In one of the Big Prime’s buildings, Hwan was sitting in the middle of the empty dance room as he reminisced about the time when he joined K-East.
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Hwan’s POV:
The room fell quiet as Hwan stood in front of the cameras, the bright lights bouncing off the polished stage. It was the long-awaited documentary special — “K-East: Origins” — and tonight, for the first time, fans would learn the truth about Hwan’s mysterious past and how he came to debut in 2013. He looked down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap, before raising his head. His eyes met the lens.
“I think it’s finally time I told my story,” he said, his voice steady but soft. “The truth is… I never planned on being an idol. At least, not at first.”
In his teenage years, Hwan was known for one thing: dance. His crew, N-Force, swept underground dance competitions. Known for his sharp popping technique and charismatic stage presence, Hwan was on the rise in Korea’s dance scene.
“Back then, the streets were my stage,” Hwan recalled in his mind. “I didn’t care about fame. I just wanted to move people with movement.”
But everything changed in early 2010 when he caught the attention of a talent scout from BigPrime Entertainment, a small but ambitious company that was quietly assembling a new kind of idol group — one with raw, self-made talent.
Hwan entered BigPrime as a trainee in mid-2010, alongside other unknown names who would eventually become his brothers in K-East. The training was brutal: 16-hour days of dancing, rapping, and vocal drills. He struggled most with vocals.
“I knew I had rhythm. But singing? That broke me. I almost gave up so many times,” Hwan admitted.
Things took a darker turn in late 2012. Rumors spread that the company might cut him from the debut lineup due to weak vocal progress. The stress nearly tore him apart — until a late-night conversation changed everything.
One evening, K-East’s eventual leader, Ryung, found Hwan alone in the practice room, collapsed on the floor.
“You can’t give up now,” Ryung told him.
“Why not?” Hwan snapped, frustrated.
“Because you’re the soul of this group,” Ryung said quietly. “Without you, it won’t be real.”
Those words stayed with him. Hwan began staying after practice, sometimes rehearsing alone until dawn. He worked with vocal coaches, studied rap structure, and began writing his own verses.
Hwan as a teenager, dancing barefoot on concrete streets. His mother cried silently at the dinner table after the family business went under. Hwan covered his younger sister’s ears while their parents argued behind a closed door. Him performing in a cramped club, eyes glowing, as a crowd cheered.
Just weeks before their official debut in 2013, tragedy nearly struck. Hwan’s father fell ill, and his family urged him to come home. There was talk of him quitting the group — a moment that echoed real events in Hwan’s early career, where he briefly left BigPrime before rejoining K-East.
“I was torn. I wanted to be with my family, but… I also knew if I walked away, I’d never forgive myself,” Hwan said, eyes shining.
In a now-famous moment among fans, Hwan returned to the dorms at 3 a.m. one rainy night, soaking wet from the bus ride. His members were waiting for him.
“You’re back,” Ryung said.
“I never left,” Hwan replied.
On July 17, 2013, K-East debuted with their explosive track “Burn Signal” — and Hwan stood front and center, not just as a dancer but as a rapper and co-writer. His verse, raw and emotional, referenced his journey:
"Fell down, stood up, broke once, built twice / Dreams in my blood, pain in my spine / Said I couldn’t, so I did — this time it’s mine."
That line became an anthem for fans, who later dubbed him the "Phoenix of K-East" — someone who rose from personal ashes to claim his place on stage.
In the closing moments of the special, Hwan looked directly into the camera once more.
“I know I’m not perfect. I came here broken. But you all — the fans, my brothers — you helped me find my voice. That’s why I dance. That’s why I rap. That’s why I’m still here.”
He smiled, the weight of the past no longer a secret but a story of survival.
…
The room is dim, except for a single spotlight cutting through the darkness, spotlighting Hwan’s figure in the center of the polished wooden floor. The walls are lined with mirrors, reflecting his every move.
A soft, rhythmic beat starts playing from the speaker. It’s the same track he practiced with years ago — stripped down, raw, filled with emotion.
Hwan inhales deeply as his body moves — fluid but fierce, every step a statement, every gesture a story. It’s more than dancing. It’s a conversation with his past and present. He remembers the late nights, the doubts, the pressure. But now, the movement is freer — born from knowing why he started. Sweat beads on his forehead, but his expression is calm, almost serene. He spins, drops low, then explodes upward — like a phoenix rising again. “This isn’t about proving anything to others anymore. It’s about honoring the journey — every scar, every moment.”
As the music fades, Hwan slows, finally stopping in front of the mirror. He stares at his reflection — not just the dancer, but the man shaped by years of struggle and triumph.
A small smile creeps onto his lips. “This is why I keep dancing.”
He switches off the music, grabs his jacket, and steps out into the cool night — ready for whatever comes next.
…
The room was quiet, only the faint hum of a distant city outside. Taeyun sat alone, cradling an old, worn photo of his childhood home. It was a modest place, nothing flashy, just four walls where dreams first took root.
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Taeyun’s POV:
Born and raised in a small, rural town, Taeyun’s early life was simple but full of vivid imagination. Unlike many, he wasn’t born into an artist family. Instead, he was the kid who often felt like an outsider — a boy with a deep voice and an eccentric personality that didn’t quite fit the mold.
“I was always different,” Taeyun said quietly in a later interview. “I’d hum songs I made up, wear weird hats, and talk to myself. People thought I was strange.”
At school, Taeyun wasn’t the top student, but he excelled in art and music. His favorite escape was the local riverbank, where he would sketch and sing softly to himself, dreaming of a world beyond his small town.
Taeyun’s life took a sharp turn when he heard about an open audition in Seoul for BigPrime Entertainment. Though his family was hesitant, worried about the city and the risks, Taeyun’s heart was set.
“I just knew,” he remembered. “If I didn’t try, I’d regret it forever.”
The audition was daunting. Surrounded by thousands of hopefuls, many polished and trained, Taeyun felt invisible. But when he sang — with raw emotion and an unusual tone — the judges saw something special.
“That voice… it’s rare,” one judge whispered. “He’s not just a singer. He’s an artist.”
Training was a rollercoaster. Taeyun struggled with fitting into the idol mold — his style was unconventional, his voice too deep and husky compared to the typical bright idol sound. He faced criticism and pressure to conform.
“I almost lost myself trying to be what others wanted,” Taeyun said. “But then I remembered why I started: to be me.”
With support from mentors and his closest friends, including Jaesang. Taeyun began to embrace his uniqueness. He experimented with fashion, stage presence, and vocal styles, blending soulful ballads with charismatic charisma.
The turning point came during a late-night rehearsal before their 2013 debut. Taeyun improvised a low, smoky verse in a song that was otherwise bright and poppy. The team paused.
The producer smiled. “That’s it. That’s your color.”
From then on, Taeyun’s signature sound — deep, emotional, and a little mysterious — became central to K-East’s identity.
…
After that, Taeyun reflects on that journey with gratitude. He is still that kid from the riverbank, singing alone and now the whole world listens.
He also remembered when he and Valerie first crossed paths during their high school years. They met in their sophomore year, both new students trying to find their place. Taeyun, quiet but deeply thoughtful, was drawn to Valerie’s energetic and warm personality. They quickly bonded over shared interests—music, late-night talks about dreams, and a mutual love for sketching.
For a while, their friendship blossomed into something deeper. They became inseparable, supporting each other through the trials of adolescence. But as graduation approached, life pulled them in different directions. Valerie’s family planned to move overseas for work, while Taeyun decided to stay behind and focus on local opportunities.
The day after their graduation ceremony, they said a bittersweet goodbye at the train station. Promises were made to stay in touch, but the physical distance—and the uncertainty of young adulthood—slowly drove a wedge between them.
Till now, Taeyun still thinks back to Valerie often, wondering how things might have been if they hadn’t parted ways so abruptly.
…
Lying down in bed, Jaesang’s hands rested on the back of his head as he recalled his past as well. And getting to know his older members was something that he never even regretted, even after they became more than just a group, but a family.
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Jaesang’s POV:
He grew up in a small, close-knit town where everyone knew each other. His family wasn’t wealthy—his dad worked long hours at a factory, and his mom took care of the household. From a young age, Jaesang found escape in music. Singing along to the radio and copying dance moves from music videos, he dreamed of a life far beyond his town’s limits.
When he was 13, his life changed overnight. During a local festival, a talent scout noticed his raw talent and invited him to audition for a prestigious entertainment academy in the city. Leaving behind his hometown, family, and childhood friends was one of the hardest things Jaesang ever did.
At the academy, the pressure was intense. The daily training was exhausting—hours of singing, dancing, and vocal coaching. Some of the older trainees were harsh and competitive, sometimes making Jaesang doubt if he belonged. Homesickness hit hard. He missed the simplicity of his old life, his parents’ warmth, and the quiet nights under the stars.
But Jaesang found strength in small things: a text from his mom saying, “We believe in you,” a fellow trainee who became his closest friend, and the moments when he nailed a difficult routine or hit a perfect note. One particularly tough moment came when he almost gave up after failing an important evaluation. But remembering his family’s sacrifices and his own dream, he pushed forward.
A turning point came when Jaesang wrote and performed a song about his journey—his fears, hopes, and determination. That performance caught the attention of his mentors and marked him as a unique artist, not just a trainee. Soon after, he was selected to debut as the youngest member of a new music group.
Jaesang’s journey is a story of resilience, passion, and growth—shaped by the sacrifices he made and the unwavering support of those who believed in him.
At the entertainment academy, Jaesang found a mentor in Mr. Han, a former idol turned vocal coach. Mr. Han was tough but caring, often pushing Jaesang beyond his limits because he saw immense potential in him. When Jaesang struggled, Mr. Han would share stories of his own hardships and remind him that pain and persistence were part of the path to greatness. Their bond grew stronger over time, and Mr. Han became both a teacher and a father figure in the city.
On the other hand, Jaesang had a rival in Minho, a charismatic and talented trainee who was fiercely competitive. Minho’s confidence sometimes bordered on arrogance, and their rivalry sparked both tension and motivation. Though they clashed often, Minho’s relentless drive forced Jaesang to push harder and improve faster. Deep down, Jaesang admired Minho’s skills, and their rivalry eventually became a quiet respect.
The key moment that truly defined Jaesang’s journey came during a late-night practice session when he was on the verge of quitting. Feeling overwhelmed, he went to the rooftop of the training building, where he unexpectedly met Valerie—who was visiting a friend at the academy. She encouraged him to embrace his fears instead of running from them and reminded him that true strength comes from staying true to himself.
That conversation rekindled Jaesang’s determination and helped him realize that success wasn’t just about talent or competition—it was about passion, heart, and connection.
From then on, with Mr. Han’s guidance, the spark of rivalry with Minho, and the memory of Valerie’s words, Jaesang continued his path with renewed strength—ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
…
…
…
The safehouse was quieter than usual, the squad dispersed on errands while the glow of neon from outside crept through the shuttered windows. Kai sat at the head of the table, sipping from a chipped mug, while industry, both of them knew it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
"Exposing scraps won’t tear them down. Si-woo is the heart of it all. BigPrime owns the system, the labels, the networks. As long as he sits on that throne, nothing changes,” Valerie said in a steady, but edged fury tone of her voice.
Kain raised an eyebrow, studying her. He admired her conviction, but he needed to be sure she understood the weight of her words. "You’re not wrong. Bong Si-woo isn’t just a CEO—he’s the architect of this machine. But you’re talking about going to war with a man who has governments in his pocket, journalists on his payroll, and mercenaries at his command. You understand the risk?"
Valerie leaned forward, her palms pressing against the steel table. Her voice didn’t waver. "I understand. And I don’t care. Every time a trainee signs their name, they’re chained to his empire. Every idol he controls is just another pawn to sell. I won’t sit by while he builds an empire on broken lives."
Kain set his mug down, his lips curling into the faintest hint of a smirk. He had been waiting for this—for someone else to see the bigger picture, not just revenge or survival. "Then we’re aligned. We don’t just hit Si-woo. We dismantle the entire machine—piece by piece, until there’s nothing left to corrupt. And when the dust settles, we’ll rebuild it on our terms. A system that protects, not preys."
For the first time since joining, Valerie felt her fury transform into resolve. She extended her hand across the table. "Then let’s make it official. Si-woo falls, and with him, the empire he built."
Kain clasped his hand, his grip strong, unyielding with quiet conviction. "From this moment, Valerie… you and I carry the same war. We’ll take down Bong Si-woo—and when we do, the industry will never look the same again."
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…
…
The room fell silent, but it was not the silence of uncertainty—it was the silence of a pact. Two leaders, bound not by chance, but by shared rage and vision. In that moment, the war against Si-woo became more than vengeance. It became a mission to remake an empire.
The BigPrime tower loomed over Seoul like a fortress of glass and steel. Inside, the top-floor office was soaked in a cold, sterile glow. Bong Si-woo sat at his massive black desk, cigar smoke curling in the air, while two of his closest executives whispered nervously at his side.
"Sir… it’s confirmed. Someone has aligned herself with Kain’s group. The leaks—the files—it was her hand guiding them,” the first executive said hesitantly.
Si-woo’s eyes narrowed, though his smirk remained. He tapped ash from his cigar into a crystal tray, his voice smooth but venomous. "Valerie… That naïve little bird still thinks she can fly after I clipped her wings. Foolish woman."
"The public is stirred. If they continue leaking evidence, it could trigger an audit. A scandal at this scale—" The second executive said nervously, almost stammering.
Si-woo raised his hand, silencing him. He leaned back in his chair, puffing slowly on his cigar, then let out a low chuckle."Audits, scandals, outrage… they come and go. But traitors? They only end one way."
At that moment, the door to his office opened without a sound. Tyler Kwan stepped inside—calm, precise, his presence slicing the tension in the room. His dark coat still carried faint drops of rain from the night.
Si-woo smirked as he turned his gaze. "Ah… my ghost finally arrives."
Tyler said nothing at first, merely taking a step closer until the glow of the city lights revealed his face. His voice was low, detached. "You called. What do you need?"
Si-woo’s smirk widened. He stubbed out his cigar, the ember hissing in the ashtray. "There’s a traitor in my empire. Valerie. She thinks she can expose me. I want her silenced—not just killed, silenced. Erased. Make the world forget she ever existed."
Tyler tilted his head slightly, studying Si-woo’s expression. His words were cold, but not rushed. "You don’t just want her gone. You want her erased from memory. That will take time."
Si-woo leaned forward, eyes glinting like a predator’s."Take all the time you want. Just make sure that when people whisper about Valerie… it’s only in past tense."
The room fell quiet again. Tyler gave a slight nod before vanishing back into the shadows of the hall, leaving only the faint sound of the door clicking shut. Si-woo exhaled deeply, his smile cruel and satisfied.
Si-woo said to himself, almost like a toast. "The vendetta begins. Let’s see how far you can fly, Narrow, before my ghost clips your wings for good."
…
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…
The streets of Gangnam pulsed with neon and late-night footsteps. Valerie kept her hood up, head down, replaying Kai’s words in her mind about taking down Si-woo. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the girl approaching until—bump! A jolt, a splash of coffee, and a quick intake of breath.
The lady became flustered. "Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry—I should’ve been watching where I was going!"
Valerie stepped back, glancing down at the dark stain on her jacket. She sighed but forced a polite smile. "It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention either."
The lady with long hair, flawless style, expensive-looking coat, offered a sheepish grin, dabbing at her own sleeve with a napkin. Her energy was bubbly, natural, almost too natural.
Rowan said apologetically. "Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you another drink? There’s a café just around the corner."
Valerie blinked, slightly caught off guard. Strangers in Seoul rarely offered kindness like this. She hesitated, but something about the girl’s warmth disarmed her. "That’s not necessary, really—"
Rowan said insistently and cheerfully. "No, no—I insist. It’ll ease my guilt, at least. Come on, just one coffee. Promise I don’t bite."
Valerie exhaled, then gave a small nod. "Alright, just one."
As they walked toward the café, Rowan kept the conversation light, asking harmless questions where Valerie was from, what she liked to do in her free time, careful not to let on that she already knew everything.
To Valerie, Rowan seemed like an ordinary, friendly girl—maybe a little too polished, but harmless enough.
Inside a hidden apartment lies the Narrow’s squad’s secondary base. The room was dark except for laptop screens glowing with multiple open tabs. Beom, Moonki, and Julong gathered around Henry’s monitor while Victor patched in from a separate encrypted line.
Victor was on speaker, saying. “Ready for Phase Two?”
“Say the word,” Beom insisted.
“Drop the compilation footage. The one from the trainee camera archives. We give them faces this time—not just a voice,” he said.
“Got it. Blurring IDs, protecting victims. Uploading now,” Henry noted.
Within ten minutes, the footage was everywhere: hidden camera clips of overworked trainees collapsing mid-practice; a well-known choreographer screaming and throwing a water bottle at a girl who missed a step; a manager physically dragging a male idol away from a fan meet when he hesitated after noticing a girl crying.
A new hashtag roared to life: #KpopUnmasked.
With all the fans’ responses in an online montage was already flooding through the netizen site.
“This is DEVASTATING. How did we not see it?”
“Don’t care. My oppas are innocent.”
“The system is abusive. Stop protecting abusers with pretty faces.”
“If this is true, our faves are complicit.”
As for Yuki, she sat in the very corner with her knees pulled up to her chest, noise-canceling headphones over her ears but no music playing. Her phone sat face-down beside her. Even so, she could feel it vibrating. Again. And again.
Beom had reassured her. So had Moonki. But nothing could quiet the storm of thoughts.
“What if someone recognizes me in that blurry background footage? What if they trace our IP from the upload?” Her heart raced. Her breathing got shallow.
Memories came back in flashes—his debut year, the crash diet that made him faint on stage, the way an executive whispered threats into his ear when he wanted time off for his mother’s funeral.
Tears welled up. He wasn’t just scared anymore. He was drowning.
Moonki entered the room and paused.
“Yuki,” he said softly. “You okay?”
Yuki shook his head. “I didn’t think it would get this loud. I thought we’d just… show people the truth, and it would feel better. But it doesn’t.”
Moonki sat beside him. “It never feels better. But it’s necessary.”
During that moment inside JMC Entertainment’s private office, a woman sat at her glass desk, high heels off, suit jacket hanging over her chair. Her name: Seo Mirae—former idol, now an internal crisis handler and “fixer” for one of the largest K-pop corporations.
She had watched both leaks twice. Not once did she blink.
Across her desk, a junior manager stood nervously and said. “The board wants names. And fast. They think it's Thirteen.”
“They always think it's Thirteen. But this is more personal. More organized,” Mirae said.
“How can you be sure?”
She leaned back, lacing her fingers together. “Because I know what revenge looks like. And whoever did this… isn’t doing it for views. They want justice.” She opened a new file on her tablet. It was filled with old photos, debut archives, and faded ID scans. She tapped on one name:
‘Yuki (debuted 2018, withdrawn 2020 – label conflict, NDA signed)’
Her eyes narrowed observantly. “I remember you,” she thought. “And I remember what they did to you.”
She stood on her feet and instructed firmly. “Bring me everything we have on Yuki, Beom, and the Narrow Squad.”
The Junior Manager became confused. “Wait—you think it’s them?”
“I don’t think so. I know. The question is—do I stop them? Or help them finish it?” Mirae stated.
Knowingly, the two of them were contemplating whether they should take action into their own hands or only herself can do it.
Absolutely. Here's the continuation of the story with Kain, the boss of the Narrow Squad, and Jason, the co-leader, added to the narrative. Their presence brings more weight, strategy, and emotional complexity to the group's mission—and deepens Yuki’s internal conflict.
It was already 3:17 am in the Narrow squad’s safehouse. The room was dim, tension thick in the air. After the Phase Two leak, most of the squad stayed glued to screens, tracking news reports and social media reactions. But then the door opened with a solid thud.
Kain had arrived.
Towering, calm, and silent at first glance, Kain had once been part of the industry’s shadow—the fixer behind the scenes, the one who "cleaned up" messes for labels. But when they crossed him, he switched sides. Now, he was Narrow Squad’s brain—and spine.
Jason, second-in-command, followed closely behind, pulling off his gloves. Tactical, sharp-eyed, but more emotionally tuned than Kain, he balanced leadership with loyalty. He immediately noticed Yuki curled on the couch, eyes red.
“Yuki,” Jason said gently. “You didn’t sleep again?”
She shook her head, unable to speak, whereas Jason looked at Beom and Moonki with concern but didn’t press.
Kain stood in front of the group like a general facing his soldiers. “Phase Two was effective. The label board is bleeding PR. But now they’re hunting. Hard. You’ve stirred a nest of vipers. Be proud. Be prepared.”
“They already found the 0327 trainee’s brother. He’s in hiding,” Julong said.
Kain nodded. “We’ll protect him. And every name that comes forward. But from this point on—every move you make is war.”
He scanned the room, his gaze falling on their Japanese comrade. “Yuki. Come with me.”
They stepped into the hallway. Alone, Kain’s voice shifted—less commanding, more human.
“You’ve seen what they did to you. To her. To all of us. You think that pain makes you weak?” Kain queried.
Yuki whispered softly. “I think it makes me dangerous.”
Kain smiled faintly. “Good. Then aim that danger in the right direction. I didn’t bring you into this to fall apart. I brought you here to finish it.”
Back inside the room, the strategic briefing begins when Jason moves in front of a whiteboard and taps onto the words and images that he wrote. “We have intel from Victor. JMC Entertainment hired someone new—an internal fixer. Seo Mirae.”
Moonki frowned. “A fixer?”
Jason stated. “Not just any fixer. She used to be one of them. Idol-turned-ghost. Rumor is, she knows things even we don’t.”
Beom became puzzled. “And what—she’s tracking us?”
“Worse. She might understand us. And that makes her unpredictable,” Jason pointed out.
Kain stepped back in confidently. “So we get to her first.”
…
…
…
Elsewhere in the town of Seoul, Mirae stood on her high-rise balcony, overlooking Seoul. The city sparkled like a crown of lies. In her hand, a printout of old Narrow Squad performance reviews. Jason’s name. Beom’s. Yuki’s. She traced Yuki’s old photo with her thumb.
“They never should’ve broken you,” she thought despondently and her expression turned into reassurance. “Maybe it’s time someone helped you break back.”
She didn’t call the label. Instead, she sent an encrypted message.
To: Unknown25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmX6tVNdbun
Subject: What if I’m not your enemy25Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxDyhrLPJjR
and then Add to home screen.