RAT Chapter 5 (Part 2)

Thankfully, since our promotions were paused, we had enough time to prepare. Otherwise, someone would’ve probably died from overwork.

And by someone, I don’t mean me.

Except for the cover, everything was D.I.Y.’s own music, so rearranging wasn’t too difficult—even if I hadn’t written the songs myself. We already had a defined style.

As for the cover, I’d already done… well, let’s call it a “reinterpretation.”

I’d debated whether to use Orbit as the cover song, but I figured it was fine to finally let it go this round.

A song I couldn’t release because it was technically plagiarism—but one I liked too much to discard—this would be the last time I’d be hung up on it.

Besides, W.orbit, in this timeline, was already in its third year. They’d won major awards from debut and swept everything since their second year—a giant whale of a group.

That meant there were already plenty of cover performances of their songs, and since D.I.Y. wasn’t that far behind in debut years, it wouldn’t seem strange for us to cover them.

Still, the real problem was time.

No matter how many times I regressed, the major events always repeated. If they didn’t, I’d have to study history and current affairs instead of idol schedules.

But the small details tended to change—songs that had topped the charts in one timeline might never be released in another, or entirely new songs could appear out of nowhere.

So if I refused to do Orbit just for pride’s sake, that would mean digging through yearly charts to find something that suited D.I.Y., checking the artist’s background for any scandals, and rearranging from scratch.

But if I had that kind of time, wouldn’t it be better spent perfecting the choreography instead?

For a flawless stage, I could easily toss away something as trivial as pride.

It had been painful when I first realized it was plagiarism—but that was in the past.

“—Let’s stop here for a moment. You’re all half a beat slow.”

“…Wow, Park Yeoul. Do you know we haven’t made it through a single full verse except for the first run? Can’t we just finish once, please?”

“Nope. You’re the one who laughed and said you couldn’t remember any of my feedback after we did it that way last time.”

I wanted to snap back—Maybe try finishing properly once before you complain, Dojun—but instead, I smiled apologetically and handed him a water bottle from the pile in the corner of the practice room.

Of course, I wasn’t the least bit sorry.

It was my way of saying: Drink some water and get your head straight.

W.orbit’s debut song, Orbit, was all about timing. In the original choreography, every member turned their chairs at the exact same beat—down to matching the precise angle when stopping.

Of course, the size of an ordinary music show stage and a year-end festival stage were completely different, so we didn’t bring the chair choreography over as it was. Besides, with Eden being our weak spot, there was no way we could pull it off perfectly anyway.

Still, since the original was what it was, keeping the timing right remained crucial, even with modifications.

More than anything, in an age where anyone can slow down or speed up performance videos, synchronization isn’t just about timing anymore. Angles of arms and legs, the smallest alignment—they can all be checked instantly.

I knew fans wouldn’t expect absolute perfection from rookies like D.I.Y., who had barely completed one full year of promotions—but this was basic.

I didn’t want to show a sloppy stage in front of fans.

…Even if everyone’s idea of “sloppy” was different.

“It’s good that we’re working hard, but… at this rate, we won’t even have time to practice our own songs.”

“Yeah, honestly, I don’t think we even practiced our title track this much.”

“…Ha.”

Kim Dojun stood there holding the water bottle I’d handed him, not drinking it, sighing instead. Moon Taeyoung, trying to lighten the mood, laughed and said something equally ridiculous.

In this timeline, I still didn’t have as much say in D.I.Y. as Jin Yoorim or Eden—but seriously, this wasn’t it.

I was just wondering how to make those pretty, empty-headed boys understand the importance of practice when something hit the floor with a dull thunk.

“Oh, my bad.”

“……”

On the ground lay a half-empty water bottle that had obviously been thrown on purpose. Eden stared at it with a blank expression, then looked up—meeting my eyes—and smiled as he raised both hands.

“So, are we really idols? We dance like shit.”

“……”

Personally, I didn’t think Eden was that good a dancer either… but this version of him wasn’t entirely bad. At least he knew he wasn’t great at dancing. Not that his words just now were meant that way.

Anyway, Eden’s sharp comment turned the practice room into chaos.

Jin Yoorim, as always since my regression, stayed silent unless absolutely necessary. Kim Dojun was already irritated from the exhausting practice, so that made things worse.

Even Moon Taeyoung—the one with the most stamina as our main dancer—looked at me as if asking for help.

But really, was there any point in stepping in right now?

I simply smiled at him and raised the tumbler I’d brought. Maybe because of my depression, my stamina in this round had been unusually low, so I’d been careful about staying hydrated.

“…Hey, it’s not that bad.”

“No, it’s exactly that bad.”

Trying to ease the tension somehow, Moon Taeyoung gave an awkward laugh, but Eden replied right away with a cheerful face.

“You didn’t know? All those songs Yeoul-hyung made before—people said they were too hard for us to pull off.”

“Ha.”

“……”

No way.

I let out a short laugh before I could stop myself, and when everyone’s eyes turned to me, I waved my hand lightly.

“Ah, sorry. I really didn’t know. Go on, keep talking.”

Of course, even before the regressions, I didn’t stop being me. The only difference was in memory. So there was no way I’d written a song that was too difficult for our level.

If we’d really been criticized for that reason, then this round’s D.I.Y. members must’ve just been slacking off.

I tilted my head slightly, looking at Jin Yoorim’s reflection in the mirror—still silent.

Someone’s been sabotaging D.I.Y. on purpose… right?

Shifting my gaze from Jin Yoorim to Eden, I met his eyes—his fake smile gone, annoyance written all over his face. I forced a small smile, pretending to be unfazed.

“Anyway, if no one’s got anything else to say… how about we take a ten-minute break?”

“……”

“For the choreography… let’s just try it first. If it really doesn’t work, we’ll fix it later. We still have time.”

Of course, I had no intention of changing a thing.

I’d written the routine to be doable for twenty-one-year-old Moon Taeyoung and Kim Dojun, and twenty-year-old Eden and Jin Yoorim.

Instead of asking myself how things had gotten this bad, I reached over, snatched the water bottle from Kim Dojun’s hand, opened the cap, and handed it back. He took it reflexively, looking dazed.

It made sense—he probably didn’t even know what he was feeling right now. Was it anger? Frustration? Maybe just wounded pride? Hard to tell, with a head that barely functioned beyond holding up that pretty face.

He’d never been especially bright, but he wasn’t the kind to skip practice either. He was the type to just do what he was told.

So what the hell happened in this round? What had this Park Yeoul been doing while things fell apart like this?

Pretending not to notice Jin Yoorim’s gaze on me, I overlapped my hand with Kim Dojun’s, guiding the bottle to his lips. Only when he came to his senses did he flinch back, horrified.

“Ah, so you don’t want a break, huh?”

“No, it’s just… being fed directly like that, it’s, uh… too much honor?”

“Honor… right. Sure. Let’s just do our best, okay?”

…Originally, I’d meant to rile up Jin Yoorim by acting overly friendly with someone else, but Kim Dojun’s ridiculous vocabulary ended up damaging me instead.

Seriously, “honor”? What even was that? Does END Entertainment not make its idols read at least one book a month anymore?

As the two of us awkwardly pulled apart, Moon Taeyoung handed me another bottle.

“Oh, it’s fine. I already drank.”

“It’s not for you to drink.”

“Then what for?”

You don’t seriously expect me to open the cap for you, right? I lifted my—comparatively unimpressive—arm in mock protest, and Moon Taeyoung burst out laughing.

“What, you play favorites now?”

“So, we really don’t need a break?”

“Wow, look at our leader being all cool. So dazzling. Drinks water responsibly and everything.”

“……”

“I can open a bottle cap with one hand, Yeoul. Want me to show you?”

“Sure… amazing. But no.”

When Eden threw the water bottle earlier, I thought I’d made it clear I wasn’t getting involved. But apparently, Moon Taeyoung thought I’d stepped in to smooth things over.

How did these kids get so bad at reading a room…? Ha. What am I supposed to do? Is this really okay for broadcast?

Pushing away the body that clung a little too closely, I raised my tumbler conspicuously.

“Hmm? Going somewhere?”

“The restroom. If I don’t wash this now, it’ll be annoying later.”

“Ooh, should I come with?”

“…Are you out of your mind?”

Leaving behind Moon Taeyoung’s stupid laughter echoing through the practice room, I walked straight ahead instead of toward the bathroom.

It was the year-end season, the busiest time for any entertainment company, but the basement level—lined with soundproof practice rooms—was quiet.

Passing through the silence, I stopped in front of an empty emergency exit and finally let out the deep sigh I’d been holding back.

Alright. Let’s think this through again.

Kim Dojun and Moon Taeyoung weren’t the kind of people who could lead practice on their own, but they also weren’t the type to complain just because the sessions ran long. Or rather, they hadn’t been.

If they were truly that useless, we would’ve replaced them long ago.

I couldn’t fully trust what Eden said—that people criticized my songs for being too difficult—but judging by the fact that we hadn’t managed to complete the choreography even once, it wasn’t entirely baseless either.

When I first showed them the choreography draft, their lukewarm reaction… I thought it was just because it was a draft. But no—it was because they thought it was too hard. And once they believed they couldn’t do it, they stopped even trying.

Learned helplessness.

Someone had stopped Park Yeoul from producing, and carved the fear of failure into Moon Taeyoung and Kim Dojun.

The purpose? I couldn’t say for sure—but probably to make sure D.I.Y. could never succeed.

Honestly, at this point, it’s a miracle D.I.Y. even has fans left.

Now it made sense why Team Leader Kim Yeo-jin from Team 1, who manages D.I.Y., agreed so easily when I asked if I could produce this stage.

Back then, I thought the company was just being considerate about my depression—but clearly, that wasn’t the only reason.

Anyway, it was obvious now that Jin Yoorim was behind this whole mess. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

And while Eden was pretending not to be involved, it was obvious he’d played his part too.

The problem was, I still couldn’t figure out why our dear regressors were doing this.

Did they know my goal and want to stop me? Or did they each have goals that clashed with mine?

Whichever it was, there were still things that didn’t make sense.

…I had already decided that, since this round was probably a failure anyway, I’d just confirm Eden’s objective and restart.

But every time some new piece of information popped up, the urge to just drop everything and start over again flared up inside me.

Of course, if I did that, the same things would only repeat next time.

So I wouldn’t.

Still, the frustration was unbearable. When I leaned my head against the wall, a familiar hand slid between it and my hair.

I wasn’t surprised—footsteps had been echoing down the hall for a while now.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You.”

“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s probably useless anywa—hm.”

Eden had been about to throw some snide comment at me, but my answer made him smile instead. He tilted his head and leaned closer, pretending to be amused.

Because of the way I was slouched, I ended up looking up at him—a position I didn’t like one bit.

“Eden.”

“Yeah.”

“What about you? What are you thinking about right now?”

“……”

I grabbed Eden’s face with both hands and pulled him close until we were face-to-face.

Even though it was sudden, he followed my lead easily, as if he was used to it. Then, deliberately slow, he blinked once—clearly intentional.

Still, I liked that he kept his mouth shut instead of spouting nonsense. And I liked that our eye level was finally even.

“If you’d just keep being this obedient, I might actually spoil you a bit.”

“…Ha. Liar.”

Eden laced his fingers through mine with his free hand, then brought his face close enough that I couldn’t even tell what expression he was making. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“You don’t like me, hyung.”

“Me?”

“So at first, I tried getting jealous—it was pathetic, really. But it’s fine. That person doesn’t stand a chance anyway.”

…Or maybe it’s just that he’s easier to use. I couldn’t deny that Jin Yoorim was more manipulable than Eden.

I knew whatever excuse I gave would only sound like trash, so I didn’t bother. I just sighed quietly.

“Eden. Say it properly. Who, or what, doesn’t stand a chance?”

“Hyung.”

“What were you jealous of?”

“…You know, pretending not to know and asking again—that’s a really bad habit, you know that?”

“Yeah, I know. But you saying it that way on purpose is one too.”

Eden’s face, just like when I’d pulled him close, was easy to push away.

“Let’s go back. We need to practice.”

“But aren’t you gonna praise me?”

“For what?”

“I helped you earlier. In the practice room.”

“No. I don’t feel like it. You’re the one who caused that mess.”

“Ha, caught me.”

Right. This is why I used Jin Yoorim before you. Honestly, getting jealous over something like this is ridiculous.

I glanced down at the hand that was still holding mine—but didn’t pull away.

Eden noticed, tightened his grip slightly, and when I still didn’t resist, he started humming the choreography track we’d been practicing—Orbit—under his breath.

“Eden. Just stick to rapping.”

“…Hyung, really? You’re saying that now?”

I smiled kindly and nodded.

You’re a rapper. It’s fine if you can’t sing.

Just as Kim Dojun had worried—that we might end up with no time to even practice our own D.I.Y. songs, let alone Orbit—his words were becoming reality.

I finally admitted it.

It was impossible to undo years of neglect in just a few days. People in movies or dramas might overcome trauma with a few heartfelt lines, but real life didn’t work like that.

…It had taken me far too long to accept it.

I wasted an entire week refusing to give up before finally realizing it was hopeless.

I mean, dancing is done with the body, right? Regardless of the mental side, your body should still function normally.

Honestly, I still wasn’t completely convinced—but reality was reality, and we were out of time. I had no choice but to change the choreography.

I’d already simplified it once—from a synchronized chair sequence to a floor move—but now I had to change that into individual movements.

In the end, to make it as easy as possible, I decided everyone else would stay seated while only the center lay down. I’d already given up on the chairs; I didn’t want to give this up too.

The problem was, even after all those adjustments, we still didn’t have anyone who could take the center position.

Even after spending a long time convincing myself that it might look awkward from the audience’s point of view, we’d decided the lying-down part would only appear briefly in the opening—but still, no one could do it.

Simply put, Kim Dojun and Eden couldn’t dance, and Moon Taeyoung couldn’t control his expressions.

The only member with the skill, presence, and expression to pull it off—Jin Yoorim—refused outright.

I thought about forcing him, but if he really didn’t want to, what was the point? Forcing someone who wouldn’t perform sincerely was meaningless.

And so, the center came full circle—back to me.

For the first time in my long D.I.Y. career, I had to bleach my hair six times.

Honestly, apart from skill, my personal recognition was too low. During the opening, the camera would focus only on the center, so I needed something with visual impact.

So now, after nearly eight hours of bleaching, my hair was a dark gray overlaying stripped color.

On the first day, it looked navy blue, but after two days, it faded to just the right tone. While I was bleaching it, I’d kept wondering if it was really worth it—but the soft gray with a faint hint of blue actually looked pretty good, even to me.

“Yeoul, why haven’t you dyed your hair before? It suits you so well. It’s so good I want to preserve it forever.”

“Huh, what’s that supposed to mean—you’re saying I didn’t look good before?”

“So you’re only going to half tie it up, right?”

Fortunately, it wasn’t just my own opinion—the staff at the salon, people who should’ve been used to working with celebrities, kept sneaking glances at me.

Pretending not to notice, I smiled innocently and turned toward them.

“Wow, no answer? That’s brutally honest, don’t you think?”

“Honesty’s a virtue, you know.”

“You’re too much. I’m hurt now.”

“Alright, alright—so can you sit still for a bit now?”

“No, I don’t want to. Just admit I’ve always been good-looking, come on.”

“Hey, the stylist has a boyfriend, stop flirting.”

I joked as I turned back to face the mirror—and met Jin Yoorim’s gaze.

He’d been pretending not to look at me but hadn’t taken his eyes off me once, so it wasn’t surprising.

“Hey, don’t fall for it. I’m a taken man.”

“Excuse me, I said that first.”

“I belong to our fans, sorry.”

“What—did I just get rejected? I thought I was the one who turned you down.”

We traded meaningless jokes, and when I smiled at his reflection in the mirror, he quickly turned his head away.

But that only made it more obvious—especially since Moon Taeyoung, Kim Dojun, and even our manager were all watching us and laughing.

Maybe that was exactly why he’d done it.

Jin Yoorim didn’t just act like this today. During practice, too, he’d always seemed like he wanted my attention—and at the same time, like he wanted to strangle me.

Maybe it was consistent, in its own twisted way—trying to destroy D.I.Y. while still doing his best as an idol.

However you looked at it, though, he was definitely out of his mind.

As soon as I looked away from that consistently crazy Jin Yoorim, my eyes met Eden’s in the mirror.

Regressor No. 1 was resting his chin on his hand, openly watching the scene unfold. When our eyes met, he even waved.

…Still, between the two of them, I’d rather deal with Jin Yoorim.

At least he wasn’t deliberately ruining the mood during every practice.

Ignoring Eden, I tapped the spot just below my left eye with my finger.

“Oh, and could you add a beauty mark here, please?”

If the producing member was going to stand out anyway, I might as well go all in this time.

If it helped me look good for my fans, then adding a small beauty mark was nothing.

There are, of course, several advantages to being under a major agency.

The D.I.Y. song that follows Orbit is Losing You, the title track of our third single released in February. It’s a very K-pop-style song—an urban pop and deep house arrangement blended together.

As a song chosen by the AR team of a big company, it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t too light or too heavy—just a song with no particular character.

Still, there was one reason I chose this track, even though it wasn’t our latest title song: the lyrics.

The day I spent with you,
On that beautiful spring day,
In this place where cherry blossoms once fell like rain,
Another winter has come,
And I’m left alone again.

I still can’t get used to it.
The memories we shared
Sit heavy on me like a scar.
Even as time passes,
How could I ever forget you?

Just an ordinary love song, really—but unlike its English title, all the lyrics were written entirely in Korean.

That alone changed everything. By stripping out the urban pop elements and leaving only the strong drums and bass of the house genre, the whole mood shifted completely.

On top of that, I squeezed new rap verses out of Eden and Kim Dojun and layered Jin Yoorim’s backing vocals into nearly every section.

Orbit, on the other hand, was W.orbit’s debut song—a track born from a survival audition program that once dominated every challenge video as its BGM.

This is a drama whose ending’s already set,
Don’t try too hard, I’ll pat your shoulder,
But, who knows I am.
Even I don’t yet know my limit line.
Why should you be the one to define its end?

The lyrics went something like that.

Of course, since I had to weave this into our own song, Losing You, I twisted it once more—not into defiance, but into temptation.