It was late at night.

When Sun Woo-joo asked the two visitors in the studio to watch his acting, they did so in good spirits.

“Mm, okay—let me show you.”

He stood in the center of the studio, wearing an awkward expression.

Kim Bijoo quietly smiled.

It was strange to see the hyung who soars across the stage tense up over a mere commercial shoot.

Just as Daisy and Bijoo began to clap and encourage him—

“...Huh?”

The atmosphere shifted completely.

The boy who’d been scratching his cheek in embarrassment a moment ago was nowhere to be seen; in his place stood someone else.

Same face, but a different expression—so overflowing with confidence it verged on arrogance.

Not only his face, but every detail of his posture was unlike the Sun Woo-joo they knew.

His movements were languid, minimal, like those of a high-ranking noble.

Because he specialized in dance, that difference in «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» gesture struck them more than anyone else.

“What is that, hyung?” Daisy tapped him on the shoulder and asked, but Bijoo had no answer—this was a first even for him.

His mind awhirl, Woo-joo strolled leisurely toward the studio wall and came to a stop.

“Hello.”

His mid-low voice sounded pleasant. A bit deeper than his usual tone, yet it didn’t feel forced.

“So you’re the transfer student, huh?”

Like a scene from a play, Woo-joo continued his lines into the empty air—naturally, without a hint of self-consciousness.

His smooth voice carried on a dialogue with an imaginary transfer student.

Bijoo picked up the commercial script from the corner of the sofa.

Carefully keeping the frayed edges from tearing further, he mouthed the lines in his mind.

“This is your first time at our school, right?”

—“Yes, hello.”

“What special skill brought you here? Magic? Potion-making? Or maybe...”

As Bijoo read the dialogue, he couldn’t help but shake his head in awe.

He wondered if Woo-joo had practiced enough to time every beat for a real conversation—because it flowed exactly like real dialogue.

Daisy, who’d peered in, soon realized what was happening and made a puzzled face.

Bijoo stared at the boy standing before him.

“...What is this?”

He’d always thought of Woo-joo as multi-talented, but he’d assumed there’d be some limit—there had to be something he couldn’t do.

And since just recently Woo-joo had said that during his TJ days people told him his acting was “just not bad,” Bijoo had taken that to mean acting was the one exception.

“I got fooled again.”

He let out a hollow laugh.

As expected. When Woo-joo says he can’t do something, it’s best not to believe him.

“...Hm?”

Noticing the two staring at him strangely, Woo-joo halted his acting.

Everything snapped back to normal.

The arrogant expression softened into his usual relaxed face.

His leisurely steps lightened again.

The precise gestures he’d borrowed from someone else turned fluid once more.

As the studio air settled back to its familiar stillness, Woo-joo asked,

“Why are you all staring like that?”

Why, indeed—the real question was one they wanted to ask him.

“Didn’t you hear he’s got a talent for acting?” Daisy asked me as we left the studio with the door locked behind us.

Bijoo nodded in agreement.

“Hyung, you really never learned acting?”

What were they doing?

“No, I’ve never heard I had any talent—today was the first time. And to answer Bijoo’s question, I only took one lesson.”

“And what did they say?”

“They didn’t try to talk you out of becoming an idol or anything?”

“You two get along too well.”

“Just answer first.”

“Hyung, we’re asking sincerely.”

I tried to head outside, but the two kids blocked my way. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“No.”

I took a sip of water and said, “Why such reactions from you two?”

Daisy furrowed her brow. “Are you really asking because you don’t know?”

“Yes.”

“You said it was awkward, you said you were no good.”

“It was awkward, and I was no good.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I’d done that they thought was so good. I’d simply applied my mimicry training to what I’d researched before.

Did it really feel like acting? I hadn’t added any special emotion or flair.

What was going on? After thinking it over, I figured—well, if the reaction’s good, I’m glad. I’d been worried I’d mess up at the shoot, but now I have one less thing to fret over.

My calm response had the two of them pumping their fists in excitement.

It felt a bit over the top. If it had been singing or dancing practice, I might’ve been thrilled by that enthusiasm too—but this was just acting. I was only mildly pleased.

After enduring the kids’ chatter for a while, it was time to say goodbye as Daisy headed back to her own studio.

“Oh, I had something I wanted to ask you, sunbaenim.”

“What is it?”

I asked Bijoo if I could talk privately, and she and I spoke quietly.

“Scarlet always includes self-composed songs on each album, right? I heard there are about four of your songs.”

“They’re five, actually—seven if you count the mixtape.”

“I’m curious—how do you create your self-composed tracks? For example, if you have an eight-bar groove of drums and bass, you add the song’s theme and color—how do you come up with those ideas?”

“Oh, that.”

Daisy cocked her head. “Why ask that?”

“I felt like it was too obvious a question.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you ever talk about concepts you want to try?”

Ah.

“We chat about it together: ‘Let’s go for a sharp, suit-clad look this time,’ or ‘Let’s bring down the house,’ or ‘I want to try playing a princess.’ We just share what we want to do.”

“...”

“It’s our own songs. We make them—so we do whatever we want.”

My mind went blank for a moment. Was I stupid? That was the most obvious answer. If the members have concepts they want, you just work from those.

I felt a bit embarrassed remembering how I’d been overthinking our musical color palette for an hour, cosplay-style.

Smiling at the girl staring at me, I thanked her.

“Thank you—it really helped.”

“If you’re thankful, talk informally. Oppa.”

“Next time.”

Daisy smirked and closed the door behind her.

Watching her start up her laptop at that table, I walked down the hallway to where Bijoo was waiting.

“What were you two talking about, hyung?”

“I asked for feedback on themes for our second album’s tracks.”

“Did Nayoon say anything weird?”

“Just that, since it’s self-composed, we should do what we want.”

Bijoo and I descended the stairs together.

“Bijoo, is there any concept you want to try?”

“Hm... oh! I have one!”

It was the first time I’d seen her smile so brightly in a while. She fumbled for her phone and showed me a video.

“It’s American dancers doing motion-capture precision choreography from an animated film. It’s to an upbeat track, and they all move in perfect sync. Then they swap patterns—”

“Bijoo.”

“—do you think Ri-hyuk would find that tough?”

“He’d die.”

I narrowed my eyes. “He wouldn’t die so easily. He’d eliminate us all first, then go last.”

“They’d all go together, I guess.”

“Bijoo—don’t look so satisfied talking about the afterlife. You’re scary.”

“I like anywhere, as long as we’re all together.”

“We’re talking about the afterlife.”

“Oh—I misheard you while my mind wandered.”

Bijoo bobbed her head. “Let’s all live long together, hyung.”

“You sometimes remind me why you’re friends with Jun-hyun.”

Bijoo glanced at me—just a casual look, but the best glare she could muster.

We laughed and left the company building.

“Hurry home, hyung.”

“Okay.”

Just as I was about to end the day on a good note, Bijoo suddenly remembered something.

“Hyung—what was that ₩100,000 thing?”

The next day, at the practice room.

I finally understood why those two had praised me so much.

“They both stood out.”

While everyone huddled around their smartphones, Ri-hyuk said, “I thought Jiho and I were shooting some drama.”

“Wow, you two are really good.”

“See? I told you Woo-joo hyung was great, but no one believed me.”

Bijoo beamed with pride.

What we were all watching was the first recording of our own script reading. We needed to see how we looked on camera, so we filmed it with our phones and monitored playback.

We winced at ourselves, we laughed at each other’s mistakes—it was a fun atmosphere. But the real focus was on my acting.

Every time I appeared, Jun-hyun went “Ooooh,” and Ri-hyuk, feigning annoyance, muttered “Wow.” Though varying in degree, everyone’s eyes were wide.

During practice, they’d been blinking at me, and I wondered why—but seeing myself on screen, I got it.

I looked convincing.

I’m not sure how much acting talent I have—I haven’t seriously tried. But all the expressions and gestures I’d acquired through my ability perfectly dressed up my lacking acting skill.

With the right face, movement, and voice for each role, anyone would think I was excellent.

But the kids’ awestruck reactions made me a bit uneasy. If I tried real emotional acting, they’d see through me for sure...

“Wow, this is amazing. Jun-hyun, rewind to before.”

“Here?”

“So cool. How did you make that expression? Hyung, can you do it?”

“Jun-hyun, don’t.”

“But Woo-joo hyung, you said you hadn’t learned acting?”

I answered awkwardly: “I haven’t.”

Then, without noticing, I motioned at the kids still marveling at the screen.

Except Jun-hyun, they all seemed to get it at once. I glanced at the youngest lying on my lap, staring rapt at the screen.

From my angle I couldn’t see his face, but his slender neck and arms exposed by his short sleeves showed every muscle twitch.

He looked relaxed, but inside he was stiff as a board.

This was a problem.

Every time they praised me, Jiho’s head felt heavier on my knee. And here he was bragging, “I’m better at acting than the hyungs!”—then he sees someone claiming he’s never learned acting but is great at it. How must he feel?

He should be upset, but...

“Why are you like this, hyung?”

“Nothing—just nothing.”

Smiling like this made me uneasy.

The real trouble came during the acting lesson.

It was the same teacher who’d been instructing Jiho, and she silently watched us run through the script reading.

When we finished, she gave Jiho a vague look and asked him,

“Jiho.”

“Yes?”

“You seemed to put too much force into your acting today—was there a reason?”

“...No.”

While his voice slumped, the teacher’s gaze shifted to me. Please—don’t say anything weird.

“What’s your name again?”

“Woo-joo, teacher.”

“You did well. At this level, you could’ve gone into acting.”

“...Thank you.”

“For a first try, really—have you never actually taken lessons?”

She then fired off a barrage of questions at me for five minutes. With Jiho sitting right across, it was torture.

Just when I thought there’d be no real problem, the teacher glanced at the storyboard in her hand and narrowed her eyes.

“Did you assign the roles yourselves?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm...”

She murmured with a subtle expression,

“I think you chose the wrong lead.”

My heart skipped.

What? There’s my own student right next to her—what is she saying?

I wanted to shove her words right back into her mouth, but they’d already reached Jiho’s ears.

When I looked over, the maknae who’d been grinning all day had his expression shattered.

In NewBlack’s dorm.

After the lesson, Jiho had spent the entire day surrounded by hyungs, praising the teacher and being told he was “the best maknae” every minute.

Late at night, he drew back the curtain and gazed at the full moon. Bathed in moonlight, he fell into thought.

One thought led to another, and when he reached a conclusion, Jiho pulled on his sweats, grabbed his phone, and slipped quietly out.

At that moment—

“What’s he doing?”

His four hyungs, feigning sleep, all sat up at once.

“Where’s he going?”

“You weren’t sleeping?”

“You too?”

“None of you were sleeping?”

“Well, Jiho was pretending, so we couldn’t tell.”

After six months sharing one room, we could always tell if someone was really asleep.

They’d been quietly watching him earlier, still worried after what happened.

Ri-hyuk changed his pants.

“That crazy kid... He has no idea how scary the world is—he’s running away from home!”

“I wouldn’t call it running away.”

I said, “He’s too cowardly to go far.”

“Hyung, I still think we should go after him.”

“I was going out anyway. Jun-hyun, you know this neighborhood—any places he might go?”

“A few, yeah.”

We all threw on clothes and bolted from the dorm, but as we ran down the stairs, we came to a halt.

Jiho was crouched on the steps at the lobby entrance.

We heard him sniffling. By the way he breathed and wiped his eyes on his arm, we could tell he was crying.

My heart ached—but then, slurp, we all tilted our heads together at that sound.

What was that?

Peeking from behind, we exchanged glances, and then Jiho’s soft sobbing echoed again.

And again—slurp.

Tilting our heads, we discovered the source of that noise:

Our maknae was crying as he ate tteokbokki from a convenience store.