Episode 133: The Crazy Bastard of This Area Is Me (4)
[Su-hyuk: Picked up all three. Heading out now.]
I checked the message that arrived thirty minutes ago one more time.
‘They should be arriving around now, right?’
With the start of Project Trinity filming, Su-hyuk had returned to my side.
However, the manpower shortage still wasn’t fully resolved, so the pickup duty for the kids—which would normally have gone to another manager—ended up falling to Su-hyuk.
Honestly, for a company the size of MyWay, hiring more staff isn’t that difficult.
Yet the reason MyWay is voluntarily enduring this personnel shortage right now is precisely because finding people you can truly trust isn’t easy at all.
‘No helping it.’
Now that I’ve realized MyWay’s airtight information control—which Starlight never experienced—stems exactly from things like this, I have no choice but to occasionally yield my own staff who should be taking care of me.
They said they’d pull someone from the Hylliy team next time, so for today, I’ll just have to let it slide.
“Producer Han Yujin. Please get ready.”
The phone that would normally have been handed to Su-hyuk—I had no choice but to power it off this time and slip it into the inner pocket of my jacket.
At least I’m wearing a suit, so it doesn’t stand out much.
I walked like that down the dimly lit corridor for a moment.
“This way, please. You probably already know the rules, but PD Ryu will explain them again inside.”
Following the staff’s guidance, I stepped through the open door.
The inside of the rugged iron door that had looked plain from outside was decorated with luxurious velvet, giving the filming set beyond it the atmosphere of a secret auction house exclusively for VIPs.
‘So that’s why the dress code was suits.’
No matter how much of a variety show it is, the format of Project Trinity—literally auctioning off people—is bound to stir controversy.
It seems Ryu Je-hoon has decided to charge head-on into that controversy instead of avoiding it.
Since the controversy is unavoidable anyway, rather than awkwardly trying to dodge it, boldly embracing it and making it the very identity and symbol of Project Trinity might actually be the smarter move.
“Am I the first one here?”
I asked while descending the wide staircase leading down to the spacious hall below.
Naturally, in an empty set with no one around, there was no reply coming back.
This was just a casual, work-related mutter to fill the silence.
Then—
“No, you’re the second.”
A head suddenly popped up from the corner at the bottom of the stairs, delivering the reply I hadn’t expected.
I didn’t let out an embarrassing scream or anything, but at the unexpected appearance, I instinctively took a half-step back from “her.”
“Ahaha. Cute.”
The woman in a crimson dress seemed satisfied with my reaction and laughed as she walked toward the center of the hall.
How many people could take a jump scare like that in good spirits? But since I’d already firmly reminded myself that this is a variety show, I deliberately widened my eyes and spoke her name.
“Producer Isabella, your pranks are a bit too much. You really startled me.”
“Hm? You know me?”
“Of course I do. If you don’t know ‘Sunshine’s Witch,’ you don’t deserve to stand here, do you?”
Sunshine’s Witch, Isabella.
The person who created ‘Girls of Heart,’ the only second-generation girl group still active to this day, and one of the pillars who established and maintained the standard for Sunshine girl groups.
In both the previous timeline and now, she’s the sole female producer among the Project Trinity lineup.
Of course, in the fourth generation she was outshone by Pleiades, and in the fifth by Laira, eventually leading her—half willingly, half unwillingly—down the path of retirement.
Even so, it’s undeniable that Isabella is an incredible figure.
‘If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be here in the first place.’
As the representative producer of Sunshine—one of the three major agencies—I’ve actually referenced quite a bit from her work.
We’ve never directly interacted, but I’ve heard so much about her through the grapevine that I know quite a lot.
For example, things like how you can never build a good relationship if you call her by her real name, “Lee Sook-hee.”
“Haha, deserve to stand here? I’m the one who’s honored that the hottest super rookie in the scene right now knows my name.”
“Honored? You’re too kind.”
No matter how much we’re rivals, there’s no need to start off on a bad foot.
I deliberately kept an appropriate distance, acting as if I hadn’t minded her jump scare at all, and created a light, friendly atmosphere. Then—
“Ahem. Nice vibe going on here?”
“Hey, isn’t this ajumma being a bit shameless? Don’t you know that kid has a famous girlfriend?”
The voice came from somewhere else in the hall.
A throat-clearing cough mixed with a voice scolding Isabella reached my ears at the same time.
Two men stepped through the door I had entered.
‘M2K, Kim Gun.’
The very people who opened the idol era on the Korean peninsula and spread that wave across the entire world were descending the stairs side by side.
‘In the original timeline, I wouldn’t even have been able to meet their eyes.’
The only reason I could keep my head up without bowing it completely was thanks to the mental fortitude I built up before the regression.
In any case, I knew well that both of them, like Isabella, would soon have to let go of what they held in their hands.
‘Especially M2K—Moon Myung-guk completely sank after Trinity flopped.’
Some even said that the reason Starlight in the previous timeline could rise to be called one of the four major agencies (alongside the three majors) was because they took advantage of the slight stumble Overwhelm took when M2K went under.
Of course, that’s still a story from the future that hasn’t arrived yet.
For now, their status remains rock-solid.
“Hello, sunbae-nims. I’m Han Yujin.”
“What a polite kid.”
“CEO Seo would definitely like him.”
I bowed deeply in greeting as a junior should, and the two big shots laughed heartily while patting my shoulders.
Well… it didn’t feel all that great.
‘Looking down on me?’
They were smiling, but they weren’t even trying to hide the subtle air of condescension—like they were placing themselves above me.
And it wasn’t just M2K and Kim Gun; even Isabella, who had taken a step back, had the same vibe.
‘Laugh while you still can.’
That unpleasant feeling quickly turned into a smile.
In a ranking-based survival show like Project Trinity, the gap you create at the very beginning becomes a huge advantage.
If they’re going to let their guard down this openly, then I’m grateful.
“…”
The seemingly friendly atmosphere didn’t last long on the surface.
It was because the last producer, Heo Yul-bok, had finally appeared.
‘As expected… Yul-bok hyung’s image isn’t great right now.’
Perhaps because all three—Isabella, M2K, and Kim Gun—had been hit hard once by rookies that Heo Yul-bok produced.
Or maybe because they just couldn’t stand his lofty, lone-wolf attitude.
‘Probably both.’
Just as the atmosphere was about to sink a little heavily, the display channel hanging on one side of the hall lit up.
“Hello. To the five producers who have joined Project Trinity—I am the host who invited you all to this project.”
What appeared on the screen was Ryu Je-hoon.
Backlit so strongly that his face wasn’t visible, but there was no doubt.
Even without what the staff said before I entered, how many weeks had I listened to that voice? There was no way I wouldn’t recognize it.
“First, I want to thank all of you for shouldering the heavy responsibility of carrying the dreams of a total of 25 girls through this survival show that will continue for about three months.”
Even as he bowed his head briefly, his face remained hidden in the strong backlight.
But he couldn’t hide the slight laugh that leaked out at his own stiff, awkward tone.
Something like that would be handled later with voice modulation or whatever, but I couldn’t help thinking it might have been better to just hire a professional voice actor.
“Now, let me explain how you will form your teams.”
While I was thinking that, Ryu Je-hoon’s figure disappeared from the screen, replaced by five deformed cartoon versions of the producers’ faces.
“Each of you will be given 1,000 points. You must appropriately distribute those 1,000 points to recruit members for a total of five parts. The producer who offers the highest points for a member will gain recruitment rights for that member, and as long as you do not exceed your remaining points, there is no limit to how many points you can bid.”
To make Ryu Je-hoon’s explanation easy for viewers to understand, the five characters were shown conducting a mock auction.
It was clever in its own way—avoiding the direct term “auction” while still leaving a loophole to escape criticism.
Well, it was close to covering one’s eyes and pretending not to see, but since Ryu Je-hoon would handle the backlash anyway, there was no need to worry about it now.
“The parts are divided into five categories: Main Vocal, Sub Vocal, Rapper, Main Dancer, and Lead Dancer. If you have already recruited a member for a specific part, you cannot recruit another member for the same part, no matter how many points you have left.”
The explanation that followed was about the minimum safety measures.
Without such restrictions, extreme cases could arise—like ending up with no member suited for a particular position at all.
‘For entertainment value, that kind of thing might not be bad…’
But since the auction order is randomly determined, no producer would accept the possibility that the worst-case scenario could fall on them.
The atmosphere in the hall grew slightly tense again.
This too had already been decided in advance.
The only thing the producers gathered here don’t know is,
‘Not everyone knows which parts each trainee has been assigned to.’
Of course, some information is known.
The part classifications aren’t something the production team can decide arbitrarily, and no matter what method they use, they can’t completely exclude the producers’ influence.
So Ryu Je-hoon partially released information he couldn’t fully control anyway.
The parts for the trainees from Sunshine, Overwhelm, and JWY were probably decided directly by Isabella, M2K, and Kim Gun respectively.
Just like how I decided the parts for Nari, Chae-kyung, and So-young.
The part information held by the major-agency producers is limited to the trainees they themselves assigned.
For balance adjustment, I received the part information for the trainees from Orca Entertainment and Huirak Entertainment.
Heo Yul-bok must have received the part information for the remaining five—including the two from Starlight.
“There will be no rehearsal in the member recruitment process. The team members you will spend the next three months with will be decided in a single real attempt, so please make your decisions with utmost care.”
The lack of rehearsal for the auction is probably to protect the value of that information.
‘Though to those three, it doesn’t seem to mean much.’
Isabella, M2K, and Kim Gun.
From the way their eyes briefly met, as expected, they had shared part information among themselves to some extent.
In the current situation, where forming a so-called “dream team” by taking all their own agency trainees is almost impossible,
From the perspective of these old-timers, it’s only natural they’d want to send the ones they can trust to each other.
For me, though, the part information doesn’t hold much meaning.
According to my plan anyway, I’ll be able to fill the Main Vocal, Lead Vocal, and Main Dancer positions with S-Class level.
“Then, we will now determine the order for member recruitment.”
More important to me than the part information is this order.
No matter what else, this order is pure luck—something I have zero control over.
I’ve run countless simulations and built various strategies around it, but since the ceiling and floor between those strategies are so clearly divided, even I can’t help feeling tense.
While I was thinking that, the production staff who had been hiding in the shadows of the set soon dragged out a massive machine.
The kind commonly seen in lottery drawings.
A moment later,
Clack, clack.
Twenty-five small balls began bouncing wildly inside the huge spherical acrylic drum.
And then,
Roll… thump.
One by one, the names written on the accumulating balls were called out by a staff member and displayed on the screen.
‘Huh…?’
Roll… thump.
Amid the silence broken only by the dull friction sounds and the voice calling names,
As one particular strategy gradually came into sharp focus, I had to cover my mouth with both hands.
The reason? The strategy surfacing in my mind was one of the ones with such an absurdly high ceiling that even I—who came up with it—thought “No way this could actually happen,” so much so that I hadn’t even bothered naming it.
No matter how hard I tried to maintain a poker face, there was no way I could avoid giving off a strange vibe to that fox-like Isabella, raccoon-like M2K, and weasel-like Kim Gun.
Roll… thump.
But as the number of bouncing balls steadily decreased, that strategy only became clearer.
‘This is actually happening…?’
I had to bite my lip hard to suppress the laughter.
Alright. Let’s turn back time in my head.
Since I never thought this would actually occur and didn’t give it a name, shall I name this strategy now?
No—there was no need to think.
A perfect meme for this exact strategy popped into my head right away.
The old meme:
‘I’m the crazy bastard of this area.’