Little Pink Starfish

CEO Choi Tae-ho of Lion Entertainment felt slightly baffled after reading the report.

It was a long one from the rookie development team in charge of selecting Team B members, but the gist was:

There’s a trainee who’s too good—so good that we’re not sure if he should even be in Team B. If we put him in, we need a clear strategy for how to use him.

In other words, this Han Si-on guy might actually be a threat to TakeScene’s debut.

“I mean, how good could he really be?”

Sure, the world is full of geniuses. Maybe this one really was that good.

But still—

“How much does musical talent even matter in an idol survival show?”

For musicians, good music usually means success.

But idols? Good music alone doesn’t guarantee anything.

That’s why idols are often underestimated—but also why the industry can be ruthlessly brutal.

Choi Tae-ho had witnessed countless moments like this in his career, so he couldn’t quite understand the rookie team’s concern about Han Si-on.

But even he was caught off guard when he watched Han Si-on’s audition footage.

“Hmm…”

He’s good.

No—disgustingly good.

He wasn’t just singing well—he was toying with the song.

The rookie development team had given high marks to his self-chosen song Tony Bright, but Choi Tae-ho thought differently.

The designated song Flower Language was even more impressive.

A young twenty-year-old genius rearranging and singing an acoustic guitar track?

Sure, understandable.

He probably wanted to flex that dazzling talent. Show off how amazing he was.

But Flower Language wasn’t the kind of song that works if you just flex.

Han Si-on had sung it with calm precision, perfectly understanding its emotional weight.

That kind of restraint in a young genius? Now that was impressive.

“So that’s why they were hesitant.”

But admiration aside, Choi Tae-ho didn’t hesitate.

Sure, if this was a solo artist in their third or fourth year, it’d be a different story—but in a survival show, Han Si-on wouldn’t be able to take down TakeScene alone.

In fact, it might be frustrating for him.

Why can’t the other Team B members sing like he can?

Why do TakeScene’s performances—by members clearly less skilled individually—still seem better?

“Let him shine in the solo mission and make TakeScene look like underdogs. That’d be ideal.”

Of course, that was from a producer’s perspective.

As the CEO of Lion Entertainment, though, he found Han Si-on extremely appealing.

This kid had to sign with them as a trainee.

Even if that meant giving the first-ever massive signing bonus in company history.

And if that wasn’t possible…

“Couldn’t we just let one member of Team B debut through a special route?”

Maybe expanding TakeScene to six members and slotting in Han Si-on wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

---

The acceptance call for Coming Up Next came.

Given my skills, it was the expected outcome—but I still let out a quiet sigh of relief.

My head said I’d pass, but emotionally, I was nervous.

“Thank you.”

• Filming is on February 23rd. It’ll be a 3-day, 1-night shoot, so just bring clothes. Toiletries will be provided.

“Got it.”

• We’ve sent the detailed filming schedule to your email. If you have questions, use the number listed there.

“Understood.”

After the short call, I checked the email.

The first shoot had a simple goal:

Finalize the lineup of Team B—the ones who would go up against Team A, TakeScene.

There would be ten participants initially, but only five would remain.

Through two stages—presumably, one individual mission and one team mission—half would be eliminated.

No specific info was given on what those missions entailed, but the terms “individual” and “team” were mentioned.

The individual round was probably a vocal performance.
The team round, more likely a dance or group performance.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

I could handle both.

I’ve never been a dance artist.

No way an Asian guy could survive in the U.S. as a dance-pop artist relying on sex appeal.

But there are moments on stage—especially in R&B or hip-hop—where dancing becomes essential.

So I paid top-tier Billboard trainers tens of thousands of dollars and got solid reactions from audiences.

I’ve never done the precise, synchronized group dancing unique to K-pop…

But if someone teaches me, I’m confident I can learn.

So I didn’t need to prepare anything special for this shoot.

Instead, I spent the next two weeks focusing entirely on songwriting and vocals.

Writing songs while you’re still unknown is ideal.

Once you debut and start working full-time, energy becomes a real issue.

Even if you’re just tweaking already-written songs, it’s way easier to do when you’ve got time to refine and retake everything.

Vocal training, though? That’s a long-term investment.

No need to overdo it.

It’ll take about two years to reach the tone I want.

I’m still growing—my body will keep developing until next year.

As my body changes, so will my vocal cords and resonance. That means I can’t perfect my tone just yet.

Besides that? I practiced dancing a bit and listened to as much K-pop as I could.

It’d be weird to not know popular songs everyone else does.

“Hmm…”

Still, I won’t lie—it’s a bit of a struggle.

K-pop from 2017 is… awkward.

The top 1–2 chart songs are fine.

There are some great ones. A few even sound like they’d do well years later too.

Some songs I found made me think—if they’d just delayed release by a few years, they could’ve been huge.

But beyond those top songs, the quality definitely drops off.

It’s subjective, but I think Korean music leveled up around 2020—right around the COVID era.

Sure, it still doesn’t sound as good as Billboard stuff—but that’s a budget issue.

In terms of production skill, the gap pretty much closed.

That’s why we got world-class stars and K-pop fans on its home turf.

But 2017 clearly hadn’t reached that level yet.

Then I thought…

Wasn’t Billboard in the same boat?

In my last life, I was a 2028 Grammy winner. The furthest I’ve lived is 2039.

Feeling dated when listening to songs from 11–22 years ago? Totally normal.

To test that, I listened to a few Billboard hits—and yeah, they felt outdated too.

So it wasn’t just K-pop’s fault.

Time passed productively, and before I knew it, the day before Coming Up Next’s filming had arrived.

---

The day before filming, I visited the hospital where my parents lay unconscious.

It had been a while.

Not much time had passed objectively—maybe a little over a month since I was discharged?

But emotionally, it felt long.

That’s because I hadn’t visited this hospital—where they were, comatose—in a long time.

Usually, once I left for the U.S., I didn’t come back to Korea.

Unless it was for concerts, visa issues, or military stuff, I avoided it.

Even when I did come back, I didn’t visit the hospital much.

Facing my unconscious parents always brought me pain—both for my failures and the emptiness of success.

What if I never sell 200 million albums?

What if, even after 200… 300 years, I’m still trapped in this nonlinear loop?

What if the devil knew all this and was laughing at me?

Those thoughts always crept in.

But they’re dangerous.

Think like that, and I might trigger another regression by accident.

The media often labeled me a psychopath or sociopath for not visiting my parents while I was in Korea, but I wasn’t that kind of person.

Just a coward.

The reason I visited today was because of a call from Uncle Hyun-soo.

He told me I should visit the hospital before the show aired.

Damn it. Let’s be honest.

It was a calculated move.

If I’m debuting in Korea, the least I can do is make sure people don’t call me a sociopath.

Beep—Beep—Beep

The quiet room was filled only by the sound of the heart monitor, and my thoughts deepened.

They always ended in the same place: the devil’s contract.

[If you achieve your goal, their suspended deaths will be lifted, and they will awaken.]
[In the timeline you choose.]
[Whenever, wherever.]

Right.

Once I succeed, I can choose when they wake up.

Maybe it’ll be during my Super Bowl performance as a rapper.

Maybe when I return to Korea for a GOTM tour.

Or even before the accident happened—before debut.

That’s why I keep looping. Over and over.

Because I don’t want them to wake up when I’m 70 and finally hit 200 million album sales.

The devil’s word “crossroad” isn’t just about a literal intersection.

It means borderlines, branching points, singularities.

Moments where fate diverges.

Maybe… even parallel dimensions.

Just then, the hospital room door opened, and Uncle Hyun-soo stepped in.

“When did you get here?”

“Just now.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“I’m really okay. It all feels like a dream.”

We didn’t say much after that. We just looked at my parents in silence.

Uncle Hyun-soo had been their junior in med school, but they hadn’t known each other that well.

Still, it was him who introduced them on a blind date.

They got married because of him—and I was born.

After that, the three of them grew close. Practically family.

Every time I regress and end up in an ambulance, I always ask to be brought here—because of him.

He even agrees to delay the vegetative state diagnosis by months when I ask.

The longer we postpone legal guardianship, the better it is for me.

I at least need to wait until I’m no longer a minor.

“…”

Damn. Even in this hospital room, I’m thinking this way.

When I sighed, my uncle looked at me worriedly, so I changed the topic.

“Uncle, when do you get off today?”

“I’m on duty… but let’s grab dinner outside. Tomorrow’s your first shoot, right?”

“Yeah.”

“All ready?”

“Not much to prep. They just told us to show up.”

“Still, shouldn’t you prepare something?”

“Nah. Someone like me doesn’t need to.”

He laughed.

“Then let’s go to karaoke. I want to hear how good you are. Ah, and let’s get you some clothes. Wonder how late the department stores stay open.”

“Didn’t you say you’re on duty?”

“Lemme give you a life tip, kid. When a doctor on duty says, ‘Let’s eat out,’ it means he’s switching shifts. Got it?”

“That only helps if I go to med school.”

“You never know. Maybe you’ll date a doctor.”

“Idols aren’t allowed to date.”

“What? Why not?”

“It hurts album sales.”

He chuckled, mistaking my dead-serious tone for a joke.

We ended up having dinner together.

At the hospital cafeteria.

Because no one would switch shifts with him.

“…”

“Don’t misunderstand, okay? It’s not that I have no friends—it’s just that everyone else is really busy today…”

“It’s fine. You’re the best, Uncle.”

“No, seriously!”

Aside from his wounded pride, it wasn’t a bad day.

---

I woke up early, went for a jog, and finished stretching before heading to the filming site at 8 a.m.

After filling out the show participation and non-disclosure agreements, and doing a quick pre-interview with the writers, an hour had passed just like that.

“Han Si-on, we’ll head to the filming set now.”

February 23, 2017. 9:00 a.m.
The first shoot of COMING UP NEXT began.