37: Chapter 37 A Person Who Eats Rice, A Soul Who Eats Rice!

Jiang Zhiyu was being held by the hands by Kim Minjeong and Ningning, walking sideways into the practice room. It wasn't "walking," it was "shuffling."

Kim Minjeong entered first, not facing forward, but sideways, like the crab, slowly shuffling while facing the five members of Red Velvet.

Her face was etched with the expression "I don't want to live anymore," but her hand was still supporting Jiang Zhiyu's left wrist, refusing to let go.

Her fingers were gripped tight, so tight that her knuckles turned white, so tight that it felt like she was going to crush Jiang Zhiyu's wrist.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't cry out in pain because he was already numb. From the company entrance to the hallway, from the hallway to the elevator, from the elevator to the practice room door, his wrist had been held the entire way, held until the blood circulation was cut off, held until it lost all sensation.

He couldn't feel pain; he could only feel Kim Minjeong's fingers trembling. It wasn't just a "shake," it was a "quiver." A violent quiver, as if she were shaking like a sieve.

Kim Minjeong had entered. Then came Jiang Zhiyu. He moved sideways, facing the five members of Red Velvet, slowly shuffling.

His chin was lifted slightly, his gaze fixed straight ahead, and the corners of his mouth held a faint, almost imperceptible arc. This was the command of the kings card — "You must strike the haughty expression of a prince."

He executed it, and he executed it so well that Yeri felt he was truly a prince, so well that Seulgi felt he was truly walking a red carpet, and so well that Joy felt he was truly filming a movie.

But his hands were not the hands of a prince; his hands were being held by two trainees, like a prisoner being escorted.

Finally, there was Ningning. She moved sideways, facing the five members of Red Velvet, slowly shuffling. Her gaze was already unfocused, with no point of focus in her pupils, as if her soul had left her body, leaving only an empty shell to carry out the final command.

Her lips were slightly parted, her teeth biting down on her lower lip until it turned white. Her face was very red, but not the red of shyness; it was the red of "I have no idea what I'm doing anymore."

The three of them were like conjoined the crabs, appearing one by one, facing Red Velvet, slowly emerging.

Kim Minjeong was on the verge of a breakdown; the only thought in her mind was — "Why do I have to go through this?"

Jiang Zhiyu was very calm, but his earlobes were blood-red. Not just "red," but "blood-red." So red that it looked like they might drip blood, so red that it looked like someone had pinched them with their fingernails, so red that Yeri couldn't help but take a few extra looks.

Ningning's gaze was unfocused; she couldn't see Red Velvet, couldn't see Jiang Zhiyu, couldn't see Kim Minjeong. She could only see a blur of light and shadow, and within that light and shadow were five figures, figures that were moving, looking at her. She didn't want to be watched, so she let her gaze lose focus.

Karina wanted to laugh but didn't dare to. She stood at the very back, holding her phone up, the frame steady. Because the phone's camera had image stabilization, no matter how hard her hands were shaking, the footage wouldn't shake.

Her heart was shaking, shaking violently. She knew she had done something wrong, knew Kim Minjeong and Ningning would hate her, and knew she would be hunted down later. She was afraid, but she also wanted to laugh. Because the scene was too ridiculous, so ridiculous that she couldn't help it.

She bit her lip, biting until it turned white, biting until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She held it in. She didn't laugh out loud.

The four of them finally stood still. Kim Minjeong on the left, Jiang Zhiyu in the middle, Ningning on the right, and Karina in the back. Four people, in a line, facing the five members of Red Velvet.

Jiang Zhiyu bowed slightly, Kim Minjeong bowed, Ningning bowed, and Karina bowed. The four of them moved in perfect unison, as if they had practiced it many times in the practice room. They hadn't practiced it; it was instinct. After staying at SM for a long time, bowing became an instinct.

"Annyeonghaseyo, good morning Red Velvet sunbaes."

The four voices overlapped, not loud, but very clear. Yeri was on the verge of a breakdown trying to hold back her laughter. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, her teeth biting the inside of her lip until it ached.

Her shoulders were shaking, not a "shake," but a "quiver." A violent quiver, as if someone had placed a vibrator on her shoulder.

She wanted to laugh, but she couldn't, because she was a junior, and juniors couldn't be rude in front of seniors. She endured it, endured it with great difficulty, so much so that tears were almost coming out.

Seulgi clutched her stomach, laughing silently. Her mouth was open, revealing two rows of neat teeth, but there was no sound. Her shoulders were shaking, her stomach quivering, and her whole body looked like it had been electrocuted by something, twitching and spasming.

She was laughing very happily, so happy that she forgot she was a major senior, so happy that she forgot to maintain her image, so happy that she forgot she should say "You're welcome" to the juniors.

She laughed until she bent over, laughed until she crouched on the ground, laughed until Yeri looked down at her and saw tears in the corners of her eyes.

Joy covered her face and laughed. Her fingers were long, clearly defined at the joints, with thin calluses on her fingertips. Her hands covered her face, blocking her mouth, but couldn't block her eyes.

Her eyes curved into crescents, curved so deeply that it looked like they were closing. Her shoulders were shaking, shaking so violently that the iced Americano in her hand sloshed back and forth in the cup, almost spilling out.

She didn't put down the iced Americano because she was afraid that if she put it down, her hand would slap the table. Slapping the table would be rude. She didn't want to be rude, so she endured it. Endured it with great difficulty.

Wendy bit her lower lip, a hint of uncontrollable laughter remaining in her tone. The corners of her mouth were lifting, unable to be pressed down.

Her voice was trembling, trembling violently, as if she had used too much breathy sound while singing. "Jiang Zhiyu, what are you all doing? Filming a variety show?"

After she finished speaking, she glanced at Karina. Karina was holding the phone, the frame aimed at Red Velvet. Wendy's gaze landed on her, not heavy, but very clear.

Karina felt that gaze, and her body instantly tightened. Not just "tightened," but "stiffened." Stiff as a stone, stiff as a wooden stick, stiff as a statue.

She bowed frantically, not a "bow," but a "nod." Nodding very quickly, so fast it was like pounding garlic. Her face wore a brilliant, "screw it" smile, half-crying and half-laughing, like an expression pinched into shape by someone's hands.

Jiang Zhiyu coughed. Not a "cough," but a "clear." Clearing his throat, clearing his vocal cords, clearing away the laughter that was swirling in his throat.

His expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be seen. But his earlobes were still red, so red that Wendy took one look, then another. "We are testing a new promotional strategy." His voice was not loud, but very clear. "We are going to try promoting Red Velvet's new album next."

The smiles of the entire Red Velvet group vanished. Not "slowly vanished," but "suddenly stiffened."

Yeri's mouth still held the arc from before, but that arc was no longer a smile; it was the awkwardness of "I don't know if I should keep smiling."

Seulgi's mouth was still open, but she was no longer smiling; it was the shock of "Say that again." Joy took her hands down from her face, her expression very calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected.

But her fingers tapped lightly on the iced Americano cup twice, not a "tap," but a "grip." Gripped very tightly, so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Wendy's mouth was still biting her lower lip, but it wasn't from holding back laughter anymore; it was the disbelief of "How could you do this?"

Bae Joo-hyun's expression didn't change. Her mouth maintained that same arc, not too big, not too small, neither cold nor hot. But her eyes had changed, from "I am watching a mime show" to "What are you saying?"

Yeri looked at Jiang Zhiyu, looked at his calm face that revealed no emotion, looked at his eyes that shimmered with a faint gold in the sunlight, and looked at his "noble prince" demeanor.

A voice in her heart was saying — Is he joking? He must be joking. He wouldn't really promote Red Velvet in this way.

He is Jiang Zhiyu, SM's youngest signed creator, the producer of Kim Taeyeon's "prince ruperts drop," the mastermind behind IU's album selling 1.2 million copies. He wouldn't do such a thing.

He wouldn't let Red Velvet be held by their hands by two trainees during their promotional period, walking sideways into a TV station, into a music show, into a fan meeting. He wouldn't.

"Zhiyu, are you... serious?" Yeri's voice trembled slightly. Not a "shake," but a "quiver." A violent quiver, as if someone had plucked her vocal cords.

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. That arc wasn't a smile; it was the confirmation of "Guess." "Not necessarily," he said.

Yeri's pupils constricted. What did "not necessarily" mean? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe, it meant yes. Yes, meant definitely. Definitely, meant — she didn't dare to think any further.

The expressions of the entire Red Velvet group changed. Not "slowly changed," but "instantly changed." Yeri's face turned from pink to pale, Seulgi's face turned from rosy to iron-blue, Joy's face turned from calm to stiff, and Wendy's face turned from gentle to grave.

Bae Joo-hyun's face didn't change; her expression remained the same, calm, cold, revealing no emotion. But her fingers tapped lightly on her knee. Not a "tap," but a "pause." She paused for a moment, then continued tapping. Tapping very slowly, so slowly it was like she was counting.

She was counting how much longer she could endure. She didn't know. She only knew that if Jiang Zhiyu really promoted Red Velvet in this way, she would — she didn't know what she would do. She only knew she wouldn't let him do it.

Jiang Zhiyu coughed. This time it was a real cough, not "clearing" his throat. His throat was a bit dry because he had spoken too much, and because his heartbeat was too fast, so fast that his throat tightened along with it.

He let go of Kim Minjeong and Ningning's hands. Not "loosened," but "released." He released them, moving his fingers away from their wrists and letting them hang at his sides. His hands were cold because he had held them too tightly, so tightly that the blood circulation had been cut off.

He flexed his fingers, his knuckles making a "crack" sound.

"That was just a punishment task from a game the four of us played last night."

"Now, let's begin the first discussion meeting for Red Velvet's new album concept. Karina and the others will be my assistants on the side, taking meeting notes. I hope you sunbaes don't mind."

Karina's hand faltered. Not a "shake," but a "pause." She paused, then continued holding the phone up. She looked at Jiang Zhiyu's profile, the sunlight streaming in from the window, landing on his face, gilding his silhouette with a layer of golden light.

A voice in her heart said — Meeting notes? How were they supposed to take notes? She didn't know how. She had never taken meeting notes before; she didn't know what to record, didn't know how to write it, didn't know what the key points were. She didn't know anything.

But he had said to let her be an assistant and take meeting notes. He wouldn't make her do something she couldn't do. He had her do it because he would teach her. Not "teach," but "bring her along to do it." He does it, she watches. She watches, and she learns. Once she learns, she can do it. Once she does it, it means —

She put her phone away. Not "stowed," but "placed." Placed it in her pocket, zipped it up, and patted it. Then she walked to the wall, pulled a chair over from the corner, and sat down.

She took a notebook and pen out of her bag, opened to the first page, the tip of her pen hovering over the paper, waiting.

Kim Minjeong and Ningning walked quickly to Karina's side. Their pace was fast, too fast to look at the Red Velvet sunbaes, too fast to bow, too fast to say "excuse me."

They just wanted to get to Karina's side, and then — they exchanged a glance. That glance was very short, lasting only a fraction of a second. But in that fraction of a second, they understood the meaning in each other's eyes — "Next game, we must win."

Not "want to win," but "must win." Winning would allow them to take revenge. Revenge would allow them to vent their hatred. Venting their hatred would allow them to — they sat down, one on the left and one on the right, sitting next to Karina. Kim Minjeong on the left, Ningning on the right.

The two of them took out their notebooks at the same time, opened to the first page, and picked up their pens. Their movements were very neat, so neat that it was like they had practiced it many times in the practice room. They hadn't practiced it; it was tacit understanding. Once the tacit understanding was there, the movements became the same.

Yeri watched the three of them sitting side by side, notebooks in hand, pen tips hovering over the paper, waiting for Jiang Zhiyu to speak.

A voice in her heart said — It's like they're filming a movie. Not "like," but "it is." It is filming a movie, and the title is "Jiang Zhiyu and Her Women."

She didn't know what she was thinking; she only knew that she was a little envious. Envious that they could sit next to Jiang Zhiyu, could listen to him speak, could look at his profile gilded with gold by the sunlight.

She could too, but she wasn't his "assistant." She was a member of Red Velvet, the artist he was responsible for. An artist is not an assistant. An assistant can always be by his side, but an artist cannot.

An artist is only by his side when working. When work ends, they leave. Once they leave, they don't know when he will come again. She didn't know when he would come again; she only knew that she was here now.

Being here, she could watch him. Watch him standing in the center of the practice room, the sunlight streaming in from the window, landing on his white shirt. His shirt was very white, white to the point of glowing. His hair had grown a bit long, his bangs hanging down, covering half of his forehead.

There was no bubble tea in his hands because he hadn't bought any today. He didn't have time to buy bubble tea today because he had been held by Kim Minjeong and Ningning, walking from the company entrance to the practice room. He had no hands free to hold bubble tea. All he had in his hands were Kim Minjeong and Ningning's wrists.

Bae Joo-hyun sat on a chair by the window, watching Jiang Zhiyu. Her expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected. But her heart was not calm. She was thinking — He let go. He let go of those two trainees' hands.

His hands hung at his sides, his fingers slightly curled. His hands were very beautiful, with clearly defined joints, slender fingers, and neatly trimmed nails.

She had seen his hands, in the recording studio, on the mixing console, while flipping through documents. His fingers slid over the faders of the mixing console, tapped lightly on the edges of documents, and left faint fingerprints on bubble tea cups. She had seen them many times, and every time she thought they were beautiful.

She had never told anyone, because it was strange to say out loud. Her hands were also beautiful, but she wouldn't pay attention to other people's hands. She only paid attention to his hands. Because she wanted to know what the songs written by those hands were like.

What kind of hands could write songs like "prince ruperts drop," could write songs like "the blue night of jeju island," could write those songs that made her wear headphones late at night and loop them over and over.

She wanted to know, so she watched. Once she watched, she knew. Once she knew, she wanted to watch even more. She couldn't control it.

The practice room was quiet for a moment. Then Jiang Zhiyu spoke.

"Please sit."

Yeri's social death began when Jiang Zhiyu reached out to take that stack of booklets.

His hand passed through the air, past Seulgi's curious gaze, past Joy's slightly raised eyebrows, past the pen Wendy was subconsciously gripping, and past Bae Joo-hyun's fingers resting on the table—seemingly relaxed, yet with fingertips exerting slight pressure.

Five booklets were stacked together, with different colored covers, varying thicknesses, and placed in different positions.

Yeri's was at the very bottom, with a pink cover and an Alice sticker in the corner, the edges of which were already peeling—she had applied it last night.

When she applied it, she thought that this way, Jiang Zhiyu would know which one was hers.

Now, she didn't want him to know.

She wanted that pink booklet to disappear, to be buried by the other booklets, pressed to the very bottom, to a place Jiang Zhiyu couldn't see.

If it were buried, it wouldn't be seen.

If it wasn't seen, it wouldn't be judged.

If it wasn't judged, it would be safe.

Jiang Zhiyu precisely pulled out the pink booklet at the very bottom.

It wasn't a "pull," it was a "take."

His fingers slid across the spine of the booklet, stopped at an appropriate spot, gave a gentle pinch, and extracted it.

The movement was very light, so light it was as if he were handling something fragile.

Yeri's pupils shook.

It wasn't a "shake," it was a "constriction."

Constricting, focusing, focusing on his hand, focusing on that pink booklet, focusing on the action of him opening it.

He opened it.

The first page, black text on white paper, the characters very small, crowded together like a group of ants seeking shelter from the rain.

She had written it last night, writing until two in the morning, until she couldn't keep her eyes open, until her brain turned into mush.

She didn't know what she had written; she only knew she had written it.

She filled it, handed it in, and handing it in meant the task was complete.

Once the task was complete, she could sleep.

She slept, slept for six hours, and when she woke up, she had forgotten what she had written.

Now she remembered.

Everything she wrote was trash.

Jiang Zhiyu opened the first page, his gaze falling on the paper.

His expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be discerned.

But his lips were moving.

"One character, two characters, three characters..." He was counting.

Not reading, but counting.

Counting how many characters she had written, counting if she had managed to scrape together five thousand characters, counting if she was just going through the motions.

Yeri's pupils went from "constricted" to "exploded."

Exploded into fragments, exploded into powder, exploded into the feeling of wanting to find a crack in the ground to crawl into right now.

What is he doing?

What is he doing!

That's homework, not counting numbers!

That's the homework she stayed up half the night for, writing until her fingers went numb, until her eyes were dry, until she wanted to curse but held it in!

It's not for him to count!

Her face went from white to red, from red to green, from green to purple.

Her hands clenched into fists under the table, nails digging into her palms—it hurt, but she felt nothing.

Because her brain was already filled with the fact that "he is counting my characters," leaving no space to process the pain.

After Jiang Zhiyu counted to the tenth character, he closed the booklet.

The movement was very light, so light it was as if he were closing a book that should never have been opened.

He looked up at Yeri, a curve appearing at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn't a smile; it was the confirmation of "I saw it."

"It seems Yeri's understanding of the character Alice has reached a very deep level.

You wrote just a little bit, and yet you managed to write out both Alice's and your own thoughts.

Not bad."

Yeri cursed inwardly: What "not bad," that was all just nonsense I wrote!

On the surface, she put on a smug look, chin slightly lifted, corners of her mouth turned up, eyes curved into crescents.

"I'm Yeri, after all."

Her voice was sweet, so sweet it was as if she had a candy in her mouth.

But inside, she was cursing.

Cursing Jiang Zhiyu, cursing herself, cursing that pink booklet.

She didn't know if he had seen through her going through the motions.

She only knew that he hadn't called her out.

Not calling her out meant he was saving her face.

Since he saved her face, she couldn't curse him.

Since she couldn't curse him, she could only smile.

She smiled.

Jiang Zhiyu picked up Wendy's biography.

It was a thick booklet, with a white cover, no stickers, no doodles—clean and neat.

He opened the first page and read it very slowly, his gaze moving from one line to the next, from one paragraph to the next.

His brow was slightly furrowed—not out of dissatisfaction, but because he was reading carefully.

Wendy's heartbeat accelerated.

She sat in her chair, back straight, hands on her knees, fingers curling subconsciously.

Her gaze fell on Jiang Zhiyu's face, on his furrowed brow, on his slightly pursed lips.

She was waiting.

Waiting for his evaluation, waiting for his affirmation, waiting for him to say, "You wrote very well."

She waited for a long time.

So long that she felt her heart was about to jump out of her chest.

"Wendy xi has a very deep understanding of the character.

The imagery of 'ticking, disappearing time' is captured very accurately, combining the anxiety under the crown with the powerlessness of time passing very well.

The emotions are delicate."

Jiang Zhiyu looked up at Wendy.

A curve appeared at the corner of his mouth—not a smile, but the confirmation of "You did very well."

Wendy let out a sigh of relief.

Her shoulders went from "tense" to "relaxed," and from "relaxed" to "sinking."

A smile appeared on her face—not a "smug" smile, but a smile of "being recognized."

Being recognized meant it was right.

Being right meant no need to change.

No need to change meant—she was happy.

Jiang Zhiyu picked up Seulgi's biography.

The handwriting was neat, slightly plain, like an essay written by an elementary school student.

Every line of text was written on the horizontal lines, with no going over the margins, no corrections, no ink stains.

He read it once, then read it again.

His expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be discerned.

But Seulgi was not calm.

She sat on the floor, hugging her knees with both hands, chin resting on her knees, staring at Jiang Zhiyu without blinking.

She was waiting.

Waiting for him to say "You wrote it poorly," waiting for him to say "You wrote it too simply," waiting for him to say "Go back and rewrite it."

She had been waiting for many years, waiting since her trainee days.

Waiting for teachers to say she danced well, waiting for producers to praise her singing, waiting for fans to call her an "all-rounder idol."

She had waited for it, but she didn't dare believe it.

Because every time she believed it, a new challenge would appear.

When a challenge appeared, she had to face it.

When she faced it, she would get tired.

When she got tired, she would want to give up.

Giving up meant—she didn't want to give up.

So she waited.

Waited for Jiang Zhiyu to speak.

"Seulgi xi's interpretation of 'the loyal Mad Hatter' focuses on 'protection' and 'understanding.'

This perspective is very warm, and it also provides a possibility for us to see a rare glimmer of human brilliance in this crazy kingdom."

Jiang Zhiyu's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear.

Seulgi's eyes lit up.

Not just "lit up," but "shone."

Like two light bulbs being turned on, like two stars falling from the sky, like two diamonds placed in the darkness.

She smiled.

Not a "gentle smile," but a "goofy grin."

Her mouth stretched wide, revealing two rows of neat teeth, her eyes squinted into slits, with light in the slits.

She nodded vigorously.

"Yeah!"

The sound was so loud that Yeri's ears were left ringing.

She didn't care.

She was happy.

Jiang Zhiyu picked up Joy's biography.

It was interspersed with doodles, the style lively, like an elementary school student's notebook.

On the edge of the pages, the Cheshire Cat's smiling face was drawn, with curved corners of the mouth, sharp teeth, and eyes like two slits.

He read it once, the corners of his mouth slightly rising.

"Joy xi captured the mysterious yet dangerous qualities of the 'smiling Cheshire Cat.'

Those doodles are very spirited, reflecting the complex thoughts beneath the character's cynical facade."

Joy smugly lifted her chin, unable to suppress the curve of her mouth.

Her nervousness was swept away, as if erased by someone with an eraser.

Once erased, it was gone.

Once gone, it meant—she had won.

Not "winning against Jiang Zhiyu," but "winning against herself."

She hadn't written well enough, but she had drawn.

Having drawn meant she had put in the effort.

Having put in the effort meant she had been seen.

Being seen meant—she was happy.

Jiang Zhiyu finally picked up Bae Joo-hyun's biography.

The handwriting was elegant, the logic clear, the length moderate.

Not thick, not thin, not too much, not too little, just right.

He read it more carefully than any of the previous ones, and for a longer time.

His gaze moved from the first line to the last page, and from the last page flipped back to the first line.

His brow did not furrow, his lips did not purse, his expression remained just as calm.

But he read for too long.

Long enough for Yeri to start getting curious, long enough for Seulgi to start getting nervous, long enough for Joy to start scrutinizing Bae Joo-hyun's expression, long enough for Wendy to start biting her lower lip.

Long enough for Bae Joo-hyun's hand under the table to subconsciously clench slightly.

Her expression was very calm, so calm that no emotion could be discerned.

But her hand was not calm.

Her fingers were curled together, knuckles turning white, nails digging into her palms.

She didn't know what she was nervous about; she only knew she was waiting.

Waiting for him to finish reading, waiting for his evaluation, waiting for him to say "You wrote very well" or "You didn't write well enough."

No matter what he said, she would accept it.

Accepting meant—she waited.

"Irene sunbae."

Jiang Zhiyu looked up, looking at Bae Joo-hyun.

"Your interpretation of 'Iracebeth' focuses on 'misunderstood pride' and 'self-protection under distorted rules.'

The entry point is very unique and fits well with her perspective as a 'ruler.'

Especially regarding the point that 'she was not born tyrannical, but uses tyranny to arm her fragile heart,' it is written with great insight."

Bae Joo-hyun nodded slightly, accepting his affirmation.

Her eyes remained cold and detached, so cold it was as if she were saying, "And what else?"

She knew he had a "but."

He wouldn't only say good things; he would definitely say "but."

Because she knew him—not "knew," but "understood."

Knew what kind of person he was, knew what he would do, knew he wouldn't let go of any opportunity that could make her think.

She waited.

"But—"

As expected.

Bae Joo-hyun's eyelashes trembled slightly.

"Wendy, your understanding is too immersed in personal emotions, lacking confrontation and connection with the power core that is the 'Red Queen.'"

Jiang Zhiyu's voice became serious and sharp, like a sharpened knife.

Wendy's smile froze.

Not "disappeared," but "stopped."

Stopped on her face, stopped at the corners of her mouth, stopped in her eyes.

Her lips parted slightly, wanting to say something, but nothing came out.

Because she knew he was right.

Her understanding was indeed too immersed in personal emotions, indeed lacking confrontation and connection with Red Queen.

She knew it, so she couldn't refute it.

Unable to refute meant—she lowered her head, looking at her notebook.

The notes said "ticking, disappearing time."

She looked at this line of text, thinking—when she wrote it, she wasn't thinking of Red Queen, she was thinking of herself.

Herself standing on stage, the crown pressing on her head, time passing, she was anxious.

She wasn't writing about Red Queen; she was writing about herself.

She had written it wrong.

"Seulgi, your 'loyalty' seems too passive.

The Mad Hatter is 'mad' precisely because he uses madness to interpret this mad world.

Your interpretation lacks this active 'frenzy.'"

Seulgi's smile also froze.

Her mouth still maintained that same curve, but that curve was no longer a "smile"; it was the awkwardness of "not knowing what to do."

Her brain was replaying the sentence she had written—"The Mad Hatter is Red Queen's most loyal subject."

She looked at this line of text, thinking—when she wrote it, she wasn't thinking of "mad," she was thinking of "loyalty."

Loyalty meant obedience.

Obedience meant passivity.

Passivity meant it wasn't "mad."

Not "mad" meant it wasn't the Mad Hatter.

She had written it wrong.

"Joy, your 'danger' is superficial.

Behind the Cheshire Cat's smile should be an indifference and manipulation that sees through everything, not just simple pranks."

Joy's smile didn't freeze; it simply disappeared.

Disappeared from her face, disappeared from her eyes, disappeared from the corners of her mouth.

Her chin was no longer lifted, her shoulders were no longer relaxed, her fingers were twisted together under the table.

She was thinking—she had drawn the Cheshire Cat's smiling face, drawn many of them, and every one of them was drawn very accurately.

But she hadn't drawn its eyes, because the Cheshire Cat's eyes are invisible.

Invisible meant she didn't know what it was looking at.

Not knowing what it was looking at meant she didn't know what it was thinking.

Not knowing what it was thinking meant she didn't know if it was "prank" or "indifference."

She didn't know, so she had drawn it wrong.

"Yeri—"

Jiang Zhiyu glanced at the pink booklet.

"Your 'afterimage' is almost transparent.

As an intruder, Alice's perspective should be the key to tearing apart the illusion of this crazy world.

And you, you barely wrote anything."

Yeri's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

She wanted to say "I wrote it," but she couldn't say it.

Because she really hadn't written it.

She had written about Alice following the rabbit into the hole, written about Alice growing big and small, written about Alice meeting the Mad Hatter and the Cheshire Cat.

But she hadn't written about how Alice viewed this world.

She hadn't written what expression she had when she saw Red Queen beheading someone, hadn't written what feelings she had when she heard "Off with his head," hadn't written whether she was scared or excited in this crazy world.

She hadn't written anything.

She had written it wrong.

"As for Irene sunbae."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at Bae Joo-hyun again.

His gaze lingered on her face for a moment, very short, so short it was only a fraction of a second.

But he had looked.

She had seen it.

"Your interpretation is profound enough, but too introverted and rational.

Iracebeth's madness is a hysterical, outward-projecting, destructive desire capable of burning everything.

You wrapped it up too well, lacking that kind of... explosive power of reckless abandon."

Bae Joo-hyun's brow furrowed slightly.

Not a "frown," but a "movement."

It moved once, then recovered.

Recovered to its original state, calm, cold, showing no emotion.

But her heart was not calm.

She was thinking—he was right.

When she wrote about Red Queen, she wasn't writing about Red Queen, she was writing about herself.

Herself being misunderstood, herself using pride to arm herself, herself protecting herself under distorted rules.

She hadn't written about Red Queen's pleasure when beheading, hadn't written about Red Queen's excitement when saying "Off with his head," hadn't written about Red Queen's anger when seeing the Magic Mirror say "You are not the fairest."

She hadn't written anything.

She had written it wrong.

Every one of Jiang Zhiyu's critiques precisely pierced the weakest link in everyone's homework.

Not a "poke," but a "stab."

Stabbing in, pulling out, beads of blood seeping out.

It didn't hurt, but you knew it had been stabbed there.

You knew there was a wound there; the wound would heal, but the scar would remain.

Remaining meant remembering.

Remembering meant not making the same mistake again.

Not making the same mistake meant progress.

Progress meant—they were thinking.

Not "thinking," but "reflecting."

Reflecting on what they were thinking when they wrote, reflecting on why they didn't think more, reflecting on how they should write next time.

Next time, there will be a next time.

Next time, they will write better.

They knew.

Because Jiang Zhiyu would not let them stop at the "not bad" place.

He would push them, push them to a "better" place.

A better place is not a "comfortable" place, but an "uncomfortable" place.

Only when uncomfortable will they think.

Only when they think will they progress.

Only when they progress will it be—he pushed.

They are walking.

[part:gemini-3.0-flash]

Jiang Zhiyu stood up and walked to the whiteboard. His pace was steady, neither fast nor slow, with each step evenly spaced. He picked up a black marker, uncapped it, and wrote a few words on the whiteboard. "Iracebeth," "Crimson Rhapsody." His handwriting was beautiful, but not just "pretty"—it was "powerful." Every stroke looked as if it were carved into the whiteboard, carved into their minds, carved into the deepest part of this concept. He turned around and looked at all the members of Red Velvet. His gaze moved from Yeri's face to Seulgi's, from Seulgi's to Joy's, from Joy's to Wendy's, and from Wendy's to Bae Joo-hyun's. His gaze lingered on her face for a moment. It was very brief, lasting only a fraction of a second. But he looked. And she saw it.

"Everyone, our comeback this time isn't just about playing a dark fairy tale character." His voice carried an indisputable persuasiveness, like someone lighting a fire in the middle of the night; the light reflected on everyone's faces, warm and bright, making people want to draw closer. "We are going to use the tragedy of Red Queen to tear open a deeper social issue—" He wrote a few words heavily on the whiteboard: Family Education, Maintenance of Kinship, Inner Fortress.

Yeri's mouth fell open. Seulgi's eyes widened. Joy's eyebrows shot up. Wendy's pen slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft 'clack.' Bae Joo-hyun's expression didn't change, but her finger tapped lightly on the tabletop. It wasn't just a "tap"; it was a "pause." A pause, and then the tapping resumed. The rhythm was faster than before. She was thinking—Family Education. Maintenance of Kinship. Inner Fortress. This was Red Queen's story, and it was also her story. No, not just "hers," but "theirs." Every girl who had been hurt by her family, every child who had lacked familial affection, every person who had learned to wrap themselves up during the process of growing up. She wasn't Red Queen, but she understood her. She understood her anger, her loneliness, and why she had to hold her head so high. Because if she looked down, she would see the way others looked at her. In those eyes, there was ridicule, incomprehension, and the question of "why are you different from everyone else." She didn't want to see it, so she looked up. Looking up meant pride. Pride meant protection. Protection meant—she had written it down. In the character profile yesterday, she had written it. He had seen it. That was why he said it.

"Iracebeth's tyranny, her massive head—symbolizing being different—and her insecurity... what is the root? It's that warped royal family that lacked genuine care and understanding! It's those gazes that viewed her as a monster!" Jiang Zhiyu's voice grew louder, as if he wanted to shout the words on the whiteboard into their brains. "Therefore, our concept this time will utilize Red Queen's tragedy to allude to real-world family education issues, calling for the maintenance of kinship and the pursuit of family happiness!"

The practice room fell silent. It wasn't just "quiet"; it was as if they had been "struck by something." Yeri was digesting it, Seulgi was absorbing it, Joy was chewing on it, and Wendy was swallowing it. Bae Joo-hyun was—she was thinking. Thinking about her family, her parents, and whether she had been "viewed as a monster" when she was a child. Not a "monster," but "different." If you were different, you'd be asked, "Why are you different?" Once asked, you'd think, "Maybe I shouldn't be different." If you shouldn't be different, you should be like everyone else. If you're like everyone else, you're not yourself. If you're not yourself, then—she stopped thinking. She looked up at Jiang Zhiyu. He stood before the whiteboard with the marker in his hand, wearing a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone. His hair was getting a bit long, his bangs hanging down to cover half his forehead. His eyes were saying—"I understand. Not 'I know,' but 'I understand.' I understand what you wrote, I understand what you didn't write, and I understand what you're thinking. I understand it all."

"Consequently, in terms of the MV's visual presentation," Jiang Zhiyu continued his explanation, his voice shifting from "inciting" to "calm," and from "calm" to "rigorous." "I need every frame, whether it's a wide shot, a close-up, or a medium shot, to feature the imagery of a 'castle' in the background! It can be intact, it can be ruined, it can be a reflection, or it can be distorted! This castle represents more than just Red Queen's power; it symbolizes the closed-off, secret 'fortress' inside everyone's heart! It is the brand left by one's family of origin, the high wall of self-protection!"

The members listened, dumbfounded. Yeri's mouth went from "open" to a "gape," and from a "gape" to being "pursed." She was thinking—a castle, a ruined castle, a reflected castle, a distorted castle. That wasn't a castle; that was her heart. There was a castle in her heart too, with high walls, thick doors, and tiny windows. She didn't let others in because she was afraid it was too messy inside, afraid others would laugh if they saw it, afraid they would say, "How can you live in a place like this?" She didn't want to be seen, so she locked the door. Once locked, she was safe. Once safe, she was—she looked at Jiang Zhiyu, at his calm face that showed no emotion. He was talking about her castle. He had never seen it, but he knew.

"And regarding the song's production," Jiang Zhiyu threw out an even more subversive idea. "To match this mood of suppression, struggle, and eventual explosion of emotion, I will significantly reduce the signature SM-style high-note vocal displays." Wendy froze for a moment. Her eyes went round, her pupils reflecting Jiang Zhiyu's face. She was thinking—reduce the high notes? She was the main vocal; high notes were her weapon, her presence on stage, the reason fans remembered her. If the high notes were reduced, what did she have left? She didn't know. She only knew that he had said it. If he said it, it had to be done. If it was done, then—she waited.

"In its place," Jiang Zhiyu's gaze swept across the group, "I will greatly increase the proportion of Rap!" Joy's eyes lit up. Not just "lit up," but "glowed." Like two lightbulbs being switched on, like two stars falling from the sky, like two diamonds placed in the dark. She was the Rap lead; although there wasn't much Rap in Red Velvet's songs, and although her Rap was often described as "mosquito chanting," and although she never had the chance to prove herself. But she could do it. She had been waiting, waiting for a song, waiting for a verse, waiting for a chance to speak up. Now the opportunity had come. She clenched her fists.

"But it won't be that airy, 'mosquito chanting' style of Rap you usually associate with SM." Jiang Zhiyu's tone carried obvious disdain. Joy's fists loosened slightly. Her mouth twitched, not in a "smile," but in "embarrassment." Because she knew he was talking about her. No, not "her," but "their Rap." Airy, powerless, emotionless, like a mosquito chanting. She didn't want to be a mosquito; she wanted to be—she didn't know. She only knew she had to learn. Learn how to Rap, learn how to vent, learn how to curse. Cursing wasn't just "cursing"; it was "expression." Expressing anger, expressing grievances, expressing the words that couldn't be said. She had many words she couldn't say; she could write them down, and once written, they would be lyrics. When the lyrics were sung, it would be Rap. When the Rap was heard, it would be—she was thinking.

"What I want is a hysterical, venting style of Rap filled with heavy resentment, accusations, and hatred! It must be able to convey the anger of being misunderstood, the pain of being bound by rules, and the torn feeling of both longing for and despairing over family!" Jiang Zhiyu's voice echoed in the practice room, hitting the walls and bouncing back, hitting the ceiling and bouncing back again. It made Yeri's eardrums ring, made Seulgi's heart race, made Joy's blood boil, made Wendy's pen roll across the floor, and made Bae Joo-hyun's finger stop on the tabletop.

Joy raised her hand. It wasn't just "raising a hand"; it was a "vow." Her arm was straight, fingers together, palm facing forward. Her expression was serious, so serious it was as if she were taking a very important exam. "Producer-min, I want to try." "It's not a try; it's a do." "I'll do it." "Good."

Jiang Zhiyu looked around, his expression solemn. "This will be a massive pressure and challenge for the group's rappers. It requires an extreme sense of rhythm, breath control, and—an emotional explosiveness akin to a public shouting match." His tone was very calm, as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today." But what he said was anything but calm. A shouting match. Joy searched her mind—had she ever shouted in the street? No. She had never done that because she didn't know how. She was Red Velvet's Joy, the "fruit-faced" girl in the eyes of fans, the Joy who smiled sweetly, spoke gently, and never shouted. She didn't know how to have a shouting match. But she would learn. Learn how to scold, learn how to scream, learn how to roar out the words in her heart. She had many things to say; once said, they would be—she took a deep breath.

Speaking of which, Jiang Zhiyu seemed to suddenly remember something. His tone took on a hint of genuine confusion as he looked at everyone. "By the way... in Red Velvet, who is the Rap lead again?" A brief silence followed. It wasn't just "silence"; it was "awkwardness." Yeri looked at Seulgi, Seulgi looked at Joy, Joy looked at Wendy, Wendy looked at Bae Joo-hyun, and Bae Joo-hyun looked at Jiang Zhiyu. No one spoke. Because they didn't know what to say. To say "It's me" would be too arrogant. To say "It's her" would be too humble. To say "We all are" would be too casual. They didn't know, so they remained silent.

Kang Seulgi silently and somewhat sheepishly raised her hand. Her movement was slow, like a slow-motion replay. Her fingers lifted from her knee, rose to shoulder height, paused, then rose a bit higher to ear level, and paused again. Her face turned red—not a "shy" red, but the red of "not knowing if I should raise my hand." Her lips were pursed, her eyes on Jiang Zhiyu, his face reflected in her pupils. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. "Um... Producer-min, except for Wendy Unnie who is mainly responsible for Vocals, the rest of us... can actually all be considered Rap leads."

Jiang Zhiyu was somewhat surprised. His eyebrow quirked—not in "shock," but in "unexpectedness." His gaze subconsciously drifted toward Bae Joo-hyun, who sat at the very edge, looking cold and elegant, seemingly having nothing to do with words like "Rap" or "venting." Was she looking at him? She was looking elsewhere. Her gaze fell on the whiteboard, on those words—"Family Education," "Maintenance of Kinship," "Inner Fortress." She was looking very seriously, as if studying an important document. But her ears were listening. She heard "Rap lead," heard "we all can," and heard Jiang Zhiyu's silence. She was waiting for him to speak.

Joy added with a grin, her tone tinged with pride, "Producer-min, Irene Unnie is actually our group's main Rap lead!" Bae Joo-hyun's expression didn't change. Her gaze remained on the whiteboard, on those words, on the four characters for "Inner Fortress." Her finger tapped lightly on the tabletop. It wasn't just a "tap"; it was a "pause." A pause, and then the tapping resumed. The rhythm was faster than before. She was thinking—Main Rap lead. She indeed was, ever since debut. But she had never Rapped the way Jiang Zhiyu described—the kind with resentment, accusations, hatred, and hysterical venting. What she had Rapped was "sweet," "cute," and "airy." It wasn't that she didn't want to; the company didn't allow it. The company said, "You are the leader, the face of the group, the top visual of the fourth generation. Your image is cold, proud, and ethereal. You cannot shout in the streets, you cannot vent, you cannot let others see you in a disheveled state." So she endured. Enduring meant not speaking. Not speaking meant not knowing how. Not knowing how meant—she didn't actually not know how. She just hadn't said it. Now, someone was letting her say it. She looked at the line on the whiteboard—"Crimson Rhapsody." Crimson was the color of Red Queen, and also the color of anger. Rhapsody was the words she wanted to say but couldn't. She had many things she couldn't say. She could write them down, and once written, they would be lyrics. When the lyrics were sung, it would be Rap. When the Rap was heard, it would be—she looked at Jiang Zhiyu. Jiang Zhiyu was looking at her. Their gazes met in the air.

—

(09:35) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Emergency over! Lami finally forgave me~ The trick was squeezing a little bit of hand cream onto its surface; it slowly absorbed it and happily started flashing rainbow lights! Turns out it just needed that familiar cedar scent! (Sends a photo of Lami slumped contentedly next to the hand cream)]

(09:38) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [But! I was too happy just now, and it tried to perform a "seal balancing a ball" act and launched itself at the ceiling... Now it's stuck in the gap of the practice room's ceiling light and won't come down! It's flashing a distress signal, and Ningning and I are jumping up but can't reach it! (Sends a chaotic scene of a purple blur on the ceiling with four people jumping and reaching below)]

(09:41) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [The security guard brought a ladder! When Lami was rescued, it even made two "ow-ow" seal barks. Now it's being pinned to the sofa by all the members for a safety lecture. But it doesn't seem to understand at all; it's still secretly wriggling, trying to escape. (Sends a "detention scene" of Lami being held down by four hands, with only its struggling edges visible)]

(09:44) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Just now Karina used her leader's authority to lecture it: "Lami, as a member of SM, you have to mind your image!" After hearing that, Lami immediately squished itself into a square shape, like a purple block of tofu, standing perfectly still and serious. We all burst out laughing... Does it think image management means turning into a geometric shape?!]

(09:47) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Now Lami insists on maintaining its square form, acting as the "guardian treasure" in the corner of the practice room. Ningning went over to poke it, and it flashed a pained yellow light to indicate "Undergoing image management, do not disturb." Oh no, it really thinks it's a formal employee now.]

(09:50) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [The Manager Unnie just walked in and asked, "What's this new decoration?" Lami immediately stood up (on its two little short legs at the bottom) and bowed, even making a "ding" sound as a greeting. Unnie laughed so hard she was crouched on the floor and couldn't get up... Lami is now flashing a confused question mark, completely failing to understand why humans are laughing.]

(09:53) Minjeong Who Doesn't Reply: [Ten minutes have passed, and Lami is still in square mode, but it secretly wiggled one centimeter in my direction! Does it want me to sneak it out for some fresh air? Don't worry, once it's lunch break, I'll sneak you out to see the pigeons outside the window! (Sends an interaction moment of a finger gently poking the square Lami while it flashes happily)]