#id.midas

DETAILS

CURRENT AGE: 24 DEBUT AGE: 22 SKILL POINTS: 17 VOCAL | 05 DANCE | 00 RAP | 08 PERFORMANCE

INTERVIEW

hyerin is a living doll first and anything midas wants her to be second: innocent, kind, and sincere—a can do no wrong kind of puppet.

trainee days spent isolating herself as the quiet, hardworking girl is buried under rigid lessons and rules of thumb on how to construct a new layer of skin to stitch around herself. years of crying behind closed doors and missing home is replaced by a fresh-faced girl who laughs at everything, smiles at everyone, and bounces back with enthusiasm after a fall—sunshine in ecstatic motion.

from practice room to the bright stage, midas sinks their claws into a lost girl with stars in her eyes and molds her into something whimsical and ethereal. they take all the broken parts of her that seep through the cracks and tell her to bury it behind a radiant smile. creates a mask for her to wear by exploiting all the mismatched parts of her that make her who she is: the dazed look of a dreamer, the seaside accent that still roils under seoul’s modern cadence, her restless hands, the purity of her lilting voice.

they take all that and slip onto her the delicate skin of a humble fairy princess with a heart of gold and a thousand watts smile.

in the eyes of the public: she is quiet and endearingly awkward. she’s all blushing cheeks and shy smiles, unable to make eye contact for long. she’s muffled peals of laughter hidden behind small hands and eyes creasing into half moon crescents. sometimes, she’s softly uttered words of praise, advice, encouragements to her faithful fans on instagram live or a whole chorus of a newly uploaded acoustic cover sung in a voice almost too soft to hear above the strum of her guitar, gratitude embedded in three minutes of heartfelt lyrics and shining eyes. to the world, hyerin is someone fragile and in need of protection. almost too good for the world. almost too untainted and pristine. (almost too good to be true.)

from her shy, almost bumbling attempts to interact with and befriend fans and fellow idols alike to her occasional variety show appearances where she’s the perpetually reticent girl hosts have to subtly prompt and prod for answers to their questions about her trending airport fashion, her faithful fansites and fancams in 4k depicting her pristine and perfect on stage (not a hair out of place, her smile perpetually stitched on her face. never faltering. never wavering), growing up pains, childhood in busan, her lingering accent.

there’s always a bit of lasting unconventionality hidden in those moments when they ask about home, about family, about transitioning from the carefree, quiet life on busan’s sandy shores to the pulsating thrum of the big city with its too fast pace and perpetual anonymity.

how did you survive, they ask. i didn’t. hyerin wants to confess. i adapted. i changed, is what she says instead.

and it’s the truth. midas takes her hand-me-downs and thrift-shopped dresses and replaces them with sponsored one pieces with the tags still on them, shiny mary janes in place of worn converses, her sea salt-scented braid of hair is combed and styled in soft waves tumbling down her back and smells of peaches, her unruly tongue fixed under an iron fist to master the straight-laced way of seoul-speak.

she’s made to rid herself of all the things that make her her.

every night, she goes to sleep; her face scrubbed clean, the skin of her good girl persona somewhere on the floor. every morning, she wakes when the sun rises and pulls her skin back on, pats her face dry of tears, and presses two fingers to the corners of her mouth, pushing up until a small dimple forms on her cheek. there, transformation complete. operation hyerin is a go.

every day is a vicious cycle. it’s walking on eggshells and pretending someone else isn’t living beneath this suffocating skin, wallowing in years of self-deprecation and the perpetual ache of longing (for something, for someone, for the taste of home—wherever that may be).

midas thrives on how easy it is to break her and fit her into a mold of their design, how quickly she can give away her free will for a promise of an adventure (of life never being dull, of living a dream). it’s easy to take a lost little thing in need of guidance and shape her into something otherworldly, push her onto a gnarly road and tell her to simply go straight to find her way back home, to where she needs to be.

but if one were to ask where she’s needed, she thinks of her old childhood home in busan, the pale yellow paint peeling on patches on her ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark wallpaper brittle and gathering dust. thinks of being waist-deep in the sea, thinks of halmeoni in her spongebob apron and a carrot as her makeshift microphone, thinks of her father somewhere (surviving, thriving, happy—she hopes), thinks of her mother and her work-roughened hands and the small shoebox apartment tucked in the tiniest corner of a heartless city.

if one were to ask what it is han saebyul (not jung hyerin) wants in private, watch her freeze, her smile slipping just slightly off her face—like a deer caught in headlights. watch her eyes, those sad lonely eyes, well up in tears she won’t let spill. watch her closely and carefully as her body seems to curl in on herself—as if the weight of the world is suddenly looming on her shoulders. watch for the tremor when she speaks, fingers twisting at her sides, voice impossibly soft and fragile: i don’t know…no one’s ever asked me before.

and no one has. no one cares what han saebyul wants. no one cares what jung hyerin wants either. midas simply takes and so do her fans. everyone breaks off little pieces of her; pieces she willingly gives because she can’t say no—until there’s nothing left for her to give. nothing left for anyone to take.

all that remains is the hollowed out shell of a girl drifting aimlessly, her heart never here or in one place, her mind lingering on faraway places not yet traveled and the sound of ocean waves crashing on sandy shores like a neverending siren’s call.

BIOGRAPHY

hazy beginnings.

despite being born to hardworking parents living on budgets and the ticking of a clock, han saebyul grows up a free-spirited daydreamer, often associating the world and the people around her in streaks of color and a symphony of sounds. her childhood consists of sand between her toes, sea salt in her hair, ocean-soaked dresses, and the sound of tinkling laughter.

her four seasons of growing up on the sandy shores of busan goes a little like this:

spring: an almost brand new knee-length dresses made of white lace her mother buys from a thrift shop at a discounted rate, sunflowers and daisies dancing in the wind, chasing butterflies, and flower bookmarks pressed into the pages of a journal.

summer: ripe with music, her spread eagle on a blanket and sunset golds streaked across her face, the drone of cicadas, cherry popsicles, the whir of electric fans, knee-deep in the sea, her mother calling her name off in the distance.

autumn: a waterfall of warm colors, halmeoni’s cozy handmade sweaters with the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, gingham skirts and leggings, pumpkin pies, spiced lattes, a night sky filled with paper lanterns and the glimmer of stars, father’s phone ringing off the hook in the middle of the night; every night.

winter: soft pink mittens and oversized pea coats over chunky sweaters and chunkier scarves made with love, homemade hot chocolate, footprints in fresh snow, one hand clasped in mother’s hand; the other grasping air, perpetual cold; lingering emptiness.

distorted middle grounds.

she’s seven, wide-eyed and curious, watching a master chef work her magic. it’s halmeoni in a soft yellow dress and a spongebob apron around her waist singing deulgukhwa hits and humming along to joo hyunmi and patti kim. it’s little saebyul perched on the counter by the fridge singing right along in a game of monkey see, monkey do.

early evening always starts with the swell of a sobangcha song, halmeoni wielding a carrot under her chin and saebyul’s little face crinkling up in peals of laughter. in the living room, her parents smile indulgently, hands busy tucking unpaid bills under week-old newspapers and balls of colorful yarn. and ends with saebyul curled in halmeoni’s lap, both hands clutching her parents’ sleeve in her sleep.

days and nights like these are normal—until they’re not.

one cold night in december, dinner prep is a somber affair. the radio is turned off and secondhand vinyls gather dust—buried under boxes full of knick-knacks and memories. there’s no halmeoni twirling in the kitchen, no tongue-in-cheek adlib to the latest hit trot song, no laughter.

home is quiet. empty. and little saebyul aches with the feeling of missing someone no amount of singing or wishing could ever bring back.

-

thirteen: she learns to make friends with an old guitar she buys off a neighbor moving to the big city, learns to strum awkwardly, clumsily; a cacophony of sound. it takes a full four seasons for her to learn to love the vibrations of nylon strings beneath the pads of her fingers. learns to put herself back together singing acoustic covers and soft little ballads with her face turned up to the stars. puberty comes and goes with her seated on the rickety steps of her porch, strumming nostalgic chords to the ghost of her youth.

her parents say nothing as they watch her from inside the house, smiles wilted, wistful, watery.

(there’s a million and one things their daughter could be, should be, and hurting, cradling sadness and turning grief into old-timey blues shouldn’t be one of them.)

they leave her be when she starts going to the market in the sticky heat of summer, guitar strapped to her back, playing for small crowds and neighborly regulars. from dusk to dawn, saebyul fixes a soft smile on her face as she strums and strums and strums, voice light and whimsical as she sings requests as a thank you for listening.

she comes home with a straw hat full of notes and red fingers, knowing full well it’s not enough to make up for this month’s expenses. so saebyul ventures back out again, haunts local farmer’s markets and side streets, the sandy beaches during tourist season, trying to make the most of a life that seems to pass her by too quickly, too quietly.

-

sometimes, she tells herself that when she sings something inside of her heals. as if the soft blue notes become a makeshift stopgap measure filling up the gaping hole in her chest, easing the perpetual emptiness, soothing the ache—the want—for a different life.

sometimes, when she closes her eyes, saebyul pretends she doesn’t hear the sound of her parents fighting, the front door slamming, and her mother’s muffled crying.

sometimes, when she lets herself sink in between lyrics about a dreamer wandering away in search for herself—for an adventure—saebyul swears that some day it could all be possible.

interludes.

family is four. then, three. then, two.

home is no longer sand in between her toes and the ocean clinging to her skin, but the veins of seoul—harsher and all concrete jungle. it’s rough corners pulled over steel edges and soon, the dirt roads she used to bike down back home is replaced by honking taxis and the congestion of too many strangers.

home is now a shoebox; a cramped one bedroom apartment overlooking a dirty alley on the outskirts of seoul.

“i hate it.” this isn’t home.

“give it a chance.” please, i’m asking.

saebyul swallows back a sigh because her mother is trying. her mother is tired. her mother is hurting. she knows. she knows.

so she’ll try, she tells her with a barely there smile etched to the curve of her mouth. we’ll try.

(maybe if she says it often enough, it’ll make it true. make her believe it.)

-

high school is a circus and, sometimes, she finds herself center stage. an unwilling spectacle. her accent is the only thing she has left of home and her peers mock her for it. turn her into the punchline of inside jokes and over-the-shoulder remarks about a bumbling seaside girl who doesn’t belong. she’s not ashamed, but it hurts just the same.

it’s hard to make friends when people choose what they want to see, so a loner she becomes by default. by choice. keeps to herself, minds her business, and makes herself a new home on the rooftop and the empty bleachers in an emptier field. she has her guitar and her ocean of sounds. starts spending more time with her head down, hair in a loose braid, writing the world and the people she watches and meets down in the pages of secondhand leather-bound notebooks.

at home, all alone while her mother toils tirelessly away to afford sending her off to a school that suffocates more than it cultivates, saebyul locks herself in her little corner of sanctuary. imagines what it feels like to be kissed, to be fucked. thinks of calloused hands and soft curves alike. wonders if wanting to feel love so viscerally is too much of a sin when her sheets are wet and her skin is flushed a soft pink.

maybe, just maybe, she wants to know what it’s like to drown in too much love.

-

“you have a pretty voice.”

it’s rooftop prince. only this time, they meet in the middle of the soccer field. it’s saebyul with her guitar in her lap and a curious tilt of her head, one hand shielding her eyes and feeling like she’s looking at the sun. blinded, she looks away. a little embarrassed, a little flattered. it’s been a long time since someone has complimented her, after all.

“why do you sing?”

so i can heal. one day, some day.

saebyul smiles and turns her face up to the sky. “because it feels like i’m home.”

-

she’s two days shy of her sixteenth birthday when she wraps herself in a chunky sweater and a soft scarf stitched with halmeoni’s love and makes her way to a quiet corner in hongdae with her guitar strapped to her back. braves the bite of an impending winter with numbed fingers and a voice that carries.

she starts with lee moon-se, sobangcha and joo hyunmi, hesitant and almost stuttering as she tunes her guitar with nimble fingers and her heart in her throat. somewhere, somehow, she hears halmeoni telling her to be brave as she plucks strings and closes her eyes, petite body swaying to the ebb and flow of a bygone song. with halmeoni in her ear, she lets the world fade away, pays no mind to the small gathering of an audience finding their way to the nostalgic croon of an old soul.

she comes awake to the sound of applause and a case full of clinking coins and a tiny pile of notes. she thanks everyone for their time and sets off to trudge home with her earnings, the want for early christmas shopping with her mother on the tip of her tongue.

she’s pulled from her afterglow by a tap on her shoulder and whirls around to a man in a suit, all coiffed and perfect, voice velvety smooth. her early birthday gift is an invitation that’s too good to be true.

-

her mother is apprehensive. she’s heard stories about the life of an idol. doesn’t want her daughter to live life under perpetual scrutiny, robbed of her youth, and always struggling to catch up to changing times and new trends.

“you’ll have to give up everything.”

“not everything.“ not you, she means to say. never you.

“you won’t be scared?”

“i won’t.” impending goodbyes has her losing her grip on the impression of a budding city girl society has pressed upon her, slipping back into the soft drawl of dialect and settling right at home in the wake of her desire to chase after a flimsy dream. like this, she’s doe-eyed and wears the heart of a dreamer, curls around her mother like she’s five years old and afraid of the dark.

“i guess this means my baby’s all grown up now.”

am i? doesn’t feel like it. saebyul swallows back a sob and presses her face to her mother’s neck.

goodbye shouldn’t have sounded so definitive. so painful.

not-quite endings.

her coming of age gift is the day fantasy’s lineup is announced.

her mother remarries six months later. family is now: her, her mother, a stepdad, and a new baby brother the ripe age of three.

-

the day she debuts as fantasy’s hyerin is the day she stops being han saebyul.

(because han saebyul is the sunshine girl who looked at people like they hung the moon and the stars. because han saebyul is tousled hair and tinkling laughter in the middle of the sea. because han saebyul is made of old songs and picture books, flower crowns, and grass stains.

because han saebyul is the kind of girl easily broken and taken advantage of.

because han saebyul, naive and kind, has no place in a world full of backstabbing and desperate survivors trying to make it to the top.

so, she creates herself a persona—someone quiet and unassuming, who seemed unlikely to stab you in the back than she is to hold you while you cried. someone who always seemed a little dazed and absentminded; her gaze faraway, her voice a whisper.

someone like halmeoni—all soft around the edges, always so poised and graceful in her mannerisms (from her mysterious little smile, to the tilt of her head, to the way she walked and talked), her voice a balm to her soul.

she takes all the things she loves most about her and creates a persona in her grandmother’s shadow.

from han saebyul to jung hyerin, she goes from being her parents’ morning star to the bright luster of jade—timeless and nostalgic; a flawed replica created in tribute to the person who showed her how to embrace and love the world and everyone in it.

like this, hyerin is born to weather all the storms saebyul does not have the strength to handle on her own—just like halmeoni had been there, once upon a time, to hold her hand while she dusted the dirt off her knees and got right back up to face the world.

because hyerin (her name)—not saebyul—is the only thing she has left of halmeoni and she’d be damned if she lost that too.)

-

it’s the same day her father calls for the first time in years. when she picks up, all she hears is his rumbling laughter, sounding much fuller than it had in their rickety old house filled with the scent of spices and long-time struggles.

“are you happy, my star? how’s it feel to be on stage?”

like i’m flying. like i’m dying. says, “are you, daddy? are you happier now?”

“…yeah, i guess i am, byulie. i think i am.”

“that’s good. that’s all i ever wanted—for you to be happy.”

(means, i miss you so much it hurts. will you come home? will you come back? do you miss me too?)

“i’m proud of you, my star. be good. keep shining, dad will always be by your side.”

don’t lie. don’t lie. don’t lie, she thinks as she cries silent tears and thanks him for everything. for the moments of happiness when she was but a child too curious, too naive, too loving for her own good. for the lifetime of loneliness and always getting left behind when things get too hard—too tough—for people to stay.

“i’m always good.“ always. then and now.

-

two years into this dream and she realizes her voice has stopped being her own, shaped by midas and molded into the image of a good girl with a pretty voice. realizes she’s signed her youth away as dreams of singing on stage with just a microphone and her guitar are replaced by short skirts, sugary sweet lines, and a sense of something sacred being stolen from her.

she’s forbidden from ever bringing up opportunities to pen lyrics for her group. rebuffed at every effort about a possible solo debut in the future where she can sing about a girl who’s just trying to find her place in the world.

the answer is no almost every time. sometimes, if she’s good—when fantasy charts well, when she makes headlines for listing so and so as her ideal type or she’s captured collecting fan letters and humble fan gifts to and from music show recordings and at crowded airports—she gets a backhanded maybe.

most times, she’s told she needs more clout. more popularity. more traction. you’re still young, they say. you have time.

usually, it feels like a slap to the face when hyerin’s told to do as they say. no complaints. no whining. just pure obedience. know your place, hyerin-ssi. this isn’t your home. there are rules here and you are expected to follow them to the letter.

so she does. clamps her mouth shuts and sings what she’s given. dances as she’s practiced. smiles as she’s commanded.

all the while, hours spent in the dead of the night writing lyrics that read like poems, like stories of a thousand lives not yet lived in her notebooks are laid to waste, buried under rejection after rejection in the bottom of a box full of remnants of her childhood and reminders of a home away from home.

like this, she muffles the cries of a girl homesick for a place she’s never been, sings and dances like it’s the only thing that matters and pretends she’s happy.

pretends it’s all she wants.

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: N/A CURRENT AGE: 24 DEBUT AGE: 22 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 15 COMPANY: Midas ETC: this member has begun to branch into acting.

IDOL IMAGE

some who know her might call her brand of confidence something like arrogance, self-righteousness, an undeserved pompous air that’s damn near suffocating in its blatancy, but she calls it self-awareness, she calls it knowing her own worth whilst being surrounded by the kind of people who bow and exalt in the presence of their higher ups, after years of being who the people around her wanted, needed her to be. nobody ever got what they wanted, what they deserved, by waiting on the sidelines for something beautiful to happen - the truly accomplished were the kind of people who took, take; the kind who suck opportunities dry and refuse “no” as an answer; the kind who don’t bother asking for what they want. (take, take, take)  it’s never a question, it’s a request.

she spends her first year as an idol getting called “fat and useless” by bitter weirdos on the internet.

what’s her purpose? she’s no vocalist, her limbs are long and awkward and her lack of rhythm hardly does her dancing any favors, she’s not even the prettiest member in mayday’s lineup - so, the public asks, where does she fit in? what she lacks in indisputable talent in singing or dancing, she makes up for presence and it’s that alone that gets her chosen for mayday’s final lineup.

when they first arrive on the scene, the higher ups take advantage of the fact that she’s still developing, with niche interests and philosophies, lost and unassuming, and they frame her as the quirky one - just a little different, a little off-kilter and peculiar. mayday’s bright little weirdo! isn’t she so admirable for making it this far in spite of it all? it’s ambition and drive and flexibility, she reminds herself, that’s gotten her where she is today, that’s keeping her there and making her something that midas wants to hold onto. it’s her talent for performing, her desire to improve that makes it easy for her to stay.

stars are born.

if there’s one thing she’s got in spades, it’s a personality, she knows who to be and when to be it and it works in her favor, nowhere more than on television. it starts out as stints on variety shows for personal promo, where there’s room for a sharp-tongue and good timing, and evolves. the acting lessons that midas executives shove her into feel like something flat out of nowhere but she shows potential. they find her niche and pounce when she sheds her baby fat and blossoms. pretty enough, sexy enough, slim enough, finally, to send to castings, for the netizens to look at her with something other than vague acknowledgement in the shadow of the members who can do it all.

her role is bold, a horror-based webdrama, but it’s enough for them to take her seriously. she’s an actress. she earns her keep.

they take risks with her as things progress and their concept develops, take advantage of her new healthy body - cropping her tops and keeping her bottoms fitted and short when it makes sense, and implying in no shortage of words that her body, hard-earned and shapely, is a talking point and that her presence (”her work ethic!” they shout from the rooftops) is just the cherry on top. she’s the white hot shot of sex appeal that a group as tame as mayday needs all while still maintaining the cute image the team portrays, the member you can fantasize about without feeling too dirty about it afterwards. it cuts deep when haeun thinks back on the harsh words she’d heard as a trainee, encouraging her to diet harder, to shed an extra 3 kilograms before she could debut, laced with the threat that she’s replaceable. why, now, is her body something to cash in on when they’d spent so much of her trainee days shaming her for the width of her hips and the thickness of her legs?

she’s fit and desirable without being too complicated. men eat it for breakfast and it gets her noticed for all the wrong reasons. she flushes red with embarrassment the first time she stumbles across one of those gross sexy idol subreddits and sees a gif of her skirt flying up with wind at a festival as a thumbnail. she cries when her manager tells her that these things happen.

the industry makes her wicked.

she’s a company’s wet dream but she spends her days hidden away when she can, just to breathe and wonder what she’d done to deserve the kind of pressure that comes with notoriety. ever so eager to please, desperate, she hopes she doesn’t disappoint them. that fear, of being less than great, makes her break her own back, working herself into a sweat in all the time she has away from her group members, behind the scenes. sometimes she envies them, wishes she had the luxury of a fresher faced simplicity. when it really hits her, she works even harder, holes herself away in the studio, late into the night, and practices their routines, the lines of working scripts that come her way, strains her voice until she gets it. she has to get it. it’s all she’s got.

haeun, honestly, doesn’t know where she’d be right now if it weren’t for midas seeing something in her and taking her in like a fallen baby bird from a nest too far up, with wings that weren’t quite ready to fly the way they wanted to, the way they twitched and fluttered to. she feels like she owes them for their hospitality, their willingness to teach her the things she hadn’t had the chance to learn back home. thank you isn’t ever enough, is it? not for something as big and life-changing as this opportunity, so she takes whatever they throw at her in stride. if they want her to play the role of the giggling goofball with the curves and the reverse charms, she can do it, if they want sex and charisma and easy-to-consume dancing and singing and mediocre rapping, she’ll reach into the very depths of herself to make it happen even if it feels like stepping out of her own skin.

it gets better, easier, as the years pass, for her to compartmentalize and own her persona. the masses don’t want complexity, they want easy to swallow, pretty faces in pretty outfits with relatable personalities. she gives them a version of herself that isn’t altogether real and finds her peace behind closed doors, through skin-on-skin and chilled bottles of soju. she feels through shock horror and scary movies to remind herself that she can.

it’s better, she always reminds herself, than wallowing in her past failures and taking a flight back home to face her family’s disappointment should mayday be another flash in the pan of success and recognition. it’s hardly practical, she thinks sometimes, to build a career off of something so utterly insincere but, then, she doesn’t think practicality ever suited her much anyway.

IDOL HISTORY

tw mentions of alcoholism

her mother is a zainichi korean living in japan and pursuing a career in music, she wants to be a singer; her father, a hockey player who’d grown up overseas in canada. there’s no reason they should ever cross paths but: they do, and they have haeun after a brief, passionate tryst that turns into a twelve year marriage that ends when her father is caught cheating with one of the only friends her mother had made after following him to toronto. it ends with a clap and a bang, and she packs up and takes haeun with her.

her mother never fails to mention that haeun being born on valentine’s day is the cruelest irony in their love story. haeun hates birthdays.

growing up, she only ever knows change, the sole regularity in her life being new environments and homes and apartments across the expense of the small island she’d been planted in. her solace is her home-learned knowledge of japanese and her ability to adjust. she’s a chameleon in the face of adversity; she sets out to become the person she needs to be to survive and it works. it’s fake, but it never matters when it’s never a matter of if they’ll leave again but when. when: she’s fifteen years old and her mother wants to touch base with her roots, her background as a blood-born korean raised in japan is just another barrier for her to overcome in her journey to find herself or succeed, or - something. haeun never really knows what her goal is, she works odd jobs in lounges and clubs and brings home enough to keep the lights on but she never sees her mother sing unless it’s late at night over a glass of wine out of many - enough to empty half the bottle before she passes out at the dinner table.

she always wakes up to her making bacon and eggs, fish in the oven and rice in the steamer with tomoko aran playing loudly from the stereo they’d gotten secondhand. her mother always tells her that she could’ve been just like tomoko if the timing had been right. “yes, mother,” she says. haeun knows better than to question her and eats her food, watches saturday morning anime on mute while her mother has a breakdown on the phone. she tries to be empathetic but it’s moments like that where she finds herself missing her dad. she feels weak knowing that there’s not much she can do about it or the way her mother feels.

in any case, south korea is another new beginning that haeun’s become accustomed to and she spends the week before their flight over watching kdramas with subtitles on. she’s studying - the language or the mannerisms, she’s not as certain of, but she takes it in nonetheless. it’s her only hint at figuring out who she has to be to make it this time, who she needs to be to survive.

the one thing haeun and her mother have in common is performing, so it only makes sense that she follow in her mother’s footsteps once they’ve settled in.

it begins as forced mother-daughter entries into talent shows across seoul until they go their separate ways and enter as solo acts, her mother singing ballads and songs by powerful soloists while haeun leans into the softness of her voice. it becomes a competition, one that reaches a head when they both decide to take their talents to an agency.

it’s only kind of awkward when haeun’s the only one who makes it.

she’s surprised that her mother even signs the forms to set her up as a trainee but doesn’t address the elephant, neither of them do - how she’d failed again at achieving her dream, how she’s not the young girl she’d been before, how haeun’s now got the world laid at her feet standing where she’d always pictured herself.

her mother takes her out for ice cream after all is said and done. “it’s probably the last time you’ll be able to have some for a while, hm?” she says, smiles and sticks her plastic spoon into a cup of half-melted vanilla. it doesn’t reach her eyes.

it’s not until she gets scouted for mayday that haeun starts to get the feeling that her mother has begun to resent her. by then, six years have passed with little to say for it, never enough for her to serve as an actual threat to her mother’s ego. not that she ever really could’ve been, she’s a decent singer, sure, but there’s stronger singers in any subway, stronger dancers, rappers. haeun gets by on charisma. and her mother, she keeps trying to make her dream happen, too, while haeun trains to be a better version of herself. she auditions for 99, msg, even koala.t and a handful of nugu companies in a moment of sincere desperation, weakness when haeun turns eighteen and moves out on her own. she doesn’t realize how bad it’s gotten until haeun comes over, a woman with the world at her feet, to tell her the news and her mother throws a lamp at her head.

the breakdown she has is terrifying. haeun doesn’t recognize her anymore.

it’s sad, she thinks, because she doesn’t want this the same way she does. she hasn’t worked her whole life to be a singer the way she has, hasn’t spent every hour of her life wanting something with every fiber of her being the way she does. haeun wants it - of course, she does, more than anything at this point in her life. but mayday is a means to an end, a stepping stone on a pathway to wealth and notoriety, the leading way to becoming a household name. it’s not the air she breathes. she’s a performer, trained in the art of channeling and projecting her emotions and yet. she feels guilty, holds her mother while she cries herself to sleep and takes the key to the liquor cabinet with her when she has to go, the sun peaking over the horizon and through the always-drawn curtains of her apartment. it’s the first time she feels her heart ache this way but she manages to shove the feeling down just in time for mayday’s debut showcase.

(she calls her everyday, just in case. promises to bring her on stage to sing with her one day. eventually, her mother stops answering and, wow, haeun thinks. this is what it feels like to be alone.)

the rise of mayday is a slow but steady ride; it burns with the same intensity as a flame. it begins as a flicker on the end of a match and sets ablaze all of its surrounding and engulfs the five of them with it. it’s not enough until they win. haeun thinks it’s pride she feels when she sees her face fill up the screen during comebacks, when she smiles and winks during music show performances and harvests cheers during group promotions. this isn’t a group, she decides after a year. it’s a collective of individuals with a drive to succeed. it gives her something to look forward to, a needle to prick her finger on in the haystack of opportunity. she feels greedy, wants it all for herself and more.

she thinks that maybe she gets it from her father, this lack of loyalty and allegiance. she thinks maybe she’s still a little bitter that he’d left her and her mother to rot, bitter that her mother had abandoned her to navigate the world all on her own under the touch-and-go care of industry executives, but then she hears fans chanting her name and she doesn’t much care.

you sacrifice the best parts of yourself for success around here. she learns it the hard way during the lull before they regroup and comeback with glass shoes. she feels pathetic, weighed down by the sinking feeling of never truly being enough. it gets dark and desperate and she can see it in the way management gets frustrated backstage. she feels it, the feeling of failure and it claws at her, tears away at her self-esteem when she watches her members excel. she’s just like her mother. she drinks, she wallows.

she looks in the mirror and watches her innocence wither day-by-day.

her image suffers during interviews that year, her growth buried under a minor attitude scandal. her new source of solace becomes senior idols, friends who know better. she learns. she adjusts. she misses her parents and resents herself for being weak and feeling too much. it feels good when they get their first win, with what is love? and the smile that stretches across her face when they hold their first trophy feels genuine.

she only feels slightly vindicated when her acting career takes off, when she starts picking up roles with names attached to them rather than monikers and wordless appearances.

their songs are still cheap and generic, cute and upbeat to the point where she yearns for something different, but it sells and it’s made apparent by the responses of their fans. they like it, like her and the persona she adopts to suit the concept, the one they built for her. she let’s them remember her as the girl she was at debut, diligent and quirky, if not a little uncouth. she’s changed. it’s what she’s good at. she learns to bite her tongue against slick digs at her company, avoid being too vocal about her opinions, keep her hands to herself lest there be any cause for controversy - she toes the line of being too much and not enough and gets called alluring. she wonders if even the people who criticize her know what they want from her.

in any case, it seems to be working in some ways more than others. midas media is a hellscape of strict management and the stifling of its idols, but she makes it her duty to ensure her group’s success in one way or another - maybe that’s part of why she lets the media have at her. what she lacks in tact, she makes up for in talent and when they criticize her dancing, she works even harder, passive aggressively posts videos of her progress on her instagram. there’s no such thing as bad press, right? she stays on the fingertips of online pseudo-journalists when they want clicks. it’s good.

regardless of her agenda, midas dangles the promise of success in acting over her head as a means to keep her in line. it’s hard not to bite the hand that feeds her, better to be predator than prey, but the new year feels like an opportunity for her to be something more.

IDOL DETAILS

STAGENAME: CJ CURRENT AGE: 27 DEBUT AGE: 21 TRAINEE SINCE AGE: 15 COMPANY: Midas ETC: uses their personal soundcloud to demonstrate their preferred musical style

IDOL IMAGE

Jaesuk is hard-shelled, emotionally withdrawn, chip on his shoulder and just looking to music as a form of escape. CJ, however, is the cool and confident main rapper of Olympus who is in charge of swag. Someone who can give off the vibe of a bad boy, but a company friendly one. Naturally it’s all under Midas’ guide; clean cut, well dressed, with a smolder that will get fans hearts racing. The catch to it is that beneath the lukewarm demeanor he’s meant to have a heart of gold and a soft spot for his fans. CJ checks a lot of the perceived boxes on what a main rapper is meant to embody and in that sense his image is nothing revolutionary. Compared to the others he carries more of a hip sense to him and often gets comments about showing swag on variety shows, especially early on. Jaesuk cringes each time. To fans, CJ is the boy they can’t bring home but want to. It also helps that he’s considered a handsome, appealing even further to the fantasy. His cool demeanor doesn’t push them away but only draws them further in and makes them go even crazier when he does shows a glimpse of softness or aegyo.

Despite Midas’ meticulous managing of his image though – and Jaesuk largely going along with it – It isn’t all smooth sailing. In reality there isn’t anything ‘bad’ about him except when it’s played up on purpose. CJ bows when necessary and keeps a clean record. But when criticism about intergroup strife begin to arise no one is going to look at the heartthrob members as a root cause, right? The result of assumptions and rumors lead to suspicions of who is in conflict and Midas isn’t the type of company to lean in and embrace an actual  troublemaker image. As a result for a while it’s like walking a tight-rope. Smile more on programs, embrace and be more playful with your members, those are the kind of mandates that come down from management. Show them that he’s still one of the guys. That isn’t the only part of his image that causes discussion either. On programs Jaesuk receives a moderate response for his rap skills. On their tracks the rap lines aren’t considered the strength of their songs. It brings up questions of his actual ability as a main rapper. Can he actually rap? Is he just a victim of Midas’ manufactured sound for Olympus? It’s the part of his image remains a heated topic among fans and non-fans. It doesn’t help that Midas’ power and privilege makes any attempt to solidify his credibility come under fire as them buying it. Jaesuk outwardly ignores it though internally it adds a chip on his shoulder.

IDOL HISTORY