I’m Debuting With The Bias I Killed - Chapter 9

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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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Episode 9
By becoming Han Sang-yoon’s roommate and cleaning partner, I’d gained another mentor. I’d been meaning to seek out more guidance during the Survival Show anyway—this was an unexpected blessing.
“Is that why Lee Yul taught you?”
Han Sang-yoon studied my movements for a long moment, then tilted his head.
“There’s something… similar in the quality.”
‘Sharp eye.’
Part of me was pleased that he’d noticed a resemblance to Lee Yul, but I felt a small twinge of something else.
“I don’t really have my own dance style yet.”
I smiled and let it go.
“Still, the fact that you’ve memorized the whole Choreography is impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“We can worry about style later.”
Han Sang-yoon clapped his hands lightly.
“Right now, not making mistakes comes first.”
“Understood.”
He’s different from Lee Yul. Practical. Precise.
‘That’s why he Debuted.’
“So the part you were asking about was… here?”
“Yes. The highlight section goes so fast that—”
“It is fast.”
The highlight section of the Signal Song. Hands and feet never stopping for even a moment, moving in brutal sync with the relentless beat.
“Would you mind showing me how you do it, um… Sang-yoon?”
…….
For a moment, Han Sang-yoon stared at me.
‘What?’
I was wondering if I’d said something wrong when—
“Pffft.”
Han Sang-yoon burst out laughing.
Actually, burst wasn’t strong enough. He let out a laugh so uncontained his throat was fully exposed. His distinctive, breathless laugh was contagious, and I found myself laughing awkwardly in sympathy.
“Wait… did you just call me Sang-yoon?”
“Ah.”
That’s when it hit me.
“What’s with the formal address?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize.”
Han Sang-yoon waved his hand, barely suppressing his grin.
“Just call me comfortably.”
That’s the problem. After the Regression, I’d turned nineteen. Choi Woon-jo became my age, and Han Sang-yoon became my senior—a two-year gap that suddenly felt insurmountable.
‘Damn it, I’m supposed to be older than you!’
And by quite a bit, too.
“Right… Sang-yoon…”
There was no way around this.
“…sir.”
I added it back anyway.
Han Sang-yoon burst out laughing again.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed so hard. It’s just that you’re only two years younger, and hearing ‘Sang-yoon sir’ is—”
He laughed for a long time before finally composing himself.
“Okay, let me actually show you how to do it properly.”
He warmed up briefly, then dove into the music.
“Wow…”
It was the same choreography, but it felt completely different. There was dynamics in Han Sang-yoon’s dance—light and shadow, push and restraint.
“Want to try it?”
“…Yes.”
The result was, of course, disastrous.
If Han Sang-yoon was an elegant swan gliding serenely across water, I was the swan below—every desperate thrashing visible for all to see.
“Mm.”
Just one syllable. But somehow, that was worse.
“Right now… you look really rushed.”
“Ah…”
“You’re so focused on hitting every movement that you’re losing the flow.”
He’d seen through me completely.
“This isn’t exercise—it’s dance.”
He tapped out the beat with his finger.
“Exercise means you have to use force from start to finish.”
Tap.
“Dance isn’t like that.”
Tap.
“Here you put power in—”
Glide.
“Here you just let it flow.”
It was like being struck on the head with a hammer.
‘That was the difference.’
Until now, I’d been dancing every movement with all my strength. No wonder I kept sounding stiff and mechanical.
‘Fifty repetitions won’t cut it, will it?’
“Let me try once more.”
There was no way around it. If that’s how it was, then I’d do it a hundred times, a hundred and fifty times.
“Go ahead.”
Han Sang-yoon smiled.
“This time, let go of the ambition.”
I gripped the Hourglass quietly in my hand.
Click.
Thirty seconds.
Click again.
Thirty seconds.
Identical movement. Identical timing. Identical instruction.
The same thirty seconds repeated endlessly.
Fifty times, a hundred times, and then the hundred and forty-seventh.
‘That’s it.’
Only then did the sense of it finally click into place.
The timing of when power flowed in and out, the space between movements.
‘This is enough.’
I put the Hourglass away and moved again with the music.
This time I deliberately made mistakes a few more times. It would look suspicious if I suddenly got it perfect.
After repeating it maybe five more times.
“Oh.”
Han Sang-yoon gave a small laugh.
“Much better now. Getting there in just five tries? That’s pretty fast.”
‘Five tries—more like the hundred and fifty-second attempt.’
“Thank you! Sang-yoon…”
I fumbled with the word.
“…nim.”
I’d failed again.
My legs felt like they were about to burst, but harder than a hundred and fifty-two repetitions was still that single syllable: the honorific I couldn’t quite bring myself to drop.
* * *
The day of the Mid-term Evaluation.
Twenty trainees filed into the Practice Room all at once.
“I’m so nervous I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Hey, be quiet. The mics are all on.”
The air was so tense that even the smallest whisper came across sharp and clear.
Looking to the side, Lee Yul had one arm in a Cast, holding it gently while steadying his breath.
I couldn’t stop seeing his face.
‘If only I’d known just a little sooner.’
Ninety percent. That unmoving danger level made me resent it for no good reason.
The fact that he himself knew nothing about it weighed on me even more heavily.
Which was why today, I had to pull it off no matter what.
“Let’s go in too.”
The atmosphere in the Practice Room was distinctly different from usual.
Two company trainers on the left, two external judges on the right. And Song In-hyuk, the CEO, sitting at the center.
Tension hung heavy in the air.
Of course, I was different.
‘I’ve seen it on broadcast so many times.’
It even stirred an odd sense of intimacy.
Once the filming setup was complete, MC Kang Se-jun walked forward.
“Hello, everyone. Have you all been practicing well?”
“Yes!”
“Before tomorrow’s Signal Song shoot, we’ll be conducting the mid-term evaluation.”
At the word “evaluation,” someone’s hands trembled while another squeezed their eyes shut.
“Currently, you’ve each been assigned a Code Number from one to twenty, based on your order of entry.”
The number pinned to my chest felt unusually heavy.
“Of course.”
Kang Se-jun smiled.
“That number will keep changing.”
I heard the soft sound of swallowed breath.
The number on our chests was no simple digit. It was the most direct measure of where you stood right now in this place—the charm of Boys Code and its cruelest element all at once.
“Today’s mid-term evaluation will determine who gets what position in the Signal Song.”
The already-tense atmosphere grew even more brittle.
“And of course, the Center position for the Signal Song—which I’m sure is everyone’s focus—will also be decided today.”
In that instant, the trainees’ expressions shifted.
An unwritten rule of idol survival shows.
[The Signal Song Center always debuts.]
Positioning determined how much camera time you could claim. It was why trainees fought tooth and nail for the Center in every survival show.
No matter how skilled or visually stunning you were, if the camera didn’t catch you, it all meant nothing.
“The Signal Song positions are divided into Code A through C. Of course, A is the highest level.”
He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping lightly across the trainees.
“And one person—the most outstanding trainee—will stand at Center with the sole Code S.”
The air in the Practice Room shuddered once more.
“Then.”
Kang Se-jun flipped his cue card.
“We’ll begin the mid-term evaluation now.”
He surveyed the trainees before asking.
“Is there anyone who’d like to go first?”
No one moved.
It was inevitable. Going first—and being the very first to be evaluated across the entire survival show—was an enormous burden.
So before the regression, no one had stepped forward either.
In that silence, I raised my hand without hesitation.
“If no one—”
Kang Se-jun spotted my hand and laughed.
“Oh, there’s a trainee with their hand up.”
The moment he finished speaking, multiple cameras pivoted toward me in unison.
The judges reviewing their scoresheets all lifted their heads in sync. Some dropped their gaze again after seeing me, while others wore expressions of intrigue.
The one who was most startled, though, was Lee Yul right beside me.
“You just… raised your hand?”
“Yeah. Getting hit first isn’t so bad, right?”
“…….”
“I’ll do what you taught me and come back.”
I held out my fist. Lee Yul hesitated for a moment, then lightly raised his hand.
Tap—that brief contact alone somehow loosened the tension a little.
“Code Number 20, please come forward.”
I took a small breath and stepped up.
“Your training period is…”
The judge flipped through my profile.
“Two weeks?”
One eyebrow rose.
“And you’re going first?”
He released his chin from his hand.
“You’re a fearless one.”
I’d always been fairly fearless, but after dying once, there was nothing left to fear.
“Yes. I hear that often.”
“Whether that confidence is earned or you’re just naturally unafraid—”
He set down his pen with a tap.
“You’ll see once you start.”
I stepped onto the center mark taped to the floor. Drew a sharp breath.
The intro to Signal Song flowed out.
The opening ‘Boom’ hits exactly at the count of ten in my head. Everyone waits for the intro to finish—
‘But that’ll make you late.’
Before my regression, during the broadcast, more than half the trainees missed their timing from nerves. This was the perfect moment I’d discovered for myself while running the challenge account.
‘Nine, ten!’
Boom!
I reached out my hand on the beat.
“Huh?”
Someone reacted softly. That’s how precise the timing was.
‘Good.’
The slightly more spirited opening felt a bit awkward, but it was a life lesson I’d learned well from Yoo Seong-ah: push forward with momentum and nothing can stop you.
I steadied my breathing and focused on the vocal.
[The only boy who can solve
this secret]
Back when I was a producer, whenever I made a song, I found it hard to explain the feeling I had in words, so I recorded all the guide vocals myself. I can’t count how many musician friends used to tease me about those guides.
‘Never thought it’d be this useful.’
I wasn’t worried about lyric mistakes from the start. I’d heard this song more than anyone else here—maybe even more than Lowkey, the producer who created it.
[That’s exactly because I am
Focus on me]
The judges’ gazes sharpened.
I finished the first verse safely and moved into the second. No mistakes so far. One step at a time, that’s all. Don’t panic.
Thanks to my younger body, I wasn’t even breathing hard, and all things considered, it was going well.
[Breaking free from this place
To where you are
I’m almost there]
This wasn’t just any stage.
Hundreds of times, thousands. Rewinding, dancing again, watching again. Those hours I’d held onto despite ridicule.
My breathing was starting to get ragged. But as if the pain receptors in my brain had shut down, my movements didn’t slow for a second.
The power of repetitive practice. My body remembered Lee Yul’s choreography before my mind did, and it moved.
“Oh—”
The judges’ expressions began to shift. Some smiled faintly; others whispered to their neighbors.
Hoping for positive signals, I pushed toward the highlight.
[Make a new history
Beyond this door
Shining brilliantly
New world—]
Even as I hit the high note, the choreography didn’t stop. Though my breath wavered slightly, I pushed through to the end. Finishing the performance completely was what mattered.
The method Han Sang-yoon taught me helped too. Not “throwing” the movements, but executing them precisely yet compactly. Using them as connecting points created just enough breathing room to catch myself.
[Open this door
The only code
Boy’s code!]
The final phrase. I stomped my foot hard and stretched my right hand toward the sky.
“Haah, haah……”
My breath came out in rough gasps.
The taste of blood in my mouth was something I hadn’t felt in a long time. My heart was pounding harder than it had when I sprinted like mad to claim the front row at that event.
‘It’s over……’
Objectively speaking, it wasn’t a perfect performance.
I’d flipped the Hourglass hundreds of times to get used to singing while dancing. But I still fell short in terms of absolute skill.
Yet I had no regrets. I didn’t miss a single movement, and I didn’t cut any lyrics. At least I could say for certain: this stage was everything I could do right now.
Because right now, I’m not flipping the Hourglass again.
I Killed My Favorite and Debut (Serialized)
Author │ Yu Sseu
Publisher │ Kim Ju-hyung
Published by │ J Plus Media Co., Ltd.
Marketing │ Han Jae-hyuk
Address │ 401, Ace Techno Tower 8, 11 Digital-ro 33-gil, Guro-gu, Seoul (Guro-dong)
Email │ [email protected]
Homepage │ www.jayplemedia.com
© Yoo Soo, 2026
※This work has been published by J-Plus Media Co., Ltd. in accordance with a contract with the copyright holder. The content may not be used in any form or by any means without the permission of our company and the author.
Violation of these terms may result in criminal and civil legal liability.

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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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