Grab the Manual and Debut!-Chapter 39: ✦Star-Stock [2]✦

The asphalt was cold, biting through the thin soles of Kang-joon’s indoor slippers as he and Gun-woo stepped out into the biting night air. Twenty stories above, the penthouse had felt like a fortress of glass and light, but down here, in the shadows of the streetlamps, the world felt claustrophobic. The black car sat idling at the curb, its exhaust puffing white plumes into the dark. The man leaning against the driver’s side door didn’t look like a victim. He looked like a debt collector from a nightmare Kang-joon had spent ninety-seven lives trying to outrun. He was thin, his face etched with the grey pallor of long-term desperation, and his eyes were fixed on the entrance of the building with a hungry, predatory intensity.

Gun-woo stepped forward first, his shoulders broad and his jaw set in the hard line of a man who had grown up fighting in the docks of Incheon. He didn’t say anything, but his presence was a physical warning. The man in the tattered jacket didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, his hands shaking—whether from the cold or the adrenaline, Kang-joon couldn’t tell.

"You’ve grown up well, kid," the man rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper on stone. He wasn’t looking at Gun-woo. His eyes were locked on Kang-joon. "You look just like your father. Same arrogant eyes. Same way of looking at people like they’re just numbers on a page."

"I don’t know who you are," Kang-joon said, his voice steady despite the frantic thrum of the System in his peripheral vision. He could see the ’Guardian’s Intuition’ flashing a dull, rhythmic red. Somewhere in the darkness across the street, he knew there were lenses—paparazzi or perhaps ’User_997’s’ own hired hands—waiting for a reaction. "If you have a claim, you should take it to the agency’s legal department. Standing outside a private residence at 2:00 AM is harassment."

The man let out a wet, hacking laugh. "Legal department? Your parents paid me off in a dark alley because they knew their ’genius’ son’s future would be over if the police found out he was in that car. They bought my silence with money they didn’t have. And now you’re up there, living in a palace, while I’m still limping from the day your father swerved." He took a step forward, his face twisting. "I don’t want the agency. I want you to look at me and tell me you don’t remember."

Gun-woo moved to intercept, his hand balled into a fist, but Kang-joon caught his arm. The touch was cold, a silent command to stay back. Kang-joon looked at the man, really looked at him, searching through the cluttered attic of his ninety-seven lives for the face of the man from the 2022 rain. He saw the limp. He saw the scar on the man’s temple. But he also saw the expensive sneakers the man was wearing—totally out of place with his tattered jacket.

"Who paid for the shoes?" Kang-joon asked quietly.

The man blinked, his scripted anger faltering for a split second. "What?"

"The shoes," Kang-joon repeated. "And the car. You’re being used. Whoever sent you here doesn’t care about your settlement. They just want a photo of me losing my temper. They want a photo of Gun-woo hitting you. If you stay here, the only thing you’ll get is a police statement and a lawsuit from Starline that you can’t win."

Before the man could respond, the heavy glass doors of the building swung open. A team of Starline security guards and a frazzled-looking manager burst out, their flashlights cutting through the gloom. They didn’t go for the man; they went for the boys.

"Inside! Now!" the manager hissed, grabbing Kang-joon’s hoodie and pulling him back toward the lobby. "Are you two insane? The Director is fuming! Do you have any idea what this looks like on the sensors?"

They were shoved back into the lobby, the cold air replaced by the sterile scent of floor wax and expensive air freshener. But they weren’t taken back to the penthouse. They were led to the service elevator and down into the basement parking garage, where a nondescript white van was waiting with its engine running.

"The move to the penthouse was a temporary incentive for the finale unit," the manager said, his face illuminated by the green glow of the elevator’s floor indicator. He didn’t look at them; he was too busy typing furiously on his phone. "Given the current ’security risks’ and the upcoming ’Star-Trade’ period, the company has decided to consolidate all fourteen trainees back into the communal dorms. It’s for your own safety. And for the integrity of the voting process." 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖

The drive back to the original Starline building was silent. Gun-woo sat in the back, his head resting against the glass, his eyes dark with a mixture of guilt and fury. Kang-joon sat in the middle, staring at the back of the driver’s seat. The "High-Security" dream had lasted less than twenty-four hours. It had been a carrot dangled in front of them, a taste of a life that was now being snatched away as the "Star-Trade" app went live.

When they arrived at the familiar, cramped dorms in the basement of the agency, the other nine trainees were already there. The air in the communal living room was thick with tension and the smell of instant noodles. The bunk beds, the scratched lockers, the single shared bathroom—everything was exactly as it had been before the finale. The only difference was the atmosphere. It wasn’t the tired camaraderie of trainees anymore. It was the sharp, jagged edge of competitors who knew that their lives were being traded on a digital market.

"The rules have changed," the head manager announced, standing in front of the fourteen boys. He held up a stack of standard-issue smartphones. "You are allowed your personal devices. We are not restricting your access to the internet. In fact, the company encourages you to monitor public sentiment. However," he paused, his eyes lingering on Kang-joon, "the ’Star-Trade’ app itself is strictly forbidden for trainee use. You are not allowed to view your own stock price. You are not allowed to trade. Any trainee found with the app on their phone will be immediately disqualified and their contract terminated."

He began handing back their phones. As Kang-joon’s fingers closed around his device, he felt the weight of it. It wasn’t just a phone anymore; it was a window into a world that was currently tearing him apart.

"You will live here together for the next ten days," the manager continued. "You will attend brand shoots, participate in scheduled ’Life Vlogs,’ and prepare for potential lineup changes. The five ’staryu’ members from the finale are not guaranteed a spot. If your market value falls, or if another trainee’s value surges, the lineup will shift. This is the Liquid Lineup. The fans are the directors now."

The manager left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. For a long moment, nobody moved. Then, as if on cue, thirteen hands reached for thirteen phones. The room was suddenly filled with the blue light of screens and the frantic tapping of thumbs.

Kang-joon didn’t open the Star-Trade app—he didn’t need to. He went straight to the Nutube app and searched for the Starline Entertainment channel. The "Behind-the-Scenes" clip he had watched earlier was now the top trending video in the country. He scrolled down to the comments, his heart a steady, hollow beat in his chest.

– [User_88]: Did you see the news? Kang-joon was caught at the gate talking to the hit-and-run victim! He looked so cold, like he was threatening the poor guy. I’m selling all my shares. I can’t support a bully.

– [K-Charts_Real]: Kang-joon’s stock is tanking. He’s already down to $6.20. If he hits $5.00, he’s out. Who are we replacing him with? I’m putting my money on Min-soo.

– [TruthSeeker]: Look at the way he looked at Gun-woo in the edit. He’s a total sociopath. He’s just using everyone.

"Don’t read them, Joon-ah," Doh-yun said, sitting down on the edge of the lower bunk next to him. The main vocal looked haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. He hadn’t checked his own comments yet, but the fear was written all over his face. "It’s all noise. The company is letting this happen to see who breaks."

"I’m not breaking," Kang-joon said, though his voice sounded distant to his own ears.

He looked across the room. The other nine trainees—the ones who hadn’t made the "staryu" finale unit—were huddled in a separate group. They weren’t looking at Kang-joon with the respect they had shown a week ago. They were looking at him like a wounded animal. In the world of Star-Trade, Kang-joon’s falling value was their opportunity. Every share sold of his was a potential buy for them.

Han-bin walked over, his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes. He sat on the floor at Kang-joon’s feet. "The ’Anti’ cafes are organized, Hyung. They’re ’Shorting’ your stock. They’re coordinating to sell in massive blocks every time the price tries to stabilize. It’s not just fans anymore; it’s people trying to make a profit off your exit."

Kang-joon scrolled further. He found a post on a major K-pop forum with over 50,000 upvotes. It was a side-by-side comparison of the "Devil’s Edit" where he looked cold and a screenshot of the man at the gate. The caption read: [The Architect of Lies: From a ’Perfect Leader’ to a Hit-and-Run Suspect. Why is Starline still protecting him?]

The narrative was setting like concrete. The more he tried to be "normal" in the dorm, the more the other trainees stayed away, as if his falling stock price was contagious. Even the way the staff treated them had changed. When the food arrived—standard, lukewarm lunch boxes—the staff member didn’t hand them out. He just dropped the bag on the table and left without a word.

"Look at this," Jae-hyun whispered, his voice trembling. He showed Kang-joon his screen.

It was a "Live Popularity Poll" on a social media site, separate from the app but fueled by its data. Kang-joon, who had been the undisputed #1 for weeks, was now at #7. The "Liquid Lineup" was already starting to shift in the public’s mind. Two trainees from the "other" group had surged into the top five, buoyed by "pity votes" and the desire for a "cleaner" group.

Kang-joon looked at his own reflection in the dark screen of his phone. He could see the exhaustion, the pale skin, the shadows under his eyes. He thought about his 97 lives. He had been a king, a beggar, a soldier, and a star. He had survived betrayals and collapses. But he had never been a "Stock." He had never been a number that thousands of strangers were trying to drive into the dirt for a few dollars.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Gun-woo.

"They’re starting the ’Dorm Vlog’ cameras in ten minutes," Gun-woo said, his voice low and steady. "The red lights will be on 24/7. They want to see you hide in your bunk. They want to see you cry."

Kang-joon stood up. He walked over to the communal mirror, splashed cold water on his face, and pushed his hair back. He looked at the ’Guardian’s Intuition’ notification still lingering in his vision.

[Threat Level: Extreme]

[Public Value: Declining]

[Internal Synergy: 100% (Core Unit)]

"Then let them watch," Kang-joon said.

He walked back to the center of the room, where the "Star-Trade" scoreboard would have been if they were allowed to see it. He couldn’t see the numbers, but he could feel them. He could feel the millions of people watching, waiting for the "Architect" to crumble.

As the red lights on the wall-mounted cameras flickered to life, signaling the start of the 24-hour live feed, the other trainees quickly adjusted their expressions, putting on camera-ready smiles or looking hardworking for the fans.