Grab the Regressor by the Collar and Debut! Chapter 51

Chapter 51. “Do You Want to Go Back?” (1)

“Th-that’s….”

The second the words almost slipped out, Hajin clamped a hand over his mouth.

Get it together, Kang Hajin. You’re mic’d.

But it didn’t make sense.

If they’d lost the team match, sure—fine. He could accept that.
But losing on individual score?

Even the other trainees couldn’t hide their shock. He could feel the whispers crawling through the studio like cold air.

And it wasn’t just that.

Han Seongwoo’s score is higher than Lee Yugeon’s… and even Wonho’s?

Han Seongwoo—grinning like a mischievous kid, surrounded by monsters selling wistful “fresh” like it was their natural habitat.

Unless the mentors had all collectively lost their minds, it shouldn’t have been possible.

Flash—

Another annihilation-like wipe tore through his vision.

And Hajin was back in the men’s bathroom.

The shift was so abrupt his stomach lurched. He grabbed the nearest toilet and retched, dry-heaving until his throat burned.

As if to mock him, the system window—still stained red—flickered into existence with a crackle.

<System: You said you could stop that kid, didn’t you?>

“That kid.”

The pre-returner. The center of this cursed fantasy.

<System: Then you’ll have to try harder.>
<System: If a loser like you wants a chance to flip your life around, you should work harder.>

“What did you say, you punk?”

<System: Am I wrong?>

His vision swam—like he’d been strapped into a roller coaster and yanked through a full rotation. Blood rushed to his head. Nausea surged again.

“Since earlier you’ve been messing with people—!”

<System: Then should I turn it back?>

The world flipped.

And he was back.

“…This is…”

The phone in his hand.
His body under blankets.
A dark room, lights off.

<System: Do you want to go back?>

Twenty-nine-year-old Kang Hajin.
A life where no one looked for him.
A life where he couldn’t do anything.

<System: See? You don’t actually want to go back.>

Red text floated in the air. It wasn’t even pretending to be a “system” anymore—just writing, stamping each letter slowly, emphatically, like it wanted the words to bruise.

<System: Hajin. You know it too.>
<System: That it’s all meaningless.>
<System: You’ll fail again anyway. That’s your fixed future.>

“Fixed future.”

At that, Hajin’s expression sharpened.

<System: I’m helping you, Hajin.>
<System: I really want you to be happy.>

“Wow. ‘Happiness’—you’re really asking for the moon, Red.”

<System: I’ll give you another option.>

The view inverted again.

A void—so empty it couldn’t even be called darkness—spread out. Countless lights glittered and drifted through it.

No. Those weren’t stars.

They were memories.

Every moment Hajin remembered.

<System: I’ll let you do it too. Regression.>

“What?”

<System: I’m pretty close with that kid. I can borrow his timeline a little.>

“Then I can regress infinitely too? Like the pre-returner?”

<System: Want a hint?>

“No. Forget it. Whatever you offer feels shady.”

<System: Do you know why that kid keeps regressing?>

…That was tempting.

Hajin didn’t answer out loud.

The red text did it for him.

<System: Because he’s unhappy.>
<System: His life has always been unhappy.>

The memory-stars rearranged in an instant, surrounding Hajin.

Happy moments—memories he’d once thought if I could go back, I’d cherish every one of these—played all at once, overlapping, glittering, suffocating.

<System: You didn’t even truly want to become an idol.>
<System: Even if you live again, you won’t debut.>
<System: And even if you do, you won’t succeed.>

<System: So just go back!>
<System: To the moment you want.>
<System: Live an endlessly happy life.>

The memory-stars shone beautifully, like they were calling to him.

Hajin stared.

Countless moments were gathered there—footsteps of a life he’d forgotten for too long.

“…And what do you get out of it?”

<System: I told you. I want you to be happy.>

“…….”

<System: What are you hesitating for? This is your only chance.>

“What do I have to do?”

<System: Simple. Just say yes. I’ll handle the rest.>

<System: That’s what you always did—YES without thinking!>
<System: Just do it again this time!>

The red letters had no shape, no body, no face.

And yet it felt like they were pulling him forward.

Hajin stared until his eyes burned.

Then—

“You… you want me to regress.”

<System: Yes!>

“No.” Hajin’s voice dropped, steady. “It’s different.”

Everything stopped.

“You need me to regress.”

<System: …….>

“You want me to give up that idol trainee life—by regressing, or whatever it takes.”

He took a step forward.

The memory-stars popped like bubbles and vanished. Darkness rushed in to swallow the space.

Hajin spoke into it anyway.

“You’re scared, aren’t you?”

<System: …….>

“Scared I’ll actually stop him.”

<System: …….>

“That regression will stop.”

The silence was answer enough.

And now, as if the shape of the whole thing finally snapped into place, Hajin smiled.

So it had been strange from the start.

This thing’s attitude.

It kept pretending it was helping him, but every word was a shove. Every “advice” was a knife wrapped in kindness. The gaslighting—pathetic, loser, fixed future—was so familiar it made his teeth grind.

He’d heard it for years at his old company.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t on his side.

“So that’s why you keep scaring me,” Hajin said softly. “So I’ll run away. Because that’s what you need.”

He walked slowly toward the floating letters.

The thing that had been chirping nonstop went quiet the moment he hit the center.

“Why show up now? A whole month after I jumped in to stop him?”

He thought back over everything since regressing.

Every quest.

Every penalty.

One common thread:

Increase in probability of regression.

He’d cleared his quests smoothly. For over a month, his fifth life had run without incident.

Which meant—

“He didn’t regress, did he? Because of me.”

The changes Hajin made were affecting the pre-returner.

“Idiot,” Hajin muttered. “When you get hit with the truth, you’re supposed to deny it.”

“If you stay this quiet, I’ll notice.”

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?”

That was when the frozen space tore like paper.

Cracks split across everything.

<System recovery complete> <WARNING> <WARNING> <System Notice: Intruder detected. Security program activating…> <System Notice: Fixed returner’s timeline deviation confirmed. Restoring normal operation.>

“Hey—damn, good to see you, man!”

Familiar system windows flooded the dark.

It had only been a few hours, but it felt like days.

He was absurdly relieved.

<System Notice: Correcting fixed returner’s timeline…>

The timeline twisted. The space collapsed inward like it was being wrung out.

Hajin lost his balance and fell, curling up, shielding his head.

Whatever. As long as my skull doesn’t crack, I’m fine.

Screee—

When the violent shaking finally stopped, a door appeared inside the ruptured gap—blinking bright blue, practically screaming OPEN ME.

Hajin glanced at the system.

No strong objection.

He grabbed the knob.

<System: You’ll fail even if you go back. That’s your future.>
<System: Don’t you want to live inside happy memories?>

A last struggle.

Living forever in happy memories—eternal youth, eternal happiness.

Who could refuse that easily?

But Hajin had already decided.

“My mom told me if I’m gonna do it, I should come back as number one.”

He exhaled, then laughed under his breath.

“But if I think about it… my mom would say it’s fine even if I come back dead last.”

“…So it’s okay.”

Mom knows you’re good.
And Mom’s fine even if you aren’t.

The pre-returner regresses because he’s “unhappy,” right?

Hajin had regressed enough times to learn one thing:

What’s going to happen, happens anyway.

So instead of living “yesterday,” where failure is still ahead, it’s healthier to live “tomorrow,” where the failure has already passed.

“So get lost. I’ve gotta go see my mom.”

He swept his hand through the red letters like brushing away smoke, and shoved the door open.

The world twisted—nausea rising, sound smearing, light snapping apart—

Bang—! Bang bang!

When he came to, it felt like waking from sleep.

Hot lights spun. Tense BGM filled the set.

A scene he’d already lived once.

“Those who would reach the sun, rise high. The journey to become Miro’s Icarus!”

He was back—standing center-stage mid-filming.

“Hajin, what’s wrong? You’ve been weird since earlier—are you sick?”

“…No,” Hajin said, steadying his breath. “I’m just nervous.”

Seriously. How did modern fantasy invade his life like this?

The déjà vu was so sharp he didn’t even have the energy to react.

<System Notice: …Sorry. Cleaning up the timeline took a bit.>

“Whatever,” Hajin muttered. “You saved me.”

He let out a small laugh at the system’s awkward apology—couldn’t have been more welcome.

I’ll do better from here on, you idiot.

“Now then—Miro Maze’s first mission, Daylight! We will announce the results for the two teams!”

The future he already knew unfolded.

Maybe he wasn’t cut out to be a returner—watching the same scene twice was oddly dull.

But he couldn’t drift.

He turned his gaze to Han Seongwoo, diagonally across from him.

Hands clasped like he was praying, face tense, wearing the expression of a dependable eldest brother wishing for the team’s victory.

<TEAM B WIN!>

“Yes! Out of 500 points total—472 to 486! Team B wins! Congratulations!”

“No way!”
“Oh my god!”
“We won—we won!”

Among the trainees screaming, Hajin covered his mouth and wore a perfect “I can’t believe it” face.

Earlier, he’d been stunned because it was his first time.

Now?

He wasn’t going to waste the camera.

I should milk this for all it’s worth.

Instead of forcing himself into the chaotic group hug, Hajin stayed slightly apart—quietly “collecting himself.” Then he let his knees “go weak,” lowered his head, and gripped the railing like he was barely holding on.

Not too much. Just enough.

“Hajin.”

He turned.

Gong Seok stood beside him, face flushed with emotion.

“You worked so hard. Thank you. We won because of you.”

“…If you really think about it,” Hajin said, voice softer, “it’s because of you, hyung.”

Gong Seok had been under pressure too.

For once, Hajin reached out and patted his shoulder—no camera calculations at all.

Sorry for calling you a lost cause at first, sir.

“Alright! But the match isn’t over yet,” Taeil announced brightly. “Before we announce Wings based on final placements, we’ll check the battlers’ results!”

This part hadn’t been skipped this time.

Yugeon versus Wonho passed.

Then—

“Next! The result for trainee Han Seongwoo, rank 7, versus trainee Kang Hajin, rank 10—announcement begins!”

The scoreboard rolled.

Hajin covered his face with both hands like he couldn’t bear to look, then watched through the gaps between his fingers—eyes fixed on one person.

<Han Seongwoo (93.15) WIN vs Kang Hajin (92.99)>

“…Trainee Han Seongwoo, with 93.15 points, wins the battle by 0.16 points over trainee Kang Hajin. Congratulations.”

And Hajin saw it.

Before the score even fully settled on the screen—

Han Seongwoo was already smiling.