Grab the Regressor by the Collar and Debut - Chapter 188

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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188. Welcome to Your First Debut (5)
Seo Tae-il leaned back in his chair with casual ease, stretching his long legs out before him. His body reclined fully, one arm draped over the armrest with his chin resting against his hand, he regarded Lee Do-ha with an expression of utter arrogance as he proceeded to dismantle him completely.
“Have you ever topped the music broadcast charts? Reached number one on the digital charts? Performed a four-hour concert with your setlist packed entirely with your own songs? Sung along with tens of thousands of people to lyrics and melodies you wrote? Received hundreds of requests to compose across every genre imaginable—from trot to rock ballads?”
“….”
“I have.”
Seo Tae-il tapped the armrest sharply with his free hand, shifting the atmosphere.
“But if someone like me ends up on the same level as you, wouldn’t that be absolutely humiliating for my pride?”
If you’re going to scold someone, at least don’t smile while doing it.
Seo Tae-il was systematically crushing Lee Do-ha’s self-esteem while maintaining that infuriatingly gentle, warm smile. I was desperately curious about what expression Lee Do-ha must be wearing right now, but I was too afraid to actually look.
‘Just shut up and count the floor tiles….’
While I kept my head down, examining Seo Tae-il’s studio floor with microscopic precision, he continued his verbal onslaught against Lee Do-ha.
“I understand the desire itself to contribute confidently to the team. As a producer, I genuinely think that’s admirable ambition. And honestly, I listened to the track you submitted this time—it was good.”
“….”
“But… that’s exactly why I don’t understand.”
Seo Tae-il tilted his head back and forth, genuinely perplexed as he posed his question.
“You recognized your shortcomings and understood my capabilities. So shouldn’t the next step be not despair and hopelessness, but rather, ‘Wow. I need to extract every bit of that person’s know-how and make it my own’? It’s not like your group is disbanding after this album.”
“…Oh.”
Lee Do-ha seemed to have finally grasped something. Seo Tae-il let out a small exclamation and patted his shoulder encouragingly.
“Back in my day, if I didn’t write the songs, there was nobody else to do it, so I had to bite the bullet and compose myself. But you’re not in that situation. Do-ha, aren’t you an idol? You’re not a composer, are you? You didn’t sign a contract as a producer here, did you?”
“…No, I didn’t.”
“You need to think carefully. Kairos’s debut track is your debut track too. Your role model—me—wrote it for you. So if you show up with rap like this, is that acceptable or not acceptable?”
“It’s not acceptable.”
The atmosphere suddenly felt like kindergarten? No, wait. Was this the military?
Even amid the confusion, I could sense Lee Do-ha’s mental state gradually being reconstructed.
His responses became quicker, his tone more resolute, his eyes sharper. Stealing a glance, I noticed his shoulders had straightened and his posture had stiffened—he was definitely back to his usual self, our little Bear.
‘Though honestly, I have no idea what specific pressure point he’s hitting….’
Well, as long as it was working on him, that was all that mattered.
Seo Tae-il, noticing Lee Do-ha’s transformation, dangled the carrot at just the right moment.
“If you really want to be an asset to the team, then do what you can do right now.”
“What I can do right now… would be….”
“You’re a rapper, aren’t you? Then rap. Rap harder, better, and more diligently than anyone else. This is something only you can do in your team.”
If you translate the gentle reprimand of ‘act like a rookie, understand your place, and just focus on your job,’ it probably sounds something like that.
To someone like me, who’d become 51% F-type, it seemed like pure verbal destruction. But for Lee Do-ha, who was 100% T-type, it apparently felt like the world’s clearest answer.
The fog had completely lifted from Lee Do-ha’s mind. He bowed deeply toward Seo Tae-il in gratitude.
“Thank you, senior. …That really helped.”
“We’ll see if it actually helped at the next recording session, yeah? I’m looking forward to it.”
“Yes. I’ll prepare properly this time.”
The certainty Lee Do-ha had been seeking crystallized once more before us.
Jeong Si-u and I simultaneously exchanged glances and released sighs of relief. Seo Tae-il, catching our reaction with remarkable perceptiveness, swiveled his chair back toward us.
“I’m usually really strict about this kind of thing, you know. I’m only going easy today because I’m looking at your members. Don’t disappoint me next time. Look at how he came running to me all dejected.”
“Wait, why are we suddenly…?”
“Think carefully about what you mean by ‘music we share together,’ Do-ha. I’m sure there’s more you can do right now, isn’t there? This is your assignment.”
“Yes. …Thank you, senior.”
Seriously, the security in this counseling room is way too lax.
I’d rushed to the faculty office and knocked on the door, convinced our kid’s spirit had been crushed, and now I stood there looking wronged—but Seo Tae-il paid me no mind and even assigned Do-ha homework.
Do-ha rose from his seat as though he’d been entrusted with some grave mission, his face solemn, and bowed deeply to Seo Tae-il in gratitude. Feeling awkward being the only ones still sitting, Jeong Si-u and I scrambled to our feet and added our own thanks.
“Good. Counseling’s over. Now get going and practice. Our maknae will be here soon, so I need to start preparing too.”
“Yes! Thank you for the wise words!”
“Right, see you at the next recording session.”
The moment we were done, Seo Tae-il unceremoniously ushered us out of the studio. The three of us found ourselves standing alone in the pristine hallway, and Jeong Si-u and I couldn’t help but gauge Do-ha’s mood.
‘What do we do now?’
‘I have no idea.’
We hadn’t really done anything wrong, but somehow it felt off. It seemed like we’d gotten him in trouble. Though Do-ha himself was clearly a T-type, I—with my 51% F-type—couldn’t shake the guilt.
“Should we go?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
Whether Do-ha sensed my concern or not, he started walking ahead as if nothing had happened.
Jeong Si-u and I hurried after him, trying to read what was going on in his mind.
“….”
The walk to the practice room was quiet, with little conversation.
Do-ha rarely spoke unless there was something to discuss, and right now he seemed lost in thought. Meanwhile, Jeong Si-u and I were too busy reading his expression.
‘Forget it.’
In the end, I was the one who took the initiative to break this suffocating tension (which Do-ha himself was completely unaware of).
I didn’t know about Jeong Si-u, but I absolutely hated this kind of silence and stillness. As the saying goes, it’s the thirsty one who digs the well.
“Hey, Do-ha.”
“….”
“Do-ha!”
“…Oh. Sorry. What?”
Do-ha turned to me a beat late, his question hanging in the air. I studied his expression carefully, wondering what to ask.
Then one question finally came to mind.
“You okay?”
Do-ha was quiet for a moment, then nodded firmly.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
That’s it, then.
At that clear answer, I turned to Jeong Si-u with a satisfied look. He, who’d been walking slowly behind us, was smiling with an expression much like my own.
‘Bear’s back.’
Our little bear’s mental state had finally returned home.
* * *
After that day.
Do-ha threw himself into practice even more intensely, determined to fulfill ‘his role’ as Seo Tae-il had said.
Choreography, rap, gestures, and language study—everything.
As a member of the idol group Kairos, I threw myself into perfecting everything I needed to accomplish.
Even as I did, Seo Tae-il’s assignment lingered constantly in my diligent mind.
‘What can I do right now for music we create together?’
To fulfill my calling as Kairos’s main rapper, I had been dedicating myself more intensely than anyone else to honing my rap skills lately.
Sometimes I swallowed my pride and sought Seo Tae-il’s help, studied videos of famous foreign rappers, and never stopped researching ways to create more diverse variations.
But somehow, that alone felt insufficient.
‘He wouldn’t have said that just to tell me to rap better.’
As I finished practice in my private practice room late into the night again, I found myself constantly contemplating Tae-il’s assignment.
“…?”
As my thoughts deepened, my pace slowed, and as my pace slowed, my vision broadened. Things I would normally pass by without notice seemed to catch my eye particularly sharply today.
In my field of vision, the dance practice room on one side of the hallway came into focus. It was the place Kairos had been using exclusively lately.
Everyone should have left, so the lights should have been off, but for some reason the lights were clearly on, and I could faintly hear music playing.
‘Is it Jae-young or Tae-hee?’
Wondering if the trainee friends who had started coming back a few days ago were using the practice room without knowing the situation, I turned my steps away from the staircase and headed toward the practice room.
Normally it wouldn’t matter much who used the practice room or how, but these days it was being used exclusively by Kairos, so the members had a lot of personal belongings there, and unreleased new song files that shouldn’t be leaked would still be there.
Thinking I should give the trainee friends a simple warning if it was them, I carefully opened the practice room door.
“…Oh.”
But when I opened the door, the song playing in the practice room was none other than our debut track.
The person practicing inside wasn’t a trainee but a member of Kairos.
I was slightly startled by the unexpected face and unconsciously called out his name.
“Yoo Gun?”
“Huh, what?”
At my voice, Yoo Gun, who had been in the middle of practice, flinched and turned toward the entrance where I was standing. I slowly processed the situation with a confused expression.
‘Yoo Gun said earlier he’d go straight home right after our dance intensive training….’
Why was Yoo Gun, who said he’d collapse at home, still in the practice room at this hour?
As I slowly surveyed the practice room, I saw the speaker playing the debut track’s backing track and Yoo Gun holding a wired microphone and lyrics sheet in each hand, and I let out a small exclamation.
“Sorry. You were practicing. Did I interrupt?”
“…No. It wasn’t going well anyway. Come in if you want.”
With Yoo Gun’s permission, I changed into practice room slippers and stepped inside. Yoo Gun, watching me, plopped down on the floor and leaned his head against the mirror behind him. I approached Yoo Gun and took a seat neither too close nor too far away.
I asked Yoo Gun a question.
“Were you practicing your part?”
“…Yeah. But it’s just not working. It won’t stick in my head. I think I’ve forgotten all the rhyme schemes and flow patterns you taught me.”
The lyrics sheet barely visible in Yoo Gun’s hands was filled with all sorts of notes. It was evidence of his attempt at analysis and research in his own way.
Yoo Gun tended to overwhelm the members in dance with his instinctive sense and natural talent, but vocals and rap still required significantly more training due to the inevitable shortage of practice time.
Especially the rap parts he had begun taking on in earnest since the third round of Miro Maze felt particularly unfamiliar.
“With singing, at least I can manage by matching the pitch and beat….”
The moment I saw Yoo Gun like that, I finally understood.
‘For music we create together,’ what I could do right now.
“Want me to help?”
“You, hyung?”
“Yeah. I’ve been practicing rap again lately too.”
From Do-ha’s perspective, Yoo Gun had genuine talent.
With just a bit more training, it seemed like he’d soon develop a natural affinity for writing lyrics and producing beats himself.
And when that happened, Do-ha thought, Kairos would be able to create ‘more music’ ‘together’.
Do-ha returned to Yoo Gun the very words that had sustained him most recently.
“It’s easier doing it together than alone, isn’t it? And more fun.”
We’re on the same team, after all.
Holding that unspoken sentiment close to his heart—still too awkward to voice aloud—Do-ha carefully extended his hand toward Yoo Gun.
A moment later, Lee Yu-gun, who had been deliberating, handed his lyric sheet over to Lee Do-ha.
“…I’m not sure about the pronunciation and timing here.”
“Ah. That part looked tricky to me too. I practiced it a few times but couldn’t nail it.”
“Really? …I thought I just couldn’t do it because I’m a complete beginner.”
“Well, that’s true too.”
“You’re really merciless, aren’t you?”
Gentle laughter and quiet joy began to bloom in the practice room that had been filled only with sighs and frustration.
He’d barely stepped out of that cramped little studio—barely large enough to squeeze into alone—yet already Do-ha’s music no longer felt lonely.
“Let’s keep practicing together from now on. …We’re on the same team now.”
That alone was a sufficiently satisfying step forward.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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