Episode 64: Guest (2)
The KSPO Dome is the ultimate choice for anyone planning a winter concert.
At this point in time, Korea Arena, Live Arena, and the Incheon Cheongna Dome aren’t finished yet, so they don’t count.
Gocheok Dome is mainly a baseball stadium, so the acoustics aren’t great, and while Spitfire Arena is the best in terms of sound, it’s way too inconvenient for domestic audiences to get to.
Polaris had done everything here—concerts, fan meetings, you name it—so returning to this familiar spot was inevitable.
‘To think I’d be back here already.’
And just ten months after regressing, no less.
Of course, the murmurs alone were enough to make ears ring with the sheer number of spectators sending envious gazes, but those weren’t directed at me—they were for someone else.
The song I could sing here was just one, and it wasn’t even mine; it was someone else’s.
‘Whatever.’
Much like charting, or even more so.
Even if it’s just as a guest, even if it’s only a single song.
There are countless singers who dream of having their voice echo in this place.
‘For my current position, just being able to stand here is something I should be content with.’
Otherwise, I’d be so full of myself that people would call me out for being arrogant beyond reason.
‘Plus, the person who invited me put in real effort.’
Did Lee Ahjeong really call me as a guest out of necessity?
She’s a monster of a woman who actually enjoys carrying a 150-minute runtime all by herself, and her concerts are the reason people say, “There are those who’ve never been, but never those who’ve only been once.”
Objectively speaking, putting a singer who doesn’t match her name value—or one just starting to make a name—up there would only be a loss, never a gain.
‘Setting aside that it’s me.’
Even so, the fact that Lee Ahjeong came to my house to push me into this spot probably means she has her reasons.
Like showing me a view only visible from the peak.
‘And setting aside that I already know that view well.’
Such an experience could be plenty of motivation to reach even higher realms.
‘Of course, it could break you if it feels too distant.’
In that regard, she must have judged that I wouldn’t crumble—meaning she fully recognizes my skills—which is why she did this.
Right now, all I can do is fulfill the role I’ve been given today.
“Hello, everyone! Have you been well?”
In the center of the KSPO Dome, on the 360-degree stage, Lee Ahjeong waved her hand,
“””WAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”””
And a roar that shook eardrums poured down on her from all directions.
Even knowing it wasn’t for me, the sight sent shivers down my spine.
I’d never once regretted the peak I’d reached before regression, but in this moment, amid the cheers triggering a reflexive dopamine rush, I felt just a twinge of envy.
Lee Ahjeong’s Christmas concert had begun.
***
“Yujin-ssi. Let’s get you prepped.”
“Yes.”
The Shining Light I was singing today felt like the bridge connecting the first and second halves.
While I held the stage, she’d take a brief rest, change outfits, and then run the remaining 70 minutes of runtime.
“I just want you for my own.
More than you could ever know.
Make my wish come true.
All I want for Christmas is you.”
To that end, I finished positioning while watching Lee Ahjeong sing the world’s most famous carol, ensuring no encore would be needed.
“No issues with the in-ear, right?”
“Yes. It’s fine.”
“Don’t be nervous—just do it like in rehearsal. And try not to tense up too much.”
You’re the one who seems tense, so why say it again?
I swallowed those words down my throat.
“You don’t have to use the whole stage. Don’t push yourself too hard, and if it feels tough, remember I told you where your group is seated? Just look at them.”
“Got it. Understood.”
Honestly, her worry felt a bit over the top, but I just nodded obediently.
It wasn’t something I couldn’t understand.
This was the normal reaction.
After all, the “newbie” about to perform here had only ever sung in front of 2,500 people at most, and now he was about to stand in front of 15,000.
If I wasn’t nervous, that would be stranger.
Right now, every staff member was probably silently praying, “Please, just let him get through this without any accidents.”
There’s no point in getting mad at the obvious.
All I had to do was shatter their expectations—in the best possible way.
Because the “newbie” they were worried about was, in reality, a rotten-to-the-core Lv.2000 rabbit princess.
In the meantime, the world’s most famous carol that Lee Ahjeong was singing came to an end.
Dressed in a green sequin outfit reminiscent of a Santa suit paired with a red dress, she slapped her waist with her own hand and started bantering.
“Whew. Am I getting old now? Running straight for 70 minutes is tough. Guess I’ve aged.”
“““Boooooo!”””
“””What do you mean old!”””
“””Ahahahaha!”””
The jeers and laughter erupting simultaneously, with shouts flying in, recreated that classic concert bit: a few years back, when Lee Ahjeong had grumbled about gaining weight, some fan had yelled over the mic’s volume.
This year, it seemed she’d prepped it around turning 30.
“No, really—once the front row hits 3, you feel the difference, you know? Back in the day, I’d be called an old maid by now.”
Taeoh’s first Blind Singer stage—Yoon Ichae had said it then.
Thirty back then would be like forty nowadays.
So for Lee Ahjeong to pull that line, she’d need at least another ten years.
Of course, everyone here knew it was just a joke, so the jeers amid the laughter were laced with playfulness.
“With that in mind, I’ll take a quick break.”
“””Aww~!”””
“But in exchange, I’ll introduce you all to a really great singer before I go. This friend’s amazing at singing, but hasn’t gotten the attention he deserves.”
Pushing on with her lines steadfastly amid the disappointed sighs begging her to stay—it was hilarious knowing this was all scripted.
The audience already knew Lee Ahjeong wasn’t really exhausted.
They were just giving her the reactions she wanted.
Just like how she gave them the songs they craved.
“You’ve got to hear this friend’s live to know his true worth, you know? In my opinion, the sound recordings don’t capture his skill properly.”
This guy?
She knows I produced it too?
Of course, I knew it was a joke, but since it wasn’t in the rehearsal script, it honestly scratched me a bit.
“By now, everyone must have guessed, right? Alright, let me introduce—singer Han Yujin’s ‘Shining Light.’ See you soon.”
At the same time, a spotlight poured down on the entrance where I stood,
“Yujin-ssi, go!”
Along with the staff’s voice, shouted just loud enough for me to hear as they stepped back,
“Weak footsteps.
A bowed head unable to see ahead.
A retreating back.”
I sang “Shining Light” while walking onto the stage.
Once up there, the gazes pouring in from all sides sent shivers through my body, flooding me with dopamine—but only for a moment, as I deliberately suppressed it.
My role was to hand back the heat Lee Ahjeong had stoked in this stage, intact.
If I consumed it just to enjoy myself, that would be putting the cart before the horse.
“Come with me
Through the bright light—
I’m always with you.”
With a few years of concert experience under my belt, I knew well how to heighten the current atmosphere just a notch without going overboard.
‘Well, I don’t know if that’s exactly what she hoped for.’
And so, I finished “Shining Light” up to the second verse.
Now, Lee Ahjeong was supposed to come out from the opposite side of the entrance I’d used, and we’d wrap up with a duet.
‘…?’
But the spot where Lee Ahjeong should appear remained silent.
“Sometimes, you’ll have to walk
Under a dark night sky.
It’s okay.
Just lift your head then.
The starlight you couldn’t see
Will show you the way.”
Even as I sang the entire bridge solo, there was no sign of Lee Ahjeong.
‘A stage accident? What now for the next part?’
As I pondered how to buy time and finished the song,
Thud!
The spotlights illuminating the stage went dark,
“What the—?”
Panicked voices rose from the nearby seats, and in that instant, I sensed this wasn’t just a flow issue anymore—it was a major incident that could halt the concert entirely.
“Huh? Up there!”
Someone’s voice drew everyone’s eyes.
What unfolded above was a dazzling display of lights like a planetarium evoking a night sky.
And amid that cluster of stars, Lee Ahjeong sat perched on a lift.
And then,
“On the way home, a single fallen star.
You who wished upon it ask me,
‘Why don’t you make a wish?’”
With melody and lyrics arriving at the most perfectly timed moment, the lift carrying Lee Ahjeong slowly descended.
Like a shooting star.
And like the snow falling outside this venue.
‘This woman…?’
From rehearsal to now, I’d instantly realized this whole thing was planned.
Her eyes met mine, smiling as if to say, ‘You can handle this much, right?’
‘Surprises are supposed to be for the audience only…!’
The urge to grab her by the collar and shake her—
“Ha.”
I let it slip away under a small, hollow laugh.
The morning intuition that the ‘proper trigger’ I’d thought of would come down like stars or snow wrapped around me fiercely.
‘For guest booking fees, I’ve taken way too much.’
In that case… maybe I should get a little serious?
***
The second half of Lee Ahjeong’s concert began with her “Shooting Star.”
As everyone cheered for the shooting star that had descended onto the stage,
One single audience member was thinking not of her, but of the singer who had now vanished from view.
‘Someday, Yujin will have a stage like that too…?’
Even in the face of Lee Ahjeong’s overwhelming impact as she descended like a star, her lover never felt overshadowed.
But since the star of today’s show was undeniably Lee Ahjeong, her lover had no choice but to step back a pace.
Unknowingly, Woo Zia clasped her hands together.
He was just a faint little star right now.
But someday, she wished he could sparkle just as brilliantly as the star shining before her eyes now.
She, who had once wished upon a falling star on an autumn night, now made that same wish again upon the star that had descended to the stage—and she didn’t notice the one figure approaching her.
And that shadow, stealthily drawing near amid the silhouettes of the cheering crowd,
“Eek!”
“Shh.”
Casually snatched the hands Woo Zia had clasped near her navel.
Most of his face was hidden behind a pitch-black mask, but even from the eyes peeking above it, recognizing him as her one and only star—the one with pale green hair fluttering on stage just moments ago—wasn’t hard at all.
And her star brought his face close to her cheek, like a kiss, and whispered.
“Work’s done. You really came looking pretty. Now, let’s go on our date.”
Because her one and only star had arrived there, shining brightly before she knew it.
“Yeah!”
Only then did Woo Zia smile radiantly.