The day the two-month long monsoon ended with a heat wave warning, I went to watch Cresta’s second showcase. It was a four-and-a-half hour trip from Seogwipo to Seoul just to see my bias. I couldn’t feel even a stroke of wind, just humidity and heat that clung stubbornly to my skin. Only when I got off at Hangangjin Station did I allow myself to unbutton my sticky shirt and take out the fan with Hobin’s face printed on it. Before long, I noticed the young students who seemed to be heading the same way as me. There were also some fans who were proudly holding their Yaho-sticks and fabric banners bearing different members’ names. I finally let myself relax. There, much better.  

      “Excuse me.” 

      A girl scooched past and took the seat next to mine. She’d dyed her hair to match Jinil’s in the photoshoot for Cresta’s second full-length album—a shocking green at the roots which mellowed into a blue-tinted turquoise. Looks like Jinil’s in charge of the weird hair this comeback, I’d thought at the time. Who would’ve guessed there’d be Nivels who’d copy that hairstyle? Green Hair set down a shopping bag in front of her. As she fished out a reflective banner with Jinil’s name on it, the plastic antlers of a deer plushie sticking out of the bag poked my knee. 

      “Is that a Jinil deer?” I asked, furtively nudging the shopping bag aside.

      “It’s not just any deer, it’s a roe deer!” Green Hair insisted, taking out the plushie to admire it. “Looks just like Jinil, doesn’t it?” 

     Her upper lip lifted as she giggled, revealing the row of shiny braces adorning her teeth. 

      “That’s a really pale roe deer.” 

      “Well, Jinil is pale.” 

      I’d never seen a white roe deer before. Maybe a roe deer with a butt as white as a mushroom, but never a roe deer that was white all over. Technically, the plushie was a chibi character with antlers attached so it was just weird to be arguing about the color of the fur. I guess you could call it a ‘moe-ified’ version of Jinil, as the kids say. There’d been days when my head would spin with new words that sprung out of god-knows-where along with terms that I was still getting used to. I’d made my fair share of mistakes, getting definitions and nuances confused. I swallowed the all-too-familiar sense of doubt and agreed enthusiastically. “It’s lovely.” 

      Carefully, Green Hair returned the roe deer to the shopping bag. She took out her Yaho-stick and slipped in some fresh batteries. Connected to the central controller, the lightsticks in the venue glowed, blinking slowly from orange to green, sky blue to purple. 

      I switched off my Yaho-stick for now and took out my Nashica binoculars from my bag. My seat was all the way in the left corner, in the last row of the second floor. The venue capacity was a mere thousand, but being so far from the stage made the space feel all the more massive. With my bare eyes, I wouldn’t be able to even guess if my bias was laughing or crying, or in which direction he was looking. It couldn’t compare to the front row seats on the first floor, where a fansite owner holding a bulky camera was uploading preview pictures on Twitter in real time. After I barely managed to buy a ticket off someone two days ago, the first thing I’d packed were my 20x50 binoculars.

      I’d found them in the hotel where I’d worked before moving to Jeju. A Japanese tourist had left them behind along with a heap of albums. It was a common occurrence—foreign fans who bought multiple copies of the same album for the chance to enter a fansign only to end up tossing out the lot of them. As the maid-in-charge, it was my duty to discard any items that hadn’t been claimed after a year, but on the way to binning the binoculars and albums, something told me to keep them instead. Perhaps it started out as naive excitement in finding something to put in the CD player inside the used car that I’d just bought. On my first listen to Cresta, what struck me the most was their indecipherable lyrics. They were in Korean, clearly, but I couldn’t understand them any better than the foreign languages that the hotel guests spoke, and I found that strange, yet fascinating. I kept a CD in the car and one at home which I played on repeat as if I were learning a new language, not knowing there’d be no turning back. 

After hurrying to take off the lens cap, I raised the binoculars to my eyes and studied the stage. Adjusting the lens before the concert was a given if I was going to catch every second of the show, starting from the very first song. But why weren’t my binoculars focusing? They’d worked just fine at last year’s fanmeeting. While my anxious fingers fidgeted with the dials in between the lenses, I mumbled to myself, “What’s wrong with this thing? Not now. . .” Green Hair tugged at my rolled-up sleeve. 

      “Unni, let me see.” 

      Before I knew it, I was handing over my binoculars. In Green Hair’s lap were a pair of her own, the same model as mine, along with a tripod that could support their hefty weight. So absorbed by her mechanical preparedness, I only realised later how naturally she’d addressed me as ‘Unni.’

      After playing with the dials for a while, Green Hair reached into her bag and got out a spectacle cloth. She gave both lenses a quick and thorough wipe. 

      “All done. I think it just needed a good clean. Have a look,” she said, handing back my binoculars.

      Once I peeked through the lenses, the stage came into view with stunning clarity. I could see the faint smudges of footprints on the lustrous stage floor, and if I looked close enough, I just might be able to see what my bias was muttering, what he was thinking, and what he was keeping to himself. 

      From the front pocket of my backpack, I took out a tangerine chocolate. The air conditioner was blasting hot air, as if someone had accidentally left it on the wrong setting, and the chocolate had long lost its shape. Still, it was the only thing I had on me that could express my thanks. Green Hair ripped open the wrapper and brought it to her mouth, squeezing out the chocolate with her fingers as if she were sucking on a piece of jelly. When I looked back at her after recapping my binoculars and putting away my ticket, I saw that some chocolate had ended up on her bangs. If she’d had brown hair like me, no one would’ve noticed, but that sliver of reddish brown against the bright green made it look like she’d missed a spot when she was dyeing her hair. 

      “You’ve got some chocolate there.” 

      I opened the front-facing camera and stuck my phone in front of her.

      As I wet a tissue, she beamed. “Cool. Kinda looks like a twig, doesn’t it? Maybe I should ask for highlights like this.” 

      Humming a B-side from Cresta’s first album, Green Hair fixed her hair, using my phone as a mirror. “Oops, it turned off,” she said and tapped the screen to wake it. When the black screen turned on again, Hobin appeared on my lock screen.

      “Heol!” Green Hair gasped before launching into a string of chatter. “Is Hobin your bias, Unni? I like him, too. But Jinil most, and him second,” she said, all smiles as she tousled her bangs. Feeling like we’d grown close, I confessed that Jinil was my bias wrecker. 

      “Really? So are we. . .” 

      Green Hair swallowed the rest of her sentence, clasping my hands in hers and pulling them into something like a handshake. I wasn’t lying. Jinil wasn’t the best at singing or rapping, but he danced like a pro. There was a huge gap in his skills, as if he’d sold his sense of pitch, voice, and soul in exchange for his dancing skills. The group could do without him in the tracks, but they needed him on that stage. In other words, he was a performer best watched on mute.

      Since I’d heard Cresta before I saw them, Jinil only caught my attention much later. And not because he was a good dancer. The way he listened well to Hobin, who was two years older than him, and the way he, as Hobin’s roommate, would share little tidbits of Hobin’s daily life with the fans were the reasons I started to care for him. As if to prove my sincerity, I held out the fan I’d been using to cool my face. A Nivel had made customised fans of Hobin eating a hallabong and I’d paid 12,000 won for one, including shipping. 

      “Jinil was the one who took this photo of Hallabong Hobin,” I said. “Remember the last time he came on V App and promised to upload it? Jinil even printed it out to put in the back of his phone case so he could have it with him everywhere. You know this photo, don’t you, nim?”

      I was sure Green Hair had never missed one of her bias’s livestreams. I’d spoken with such certainty and was fizzing with so much excitement that I hadn’t realised I’d gone and called her ‘nim,’ like she was a senior or my teacher. 

      Green Hair, who’d been intently watching me, leaned in suddenly. 

      “Unni, we’re in-laws, aren’t we?” she said, dropping her voice. 

      “Excuse me?” 

      “Well, you like Hobil too, don’t you? Everyone knows this photo. Hobin and Jinil? No?” 

      “Ah, Hobin and Jinil? Of course. Those two are my only joy in life.” 

      It wasn’t my first time hearing the word ‘Hobil.’ Whenever I searched my Hobin’s name on Twitter, a photo of him and Jinil would occasionally pop up and I’d see the word ‘Hobil.’ It didn’t happen very often, but sometimes I’d see a short paragraph brimming with wild imagination. I’d think, A fanfic, maybe? and scroll past. Typing out ‘Hobin and Jinil’ or ‘Hobin x Jinil’ could be too much of a hassle for kids these days who preferred to shorten their words, so it was only natural that they used ‘Hobil’ to refer to two of their favourite members at the same time. I nodded my head naively and Green Hair’s expression turned serious. 

      “Right? They make such a good couple. I hope we get good round one stuff today.” 

      “Wait, they’re dating? Is this confirmed? What do you mean by round one? Is there an event happening today?” I asked question after question, wide-eyed. 

      Green Hair sank back into her seat, scratching her head. 

      “Well, you know. . . in round two? Anything can happen.” 

      “Round two? Aha. . .” 

      I didn’t know what she was saying, but I turned back to the stage and faked a cheery nod. Someone must’ve finally lowered the temperature on the air conditioner because the wind against my nape was now icy. If the lights hadn’t dimmed and the intro music and screen hadn’t come on, perhaps I’d have blurted out, curious—So, what is this ‘round two’? Is that where Chu Cheolseon is sending our boys? Do the boys date in round two? Are they really making them do that? Sure, they suck as a company, but aren’t they taking things too far? Laughable questions. Had I asked them rapid-fire style with fury in my eyes, surely it would’ve made things awkward. 

*

     As the water rose without end, the peaks turned into islands. 

     The boys who remembered lived with the constant feeling of floating. 

Against a rainy scene, the subtitles rose to the top of the screen like undulating waves while the members took turns strutting to the front of the stage. The show was about to start with a B-side titled “Cloud Hotel.” Dressed in a mint-coloured shirt, a brown bowtie, and white cotton trousers, Hobin was the first to catch my eye. There were also some members in shorts and suspenders. Were they going for the pageboy concept? Just then, the leader, Dawool, launched into an explanation of the song’s concept. A story about the host of a hotel that sits atop the last mountain peak on Earth. Really? A hotel setting? I sucked in a breath. 

      Walking on white clouds, every day I wait for you, let the blue-mint leaf surf the waves, welcome, welcome drink. . .

      A chill dance song with unusually catchy lyrics and a melancholy melody. 

      If you’ll just say you’ll come, a late check-in is alright.

      I gently eased my temples as Hobin yelled the lyrics of the hook, which included, of all things, a term I heard too often at work. Thank God this wasn’t the title song. To sum up, we’ve got a world where it never stops raining, a planet where the rising sea levels have left only seven mountaintops on which people can step foot, a day in the not-so-distant future when the seven members will each be left alone on their own mountains. Simply put, the concept for this second full-length album was a hopeless apocalypse. My issue with it wasn’t whether or not it was well thought out. Were our boys really going up the mountains? Here I’d thought we were way past the days when I had to worry about this. Who’d have thought they’d really send them up there? I was so sure I’d gleaned a hopeful sentiment from the teaser photos and videos. . . I mean, seriously? The two-month long monsoon ended just yesterday and the country was scrambling to restore areas that had seen a lot of flood damage. What was all this about torrential rains and deluges? 

      I managed to hold up my binoculars throughout the first half of the show, but when my arms went numb and my wrists started to ache, I set them down more frequently, which made a rustling sound. “Unni, want my tripod?” Green Hair offered, but I figured I’d be less of a nuisance if I just chucked the binoculars into my backpack. As I listened to an explanation of the components that came with all three versions of the album and watched the videos and B-side performances they’d prepared, the urge to pick up my binoculars gradually faded. . . And after watching them perform their title track which contained vulnerable elements that some fans had begged them over and over to take out, I put away the Yaho-stick that I’d been mindlessly waving and watched the rest of the show with my hand on my forehead or my chin cupped in my hands. 

The show started at seven and ended later than expected. Before I got the chance to properly say bye to Green Hair, I was swept into the crowd and pushed out of the concert hall. My buzzing heart was finally starting to settle, and the weight of my body made me want to flop down in the middle of the street. I’d been in a frazzled state for the last two days. After my leave was approved last minute, I scurried to buy a re-sale ticket, booked a flight bound for Gimpo Airport and found a place near the concert venue to put up for the night. Just this afternoon I’d had to wait for my office meeting to wrap up before rushing to Jeju Airport to make my flight to Seoul. There were days when I wondered if I was living a busier life than the Cresta boys, and the past couple of days had been like that. On the way to the subway station, trudging one heavy foot after the other, I bumped into Green Hair again. 

      “Gangneung never gets this hot,” she said, holding out her portable fan to cool me down. “This Seoul weather is driving me up the wall.”

      “It doesn’t get this hot in Seogwipo either.” 

      “Oh, you live by the sea, too?” 

      “Yeah. I guess if we were living in the boys’ world, our areas would be the first to go underwater.” 

      “You were really paying attention to the show, huh? I was too busy looking at my bias.” 

      We walked a few blocks in silence. The air was damp enough to breathe through gills, but my mouth was parched and I was in no mood to talk. As we passed a small Mexican restaurant selling draft beer, Green Hair spoke again. 

      “Unni, how about a beer?” 

      “Sure,” I said, my voice cracking with dryness. It was no question really when all I wanted to do at that moment was pour beer down my throat. Unlike our seats at the concert, we were lucky enough to find seats by the window and ordered a burrito bowl with a side of nachos. My hunger had kicked in after a whiff of food. I’d nothing to eat the whole day except a carrot scone and an iced coffee. Green Hair downed a pint of beer in one shot. Now that I was sitting across from her with the restaurant light shining in between us, the clear whites of her eyes and full cheeks made her look younger than I’d thought. 

      “You’re not a minor, are you? School hair policies are rather lax these days.” 

      “I’m about to graduate college.” 

      “Really?” 

      Green Hair said that she was in her fourth year of a Korean literature programme. As we talked, I gathered she was likely a decade younger than me. When a short silence fell over us, I blurted out a boring question. “Since you’re in the literature department, do you write novels?” 

      “Yeah”, Green Hair replied plainly, to my surprise. 

      “Not everyone who does literature writes novels. . . 
but I guess I do write things of that sort,” she said, waving her hand to order another beer. “Nothing worth talking about, though,” she added vaguely. “I just write shit that comes to mind.”

      Unsure whether she’d felt obliged to answer a bad question or was hoping that I’d ask her to elaborate, I decided to change the topic. To one that every fan would surely want to discuss. 

      “How did you like the showcase? Did you enjoy the new album?” 

      “Yeah, I’d be okay if I died today.” 

      “Pardon?” 

      “Didn’t you see Jinil in those shorts? His calves were so pretty. On top of that, the suspenders and beret!” 

      “I was talking about the album.” 

      “The album? Well, I dunno. I don’t really expect anything from their music. I guess the album came out pretty well. Isn’t there usually better music to listen to?” Spoken like the fan of a performer who was better on mute, I thought. I wondered if I’d started a futile conversation, but since she was the only one around who could offer an opinion right now, I scooped some food onto my plate and carefully pieced together my thoughts. 

      “Hear me out. Cresta is Spanish for ‘mountain peak,’ right? And our fandom name, Nivel, means ‘altitude’ or ‘elevation.’ Even the name of our lightsticks—‘Yaho!’ is what we shout at the top of a mountain. Everything has been planned out since their debut. But why haven’t they said a word about their storyline until now? They’ve already released their debut album, three EPs, and even their first full-length which contained a completely unrelated story. But it’s only during their second full-length album that they’re introducing the seven mountain peaks in the music video? It’s such odd timing. Not to mention the whole Great Flood concept. Do you think they’re drawing the curtains? What if the company’s pulling the plug on their funding? I mean, they did forget about them for a while and this second album barely got released.” 

      “Unni. . . maybe you’re reading too much into this. There’s still a lot of time until their contract is up.” 

      “But they’re not promoting for as long as they used to, and they’re only going on a few music shows. . .” 

      Since Cresta had failed to make any profit from album sales or enter the charts, I could understand why their promotional activities were being cut. Besides, the new group that their company debuted had already doubled—no, tripled—Cresta’s debut album sales, resulting in a change of atmosphere. Cresta’s funding was being cut, and that was obvious even to a passive fan like me. It was only after I’d hastily bought my ticket that it dawned on me. I could’ve gotten better seats if I’d just purchased a ticket directly from the ticketing site. Since I had no friends who “stanned” the group, I was always late to new information and hadn’t noticed that the fandom was dying out. 

      “Unni, you know how this monsoon season dragged on for so freaking long this year? There were floods everywhere, things got washed away. The new vacation house that my aunt built was swept up, too—it was chaos everywhere. With all that’s been going on, I suppose Chu Cheolseon suddenly remembered this old lore and went, ‘Let’s roll with this.’ Maybe it took on a pessimistic tone, but it doesn’t have anything to do with abandoning the boys or neglecting them.”

      “Well, I suppose pessimism is our thing. Like a fingerprint or something.” 

      Chu Cheolseon was the CEO of Ironship, Cresta’s entertainment company. No official criminal record, but a suspect who’d been subjected to a search and seizure. Can I really stan this group? Is it okay to consume their music and content? I used to wonder. I’d fall into a pit of guilt and shame at the thought of his name, and therefore, preferred to bury it deep enough to ignore. 

      “I doubt there was any real basis. The climate crisis is a hot topic, so maybe they started talking about it too. Probably thought of it as a trend.” 

      “The climate crisis and floods? As trends? That doesn’t make sense.” 

      “Why not? Look at the people who collect tote bags and tumblers. It’s all fashion to them. I mean, Chu Cheolseon named them Cresta because he was into hiking back then. I’m sure you know how the woman he dated in Spain was a hiking gear designer, and that’s why the boys were in hiking outfits for their debut performance. He’s the type who would put the boys in military outfits and give them toy guns if he were obsessed with some war somewhere. Wait, maybe I’m thinking about the group he put together before Cresta. ‘Happy Soldier,’ was it?”

      I’d forgotten all about this since I mostly enjoyed their debut album by ear. Cresta had gone viral for being ‘hiking-dols.’ I’d been skeptical, too, seeing them perform in hiking gear when their song had nothing to do with mountains. I’d never rewatched any of their music show performances from the week they debuted. Hobin came on stage wearing a backpack with a 500ml bottle of water tucked into the side pocket, while Steve, the rapper, swung around a hiking stick with a paisley handkerchief tied around it. Jinil, who had the most difficult dance moves, was put in a rash guard. To this day, no one understood why they’d done that to the skinniest and tiniest member of the group. 

      “Chu Cheolseon’s the problem here. That ignorant asshole is to blame, not our boys. I’ll admit, things haven’t been going great, but at least no one’s getting hurt. Our boys are staying out of trouble, too.” 

      “No one’s hurt? I’m hurt!” 

      “Unni, you’re thinking way too deep. Let’s just have fun stanning this group. What else can we do, anyway?” concluded Green Hair as she clinked her mug against mine. 

       I’d become immune to the gnawing feeling that they would never break through, that they might stop promotions because their songs were always lingering at the edge of the charts. But the fear that this album would be their last, and the worry that there’d be fewer days when I’d see my bias, that he’d disappear soon, were feelings I couldn’t shake off as easily. 

After Green Hair and I finished three beers each and left half of our food untouched, we stepped back out into the sticky night. I felt bloated. Trying to dodge the smokers coming from the restaurant entrance, we scurried down a few blocks and came upon a convenience store. A bug zapper buzzed in staccato somewhere.

      “Will there be buses to Gangneung if you leave for the Express Bus Terminal now?”

      “I was going to hang out at a 24-hour cafe and catch the first bus out.” 

      “How will you kill the time? I booked a room for the night, you should come and get some shut eye. It’s dangerous to be outside by yourself anyway.” 

      I didn’t want to go back to the hotel alone. I’d ended up in a business hotel out of necessity, but had I a bit more time, I’d have booked a different place. Because walking into the hotel lobby at this late hour felt too much like starting my night shift. 

      When I worked at the front desk at the Myeongdong hotel, I’d volunteer to be put on the night shift because I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know then that terrible things tended to happen in the middle of the night. That night. When I’d dashed upstairs after receiving a call complaining about a burnt smell. When it felt like the muscles in my calves had melted, paralysing my legs, and I’d crawled along the corridor on my knees. When I’d forced open the bathroom door that had been sealed with duct tape, and I saw. . . Since that incident, I’d never worn heels. All I could remember was the feeling of someone grabbing my arm and raising it, someone slipping a pair of slippers onto my feet, and the afterimage of billowing white smoke. Welcome, welcome drink. The strangely light yet woeful “Cloud Hotel” melody danced around my ears. If you’ll just say you’ll come, a late check-in is alright. That was Hobin’s line, probably. 

      “You’re coming, right?” I asked once more. 

       The room barely had enough space for just one double bed, much less an extra bed. I’d expected as much, but once we were inside, I felt sorry for inviting Green Hair over. If I’d known I’d be coming back with someone else, I’d have requested for a twin bedroom—no, I’d have booked a different hotel in the first place. I went over to the phone beside the bed and picked up the receiver. But before I could dial the front desk, I paused, remembering how I’d been harassed by guests who demanded an upgrade for no reason or a change of rooms over the tiniest inconvenience. Those who were willing to pay extra for a change of rooms were just as troublesome to deal with. Regardless of the situation, any room that’d been entered had to be redone. 

      “Ooh, what a big bed,” said Green Hair cheekily as she set down her shopping bag stuffed with merch and her tote bag on the floor. 

      “Am I sensing sarcasm?” 

      “Oh, c’mon. This is way wider than our concert seats put together!” Green Hair laughed.

      I couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking. In any case, we were both going to check out early the next morning, which left us with only a few hours of sleep after washing up. I opened the closet by the toilet and pulled out a bathrobe.  

     “You didn’t bring a change of clothes, right? You can wear this to sleep.” 

     “Am I supposed to be naked under this?” 

     “It’s up to you.” 

      While Green Hair showered, I took out a bottle of water from the mini bar and sat before the vanity. I pulled out my phone and went on Twitter to look at showcase photos taken by fansites. They’d already edited their photos to perfection and were uploading them in singles or pairs. I was sure they’d recorded videos of the members leaving the venue and getting into their van, too, so how had they been able to edit the pictures between then and now? I was always in awe at how quickly the fansites worked. Only those who’d poured their entire selves into liking their bias could work at a speed like this. Maybe Green Hair was right. Anything other than our present joy was not our problem to worry about. This became clear once I looked back on why I started stanning the group. While I was retweeting every picture on my timeline and saving the photos I liked into my gallery, Green Hair stepped out of the bathroom. She approached me, drying her hair with a towel. 

      “Are the pictures out?” 

      “Here, look at Jinil.” 

      I showed her a fansite photo of him. He was in a chestnut brown beret, mint shorts, and white knee socks. I zoomed in with my thumb and index, filling the screen with his face, which was shining alongside the blue pearl under his eye and his gem-encrusted in-ear monitor. The excessive glimmer of the photo made it look like there were tears pooling in his round doe eyes. Green Hair gave a languid sigh. 

      “I’m going to kill myself.” 

      “What?” 

      “I wanna die.” 

      “Why are you speaking like that all of a sudden?” 

      When I put my phone down firmly, Green Hair looked taken aback. 

      “What’s wrong? I’m saying I’m so happy I could die. It’s just an expression.”

      “Still. Don’t say things like that. I’m serious. Don’t.” 

      Green Hair was silent. 

      “Do you understand? Promise me. Give me your pinky.” 

      Green Hair knitted her brows, but wrapped her pinky round mine. 

      “Didn’t know you were such a boomer, Unni.” 

      “You’re right, I’m a boomer. You better keep that promise.” 

      I went into the bathroom, peeled off my sweaty shirt, and looked into the mirror. I plucked out two strands of gray hair sprouting from the edge of my part and cleared the seaweed-coloured hair clinging to the floor. Once I was in the shower booth, I turned the water on full blast. Was I too serious? I wondered. But still, it wasn’t something I could let slide. Say something out loud enough times and it becomes a habit. Just like how our pessimism endures as fingerprints do. While I showered, I worried that Green Hair had already left the room without saying a word. At the same time, I hoped she hadn’t. After letting the cold water wash away the heat clinging to my body, I matched the water to my temperature and stood under the shower for a long time. 

       When I came out in my robe, Green Hair was already asleep, clutching her phone in one hand. She must’ve been tired, having taken the early bus from Gangneung, dyed her hair green, gone around outside the concert venue collecting fansite banners, bought the limited edition ‘roe deer Jinil’ plushie. . . I slipped under the blanket, careful not to wake her. With my back to her, I lay on my side and lowered the brightness on my phone. Dawool had uploaded a letter on the ‘from Cresta’ bulletin board on their official fancafe. While my eyes skimmed the letter that started with, “My oh-so-lovely Nivels, thank you so, so much for coming to our showcase” and continued to be littered with so many ‘so’s, a private message from Hobin arrived. 

      - Ajumma, are you still up? 

      - I came on here because I missed you. 

      - I wrote the lyrics to “Cloud Hotel.” Did you like it? 

Hobin wrote “Cloud Hotel”? The song about the host of the last hotel in the world? I sat up, my heart racing. I hadn’t bothered to check who’d written and composed the songs since Hobin had never once participated in the song writing. No wonder I’d been hooked right away. Did that mean he would receive royalties? That should’ve been the title track! I typed into the text box despite knowing full well that in Hobin’s chat, my message would immediately be buried amongst the hundreds of others he was receiving. I sent a few more empty messages—This album’s going to do amazing. I’m so excited for you. As if he were reading the wave of messages, there was a wait before Hobin’s next message.

     - Think of me in the day and at night. While you listen to our songs.

     - If I want to keep seeing you, I have to do really well this time.

     - As always, I love you, Ajumma. I’ll see you in dreamland. 

For a while, I lay in bed, staring blankly at the orange-flushed ceiling before returning to the messenger app. For 7,900 won a month, I could receive private messages from any member of my choice. I could also pick my own pet name, which would automatically replace the default pet name in my bias’s message to me. It was an option that could be changed at any time. Clueless at first, I’d simply set it as my real name, but finding that sort of embarrassing, I’d changed it to the fandom name for a while. It was only recently that I changed it to ‘Ajumma.’ A guest who had lodged a complaint had once called me that and I wanted to cleanse that word. Now, I deleted ‘Ajumma’ and changed my pet name back to ‘Nivel.’ All was well, thanks to my bias. 

      This was enough for me. To enter my settings and change my nickname whenever I wanted. To read my bias’s expression through my 20x50 binoculars. To pick and save the images I liked, to pull up and admire at will. Though the both of us might be holding our phones, there was no need to take pictures of me, no need to share the discomfort of body heat or sticky bodily fluids, no need to spread viruses like high-risk HPV. This was something I could walk away from when I wanted. And therefore, it was sweeter, safer. The most perfect and comfortable distance away. 

      From the front pocket of my backpack, I took out my AirPods and slipped them in. I opened my music app, set the second full-length album on repeat, and hit the play button. How many times would I listen to this album? I’d streamed their third EP so diligently. I’d created three accounts on the music site and repeated the album on mute. During the back office meeting, when it was agreed that we should tap in on K-pop and create a playlist for the hotel cafe, I’d snuck a few Cresta songs into the mix otherwise ruled by BTS, Blackpink, and Seventeen. Of course, it was the genuine belief that they’d make it on the charts that’d driven me to do such a thing. After letting go of those ambitions, I only listened to their music when I wanted to, no matter how much my bias whined. I wanted everything that went into stanning my bias to be things that I enjoyed. 

      The thought of ‘Hobil’ suddenly crossed my mind. At the concert venue, Green Hair had given me a look. She had the eyes of someone who was focused on what she loved and fastidiously chasing after it. I typed ‘Hobil’ into the search engine. Just as I’d expected, there were short excerpts of fanfics and the occasional picture of Hobin and Jinil. While I was at it, I entered ‘round 2’ into the search bar. It seemed the term referred to content—stories, drawings, and comics—that were derived from original ‘round 1’ appearances and events. Why write about idols though? Was it because people thought of their personalities and actions as inventions? And that idols were all putting on a show? From what I could tell, stories based on real people were called RPS, or ‘Real Person Slash.’

      Wouldn’t it be easier to call them ‘literature?’ I wondered, but there were people already doing so. Seonsaengnim, this is pure literature! Please write more, we’re begging!, they pleaded, urging the authors. Was Green Hair’s writing called ‘Hobil literature’ then? Did something like that really exist? Fiction that featured the kid I loved most and the kid I loved second most? 

      “You know, anything can happen in round two.” 

      Was that what Green Hair had said? Was that why she could so easily sigh about wanting to die? Because there was a world where her bias and her bias wrecker lived in the way she imagined them? Because she was creating that world? 

*

I forced my eyes open to a clacking sound. Through the slightly parted jacquard curtains, the sun was spilling onto Green Hair, sitting at the vanity. What was she writing so early in the morning? I found my phone and checked the time. Eleven o’clock. The nine o’clock plane that I’d booked was probably landing in Jeju now. 

      “No way. . .” 

      “You’re up.” 

       Green Hair shut her laptop and turned to me. She was fully dressed and her hair looked freshly combed, and she’d probably gone out to grab the takeout coffee that was sitting next to her laptop. The alarm that I’d set for six a.m. must’ve been ringing for a while—had she been waiting for me to wake up? 

      “I thought you said you had to go to your part-time job in the afternoon? That’s why you had to catch the first bus?” I asked.

      “It’s okay, I was going to skip it anyway.” 

      “I’m so sorry.” 

      “I could use a cold bowl of buckwheat noodles. I’m starving.” 

The hotel basement was connected to a shopping mall. We had two bowls of buckwheat noodles from a Japanese fusion stall at the food court and took the escalator down a floor. The second basement, which was linked to the subway station, was lined with shops selling accessories, stationery, and casual clothing. Green Hair, who was humming barely loud enough for me to hear, suddenly shouted, “Shut up!” I followed where her index was pointing to find a mannequin standing in a clothing store. I, too, gasped once I saw the T-shirt on the faceless white dummy. Before we knew it, we were already walking toward it. 

      A sky-blue T-shirt, oversized. Printed on it were waves crashing upon a vast beach, a surfboard with a hibiscus painted on, and a red Ferrari. The both of us recognised it at once. It was Hobin and Jinil’s matching T-shirt that they’d worn in one of their self-produced content videos that were spliced into snappy, fifteen minute long videos that were uploaded in four parts once a week. During the group’s downtime when there was no news or other content, all I had certain months were clips of my bias in the same outfit.

      We went into the store and felt the fabric of the T-shirt. Sturdy, yet thin and soft. 

      After checking the price tag, Green Hair offered, “If I get two, will you wear one? I owe you for yesterday.”

      I hadn’t realised we’d been wearing our sweat-stained clothes from yesterday. When I spotted the sign that read ‘Buy Two, Get 20% Off,’ I happily agreed. We looked for the fitting room, thinking we might as well change now. I took off the neat yet boring shirt that I wore to work. Just as I was about to pull the new shirt over my head, I paused. On the back of the T-shirt, following the curve of the seafoam, were a few words written in white: 

      It’s no real pleasure in life.[1]

      I studied the sentence seriously. There’s no real pleasure in life? I’d completely missed the quote despite having watched the videos a few times. How had my bias and my bias wrecker ended up in shirts bearing this particular phrase? And as idols, of all occupations—people whose raison d’être was giving joy. 

      I went back and forth on whether or not to put the shirt on, but recalling Green Hair’s face, ruddy with excitement, I stuck my head through. It wasn’t so bad once I thought of it as no different from ignoring Chu Cheolseon’s existence. Besides, with my backpack on, the words would be covered up, and after that, I could always just wear it as pyjamas. Stuffed in the corner of my drawer, it’d end up as just another T-shirt. 

As we stood in front of the subway screen door, Green Hair took my arm and pointed at our reflection. 

      “We look just like a couple.” 

      At the mention of the word ‘couple,’ my mind flickered to the word I’d looked up the night before. 

      “Yesterday. . . about ‘Hobil.’ Why did you ask me about it?” 

      “Ah. . . that? I guess I wanted to feel glad. There’s only a handful of us left.” 

      Not felt glad, but wanted to feel glad? Well, I supposed there weren’t many Nivels who liked Hobin and Jinil specifically, and even fewer who shipped them—a handful, like Green Hair said. And if those people started to leave, one at a time, soon the fandom would grow quiet, and it’d be as if nothing had happened at all. The water would rise, turning mountain peaks into islands. I thought about Jinil in the music video, standing alone, steeped in a never-ending wait for a visitor. I thought of the lyrics written by my bias.

      “Is a late check-in okay?” 

      Green Hair failed to stifle a laugh. “Unni, you sure like getting deep into things,” she said, and gave me her Twitter handle. When I searched up her account, I saw that she had a white roe deer profile pic and twenty-two followers. Underneath the picture was a link to some website, P-something dot com, alongside a couple of hashtags like #Cresta and #Hobil. The nickname on the account was Shujin. Was that the pen name under which she wrote ‘Hobil literature’? Was her real name Juin or Sujin? I was curious, but didn’t ask. I hit the follow button. 

      “Hobbang-nim?” asked Shujin, looking up from her phone.

      It was only then that I remembered my username on the account that I used only for following and retweeting. The day I quit my job at the Myeongdong hotel despite having nowhere else to go was the day I created my stan account. With my belongings all packed, I was about to leave the lobby when the room maid unni that I’d worked with for a long time brought me a hobbang that she’d microwaved in the pantry. The same unni who had found me huddled in the corridor, slung my arm over her shoulder, carried me out, and later returned to clean up the smoky room. The steamed bun she handed me was warm and fluffy, just like the white butt of a small animal. Picking at and nibbling on the soft outer skin, it dawned on me that ‘Hobin’ and ‘hobbang’ shared the same first syllable, and so I settled on ‘hobbang’ as my username. But since no one had called me by that nickname, I’d forgotten all about it. 

      “Hobbang-nim, drop me a DM.” 

      Shujin didn’t ask me for my real name or my phone number. Would we ever see each other again? I wondered. I couldn’t say for sure, but I might drop by her round two world. How did my bias look in the world Shujin had made? Was he smiling? Or crying? I hoped he wasn’t crouched somewhere, expressionless, with words like ‘I could die today’ hanging on his lips. The train heading for the Express Bus Terminal arrived first. I stared vacantly as Shujin got on. Before I could finish reading the white sentence teetering on the edge of the waves, Shujin turned around and waved goodbye. 

Translated by Gene Png 

[1]   From the last line of Flannery O’Connor’s short story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find.”