There are people like that.

What [N O V E L I G H T] on earth do they think about all day?

In our group, there are four of them.

Everyone except me has some strange quirk.

Of course, one stands out above the rest, but even our maknae is pretty unusually... well, unusual.

Except for that one-percent moment when he does something impressively earnest, ninety-nine percent of the time you can’t help but go, “Oh, my—just look at that.”

That’s how incomprehensible our maknae is—but in this moment, I could see exactly what he was thinking.

“Acting?”

I asked with a smile.

“Why acting all of a sudden?”

“Nah, I was just asking. I was reminded of how you got scammed by hyung last year. You said you took two years off from singing, and you did fine then.”

“I sing better.”

“You didn’t ask hyung.”

Ri-hyuk, who’d been poking in, twisted his lips and turned back to his Japanese primer. He’d shot me a quick look first—eyes that said, “You know you’d better answer well, right?”

“Anyway, I was just curious. You’re probably really good if you actually tried, but I might be bragging too much...”

He looked like a kid clutching candy in his hand, worried someone would snatch it away.

The truth is, our maknae doesn’t really excel in singing, dancing, rapping, or composing. And he knows it. He tries to hide it, but it shows to everyone else.

At the year-end review, when everyone was assigned a role, he even made up a role just to help—snack coordinator, of all things. It was cute, but nobody laughed, because it meant he really wanted to contribute.

And apart from pulling his weight in the group, acting was the only thing Jiho could truly boast about to us.

I’d heard he originally aspired to be an actor, came here to train for acting, and then fell into the idol route. But he never gave up on that dream.

Even now, when everyone else goes to rap or composing lessons, he goes to acting class. I can’t say exactly how much acting means to Jiho, but what I saw in his eyes just now wasn’t light at all.

“Well... I’ve never actually taken acting lessons.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Jiho looked genuinely surprised.

“In big agencies like TJ, they pick the most promising trainees—like saplings about to sprout?—and...”

“Sapling. Dummy.”

When the maknae whipped his head around, Ri-hyuk grinned and lifted his book.

Jiho cleared his throat. “Anyway, I heard handsome trainees get acting lessons.”

“Hmm. That’d be at a place like MOP, which has a wider actor roster. TJ doesn’t run that system.”

The Big Four each have their specialty: SNH values character, KM links to hip-hop, MOP to visuals, and TJ to performance.

TJ is performance-obsessed. If someone’s stage line looks off, they’ll cut even a great dancer from the debut lineup.

That’s why rumors flew that I’d bribed my way onto TNT’s debut team.

“They invest so much in choreography and vocals, they don’t pay for acting lessons—unless you’re explicitly an acting hopeful.”

The bottom line: “I haven’t learned it, so I don’t know acting.”

“Seriously?”

“How long have you studied?”

Jiho counted on his fingers. “Since middle school... three years.”

“That’s a while.”

“If you include the storytelling class, ten years.”

Ri-hyuk and I burst out laughing; Jiho alone kept a serious face.

“I’m not joking...”

“I know.”

I smiled. “But yeah, I’ve never tried acting, so I’m sure I’m lacking. You’ll have to help me.”

“Just trust me, hyung.”

“Please take care of me, sunbaenim.”

As we joked our way through it, Ri-hyuk put down his book and asked, “Have you really never taken a lesson?”

“What?”

“Acting.”

“Yeah.”

I almost forgot, then remembered: “Oh, actually, I did take one lesson back when I was at that company.”

“Really?”

“They—my teacher said something.”

“What did they say?”

I looked at the two curious faces and recalled the past. The acting coach had thrown it out casually:

“Just... not bad.”

After our schedules, the manager passed along the news.

“We’ve scheduled your CF shoot. It’ll be at a boys’ middle school in Yeongdeungpo.”

Location set. “We’ll shoot over two days.”

“Two days?”

“You know the EverDream models shooting with you? Blink?”

We nodded. Blink—rookie girl group with performance praise similar to ours.

“Apparently they messed up on set. Lines are simple and it’s a light CF, but they came unprepared and kept slipping up.”

Blink got to experience the nightmare we’d only imagined.

“I heard from Manager Kim that it was the worst. The director nearly cursed them out, and even executives from the sponsor showed up. They were frozen, terrified.”

Over the phone, they pleaded for better prep—manager’s gentle pleading I remembered from the photo shoot that day, and I smiled wryly.

Seok-hwan continued: “So we’ve changed plans—everyone here will get acting lessons.”

“Lessons?”

“We’ve hired an in-house instructor—an acting school teacher—for a one-day workshop. Jiho, you know them, right?”

“Ah, yes.”

Jiho told the curious hyungs: “They’ve been teaching me since I joined. They’re really kind. Strict about acting...”

Seok-hwan added, “It’s one day, so please prepare well. They agreed only for that—so it’s a big favor.”

“Yes.”

“And...”

His gaze lingered on Jiho. “Especially you—your teacher said you do well, so don’t get cocky. Since you’ve studied, prepare harder than the rest.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all.”

After the manager left, we gathered to discuss. Jiho led.

“First, we should assign roles before practicing.”

There were five of us, so five roles: transfer student, class president, model student, athlete, Student 5. Each had a bit of dialogue—20 percent each.

Assigning roles took no time: Jiho took the transfer student with the tricky scene, then we picked those closest to our usual personalities.

“Hey.”

Naturally, someone complained. “Why am I just Student 5 when everyone else is an athlete or transfer student?”

11 PM.

After the others had returned to the dorm, I sat in the studio, absent-mindedly tapping the synthesizer.

“Ants work/so hard/today, too—.”

Like a grand organ in a cathedral. A synthesizer worth millions. If the head of Finance saw me now, he’d shake me by the collar.

I hummed the “Ant Song” and the “Firefly Song,” then tapped my cheek. “Ugh, nothing’s coming...”

I was composing. Our second album should drop around October or November. The company’s hinting they might include one of my tracks because of my composer-idol image—so I need a new song.

“What next?”

I’d shown summer brightness with “Fireworks,” warm feels with “Night Sea,” so now...

I need a concrete image to start. Childhood fireworks, lying on Grandma’s arm watching the night sky...

“Hmm...”

I felt I’d over-focused on myself—maybe write about the younger members? But that risks sounding like another fireworks song. I’d need one for each member, but I don’t know their musical colors. And if I base a song on one person, how will the others feel?

“Tricky.”

The deeper I get to know them, the more these little things matter. Whenever Ri-hyuk and I duet “Night Sea,” the others get quietly jealous—but that’s natural. I want to stand on stage, be the focus, too. So it’s hard to suggest writing a song about just one member.

After almost an hour of random playing and singing nonsense, I decided to sleep on it. I turned off the synth and slumped on the studio sofa.

[‘EverDream’ CF – ‘Magic School’ Episode]

I’d watched the storyboards so many times in the van, I was holding them now. My eyes landed on Scene #10:

[VIDEO]

Class president approaches the transfer student

[AUDIO]

President: “Hello—so you’re the new student?”

Starting from my “class president” lines to the end, I repeated it in my head—“Hello—so you’re the new student?”—but I was mortified. If I were Ri-hyuk, I’d have been blushing.

I tried the next lines, but it didn’t help. Acting really is a different field from singing and dancing.

I’d practiced the lines enough for them to stick, but it still didn’t feel good—just “not bad,” like at TJ.

That meant I had to use my head: if I couldn’t nail the emotion, I’d compensate elsewhere—expression, movement.

I sketched stage directions on A4 paper, then practiced faces and gestures using my ability—it wasn’t hard.

After pacing, gesturing, pacing again, I heard the door click open and turned to see Bijou.

“Hey, Bijou.”

“Hyung, I’m here.”

Behind him stood a very pale, short girl group member, smiling weary.

“Hello, sunbaenim.”

She narrowed her eyes at my greeting. “We’ve gotten closer—can’t I talk informally now?”

“I’m just more comfortable.”

It was Daisy, Scarlet’s rapper and maknae. I asked, “Why are you two together?”

“Oh, I met Nayoon on the way up.”

Bijou peeled wet hair off her forehead with a tissue—she must’ve been practicing hard.

“I was heading back after practice but thought I’d see you, hyung. Nights are dangerous lately—”

“That’s sweet—looking out for me.”

“I figured I’d be safer with you.”

“...”

We stared at each other, then burst out laughing. After a while I looked at our visitor.

“What brings you here, sunbaenim?”

“Just working on the mixtape and got bored.”

“You should rest—busy schedule and all.”

“I’m on a break—I'm fine.”

She kept inspecting the studio décor—there’s a pink sofa with patterned cushions in the next studio.

Then she spied the storyboards on the table. “What’s this? ‘Wave hand’? ‘Cast a spell’?”

“That’s the CF storyboard.”

Bijou smiled and snatched it, handing it to me. Surprisingly firm—if it were Ri-hyuk or Jiho, they’d have asked, “Hyung, may I?” But she just took it.

“Wow, that’s harsh. You’d share with your own company.”

She pouted. “I even did a cameo in their MV.”

I thought only our maknae was a bit of a rice cake—but here was another fluffy one.

Daisy chattered on. “I brought sushi to the shoot, and even gave them ₩100,000 for snacks.”

“₩100,000?”

I recalled I gave them ₩100,000 at the start of the year for helping move gear—but told the others it was ₩50,000.

Quickly, before Bijou could speak, I cut in: “So, how was practice?”

“Huh?”

“You weren’t coming up from dance practice?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s one hand movement I can’t get—hyung, want to see?”

Bijou rose and displayed a motion like a dancer: elegant, like a magician bowing to an audience after a trick.

“Wow.”

“But this is terrible.”

“...”

Then she repeated it. “How is it?”

“...Doesn’t look much different.”

“Isn’t there a feel? Soft but strong versus strong but soft. You get it, right?”

No—I didn’t. I glanced at Daisy; she shook her head, too.

Bijou, after mulling the hand motion, switched topics: “Hyung, you’ve been practicing acting?”

“Yeah, took a break from composing.”

I also had a sudden thought because of Bijou. “Oh, Bijou—can you give me feedback, too? And you, sunbaenim.”

“What? Acting?”

“Yeah—I've been practicing but it’s awkward.”

They smiled encouragingly. “It’s your first time.”

“True, I’m no actor.”

They agreed to help, so I performed the first two or three scenes I’d prepared: moving, reciting lines.

Then I was about to do Scene Three, but—

I stopped, staring at two goldfish blinking on the sofa.

“...?”

What’s this reaction? “What’s wrong?”