For All The Time Presents: That Idol Who Never Escaped

[The Pipebomb Speech – Kim Ji-yoo’s Final Words to the Idol Industry]

The performance ends. The music fades out. The other idols bow, smiling, but Ji-yoo doesn’t move. She stands center stage, gripping the mic. She's wearing a stone cold face with thoughts of retaliation. Sweat drips down her face, but she doesn’t wipe it away. A cigarette dangles from her fingers. The crowd cheers, but something feels off. The cameras are still rolling. The staff is waiting for the closing remarks. Ji-yoo takes a deep breath. Then—

"Shut up for a second. Just—just shut up and listen." She said as she took a puff in cigarette on her hand.

The crowd falls into stunned silence. The hosts look at each other, confused. Backstage, the producers start panicking. This wasn’t in the script.

"I know I’m supposed to say thank you. I’m supposed to bow, smile, and tell you how much I love you. I’m supposed to tell you how grateful I am for this dream—this industry. But that would be the biggest lie I’ve ever told in my life."

"I’m not happy. I never was."

The fans shift uncomfortably. Some are already recording. The staff members are freaking out.

"You think idols have perfect lives? You think we’re living the dream? Let me tell you what the dream really is."

"The dream is 14-hour rehearsals with no sleep. It’s starving yourself so your face looks sharper on camera. It’s being told, ‘Lose weight or lose your career.’ It’s taking pills to stay awake, taking pills to shut up the pain. It’s contracts that own you. It’s being told you can’t date, can’t speak your mind, can’t even go outside without permission—because you don’t belong to yourself anymore. You belong to them."

She points to the executives watching from the VIP section.

"Yeah, I see you. Sitting in your suits, sipping your wine, treating us like racehorses you can just swap out when we break a leg. How many girls did you throw away before me? How many dreams did you crush? How many idols did you push to their breaking point and then pretend to be sad when they didn’t survive?"

The room is dead silent. Some fans start crying. Some are just frozen.

"And you—yeah, you, the fans." She glares at the camera.

"You love us when we’re perfect. When we’re smiling, dancing, looking pretty for the posters. But the second we show we’re human? The second we get caught dating, or gain one damn kilogram, or say something that isn’t written on a company-approved script? You tear us apart."

"You love idols. But you don’t love us."

She tosses her cigarette to the floor, crushing it under her boot.

"And that’s why I’m done. I’m done being a puppet for a system that eats people alive and spits them out when they’re too broken to sell. I’m done starving, bleeding, crying behind closed doors while people like them profit off my suffering. I’m done with the fans who only love me when I’m wearing a mask."

"Cut my mic if you want. Edit this out. Censor me. But you all heard it. You all saw it. This industry is a machine, and we are just parts. And if nobody stops it, it will keep grinding people up until there’s nothing left."

Security rushes the stage. The camera feed cuts to black.

[Aftermath]

The broadcast was immediately pulled. The company released a damage-control statement saying Ji-yoo was suffering from "stress and exhaustion."

Her contract was terminated. Every trace of her in the industry was erased. Music videos were taken down. Her name was scrubbed from the company website. It was like she never existed.

The video went viral anyway. Fans kept re-uploading it. Hashtags like #IdolMachineExposed started trending worldwide.

Some idols secretly supported her. They couldn’t speak out, but some posted cryptic messages online. Others quietly disappeared from the industry in the following months.

Ji-yoo disappeared from the public eye… until she re-emerged. Not as an idol, but as something else entirely.

And the industry? It kept going. Because no matter how many people scream the truth, the machine always finds new idols to replace them.

Back to the present day, in Kim Ji-yoo’s point of view.

“To be honest, thinking about that day give me a lot headache but I'm not here to reminisce about the past”

The multiverse is filled with echoes—different versions of the same soul, living different lives. Some shine brighter, some flicker and fade. And then, there’s her.

A version of me that never escaped.

I never would have met her if it weren’t for Arth.

It started with a simple question: “Have you ever wondered how things would’ve turned out if you’d made a different choice?”

We were sitting in a quiet café, far from the city’s neon glow, the weight of past decisions pressing against me like a phantom chain. Arth watched me carefully, fingers tapping against his coffee cup.

“What if I told you I could show you?” he asked.

I scoffed. “What, like a dream?”

“No.” His voice was steady, deliberate. “Like a door.”

Arth had a way of making the impossible sound casual. Maybe that’s why I followed him, stepping through a rift that shimmered like fractured glass, into a world that looked so much like my own—but wasn’t.

And that’s where I found her.

A version of me that never left.

She stood on the grandest stage, bathed in golden light, adored by millions. Her voice, a melody crafted to perfection. Her movements, choreographed to hypnotize. Every inch of her, flawless.

And yet, when I looked into her eyes, I saw something terrifying.

Nothing.

“She can’t see you,” Arth murmured, standing beside me in the shadows of the concert hall.

“But she’s me,” I whispered. “Shouldn’t she—”

“She will.” He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Give it time.”

I watched her perform, the audience screaming her name, lost in the illusion of perfection. But there, in the tiniest flicker of her gaze, I saw it. A crack. A question.

A ghost of a memory buried deep.

And I knew she would come.

It happened in a private studio, after the show. No cameras, no fans—just us.

She was perfect in every way—hair in place, dress immaculate, lips curled into a well-practiced smile.

Her eyes flickered when she saw me. “Who are you?”

She knew. Maybe not everything, but enough to sense something was wrong.

“I’m you,” I said simply. “The one who left.”

Her posture remained poised, but her fingers twitched slightly. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke.” I tilted my head. “Just another version of you. One who made a different choice.”

She let out a soft, practiced laugh. The kind that sounded sweet but meant nothing.

“And? Are you happier?”

I could have lied. Told her that leaving had given me everything. That freedom was worth the price.

But I didn’t.

“Not always.”

She flinched. Just a tiny bit. But I saw it.

She crossed her arms, studying me like an object under a microscope. “So you left all of this?” She gestured around the room, her voice laced with disbelief. “The fame, the success, everything we worked for?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I left the cage.”

Her eyes darkened. “This isn’t a cage.”

I stepped closer. “Isn’t it?”

She stiffened. “I chose this.”

“Did you?” I challenged. “Or did they choose for you? Did they mold you into something unrecognizable and call it a dream?”

She turned away, fingers brushing over the trophies lined up on the shelves. Achievements. Proof of her success.

“I have everything I ever wanted,” she whispered, as if trying to convince herself.

“Do you?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for a compact mirror, touching up lips that already looked perfect.

Then she smiled. The exact same smile I used to force onto my face.

“Yes.”

I sighed.

She was too far gone.

Not because she couldn’t leave.

But because she didn’t want to.

Because she had convinced herself that this was happiness.

For a moment, I considered trying harder. Telling her everything she refused to acknowledge. Begging her to see the truth.

But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

So I did the only thing I could.

I walked away.

As I reached the door, she spoke again, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

“Do you regret leaving?”

I turned back, meeting those empty eyes one last time.

“No,” I said. “Because I still know who I am.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.

Arth was outside of the door, both of his hands is his pocket he then took a breath and speak “So, how did it turned out?”

“Let's just leave, Arth” I said with a sign of defeat in my voice because I know that I could've saved her from this “cage” but how could I save someone who doesn't want to be saved?

He opened a portal as we both stepped through it before before we go I took a glance on the door with the name “Kim Ji-yoo” imbedded on it.

“We made our own choices in life, you better make sure that it's the right one”

We left that universe and I never went back. Not that I can, But Arth made it look easy traveling through different dimensions that's his whole gimmick and interdimensional traveling spells are costly so I didn't bothered too not that she wanted to be saved from the cage of her own making.

“Because in the end, how could I save someone who doesn't want to be saved?”

Final Message: The Price of Being an Idol

Meeting her wasn’t just unsettling—it was a warning. A reminder of what I could have become if I had never broken free.

Fame isn’t always golden. Sometimes, it’s a cage dressed in glitter and lights, and the scariest part? You don’t even realize you’re trapped.

That version of me—she had everything. The fame. The fortune. The admiration. But the price she paid? Her freedom. Her identity. She had become what everyone wanted her to be, and in the process, she forgot who she really was.

And the worst part? She convinced herself it was worth it.

That’s the thing about the industry—it doesn’t just own you. It reshapes you. Until the person in the mirror is no longer you, just a product, a brand, an idea for others to consume.

Not everyone gets to leave like I did. Some never even realize they should leave.

Message to Aspiring Idols: Know the Cost

I won’t tell you not to chase your dreams. That would be hypocritical. I chased mine, too.

But know what you’re getting into.

The idol industry—especially in places like Korea and Japan—is a machine. A merciless one. It will demand all of you—your time, your energy, your body, your mind, and sometimes, even your soul.

And in return?

It gives you fame—but not freedom. Success—but not self-worth.

So before you step into that world, ask yourself:

Are you ready to be told what to wear, what to say, how to act, even how to think?

Are you prepared for the pressure, the scrutiny, the expectations that will never stop increasing?

Do you know what it’s like to smile when you don’t want to? To sing when your throat is raw? To dance until your legs feel like breaking?

And most importantly… do you have a plan for when it’s all over?

Because one day, it will be over. The industry will replace you. And when that happens, will you still know who you are?

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Final Words: Make Sure You’re the One Holding the Strings

If you still want to be an idol, fine. Do it. Chase it. Fight for it.

But never let them own you.

Never 

let them take all of you.

And never—never—let them convince you that you are nothing without them.

Because you are so much more than a brand, a product, a face on a screen.

Be an idol if that’s what you want.

But be a person first.