The Regressed Idol: My Second Chance To Debut

Chapter 2

Andrew staggered back, his heel catching on a crack in the pavement as the blue light exploded directly in front of his face. He threw an arm up, shielding his eyes from a glowing system that appeared out of thin air.

[Ding.]

[Mission Generated.]

[Objective: Register for the StarGlow Idol Survival Show.

Time Limit: 3 Hours.

Penalty: Mother's death becomes irreversible.]

Three hours.

The air left his lungs in a sharp, suffocating spike of panic. Standing outside his old high school, the sharp smell of hospital antiseptic rushed back into his throat so violently he almost gagged. His fingers curled against his school uniform until his nails bit deep into his palms.

“An irreversible relapse?” The whisper tore from his throat, raw and trembling. “She’s in the kitchen right now. Mum just hit me with a spatula. You can’t… you can’t take her back there.”

The screen remained completely static and uncaring.

[Warning: Mission failure will return the Host to the original timeline, where your mother will die.]

A bitter, familiar anger flared up through the terror. In his past life, doctors gave him empty pity, employers gave him broken promises, and entertainment agencies treated him like absolute garbage. Trust was a luxury he lost a long time ago. But looking at that digital timer, gambling with his mother's life wasn't an option. Hallucination, system, or a cruel joke—he must move.

"Fine," Andrew swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. "I’ll do it."

[Host has accepted the mission.]

[Objective Location: Orion Media Production Complex.]

Orion Media. A dull, physical ache throbbed behind Andrew’s ribs. The massive logo flashed in his mind, instantly dragging him back fourteen years to those exact glass doors. He could still feel the cold sweat on his palms, the way his fingers tightly held the registration form until the paper slightly crumpled at the edges. That day was normal. It was a hopeful, ordinary morning. He had no idea it would take a few more weeks, right after passing the first round, for the phone call about his mother’s apartment fire to rip the world out from under his feet.

The blue map unfolded directly over his vision. An hour away by bus. Andrew pulled out the folded dollar bills from his pocket—the lunch money his mother pressed into his palm this morning. While the rough texture of the paper felt heavy, he sighed, knowing fully well she skipped her own breakfast just to afford those few bills.

If she knew this cash went toward an idol stage again, she’d drag him home by his ear. But a full stomach wouldn’t matter if her heart stopped beating.

“You couldn’t at least cover the bus fare?” Andrew let out a dry, ragged breath, masking the terror in his chest with dark humor.

[Request denied. The System is an assistant, not a bank.]

[Host Current Status]

Vocals: C+

Dance: D-

Visual: C

Rap: E-

Charm: E+

The miserable grades floated in the air. "My stats are poor I must say. You're ruthless."

[Correction. System is honest.]

He didn't need a cheat code to tell him he wasn't a prodigy. He already knew. But turning his back on the school gates, walking past the shouting, laughing teenagers who didn't experience the breaking weight of life yet, a different reality set in. His teenage vocal cords were an untrained C+, but fourteen years of singing through grief, practicing breathing techniques in the back of delivery trucks, and analyzing every mistake made on stage never vanished.

Raw talent was a gift. But pain was a teacher.

The public bus smelled of cheap vinyl and exhaust fumes as he boarded, the heavy guilt of skipping his very first day of school weighing down his shoulders.

[Time Remaining: 02:47:19]

Forty minutes later, the bus brakes shrieked, throwing him forward against the cold metal handrail.

“Traffic accident ahead!” the driver shouted, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. “Everyone off. The intersection is blocked for blocks.”

The bus erupted into a chorus of groans. Andrew’s stomach dropped straight into his shoes. Orion was still nearly thirty minutes away on foot.

He kicked the bus door open and burst into a dead sprint.

Running in an untrained eighteen-year-old body was brutal. His lungs burned almost instantly, soft and weak, nothing like the hardened stamina built from years of hauling steel and cement under a scorching sun. But his adult mind ruthlessly forced his legs forward. Keep moving. Keep moving.

A dull, heavy thud cut through the traffic noise.

An elderly woman missed the curb. Her wooden walking stick clattered loudly onto the pavement, and her cheap plastic shopping bags split wide open. Oranges rolled blindly into the dirty road, and a bottle of cooking oil spun across the hot asphalt.

Andrew slowed down, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. The red countdown flashed in the corner of his eye.

02:06:45

The woman tried to push herself up, but her frail arms trembled badly under her own weight. People walked right past her, their eyes glued to their phones. Every survival instinct screamed at him to keep running. Your mother is going to die if you stop. Don't look.

He took another step away, but his mother’s voice echoed clearly in his mind, “Andrew, old people are fragile. If you can lend them a hand, do it. One day, you might be the one needing one.”

“Damn it,” Andrew hissed, tears of frustration blurring the sidewalk.

He spun around and crouched in the dirt, snatching the rolling oranges before a passing delivery motorcycle could smash them.

“Are you alright?” he panted, his chest heaving.

The old woman blinked up at him with faded, cloudy eyes. “Oh… You came back.”

A breathless chuckle escaped his lips, his chest aching under the pressure of the clock. “I was trying really hard not to.”

She let out a weak, breathy laugh. “I could tell, son.”

He gathered the scattered groceries as fast as his fingers could move, then carefully took her by the elbows to help her stand. She brushed the dust from her sleeve and sighed heavily at the split bottle of cooking oil on the ground. “There goes dinner.”

Andrew handed her the last orange, his eyes darting to the ticking red numbers in his vision. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Nothing serious.” Her gaze lingered on his sweating face and his desperate, wide eyes. “You’re in a terrible hurry.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why stop for an old woman?”

Andrew scratched the back of his neck, a raw, honest ache in his chest. “Because my mother would have killed me if I walked away. She... she raised me to be better than that.”

The old woman smiled warmly, a look of deep understanding in her eyes. “Sounds like she raised a good boy.” She paused, reaching into her bag. “Wait. Take a few of these. They were on discount anyways.”

The absurdity of the oranges almost made him cry. He couldn't exactly sprint across the city peeling citrus, and truth be told, if she offered him cash to cover a taxi, he would take it without a shred of shame. He was that desperate.

“I’ll pass, ma'am,” he said, forcing a gentle, strained smile. “Just get home safely.”

“Suit yourself. Run along now,” she said softly.

Andrew didn't wait. He tightened his grip on his school bag and threw himself back into a sprint toward Orion, his legs aching and his lungs screaming for air.

[Humanitarian assistance recorded.]

[Time Remaining: 02:03:45]

Just as he arrived at Orion, the silver ORION logo towered above the entrance, gleaming in the sunlight just as it did fourteen years ago. As the automatic glass doors slid open, a rush of cold air-conditioning hit his sweaty face, carrying the familiar, nostalgic scent of stage fog and floor polish. Production crew members were already setting up cameras near the elevators.

Andrew glanced at the lenses and instinctively squared his shoulders. It wasn't about trying to look cool; it was a defense mechanism. Fourteen years of watching these survival shows from a dark room taught him how cruel the editing could be. If you looked miserable, the producers turned you into a background joke. He lifted his chin, hiding the physical exhaustion.

His eyes landed on the massive posters of Orion’s legendary groups that lined the walls. Eclipse. Aurora. Neon. He knew their stats by heart. Neon sold 100,000 albums in their first week. Eclipse won their first music show in twenty-three days. He spent half his youth wishing his face hung beside theirs, before reality and hospital bills buried the dream under layers of concrete dust.

Standing here now, looking at those flawless, airbrushed faces, a strange, terrifying warmth bloomed in his chest. Saving his mother was the only reason he ran here. It was the only thing that mattered to him in this life. But somewhere between the ticking countdown, his mother's voice in his head, and these giant walls, a tiny, buried part of him realized something terrifying.

He wanted the stage again. He wanted to sing. The dream never died; he just buried it alive.

“Name?” The receptionist’s sharp voice pulled him back to reality.

Andrew cleared his throat, his voice sounding small in the grand marble lobby. “Andrew Smith.”

Her fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard before she finally paused, nodding. “Independent trainee?”

“Yes.”

She grabbed the printed form from the printer and slid it across the sleek counter. “Please sign at the bottom.”

Andrew gave a quick nod as he picked up the pen and signed his name with a steadying hand.

She stamped the form with a loud, heavy thud, then handed him a white cloth contestant badge. On it, the numbers were printed in plain black ink.

Independent trainee. The two words sat neatly beneath his name. To everyone else in this building, it meant an easy elimination. On StarGlow, a white badge meant zero corporate backing, zero screen-time guarantees, and a guaranteed ticket to getting edited out by the second week, that is if he was lucky enough to be selected for first evaluation.

Good, Andrew thought, pinning the cheap white cloth to his uniform shirt. Let them look right past me. Expectations are dangerous anyway. Being invisible just means they won't see me coming.

“Your registration is complete. Further instructions will be sent before the first evaluation.”

[Ding.]

[Mission Complete.]

Andrew let out a long, shaky breath, holding the cheap piece of fabric in his hands. The phantom weight of his original life rested heavily on his 18-year-old shoulders. Even with a second chance, some things stayed exactly where he left them.

[Ding.]

[System Update.]

[Welcome to the StarGlow Survival Show, Host.]

[Next Mission: Pending.]

Andrew stared at the floating screen, waiting for a follow-up, a reward, or some kind of guidance on how to save his mom next, but the blue light slowly dissolved into nothing.

The lobby bustled around him, full of handsome, well-dressed teenagers laughing and talking about their multi-billionaire agencies. Andrew stood entirely alone in his wrinkled school uniform, holding a white badge, with a hundred questions and no answers. But as he looked down at his smooth, unscarred hands, he whispered to the empty air, "I'm going to keep you alive, Mum. I promise."