Main Character of a Dating Reality Show C4

Chapter 4

Tilting his head slightly, Go Gyeol composed his expression for the camera before unfolding the first card.

The rolled omelet was so good. Amazing. (P.S.) The omelet was great, and the chef is pretty.

The handwriting, a little crooked like a child’s, was accompanied by a doodle—something between a potato and a sweet potato, complete with eyes, a nose, and a smiling mouth giving a thumbs-up.

Cute, Gyeol thought absently, moving on to the next card.

Sportsmanship. Impressive.

Sportsmanship? He blinked in confusion.

You were amazing during the game. I’d love to go on a date with you sometime.

Ah. That explained the earlier comment.
Apparently, his act of giving up first place to help Yoon I-soo had been spun into an admirable “display of sportsmanship,” earning him points of affection.

Still, for the Alphas to react that way? That was unexpected.
Even among viewers, sure—but to impress them directly?

It was excessive. Getting unanimous votes on the first impression was unprecedented.
Gyeol had seen countless contestants start off strong, only to fade miserably by the end. None of them—not one—had ever received every single vote.

In short, among both Alphas and Omegas, his all-vote was unheard of.

Whether to take it as a blessing or a curse, he couldn’t tell.
With conflicted thoughts, he opened the fourth card.

It’s been eight years. I’ve missed you.

His fingers tightened on the corner of the card.
That handwriting—Shin Joon-oh.

It was as obvious as a fingerprint.

It had been eight years since SAVE ME disbanded.
Eight years since the group’s make-or-break moment—when their most popular member had walked out without a word, dooming them all.

I’ve missed you?

A bitter laugh rose in his chest.

To Gyeol, Shin Joon-oh was the most cowardly man on earth.

Since the day he vanished, they hadn’t spoken. Not once. Not a single text, not a call.

Without you, we’re finished.
Please, come back.
How could you do this to me?

He remembered every message he’d sent.
Messages Joon-oh had never answered.

And the following year, he saw it on the news—
Shin Joon-oh debuting as the leader of the idol group Moving.

Shameless bastard.

For eight long years, Gyeol had fantasized about spitting those words in his face.
And now fate had chosen this stage for their reunion—under the bright, merciless lens of a dating show camera.

Missed me? After eight years?

Fine. If that’s how he wanted to play, Gyeol would use him—completely.
Since Joon-oh had given him that card, he’d be nothing more than another stepping stone.

Lowering his gaze slightly, Gyeol arranged his expression into one of quiet sorrow.
He pressed his lips together, then folded the card carefully, wiping at the corner of his eye with his sleeve.

Tears were easy now.
After all, he’d become an actor.

After feigning composure for a moment, he opened the last card.

Think only of me. Because I can’t stop thinking of you.

The handwriting was elegant, deliberate—and the words, unabashedly intimate.

Four Alphas.
Five cards.

A catfish.

The meaning was obvious.

In reality-show slang, a “catfish” (메기) came from the “catfish effect”—a concept suggesting that a single strong competitor could stir the entire pool, forcing everyone to their best.
A wildcard, a disruptor.

But…

In all previous seasons of Alpha X Connect, the catfish had never sent a vote on the first day.
So this must be a unique twist for Season 10.

Following the producers’ likely intention, Gyeol acted puzzled.
He counted the cards again, blinking in mock confusion, before finally stepping away with a calm face.

– All four Alphas chose you, Gyeol. How does that feel?
“Honestly, I was shocked. I didn’t expect zero votes, but… when I opened the mailbox, it was full. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.”

– Everyone thought you were admirable when you gave up first place to help Yoon I-soo. It seems that really moved the Alphas, too.
“Admirable is too generous. It wasn’t that grand. I-soo’s my roommate, and he looked hurt—I just couldn’t run past him. I’m grateful people saw it kindly.”

– How do you feel about receiving five cards instead of four?
“Like I said—felt like a dream. I even counted them over and over, thinking I’d misread it. But nope—five. I just thought, ‘What? Why? How?’ This show’s really no joke. I’m looking forward to what’s next.”

Interview done, Gyeol zipped up his hoodie as he walked down a narrow trail.
The sea breeze had turned sharp with the setting sun; the evening air stung with cold.

He replayed the interview in his mind—checking for mistakes, any awkward phrasing.

At least Sung Yohan wasn’t there.

That had been his biggest worry.
If Yohan had been present for a personal interview, hiding his discomfort would’ve been impossible.

But where did he even go? Did he just show up for a cameo and leave?

Lost in thought, he turned down a dim, sloping path.
The makeshift lights the crew had set up flickered weakly in the dark, leaving the air thick with silence.

He walked faster. He just wanted to get back to the lodging.

Then—

“Go Gyeol.”

“…!”

He froze.
His shoulders jerked visibly; even from behind, anyone could see his surprise.

Awkwardly, he rubbed his arms, forcing his body to turn.
And when he saw who it was—he froze again.

“Why so startled?”

A cold voice, smooth as steel.

“Did you think someone was going to eat you?”

“…Sung Yohan.”

Standing under the faint light, shadows fell across his face.
His eyes, dark and gleaming with a strange intensity, reflected an unsettling kind of power.

“I was surprised. You’ve changed so much.”

His gaze traveled slowly, deliberately, from head to toe—undeniably bold.

Even though Gyeol had purposefully dressed to embody the image of a “beautiful Omega,” something about that look made him feel stripped bare—mocked, even.

“…I dressed to fit the concept of the show.”

He reminded himself—Yohan was the co-producer now.
The past was the past.
And Gyeol was no longer someone who couldn’t hide his shame.
He could at least pretend composure, even if he couldn’t smile.

“Hmm. It seems to be working. You even got all the Alpha votes.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you?” Yohan let out a low chuckle, lifting his chin. “That’s funny.”

The sound wasn’t amusement—it was derision.

“Looks like you finally learned how to function in society, then. The failed idol turned aspiring actor, wasn’t it?”

Heat flared up the back of Gyeol’s neck.
The cold wind only sharpened the burn beneath his skin.

Failed idol turned aspiring actor.

That was the name Yohan had used for him years ago—a title drenched in scorn.

The Yohan who’d smiled so gracefully in public earlier was gone.
Standing before him was the same arrogant tyrant he remembered—still beautiful, still cruel.

“Funny thing is, your acting hasn’t improved at all. That forced expression, that artificial tone, those stiff gestures… there’s not a single thing convincing about you.”

It was exactly what Gyeol had feared.
He could fool anyone else—but not Sung Yohan.
Not the man who knew him too well.

And as long as Yohan was here, sitting in judgment behind the cameras, Gyeol’s mask would always risk cracking.

“Are you planning to keep acting like that?”

His worst fear, spoken aloud.
Clenching his jaw, Gyeol met his eyes squarely.

Silence stretched between them.
He frantically searched for an escape in his mind—but found none.

“Oh? What are you two doing here?”

The unexpected voice broke through the tension.
The youngest writer appeared at the top of the hill, waving brightly.

“We ran into each other on the path,” Yohan said easily, his smile smooth, his tone light. “Just exchanging greetings.”

It was terrifying how quickly he switched faces—gentle, polite, the picture of charm.

“Ah, you were heading back up? You don’t have to—everyone’s packing up!”

Soon, several crew members emerged behind her, confirming her words.

“Then, Go Gyeol, get some rest.”

Without a flicker of hesitation, Yohan extended his hand.

Gyeol didn’t want to take it.
But he had no choice.

“…It was good seeing you, PD Sung.”

He grasped it, the air between them stretched taut with tension.
Yohan’s hand was large, unchanged from memory.

Gyeol grit his teeth, trying desperately to shove down the flood of memories.

“What, is kissing that hard for you? What, is there gold on your lips?”
“Failed idol turned aspiring actor, Go Gyeol.”
“If you keep acting like this, you’ll rot at the bottom forever. Even ‘no-name actor’ is too good for you.”

But this wasn’t the past.
This was now.

“It was good seeing you too, Gyeol.”

The warmth of his palm seared through his skin.
It felt like a burn that would never fade.