Another week dissolved into the blur of the "routine."
I had officially signed my soul away to the School Bands Club. It was the obvious choice. It was where the instruments were, where the history was, and where my "Quest 2" targets—Jun-seo and Myung-Dae—were legally required to be.
Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, I walked into that dusty, trophy-filled room, and walked straight into a geopolitical crisis.
The club was technically "active," but the atmosphere was about as warm as a winter in the East of Ukraine.
Jun-seo and Myung-Dae showed up every single time. They had to. In Korea, skipping your registered extracurriculars meant getting "demerit points" on your permanent Student Record (Saenghwal Girokbu). For a normal student, that was annoying. For the Student President and a guy whose family expected him to take over a business empire, a black mark on the record was social suicide.
So, they came. And they proceeded to aggressively ignore each other for ninety minutes.
Jun-seo was the model member.
He moved between the other practicing bands like a UN peacekeeper, offering advice on chord progressions or helping fix microphone stands.
He was helpful, smiling, and perfect.
Myung-Dae was the opposite. He would walk in, throw his bag in the corner, sit on a busted amp in the back, put on his massive noise-canceling headphones, and close his eyes. He slept. Or pretended to. It was a silent protest, a physical "screw you" to the concept of participation.
The tension between them was so thick you could cut it with a guitar pick. It radiated out, making everyone else nervous.
I spent my time tuning my guitar and observing the ecosystem. Despite the Ice Age in the corner, the club was surprisingly diverse.
There were "The Blue 7," a jazz-funk boy band who took themselves very seriously and wore matching fedoras (unironically).
There was "$iren," a loud, chaotic punk-rock boy band who spent more time arguing about hair dye than practicing.
There was "Prism," a polished pop-vocal boy group who practiced dance moves in front of the window reflection.
On the girls' side, we had "Scissors," an all-female rock band that scared me a little (their drummer hit the skins like she owed them money), and "ON C1OU9," an indie-acoustic trio that sang songs exclusively about rain and coffee.
And finally, the third-year duo, "U-Two." A boyfriend and girlfriend acoustic pair who spent the entire practice staring into each other's eyes and singing harmonies that were technically perfect but sickeningly sweet. They were usually making out behind the drum kit during breaks.
And then there was me. The "Representative." Drifting between groups, strumming chords, and trying to figure out how to fuse two nuclear warheads—Jun-seo and Myung-Dae—back into a band.
It seemed impossible.
Thursday morning. Korean History with Ms. Choi.
The late September sun was still warm, baking the classroom. I was fighting the urge to nap, my head propped on my hand as Ms. Choi droned on about the Joseon Dynasty's administrative structure.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the day.
"Before you leave," Ms. Choi announced, her voice cutting through the noise of packing bags. "Sit down. I have an announcement regarding the Autumn Festival."
The class froze. The Festival was one of the biggest event of the year. Everyone sat back down.
"Due to a scheduling conflict with the Foundation Day ceremonies and a necessary renovation of the outdoor amphitheater's lighting rig," Ms. Choi said, consulting her tablet, "the festival date has been changed."
A ripple of whispers went through the room.
"It was originally scheduled for September 29th," she continued. "It has been postponed to October 7th."
A collective gasp. That wasn't a huge delay. That was over a week of extra time.
"More time to practice!" Min-ah whispered next to me, looking excited. "Or more time to panic."
"However," Ms. Choi said, her voice dropping an octave. She looked up, her sharp eyes scanning the room. They landed specifically on the back row (Myung-Dae) and then the middle row (Jun-seo).
"The deadline for the Main Stage performance application has not changed. I need the finalized lineup by next Monday."
She paused for effect.
"Class 2-B has traditionally held the closing spot. It is our pride. But as of today, I have received no application from our... usual representatives."
Silence. Myung-Dae was staring out the window. Jun-seo was staring at his desk.
"If I do not receive a valid application for a band performance by Monday," Ms. Choi said, her voice crisp and final, "I will hand the closing slot over to Class 2-A."
The room exploded.
"2-A?"
"The Visual Arts kids?"
"No way! They'll just do some weird interpretive dance!"
"Chae-rin is in 2-A! She'll make it a solo concert!"
Ms. Choi ignored the outcry. She looked directly at Jun-seo.
"Fix it, President," she said simply. "Or lose the spot."
She picked up her books and walked out.
I looked at Jun-seo. His face was indifferent.
I looked at Myung-Dae. He had stopped looking out the window. He was looking at the back of Jun-seo's head, his expression dark and unreadable.
Min-ah nudged me hard in the ribs.
"Well, Mountain," she whispered, her eyes gleaming with the thrill of incoming drama. "Looks like your 'Quest' just got a deadline."