Episode 15: Since I’ve Regressed, I’ll Quit Being an Idol


Episode 15: The Sixth Monster


[Ever felt dozens of egg ghosts staring at you?]


I suddenly wanted to send that message to Zia.


She’s not fazed by ghosts, so she’d probably reply, “What’re you on about?”


I didn’t want to know either.


But seeing dozens of people in smiley masks staring at me, that’s the thought that hit.


‘Creepy.’


The feeling passed quickly, though, since I’m wearing the same mask.


The smiling mask is Blind Singer’s trademark, the key prop ensuring the show’s identity: judging solely on song and performance, nothing else.


You wear it on stage, in the waiting room, even during one-on-one interviews with the crew.


There are only two times you can take it off: when you’re eliminated or when you make the top 11 finalists.


That’s right.


Today is the first filming day, the start of these smiley masks’ survival battle.


‘I’m actually nervous.’


Despite bragging to Zia that I don’t get nervous, I realized I’m a bit on edge.


If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be startled by a scene I’ve seen on TV countless times.


But the nerves aren’t heavy.


They’re just the right heat to fire me up.


With a smirk under my mask, I head to the front row, far right—my spot, as Song Jaeryung told me when she handed me the mask.


“Yujin-ssi, you’ll be called Contestant 1. Don’t stress—it’s just a number. The performance order is random.”


I know the performance and broadcast orders are random, but—


‘I’m not the type to stress over that.’


If anything, I’m cocky enough to wonder who’d dare take the number 1 spot if not me.


“Hi… I’m, uh, Contestant 2, not Kang…”


As I sit, the person to my right cautiously greets me, nearly slipping their real name, still adjusting to the numbering system.


I nod lightly.


“Nice to meet you. I’m Contestant 1.”


In my original life, I could identify Season 3’s top five by voice alone.


Even non-top-fivers with decent skill—I could guess them too.


But—


‘I don’t know this one.’


The voice feels familiar, but I can’t place it.


‘Sounds late teens to early 20s, maybe…’


Not every singer is on my radar, and if I can’t recall them, they probably didn’t make a big splash.


I brush off the greeting and scan the room.


Amid light chatter, I pick out familiar voices.


‘Jiyoon’s 36, Dongkyu hyung’s 37. Seunghee noona’s… 19. Number 80’s Kim In.’


I can’t spot Park Juan—he’s not as visually distinct as Kim In—but he’s here somewhere.


The moment I confirm them, my heart grows heavy.


Since I’m not here to lose, one of the original top five will have to leave this stage a week earlier because of me.


If that’s the butterfly or snowball effect I caused, I can’t help but feel sorry.


‘Everyone here treasures every single stage.’


Jiyoon, hiding boundless charisma under a fluttering white dress.


Kim In, dreaming of reviving the fading rock genre.


Dongkyu hyung, aiming for bigger stages with his music crew.


Juan hyung, needing confidence in his craft.


Seunghee noona, who saw Blind Singer as her team’s last shot at survival.


Each with different reasons but the same goal, everyone here is desperate.


‘Still… I’ll only feel a little sorry.’


I’m just as desperate.


As harsh as it sounds, Zia’s beaming smile means more to me than my fellow musicians right now.


Clap clap.


As I steel myself, a clap draws my attention.


Song Jaeryung, with Kwon Junghyun in tow, stands before the platform.


The once-empty seats are now full.


“Alright, everyone, listen up. First, introductions. As you likely know, I’m Song Jaeryung, head writer for Blind Singer.”


A short round of applause follows her bow.


“We’re about to start the finals, but two important things first. As we’ve said until our mouths hurt, you cannot remove your masks. But filming goes all day, and you’ve gotta eat, right?”


Her words spark light laughter.


Kwon Junghyun steps forward, holding a mask identical to ours.


“Feel around the sides of your mask—there’s a small button. Press it firmly, click, and the bottom detaches like this. Remove it to eat, then reattach it after. If you’re not used to reattaching, ask our staff for help.”


“Got it.”


“Meals are a key filming scene. We won’t force anyone to eat if you’re not hungry, but we’d appreciate it if those eating join us during the allotted time.”


She calls it a request, but how many would treat the head writer’s words as optional?


It’s a reasonable ask, though.


“And… some of you might recognize each other by voice alone. We can’t stop light socializing, but please refrain from excessive bonding.”


The second request is just as understandable.


More than that, it’s for our sake.


How many will grasp that, though?


“Eat together… no cliquing…”


The singer next to me clearly didn’t get it.


“Alright, that’s all for the nagging. I wish everyone here a satisfying outcome. Blind Singer finals, begin. Good luck.”


Song Jaeryung bows again and leaves.


“Contestant 27, prepare for the stage. Next up: 72, 16, 37, 9. Please come out and wait.”


With Kwon Junghyun’s voice, Blind Singer’s curtain rises.


***


Each contestant gets about three minutes on stage.


But that’s not where it ends.


“Next up, Contestant 39!”


The MC’s cue.


“Let me start. That was a great performance. But…”


The judges’ critiques.


Add the time to clear and reset the stage, and it stretches to seven or eight minutes.


Not long, but multiply that by 80 contestants, and it’s a different story.


A grueling 12-plus-hour shoot.


Even for seasoned TV veterans, it’s a marathon. For first-timers, it’s brutal.


‘Can’t keep those feet still, huh…’


Tap. Taptaptap. Tap.


Contestant 2’s sneakers drum the floor.


The rhythm’s off, grating for a singer.


‘Is he freaking out over Song’s warning?’


His head swivels at every snippet of conversation nearby. Seems like that’s it.


I’d let him tank his own performance, but if his fidgeting annoys the camera director and gets me cut, that’s a problem.


“You play guitar?”


I toss out a casual question.


“Huh?”


“Your hands look like they play guitar. Left it behind?”


“Yeah, sorta.”


Contestant 2 throws up a wall, but that won’t stop me.


“Wondering why you didn’t follow the staff’s instructions?”


I cut to the chase, and I can feel his mask radiating “You know, so why keep talking?”


‘So young, so naïve.’


Does he even realize he’s sabotaging his own focus?


Contestant 3, sitting nearby, seems to get why I’m engaging him.


“But the writer said not to avoid socializing—just not to overdo it.”


“Isn’t that the same thing?”


“No, it’s different. We’re the ones who need to understand the big difference in that small distinction.”


What’s the difference between fortissimo, forte, and mezzo-forte?


All mean play loudly, yet they’re distinct.


“Think about why they said to avoid excessive socializing.”


“What do you mean?”


“See that?”


I point to a camera with its red light aimed at us.


Even a rookie should get this.


“We’re all here to catch that camera’s eye. But if you just sit there staring at the ceiling, will the director bother filming you?”


Contestant 2’s feet stop tapping.


Seeing Contestant 3 sink into their chair, focusing inward, I speed up.


Luckily, the big screen in the waiting room shows Contestant 37, Eom Dongkyu, starting his performance.


“You know who 37 is, right?”


“Of course. A guitarist like… you can’t not know him.”


“If I said ‘Eom Dongkyu’ now, and they used this footage, they’d bleep the name, right?”


“Yeah… probably.”


“Now imagine we know each other’s identities and keep calling real names. It’d be bleep-bleep-bleep nonstop. Would the crew use that? They’d just cut it. Who loses? Them or us? Even with masks, we need to stay on screen. That’s our character, our lifeline.”


Contestant 2 falls silent, lost for words. I shift perspective.


“Same deal with eating together. The food’s sponsored, so they want it shown. But lower faces during meals need mosaics, right? Some identities could leak from just that. If one person eats alone, that’s extra mosaic work. They’d do it if they must, but if you’re caught in someone else’s shot? They’ll just crop and zoom.”


“Oh…”


“The writer’s looking out for us, making sure we get screen time. We’re the ones who need to read between the lines, even if they spell it out vaguely. And no, I’m not saying the writer was vague. A producer who explains this much is a saint.”


If such a producer exists, I’d like to meet them.


I sure wasn’t one.


If he still didn’t get it, I was ready to switch seats, but he seems to catch on, calming down.


Just as I’m about to relax—


“Uh… hyung, you’ve done a lot of TV, huh?”


Now he’s talking to me.


The camera’s still on us, so I can’t ignore him.


“Sorry, it’s my first time too. Did I come off too know-it-all?”


“No, it’s not that… Thanks. I feel calmer. I’m super extroverted, so I’ve been holding back from talking.”


“Think about Season 2. Bae Mooyul was chatting everyone up.”


“Oh, yeah, you’re right. Hehe.”


He leans toward me.


So much for relaxing. I’m about to keep the conversation going when—


“Contestant 2! Please come wait!”


Kwon Junghyun saves me with perfect timing.


The kid smacks his lips, disappointed, and stands, then spins around and raises his voice.


“Hey, hyung! Can I call you hyung?”


“You’re already doing it.”


“Oh, right… Can I keep talking to you then?”


‘Great, I’m screwed.’


Now other contestants are staring, and the camera director’s eyeing us like he’s struck gold.


‘Can I keep my concept like this?’


That aside, his question leaves no room for refusal, so I nod.


“I’ll wait for you in the qualifiers’ room, hyung! See you there!”


With that, he bounds off after Kwon Junghyun, his peculiar rhythmic hop oddly familiar.


‘Wait, that’s…’


Something’s off.


‘If that’s who I think it is, there’s no way he didn’t make the top five…’


If Contestant 2 is who I suspect, it’s not just a top-five issue.


But no matter how hard I rack my brain, his name doesn’t appear in my memory of Blind Singer’s history.


'Is this another butterfly effect…?'


A sixth monster has appeared on Blind Singer.


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