Grab the Regressor by the Collar and Debut! Chapter 58

Chapter 58. Ways to Drop a “Parachute” (5)

Ever since its release, “Shouting to You” has never lost its unofficial title:

#1 breakup song women scream in karaoke after a split.

There were several reasons this song was bad news.

“Whoa… isn’t this way too high?”

“And transposing it to a male key is kind of… risky.”

First problem: it’s high.

Not “a few high notes” high.
It’s high the entire time.

Yes, the verses dip slightly—but if you lower the key for male vocals, it doesn’t just sit comfortably. It drops straight through the floor into the basement.

In short:

Vocal difficulty — maxed out.

If that were the only issue, fine.

“Hmm… the tempo’s kind of awkward too.”

“It’s weird if we just sing, but it’s also weird to dance.”

Ballads come in many flavors, but “Shouting to You” starts restrained and slow, then gradually drives forward before crashing into explosive high notes at the climax.

If you speed it up into a dance arrangement, the latter half becomes chaotic.
If you keep the tempo, your performance options shrink dramatically.

Meaning:

Arrangement difficulty — also maxed out.

But the biggest problem—

“Okay, but how are we supposed to beat Sarin sunbaenim?”

The original is untouchable.

There’s a reason Sarin’s nickname is “The Boss.”

“Wait, why is her nickname ‘Boss’? She’s not a CEO.”
└ “Because anyone who covers her gets buried.”
└ “It became ‘If you want to get bossed, sing a Sarin song.’ Then it stuck.”

The legend goes like this:
A junior covered Sarin at an end-of-year stage and completely collapsed.
People started digging up every failed Sarin cover ever.
Then the meme was born:

“Boss, another one’s on the way.”

The original’s image isn’t just strong.

It’s monumental.

If you sing it like the original, you get flamed.
If you don’t sing it like the original, you still get flamed.

In other words:

Public-satisfaction difficulty — ultra-hell mode.

If we mess this up, we’re getting shredded.

And after the noise I made in the first mission, attention on me was still sky-high.

Exhibit A:

Look at those cameras. They’ve been tracking me nonstop.

First mission: leader, center, part-hogging rookie who dragged the team to victory—then lost the individual battle but still clawed into Wings.

If people root for me, I look greedy.
If they hate me, my results are too good.

Most viewers will decide whether they like me based on this stage.

Which means:

I have to nail it.

If we stick too close to the original, we’re walking into a grave.

We have to arrange it—hard.

If comparison is inevitable, then reduce what can be compared. Even if that means turning it into something wildly different. Even if it looks insane.

While the room was still quiet, I jumped in.

“Let’s decide the arrangement direction first. What about jazz? The rhythm’s strong to begin with. We could build performance around that.”

“Whoa—that’s drastic.”

“The verse-to-chorus gap is huge, right? A jazz arrangement could smooth that transition.”

“I think it’s good…!”

“M-me too. Honestly, if we’re the only team doing a pure ballad while the others go hard on performance, we’ll look flat.”

Thank God I’m with people who communicate.

The two Feather-tier trainees had seen what I pulled last mission—they’d likely follow my lead. Dan Haru looked thrilled just to be here. And Seo Taehyun didn’t need convincing; he’d judge for himself.

“…Taehyun, what do you think?”

“Ah—huh? Yeah. …I think it’s good too. Let’s do well.”

“Good. Then let’s distribute parts quickly.”

The meeting rolled forward in a genuinely upbeat mood. I almost wanted to cry at how smooth it felt.

Concept: Opposite of the original.

That made brainstorming easy.

“Okay, we’ll do this. Taehyun’s good at emotional delivery, so he anchors center and carries the core.”

“Sounds great!”

“We’re counting on you, Taehyun hyung!”

“Done. Taehyun and I will draft the first version of the performance. After we eat, we’ll run it together?”

“Yes!”

…What?

This is easy?

I even tossed my notebook dramatically, and the others applauded like we’d already won.

The PD watching us must’ve decided there wasn’t much more to extract—several cameras peeled off and moved to other teams.

In that almost suspiciously wholesome atmosphere, I made a decision.

Yeah.

We’ll rehearse cleanly. Deliver a polished stage. Lock in the “reliable skilled trainee” image.

“Guys.”

“….”

“You’re telling me this is what you brought as your stage?”

“….”

“I’m really disappointed right now.”

Huh?

The one who shattered my grand dream in a single afternoon:

Seo Taeil.

The composer of the song.

Where did we go wrong?

Up until mid-check, everything had felt smooth.

Arrangement?

“So you’re lifting just the chord structure? …Yeah, that works. It feels like a new song.”

Vocals?

“Smart distribution. You chopped the high notes through arrangement? Good.”

Choreo?

“Since the original has none, building performance must’ve been tough. You worked hard.”

Team vibe?

“Want to run it once more and monitor?”

“Haru, step back two paces—you keep bumping into me.”

“Then I’ll just stand here and come back in!”

Even the System seemed moved.

Taehyun seemed slightly distracted—

“Taehyun hyung? You listening?”

“…Ah. Sorry. What was it?”

—but not enough to disrupt practice. He always locked in once cameras rolled.

So when I heard the mentors’ schedules pushed mid-check later, I didn’t think twice.

We’ll pass anyway.
No issues.

Our version of “Shouting to You” was solid.

What I failed to consider was one thing:

Who was judging us.

Seo Taeil.

The man who wrote and composed the song.

“Did you even interpret the lyrics properly? Did you analyze them?”

“….”

“Then how did you end up here?”

He tapped his binder sharply. The room was so cold you could hear the camera motor whirring.

“Whose idea was this? Do all of you agree with this stage?”

“….”

“I’m not saying the stage itself is bad. But if you reinterpret an original, you must show you understand what gives it power.”

He sighed.

“Is it right to sing this song with bright smiles and charm? What am I supposed to feel? Sad? Amused? Is a breakup funny?”

“….”

“I’d almost be less disappointed if you had just stood there and sung the original with MR.”

Writer Go thought:

Wow. He sharpened his knife today.

She scanned the trainees’ faces, already mentally assembling a rough edit.

This team had been too smooth. Too flat. Boring.

Taeil had just handed them a storyline.

“Crisis of the team everyone thought was strongest.”

PD Kwon whispered beside her:

“They need a direction shift. We frame it as a fall before the rise.”

“I’ll get emotion-line interviews immediately.”

“Ask about concept leadership too. Hajin led it, right? See if anyone had doubts.”

“Got it.”

Meanwhile, Taeil drove the final nail in.

“Meet again. Practice again. I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon.”

“As the composer, I can’t approve a stage that shows this little understanding.”

“….”

“Why aren’t you answering? Can’t you do it? Kang Hajin—can’t you?”

“…No. We’ll fix it and show you properly.”

“What about the others?”

“We can do it!”

“We’ll try!”

Taeil’s gaze shifted.

“Taehyun.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember what you told me when you said you were coming to Miro?”

“…Yes.”

“I don’t think you came here to keep doing what you’ve always done. Or did you?”

Taehyun reflexively moved to bite his lip—then stopped and lowered his head.

Writer Go didn’t miss it.

Oof. Taehyun’s about to crack.

The competition was in one day.

How were they supposed to build an entirely new concept overnight?

And yet—

She wasn’t worried.

Her gaze slid to someone else.

Even in this tension, Hajin was watching Taehyun calmly. Almost too calmly.

PD Kwon watched him too.

Feels like… he’ll figure something out.

And the moment Taeil left, the SAD ENDING team gathered in the center.

Silence.

Pale faces.
Panic.
Thoughts colliding.

Then, instinctively, they all looked at one person.

“…Hajin hyung. What do we do?”

And Kang Hajin—now responsible by default—thought:

…I didn’t prepare a Plan B.

Fuck.

Absolute fucking hell.