Page 60 of Idol Prize
Andy turned his head just far enough to catch a glance of Min Jae as Min Jun, the number three ranked Dream Boy struggled to make his choice. Maybe the subtle motion had caught Min Jae’s attention. Maybe he’d already been looking at Andy. Either way, they shared the briefest moment of electric connection, a lightning storm of unspoken feelings passing between them in an instant. Min Jae looked away first, cutting Andy off before things got too heated in front of the cameras. Andy swallowed the rest of his silent torrent, never once letting his grin fall away. That was just how things had to be.
22
Min Jae’steam posed in a tight cluster on the auditorium stage, heads lowered. Before them at the mentors’ table, Riki, Hwa Young, and Cipher sat with undisguised attention. Behind them, the remaining Dream Boys, seated as teams, awaited their turns in the spotlight. TheSweet Toothteam was the first to perform for the mission’s midpoint review, setting the bar for all the other teams.
They moved with a liquid grace as the atmospheric, groovy beat unspooled from the stage speakers, a single, slow body wave rippling from the front of the line to the back. This was a naked performance, with bright, static stage lights and no backing track, so the mentors could see every missed step and hear every off-key note. That was fine. They were ready.
Their movements were fluid, a constant, controlled flow of energy that started in their shoulders, rolled down their torsos, and ended in a sharp, precise pop of the hips on the downbeat. During the chorus, they came together for the point choreography—a deceptively simple move that involved tracing a slow, deliberate line from their temple, down their jaw, to their chest, as if outlining a deep, insatiable craving.
Woo Jin had taken the role of leader for this mission, leavingMin Jae free to focus on developing their song’s choreography. He hadn’t held back, pouring all his years of dance training into a smooth, sensual, hypnotic routine that offered an illusion of effortlessness, its true difficulty hidden beneath a veneer of fluid grace.
At the bridge, the music stripped back to a sparse, atmospheric beat and a deep, pulsing bass. Min Jae owned the stage, stalking forward with a slow, deliberate confidence that drew every eye to him. The choreography here became a lesson in control and restraint. A sharp pop of his shoulders that seemed to liquefy, a current snaking down his arm before he dropped into a low, controlled crouch, dragging the toe of his boot across the floor in a slow arc. He pushed back up, the motion unfolding into a sweeping, powerful leap. He launched himself forward, his body extended horizontally, legs scissoring mid-air before he landed with a soft thud, immediately transitioning into a fluid floor sequence. He smoothly rolled onto his back, his eyes locked on his audience, before pushing back up with a sharp, almost aggressive thrust of his hips.
Min Jae delivered the bridge’s final, breathy line—a whispered promise about aSweet Tooththat would never be satisfied. As the last note hung in the air, he brought his thumb up to slowly trace his bottom lip, his gaze fixed on the mentors. A silent, decadent invitation to be delivered to millions of Dream Makers before the full team exploded back into the final, powerful chorus.
The room erupted in cheers as the group held their final poses. Even under the relatively cool auditorium lights, Min Jae was covered in sweat. The routine was as physically demanding as it could be. This was his last mission, and he’d settle for no less.
The cheers faded, leaving a charged silence in their absence. Min Jae kept his expression neutral as he stood, his chest heaving beneath his sweat-dampened shirt.
“Technically, it was very clean,” Hwa Young said, her tone neutral as ever. “Your formations were precise, and the individual movements were well-executed.” She leaned forward, folding her fingers together on the table. “But you were just a group of individuals performing together. Disconnected. Disjointed, with no sense of unity.”
“Thank you, seonsaengnim,” Woo Jin replied, offering a short bow.
Hwa Young focused directly on Min Jae. “You created the choreography.” Not a question, but Min Jae nodded anyway. “I thought as much. It’s strong. You’re clearly a capable choreographer.” She pulled her hands apart. “It’s too bad about the rest. You’ve all got a lot of work ahead of you.”
Min Jae bowed in thanks as he inwardly seethed. Disjointed? There wasn’t a single step out of place. What had she seen that he’d missed?
Hwa Young turned to Cipher, who sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, a giant pair of Maximilién Cuvier sunglasses completely hiding his gaze. He chewed on his cheek, dragging out the awkward silence until Riki uncomfortably shifted in her seat. “The song’s supposed to be about seduction,” he finally said. “I'm not seduced. I'm bored.”
Woo Jin waited for long enough to assume Cipher was finished before bowing and thanking him for his critique. The furnace of Min Jae’s irritation had been thoroughly doused, leaving behind only the smoking ashes of genuine concern. Hwa Young’s critiques were bad enough, but they were at least constructive. Cipher's cryptic pronouncement of boredom left his team with nothing to correct.
“I think what Cipher might mean,” Riki offered, her brow furrowed, “is that your performance lacked an emotional connection. Not just with each other, but with us.” Her disappointment showed in her pouty frown as much as in her tone. “Especially you, Min Jae. Again, as Hwa Young said, your performancewas technically perfect. But, where was the heart? Seduction’s an art, not a science. You can’t do it with your head.”
Min Jae frowned, his careful composure finally wavering. He knew for a fact that the art of seduction could be quantified just like any other science. He probably knew that better than anyone else in the room. But, no heart? How had she not seen the countless hours he’d spent developing and rehearsing his choreography? But, all three judges had told him the same thing, meaning the problem was his. What had he missed?
“I can see by your expression,” Riki continued, “that you don’t agree with our critiques.”
Min Jae shook his head. “No, seonsaengnim. It’s not that. I just don’t understand.”
Riki nodded. “Okay. Maybe I can help with that. Remember your signal song performance?” Min Jae nodded. “Your connection with Andy during the killing part was what made it stand out above the rest.” She frowned, leaning forward. “In fact, you had that same chemistry with Andy duringForever, and you ranked number one again after that. It’s clear that Andy brings out a side of you that you’re lacking here. Some emotional depth.” She smiled, nodding as she looked at Cipher and Hwa Young, who nodded in response. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re different when you perform with Andy. I’m surprised you chose to perform different songs. That chemistry could’ve taken you all the way to your debut. Now?” She shook her head. “I’d say you’ll have to find it somehow without him, because you need it.”
Min Jae nearly recoiled from Riki’s devastating critique. The irony left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d kept to Director Choi’s crooked plan. He’d followed his instructions perfectly, and now he was being criticized for the very emptiness he’d been forced to create. He used a deep, respectful bow to hide his growing frown. “Thank you, seonsaengnim. I’ll take that to heart.”
Min Jae kept his head lowered until the mentors dismissed his team, their words echoing in his head like the mutteredcomments from the other Dream Boys.Disconnected. Bored. No heart.He returned to his seat, struggling to maintain at least a neutral expression. Humble acceptance was out of the question. A tightly bound storm of confusion and bottled-up feelings threatened to snap and break loose. No heart. He had no heart.
Min Jae barely saw the next performance, or the one after that, only blankly staring at the performers and clapping with everyone else. He still didn’t understand. He’d replicated everything he’d done in those previous performances perfectly. His expressions. His gestures. Everything. Yet, somehow, his mentors had seen right through all that. Min Jae had no heart because he’d already given it to someone else–someone who’d forcibly become his rival.
Min Jae was so lost in his own head that he barely registered the start of the next performance, until the first bright, funky notes ofItty Bittycut through his dark ruminations. His eyes quickly found their focus. Andy was a supernova of completely unfiltered joy. The song was bright and fun, but Andy’s performance was more than that. It was magnetic. He was so full of the very heart and charm Min Jae’d just been accused of lacking that it was almost blinding. The other members of the team fed off his infectious energy, their performance a celebration rather than an evaluation.
When the music stopped, the mentors were beaming so hard Min Jae could almost see it from his seat behind them.
"That was fantastic energy," Hwa Young enthused, "but your formations are still a little loose. Sloppy. You need to tighten them up if you want to compete at the highest level."
"And your vocals were a bit shaky in the chorus," Riki added. "But Andy, your charm is undeniable. You looked like you were having the time of your life. The whole team did. It was an absolute joy to watch."
Fantastic energy. Undeniable charm. A joy to watch.
Andy took his bow, his face flushed with happiness andexertion after a successful critique. Not perfect, but the implications were undeniable. Andy had somehow managed to crack the code, finding and showing his heart without Min Jae. Either that, or he’d lied to Min Jae about having feelings for him. Except that couldn’t possibly be true. Andy wore his heart on his sleeve. His charm was strong enough to light a dark room. He was charming even when he was being an asshole. He may have had feelings for Min Jae, but he clearly didn’t need Min Jae to show heart.
