Page 17 of Idol Prize
There was no chatter. No laughter. Just the whisper-soft squeak of ten pairs of sneakers on the polished wood floor. Min Jae’s team moved in silent, terrifying precision. A flawless machine. And Min Jae ruled them all from the center, stone faced, his every movement a display of brutal, finely-controlled power.
Andy walked away, shaking his head. Min Jae’s team had absolutely nailed the song, too. But they’d gone for technical perfection. Andy’s team went for heart. It was up to the Dream Makers to decide who’d chosen the right path.
But Andy also had a secret. The bridge. After a full week of all-day practices, his team had caught their own fire. Min Jun was hitting the high notes like he was born for them. Peak and Leo would break into spontaneous rap battles, sharpening each other's skills and tongues. Yi Zhe, Hyun Woo, and the rest of the dancers were totally on point, their formations tight and clean. Everyone looked and acted like a team. No, an idol group. A single, cohesive unit ready for battle. It was Andy that had fallen behind.
Andy stayed late that night, long after the others had gone to bed, running and re-running the killing part until well into the early morning. Practice Room Seven had become his personal torture chamber, set to the thumping bassline of DAZ3’s perfect all-kill hit single. A fitting soundtrack. He’d hit a wall. A solid,immovable stack of bricks namedKingmaker. The killing part was killing him. It was a fucking brutal sequence. A series of belting, high notes that required the full, sustained power of his lungs, all while executing a sequence of dizzyingly complex, off-balance footwork. He could do one, or the other. He hit the notes with no problems at all when he stood still. He nailed the sharp, precise footwork when he didn't have to sing. But doing both at the same time was impossible. His breath would catch, his final note would crack, or his feet would get tangled.
Andy kept all this from his team, of course. He was their leader. If they saw him still fumbling this badly, this close to the performance, their own hard-won confidence would shatter. He had to fix it himself. Alone.
Andy reset, took a deep breath, and launched into the sequence again. He focused on his core, on his breathing, on the music pounding from the speakers. He got through the footwork, but the final note came out as a strangled, airy gasp. A failure. He dropped his hands, letting out a frustrated groan that echoed in the empty room. Head down, close to defeat, he walked over to the sound controls and rewound the track to the end of the second chorus. When he looked up, his sweat-soaked, defeated reflection stared back at him. And he wasn't alone.
Min Jae leaned against the far wall by the door, half-hidden in the shadows. His chiseled, bare chest glistening, arms at his side, with his sweat-stained t-shirt in hand. His hair wet and messy in that perfect way it took Andy way too long to achieve in the bathroom mirror. Probably practicing late, too. Or maybe he was cruising the practice rooms, deciding that he, too, had put it off for long enough. Andy had no idea how long Min Jae had been standing there. Long enough to see him make an ass of himself, for sure. And probably loving every moment.
Pursing his lips, Andy turned away from Min Jae’s silent, stone-faced gaze. Embarrassed and annoyed, he set his jaw and ran the part one more time. But having an audience made it evenworse. He stumbled out of a turn, nearly tripping over his feet. A complete, spectacular failure. He stopped, loudly huffing, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Enjoying the view?”
Min Jae didn’t move from his spot by the door. “If something's not working, you should just change it.”
Andy stared at Min Jae’s reflection, his brows angrily bunched together. “What?”
Min Jae quietly sighed. “You’re the team leader.” He pushed off the wall to leave, stopping in the doorway. “You should act like it.”
Then Min Jae was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving Andy alone in the sudden, ringing silence. He stared at the ghost of Min Jae’s reflection, the aftermath of the advice bomb Min Jae had dropped hanging in the air, a radical, dangerous, and utterly defiant idea taking root in his mind.
8
Min Jae hadn’t performedfor a live audience in years. The ranking performance didn’t really count since it was only the mentors and the other Dream Boys. His last true live performance happened at a festival on Jeju Island with his trainee group. They’d drilled for months on a three-song set only to get tepid applause from a disinterested, vacationing crowd way more focused on Cherry Squad’s upcoming performance. A few months later, he blew out his knee.
Despite all that time, the muffled roar of the two-thousand-strong audience pulsing through the Vision Center studio walls electrified Min Jae with a buzz he remembered all too well. Energizing and soothing in a way that the steroid shots the doctors still gave him for his knee could never fully manage.
Min Jae cornered his team in a space just outside the viewing room away from the small army of production staff scurrying about and spouting into their headsets. They didn’t need the distraction. He wanted them focused. Woo Jin, his de facto assistant, had already started prepping the rest of Team One with a preamble before their leader’s address. He’d already grown into a capable leader, too. Privately coaching Chul Min on his dance steps. Coaxing Oh Jin Hwan out of his shell to explode throughhis dance parts. He’d done as much with each member of the team, attacking Min Jae’s strategy with a hunger that said he was ready to win it all, too. With Min Jae’s direction, of course.
So, Min Jae waited until he got Woo Jin’s nod before stepping into the circle. “Listen to me,” he commanded, immediately drawing everyone closer. “You all know your parts well enough to perform them in your sleep. But there’ll be no sleepwalking through this performance. I want you powerful. I want you sharp. I want everyone out there screaming right now and everyone watching at home to be spellbound. I don’t just want them to love you. I want you to own them.”
Just like I own you, he didn’t add.
Min Jae paused, meeting every gaze one by one, wordlessly transmitting his unspoken commands. No weakness. No sloppiness. No wasted energy. Only perfection. They wouldn’t just win. They’d set a bar so impossibly high that no one could hope to clear it.
“We’re Team One,” Min Jae continued. “They gave us this song because they expect greatness from us. So, let’s show them greatness.” He thrust his hand forward, holding it until everyone laid theirs atop his. “Who are we?” he snarled.
“The Kingmakers!” everyone shouted.
“Who are we?”
“The Kingmakers!”
Min Jae’s eyes narrowed as he aimed his deadly grin at his teammates. They were Kingmakers. And they’d make him the king.
A quiet five-note chime sounded backstage. Five minutes until showtime, so Min Jae followed his team into the room set up to view the performances. A pair of camera teams were stationed on either side of a large monitor, with corner-mounted ceiling cameras to catch anything they missed. His team's seats were in the back row, across the aisle from Andy and Team Two.
Andy had hardly said two words to Min Jae since he’dwitnessed Andy’s struggle with the killing part. Min Jae absolutely related. It was a killer sequence that had tested even his limits. But something about Andy’s dedication, giving up precious sleep to drill himself over and over, had snuck through Min Jae’s thick, frosty walls. Touching him in a way he never expected. Min Jae didn’t agree with Andy’s methods. His strategy. But couldn’t deny the American’s dedication to his craft. His relentless drive. A dull ache in Min Jae’s knee reminded him that he related to that, too. Was that why he’d broken his silence, intervening and offering advice when he should’ve kept his fucking mouth shut? No. Andy was his rival, yes. But Min Jae needed his rival to be in his top form, too. There was no joy in winning a battle against a hobbled opponent. Min Jae wanted a proper victory. It had to mean something.
The monitor flashed to life, the glowing Dream Boy Project logo splashing across the screen. Si Woo stood before it, revealing the actual scale of the giant screen behind the main stage. A proper stage with thousands of excited fans ready to cheer for their favorites. The view shifted, a camera panning across the crowd as they held up their signs. Min Jae smiled and cheered as he saw dozens of Dream Makers holding his name or picture aloft.
Woo Jin playfully punched at his shoulder. “Look at that. They love you, hyung.”
After opening the episode, Si Woo introduced the mentors, seated in their own backstage viewing area. Then he explained the process for the show. Ten teams. Five versus battles. The Dream Makers in the audience would vote for the winning team after each pair had performed, and their favorite Dream Boy from each team. The winning teams would gain an advantage in the next public vote. The winning Dream Boy, an even bigger advantage. Min Jae locked in. This was his time.
The first battle of the night, between Teams Nine and Ten, went exactly as Min Jae had expected. Competent, but shaky.Nerves made them sloppy, their energy unfocused. But he clapped and cheered along with everyone else seated around him. They were no challenge for him, and he could still appreciate their efforts.
