... hey, hey! Why are you setting the tent up there, you fool?”

“Pump! We’re setting up the drainage pump now!”

Under the seamless command of the production director, staff rushed in all directions. The sight was incredible. It was like those time-lapse construction scenes on TV where a building goes up in fast forward. Blink, and the tent is up. Blink again, and the tarp is neatly spread. I felt somewhat reassured. Seeing the crew installing barriers and checking every corner of the stage eased my worries about factors outside of performing.

Meanwhile, unlike the other teams arguing over choreography and costumes or the frantic staff, we were surprisingly calm.

“Is everyone clear on the choreography we adjusted earlier? Like this. Don’t swirl your feet like usual; just flick them off lightly.”

Bi-ju demonstrated the foot movement like an instructor, and we all nodded. We practiced a few more times to be sure.

“Bi-ju hyung, I can do it, but the move itself feels weird.”

It was obviously awkward for Ri-hyuk, but Bi-ju silently gave him one-on-one guidance. The rest of us warmed up with stretches.

“Wow, we owe Jung-hyun hyung big time. Lucky we knew about the rain in advance—otherwise we’d have been in a huge fight.”

“Yeah, Jung-hyun really saved us.”

We were relaxed because of our human weather station standing next to me. An hour ago, after talking with the event agency, Yoon Seok-hwan thought it over and suggested we change the choreography. Worried about potential injuries, I agreed enthusiastically, and we video-called the choreographer to tweak the slippery foot moves. Aside from the main vocal struggling with one simple move like I used to, the results were a success. I was about to thank Jung-hyun.

“Jung-hyun.”

“...Yes?”

“What are you looking at so intently?”

My heart skipped a beat when I noticed him staring off again. I wondered what it was this time. He spoke matter-of-factly.

“That staff member over there seems to be doing it wrong.”

“Where?”

He must have meant the youngest crew member installing the drainage pump in the corner of the concert area.

“I’ve seen adults use that before; you need to make it more vertical...”

At his calm explanation, Ji-ho and I exchanged looks. Our kid is weird sometimes, I thought. Ji-ho whispered, “He’s strange, hyung.” I chuckled, and Jung-hyun, as if he’d just remembered something, rose on tiptoe and blew into my ear again.

“Now that I think about it, you’re even stranger, hyung.”

Things were going too well. As we teased the maknae, Bi-ju and Ri-hyuk, having finished practice, rejoined us.

“How did practice go?”

“Good. A few rough spots, but Ri-hyuk caught on. We’ll be fine on stage.”

“...If I fall, I’ll just call it fate.”

Bi-ju put a positive spin on it, but Ri-hyuk’s troubled face said it all. I refrained from comforting him to avoid making it worse and laughed it off. Bi-ju also laughed and changed the subject.

“When does our rehearsal start?”

“Soon, they said. After they finish checking the barriers. I heard the order might shift a bit too.”

“But hyungs. The event’s about to start.”

The maknae, looking around, asked curiously, “Don’t you see Teen Spirit sunbaenims?”

“They’ll come right after their previous gig. We had the same thing at Something.”

At their level, they probably do three or four events a day. It was normal. We chatted quietly among ourselves when—thunder cracked. A sound like thunder rolled from the heavy clouds. A sudden hush fell. It wasn’t loud, but its implication made everyone freeze and swallow hard. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Guys.”

I addressed the blank stares.

“Why are you all clinging to me?”

8:00 PM.

The 2014 Moonlight Festival hosted by Icheon City, Gyeonggi Province, finally began. A new announcer led the proceedings skillfully, and cameras from broadcasters like PBS Gyeonggi and Gyeonggi TV dotted the venue. It seemed to be larger than I’d expected. Under the tent that looked like VIP seating sat the mayor and his entourage.

Despite the drizzling rain, the stands were full of people. Many families on outings, many elders. A fair number of young faces too, most wearing masks or holding large cameras—undeniable idol fans, likely Teen Spirit fans.

Soon the performances began. The folk percussion troupe, originally last, went first. Janggu drums, buk drums, kkwaenggwari gongs. Lively sounds and positive audience reactions.

Various acts followed—idols, bands, dance teams.

“Waaa!”

Yet the biggest cheers went to a young trot singer. Song Bo-hyung, I think. A senior singer unfamiliar to me, but the middle-aged and older audience response was the day’s highest. He knew how to rile up the crowd.

“Moms, give me a round of applause! Palms together! And fathers too! Palms together! Now let’s get this going!”

With a lively trot intro and rustic voice, cheers and applause erupted each time.

Maybe because of that enthusiasm, the Street Boys standing by two slots after us looked uneasy. They kept glancing at us, and I realized why and forced a bitter smile. Right—they lost to us in the year-end trot contest. Maybe the trauma was resurfacing, deflating their morale, so their leader patted them on the back. I caught his eye and gave a light greeting.

While we warmed up and prepared to go on, a camera appeared from somewhere—Gyeonggi TV. A reporter asked how we felt before the performance, and we answered sincerely, waiting calmly for our turn. Hoping nothing would happen.

“It’s raining harder now.”

From when the Street Boys went on, the raindrops thickened until now it was pouring. Yoon Seok-hwan watched the stage with worried eyes. Next to him, Seo Min-gi held an umbrella and asked, “Are you very worried?”

He nodded. He’d told us to be careful since our bodies were our assets, but as a guardian for these young kids, he couldn’t help but worry.

“Hello, we are New Black!”

New Black took the stage and greeted the audience. The response was polite applause, the kind new groups get at events. Then the fireworks performance began. At the chorus, Seo Ri-hyuk nearly slipped on the slick floor.

“Uh...”

And then Sun Woo-joo appeared and caught him skillfully. Not just Ri-hyuk—main dancer Kim Bi-ju also wavered several times on the slippery stage. Each time, Sun Woo-joo swooped in to steady them and carried on the performance. It looked natural, as if it were part of the original choreography.

Yoon Seok-hwan smiled watching him grin despite rain-soaked costumes.

‘Still not sure how he became so adept at handling his body,’ he thought. But seeing someone who used to have no rhythm now guiding the members so expertly filled him with pride. He’d watched this since they were in elementary school. As he looked on with the affection of an older brother rather than a manager, he wondered, ‘What’s going on?’

He saw agency staff talking seriously at the back of the venue. Seo Min-gi hurried over and reported.

“Director, that Teen Spirit group—our turn after next.”

“They said they were almost here.”

“Well...”

The road manager looked embarrassed.

“They got into a minor accident on the wet road.”

“What?”

Just when we’d relaxed after thinking there’d be no issues, another problem erupted offstage.