The blue liquid was cold, sweet, and went down like liquid candy with a hint of citrus.
I felt a faint, pleasant warmth blossom in my chest—not the foggy haze of a buzz, but a sharp spike of sugar and adrenaline.
It wasn't enough to make me tipsy, but it was enough to make my muscles feel a little less like they were made of concrete.
On stage, the lights flickered into a violent, rhythmic purple.
Youthful Memoirs took their positions.
The crowd surged forward, and I couldn't help but let out a short, sharp laugh as the opening chords rang out.
Seeing "Jay"—our straight-laced, reserved Student President Jun-seo—shredding a guitar while wearing a black mask was the height of irony.
He looked like he'd gone wild, a shadow of the boy who worried about history textbooks.
"Look at you, President," I muttered, shaking my head.
I ducked away to the restroom to splash some water on my face and adjust my mindset.
When I came back, I didn't return to the bar.
I put on my "Mountain" persona, using my shoulders to carve a path through the swaying bodies until I was standing directly in the front row, right under the stage monitors.
I jumped.
I moved.
I let the rhythm take over.
Then came the moment I was waiting for.
The "Fan's Choice" tradition.
"Alright, Hongdae!" the fox-masked bassist shouted into the mic. "Who wants to join the chaos?"
A forest of hands shot up.
I reached for the ceiling, my height and broad frame making it impossible to miss me.
Under the hot stage lights, I saw "Jay" freeze.
He adjusted his grip on his guitar, his eyes locking onto mine.
If the first time we did this was luck, this was pure recognition.
I could see the disbelief in his posture—the slight tremble of his hands.
'What is this idiot doing here?' his body language screamed.
I grinned, raising my hand even higher, my eyes challenging him.
Jun-seo hesitated for a heartbeat.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he pointed the neck of his guitar straight at me.
The crowd roared.
I didn't need an invitation twice.
I vaulted onto the stage in one fluid motion.
The bassist handed me the mic.
I felt the weight of it—the power of it.
I had realized something over the last few days: popularity is a currency.
It's fragile, it's fast, and if you don't spend it, it disappears.
H-Wnot needed this.
I needed this.
I leaned into the mic, my voice booming through the club's massive sound system.
"You might not know us yet," I said, my Korean sounding smooth and confident. "We're new. We're loud. We performed at our school festival a few days ago, and I wanted to share a piece of us with this crowd tonight."
I heard the murmurs spread—Is he..? Is he that guy from the new Kirin band?
I turned around and stared Jun-seo dead in the eye.
He looked like he wanted to either kill me or run away, but he didn't move.
I flashed him a cunning, ominous smile.
"This is an original," I announced. "H-Wnot - Frequency! Play it like you mean it, Jay!"
The beat started.
I moved across the stage with a predatory energy, catching the rhythm of the drums and pushing the band to go faster.
I saw Jun-seo finally give in.
He stopped being the "President" and started being the "Frontman," his fingers flying across the fretboard as he followed my lead.
We were in sync.
The frequency was locked.
As I hit the high note of the chorus, I looked out at the sea of phones being held up.
Tomorrow, the internet wouldn't just be talking about "Fred."
They would be talking about H-Wnot.