The screen flickered to our cramped space. Production crews swarmed between the bunks like ravenous vultures, hands diving into every corner.
They struck gold immediately.
Jisoo's snack empire emerged from under his bunk in dramatic slow motion—bag after bag of honey butter chips, towers of chocolate pastries, dried squid packets, and enough ramen to feed a small army.
GASP! The sound effect exploded as crew members kept pulling, their expressions shifting from surprise to theatrical shock.
"SNACK KING EXPOSED!" blazed across the screen in glittering letters, complete with animated chip bags raining down like confetti.
The camera zoomed in on each package with ridiculous intensity. Honey butter chips got their own dramatic close-up, complete with heavenly choir sound effects.
Then came Mr. Carrot.
The worn plush bunny emerged like courtroom evidence, held aloft by a crew member's gloved hands.
"SECRET CUDDLE BUDDY!" The caption sparkled with heart emojis and rainbow animations.
In the cafeteria, Jisoo's wail of anguish echoed off the walls.
"NOOOOOO!!!"
He flopped dramatically across our table, arms spread wide like he'd been shot.
"My babies! They're taking my babies!"
His voice cracked with genuine devastation.
"Mr. Carrot has been with me since middle school! He's innocent!"
Yuhyun patted his shoulder while fighting back laughter.
"It's just temporary confiscation—"
"TEMPORARY?!" Jisoo's head snapped up, eyes wild with panic.
"Do you know how many late-night conversations Mr. Carrot and I have had? The emotional support he provides during dance practice failures?"
The camera ate up every second of his breakdown, capturing pure comedy gold.
I reached across the table, placing my hand on Jisoo's trembling shoulder.
The gesture felt hollow—what comfort could I offer when production had stripped away his most precious possessions?
"They'll give everything back after filming," I said softly, though my voice lacked conviction.
Jisoo's eyes brimmed with unshed tears as he clutched my hand like a lifeline.
Even Jinwook shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his usual stoic mask cracking slightly.
His jaw tensed as he watched Jisoo's genuine distress unfold on screen for millions to mock.
"This is messed up," Jinwook muttered under his breath, so quiet the cameras couldn't catch it.
But they caught everything else—Jisoo's pain, our helplessness, and the entertainment value of human misery.
The screen shifted to Yuhyun's corner of the room, where production crew members carefully lifted his neatly wrapped packages from above his bed.
There were traditional rice cakes wrapped in delicate cloth, perfectly ripe persimmons nestled in tissue paper, and handmade candies tied with string.
Each package bore the careful attention of someone who truly cared.
Yuhyun bowed slightly toward the camera. "They're from my hometown, gifts from neighbors who supported me."
The harsh lighting softened around him as golden sparkles danced across the screen.
The caption read: "A Taste of Home" in elegant script, completely different from the mocking fonts they'd used for Jisoo.
"I wanted to share them with my roommates," Yuhyun continued, that wry smile playing at his lips as he addressed the cameras directly.
He bowed his head slightly, shoulders relaxed despite the invasion.
"It's only fair."
"Sweet & Gentlemanly" appeared in flowing cursive beside his image.
Around the cafeteria, murmurs of admiration rippled through the crowd.
Several trainees nodded approvingly, their expressions softening as they watched Yuhyun handle the situation with such poise.
The contrast was stark—Jisoo's breakdown versus Yuhyun's grace. Production knew exactly which narrative served their purposes.
I caught Yuhyun's eye across the table, offering what I hoped looked like concern rather than the knot of worry twisting in my stomach.
His responding smile carried that same steady warmth from our childhood—the kind that used to calm me after nightmares or scraped knees.
A slight nod followed, barely perceptible but unmistakably reassuring.
It's okay.
The silent message passed between us like a shared code, and something loosened in my chest.
Before we could respond further, the camera pivoted to Jinwook's corner with anticipation.
The crew tugged open his bag that was under his bed. Out came... a stack of neatly folded socks, each rolled and labeled with tiny handwritten tags.
"Monday," "Tuesday," "Performance Day."
Another drawer revealed a lined notebook filled with what looked like hand-drawn training schedules—meticulous charts tracking vocal exercises, dance routines, and even meal plans plotted in precise columns.
The editors went wild, slapping cartoon glasses on his face with the caption: "Mr. Serious!" Complete with animated sparkles and a briefcase icon bouncing around his head.
Several trainees snickered, pointing at the screen as more organizational treasures emerged—color-coded folders, a ruler, even a mini stapler.
Jinwook's jaw tightened beside me, but he maintained his neutral expression like a statue weathering a storm.
Then, to everyone's shock, one assistant pulled out a pink charm bracelet with delicate beads that looked like it belonged to a girl.
The cafeteria exploded.
Gasps. Whispers. Pointing fingers.
The screen went wild like they'd captured a romance scandal—hearts erupting everywhere, dramatic zoom-ins on the bracelet's tiny charms, and even a wedding bell sound effect.
"SECRET GIRLFRIEND?!" flashed in neon letters across Jinwook's stoic face.
The bracelet dangled from the crew member's fingers like damning evidence, each bead catching the harsh studio lights.
Trainees around us leaned forward, eyes wide with hungry curiosity.
Romance scandals could end careers before they started.
The cameras swiveled toward Jinwook like predators sensing weakness.
His face remained carved from stone, but I caught the slight twitch in his left eye—the only tell that he wasn't as unaffected as he appeared.
"It's from my sister."
Four words. Flat and final. No elaboration, no adorable backstory, and no charming explanation that would feed the editors' hunger for content.
The silence stretched uncomfortably as production waited for more.
Jinwook stared directly into the camera lens, unflinching.
The sparkly romance graphics fizzled out pathetically.
No wedding bells, no heart explosions—just disappointed editors scrambling to salvage their narrative.
"Family Man" appeared in boring, standard font across his image, a pale consolation prize for the scandal they'd hoped to manufacture.
Around the cafeteria, trainees deflated visibly. The gossip potential evaporated, leaving them hungry for the next source of drama.
As the cameras started their gradual, unavoidable turn toward my corner of the room, my stomach knotted.
My vision blurred at the edges. The cafeteria noise faded to white static.
This was it.