Junho's fist trembled.
He was currently in his humiliating costume.
A hotdog.
A full, bright-red, mustard-striped, ridiculous hotdog suit.
"This is not happening," he muttered under his breath.
The costume designer clapped her hands together proudly. "It fits perfectly!"
Perfectly? Junho thought darkly. Perfectly awful.
"The company chose this one especially for you," the manager said, trying to sound cheerful. "Custom made!"
"I refuse." Junho's voice was flat. "There's no way I'm wearing that."
That was the moment his members completely lost it.
Riku fell off the couch first, clutching his stomach. Tanaka had tears streaming down his face. Jisung was doubled over, banging his fist on the floor.
"I'm so glad I'm not going," Tanaka wheezed between laughs.
"I take back everything I said about wanting your schedule," Hyun-woo added, holding his sides.
Riku slapped Jisung's arm. "Hey, when you said you were bringing the meat to the party, I didn't think you meant literally!"
"Bro—!" Jisung wheezed, gasping for air.
"Guess he's the wiener of this costume contest," Woosung added with a smirk.
That did it.
Hyun-woo collapsed. Jisung started kicking his legs like he was swimming. Even Tanaka slid off the couch and rolled on the floor, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
"STOP LAUGHING!" Junho barked, face flushed.
No one listened.
The manager, now red in the face from trying not to laugh himself, stepped in. "Alright, alright, let's calm down—"
But he had to turn around mid-sentence to hide his grin.
Junho's irritation deepened. He was going viral for his visuals lately—praised for his sharp stage presence, his flawless fan cams, his cold charisma. And now?
Now, thanks to this stupid costume, his legacy would be reduced to the hotdog boy.
"I trained for years for this," Junho said bitterly. "Not to debut as a street snack."
He turned toward the door, already marching away. "Buy me a different costume. I'm not wearing this."
Behind him, Riku called out, "I'd say that costume's well done—not overcooked at all!"
Another wave of laughter exploded.
"GUYS!" Hanbin shouted between chuckles. "Be nice to him!"
Junho paused, thinking at least someone was defending him—
Until Hanbin grinned slyly. "He's just trying to ketchup with the trend!"
"STOP!" Hyun-woo howled, clutching his chest.
"I—CAN'T—BREATHE!" Woosung rasped, tears streaming down his face.
Even the manager gave up trying to control them and bent over laughing.
Junho's jaw tightened. He turned, glaring at the chaos behind him.
"I hate all of you," he muttered under his breath, storming out.
The moment the door slammed—
Riku snorted. "He's so mad he's gonna relish this forever."
That broke them again.
Meanwhile, backstage on Unmasked the Singer—
Under the soft glow of vanity lights, a woman sat before the mirror.
Her reflection was breathtaking.
Long, silky hair framed a face that could stop time. Her skin gleamed like moonlight—smooth, pale, almost ethereal. Every detail, from her lined eyeliner to the shimmer dusting her eyelids, was artfully perfect.
The staff around her couldn't help but stare.
"Beautiful…" one of the stylists whispered.
She smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes.
They saw calm elegance.
She felt chaos.
Her hands, hidden beneath the dressing table, were trembling.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She repeated the words silently, over and over, until they lost meaning.
A knock came at the door.
The atmosphere shifted.
One of the directors from HY-PE stepped inside, his expression cold and calculated. Behind him trailed two assistants, clipboards in hand.
"Dahira," he said evenly, his voice slicing through the quiet hum of the room. "I'll be straight to the point. You have to do even better this time."
She stood immediately and bowed. "Yes, sir."
"We let you perform your way last time," the director continued, eyes sharp with disapproval. "You went against our staging plan, our lighting cues—everything. It worked once, but if this performance doesn't top your first, we'll hold you accountable for going against the company."
The room went silent.
Dahira kept her head low, her breath caught in her throat. "I understand."
The director gave a curt nod and left without another word.
The director nodded curtly, then left without another word. Her manager followed, bowing deeply. "Thank you, Director. We'll make sure she exceeds expectations."
As soon as the door closed, he turned to Dahira. "Get your custome ready. It's almost time."
She nodded wordlessly, grabbing her water bottle with shaking hands. Her reflection flickered in the mirror—beautiful, yes, but fragile.
As they stepped into the dim hallway after she changed, the muffled sound of the audience filtered through the walls: laughter, applause, the echo of another performer's voice.
Her manager motioned her forward to head where all the singers were at.
"Make sure you give it your all. After your last performance, people have been anticipating your performance. You can't let them down."
She nodded.
Her heart pounded.
She wasn't just nervous—she was terrified.
Because tonight, she wasn't just competing for applause.
She was fighting to prove that she wasn't just another idol molded by her company's image.
And somewhere beyond that curtain—
A hotdog was about to share the same stage.
—-
Junho sat in silence on the van ride to the set, the hum of the tires on asphalt filling the gaps his thoughts couldn't. The others had dozed off one by one, their exhaustion heavy in the air. But Junho's mind was wide awake — replaying every mistake, every line of choreography, every high note that wavered just a bit too much during practice.
When they finally arrived, his nerves were already buzzing beneath his skin.
The production site was massive — floodlights, tents, and banners bearing the show's name towered over the crew scurrying like ants. The moment Junho stepped out, a gust of cold wind whipped his hair into his face. He barely had time to fix it before his manager rushed him forward, clipboard in hand.
"Alright, you're checked in," his manager said briskly. "Mic's on, levels are good. Just breathe, okay? You're going to do great."
Junho nodded wordlessly. The manager patted his shoulder before running off to check on the other members. And then — just like that — Junho was alone.
A staff member handed him a voice-modifying microphone. When he spoke into it, his voice came out metallic and distant — like a robot. It made his stomach twist.
He stood backstage, waiting, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. Two other masked contestants waited beside him. One wore a ridiculous Star Wars costume — complete with a plastic lightsaber. The other… was something else entirely.
A large gown shimmered under the stage lights, paired with an oversized mask of a woman's face — red lips, exaggerated lashes, and coquettish eyes frozen in a playful smirk. The effect was both glamorous and eerie.
That's definitely an old woman, Junho thought nervously.
He bowed politely to both contestants — though no one was allowed to speak. Their voices had to stay hidden until their turn.
Out on stage, the crowd roared as the host's voice boomed through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to your MC — the one and only Jin-woo Kang!"
The audience erupted. Jin-woo, a national icon known for his charm and quick wit, stood center stage, grinning under the spotlight. The judges' table gleamed behind him — Haerin, the ethereal singer-songwriter everyone admired; Joo-na, the comedian who could make a statue laugh; and Jin-suk, the legendary idol of the 2000s, now a seasoned mentor.
Junho's chest tightened. These were names he'd grown up hearing.
"And now," Jin-woo continued, "please welcome the reigning champion of last week's episode — our mysterious and magnificent… MAMA Li!"
The crowd's cheers exploded. Junho winced at the sound, covering one ear.
The contestant in the mask — the one with the big red lips — stepped forward gracefully, waving as she entered the stage. Her movements were elegant, practiced. Even before she sang, the audience was already leaning forward in anticipation.
"Hello," she said into her modulated mic, her voice buzzing through a veil of auto-tune static. The audience chuckled at first — the distortion made her sound like a playful robot.
But then the lights dimmed.
A single beam of blue light cut through the darkness, catching the shimmer of her gown.
"Omg! I'm so excited!" Joona said excitedly.
Even Haerin and Jinsuk all leaned forward.
And the music began.
It wasn't pop. It wasn't ballad. It was something else entirely — haunting, ancient, and beautiful. It swelled like a medieval hymn drifting through fog, layered with the faint sound of wind through invisible trees and the soft thrum of distant drums. Strings whispered beneath it all, weaving the sound into something almost holy.
When MAMA Li opened her mouth, the world seemed to stop breathing.
Her voice rose — not loud, not desperate, but impossibly pure. It slipped through the distortion as if the auto-tune had bowed to her, letting her tone pierce straight through the digital haze. It shimmered like glass under moonlight, fragile yet perfect.
Even the judges froze mid-reaction.
Junho's breath caught. His nerves, his worries, all fell away as he watched the performance unfold like a scene from a dream.
So that's her… he thought.
He'd seen clips of MAMA Li online — the viral "opera idol." She was the unmasked singer who had replaced the previous champion, ZERO — who, to everyone's shock, turned out to be the famed powerhouse vocalist Hailey.
When Hailey was revealed, the nation erupted. She'd been unbeatable, untouchable — a legend. So when MAMA Li appeared and defeated her, people demanded to know who she was.
Who was this masked voice that could surpass one of the best singers of their generation?
From that night on, the world waited — and speculated for ONE WHOLE WEEK. Every forum, every fan thread, every performance critique circled around her name.
And now, hearing her live, Junho understood why.
Her voice didn't just sound beautiful — it felt divine. Like it reached into the deepest part of him and refused to let go.
He clenched his fists, adrenaline spiking in his veins.
Looks like I'll have a tougher competition than I thought.
—
"That's insane!" Gunwook practically shouted, raking both hands through his hair.
"How?! Just—how?!" He slapped his forehead. "She's super famous, bro! Why the heck would she know you?!—no offense."
Byoungho stared at him, dazed. "I-I don't know…"
He still couldn't believe it. He had been invited to star in a music video with Haerin — the Haerin, Korea's most beloved singer.
For a moment, the disbelief gave way to something else — joy, raw and unfiltered. He tried to hold it in, but his lips trembled into a grin. His eyes even glistened a little.
Gunwook laughed. "Finally! The poker-faced prince shows emotion. Honestly, I'm proud of you, man."
Byoungho smiled faintly, still in a daze. He had no idea that one ordinary day — one unremarkable photoshoot — would change everything.
ONE WEEK EARLIER.
The air buzzed with light and motion. Cameras clicked in staccato rhythm; assistants rushed around carrying racks of designer clothes.
This was the Calvin Blein shoot — one of the biggest brand campaigns of the year.
Dozens of models had been called in, including the elite. Men and women with millions of followers, glossy reputations, and carefully cultivated arrogance.
Byoungho stood apart from them, near the wall, his airpods in. He wasn't part of the main lineup — just a background model.
He didn't mind. After all, it was a miracle he was even here.
He'd taken a break from his agency after realizing they were prioritizing influencers over him. He had no connections, no fanbase — only his work ethic and quiet persistence. And somehow, that had kept him afloat.
Still, being here felt like standing in a lion's den.
The famous models chatted loudly, their laughter echoing across the room. Some rookies tried to slip into their conversations, desperate for attention.
Byoungho rolled his eyes and adjusted his jacket.
I'd rather eat sand than pretend to care about their skincare routines.
He leaned against the wall, scrolling through his playlist.
"Very good!" the photographer shouted.
"Hold that pose, Yoon Suk!"
All eyes turned toward the man of the hour — Yoon Suk, 187 centimeters of pure charisma, shirtless, his expression smoldering for the camera. Every movement was calculated perfection.
"God, he's unreal," someone whispered.
Then, a sudden stir swept through the set.
Haerin had arrived.
The doors opened, and a soft breeze seemed to follow her in. Her bodyguards flanked her as the staff scrambled to greet her.
"Yes yes! Haerin, welcome!"
She smiled graciously, bowing slightly. Even a simple "hello" from her felt like a melody.
Every model in the room stood straighter, starstruck.
Yoon Suk offered a polite bow. "Hello, sunbaenim."
Haerin smiled back. "You're even more handsome in person."
The director beamed. "We'll start your shoot as soon as Yoon Suk's segment wraps up."
"Of course," she said smoothly. "Mind if I use your restroom?"
"Absolutely not! Right this way!"
MOMENTS LATER
Haerin stood before the mirror, fixing a stray strand of hair that didn't even exist. Her reflection was flawless — calm, confident, luminous.
But inside, she was running through possibilities.
"I came here to see if Yoon Suk would fit the concept," she whispered to her reflection. "He's… definitely handsome. It'll be easy to look at him like I'm in love."
She smiled faintly, satisfied, then pulled out her phone and texted her manager:
He fits perfectly. I'll invite him to dinner and ask if he'll join the MV.
The reply came instantly.
Understood. Do you need help arranging it?
No, I got it!
She slipped the phone into her bag and headed for the door—
—and stopped dead.
A man stood down the hall, half-shadowed by the studio lights.
He wasn't famous, she knew that instantly — no stylist entourage, no photographers trailing him. But something about him made her pause.
He leaned against the wall with quiet confidence, airpods in, scrolling casually through his phone. His jawline was sharp, his posture effortless, the kind of natural poise no amount of training could fake.
Who's that? she thought.
Before she could stop herself, her gaze lingered too long.
Her pulse jumped.
She tore her eyes away and hurried back toward the set.
LATER.
Haerin's shoot began with Yoon Suk. Cameras flashed. Compliments poured.
"They look incredible!"
"Unreal chemistry!"
Haerin smiled through every frame, every pose, every fake laugh.
When it ended, she and Yoon Suk shared a short conversation.
"So," Yoon Suk said smoothly, "what was it you wanted to tell me?"
Haerin hesitated. Tell him. Ask him about the music video.
She smiled instead. "You're… really good-looking. I had a hard time keeping up."
He chuckled, delighted. "Please, you carried the whole shoot."
They exchanged polite smiles, then parted ways.
Haerin's manager met her halfway.
"So? Did he agree?"
"I didn't ask him," she said quickly.
The manager blinked. "What?"
Haerin glanced around, then tugged her manager toward the far end of the hallway.
"Come here. Hurry."
They rounded the corner—
There he was. Still leaning against the wall, lost in his own world.
Haerin pointed, whispering fiercely, "Him. I want him in my music video. Find out who he is. Get his contact info — but do it quietly."
Her manager followed her gaze — then froze.
Even she couldn't look away.
"Understood," she whispered.
Haerin nodded once, her heart hammering for reasons she didn't understand.
As they left, the camera lingered on Byoungho — still unaware that his life had just changed forever.
BACK TO THE PRESENT.
The text read:
Haerin would like to have dinner with you, To get to know you a little and go over what to expect from the MV.
Byoungho blinked. Then reread it. Twice.
He typed back quickly:
Absolutely. Let me know the place and time, and I'll be there.
Gunwook peeked over his shoulder — and exploded.
"YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE DINNER WITH HAERIN? YOU BASTARD!"
He lunged forward, gripping Byoungho by the collar like a deranged fan.
"Just how is this possible?!"
Byoungho gave him a deadpan look. "You've asked that—"
"—A million times, yeah, yeah, but it's a valid question!" Gunwook threw up his hands. "She's super famous, Byoungho! Like, actual legend-level famous! Why would she know you? Are your parents secret billionaires?"
Byoungho sighed, prying Gunwook's fingers off his shirt. "No."
"Then what?! Does anything in your résumé stand out?"
Byoungho thought for a second. "…The only thing I can think of is that I'm a former HY-PE trainee."
Gunwook froze mid-breath. His jaw dropped. "HY-PE? As in the HY-PE?! The one with—"
There was a knock on the door.
Both turned.
"Did you order food?" Gunwook asked.
"No."
"Packages?"
"No."
"Friends?"
"No."
Gunwook frowned, lowering his voice. "…Then who the hell is it?"
He went to answer while Byoungho checked his phone again.
A new message popped up:
Here is Haerin's contact information. Make sure you reach out soon.
Byoungho saved the number, typing with trembling hands:
Hello. This is Byoungho Joon Lee, the one recruited for your MV. It's an honor to work with you.
"Byoungho?" Gunwook called out from the doorway.
Byoungho looked up. "What?"
"They're… asking for you."
He frowned, walking over. Standing at the door were a middle-aged man and woman, both neatly dressed and smiling politely.
"Hello," Byoungho said cautiously.
"Are you Byoungho Joon Lee?" the man asked.
"Yes."
The woman held a clipboard. "Do you remember auditioning about a month ago?"
Byoungho blinked. "…For what?"
"For Beautism," she said. "You auditioned for the role of Kenzo."
He froze.
No way.
"Well," the man said, smiling, "we're here to tell you that you've been chosen. The directors would like to formally invite you to join the cast."
For a long moment, Byoungho just stood there, completely still.
He heard Gunwook whisper behind him, "No. Freaking. Way."
"I–I got in?" Byoungho asked, voice unsteady.
Both nodded.
The woman handed him a sleek black card embossed with gold lettering. "We know you may be skeptical since you haven't had many acting credits, but the directors strongly believe you were the best fit for the role."
"I thought I did terrible," Byoungho muttered, dazed.
The man chuckled. "Is that why you ignored our calls?"
Byoungho froze again. He had been getting calls from the same number all month. He'd thought it was a scam.
"I—I thought it was spam," he admitted in disbelief.
Both representatives exchanged a knowing look — a small laugh escaping them.
"Well, Mr. Lee," the woman said, straightening. "Would you officially accept the role of Kenzo?"
For a second, Byoungho didn't breathe. His heart was racing. Beautism. The biggest webtoon adaptation of the year. Hundreds of actors had auditioned.
Rejecting it would be pure insanity.
"I do," he said without hesitation.
At that exact moment, something clattered behind him — a ceramic cup toppled off the counter, shattering across the floor.
Gunwook froze mid-breath. His jaw hung open like someone had just announced the end of the world.
He stared at Byoungho as if a pair of horns had just sprouted from his head.
The man at the door cleared his throat politely, cutting through the silence.
"Before we leave, could we get your contact information?" he asked. "That way, we can update you directly — so you won't think it's another scam call."
Byoungho's face flushed crimson. "R-right," he muttered, fumbling for the pen the woman held out.
His hand trembled slightly as he scribbled down his number. The pen felt heavy in his fingers, like every stroke confirmed that this — this moment — was actually happening.
Gunwook still hadn't moved. His wide eyes followed every motion as if afraid that blinking would make the scene disappear.
Once the papers were signed, the man and woman exchanged grateful bows. "We'll be in touch soon, Mr. Lee. Congratulations again."
The door closed softly behind them.
For a moment, the apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator.
Byoungho just stood there, staring at the door, the pen still in his hand. The reality of what had just happened hit him in slow waves.
He blinked once. Twice.
I actually got the role.
A breathy laugh escaped his lips — part disbelief, part relief.
Gunwook finally spoke, voice still dazed. "You… you actually got it. When did you audition–I have so many questions right now "
Byoungho turned toward him, still half in shock. "Yeah."
He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the faint sting of embarrassment mix with euphoria. "I really thought those calls were scammers."
Gunwook pointed at him wordlessly, then dropped his hand, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Bro," he said finally. "You're living in a K-drama right now."
Byoungho laughed, a small, stunned sound — one that carried the weight of a dream that had just crossed into reality.
—
Once the door shut behind them, the man and woman walked briskly down the quiet hallway, their footsteps echoing against the tiled floor.
When they finally stepped outside, the evening air hit them—cool, sharp, and freeing. They stopped side by side, turned toward each other, and broke into identical grins.
Then—smack!—they high-fived, loud and triumphant.
"We did it!" the man said, his voice ringing with relief.
The woman laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. "I can't believe it went that smoothly. I thought he'd question everything."
"Me too," the man admitted, shaking his head in disbelief. "Guess luck's finally on our side."
Though they weren't close—colleagues more than friends—the shared success tied them together for that moment. Both knew the stakes: this wasn't just another errand. It was a test from the director himself. A failure would've meant sleepless nights and quiet blame.
But they had done it. Perfectly.
They reached their car, the man sliding into the driver's seat while the woman pulled out her phone and dialed.
"Hello?" came the familiar voice on the other end.
"Hello, Director Joongki—this is Heiji and Kewii," she said, trying but failing to hide her excitement. "We just wanted to let you know that the actor, Byoungho Joon Lee, has accepted the role of Kenzo. He'll be joining the cast."
A pause. Then a quiet, satisfied laugh.
"Good," Joongki said, his tone lighter than before. "Excellent work. My headache feels better already."
"Thank you, Director," she said quickly before he hung up.
The car went silent for a heartbeat—then the man let out a whoop, pounding the steering wheel. "Let's celebrate! Soju and tteokbokki, my treat!"
The woman burst into laughter. "You read my mind!"
The car pulled out into the street, headlights slicing through the night. Their laughter faded into the hum of the city—two people riding high on a small victory, unaware of just how big a story they'd just set in motion.