ACE Entertainment

For some people, their story doesn't start with themselves. Pom Seongha's story, in particular, starts with his mother.

Living a life of her own mother's design, she remained in an unhappy marriage as a squandered intelligence who frequently yearned for something more. She captured the attention of many men that reacted poorly to the ring on her finger. The worst of these men--or perhaps the best--was a Japanese billionaire, sitting in wait for the throne of his father's business. He frequently wrote to her, waxing poetic about how he wished she would leave her husband and be with a real man.

It wasn't until a pregnancy test read positive that she took action. She knew the child belonged to her abusive husband, as she had never slept with another man, but she couldn't stand the thought of raising a baby around someone that left her bruised. She hurriedly wrote back to the man who claimed to be in love, and in the dead of night, standing at three weeks pregnant, she escaped to Yokohama.

For the first four months, it seemed as though this placement would be a better alternative. Despite having a marital affair, this man truly seemed as though he wanted to treat her kindly, and when he told her that he loved her, she believed him. It wasn't until five months to the day that she realized he had assumed the child belonged to him, considering how early into her pregnancy she had been when she first arrived. Uncomfortable with continuing this delusion of his, she told him the truth.

Then on, their situation changed. She suggested they claim and raise the child as their own, but he was already paranoid about losing his position in his father's company if anyone discovered he was sleeping with a married woman-- and a Korean one, at that. He insisted the child's existence remain a secret.

And so, the world in which Pom Seongha was born into left him vastly isolated, even from his mother. Handled with utmost care by highly paid sitters, and receiving academic guidance from strict tutors, for the first seven years of his life, Seongha was rarely allowed outside of the mansion grounds. Having come to the conclusion that this life was no better for her son, his mother stole a great sum of money from her self-proclaimed saviour and fled back to Korea with Seongha, determined to raise him by herself.

Still in adolescence, sudden exposure to the outside world simultaneously terrified and interested Seongha. His mother was hesitant about integrating him with the public school system, especially with his difficulties in grasping the language; growing up in Yokohama, the rare instances in which he was heard using Korean that his mother taught him had been met with harsh punishment. Even after Seongha was in his mother's company, in the safety of Korea, it took another year before he felt comfortable speaking Korean aloud, and had limited vocabulary in comparison to other children his age. While his Korean was years behind, the rest of his academia was years ahead due to his upbringing, making it all the more complicated to find a class placement for him. Additionally, his mother found relocating cities every two years necessary to ensure their safety. The easiest option for continuing Seongha's schooling was to enroll him for an online, international school.

At fourteen, Seongha found himself with a high school diploma and was able to speak conversational Korean. It was at this point in time he and his mother were living in the lush suburbs of southeastern Seoul, and after changing locations so frequently in Seongha's age, his mother at last deemed this location safe for them to stay.

Still tentative in tackling a large campus setting at his age, they found other ways to help Seongha adjust to interacting with individuals, such as attending dance classes at the nearest studio, joining the local choir, and getting involved with one of the Buddhist temples. Naturally, music and spiritual belief had a huge impact on Seongha's life, as it offered him both sociability and the chance to grow.

Rather than fear being seen by many people, performing became something he couldn't get enough of. He found ways to turn even the smallest of gestures into something grandiose and romantic. Many found themselves drawn to the innocence and showmanship of his person, including a talent agent from ACE Entertainment.

His mother encouraged the path of an idol for her multi-talented son; she deemed them safe from both her estranged husband and her ex-lover, but believed putting Seongha in the public eye could possibly be the safest place for them if they were no longer to remain entirely in hiding. That way, on the offchance either of her previous romantic affairs attempted to hurt her or her son, people would be more readily able to dismiss their stories as truth. How often did people try to threaten or spread rumours about idols? Often enough for the truth to be covered as easily.

Being in the trainee program from fifteen onwards continued to help Seongha adjust from his former life of solitude. After he debuted with Knockout!, he enjoyed living under the guise of Gatsby, a persona inspired by the enigmatic literary figure that served, in its own, as a form of protecting Seongha while onstage in front of fans.

During Knockout!'s lawsuit, Seongha avoided the stress by helping the trainees with learning dance. It was his patience and composure that initially landed him his role in his group, and these traits were emphasized moreso in his time away. When promotions resumed, his unchanged presence made it all the more seamless a transition.

Barre!

  A prodigy, they called her. Talented youth untainted by the sly villainous vices of adulthood as lithe legs clad in baby pink hosiery were raised above mahogany tresses, luscious curve of the spine and—voila!— a asɑ̃ble perfectly executed. The duplet successions of clapping came from her Mistress draw nigh a pirouette whilst the danseur’s folded arms ended with welcoming hands for Arabesque penché; the golden laced corset scruffed against calloused fingers yet their legs remained ramrod straight, dainty facials and hooded gazes. Thirteen hours of lumbering through practice, numbing fingers tightly grasping the horizontal wooden bar that had bore witness even to the most refined ballet dancers; blood, sweat and tears; all for a meek sixty minutes, three thousand six hundred seconds worth of a program in which they would hardly shine on stage. Avaunt, she would pursue Mount Olympus dauntlessly; bended her back further until small hands and slender fingers grasped trembling ankles, limbered silhouette to pivot into a grand emboîté more than the courant tutelage. All in the name of love.    Fouetté en tournant en dehors; thus began the turn by having her supporting leg in plié. As the reinforce foot segue to demi-pointe or pointe, in an en dehors turn, her working leg extended forward and then whipped around to À la seconde whilst the working foot returned to the supporting knee in retiré, procuring the impetus to rotate one turn. The working leg retracted out of retiré nearing the end of a mono rotation to recommence the entire leg motion for successive rotations; that’s it child, dense velvet curtains unfurling to exhibit thy prodigy, mother, for thee who hadst giveth most wondrous supporteth; for thee to gaze upon thy daughter’s falleth; wast love the lady hadst hath found, or wast defeat the lady hadst grasped?  Perhaps, all in the name of love.

Temps Développé Devant!

   In the midst of a wonted winter, whilst others cow herded into cozy cafes to luxuriate in Yuletide themed beverages, her indoctrinated stoicism clung to enervated quadrupeds; adamantine pertinacity unrivaled by others. Those trophies gobbling up spaces from numerous, lined up shelves, Helios blessed aurum laurel hung on the walls of their evening tea room in an eloquent muted speech of plaudits whenever her mother’s friends approached their household for diluted mannerisms to attempt a ride on her coattail. Pearls and puissant derogatory were further paramount to the absence of this child that this elitist socialite had matrixed through acute scrupulousness. An indomitable ringing sung falsehood; banging against the tender resistance of eardrums by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake; are you Odette basking in moonlit crystalline drops or are you Odile whom frolicked amongst the sneering foes? Albeit, all in the name of love?        Laden with fatigue yet her trepidation silhouette bounced off the mirrors in tragic mirage for heroism, did you not hear the fleeting bellows of perseverance, child? Did you not feel pieces of your bones shrink from its commodious compeneer? A staccato in former articulate rhythm, the buckling of knees accompanied the holistic execution of pizzicatos and tremolos in maturity alike to shattering of one’s whimsical fancies; can you hear the perished pride of yours? Can you hear it now, child? Ragged breathing, dulled senses; tendrils of compensation bid against blistering cobwebs of demise. How much folly shalt thou display! Relish in the dubiety screeching blasting from the mother’s rotten abyss of a mouth, sense the nihilism grasp this child had around her demoralized limbs, shan’t you come and snicker with me?                      A  l l     in   t    he   n    a   m e    of… l o v e!

Côté, de Avec Cou de Pied!

   The pallid complexion disfigured her mother’s beauty of a fair maiden’s quality. Three winters have passed since the consequential incident, the family’s doctor had dished out his ultimatum with unequivocally not even an inch for rejection on their behalf. Her bones had succumbed to fatigue, unable to support the extended hours of practice; swelled, deteriorated before finally crumbling bit by bit. Exuberance, despondency, audacity; all of it formed a lethal amalgam of a whirlpool that swirled with malevolent intents. The child was finally free, knuckled extremities combed through pinguid locks left unruly, lack of care gave prominence to diamond sculpted jawline as well as rubidant apples rested atop the high of her sunken cheeks. But what about all of the time she had spent on centre practice, finding the linear alignment for an unbeatable arabesque, perfecting the grace for a potent Croisé, endured painful snaps of leather crop against tender epidermis for the epitome of a Grande Jeté? Nothing else howled jocosity as refined as her current predicament did, anxiety coupled with a higher dosage of Estazolam purged the vile and bile to gush through rippling muscles of her esophagus, darkened nails clawed against sanguine tinted thighs where the skin missed over the absence of time to heal.     Duplet blades ominously glinted beneath harsh condescension of neon filled cylindrical bulbs, a sneer carved across disdained countenance whilst coarsened fingers lifted strands of hair with much carelessness. Thorax expanded in dubiety yet it appeared in such a way that her hand conceived an intellect of its own. For a moment in time, silence held reigns over the ambiance in which solely the sounds of snapping cutting through fine tresses could be discerned when trapped inside the four concrete barriers of her modest bathroom. Somewhere far in the distance, she could hear her mother’s squawk of stupefaction but hey, all in the name of love, no?

Les Tours Chaînés Déboulés!

    Inadequate against the overwhelming urge to bask in an over spilling instant of triumph, she— a shake of head in amusement, /he/ let the bouts of jaundiced laughter to spill forth from his chapped tiers, no gloss, no lip balms, void of chemically deviced and chemically proven mystique technique to colour one’s skin. Unadulterated pleasure cascaded from deep within his core, a bird no more he was, despite the abhorrent slaps that rained down upon his developing body from the mother whom he once attempted to appease or falleth to damnation, Seongjae couldn’t contain his exhilaration towards her reaction to the self-pioneering he had made throughout his visit to China, visited a father he once thought was estranged yet had embraced him with warmth and drowned him in paternal love. A raise of the eyebrow when the father witnessed his only child vacant of a single thread; peculiarly pressing fingers that dipped into soft duo of metamorphosing muscles and fats. Unbridled sentiments gushed from the brute bruising on Seongjae’s derma, it could have been a repetition of the Battle of Pharsalus if they had a third party; deep-sixed requirement for weapons, their edge cutting war of the words would have sliced through the thickest of marble, even coerced fiercest warriors to their knees.    His mother was nauseated at the sight of a concoction that ranged from short hair dyed a rustic shade, no longer prodigious nimble physique swimming in male’s clothing, an absolute abomination to her! Seongjae bathed in the euphoria, paid negative a hundred even when the circumstances peaked to the soap opera worthy scene of having their residential servants prying the now mother-and-son duo apart, their hold on him laxed for he bore no resistance unless they inquired manic laughing spree as hazardous. Oh the joy! He flaunted throughout the prison once known as home, executed a dramatic bow at the gates before turning around never to look back as he dashed into the future.

Tour En L'air!

   Joining the national defense force had been a turmoil of expletives as well as general repugnant towards noisome comport of one too many selves. In a trial to reenact the galactic scathing influence betwixt Saturn and Mars, his insufferable colleagues misgendered him in multitude ways, undeniably puerile, of course. Indefatigable resolution brimmed the alphabets that formed his meticulously worded sentences, he was naught but pertinacious resistance to hindrances. Neverending streaks of display for tenacity, Seongjae authentically experienced joie de vivre; may it be a storm or a drought, he persevered through, ravenous for supremacy with unrivaled lust in heed of conquest. As though performing underneath austere stage lights, poised for a hortensia back at the age of ambitious six; he ruffled throughout the whole training area with undivided obstinacy, assembled and disassembled an array of weaponry in the clear  absence of hardship. Bandaged hands firmly grasped the belief of bawling more tears, shedding more sweat and oozed more blood, amber eyes illuminated the darkness ferociously as it were he was in hybrid form, keen claws and keener gaze; bearing his fangs to gluttonously maul, imbibing deterrents like a starved beastial embodiment.

   Was it fear? Or was it done under the forsaken moniker of malign governance? Sleep had claws in his world, deleterious scorching on the other side of tightly shut eyelids as might be it was the cattle’s branding, fluttering bright awake whilst coercing chattering jaws to gape like a devouring abyss. Specks of ember licked along the fringe of jagged pink sierra in conjunction with reparative brawn to attenuate his perturbation. Sleep would scratch against marked skin blossoming with demented bouquets procured from wilted Morning Glory’s, littered by vicious Orchids. Forged iron blazed on his skin for he was wrong, wrong, wrong. Once more, silence engulfed adulterated senses, thrashed into limbo he was.

Rond de Jambe à Terre!

    Twin rivulets streamed along the petrified curvature of his countenance. Vertebral column tremored with the impact upon a concrete barricade, squelching noises reverberated throughout the iron alloyed enclosed space as sullied fingers dug deeper into torn flesh, searching for spiked wings of Heaven’s fallen that were never there. Lackluster orbs remained transfixed on the rustic ceiling despite the torrential crimson downpour soaking into a uniform once proudly worn, pores oozing atrocity before a jab of the finger had a gut wrenching shriek extracted from swollen voice spheroid; haemorrhaging gurgled in vexation by the hand prints self-righteously pressurized against the fragile flesh of his throat. Pain was a nefarious spectator, obliterating through each defensive layer before stripping him of his very own skin, chink armour now clattered of soundless worth whilst he was forced to bleed out his sins, cleanse of the taintment through means of macabre display as he retched grotesque internal chunks and spat mouthful of morbid gore all over himself. Seongjae’s form quaked wholesomely for the slightest bit of moment would jolt him into an experience of nerve ends caught aflame; yawning wounds were scattered throughout the entire expanse of vacant skin, inhibition of adequate healing by the coarse salt crudely interfering meshwork formation for fibrin fibres.

   It took them a week to liberate him, three days to coop up and release the arschloch whom had torn through his latissimi dorsi and an uneventful one month of testimony, trial, repeat before they came to the verdict of it being uncouth to bestow upon a punishment towards not only a fellow soldier, as well as someone who had contributed to the country so much to the apex of not being able to be repaid; he was just acting upon primitive instincts, he was just trying to justify his personal beliefs, he was not to blame, he did have a point and he tried to prove it to you through different ways. If one could reason out the bullshit they pulled out of their asses on a daily basis, then Seongjae wants a fucking refund.

échappé Sur Le Pointes!

  Unexpected it was not, the official letter that had arrived and harmlessly rested atop his messy bed. All of the badges, medallions, everything formerly occupying the breast of his uniform were stashed inside an inconspicuous box, never to be sighted upon in the furthest and nearest futures. Reports were double checked and handed in, walls bare of personal embellishment as suitcases were lugged into trunks of heavily armed military jeeps. Perhaps it was battement fondu développé enacted with one, two, a leg out à terre or maybe the glissade précipitée followed by a swift glissade jeté to topped off with grand écart; the firearms became an extension of his limbs devant, à la seconde und derrière, minuscule explosions of sparks illumined his neurotic melting facades for a visage out on the battlefield— or was it the stage?—, it could have been both, either one, even neither. Gunshots and thunderous clapping, marching of combat boots and Balancé—fondu, relevé, fondu—, glittering feathery wreath and gold awards, ballet and military was Seongjae’s juxtaposition. Why was he wasting time fabricating a cobweb of paradox when it was much more sagacious to undergo paradigm shifts?

Born in a small Japanese village, into a very traditional Japanese family who are very religious and looked after the shrines in the village she lived in, Yuki was brought up well and politely. When she was younger, she was trained to be a shrine maiden, but she didn’t really like it. Or more so, she didn’t really have a knack for it. It didn’t capture her interest enough for her to focus on it.

As she grew, Her parents made sure that she knew they wanted her to continue their work when she was older, but she always wanted to venture. She wanted to model eventually, and her parents disapproved, thinking it was vain and disrespectful. But she went against her parents and went into it anyway at the age of 12

Her first Modeling agency was really pushy. Made her do things she didn’t want to. Things that a normal 12 year old girl should not be asked about. So immediately, when her parents found out, they withdrew her from that company, trying to deter her from the modeling. When she was 16 she was scouted by an ACE agent and offered to join the main ACE office in Korea and Model there. At that point, her parents had thought she would have given up by now on her modeling and they told her that they were not going to support her if she continued. Unfortunately she wanted to further her career and she decided to go alone, losing contact with her parents.

There isn’t a tale more woeful than that of Juliet and her Romeo. Oh wait, there is. The tale of Robin is too woeful. It’s the tale of heartbreak and pain and suffering. It’s the tale where there is no bad guy and life just sucks.

Robin, a taken stage name of one Oh Jinseok, means new beginnings and effectively that was what Jinseok was going for.

Oh Jinseok was born in August of 1995 to a circus couple. His mother and father were trapeze artists and every night they flew into the air. Jinseok was encouraged to do the same and he did. At the age of four, he joined his parents as part of their trapeze act. He loved the feeling of flying through the air like a plane. They were known as the Fantastic Os. He loved being a part of the circus. There was just something freeing about it.

However that happiness didn’t last long. When he was six, at a show that he wasn’t allowed to be in because he was sick, the trapeze wire broke and his parents fell. There was no safety net. Since Jinseok didn’t have any living relatives, he was sent to a group home.

There the children made his life hell by teasing and bullying him for being a circus freak. He was alone. The adults ignored him and even families didn’t want him.

There was nothing left for him, so he began dancing. There was something about dancing that reminded him of the circus. The freedom to move. He was still a gymnast so he ended up adding flips and freestyling. At the age of ten, he was adopted.

But the family who adopted him looked perfect on paper and in public. In private, Jinseok was abused, physically, sexually and emotionally. He was forced to do things he didn’t want to and he wanted to escape but he couldn’t. Dance and music became his escape and even then he was punished for singing too loud or having his music on too loud or bothering them in general.

He couldn’t take it anymore and he ran away when he was 14. He was going to end everything. Nothing was worth it. Choir saved him. He heard a choir singing and the 14 year old made his way there.

He began singing with the choir and resumed dancing again but this time, he danced for money on the street. When he had ran away, his adoptive parents sold everything of his and he had nothing left. He was homeless.

At the age of 15, in March of 2011, he auditioned for Ace. He had nothing left to lose. He was sleeping on benches and looked ragged but he had his talent and a bracelet from his mother. He was accepted and he was so happy. He was going to get a room and he was going to be able to get food.

When he joined Knockout though, he realized that he wasn’t going to be the main dancer even though he had talent. They put him as a vocalist. No. It was not supposed to be like this.