Bias wrecked

There are cameras everywhere, but they don’t really care about you.

You’re in front of a room filled with thousands in attendance, but most of them don’t care about you. And the very few that are actually there for you—you certainly couldn’t tell apart when they’re all the way at the back.

The audience erupts in cheers, but they’re not meant for you.

It’s fine. Nothing new, really. You’ve learned to liken the noise to artificial, pre-recorded cheers, the ones you’ve been listening to for the last couple of years. Perhaps the day will come when these people will be screaming your name, but the chances are as low as you being on that stage to begin with.

The winners say their little thanks of appreciation to the fans, delivered with concise and flawless execution, as if it had already been decided beforehand. Knowing the other nominee’s absence, it likely seems to be the case. Then again, this is already their 15th music show win after debuting a little over a year ago. On the other hand, your group debuted right at the same time they made their comeback. It would be considered reckless, downright stupid in the hands of a relatively larger company, but this is some fresh start-up with you and your members as their first experiment. You gain fans, and the sales are surprisingly decent for a new boy group from a completely unknown label, but otherwise, you’re another name that has Nugu Promoterlabeled all over it.

It’s a volatile profession where only the rich get richer. You don’t even know if you’ll even make it past the end of the year. Any hopes of public attention, let alone a music show win is basically blind optimism at this point.

While your peers around you will continue with their promotions, this is your last one. Two weeks for a newly debuted group sounds sacrilegious, but money is a scarcity. Using recycled outfits for the last two shows should have been a dead giveaway, a glaring red flag, that you’re in deep waters, but nobody cares.

Really, no one does. Ask anyone in that room and they’ll probably think you never actually existed.

You’re smiling, acting as if the dozens of cameras are pointed right at you, but in reality, you’re just empty space.

You’re just happy to be there.

So when the encore plays, everyone leaves the stage, and after you exchange courtesy bows with the seniors that go overlooked in favor of their more recognizable peers, the heavy weight of being an idol is removed. Your lips loosen up, your eyes rapidly blink; one by one, you’re peeling off the mask, the persona that is required of any performer. All at once, a million things spring to mind. The members, the fans, the company, your future—it’s all things you have to worry about. It’s wise not to think about any of it, but you can’t help but wonder if you were better off not chasing your dreams if you knew this was where you’d end up.

Still, it does have some rewards.

Even though the cameras catch you in the act, and it’s broadcasted out for everyone to see, you’ve been peeking at the women beside you. That’s one benefit of being a nobody; there’s no public outrage or melodramatic outcry, and the few that notice play it off as some kind of inside joke. Anyone else in your position would facing the prospect of career suicide. It’s still unbelievable that the same idols you’ve watched and inspired you to pursue that dream are at an arm’s reach. Competitive releases be damned, you’d happily go unnoticed if it meant you’d end up next to some of the hottest idols right now.

Passing along a few hallways to your dressing room, you’re reminded of another blessing: that you don’t have to waste five minutes of your time doing superfluous Tiktok challenges. There’s a pair of guys that barely know each other performing some point choreo they clearly googled on the spot, and you can evidently discern by their deadpan expressions that they don’t want any part of it. Of course, it’d be hypocritical for you to say you’re better—you’ve been forced into it—but it serves as a cue to hurry up before you get dragged along too.

Regrouping with your members at your dressing room, they’re slumped back on the lone couch, completely drained of their energy. They’ve been in performance mode since dawn. Better for the group’s overall health that there’s nothing else after this, but worse for your overall popularity. You need to get out there more, but that’s beyond what your company can provide.

“Great job everyone,” says your leader, peppy as he’s always been, but the members don’t reciprocate his energy. It’s deflating from every angle. His attitude mirrors yours: blindly optimistic about the group’s potential success. However, you recognize the reality of the situation. You feel bad. “We all deserve a rest after that.”

Sure enough, they’re right ahead of him, proven by the loud snores that fill the room. Another demoralizing response. It’s painful and awkward to watch. His efforts to uplift the team are completely genuine, only to be met with such lackluster reception. It’s the story of the promotions so far: trying your damned hardest, performing as if your lives are on the line, only to come up short of what you’ve worked hard for and looking defeated when you head backstage.

This is the price of being sold a plastic dream. This isn’t your first rodeo, either. You started from a relatively big company, put yourself out there when survival programs came knocking at your door, but it ultimately led to nothing. The label must have seen the writing on the wall when they dropped you after you were eliminated on the first evaluation. It’s cold, it’s callous, but it’s ultimately business, nothing personal. You probably should have seen the signs too, but your stubbornness has you believing in miracles. Hey, it worked out for a few forgotten names before. Anything is possible.

Suddenly, a manager walks into the room, phone in hand. Right. There’s a scheduled livestream for your fans in less than an hour. None of you get access to your phones until you reach 50,000 album sales, chart in the top 100, or win a music show—none of which seem likely to happen at this rate. He gives the phone to your leader and tells him to get everyone ready before promptly leaving again.

“Excuse me, I’ll just go and clean up. I won’t be long,” you say gently to your senior, who simply waves you off and allows you to leave.

—————

The SBS building isn’t a huge one, at least compared to the KBS building, but you might as well appreciate every moment you’re lost inside it. You don’t know when you’ll ever step foot inside its corridors again, if ever.

So, when you happen to walk past a room you have no business being close to and cross paths with an idol, it must be fate. The dream isn’t dead—for now.

“Hey!” Her little voice suddenly snaps you from your wandering mind.

You impulsively bow, completely taken by surprise. “Oh! I’m sorry— wait!”

After a brief exchange of formalities, she meets your eyes with a familiar smile. “ Yes?”

You swear you’ve never felt your heart beat out of your chest this rapidly, yet the feeling is only starting to sink in. A reminder that you’re still carrying those innocent dreams with you.

“ Chaewon!” You shout her name out so loud it’s practically demanding attention. Both your hands cover your mouth almost immediately. It’s laughable how painfully obvious your excitement is upon being recognized— and who wouldn’t be? She giggles and smiles widely back, and you forget you’re also an idol like her—not some fanboy who only sees her occasionally behind a screen. A less successful, less recognizable one, but still an idol.

“Oh? You look kinda familiar.” Chaewon raises an eyebrow, inches her warm face a bit closer. She scans you as if you’ve got something that ticks. And as if that wasn’t enough of a validation, she adds, “I don’t remember what group you’re from, but you look cool.”

“ Um —well thank you, that means a lot.” Whether she meant it or not, the way you helplessly stumble through your words says it all. Knowing her schedule, her success, and everything else in between, you’re probably the least of her concern.

Her eyes suddenly sparkle; the pieces are starting to come together. “Of course! I remember now!” Her hands are folded together, her tone earnest and respectful, even though you’re supposed to be a nobody. No wonder she’s one of your biases and one of your inspirations in pursuing an idol career. Even though you’ve shared the stage a handful of times already, this feels like the peak of your existence, and it’s all downhill from here. “We watched your performance while waiting. You were great!”

This is too much to digest. You’re supposed to be back in your own dressing room by now, but here you are, consumed by your love and admiration for an idol being reciprocated back to you. You find yourself unable to move the conversation forward, let alone end it. Forget that her members are on the other side of that door, probably overhearing the conversation. They’ve got new new material to pile and make fun of, but fuck that. She doesn’t seem to mind standing here all day either.

“Wanna record a challenge with me?” she asks, and you can’t turn down this one in a million opportunity, no matter how much you despise the concept and everything it stands for. You’re nodding, and the level of enthusiasm you show betrays your code so easily, it’s borderline criminal. It’s Kim Chaewon, after all; you’ll break any rule just for her.

—————

Safe to say, there’s levels in this industry, and you’re practically placing an open target on yourself for everyone on the internet. That isn’t to say you’re not trying, it’s just very obvious that Chaewon clearly outperforms you. It’s the sort of gap that generates more questions than answers. You’ve already written down the inevitable comments from Twitterand Panchoa in your head: He went to the Jay Park school of performing! Free Chaewon from these nugus! Why is Chaewon dancing with a MAN? Among many, unsavory variations.

It’s all in good fun, at least between you two. You miss a step, miss another, quickly fall behind to the song, and it’s utter disrespect to the artist inviting you to perform with her. Nevertheless, she plays it off with a laugh, helping you through the motions until you end up with a serviceable final cut. It’s not going to break the internet, and it certainly won’t bring your group any attention, but it’s watchable—at least, you believe it is.

(Except you can only last a second watching yourself struggling to keep up before you look away.)

“Looks great! Everyone’s going to love this one,” says Chaewon, looking at your twentieth recording smiling, beaming with optimism that you’ll somehow get a share of attention for doing this when in reality, she’s the only one getting clout. “Do you want to record your song next?”

You’re well past your limit. You don’t make exceptions for that. “I’m good! I think that’s enough Tiktok for the day.”

“ Heh.” Chaewon returns her phone to her pants’ pocket, chuckling at your response. “I get it. Tiktok challenges are so exhausting.”

“I can’t imagine what it’s like for you then.”

“ You have no idea.”

Moments pass without a word. Dilly-dallying at some isolated corridor is fun when you’re with someone you admire, but you both have schedules to fulfill. Her managers are probably fuming right now; even a five minute absence may have thrown off the rest of their day’s agenda. Time is their biggest scarcity—a resource you wish they weren’t lacking.

“I’ve kept you away longer than they want, probably,” you say, weaving around the idea that you don’t want to let her go just yet. “But it’s been fun.”

“ Right.” Her eyes look ahead with alarming focus. She sees nothing, but they’re glinting as if she struck gold. “We have enough time to do one more thing.”

Chaewon turns around to grab you by your cheeks. You’re halfway to holding her arms when you suddenly stop. This is foreign. This feels—good. You like her warmth radiating all over your face. You’re about to mouth your foremost thought into words. What are you doing? is etched all over your lips, but she’s right ahead of you, answering that question with a resounding statement.

She kisses you, and it spirals out of control faster than your presumed career.

It’s so abrupt, so out of character. Suppress it all you can, you find no other urge than to give to your baser instincts. You hum as she passionately pulls you close, wanting more territory to sink in. She bites your lower lip. It’s mine now, says her narrow eyes that pierce through your soul, as if persuading you to give up. No. You’ve already raised the white flag.

Your hands explore and roam her back. Her outfit provides so much skin, yet leaves enough for your imagination to fill in the gaps. Hips, waist, and butt—you find your hands firmly groping at them more than any other part of her tight, lithe figure. She moans, she rasps against your neck, she finds solace in your arms, embracing the sudden sensations pulsing through her body. “ Fuck—”

“We shouldn’t be doing this. Not here,” you whisper in her ear, your eyes circling the corridors for signs.