"Sung Sol's weakness is that he doesn’t know how to take care of himself."
"That's kind of a compliment, though."
When Tae-oh offered his opinion while pulling Sol’s profile in front of him, Deuk-yong shrugged and spoke. Ga-ram placed his fingertips at the edge of Sol's profile and looked at Tae-oh.
"Sol doesn’t have any weaknesses."
At Ga-ram's remark, Tae-oh slightly furrowed his thick eyebrows. It was fortunate that Sol wasn’t looking back at the two of them, instead staring intently at the profile that had been pulled right in front of him. When Tae-oh pulled Sol’s profile toward himself once again, Ga-ram applied more pressure with his fingers to pull it back. Tae-oh tilted his head slightly and stared at Ga-ram, then replied in his usual calm voice without any change in tone.
"Didn’t you hear? Deuk-yong just said it was kind of a compliment."
Ga-ram’s gaze toward Tae-oh seemed unusually intense. They could no longer pretend not to notice the emotions contained in that look. Both Ga-ram and Tae-oh were fully aware of each other's feelings now. After realizing this, it became uncomfortable to face his friend. In the end, Tae-oh, who found the subtle tension uncomfortable, turned his head away first.
Though he felt a bit uneasy, he didn’t remove the hand he had placed on Sol’s shoulder. Ga-ram, too, sensing something, said nothing more and instead refocused on writing on Sol’s profile, which he pulled back toward himself.
Ji-ho, who had been laughing and chatting earlier, noticed the two quietly avoiding eye contact and smirked slightly. Resting his chin in his hand, he alternated his gaze between Tae-oh and Ga-ram, then slightly raised and lowered his eyebrows before leaning his shoulder closer to Sol.
As the oldest, Ji-ho could clearly see the changes in his younger brothers. Sol, oblivious to all this, simply gave Ji-ho a clueless look and smiled peacefully as Ji-ho nudged closer.
After much back-and-forth, Sol’s profile became just as tattered as Deuk-yong’s. Once the profiles were mostly filled out, the team leader, who had returned with drinks for the members, began individual interviews, one by one. Sol, holding the profile that the other members had half-filled for him, waited for his turn.
Sol was the last to go. Leaning against the cold hallway wall, Sol waited for someone to call his name, checking the paper in his hands once again.
"Specialty: Dance."
Ga-ram had written the word "dance" with firm, heavy strokes in black ink. Sol traced the letters with his fingertips. They were pressed in so deeply that even from the back of the paper, the word "dance" was clearly visible. As he repeatedly ran his fingers over the slightly raised letters, Sol bit down hard on his lips.
Something unknown surged from deep within his chest, almost as if it would spill out past his throat. He had practiced hard enough to earn everyone’s concern, but he had never once been satisfied with his movements. Of course, no one expected perfection from the first try, but Sol couldn’t shake the feeling that he was lacking in every way. He believed he hadn’t been able to show his fellow members a version of himself that he was proud of.
But now, these words in his hand came from the mouths of his team members. "Specialty"—a particular skill or talent that others do not have. In simple terms, it meant being good at something. He had a talent. Before the accident, Sol used to write "dance" or "performance" under the specialty section. But after quitting dance, he felt he no longer had the right to use that word.
Even if one had talent, did it mean anything if they didn’t use it? If they're not dancing, who would tell them they had a talent for it? Can they call themselves skilled just by saying it? He felt he had lost that part of himself that once shone so brightly.
But today, unexpectedly, he regained that talent. These weren’t just words—they were a form of acknowledgment. It was proof that what he had shown his fellow members wasn’t so bad after all. Sol quietly hugged the crumpled paper to his chest.
As he stood there, holding onto that seemingly insignificant piece of paper with a heart full of emotion, a rough voice calling his name made him look up.
“Sol hyung.”
It was Deuk-yong, who had just finished his counseling session. His face, as usual, looked downcast, as if he had received another stern talking-to.
“Do well. I’ll be down in the practice room.”
Looking disheartened, Deuk-yong slumped his large shoulders, gave Sol a small wave, and walked away down the hallway, just like the other members. When Chae Min-ju called his name, Sol stood up and walked into the meeting room.
It felt like being graded on a test. The team leader glanced at the profile Sol handed over for a while, clicking her pen repeatedly before letting out a sigh.
“The back page is completely blank?”
She flipped the paper with a loud flutter and spoke with a sigh. As she pointed out, Sol hadn’t filled much of the back page. The front had been filled with the help of his team members, but the back consisted of more personal and abstract questions, like “Why are you in this company?” and “What is your motto?” Sol nodded and answered honestly.
“Yes, I wasn’t sure what to write….”
“The other kids at least put something like, ‘I want to be a rapper,’ or something along those lines. You need to write something, Sol.”
That response was clearly meant for Deuk-yong. The team leader, trying to find something to say, noisily flipped through the papers. Alternating between the front and back pages, the team leader’s expression brightened slightly as something caught his eye.
“You have an award listed in your activities? I heard you used to do dance. Did you win a prize?”
“...Yes, a little.”
“You must’ve been pretty good. But why are you only telling us now? Things like this all contribute to your growth….”
The team leader looked pleased but also puzzled, staring at Sol as if to ask why he hadn’t mentioned it before. The gaze felt a bit piercing, questioning why it had been kept a secret.
It wasn’t anything grand. At most, it was from elementary and middle school competitions. Back then, whether it was ballet, modern dance, or Korean traditional dance, he would prepare for any contest that came his way, and through sheer participation, he managed to earn a title or two in each category. It wasn’t a particularly impressive award history, but the choreography he had performed back then remained vivid in Sol’s mind, down to the stage lighting and the sound of his heels hitting the floor.
Part of the reason he hadn’t said anything was because he didn’t see the connection between those records and becoming an idol, but more so, he simply wanted to avoid talking about dance altogether. The moment he brought it up, wouldn’t it just become a faded glory of the past? It wasn’t something he could do now, after all. So then, what was the reason for finally writing it down on paper after keeping quiet all this time?
‘Just…’
Sol answered himself inwardly. After receiving belated birthday wishes from his fellow members, he suddenly felt it was time to acknowledge it. It had only been two years in this world, but Sol was already twenty-five in his mind. Having spent seven years tormented by guilt, unable to accept or face it, he felt that if he stopped now, no one would point fingers and call him shameless.
And now, he realized he had loved dancing all along, and that he had always wanted to dance. He was happy when he danced. He hadn’t realized it then. There were some things one only recognized after losing them.
So, he decided to acknowledge it. He had loved dance, and still did, but it hadn’t worked out as well as he had hoped. But it was all in the past now.
“I didn’t think it was relevant to preparing to become an idol.”
Sol answered with a calm expression, as if imitating Tae-oh. It wasn't wrong either. When he looked at Ji-ho's activity log, it only listed things related to television appearances. In fact, Sol had wondered if it was okay to write down his awards.
"You majored in Korean traditional dance, right?"
"Yes."
"I didn't hear the details, but why did you say you quit?"
"…Because of an injury."
Once he accepted that the first step was always the hardest, it wasn’t a big deal anymore. There were more dancers than expected who quit because of injuries. It was a profession with a naturally short lifespan.
"Are you okay now?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
The team leader glanced at Sol as she asked, but it was a courtesy, a formal question. Sol nodded in response. Physically, he had no problems. It was just the mental issues that lingered.
"Good. Sol, all of this is part of your image-making."
When Sol leaned forward, the team leader sensed that he had his full attention and continued speaking.
"You gave up dancing because of an injury, but you wanted to keep performing and dancing on stage, so you decided to become an idol. We can go with that storyline."
As the team leader said this, she marked the blank page of Sol's profile. Sol, nodding along with the team leader’s words, showed a slightly dazed expression.
"Uh… yes."
"You're okay with filling it in like that, right?"
Noticing Sol’s odd reaction, she looked up at him again for confirmation. Sol nodded and repeated his response.
"Yes… Yes. That sounds good. Thank you."
The team leader’s formal edits to his profile suddenly struck deep into Sol’s heart. The emotions he had felt while practicing with the members, the fact that he pushed himself so hard that the others worried, even though the quest didn’t require it.
Suddenly, it felt as though a bright lightbulb had flickered on in his head.
Sol repeated to himself, as if leaving an inscription in his heart: "I want to dance. I want to stand on stage with the current members, with the friends I've met here. I want to debut together."
Sparkle, sparkle.
He had tried desperately to isolate himself, but paradoxically, the truth was that he was lonely. He wanted to be acknowledged, to help, to be cared for, and to have someone who could consistently trust in him. He wanted to borrow his voice and directly share with his members the words filling his heart.
The flickering light of the incandescent bulb in his head grew stronger and gradually illuminated the darkness in his heart. The light that had grown so bright became like a spotlight on stage—big, bright, and intense. In an instant, his vision sparkled, and a mint-colored notification window appeared before his eyes.
[Your understanding of the character ‘Sung Sol’ has increased.]
[You have fulfilled the requirements for Stage 1. The penalties related to this trait have been reduced by 50%.]
ooo development
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