Between A and B C27

Chapter 27

Because Baek Osik was a senior with years of experience, a so-called successful actor, no one dared to step forward first. The comedian who had attempted moments earlier to ease the atmosphere now stood frozen, his face stiff, retreating little by little.

Everyone present knew well enough that the root of the trouble lay with us, and furtive glances were cast in our direction. I was about to step forward to smooth things over when Lee Jinhyuk, clutching the massive set of beef nearly as big as his own torso, pale as paper, approached Baek Osik.

“Sunbaenim, we’re so sorry. We… we weren’t thinking properly…”

His voice trembled as he held out the beef set, but Baek Osik swatted it aside.

“You think I’m making this fuss over a measly set of beef? Do you honestly think that’s why? What a laugh. You’re making me out to be some petty, narrow-minded bastard who can’t stand not eating a bit of beef?”

The box toppled to the floor, its lid flying open, and thick red cuts of meat spilled everywhere. Jinhyuk, even paler now, bowed and bent down again and again, mumbling “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” as he scrambled on hands and knees to scoop the beef up with his bare hands.

From above, Baek Osik looked down on him with a sneer. I seized Jinhyuk’s hand, pulling him up, and bowed.

“We’re sorry, sunbaenim. We haven’t been debuted long, so we don’t know much yet. Please teach us, and we’ll learn earnestly.”

“This brat—are you mocking me right now? I ought to—”

“Sunbaenim, I’m sorry!”

Before his fury could erupt further, Yunoel stepped forward beside me, bowing deeply as well.

“I’m sorry.”

Kim Kang too.

“S-sorry…”

And trembling Jinhyuk at last.

The four of us stood in a line, bowing at ninety degrees, murmuring apologies. The murmurs in the studio swelled louder. Baek Osik stared at us in disbelief, then jabbed a finger in our direction, shouting.

“What the hell is this? Are you lot ganging up to make me look like a fool? A collective stunt, is that it? Don’t you dare raise your heads? Is this some sort of protest? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? Which agency are you from? Did your CEO put you up to this nonsense? You nobodies, learning nothing but bad habits!”

Though no one intervened, perhaps he realized that none of this painted him in a good light. He lashed out at an innocent chair with his foot, cursed, and stormed out.

Only then did I straighten my back, turning to Jinhyuk and Kang.

“Take Jinhyuk out, wash his hands at least.”

“Uh, o-okay.”

“Hyung, I’m sorry… it was…”

“We’ll talk later.”

I patted his shoulder like one would comfort a child, and Jinhyuk bit his lip, his eyes brimming. As the others led him out, I stooped to gather the beef from the floor. At last, people began to approach us.

“Are you alright? Heavens, what on earth was that.”

“I’d heard his temper was fiery, but to see it firsthand…”

“Taking it out on kids like that—there really are maniacs in this world.”

“Here, let me help.”

Some offered words before leaving; others stooped to help collect the spilled beef. A senior idol from another agency even pressed some money into my hand, saying we’d worked hard and should eat something good. Staff members apologized to us. Jinhyuk wept, apologizing over and over. Somehow, the moment passed, tied off for the time being.

But the true problem began afterwards.

We were dropped from a regular program without reason. Appearances we had lined up were suddenly canceled. Personal schedules evaporated as though by design. Then, the CEO struck me across the face, demanding what sort of disgrace I had been dragging around.

Headlines about Another’s character controversy flooded the news by the dozens every day. There was no evidence, but rumors swirled that Baek Osik and his agency had pressed the networks. At first, I thought it absurd. But the entertainment industry has a way of bending whenever power leans on it.

Even though many had witnessed what happened in that studio, not a single soul spoke up. It was natural, I suppose. Who would risk their own career to defend a rookie idol from an obscure new agency?

Articles spread everywhere, claiming we had been disrespectful idols who mouthed off at a senior, that Baek Osik had merely been scolding us when we staged a collective bow in defiance. The online rumor mills fed hungrily, and chaos followed.

We lived through hell for a time. Jinhyuk, blaming himself, fell into social phobia and depression, relying on medication.

It was only after Baek Osik’s sexual assault scandal broke that we finally clawed free. His abuses came to light, testimonies from many followed, and among them was mention of our incident. But it drew little notice.

Once a broadcast is cut, it is near impossible to return. No one wanted to hire idols tainted by controversy. Even though the false accusations had been lifted, we were already forgotten.

We tried desperately—local festivals, university concerts, anything we could get—but it never quite worked. In the end, at the CEO’s urging, I enlisted. The others picked up what personal schedules they could.

And so we drifted, until here we were now.

“I told you, drop it. Baek Osik’s gone anyway—got run down in a hit-and-run. You’ll never see him again. Why flip out every time his name comes up?”

“……”

I had been lost in memory when my manager muttered bitterly. Shaking myself free of the reverie, I glared at him, then let out a sigh and looked away.

So what if he’d been killed in a hit-and-run? Did that erase the scars carved into our kids? He had been notorious for preying on rookies—rumors of molestation, of being lavished with bribes, all of it. A filthy man, trash among trash. If he was struck down in such a way, perhaps there really was such a thing as karma.

I had been discharged from the army around the time of that accident—it wasn’t even that long ago. If Baek Osik were still around now… the thought alone was dreadful.

But Baek Osik was not the issue at hand.

This was a pilot. At best, it might air for a handful of episodes. If I had been cut from the casting outright, was there even any reason for me to go?

We parked. As I stepped out, my manager said,

“Keep your face in check.”

The words punched the air out of me. Right. Smile. Keep it tidy. Work must go on.

In the elevator, I stared at my reflection in the mirrored wall. An unexpected swell rose in my chest. Not because of the treatment—I’d grown used to that, numb. But because of my members. They would be even more heartbroken. How was I supposed to tell them?

I thought of their faces from the past few days, excited and meddlesome like parents, chattering about this and that. My chest tightened.

Still—it wasn’t a total cancellation. Even as a guest, it was work. That mattered more than anything. I had been idle too long, under everyone’s gaze. To have something at all was better than nothing.

The elevator chimed. I steadied my face, worked my muscles into a light smile in the mirror, then stepped out.

“Hello.”

Smiling, I bowed. The staff greeted me back, but awkwardly. Their guilt showed plain in their forced expressions, their avoidance of my eyes.

And yet, I could not feel bitter. They, too, had to think of ratings if they wanted a permanent slot. They had chosen the option most likely to succeed. My lingering frustration ebbed.

No, what had truly unsettled me was not this, but the shadow of Baek Osik dredged up again. Now, all I had to do was focus on the job.

“Oh, you’re here? Hello.”

As I was exchanging greetings, PD Song Cheol approached. My manager bowed low, and I followed suit.

“Did the traffic treat you badly? It’s rush hour both ways, must have been a mess.”

“We left early just in case, but thankfully it wasn’t too bad,” my manager replied with a smile. The PD nodded, then turned to me.

“Segaon will be here soon. Once we’re all gathered, we’ll talk. The meeting room is right over there, so please wait inside. I’ll join you shortly.”

“Yes, understood.”

“Good. And, ah—you’ve heard, haven’t you?”

He left the subject unsaid, but I knew very well what he meant.