I hid my bewilderment and asked,

“ A documentary?”

“ The PBS station contacted me. They want to cover that CSAT-day incident from last year.”

Professor Choi began to explain.

“This morning, PBS’s Current Affairs & Culture Department called. It’s for their 50th-anniversary special documentary. They’re doing a series on righteous heroes, and they showed interest in that day’s events.”

“ They requested your contact info, but they hesitated because you’re a public figure.”

Hearing “public figure” made me flush. My face, still prickling from the Ice Bucket Challenge, burned hotter. I made a mental note: when it’s cold, compliments are embarrassing.

“So... what do you think?”

“First, thank you so much for letting me know. It’s an incredible... offer.”

PBS—grandparents in the countryside watch it all day. It’s the most influential terrestrial broadcaster in Korea. To appear as a righteous hero in their anniversary documentary is a dream any entertainer would covet.

But I had to consider something first.

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“ —Yes?”

“To me it’s an honor, but for you and your family it must revive painful memories. What if it causes them distress?”

“ I wondered what you were talking about!”

His light laughter came through the line.

“Don’t worry. On the contrary, your father insisted we do it. He’s grateful to that young man in the yellow coat.”

“O—okay...”

“Will you do it?”

I didn’t hesitate. Upon my agreement, he gave me the PBS department’s contact number.

“Thank you so much.”

I thanked him again.

“For what happened at the hospital too—I owe you again.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s good that your story will be known.”

“You’re busy, thank you for making time.”

We exchanged plans to have a meal soon, then ended the call.

“Whew...”

I exhaled and gathered my thoughts. A PBS special documentary—too big news to feel real at first. Looking at the PBS number in my notes, I lifted my head to see my juniors clustered around.

“What’s up, hyung?”

“Nothing much.”

I recounted the conversation with a smile.

“You know that incident on CSAT day when I saved the old man with the cart? PBS is planning a documentary on righteous heroes and wants to cover it.”

“...What?”

Their eyes went wide, and I couldn’t help laughing. It wasn’t surreal before, but now it finally felt real.

At PBS’s Current Affairs & Culture Department, rookie writer Jeong Woo-jung still clutched ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) the phone.

“ Oh, you’re saying it’s difficult? Yes... understood.”

She set down the phone with a sigh—her forty-second failed outreach.

‘Only two confirmations so far,’ she thought, scanning her list. Only two had circles: a studio-apartment fire and a neighborhood dog-pack attack. Hard to secure, but hardly sensational. Viewers would go “Oh, that happened,” not “Wow!”

‘I hope something good comes up...’

As she steeled herself to dial the next number, her phone buzzed with an unknown caller.

“ Hello?”

“ Is this writer Jeong Woo-jung at PBS?”

“ ...Yes, that’s me.”

Her words nearly tangled—because the voice on the other end was so smooth. Who has a voice that good?

“ Hello. This is Sun Woo-joo. I got your number from Professor Choi Yong-jae. I understand you want to interview me about last year’s CSAT-day incident.”

“Oh, yes! That’s right!”

So he was the hero. She smiled broadly.

“ Sorry for the late contact—I had to consult others.”

“No, thank you anytime.”

“ Before our company could call, I wanted to reach out personally.”

She’d expected him retaking exams, but instead he’d found a job—perhaps a large company, since he’d received an award from KG Group. None of it mattered.

“ Thank you so much for contacting me. You’ve heard about our program from Professor Choi, right?”

“ Yes, I heard briefly.”

“I’ll explain again.”

She outlined the documentary’s concept and interview details, then marked her list. Three circles now: two older cases, and his under-one-year-old hero story—timely and newsworthy. Her voice warmed.

“When would be a good time for the interview?”

“ Um... just a moment. My schedule is full.”

Now she picked up on the background noise—various male voices, some youthful and all pleasant. As she leaned in, she heard him speak again.

“ I’ve so many events through Thursday....”

“Oh, you’re busy?”

“Yes, due to my job...”

He laughed: he’d found “job” amusing.

“ Perhaps Friday, but our news coverage has spiked event requests.”

She wondered what news mentioned his name. Then she realized the conversation felt misaligned.

“ Could I contact your agency about this?”

“ Agency?”

“Yes, your agency.”

Now she knew something was off. She asked cautiously,

“ Um, Sun Woo-joo, is your current work...?”

“ Oh.”

He replied nonchalantly,

“ I’m a singer.”

“ ...Excuse me?”

Her mind reeled—she’d never expected that line of work.

“A singer?”

“Yes. I’m active as a singer. Did you contact me without knowing that?”

“ One moment.”

She opened the internet quickly and searched “Galhyeon-dong hero.” Articles streamed in. Soon she spotted “Rookie boy group New Black’s Woo-joo makes headlines as CSAT-day hero before debut.”

Her heart pounded.

‘Why didn’t I notice this earlier?’

Then she realized why: she’d only skimmed initial research, thinking the story too famous to dig deeper. Who’d imagine a last-year test-taker would become a rookie idol six months later?

Giddy with relief, she searched “New Black.”

–First variety show on Ju-se-han Chuseok special—who is New Black?

–New Black becomes school-uniform brand ambassador for EverDream

–New Black participates in Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS: “So grateful...”

Uniform modeling, top variety show, viral campaign—this rookie idol group was doing well. And their hero member’s story was little known.

‘Why didn’t the company promote this?’

Pondering that, she asked calmly,

“When would be a good time for the interview?”

After she contacted PBS, I left the rest to my agency. As an active idol, coordinating with the station involved countless details. Plus, I was swamped: after news of Ju-se-han’s Chuseok special, New Black event requests exploded. We accepted them all, juggling rehearsals, songwriting, management, and lessons—everything but sleep.

And now.

We were in a meeting at HBS MTV.

“A documentary?”

“Yes—last year I saved someone’s life.”

Faces lit with curiosity.

On the 13th floor of Sangam Tower, this small room was the meeting space for “New Black Reality” (working title), the variety project we’d star in.

“A hero...”

The PD toyed with a pen.

“This is great material. So PBS has the rights?”

“Yes—they start filming next week.”

“We’re in it with you too.”

The maknae’s sudden interjection made us laugh. The assistant director smiled,

“Wow, you guys must find it surreal—ads, a documentary, Ju-se-han.”

“You’ve done so much.”

“By the time our reality airs, maybe we’ll be huge, right?”

The writer joked and we all laughed—production and cast together, faces alight with excitement. So much awaited: our uniform ad finishing touches, Ju-se-han airing Sunday, then the documentary cameo. For rookie idols, nothing is more thrilling.

As our first meeting ebbed in good spirits, the PD clapped and cleared the table.

“Alright, that group meeting’s done. Before lunch, we’ll do individual interviews with each member.”

“...Individual interviews?”

“This is your reality show. We need background on each member.”

Oh. This was new. Other shows always did group briefings. But as stars of this eight-part reality, they needed individual profiles.

Ji-ho, called first, waved.

“Hyungs, you’ll miss me.”

We laughed at his wistful face. Then our second took it seriously and waved back—eliciting a second round of laughter.

But as each junior returned, their expressions subtly shifted—like people hiding secrets. When I asked, they wouldn’t say why. What was going on?

Curious, I was the last called. In a small room set with cameras, I sat down and asked the PD and main writer,

“Are we filming already?”

“No, just some cutaways before the main shoot. You know—those scenes of busy meetings on variety shows.”

“Yes, I know.”

“This is it. Now, let’s gather your personal background.”

It was nothing special: I’d lived with my grandmother since childhood, trained at another agency, and ended up here.

But I skipped certain details—nearly debuting with TNT, friendships with other debuted idols. They treated us kindly, but they were TV people who prioritized content and ratings over our image. I’d read rookie-idol reality shows before—those low-angle shots of idols in chairs sharing sad stories, sometimes crying. I didn’t want that cliché.

To my surprise, the PD and writer didn’t care at all. They slid me a blank page.

“This reality has no fixed theme—no guerilla concert or trip. It’s free form: candid cameras, horror challenges, pool fun, etc.”

“I understand.”

“So if you have any ideas of things you’d like to try with your juniors, jot them down. We’ll review them.”

They wanted suggestions—no wonder my juniors looked odd earlier.

“Can I ask what the others wrote?”

“They wrote all sorts of things.”

He deftly changed the subject. What had they written? Having been pranked by that candid-camera livestream, my heart raced at any hint.

Then... maybe I should suggest something fun too. Lately watching my juniors, I’d thought of one idea. I slowly spoke,

“How about this?”

They both loved it.

Inside New Black’s studio booth, I was alone with my headphones.

“Hyung, what on earth are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Ri-hyuk answered with a pout.

“You’re singing.”

“No—sing without thinking of the camera.”

“But you’re telling me that—how can I not think of it?”

“What am I?”

Behind me lay the maknae on the floor, camcorder in hand. Ri-hyuk glanced at me as if to say, “Tell him something.”

“You tell him.”

“You never listen to me.”

“When have I ever listened?”

Zap—I felt it.

“But... now Ji-ho’s the director, right? On set, the director’s word is law.”

“Ugh, I’m riled up.”

To calm himself, Ri-hyuk cracked his neck.

“Five-hundred won, five-hundred won...”

I stretched to shake off fatigue as the maknae signaled me again. I put the headphones back on and waited to sing. Why wasn’t it cued yet? I peeked sideways at the mic and saw Mid-hyun pressing a button behind the glass. His snack-rustling stopped as our eyes met. He shot me a sharp look and then pressed play with a chuckle.

The MR began.

At the warm prelude, I couldn’t help but smile. It was the professionally remixed official “Night Sea” track—countless listens later, my ears still delighted.

Soon, Ri-hyuk and I began our duet. This shoot was the official MV for “Night Sea,” though in practice it felt like a rehearsal video—the familiar black-and-white footage of idols singing in a booth. Our company had handed us a tripod and camera to film it ourselves, so I entrusted it to the maknae. I remembered him crying “I’m not doing anything” and wanted to get advice from him now that his acting passion had ignited.

Now I regretted it. How many notes could he have... Earlier Ri-hyuk had launched into an angry “Night Sea,” and I’d matched him in passion—a duet both warm and savage, as if submerging someone in the night sea.

“Let’s pause.”

We looked at Ji-ho, wondering what else. He shook his head:

“It wasn’t me.”

Then I realized the voice in my headphones—Bi-joo was peeking through the glass, holding bulging convenience-store snack bags in both hands. He mouthed something and pointed to his watch: 6:00 PM.

We’d lost track in the music. I removed my headphones, and we exchanged tense smiles.

“It’s time for Ju-se-han.”

Sunday: today New Black appeared on TBC’s flagship variety show “Around the World with Dice.”