The day of the interview, she downed at least five expresso shots in the morning to calm her nerves, and showed up the famous SM building for the interview, trying to be as calm and composed as possible.

She dropped her tape recorder at least five times, used the wrong honorifics to refer to the CEO of the company, broke her pencil at least twice, mispronounced several words, and, as icing on the cake, asked them how the “twelve” of them felt about EXO moving forward in the future.

There had been a long silence, as Mai realized the mistake she had made and hastily moved to remedy it.

“Nine! I meant nine!” They were on the fifth floor, with a gorgeous view of the city of Seoul outside the window to the right. Mai momentarily considered throwing herself out of that said window. “How do you feel about moving forward in the future as EXO, given the fact that more of your members are nearing the age of enlistment?”

There had been another long silence, during which the translator she had brought with her just in case she needed it (and she did) tried to decipher her then rather broken Korean and repeat it for the benefit of her interviewees. 

It had been Yixing, aka Lay, the only Chinese member left and the current oldest member of EXO not in the military, who answered. His voice was very gentle, kind, even as if he sympathized with her current inability to articulate perfectly what she wanted to say.

"Our phrase from the very beginning has been 'we are one,'" he said. "It doesn't matter how old we become or how far away we go, we are still EXO. We still talk to Suho-hyung and Xiumin-hyung when we can, they are still a part of EXO. We plan on staying around and staying together for a very long time."

It was a sentiment that everyone else seemed to share, based on the amount of head-nodding and “yes”s she received with that. Mai bit her lip, scribbled out some notes on their reactions that couldn’t be caught on a tape recording – who was shifting in their seat, who looked uncomfortable, who wouldn’t make eye contact.
It was difficult. It really was. A good journalist asks the questions that need to be asked, no matter how hard they are. But as a (former? Current? She didn’t really know) fan, a part of her wanted to just take their answers at face value, let them continue whatever façade they wanted to put on as part of their jobs. Let them all show happy smiles, don’t prod too much, make everyone’s lives easier. She knew that there were lines you don’t cross, even if they were the truth.

But. But.

She took a deep breath. Imagined the byline with her name, the adults and teenagers who would be reading her article. What she could uncover, what a difference she could make. She wasn’t a girl anymore, halfway in love with an idea, a concept, that now she could have the potential to unmask.

She’d come this far, why quit halfway?

“How do you feel about SM putting you all on hiatus?” Mai uncrossed and re-crossed her ankles over one another, squaring her shoulders and choosing one member to look dead in the eye – Sehun, the maknae, the youngest, who still made girls and women swoon even at 26. “At SM deciding after years of you being one of their top artists and bringing in some of their biggest profits, now focusing on newer groups, such as NCT, or that girl group that came out last summer?” 

She had thought it over in her head, reciting it in her mind before speaking it out loud, wanting to make sure she got the words perfectly, so the translator wouldn’t have to intervene. And they understood, they understood perfectly, and perhaps that’s why they all looked a little shell-shocked, caught off guard by this seemingly bumbling, clumsy American reporter suddenly asking the questions no one would even think about uttering.

Perhaps due to her intense focus on him, Sehun was the first to ask, “What?”

“I’m not sure that’s –“ Kyungsoo, known as D.O. to absolutely no one other than SM as his stage name, began, only to be cut off by a combined noise of Baekhyun and Chanyeol going, “Wait, is that question fair?” and “Ah, can you repeat that, I don’t think it translated well.”

Even after almost ten years since debuting, EXO still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of group interviews, still a chaotic, dynamic mess; something Leila had loved about them as a teenager, but now she could the opportunity in it as well.

“The average length of a boy band’s career is around five years, correct?” She continued, shifting her gaze to focus on Chanyeol instead, remembering how her best friend had been an enormous fan of the lanky giant in high school. Knew that for all his idol training, he still wore his emotions pretty openly in his body language and his face, and she knew how to exploit that. 

(No. Not exploit. The seventeen, eighteen year old in her protested, how could she do this to these poor boys who only wanted to do their jobs as idols? 

Older, hardened Mai reminded herself that they were grown men and she was only doing her job as a reporter. Report the truth, even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if the world hates her for it.)

“Obviously, EXO is not your average band,” she had continued, still watching Chanyeol closely, seeing how he reacted to the give and take of her words. “Still, in 2022 it will be, what, ten years since debut? That’s more than double the time thought.”

“Yes.” Another voice, near the back, and Mai tore her eyes away to glance at the person she’d been trying her hardest to ignore the entire interview. Soft-spoken, well-mannered, giving only even, controlled statements throughout the entire interview, Kim Jongdae’s eyes were much sharper now, dark. He wasn’t smiling. “We’ve worked hard for our fans, and in return our fans remember us.”

The words, too, were sharp. Like blows no one could see. Mai felt a chill, suddenly, and her breath caught in . She quickly averted her eyes, forced out the next question, have to keep going, have to. Don’t let them see you crack.

“So your fans remember you, even when SM seems to have forgotten you?”

“The company hasn’t forgotten us,” Baekhyun pointed out. “We will still be promoting, together or on our own, even during the hiatus. Eventually, Suho and Xiumin will finish their military service, and then we’ll begin ours, and eventually after Sehun finishes his we’ll continue to promote as a whole EXO again.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Mai said honestly. “Really. But why a hiatus? When Super Junior had some its members enter the military, did the entire band as a collective go on hiatus?”

“TVXQ did.” Chanyeol pointed out.

“TVXQ was two people,” Mai countered, twirling her pen in her fingers. Nervous. But can’t let them know that. “And their popularity never again reached the levels they did before their hiatus. Speaking of which, where are Max Changmin and U-Know Yunho now?”

“They pursued their own interests once their contracts at SM were done.”

Such a politically correct answer. Mai could really see it now, the walls, the buttons to push. It was almost like a game, it was exciting, it was what she entered the industry for. There were so many avenues to explore here, so many ways it could go, it was hard to keep her beating heart steady, keep her hands from shaking.

“And Super Junior?”

“Still promoting,” Baekhyun said, and she noted the way he lifted his chin, as if to say, so there.

“With all the original members?”

Another long silence. 

“How did you feel when SM introduced the idea of NCT?” She pushed farther, through the silence. “The idea of rotating new members into groups? Did it feel impermanent? Threatening, maybe? When you saw it happen to Super Junior, when all the original members have mainly fallen from the public eye, does that make any of you fear for your own careers?”

“You’re asking us these questions so fast, Miss Nguyen.” Jongdae said flatly. “Perhaps you could allow the translator some time to relay what you’re saying so we can be clear about the questions you’re asking?”

Oh. Now it was her turn to bite her tongue. She nodded, let the poor translator step in and ask them her questions in a low, tentative voice. She noticed the furtive looks the translator was sharing with EXO’s manager, until finally they reached the end. 

“It didn’t feel threatening,” Jongdae said, carefully. “As Lay-hyung said before, we are one. We are EXO, and will always be EXO. SM knows that, to take away any of us or to add anyone else, would be unthinkable. That’s why we’re on hiatus, because SM knows that without Xiumin-hyung and Suho-hyung, we are not entirely EXO.” 

Oh. He was good at this. Mai fought very hard to keep her eyebrows rising in surprise. She couldn’t quite gather the courage to raise her gaze to meet his eyes. It felt like she was drowning, every time she did so.

“Right.” She nodded. Looked down at her notes. The cards in her hands. Oh, she had one, one that would leave them speechless. One that they wouldn’t be able to get around. One that tasted bitter in , but she said it anyway.

“So did SM think that EXO would not still be EXO when Wu Yifan and Lu Han left in 2014? Or Huang Zitao in 2015?”

This time, when the silence fell, it was like death. A sudden hush. Only broken when their manager rose up from his seat, raises his voice to a booming command that had to be translated for her.

“They won’t answer those types of questions. You get one warning, Miss Nguyen.”

She raised her hands as if in surrender, sweeping her gaze across the rest of them, drinking in their expressions. Five years later, they were grown adults, and yet, if she still looked close enough, she could still see the hurt, faintly, through their carefully composed layers. Like a jacket, falling apart at the seams, if she knew just precisely the right words, the right threads to pick at and watch it fall apart.

“I apologize,” she said, carefully. “I’m not trying to cause you any pain. I have nothing against EXO.”

“What is it you want us to say?” Kyungsoo finally asked. “You’re trying to get some kind of angle, but we don’t know what it is. Wouldn’t it be easier to just come clean about instead of asking all these unnecessary and hurtful questions?”

“I don’t ask unnecessary questions,” Mai said. “I am honestly curious about what you think, but I also understand the sensitivities of those too. So. I’ll be honest, if you’ll be honest with me.”

No answer. Neither a yes, nor a no, but just waiting. They all eyed her warily, all looking uncomfortable, some of them looking angry. But they didn’t say anything.
 
So. She took a breath.

“Your album sales set new records. Then you’d come back the next year and break those very records you set. You were a…ah, dammit, how do I say this in Korean? What we’d call a tour de force, you were one of the top artists in Asia for years – that is undeniable. And the effect you’ve had on the industry, on your fans is remarkable, truly. Just the psychology of it is…amazing. The connection you forged with your fans, the admiration they held – hold for you for all your hard work, I am not discrediting that.

“The ‘angle,’ as you say I’m going for, Do Kyungsoo-ssi, is this. You all trained for some considerable amount of time, in a well-known process that is at the same time astoundingly rarely scrutinized. I’ve pursued investigating the idol industry from many avenues – through trainees, through the fans, I want to understand the psychology of this phenomenon. Now I come to you, the result of it all, and I ask questions that are uncomfortable because they are true. You have touched thousands, millions of people across the world, you have held their hearts tightly in your hands, you have given up years of your life, and now…now what?”

It had been a mouthful. She glanced over at the translator when she was done, suddenly fearful that they hadn’t understood any of it. The translator seemed to be mulling over the little speech in her head, before eventually correcting a few phrases, but overall the message seemed to have gotten across.

They had heard. EXO sat still, their mouths shut, glancing at one another. They understood, but that didn’t mean they liked it. Finally, Yixing seemed to gather a general consensus from the rest of them, and looked Leila straight in the eye, his voice soft again, but firm.

“And what if we don’t give you the answers you’re looking for, Miss Nguyen?” He told her. “What if we don’t want the world to know what it’s really like?”

She paused. Looked at the cards in her hands, realized she only had one left. Game over.

“Then…” Mai shrugged. “For the first time since I heard the name ‘EXO,’ you will have disappointed me.” 

The rest of the interview went on without incident. She didn’t ask anymore probing questions. They didn’t give her anymore answers other than the typical, smiling, hard-working, salt of the earth idol replies.

When their time was finally up, she gathered up her things, bowed, thanked them for their time. EXO in return gave her wary smiles, a few laughs, and a chorus of thank yous. Their manager herded them out of the room as she sat, trying to collect her notes and her thoughts, her head still spinning with the idea.

I just interviewed EXO.

She stared down at the scribbled cursive on her notepad, the tape recorder still clutched in her hot little hand. The last hour or so hand honestly flown by, she couldn’t believe…had she really…did she actually…

“Excuse me.”

Someone was standing in front of her. She registered the shoes first, then let her gaze slowly drift upward. Carefully pressed dress pants, a nice button up. An unsmiling mouth, yet one whose corners still turned up at the edges, like a smirk, a secret one would die to hear. Sharp, pretty angled features, dark eyes with a gaze so heavy it made her breath catch in . 

Jongdae tilted his head, his words drawn out carefully, a statement, not a question. “You were a fan, weren’t you.”

Mai swallowed. Tried to keep her head up, tried not to avert her eyes when she answered. “So?”

“The way you described the industry.” He went on, as ignoring her challenge. His hands were dug deep into his pockets, his posture one of nonchalance, but the way he looked at her, as if she was something dangerous, something not to be trusted. “Your knowledge of groups, of training periods, all that. You called us by our real names, not our stage names. You called D.O. Kyungsoo, you didn’t call me Chen.”

“Maybe I did my research.”

“‘You held their hearts tightly in your hands,’” Jongdae repeated, taking another step closer. She was still sitting, and had to tilt her head even further up just to meet his gaze. “You were quoting one of our songs. ‘Promise’.”

When she forced her face to remain as blank as possible, he sighed.

“Seriously…your heart that must have been in so much pain / I will hold it tight!” 

The notes rang out, sharp and clear, and for a second Mai thought that her heart had stopped. God. God. She remembered this, back as a teenager, standing in a crowded stadium, tottering on high heels and listening to this voice wail the most beautiful melody…

Now, standing just a few feet away from her. Kim Jongdae’s voice was still one of the most beautiful things she had ever heard. 

It took her a moment to realize she was staring, to close her open mouth and reply, “So? So what if I’m a fan? It shouldn’t affect the way I do my job.”

“This article that you want to write so badly,” he continued, again, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Why?”

She flipped her notepad shut, stuffed her tape recorder into her bag, and swung it over her shoulder, standing up so quickly that he had to take a few stumbling steps back. Mai judged the distance for a moment. He was still a good head taller than she was, even though he was one of the shorter members of EXO. He was older, he was a world famous idol, he had fans all around the globe, he could sing in a way that could bring hundreds of people to tears.

She knew her faults, her strengths, her weaknesses. She was just a rookie journalist, a kid barely out of school, fumbling in a foreign language, grasping for something forever out of her reach with both hands. Whether she was seventeen or twenty-three, she never learned.

Still.

I can try to be better. Today, I’ll try again.

“The idol industry is a phenomenon,” she told him. Tilted her head, met his eyes straight on, planted both feet on the ground like it will make her powerful and unafraid. “The entertainment industry in itself is an incredible influence on the minds of the masses, but from what I’ve observed and experienced as a fan and an outsider in the world of idol entertainment, this is different.”

“You’re not even Korean,” he pointed out. “What would you know about the industry, the culture?”

“The fact that I’m not Korean proves even further how much of an impact it has,” she said. “Growing up in America, where most of the mainstream culture was American…yet K-Pop still connected with me, wielded an incredible amount of influence over me that I couldn’t find anywhere else. Why?”

“Maybe some people are more susceptible than others.” He finally drew his eyes away, glanced out the window at the streets of Gangnam, where the afternoon sun was slowly setting in the sky. They watched it for a moment, the pretty colors playing out, until finally he took a deep breath and turned to face her again.
“We’re just people, Miss Nguyen. Just people who sing and dance.”

“I know that.” She said. Quietly. “Yet, why does it always feel like more?”