We’re greeted on the ninety-eighth floor by S.A.Y.’s giant logo and huge framed photos of each member of SLK, One.J’s perfect face smoldering from the middle. For a second, I forget my sadness and nerves—it’s like One.J’s gaze releases a ball of butterflies inside me. The reality that I’m in the hallowed halls that made One.J the perfect being that he is sweeps over me.
I shake myself out of One.J’s spell and run to catch up with Manager Kong as she leads me past glass-walled offices and conference rooms where very hip, well-dressed people are working. The building is ridiculously nice, which I wasn’t assuming it would be—Imani told me even some of the biggest superstar idols had to train in cruddy basements. Manager Kong answers my question before I have the chance to ask. “We’re a part of ShinBi Unlimited,” she says. “That’s why we’re in this amazing building. You’re very lucky to be a trainee at S.A.Y. and not somewhere else.”
She explains further that ShinBi Unlimited owns hundreds of other companies: TV networks, grocery chains, film studios, home appliance lines, and all sorts of random industries, even missiles and tanks for the Korean military. S.A.Y.’s corporate offices and trainee center occupy the top three floors of ShinBi Unlimited’s headquarters because, as Manager Kong says proudly, trainees are ShinBi’s most prized assets—not because K-pop brings in the most money, but because idols, especially SLK, are the image of the company, facing not just Korea but the entire globe.
My whole body’s tingling. I truly thought being an idol was just about singing catchy songs and looking fierce in music videos, not representing a bajillion-dollar corporation and a whole country.
“That’s why our standards for idols’ behavior is so high,” says Manager Kong, “and why our number one rule for trainees is: absolutely no dating. Not other trainees, not regular boys, no one.”
“I understand,” I pant as Manager Kong scans us through another security clearing.
Manager Kong goes on, “In Korea, K-pop idols belong to the fans, to the country. Think of it as you’re in a serious, committed relationship with your fans. It’s not like Hollywood, where dating around and bad behavior are celebrated. Imagine how ruinous it would be to your own reputation, to your group, and to the entire company, if you’re caught cheating on the Korean people. You must always maintain a pure image.”
Whoa. Okay, got it—Koreans are intense about their fandom. This explains why fans are freaking out so hard about Iseul and HyunTaek.
K-pop Dating Bans aren’t actually a big deal to me. Since I’ve never dated a boy before—unless if you count freshman year, when I “dated” Ethan for a week before he came out—I’m not about to start while I’m locked away in a girls’ dorm for three months.
“This is S.A.Y.’s corporate floor, where all the offices are. You’ll come here for language class, special meetings, and monthly assessments only. This is also the floor where our junior trainees practice.”
We pause next to a big practice room where dozens of freakishly adorable little kids are doing cutesy K-pop moves. Seriously, each one must have been selected from a child modeling agency.
“The juniors go to regular school and live with their families, obviously. Many of your fellow trainees have been with S.A.Y. since they were the age of these little ones. The two floors above us are the training facility for senior trainees, where you’ll be living and practicing. Those floors are separated down the middle—the north side is for boy trainees, south for girls. They have separate stairwells, elevators, separate security. It’s impossible to get from one side to the other, so don’t you dare try. Think of those floors as two slabs of tofu that have been cut down the middle with a knife.”
“I understand, Manager Kong,” I say in my most obedient voice.
“The only interaction you’ll have with boy trainees is with a few in your Korean Language class, but even that will be closely supervised by Teacher Lee, who’s extremely strict. Understand?”
“I understand,” I say.
To calm myself down, I wave to one of the baby trainees. Her whole face brightens. She and her friends rush closer to the glass wall to bow and wave to me frantically. My heart swells … and breaks a little.
“Isn’t that cute?” says Manager Kong, cracking a smile. “They think you’re somebody important.”
I wave goodbye to the adorable trainees as Manager Kong leads me past a nondescript door. If Manager Kong didn’t point it out, I wouldn’t have seen it at all. “Behind that door is what we call the Fantasy Factory. There’s a whole team of some of the most talented Korean stylists, costume designers, set designers, and other artists in there creating Concepts for MVs and world tours for our artists, plus the two new groups that haven’t even been chosen yet. They’re the ones making sure our artists have the most innovative and awe-inspiring Concepts the world has ever seen.”
I nod appreciatively and say, “Wah!”
She leads me up a dark stairwell. There’s so much new information that I’m getting light-headed.
“There are fifty boy trainees hoping to debut in SLK 2.0,” she says, “and fifty girls trying to debut in our first girl group. And this is after we’ve cut hundreds of trainees already. The girl trainees are divided into ten teams of five girls each. Each team has elements that CEO Sang wants in the final lineup, but he’ll choose only the best of the best. Every month, there will be a trainee assessment, where CEO Sang will make important decisions.”
At the top of the stairs is a sturdy metal door—it looks like it belongs on a submarine or in a bank vault—with a pink number 99 on it. I sound out the Korean words under 99 and realize it says Female Practice-People. Or girl trainees. Manager Kong scans her ID card and I have to help her open the door—it’s super heavy.
Floor ninety-nine is much less fancy than the corporate floor. It looks kind of like a college dorm, a hallway of doors decorated with girls’ names and photos.
“You’ll be on Team Two,” says Manager Kong. “You’re lucky. Up until recently, I wouldn’t have been surprised if CEO Sang decided just to make Team Two the final group—everyone knows Team Two has some of the most promising talents and Visuals. But then we lost a member.”
A dark look comes over Manager Kong’s face.
“Lose her? How did you lose her?” I ask.
She brushes me off. “Not important. Anyway, instead of just moving another trainee into Team Two, I decided to recruit a brand-new girl. Team Two knows they’re special, and they’re getting complacent. I wanted to find a girl who’d really challenge them.”
I’m totally confused. What about my audition would make Manager Kong think I’d be a challenge to the top girls?
“You’re in the best hands with Team Two. I manage five of the trainee teams, so I won’t be able to supervise everything. You’re the maknae, so you’ll learn a lot from your unnies. There’s even another American girl on the team.”
Before I can ask anything else, we’ve arrived at Team Two’s dorm. Manager Kong knocks on the door twice and throws it open before anyone responds.