Outside the Starline building, the sidewalk was a sea of umbrellas and glowing fan-signs. The "Professor Kang-joon" sub-fandom had shown up in force, many of them wearing mock laboratory coats over their idol merch—a tongue-in-cheek nod to the "Scientific Vampire" aesthetic that had taken the internet by storm.
Inside, the atmosphere was surgical. The "Monster Unit" sat in their private dressing room, but they weren't the nervous, jittery boys they had been weeks ago. Under Kang-joon's tutelage, they had transitioned into a state of "Performance Flow."
Kang-joon was performing his final check. He wasn't looking at their hair or makeup; he was checking the waterproof seals on their in-ear monitors. "Remember," he said, his voice a low, grounding frequency. "The first thirty seconds of the rainfall will create a thermal shock. Your heart rates will spike by 10 to 15 beats per minute. Do not compensate by rushing the tempo. Trust the click-track. Trust the drainage."
"We trust you, Hyung," Do-yoon said. His voice was no longer thin and anxious; it had the resonance of someone who had spent ten days singing into a high-pressure humidifier.
The broadcast began. The two other units performed first. "Supernova" was a bright, neon-colored success, earning high marks for energy. "Shadow Step" was a sleek, professional hip-hop stage that the judges praised for its "global marketability." Both were exactly what the Consortium wanted: safe, profitable, and standard.
Then, the lights in the arena went pitch black.
The sound of a single, haunting cello filled the hall. The massive LED screen behind the stage displayed a gothic, rain-slicked courtyard. As the rotating stage slowly turned, it revealed the "Monster Unit." They were dressed in high-collared Victorian mourning suits, their skin pale and their eyes rimmed with a subtle, tragic red.
The first verse began with a whisper. Do-yoon's voice was a ghostly thread, weaving through the cello's melody. Then, the rhythm shifted.
"Cue the hydration," Kang-joon's voice crackled through the stage managers' headsets.
With a sharp, synchronized hiss, the rainfall began.
It wasn't a trickle; it was a deluge. The audience gasped as the water hit the trainees, instantly soaking their suits and plastering their hair to their foreheads. But instead of faltering, the "Monster Unit" moved with a haunting, liquid grace.
The centerpiece of the choreography was the "Hydro-Gravity Lift." As the stage rotated, Min-soo launched into a high-octave belt, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain like a diamond. At the climax, Jae-hyun and Lee Hoon lifted him high into the air, the water spraying off his spinning body in a perfect, crystalline arc that caught the strobe lights.
The "Strawberry-Grip" gel held perfectly. Even as the stage became a shimmering lake, their footwork was sharp and dangerous. Kang-joon moved at the center of the formation, his presence less like an idol and more like a conductor of the storm. His [Physical Efficiency (A)] skill allowed him to maintain perfect vocal stability even while his lungs fought the cold, wet air.
When the final note—a haunting, four-part harmony—faded into the sound of the falling water, the silence in the arena was absolute. For five seconds, no one breathed. Then, the building shook with the force of the ovation.
Producer Seo stood up, clapping so hard his hands were red. "I've been in this industry for thirty years. I've seen fire, I've seen wires, I've seen 100-man dance crews. But I have never seen a group of trainees master the elements of physics and art so completely. This isn't a 'Unit Formation.' This is a debut-ready masterpiece."
Even the representative from the "Glow-Up" sponsor was on his feet, frantically texting his marketing team to double the ad-spend. The "Water-Soaked Vampire" aesthetic was already the #1 trending topic globally.
In the VIP lounge, Ms. Chen stared at the monitor, her face a mask of cold fury. The performance was too good. It was so successful that it had effectively made the trainees "Un-ignorable IP."
Her phone buzzed. It was the lead investor of the Chinese Consortium.
"Ms. Chen," the voice was flat. "We are withdrawing the offer for Starline Entertainment."
Ms. Chen froze. "Sir? The performance was a global success. The value of the assets has tripled in the last hour!"
"Precisely," the investor replied. "The price is now too high. And more importantly, the 'Creative Control' clauses and 'Independent Counsel' delays initiated by the trainee Lee Kang-joon have made the acquisition a legal nightmare. We wanted a puppet group to export. We do not want a group that knows how to hack their own plumbing and renegotiate their own contracts. They are high-risk intellectual assets. We are moving our investment to a more... compliant agency."
Backstage, the "Monster Unit" was being bundled into heavy towels and robes by the panicked, but jubilant, staff. They were shivering, their teeth chattering, but they were grinning like madmen.
"We did it!" Jae-hyun cheered, hugging a very wet Min-soo. "The rainfall didn't stop! The grip held!"
Kang-joon sat on a equipment crate, sipping a cup of hot ginger tea. He felt a profound sense of exhaustion, but his eyes were fixed on the System screen that only he could see.
[System Notification: Major Death Variable 'Consortium Purge' has been NEUTRALIZED.] [Reward: Permanent Life Extension (1 Year). New Title Unlocked: 'Master of the Stage'.]
He had survived the sale. He had saved his allies. For the first time in 97 lives, he wasn't looking at a countdown to his own demise.
"Hyung," Min-soo said, walking over and sitting next to him, his hair still dripping. "I heard a rumor. The CEO is so happy about the sponsor's reaction that he's giving us a week off. A real vacation."
Kang-joon looked at the "Nation's Center," who was now looking at him with genuine, deep-seated loyalty. "A week off, Min-soo-ssi? That's 168 hours of lost training time."
"Professor," Min-soo laughed, throwing a towel over Kang-joon's head. "For once in your life, shut up about the metrics. We're going to the beach. And if you try to calculate the tides, I'm throwing you in the water."
Kang-joon allowed a small smile to touch his lips. He had 168 hours of peace. He had a team that finally felt like a family. And most importantly, he had a future that was no longer a script written by someone else.
"Fine," Kang-joon said, pulling the towel tighter. "But I'm bringing the sunscreen. I've done the math, and the UV index at the coast is currently at a ten-year high."
The "Monster Unit" laughed, their voices echoing in the hallway.