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jang woohyuk,

please be mindful that this translation is did by translating services and ai, as it is translated from a language i am not the most familiar with (chinese). be wary that these two can very well make mistakes.

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My hometown, Daegu, is the third largest city in Korea, but compared to Seoul, it’s far less bustling. So even though I came here carrying the title of “Champion of the Korean Teen Dance Contest,” my heart was still full of fear and unease.

After layers of selection, only five of us remained, including me. I lived with a boy named Tony in the company’s apartment.

In the beginning, while preparing for our debut album, life was bitter and exhausting. We trained 12 to 16 hours a day at such intensity that I developed shoulder pain whenever I danced. Sometimes we were so tired that we collapsed on the floor, unable to get up.

But excitement washed it all away. Every time we lay on the ground watching singers on TV standing on a stage bright with lights, receiving endless flowers and applause, we would prop up our chins and say enviously: “When will we be like that too?”

That dream came true quickly. With our first album, H.O.T. gained fans. I still vividly remember when we discovered the very first fan letter on the company’s desk — everyone fought to read it.

But heaven is fair. Along with good fortune, misfortune followed. From H.O.T.’s second album onward, bans, plagiarism controversies, and other incidents came one after another. Many people rejected us, cursed us — but many also loved us. Either way, we had become thoroughly famous.

From that point on, we even gained a little international recognition.

From the third album onward, we went through a bigger transformation, both in musical style and image. Because of the change, it became even tougher.

I lost 4 kilograms in just one month. Tony had it worse, losing 8 kilograms. Worst of all, at the most crucial moment, he fell into depression. Under such intense training, his weak health made him want to give up. He felt useless, unimportant — and he often fainted from nervousness and exhaustion.

At that time, taking care of him fell on me. I listened to his worries, comforted him. To others, what I did might have seemed small, but I knew for someone helpless, it meant the world. From then on, Tony and I developed a deeper connection. Even I found it strange — how could two people so different in personality and interests get along so well?

In those days, I was also grateful to Heejun. If it weren’t for him, I might have collapsed too. When I saw the unhealed sores at the corners of his mouth, I knew that as leader, he carried more pressure than any of us. From that moment, I respected him deeply in my heart, though I never said it aloud.

Finally, the hard days passed. H.O.T.’s third album was a huge success. More people got to know us, to support us. That album included songs we ourselves had written, so it carried special meaning for us.

The day before the album release, we sat together, listening, lightly touching the CD cover — and we cried.

H.O.T. had finally risen above expectations. Surprisingly, the one who stood out most in the new album was Tony. Even Kangta, always acknowledged as the most handsome, admitted defeat. With his long hair, Tony stunned everyone in the “Hope” and “Line Up” MVs. He seemed like a completely different person — more beautiful, more charismatic, with a unique foreign flair.

Meanwhile, my hairstyle looked like something out of a 70s talk show. Thankfully, I cut it before “Hope,” though it still looked a little childish.

The fourth album was comparatively easier. Not that training was less grueling or criticism had disappeared — only that we had grown used to it, numbed, matured. Our fame and fanbase grew, and for the first time we held a major concert at the Olympic Stadium.

That day it rained, but fans still arrived early. From the start, their response was overwhelming. We gave everything we had, singing and dancing with all our strength. The opening was perfect, so I prayed in excitement for things to continue smoothly. But fate had other plans.

At the climax, Heejun fell off the stage. Backstage, he couldn’t move, sweat dripping from his forehead. We were stunned, not knowing what to do. Perhaps Heejun was the pillar of the group — maybe we didn’t realize it while he was there, but without him, we completely lost our balance. Maybe this is the power of a leader.

The staff panicked and called an ambulance. In the chaos, Tony and Jaewon put on the wrong clothes, Kangta held Heejun’s hand and sobbed nonstop, while I forced myself to clap and say, “Let’s go on!” But inside, I was terrified. I feared this concert would end with only four members, feared he’d never dance again, feared… I didn’t dare think further.

As the group’s second eldest, I had to pull myself together.

When it came time for “Line Up,” Heejun couldn’t perform, so his rap parts were split between me, Jaewon, and Tony. Each time I finished a line, I glanced at Jaewon — and thankfully, he picked it up seamlessly. Despite being the youngest, Jaewon was the calmest of us all.

After “Git It Up,” Kangta went backstage and cried so hard that when he returned for “Together Forever,” his eyes and nose were bright red. Fans sang with us, and we could only repay them by moving closer to them, sharing the same rain. Fans wept harder. Finally, Jaewon couldn’t hold back and broke down, unable to sing. Kangta choked up too. Tony swung his arms as hard as he could, and on stage and off, everyone cried together.

Call me naïve, call me inexperienced, but in that moment, I was deeply moved. My mascara ran in the rain, blurring my eyes.

When we returned backstage, Heejun had already changed into his “I Yah” outfit. Despite the pain, he smiled at us and said: “It’s the best part now — you guys can’t leave me out!”

In that moment, I felt truly lucky he was our leader.

I fixed my makeup and went to Kangta, applying the same white-and-red paint on his tear-stained face. Pointing at his red nose, I laughed: “If you cry again, I’ll paint this too.” He finally smiled. Real or fake, forced or genuine — at least he smiled.

The last song of the concert, and the title track of our fourth album, was “I Yah.” We sang, danced, shouted like madmen. The fans went wild, screaming, crying, the entire stadium boiling over. Hundreds of fans fainted. Honestly, I think it was the most successful concert we’d ever had.

As the song neared its end, Jaewon dropped to the ground, thrashing his head like crazy. My throat was raw, my body numb, drifting into unconsciousness. I knew I had reached my limit — one more song and I would collapse.

The concert ended in an explosion of deafening screams, tears, and applause. The fans’ passion didn’t fade. We bowed deeply, for nearly a full minute. Kangta stuck close to Heejun, and I placed my hand on Kangta’s shoulder until we left the stage. Because the one I worried for most wasn’t Heejun, but Kangta — who could very well cry himself sick over Heejun’s injury.

Even offstage, I worried most about Kangta. Honestly, I really felt protective of him. He was born beautiful, kind, and gentle — you just couldn’t help but want to take care of him.

I didn’t worry about Heejun, because I knew nothing could truly defeat him.

As soon as we left the stage, Heejun was carried into the ambulance. Nearly collapsing ourselves, we insisted on going to the hospital with him. The company had no choice but to send all five of us together.

At the same time, H.O.T.’s 4th album, I Yah, was selling worldwide, breaking 1.2 million copies, and sweeping awards across Korea’s radio, television, and entertainment shows.

Seeing the timing was right, the company arranged for us to hold concerts in China — a dream we’d long held. We were ecstatic, just like the first time we received a fan letter. China’s population was thirty times that of Korea; if we could capture that market, it would mean so many more people would love us, love H.O.T.’s music.

We tasted what it was like to sit high above the clouds.

After winning awards to the point our hands went numb, we also took part in the Korean-Japanese co-produced 3D film Age of Peace.

Returning home, we calmed ourselves and poured everything into creating our fifth album. This was our first self-produced album, so we put in more effort than ever before. Each of us contributed songs — it was like our child. When it was finally born, we laughed and cried like maniacs.

We thought we were standing at the peak, indulging in an immense sense of accomplishment, believing “a better day” was coming. But in truth, our real hardships were only beginning.

I’ve said before: heaven is fair. When it gives you something, it takes something away. I experienced that again.

As our fame grew, thousands of fan letters piled up in company rooms every day, but we had no time to read them, let alone reply. Every day we ate the meals prepared by the company’s nutritionist — food that probably looked delicious to others, but to us was tasteless. The small happiness of the past — rushing to read fan letters, or sharing sausages together when exhausted from practice — we could no longer feel.

Before release, our new album had to be reviewed by music critics. But after just one listen, they dismissed it entirely. Nine months of effort was reduced to nothing in their words.

Two songs were banned. Kangta’s "Illusion" was accused of encouraging drug use — when in reality it was written to oppose drugs. Tony’s "Natural Born Killer" was said to carry “negative influence” on youth.

I couldn’t understand what these people were thinking. If a single song could corrupt kids, wouldn’t the world already be in chaos?

But worse was yet to come.

In November 2000, Kangta was in a car accident — and the other party shifted all blame onto him. The company, claiming the incident brought them a bad image, suspended most of our promotions. They even canceled our participation in the SM Christmas album, and our planned concerts in China and Japan were delayed again and again, until finally they were forcibly scrapped.

Kangta locked himself in his room every day, smoking and crying. He felt everything was his fault. No matter how we comforted him, he refused to listen, only repeating “I’m sorry” over and over.

Because our fifth album’s promotions were halted, sales were hit hard. Of all H.O.T.’s albums, the fifth was the only one that failed to pass 1 million.

The company, through all of this, acted as if it was none of their concern — as if our success or failure was entirely on us.

After some time, Kangta finally picked himself back up, and we decided to rally again — not for the company, but for the fans who had always supported us. We asked once more to hold concerts in China, but again were rejected. The excuse: we should focus on preparing for the February Seoul concert. Our hearts were completely broken. We didn’t say it out loud, but we all knew very clearly — we had asked for March, which didn’t conflict with Seoul’s schedule at all.

By then, the company was already investing heavily in grooming new artists, pouring money into packaging our “junior” groups. For us? … Maybe they thought we’d already grown up, so we didn’t need them anymore.

The reality: ordinary Korean singers earned about 100 won per album sold. For us? Only 20 won. After deducting taxes and royalties, just 7 won left (barely 0.05 RMB). Of course we knew we were working for the company, and that SM profiting from us was normal. But what were we earning in return? Respect? Money? Value? I didn’t understand why the company had changed this way. Maybe they thought we’d grown up, and could handle everything on our own. Or maybe they thought we were already “old” and had no value left. (the money distrubution is phrased very oddly here,, so just use enough context clues and keep this in mind)

For the 5th album’s VTR, each of us expressed ourselves in our favorite way. In the end, we walked together along the train tracks, then jumped and high-fived. How I wished time could stop right there, our hands joined forever.

February 27, 2001. We held H.O.T.’s 4th large-scale concert at the Olympic Stadium. Heaven seemed to be against us — rain mixed with snow fell that day. We worried the fans wouldn’t arrive on time, but to our shock, two hours before the concert even started, the stadium was already full, with even more fans waiting outside without tickets. Our anxious hearts finally settled. Once again, we made a firm decision: we would give our very best to these precious people.

This concert was different from before — lighter, freer. We tried to show our most cheerful sides, to calm the fans’ hearts, which were shaken by constant disbandment rumors. We shouted more than once:

“H.O.T. will NOT disband!”
“H.O.T. FOREVER!”

It wasn’t just to reassure fans — it was also to comfort ourselves. Because the biggest crisis was coming: Mine, Tony, and Jaewon’s contracts with SM were expiring.

We negotiated with the company many times, offering the lowest terms we could: a 300 million won signing fee per member (about 240,000 RMB) and a higher share of album sales. For Korea’s biggest agency, we thought this was nothing. With that money, we could stay with SM, while at the same time improving the members’ income. If you don’t respect us, then we’ll respect ourselves. If you won’t let us grow, then we’ll invest in ourselves to make better music.

I thought our demands weren’t excessive — not even up to the standard contracts of average Korean singers. We believed SM would compromise. But reality proved us too naïve. The company completely rejected our proposal.

Our hearts went cold. We couldn’t claim that we had carried Korean music to the world, but at least we had carried SM to the world. After five years of hard work, what had we gained? Why wouldn’t they even leave us the most basic dignity?

The only thing we could be thankful for was our countless fans, who had walked with us through every storm. So I made a decision — the biggest decision of my five-year career.

I discussed it with Kangta and Heejun. Kangta cried again. Heejun patted my head and said: “You’ve grown up. You should decide for yourselves now.” I brushed his hand away lightly — and cried. For the first time in five years, I cried openly in front of my brothers.

Fans would curse us, the music world would curse us, the company would curse us. But I had decided: I would walk the road I chose. Just as I once chose to come to Seoul on my own, I believed this time I would not be wrong.

May 13, 2001, 1:00 PM. Tony, Jaewon, and I held a press conference, announcing that we were officially leaving SM, and had signed with Yejeon Entertainment for 350 million won each. From beginning to end, all we said was “leaving SM,” but every article wrote “leaving H.O.T.”

At the press conference, the three of us looked grim and cold. We couldn’t help it — we just couldn’t smile. When it ended, I actually felt relieved, like a heavy weight had been lifted.

That night, news spread across the world through the internet. Once again, we were on every entertainment headline. And with SM’s “explanation,” critics and media began accusing us of being money-chasers, disloyal, ungrateful. I didn’t want to explain — we were already used to these twisted accusations.

The thing I had feared most happened: H.O.T. fans around the world cried endlessly, shouting “Give us back H.O.T.!” Some even went on hunger strike in protest.

Please, scold me if you must — but don’t torture yourselves. My heart felt like needles stabbing over and over again. Jaewon drowned himself in alcohol; I tried to stop him, but it didn’t work. For days, we couldn’t even leave home — reporters swarmed outside.

Finally, I had time to read fans’ letters. I thought it would calm me, but with each one, my guilt grew heavier. Still, I kept reading, almost as a kind of self-punishment. And then, one unsigned letter gave me new hope:

“This is the H.O.T. I love — brave enough to make their own decisions. If H.O.T. surrendered, they wouldn’t be H.O.T.” “I’m sad and heartbroken, but I know you have your reasons. Because I love you, I respect your choice.” “Whether you’re together or apart, no matter how far, no matter if you’re no longer on this earth — you will always be our H.O.T., irreplaceable.” “Oppa, if this is your road, then don’t regret it — just like when we chose to love you, we never regretted it, and never will.”

Reading this, I was moved — and ashamed. A fan could face this with such understanding, suppressing her own pain just to comfort me… while I hid away in guilt and fear. Since we had chosen this road, we had to walk it bravely.

So Tony, Jaewon, and I threw ourselves into learning how the new company operated, and preparing our first album as JTL.

I was moved, and ashamed. A fan could face this matter with such a mindset—suppressing their own pain to comfort and encourage me. Meanwhile, I had just been hiding at home, wasting time on useless remorse and running away from reality. Since I’d chosen this path, I had to walk it bravely. Together with Tony and Jaewon, I threw myself into getting familiar with how the new company worked, and we began preparing for our first album as a new group.

During this time, we never lost contact with Heejun and Kangta. Their contracts were about to expire, but we couldn’t meet in person—only talk on the phone. At that time, we were under even more scrutiny than at our peak.

“Hyung, I’ll listen to you,” Kangta said seriously over the phone. “Hyuk, you’ve grown up. Think carefully, don’t be impulsive,” Heejun told me.

Inside SM, Tony, Jaewon, and I weren’t the type who made a lot of friends, so we only had Minwoo and H (Either the name Hyesung, Or Hwanhee) and a few others. But Heejun and Kangta were different—their kind, gentle, humorous natures drew people in. Beyond us, they had quite a few other friends. They were also creative talents, often writing songs for other singers, and those work-based friendships—while not as deep as HOT’s brotherhood—were still valuable.

Most importantly, HOT was the pillar of SM. And as leader and main vocalist, Heejun and Kangta were the core of that pillar. Every year, most of SM’s revenue was generated by HOT. With three of us already gone, the company had taken a big hit, and they weren’t about to let those two go easily. SM would use every possible method to keep them.

And even if they did want to join us, our new company might not agree to reform HOT as five. After all, we were now labelmates with g.o.d., our fiercest rivals before. Fans had been very divided between us. If both groups coexisted under one company, it would cause endless problems. That’s why I said it wouldn’t happen—at least not yet. Besides, our new company wasn’t yet strong enough to rival a giant like SM.

“Let’s wait until the time is right…”

After much thought and hesitation, Heejun and Kangta decided to renew their contracts with SM.

We had left SM—the rumors were true, and it couldn’t be undone. Fans put all their hope on Heejun and Kangta. Or rather, it wasn’t just hope—it was an almost desperate longing. I’d felt that before, so I knew exactly how fans would react once those two renewed. I understood, because their love for us was so deep that sometimes it overwhelmed reason. But when the storm passed, they’d realize that love remained unchanged.

I carefully arranged to meet Kangta and told him: no matter what fans might do, he must not act rashly. He smiled knowingly. Honestly, I knew my advice was unnecessary—he was born perfect. Not just his looks, but also the kindness and patience that contrasted with them. His appearance, his heart, his talent—they were God’s masterpiece. Sometimes I even joked, “If only I had a son like you!”

Instead of getting annoyed, he smiled gently: “He’ll be better than me—because hyung is already so good.”

That’s the kind of person he was. Since our very first concert in 1998, at almost every show I’d walk over and give him a little shove. He would always look back at me with that same gentle smile. A small detail, but one that revealed the closeness of our bond. Looking at him now, I thought of how we wouldn’t stand on the same stage for at least two years. A wave of loss and sadness welled up. I stood up, walked over, and pushed him again—without realizing how hard I did it. His chair wobbled, and his brow furrowed slightly before his expression softened again into that same gentle smile.

In that moment, I was back to the very first day I joined the group…

Finally, Kangta and Heejun held a press conference announcing their renewal with SM—for 1.05 billion won each. Ironically, the amount given to one of them was equal to the total renewal fee we three had asked for. If SM had offered that at the start, we surely would have stayed. I didn’t understand what they meant by doing this. But I knew—even without such a huge amount, Kangta and Heejun would have renewed anyway. SM just used money to cover up the reality.

This only fueled fans’ anger. They cursed them for being money-minded. Some even smashed their cars—not once, but several times. On one occasion they were caught by the police and taken to the station. Kangta felt deeply guilty over it.

SM increased its promotion of Kangta and Heejun, giving them the best producers. Kangta went to China and France to shoot a photobook mixing ancient and modern styles. Soon, Kangta released his first solo album, Polaris. Later, Heejun released Alone.

My favorite song was Our Story. In the 227 concert VTR, Jun had sung it—it really felt like it was telling our story. Their talents shone brilliantly in those albums, which sold well. I was genuinely happy for them. But one thing puzzled me: Kangta’s music suddenly turned toward jazz, while Jun’s leaned heavily into electronic and rock. Why did SM push their styles in such opposite directions? There was only one explanation: to prevent them from ever regrouping. If their music was too different, coming together again would be nearly impossible.

Whether or not we could reunite, we kept striving toward that dream. Tony, Jaewon, and I declined as many activities as possible, and thankfully our company understood and supported us. Worried about Tony’s stomach condition flaring up, Jaewon and I always kept lots of food ready. The moment he said he was hungry, we’d stuff it into him.

We worked day and night. Between our own compositions and rearranging foreign folk songs into hip-hop, we ended up with over 300 tracks. Choosing from them was even harder than making them—every song carried our effort, and we hated to cut any. After eight months, our first album was finally born. Tony took the main vocal role. We named the group JTL, after the initials of our surnames.

The title track, A Better Day, was adapted from a foreign folk tune. All three of us instantly fell in love with its harmonica melody, and after Jaewon’s arrangement, it became a nostalgic hip-hop track. What shocked me most was that on both our album and Kangta and Heejun’s albums, the covers still bore the word HOT! That was brotherhood—no need for words or actions. No matter how far apart we were, our hearts remained together, never separated.

After finishing the songs, we went to Shanghai to shoot the MV. Coincidentally, SM was holding its “Four Kings” concert there. We bought tickets as ordinary spectators, just to watch our brothers perform. Seeing the dazzling Kangta and Heejun on stage, I didn’t feel sadness. It felt just like one of our HOT concerts where only the solo stages were happening—except this time, Tony, Jaewon, and I didn’t go on.

Unexpectedly, Kangta sang Hope. This miracle of a song had once brought countless people hope. With it, HOT had won many awards and successfully produced our fourth album. You could say that song brought us luck. But now, it ripped open old wounds for everyone present. Fans wept as they sang along, crying out “HOT FOREVER!” Kangta rapped, something he wasn’t good at, and it sounded so thin and weak. I wanted to rush up and sing with him—but I couldn’t.

Our album came out—we were excited but nervous. Then the worst happened: four songs were banned for “vulgar language” or “bad influence.” Normally, five reviewers would listen and vote. Three “yes” votes meant approval. But Tony and Jaewon’s songs each lost 2–3, while my Abandoned Child was rejected unanimously, 0–5. I was speechless. Before, I might have been furious, but now I preferred to think: maybe my song resonated too strongly.

We felt exhausted. Yet amid the bitter laughter, I found myself recalling the feeling of HOT in the old days.

Because brotherhood means—when you need someone, they show up and stand by your side.

When SM and MBC worked together to blacklist us, Kangta and Heejun stood up. Kangta openly promoted our JTL CD, smiling his gentle smile. To SM, that smile might have been the deadliest weapon. But to us, it was the strongest faith, the most precious friendship.

Thank you, my good brothers. Thank you for giving me the courage to rise again. I know many more hardships lie ahead, testing our friendship. But I’m not afraid—because my friends are you.

Maybe in a year, for one reason or another, we won’t be able to reunite. But I’ll keep holding on—for one year, two years, forever.

Even if we can’t always be together, we shared five years of joy and hardship. That time has passed, but because it has become the past, it can never be erased. It will always be the most beautiful memory of my life.

At the very least, our hearts will always be together.

HOT—our story is still continuing.

—Jang Woohyuk