Many people wanted to build a connection with Kim Donghu.
Simply knowing someone could become a source of power. In an era where just being close to someone was considered a form of influence—put bluntly, “connections were a skill” now. Of course, it only worked if both parties believed they had a connection.
Anyway—
At this point in time, there was an undeniably singular presence in Korea.
“No need to think about it. Obviously, it’s Kim Donghu.”
There was no need to sugarcoat it—it was Kim Donghu. Plain and simple.
Anytime he showed up, people swarmed. Anything he wore sold out instantly. Whatever he did was either a first or a record-breaker.
And it’s not like he had a bad personality. His character was exceptional—flawless, even.
He wasn’t just a blue chip. He was the omega blue chip.
A bit of a childish term, sure.
But that’s how badly people wanted to get close to Kim Donghu.
So much so that there was even a meme option titled,
“Calling out to Kim Donghu at night to be your Robin.”
It didn’t beat the classic “Calling Jaedragon to brag about good news,”
But the fact that it outperformed everything else spoke volumes about public sentiment.
So it was no surprise that—
“...Why the hell do I have so many emails.”
Choi Seokho’s personal inbox was overflowing with messages from people desperate to connect with Kim Donghu.
Back in the days when he was still working as a manager, he’d tossed emails around left and right. He never imagined it would all come back like karmic debt.
It was always bad, but lately it felt like things had gotten worse. The problem was that it was hard to flat-out reject all of them.
Some of the proposals actually looked promising—especially variety show offers that could work if the timing was right. So it was hard to use “schedule conflict” as an excuse and shoot everything down.
Of course, the final call always rested with Kim Donghu anyway.
“He’s just on another level now. Every single offer coming in is huge.”
Back in the day, if a business inquiry came in, he could pre-filter them based on their level. It made things easier.
But now, too many of the offers were high-level to ignore. Even Choi Seokho couldn’t filter them all.
And then—a particularly ambiguous email landed in his inbox. Possibly the most difficult decision of his life.
“...Cheonseok-hyung?”
It was a message from Hong Cheonseok.
The world’s safest oppa, and the world’s most dangerous hyung.
The proposal, of course, was for Kim Donghu to °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° appear on his YouTube channel.
“He’s even willing to come all the way to the U.S. just to shoot?”
From what he knew, the man worked with at least ten staff minimum. Flying that many people over just to shoot one YouTube video?
“This feels like the tail wagging the dog...”
Or maybe not.
Lately, Donghu’s YouTube activity had been minimal due to his packed schedule.
“If people who’ve been waiting for new Donghu YouTube content all see this...”
Hitting ten million views in 24 hours would be nothing. On top of that, if Kim Donghu was involved, the PPL money would flood in.
Bringing an entire crew to the U.S. might be a massive cost short-term, but in the long run? It would be a ridiculous gain.
“Still, with Donghu’s current shooting schedule, this just isn’t realistic...”
Or so he thought.
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