This Life’s Universal Superstar
Chapter 5

“I think we’ve found our last member.”

That’s what Lemon Entertainment’s producer, Cho Gyuhwan, had said. When Seokhwan heard that, he said a chill ran down his spine. Especially since the person Director Cho had his eye on was already in his contacts.

“I was really surprised. Isn’t it wild?” he asked.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You don’t seem all that thrilled. What’s up?”

I explained, “Maybe it’s different for you since you know Director Cho personally, but from where I’m standing, this whole thing feels a little strange.”

“How so?”

“Think about it. Sure, I get that he has this incredible track record for picking hits, but the idea that he saw my face on TV and just knew I was ‘the one’… Doesn’t that seem odd?”

“It’s not unheard of. Some top actors were scouted after showing up in random interviews. Casting directors have tracked people to their high schools if they stood out.”

“I guess you’re right…”

As we talked, we finished off the last of the meat. As the server brought out soybean paste stew and rice, my thoughts wandered. Then, as Seokhwan lifted the lid, he brought me back to the moment.

“Okay, now that you know the backstory, what do you say?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“The audition. Are you going to come in or not?” He must have noticed my hesitation because he added, “Hey, no pressure. We know you’ve been out of practice for two years, so no one’s expecting you to be perfect.”

“That’s not why I’m hesitating.”

The real concern nagging at me was whether this new ability of mine was temporary. What if it just disappeared one day with a “Ding! Trial period over!” message?

With a cautious smile, I replied, “I’ll give it a try.”

“Really? I’ll tell the company then.”

“I have one condition.”

“A condition?”

Seokhwan was about to send a text when I stopped him.

“I need some time.”

“Why?”

“There’s something I need to monitor for a few days. Once that’s settled, I’ll be ready.”

He looked curious but didn’t press further.

***

After the college entrance exam, I spent the next two weeks observing myself. I knew I’d told Seokhwan it would only be a few days, but I wanted to be sure. Thankfully, nothing unusual happened. This strange ability I had seemed to stay, like an uninvited guest who had settled in. With that reassurance, I finally set a date for the audition. However, I didn’t have much time to practice. A lot had happened during those two weeks.

[Heroic Student Saves Elderly Man, To Be Honored by Police]

[KG Group Donates Thirty Million Won to Hero of Galhyeon-dong]

[Hyper Study Offers a Year of Free Classes to Student Hero]

I shook my head as I scrolled through the headlines on my phone. The power of media was truly something else. One appearance on the news, and suddenly support was pouring in from all directions. Hyper Study—the largest college exam prep company in the country—offered me free courses, while KG Group donated thirty million won. Suddenly seeing that much money in my bank account made my jaw drop. With this new ability and support flowing in, missing the entrance exam almost felt like a win. It was especially satisfying when I sent the thirty million won to my grandmother. Although she made a fuss, saying I didn’t need to, she eventually accepted it.

Seriously, Grandma Kim needs to be more honest with herself.

A new message notification pulled me from my thoughts.

[Her Royal Majesty Kim Deoksun: Do your best on the audition.]

[Her Royal Majesty Kim Deoksun: Stay humble. Don’t get too cocky.]

[Her Royal Majesty Kim Deoksun: (Emoticon)]

I laughed at the “Fighting!” emoticon she had sent—a cartoon character with a headband and clenched fists. After sending a reply, I slipped my phone into my pocket. I was on a street in Sinsa-dong near Lemon Entertainment’s headquarters. Following the directions on my phone, I glanced at my reflection in a nearby building window to check my outfit—dark jeans, a gray coat, and a scarf. It was an interview-appropriate look I had seen recommended online.

I adjusted my sprayed hair, giving myself a quick smile. First impressions were ready. Now, it was time for the real thing. After a short walk, the Lemon Entertainment building came into view. It was a simple, five-story structure with a black sign that read Lemon Entertainment in bright yellow letters. Just as I was about to call Seokhwan, someone spoke from behind.

“Mr. Sun?”

The voice was deep and pleasant. I turned to see a tall man holding a takeout coffee, dressed in a well-fitted coat that made him look like he could be a model.

“Yes, that’s me. And you are…?”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Cho Gyuhwan. You heard about me from Mr. Yoon, right?”

“Oh, yes, I did. It’s a pleasure,” I said, bowing politely. “I’m Sun Woojoo. Thank you for the opportunity.”

“If anything, I should be the one thanking you for coming today,” he replied with a warm smile.

For someone with a reputation as a genius composer, I had expected a more eccentric, artist-in-seclusion type. Instead, he gave off the impression of a professional office worker, nothing like the “Fortune Teller” I had heard about. He was handsome, but his features somehow reminded me of a Tibetan fox.

He continued, “I imagine this all feels sudden. Getting called to an audition out of the blue.”

“A bit, yeah.”

“To be honest, it’s been a while since I had this reaction to anyone. I don’t often look at someone and think, ‘Yes, that’s the one.’”

“Well, I’m honored,” I replied, smiling. “I just hope I can live up to the expectation.”

“There’s no need to feel pressured. Today’s just to see potential, not perfection.” Then, as if he had just remembered, he added, “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought a small gift for you.”

“A gift?”

“I had a hunch I might run into you, so I came prepared.”

He held out his coffee cup.

“I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve got today.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“All right, I’m heading in. Take your time. Just wait for us in the practice room on the first basement level. We’ll come down when we’re ready.”

With that, he walked off into the building. I looked down at the cup, smiling awkwardly. Coffee wasn’t usually my drink of choice, right up there with alcohol—too much caffeine made my heart race. But when I opened the lid, I froze.

What the…?

Instead of coffee, I smelled hot chocolate—my usual order at cafés. At first, I chalked it up to coincidence, but recalling Seokhwan’s story about Director Cho’s “Fortune Teller” nickname, it felt almost uncanny. It almost felt like I was under some sort of spell. No… it had to be a coincidence.

Sipping the hot chocolate, I headed down to the basement practice room. It was the only room with an open door, so I found it easily. While I waited, I glanced around, impressed. Six years as a trainee taught me that one could tell a lot about a company by its practice rooms—the quality of the equipment and the condition of the space showed how much they invested in their talent.

This room, filled with high-end equipment, definitely placed Lemon Entertainment in the top tier. If they put this much effort into supporting trainees, maybe coming here was a good choice. I just hoped the staff here would be just as good. Just then, the company executives and staff began to arrive. One man approached me directly.

“Nice to meet you.”

He was a middle-aged man, bald, wore glasses, and had one of the friendliest faces I had ever seen. His speech had a slight Busan accent.

“I’m Park Gyuho, CEO of Lemon Entertainment. I hear you came all the way from Gunsan. That’s quite a trip.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mind. Thank you for having me.”

“All right, then. Let’s make this a good experience.”

With a warm grin, he gestured for me to take a seat. Once everyone had settled, he introduced the judges one by one—Director Cho Gyuhwan, Department Head Yoon Seokhwan, the team leader of the rookie development team, a vocal coach, and a dance coach. Their assessing gazes made me tense, but I took a deep breath and tried to relax.

“Shall we begin?” Mr. Park said.

The first stage was a camera test, essentially a screen check to see how well I would come across on TV. No matter how good someone looked in person, they could appear entirely different onscreen. As I cycled through different expressions and poses, memories of my first camera test came flooding back. I think it was back in elementary school, during the third round of auditions at TJ Entertainment. How did it go back then? Probably about the same as today…

“Wow, very nice,” Mr. Park said, nodding. “You look great in person and on camera too. Then again, you did pass the TJ auditions, so I’d expect nothing less.”

The other judges nodded in agreement. I had expected the camera test to go smoothly, and their approving expressions confirmed I had passed it without a hitch. The team leader of the rookie development team was looking at me as if he had hit the jackpot. It seemed he was impressed not only by my appearance but also by a few unique details in my profile.

“I see you completed your military service as a sergeant?”

“Yes. I enlisted as soon as I turned twenty and was discharged just before the college entrance exam.”

“It looks like we won’t have to worry about an interruption for the military then.”

The judges looked even more pleased. I smiled and nodded. Being here under Director Cho’s recommendation—their “Fortune Teller” casting director—made me feel pre-approved. Even so, I knew better than to let my guard down. Auditions had always gone smoothly up to this point. At every company, the judges were usually impressed by my looks and vocals until they saw me dance—that was when their expressions would always change. Recalling those past rejections, I felt my mouth go dry.

This time will be different.

I clenched my fists in determination.

***

It was break time. The camera was set up again, and the judges watched the applicant with anticipation.

—Sun Woojoo. Twenty-one years old

—Key details: Six years as a trainee at TJ Entertainment. Completed military service as a sergeant. And… very handsome.

That was what CEO Park Gyuho had jotted down on his notepad. Sun Woojoo had the kind of looks that made people stop and stare, or might even prompt a store clerk to offer him an umbrella on a rainy day. His appearance wasn’t just trendy—it had a timeless quality that would hold appeal in any era, paired with a youthful, innocent charm. His appearance alone explained why TJ Entertainment had kept him for six years, despite his poor dancing. What puzzled Gyuho was why someone with his visuals was so insistent on being an idol when he had so many other options.

“All right, let’s hear the song you prepared,” Gyuho said.

“Okay,” Woojoo replied.

“What song will you be singing?”

“‘Red Moon’ by Jang Sowon.”

The judges nodded, indicating they thought it was a good choice. It was the kind of selection that reflected the experience of a sixth-year trainee. Selecting a song with dramatic high notes or flashy choruses didn’t automatically improve someone’s chances in an audition. Entertainment industry professionals saw top performers every day, so for judges accustomed to Korea’s best, it took something truly extraordinary to leave a genuine impression.

Red Moon, however, was a perfect choice for showcasing vocal range. Originally sung by Jang Sowon, a former member of the disbanded group Sugarfish, the song’s range and subtle shifts made it ideal for evaluating an applicant’s overall skill. The only drawback was that it was originally sung in a female key. Just as Gyuho was thinking this, the intro began to play from Woojoo’s phone, which was connected to the speaker. It seemed he had prepared a male-key version.

Nice touch, Gyuho noted.

Woojoo took a deep breath and then began to sing.

“I wish you would just disappear.

Don’t ask me why.

This broken heart of mine is already

Six feet under.”

From the first verse, Gyuho instinctively knew Woojoo had real talent. Objectively speaking, the boy was good. Even after two years without formal training, his vocals were stronger than most trainees’.

Has he been working as a karaoke manager in the army or something? Three months of intense training should get his skills back to peak level.

His tone and breath control were precise, and his fundamentals were solid. If there was any shortcoming, it was a lack of vocal embellishments, but for an idol—whose solo lines rarely last over thirty seconds—it wasn’t a major flaw.

He has good control over his expressions, and he has a presence that draws people in. No wonder TJ kept him, even with his dancing issues.

Gyuho was thrilled to have found this hidden gem another agency had let go. Woojoo had once been slated as the main vocalist for TNT, a position notoriously hard to fill in the idol industry. This only made Gyuho more curious about how bad Woojoo’s dancing must have been for TJ to ultimately cut him from the debut lineup. Seokhwan had even warned him before the audition.

“To save you some disappointment, keep your expectations low when it comes to his dancing.”

As the song ended, it was time for Woojoo’s freestyle dance. Gyuho shot a glance at Seokhwan, who had his eyes shut tightly, as if bracing for disaster.

How bad could it be…?

Gyuho felt a pang of anxiety. He took a big gulp of water, preparing himself for whatever was about to unfold. Finally, Director Cho pressed play on an electronic beat track.

Huh…?

As soon as Woojoo started dancing, Gyuho’s expression shifted to one of complete bewilderment.