It started small — just grainy phone videos and late-night posts on underground music boards. A clip here, a whispered rumor there. Hey, did you hear? That Starline trainee — the golden boy — he's busking in Hongdae with that songwriter hyung.
Most people didn't believe it at first. Why would a boy who'd almost debuted — who'd stood on slick practice room floors under blinding mirrors and corporate lights — trade it all for cracked sidewalks and spare change? But the videos didn't lie. They showed Minjun in a simple hoodie, hair pulled back under a cap, voice echoing against graffiti-sprayed alley walls. Beside him, Jiwoo hunched over his battered guitar, coaxing raw chords from tired strings.
It wasn't polished. But it was real.
By the third night, more people came. Not just curious students and random passersby, but real fans — the type who used to hang outside Starline's gates hoping to glimpse the next big idol. They brought light sticks, old slogan banners they'd made back when Minjun was just another trainee name on a rumor list.
They didn't chant choreographed fan chants. Instead, they huddled in a loose circle under the streetlight, singing along softly when they recognized a line — the same lines Minjun used to scribble into demo tracks no one thought would ever see daylight.
The first time someone shouted WE LOVE YOU MINJUN! he almost broke. Jiwoo had to nudge him back to the mic, eyes bright under the flickering neon sign of a closed chicken shop.
After the last song, a girl in a school uniform stepped forward, clutching a plastic bag. Inside was a thermos of homemade ginger tea. Your throat must hurt, she said, voice trembling. Minjun nearly cried right there on the sidewalk.
Of course, Starline noticed. They had to. You couldn't hide a spark like that in a city that thrived on gossip and viral clips. Within days, fan accounts were arguing over hashtags. #MinjunRebel trended for twelve hours straight. Someone dug up the torn contract photo Minjun had secretly posted to a private story, and it spread like wildfire.
Seojin saw it. Minjun knew because his old phone — the one he hadn't turned off yet — buzzed with a single message late at night while he sat in a convenience store with Jiwoo, sharing instant noodles and scribbling lyrics on napkins.
Seojin:You think you're bigger than the system, kid? Enjoy your fifteen minutes.
Minjun read it, felt the old panic claw at his chest — the same fear that used to keep him up in the dorm, counting the days until debut.
But then Jiwoo looked at him across the sticky plastic table, mouth full of cheap noodles, and rolled his eyes. Ignore him. He's scared. Means we're doing it right.
So Minjun did. He turned his old phone off, dropped it in the trash on the way out, and walked with Jiwoo through the sleeping streets. They passed torn posters of shiny boy groups, eyes dead behind perfect hair and plastic smiles. He didn't envy them anymore.
They stopped under a dead streetlight, where the concrete was warm from the day's sun, and Jiwoo sat down with his guitar. Minjun dropped his bag beside him, pulled out a battered notebook.
No stage lights. No backup dancers. Just them — voices echoing off brick and neon.
If Starline wanted a war, they'd get one. Not through lawyers or press releases — but through every song that drifted into the Seoul night like a rebellion made of melody and stubborn hope.
This time, Minjun wouldn't run. He'd fight for every note. For Jiwoo. For the rooftop promise. For the dream they were rebuilding from the pavement up.