“Bro, that was sick!” Donghyun exclaimed, all hyped up once I arrived at his tiny house in Gangbuk District the following day.

He lived in one of the poorest areas in Seoul. Most of our crew came from that poverty-stricken neighborhood, including myself. Once I scored a good-paying job at Triple-X Entertainment as a background dancer, I moved out of Gangbuk and into a nice apartment as soon as I could.

It wasn’t necessarily about pride or my low-income background getting exposed to my richer coworkers, per se, but the hassle of commuting. I honestly would have stayed on my side of the city to save money if the company were closer. Some of my SCORPIO crew members did not like that when they found out.

“It’s them against us,” they argued. “You know that company is infamous for pumping out new K-pop groups like a candy factory! That’s not who we are!”

The thought of their leader being an employee under a big-name music corporation ruffled their feathers. SCORPIO represented the struggles of everyday people wanting to express themselves without industry chains.

They called me a sell-out, a fake, two-faced… Some individuals I called my friends bailed, leaving their spots empty, not only on the team but in my heart too.

I didn’t blame them. I chose a salaried position over street morals. Still, it hurt at the time. We were family. Well, what I thought was a family. Since then, I promised the remaining members that I wouldn’t let my job interfere with SCORPIO. Never. Never ever.

Eventually, my hard work paid off when my talents were noticed and I was promoted to choreographer at Triple-X. My resume grew to include several world tours with mega-famous groups. It was proof that I was dedicated to my field and passion.

Anyway… Donghyun blabbered excitedly about how cool he was going to look in the video. It would not stop. His sporadic bursts of energy exhausted me sometimes. The others felt the same.

“Shut up, Ding Dong,” we all said in unison.

Having thirty-two people say his nickname simultaneously made Donghyun upset. He looked like a defeated puppy.

“How dare you guys? Under my own roof?!” he pouted with pursed lips and sat down.

Donghyun hated it when we teased him with that. But how could we not after the doorbell incident on the birthday he became old enough to drink without knowing his limit? But I’ll save that story for later.

“You almost finished?” another member asked Jihoon.

Jihoon was the crew’s cameraman, video editor, and an amazingly gifted coder. Why he chose to be with us instead of working for the CIA or Area 51 in the U.S. was beyond me. It was something he preferred not to talk about.

Though Jihoon didn’t dance, a lot of our success was because of him. We wouldn’t have been able to showcase our message online otherwise. His editing skills helped our routines reach millions of views and a high subscriber count on ViewCube, the main platform for video uploads.

Don’t mistake him for a geek. His one devilish trait was how he could waltz right into a security room and hack into everything that was ever sent, received, deleted, you name it. The man didn’t stand out. No one ever noticed him, even if he was next to you.

Jihoon pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he said, “Hold your horses. It has to be up to my standards. If it’s not flawless and perfect, I won’t show you.”

“So, Minwoo, what’s next on the agenda at work?” asked Sangwoo.

He was yet another member who believed all large businesses were corrupted to the core. Despite not liking Triple-X, my crew was sometimes curious about my job. I was the only one in the room who danced professionally.

“I can’t say much because of confidentiality, but I recently put together multiple routines for one of their rookie’s new albums. It’s my first time working with them. We’ll see how they handle my methods. It’ll be challenging because their usual style is very different.”

I was a very “no-nonsense” choreographer. I wanted perfection after showing a routine two or three times. But the new groups seemed to get younger every year, so I had to be more patient. The new one I was put in charge of, SATURN, was going with a darker concept for their comeback. It was a stark contrast compared to the flower-boy theme they normally did when they debuted three years ago.

And dark it was. The new album was actually a breath of fresh air to me. The creative director explained the vision she had and entrusted me to “make the fans gasp, swoon, and cover their eyes, yet not be able to look away.” So by golly, I was going to break the internet with what I came up with and push SATURN hard.

“Ha, they can’t handle you. Remember when you made that kid cry last month for missing a single step? That video reached almost a million views online. The young ones don’t know how to keep up nowadays with that joke of a training school they have.”

I scoffed and asked, “How was I supposed to know they were videotaping that practice?”

Triple-X debuted a new boy group eight months ago. They were already working on a second full-length album to meet demand. One of them secretly filmed a part of the dance practice to post on his social media for their fans. Incidentally, I was having a bad day and took it out on their maknae (“the youngest member”) when he missed a simple turn. It was a move he should’ve ingrained into his brain enough to do it in his sleep.

Making the seventeen-year-old idol cry gave me a hard time with the internet netizens. I didn’t want to be reminded about the keyboard warriors and their digital pitchforks wanting to get me fired.

Sangwoo looked amused and said, “I don’t know why you put up with it.”

“Come on, I’ve said this. I do what I gotta do to pay the bills. You know my father needs help with his debt, Mr. I-Unload-Dead-Fish-For-A-Living.”

As Sangwoo narrowed his eyes at the mention of his stinky job at the port, I scanned the room to take attendance.

One. Two. Three. Thirty-one.

Someone was missing.

“Hey, where’s Ha-rin?”

“She texted me saying she got caught up at work. Some emergency with her boss or something,” our contortionist Momona explained. “Personally, I think she’s been hanging out with her boyfriend instead of coming here.”

Ha-rin and the crew were acquaintances at best. In fact, she wore her Ghostface mask at every battle, meeting, and practice to avoid revealing her face to anyone. Only I knew her on a personal level.

She was one of the many eye-candy secretaries for some tech company CEO. I was a little peeved that the crew was okay with her working for that company. They had beef with my job, but not hers? If Ha-rin was lying to have money-spending fun with her boy toy, we’d have to have a serious talk about her commitments.

“Done,” Jihoon announced as he connected his expensive computer to Donghyun’s old TV.

The video played, showing each of us fiercely dancing in the grand hall. It captured the expressions of the lavish visitors precisely—a mixture of confusion and hysteria. The crew laughed when it came to my part where I thrusted my junk at those ajummas. I chuckled along with them until I saw cotton-candy pink hair in the corner.

Unlike the other startled faces, he was watching me with wonder in his eyes. The view zoomed out until most of us were in the picture, but my gaze never left him. The video ended when security came in at the end and transitioned into a static screen with the name SCORPIO blinking between the black and white fuzz.

Everyone clapped except for me. I was stunned to see that boy caught on camera. He must’ve followed me when I ran off with the guards on my butt.

What a fast runner.

“Minwoo? What do you think?”

They looked at me. I smiled to shake off my shock.

“I think… we’re about to make history. I guarantee we’ll get challenged by more crews than ever.” They cheered at my comment and I added, “Prepare to work harder. If we’re lucky, an international crew will see us.”

The rest of the evening consisted of practicing for our next battle that coming weekend. Some of it was individual freestyle, while other rounds were choreographed. We knew the location since there was a secret forum for that sort of thing. Users could only be invited to the online community of crews and trusted supporters.

Supposedly, someone from a rival crew had been serving at the crashed Gangnam event. They recognized us instantly. Their leader called me out for a fight the night before we even published the flash mob! Obviously, not an actual fight— We battled with our moves on the streets.

Jihoon uploaded our new content to ViewCube and other similar websites. The views racked up instantaneously, so I knew the police were likely investigating it already.

In the back of my mind, I thought about Pinkie, the boy who saw my face. My Nowgram account had 978,000 followers. I posted reels and photos of my idol-related job, suggestive shots of me working out at the gym, and live streams of my dances. I silently prayed he wasn’t one of those followers.