Min-Joon

I was that guy. The one everyone talked about, idolized, tried to copy but never could. My albums? Hits. My visuals? Unmatched. My wins? Please, I stopped counting after the fifth daesang. They didn’t just call me “Worldwide Handsome” for fun—I earned that title, and I wore it like a crown. I wasn’t just part of the industry—I was the industry.

But now, here I am, dragged out of my morning coffee and peace to deal with a bunch of trembling, wide-eyed trainees. My manager thought it’d be a great idea—“Come see the next generation,” he said. “See who’s worth debuting under your name.” As if I had the time. But fine. If I’m going to build the future, it might as well be with kids who can survive the pressure of being under me.*

I push a hand through my perfectly styled hair—effortless, as always—and step into the studio like I own it. Because, well, I basically do. My manager’s next to me, flipping through a list of names like any of them actually matter yet. The second I walk in, the room falls silent. Trainees freeze mid-dance, mid-breath. Good. At least they know greatness when they see it.

i glance around the studio, eyes scanning each of them with a bored expression. No need to fake enthusiasm—I’ll be impressed when they give me a reason to be. Until then, they’re just background noise in my world.