The plastic of a wrapper crinkled as Hyeong-Jun tightened his grip.
Papers lay scattered around him where he sat on the kitchen floor at 12 that night.
His grandmother had point-blank refused to say anymore after those world shattering words.
A cold quiet had hovered between them all the way home. Hyeong-Jun hadn’t thought it possible to feel more lost than he had two days ago. To make matters worse his grandmother had excused herself, saying she still had a friend to visit.
She always stayed at least two days when she came over. Just not tonight.
There were no signs of the torn-up pieces of Choi SongHua’s business card.
Hyeong-Jun strongly suspected that his grandmother might’ve stashed it in one of her coat pockets for safekeeping and taken it with her when she left.
Hyeong-Jun closed his eyes as frustration welled up in his chest.
The bathroom!
Hyeong-Jun scrambled up right, almost slipping on a stray wrapper as he rushed to the bathroom dustbin.
The high was less than momentary as he was immediately met with only a bare toilet paper roll occupying the trashcan.
Nothing.
He gripped the porcelain of the basin, bending over it as disappointment crushed the brief moment of hope.
Of course it couldn’t be that easy.
His phone sat heavy in his pocket. Would it even be worth searching up Choi Byung-ho’s company?
Magpie Entertainment wasn’t the kind of company you could walk into, not if WSM Entertainment was anything to go by.
What would he even do once he got there?
It was ridiculous to hope that they’d let him see Choi SongHua without an appointment, and that was if the other man was even locateable within the company to begin with.
It was stupid, he knew it was stupid.
‘How do you think they died in the first place?’
But…
If it had something to do with his parents, he had to get to the bottom of it.
***
The Magpie Entertainment building loomed as glass and steel over Hyeong-Jun as he stared up at it two days later. The sun’s glare made it a diamond that he had to shield his eyes from.
The revolving doors were the first barrier into the building and Hyeong-Jun stood for an awkwardly long moment as he tried to decide if he really dared to go in.
It was too easy. Where were the security men guarding the outside, making sure no fans found their way inside to harass unsuspecting idols? Would he be perceived as that?
It was fine, worst came to worst, he could just excuse himself. Still…
There was something different about having to say he accidentally entered a revolving door versus a normal one.
He shook his head.
He couldn’t stop now.
Hyeong-Jun readjusted his portfolio bag and gripped the strap tightly before stepping through.
Cold air-conditioned air enveloped him the moment he escaped the turning doors to the inside of the building, and all the eyes of the admittedly few people in the room seemed to focus in on Hyeong-Jun. He refused to look at anyone as he scanned the room until he spotted the reception desk.
The tiled floor made his sneakers squeak obnoxiously as he hurried over. Was it really too much to ask that he could just walk without embarrassing himself?
The thought set Hyeong-Jun more on edge and he sped up to reach the reception before he turned tail and ran.
Confidence.
He could do this.
“Hello. I’m here to see Mr. Choi,” Hyeong-Jun’s usually deep voice pitched up unnaturally high. The exact opposite of confident. Great.
The woman behind the marble reception desk glanced up over thin-framed glasses that reminded Hyeong-Jun of a stern teacher.
“Do you have an appointment?” Hyeong-Jun froze for a moment and before he could stop himself a tepid, “no,” left his lips.
“No appointment no entry. The trainee auditions for this quarter have already passed.”
“But he approached me at WSM Entertainment two days ago,” he objected before he could think better of it and his body turned cold as his thoughts caught up to his mouth.
He hadn’t just said that had he?
Why the hell had he thought being rude to the receptionist would help? That was the problem though wasn’t it, he hadn’t thought at all.
She gave him another shrewd look over her glasses. Hyeong-Jun might as well have been an ant.
“Mr. Choi hasn’t been out to WSM Entertainment in months, he just came back from a business trip yesterday.”
Hyeong-Jun’s eyes widened as hope blossomed anew in his chest.
“Sorry, I meant Mr. Choi SongHua, not his father. He was at WSM Entertainment two days ago and he gave me his card but I…” Hyeong-Jun faltered, not knowing how to say that his grandmother had ripped it to shreds.
“I lost it.” If she could look any more unimpressed, that did it.
“Please give me a moment, I’ll see if he’s in,” she said as she shook her head slightly in disapproval.
Standing there awkwardly, Hyeong-Jun could only take the time to examine his surroundings more carefully. The area was exceedingly bare, as if the mere existence of a chair might encourage people to set up camp there.
Instead, all Hyeong-Jun could do was stand and listen to the dial tone of the receptionist’s phone until it rang out, unanswered.
“Unfortunately it seems like he’s out of the office at the moment.” The receptionist delivered the inevitable line and Hyeong-Jun could only bite his lip to avoid showing his frustration.
“Could I possibly leave my name and number, if he wants to contact me later?” Hyeong-Jun felt infinitely stupid for even daring to suggest such a possibility. But what other option was there, contacting the man through social media?
The look she gave Hyeong-Jun was so doubtful he just wanted to disappear into thin air, but resignedly she stuck a post-it note in front of him along with a pen. He hurried to write down his surname, name, contact number and who he was, just in case Choi SongHua needed help remembering him.
“If he hasn’t contacted you in three days please assume that there won’t be a follow up,” the receptionist said in the manner of someone who’d worked in customer service for too many years, and she took the note back without even making eye contact with Hyeong-Jun.
“Thank you,” was all Hyeong-Jun could mumble before turning and speed-walking towards the door in the least obvious way he could manage.
He’d barely made it out of the revolving doors when he bumped shoulders with someone heading inside.
“Ah, chesonghabnida1,” Hyeong-Jun was already halfway into a courtesy bow out of pure habit before he even fully registered what had happened.
“Park Hyeong-Jun-ssi2?” Hyeong-Jun blinked, eyes widening when he looked up.
Choi SongHua stared back at him with equal surprise. A man with slightly wavy hair stood next to him, looking between them in curious interest.
“What are you doing here?” Choi SongHua looked suddenly startled, as if he hadn’t actually been intending to ask the question.
“I…” he faltered. How the hell was he supposed to broach the subject? “I wanted to find out more about what you said before,” he floundered, still aware of the other man that Hyeong-Jun could only assume was a colleague, hovering at Choi SongHua’s shoulder.
If anything, Hyeong-Jun’s vagueness didn’t have the intended effect as the colleague simply seemed more intrigued.
Well, damn.
Hyeong-Jun tugged at his earring, glancing at the glass walls that unfortunately simply reflected a warped version of his own nervousness back at him.
“Why didn’t you just call me?” Choi SongHua asked, pulling Hyeong-Jun’s eyes back to him.
“I-I lost your number,” Hyeong-Jun resisted the full body cringe at the way that sounded. The mysterious colleague looked downright invested now.
Fantastic.
Choi SongHua’s eyebrows raised slightly at this news but luckily he didn’t take long to consider Hyeong-Jun’s words and indicated for him to follow them.
”We’ll talk in my office.” The words disoriented Hyeong-Jun. Office? Somehow the mention made everything feel so much more intense, professional－real.
The still unidentified colleague stood there for a moment more, surveying Hyeong-Jun before he followed after Choi SongHua. Only once there was a slight gap between them and Hyeong-Jun, did he finally allow himself to trail behind them as well.
If he’d thought the first entrance into the building was awkward, the second entrance was even more so, not helped by the little wave Hyeong-Jun gave the receptionist as he passed her again.
Choi SongHua and the colleague were talking to each other, too low and too far away for Hyeong-Jun to hear.
The colleague glanced back over his shoulder.
Oh.
Him. They were talking about him.
Choi SongHua pressed the elevator button and it opened within a few seconds, leaving Hyeong-Jun to hurriedly get in.
It was only once the elevator doors closed behind the three of them that Choi SongHua’s colleague turned his focus back on Hyeong-Jun.
“You’re Park Hyeong-Jun?” the colleague asked as he held out a hand to shake.
Hyeong-Jun blinked at it for a second, caught off guard.
He said it in a way that suggested it hadn’t just been whispered to him mere seconds ago. Had they discussed him before? They must have, for Choi SongHua to have made the offer as abruptly as he did.
Hyeong-Jun managed to snap out of it quickly enough to grasp the other man’s hand and give a small courtesy bow as well.
The other man smiled, and it was warm enough that, for the first time, Hyeong-Jun’s nerves settle slightly.
“I’m Lee Junho, one of Seonghwa-ka3’s group members.”
It took a moment for Hyeong-Jun to internalize that.
Group member. He had to know what was going on then, right?
“Nice to meet you,” Hyeong-Jun returned the smile despite the thoughts that swirled through his mind. Lee Junho for his part remained unperturbed, the encouraging smile still lighting up his face.
Luckily, the elevator door showed some mercy and pinged open a few seconds later. Once again Hyeong-Jun fell into step behind the two group members as they led the way down a white-tiled hallway with large glass panels on the one side and posters of various singers and actors’, on the other.
It wasn’t much different from some of the hallways Hyeong-Jun had walked at WSM Entertainment. Yet even after five years spent as a trainee, his skin still buzzed.
Finally Choi SongHua led the way into an office and went to sit behind a desk.
The desk and chair where both a sleek black, one file cabinet occupied the left wall. The place was bare, devoid of any personal touches. It added to the strangeness of seeing someone who couldn’t have been much older than Hyeong-Jun sitting behind the desk, an indecipherable look on his face.
Was this really the same person who’d just dropped the world-changing words on him two days ago?
Lee Junho pulled up one of the two chairs on the “guest” side of the table and, without much fanfare, moved it over so it was stationed as a median between Choi SongHua and Hyeong-Jun’s positions.
Hyeong-Jun simply watched him for a moment, unsure, before he took the seat that had obviously been designated for him.
“So, what made you change your mind?” Choi SongHua was the first to break the silence.
The simple question had Hyeong-Jun stumped, unwilling to mention anything to do with his parents or what his grandmother had divulged.
He glanced over at Lee Junho, only to be met with an assessing gaze.
Hyeong-Jun’s thoughts flashed back through everything; the strange creature…the sparse information Choi SongHua had shared…
“I just…need some answers.” Hyeong-Jun hedged out. But silence followed the response, dragging, unsatisfied.
“Unfortunately we can’t tell you much more than I already have. It’s considered confidential if you’re not already in the know.” Choi SongHua said. Hyeong-Jun frowned. “If you want to know more it will have to be with the agreement to join the group.”
With this Choi SongHua reached down to one of his desk drawers and pulled out thick stack of papers － a contract.
“This is ridiculous.” Hyeong-Jun couldn’t help but mutter. Lee Junho simply shrugged while Choi SongHua’s brows puckered in potential displeasure.
“You really didn’t know any of this?” The scepticism was heavy.
“Why would I?” Hyeong-Jun asked, slightly defensive.
“Because, exorcism isn’t just something you stumble upon, it’s genetic. Your abilities wouldn’t have awakened if it wasn’t something you’d inherited. If you have the power to exorcise ghosts, it means one of your parents had it. And traditionally it’s not something that’s kept hidden from us after we turn eighteen.”
Hyeong-Jun jerked back at that. Choi SongHua’s gaze was becoming more and more weighted. Hyeong-Jun wanted it off of him as soon as possible.
He doubted Choi SongHua believed him.
“They passed away when I was eighteen,” the effect was instantaneous, the words saturating the air. Choi SongHua looked like he physically wanted to back-peddle, and if Hyeong-Jun wasn’t feeling so overwhelmed it would almost be funny. “You’re really bad at this,” Hyeong-Jun’s hand came up to clamp over his mouth as soon as the words slipped out, but it was too late, the words hung there between them, almost a physical thing.
The smile had slipped from Lee Junho’s face.
“You’re the only prospective member of the group who wasn’t trained for this, we’ve never had to deal with something like this.” Choi SongHua shot back.
The words stung but it took Hyeong-Jun a moment to piece together why. He clenched his teeth.
“Would you have picked me if I hadn’t been your only choice?”
Choi SongHua wouldn’t meet his gaze, and the silence stretched out far too long. The response was expected, yet it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I need a pen.”
***
“Would you like to come and meet the other two members?” Lee Junho offered, once the contract was signed, copies were made and Hyeong-Jun was almost halfway out the door.
Other members?
It was silly. Very few groups consisted of only three members, Hyeong-Jun couldn’t think of a recent one that fit that bill, yet it was another pinch of reality, one more reminder that all of this was real.
Emotions clashed together in sparks of joy and trepidation.
He wanted to reject it; unsure if he could handle yet another thing today－but…
Hyeong-Jun glanced at Choi SongHua, trying to gauge his reaction, but the other man simply had his lips pressed together, waiting.
“Sure, if that’s okay,” Hyeong-Jun cautiously agreed.
“Of course,” Lee Junho said and, without preamble, led the way out of the room.
Instead of heading for the elevator again, Hyeong-Jun was led down a hallway and through a door. It led onto a metal walk-bridge that connected one side of the building to another.
Hyeong-Jun glanced at the courtyard that stretched out below them. The grass was a deep green, complementing the white, blue and orange flowers that dotted the flowerbeds surrounding the area.
A light breeze brushed the scent of the blooms against Hyeong-Jun’s face.
All of it had been hidden from the front of the building, but now Hyeong-Jun could see quite a few trainees sitting on benches, having lunch and chatting with each other.
Then they were back inside and moving down another hallway.
A label reading “Studio 8” was the only indication that a practice room lay beyond the closed door they stopped in front of.
A simple melody filtered slightly through the closed door. It became much louder once the door opened.
There wasn’t much of a marked difference between this practice room and the ones at WSM Entertainment. The mirrors were floor-to-ceiling, the small gaps of walls a dark gray and the fake wooden flooring a light colour to contrast. The music was coming from a small portable speaker.
Two people took up the centre of the room and Hyeong-Jun was mute with surprise as they moved together.
Even without lyrics, the music spoke of peace and tranquility. It hovered, just beyond reach.
The two dancers moved almost as one, their synchronicity akin to that of seasoned professionals, though the effect was slightly dampened by the fact that there was only two of them. Still, it looked more like one entity rather than two separate people.
If Hyeong-Jun was being honest, he hadn’t even thought people could be that in sync.
“Synchronization is important for what we do, so keep that in mind for the future.” Choi SongHua said as if he’d heard Hyeong-Jun’s thoughts.
He nodded as Choi SongHua walked past him, pushing the sleeves of his dress shirt slightly higher up his arms and reached up for something near his neck as he went.
“You missed this,” his words, aimed at the two dancers, pulled them to a halt.
Choi SongHua’s arm arched over his head. For a moment, he looked like a classic ballerina. The white light of the studio following the lines of his body as he started moving.
The other two dancers hesitated for only a beat. Their eyes skimmed over Hyeong-Jun before they fell into pace with Choi SongHua.
Hyeong-Jun couldn’t tear his eyes away.
The movements spoke of a yearning so strong it was almost physical. It was a yearning Hyeong-Jun knew he’d felt before, though he couldn’t place when.
If Hyeong-Jun felt they were synchronized before, he wasn’t sure how that could measure up to now.
The peace that the song spoke of－that had felt so distant not a moment ago, seemed so much closer, so much more attainable with every move Choi SongHua made.
Would Hyeong-Jun even be able to keep up? Had Choi SongHua made a mistake when he’d approached him?
His breath was caught, cradled in a hand that refused to give it back.
“Alright, enough, enough, no need to make our guest wait!” Lee Junho’s words jarred Hyeong-Jun back to reality.
A frown was back on Choi SongHua’s face when Hyeong-Jun’s eyes returned to him. The other two dancers’ attention was now fully on him again as they approached.
Hyeong-Jun gripped at a loose thread from one of his pant pockets, needing to do something with his hands.
“This is Park Hyeong-Jun, he’s going to be the final member of our group. Hyeong-Jun-ssi, this is Han Tae-Gyung, 24, he’s our lyricist and rapper and Yang MinHwan, our maknae4 and vocalist, though he’s generally an all-rounder.” Lee Junho smiled as he indicated to them. Yang MinHwan’s cheeks reddened and Hyeong-Jun couldn’t help feeling endeared.
Han Tae-Gyung had an incredibly calm air about him as he nodded at Hyeong-Jun in greeting. The way he crossed his arms spoke of a quiet confidence.
Yang MinHwan on the other hand, still had a slight roundness to his face, his smile carrying an element of naivety and shyness as he greeted Hyeong-Jun.
“Nice to meet you,” Hyeong-Jun said with a quick bow of the head.
“Welcome to the chaos,” Han Tae-Gyung said with a slight smirk.
Hyeong-Jun could only smile back in reply, wondering what to make of the comment.
“Thanks.”
“Seonghwa-ka’s our leader as you’ve probably guessed, also 24. I’m the grandpa of the group, 25, and sometimes the sub-vocalist as well.” Lee Junho winked and Hyeong-Jun’s smile widened in response.
“If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask, we’re family now,” Lee Junho added. Hyeong-Jun hesitated, only able to nod at the unsettling thought.
“We have two months before we have to be ready for the Summer Solstice in June. You’ll need to start moving in immediately,” Choi SongHua said. Hyeong-Jun could almost hear the “you have a lot to learn” hanging in the air.
Footnotes:
1. chesonghabnida - formal way of saying sorry
2. ssi - a suffix used to indicate a general level of respect for someone younger than you who you're not familiar with
3. ka/i - used in grammar when referring to someone (within the story this will be used when talking about someone in an informal way
4. maknae - youngest in a group
