“Sorry.” I gulped. “I just— I’m really out of my element, and I’m still trying to figure out why I need to babysit fellow interns. Can’t we get an adult for that?”
It was a joke.
She didn’t laugh.
In fact, her skin turned a shade of white I’d never before seen on another human being and probably never would.
She grabbed my free arm, nearly knocking all of the water bottles out of them, and dragged me to the kitchen. I clumsily placed the bottles on the countertop while she braced her hands against the stark white granite. “They aren’t interns. You’re the intern.”
“Right.” I nodded, on the verge of stressed-out tears. “Okay, then who are they, and why are they here?”
“Did nobody brief you? On anything? At all?”
“Not really. It happened fast. Siu—”
“No, no, you call him Owner Siu. He’s the owner of the record company. Or in Korean, Soyuja Siu. You always address the person with their job title before their name. Otherwise, you’re being rude. Did your family never teach you about honorifics? Are you even half Korean?” Each word felt like another blow to my gut.
Because not fitting in had always been a big insecurity until college and now I felt like I was back in middle school with all the blond-haired, blue-eyed girls.
And other than Uncle Siu, who I’d only met briefly when I was younger, I didn’t have any family on my dad’s side, unless you count super distant relatives. It was like Solia knew every single insecurity I already had and decided to just bang me over the head until I had a breakdown.
Another rough exhale from my favorite person. “I’m Assistant Solia to you, by the way, not just Solia.” Did she have to make it sound like I said her name while dealing with a sinus infection on top of everything else? “I help Soyuja Siu manage the band; you’re just the…” She shrugged. “You’re the person who makes sure that they want for nothing. You’re not even really an intern, at least not according to me. Look, we have someone starting from another label in three months, but until then, and because the scandal was leaked to the press, it’s…” She hesitated then. “You, that he trusts, probably because you don’t even know who they are and don’t care. Your job is to be silent, not seen, not heard. Your job is to do what we tell you and do it well.”
“Sorry,” I whispered yet again, feeling both agitated and embarrassed. What else was I supposed to say? At this point, the entire apartment building had probably heard our conversation, seen my shame.
“You didn’t know. Of course, you don’t know a lot of anything—this is so typical of Soyuja! He likes helping people. And he was probably so desperate for someone who didn’t know the whole situation since the last few interns quit—” Her head shot up. “Don’t repeat that, by the way.”
“Wouldn’t dare.” I held up my hands while my brain did the calculations. Every other intern had quit. I was from America; I knew nothing about the record industry in Korea other than it was a booming multi-billion-dollar industry.
K-pop was huge, at least according to the five articles I had read before falling asleep on the plane.
“Your only job as an intern is to make sure the guys are happy, that they don’t escape the talent apartments, and that they don’t accidentally create another scandal before their comeback.”
“So those guys in there?” I was almost afraid to hear her answer but asked it anyway.
She straightened her spine with pride and announced. “One of the biggest K-pop groups in the world, SWT.” She gulped. “Those are the idols.”
I… was afraid of that.
“Perfect,” I croaked, ready to pass out on the spot. “Good thing we really seemed to hit it off.”
She let out a snort. “I expected them to throw you out the window and take bets on how many seconds it would take for you to hit the trees.”
“Ah, sarcasm.” I crossed my arms.
“I was being serious.” She scowled. “You don’t make it to this level without hard work. You’re lucky because of who you know, but I’ve been working this job since I was fourteen and became a trainee for an idol group at the same age. I had exactly three hours of sleep every night for four years, still couldn’t make the cut. I finally decided to join the other side and work for the groups.”
“Trainee?” I repeated. “What’s a trainee?”
Again with the death glare. “You need to do yourself a favor and start YouTubing, or even Soyuja isn’t going to be able to save you.” She looked behind me. “The chef should be here soon to cook dinner for everyone. Let’s get you settled in next door, and I’ll try to help as much as I can. I don’t want to be fired because you’re incompetent. Their diet is essential this close to the comeback stage.”
Ouch.
“And yes, his name is Lucas, he’s one of the main rappers, also second visual according to most of the fans. He’s a favorite, but he doesn’t speak to people he doesn’t know. It’s his thing, he’s… difficult. Once he gets over that stage, you can most likely call him by his nickname— Actually, save yourself the trouble. Just use their stage names. You’ll just butcher their actual names and embarrass yourself, then I’ll have to make excuses for you, and it’s just not worth it at this point.”
And the hits just kept coming.
“What about the guy with the red hair again?” I blurted. She’d said everything so fast that I barely caught visual and rapper before nearly having a nervous breakdown.
She sighed. “Just stay diligent.”
What the ever-loving hell did that mean?
She grabbed my suitcase. I had to almost jog to keep up with her as we went back down the entryway and scanned a little card on a door directly to the right of their front door.
She shoved it open with her hip.
It was a small apartment.
One you’d pay two grand a month to live in, back in Seattle.
It had one large window in the sparse living room. Had two leather couches, a fur rug, and a flat-screen TV attached to the wall.
There was a mini-kitchen with a stainless steel fridge and a microwave, which I was thankful for. The sink was next to the bar, which had two metal stools.
And to the far right of the kitchen was one tiny bedroom with a place to hang all my clothes.
The room had one mattress on the floor and a desk.
I wasn’t complaining.
“This is where you’ll be living for the next three months. We keep most of the interns close to the group, especially this one so that you can be at their every beck and call.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Not one bit.
“But—” I licked my lips and tried not to sound frustrated. “I’ll get to see them record too, right? I really want to see that side of things, the writing, the producing, the process of…” My voice trailed off as her eyes widened to a frightening level. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“You’re an intern. You’re only job is to make sure they’re happy, and they stay on good behavior. No scandals. In the US, a scandal makes you famous. Here, it kills your entire career in an instant—here, idols commit suicide from the pressure, a mistaken dating scandal where they’re caught holding hands with the wrong person. The comments on Instagram alone are enough to send them into a tailspin of depression.” She shuddered. “The production company loses millions, and there is no comeback. That’s why you’re here. You study their profiles down to their blood type.”