Little Pink Starfish

Lion Entertainment.

LPL Entertainment.

Double M Entertainment.

These three are commonly referred to as Korea’s “Big Three” agencies.

Strictly speaking, if you go by revenue, only Double M still ranks in the top three. The others have long since fallen behind.

But the public still places the most prestige on these three, so the title stuck.

One day, the CEO of Lion Entertainment, Choi Tae-ho, came up with a bold new project.

…You want to do what?

“A company survival show.”

Choi Tae-ho.

His name might mean “great tiger,” but the way he acts is more like a wildcat.

No—more like a housecat.

At least cats are cute. This guy? Just a pain.

Maybe that’s why it’s called Lion Entertainment.

The planning team leader couldn’t help but recall yesterday’s fan reactions like a curse.

“Sir, are you serious?”

“What’s the problem?”

“We’ve already finalized the debut lineup with five members. Debut prep is underway. We’ve even announced the group name and title track. And now you want to throw in a company survival show?”

Group name: TAKE# (Take Scene).

Debut track: Scene Stealer.

Everything’s already in motion.

And now he wants to throw in some random trainees and start a competition?

That’s nonsense.

Even if a genius came in and somehow made it through, the team chemistry would be a mess.

“Competitions need to happen before the debut group is finalized. I’m against this.”

“Whoa, slow down, Park. I think you’re misunderstanding something.”

“Then explain it.”

“Our five boys stay as they are. Do you know how hard we trained them? Who we picked? I’m not tossing someone else in.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, we do a 5 vs. 5. Split into Team A and Team B. Winning team debuts.”

“What? So Team A is TAKE#, obviously… Then where do we get Team B? You think there’ll be tension if we bring back eliminated trainees?”

To that, Choi Tae-ho responded coolly.

“We’ll recruit them now.”

“From where? In-house?”

“No. We hold open auditions across the country. Whoever wins debuts immediately. That should get some attention. Plus, we’ll make it a broadcast.”

Team Leader Park Seung-won blinked.

He started as a no-experience road manager and rose to team leader in just seven years.

Too fast for the title—his actual influence was nearly on par with a division head.

Which meant he was sharp. He quickly picked up on what CEO Choi was getting at.

“You’re trying to build a narrative.”

“Bingo. It’s tough to make a splash when there are boy groups popping up left and right.”

“What if Team B is too good? TAKE# could get antis.”

“Antis help build a stronger fanbase.”

“Hmm… You’re also hoping to pull in top-tier trainees, right?”

“Exactly. That’s why I like you, Park.”

These days, there are a million kids who dream of becoming idols. The number of trainees is endless.

But real talent? Always scarce.

And even when you find talent, they want to debut ASAP—so they jump to smaller agencies.

A survival show was a clever way to draw them in.

Worst case, Team B could just become the next boy group after TAKE#.

While Park was deep in thought, Choi Tae-ho leaned in conspiratorially.

“Not bad, right?”

“It could work… if two conditions are met.”

“Shoot.”

“First—TAKE# is debuting no matter what, right?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You think our boys would lose to some last-minute picks?”

Idols get underestimated a lot. People say it’s a shallow job.

But the truth is, it takes just as much sweat and tears as any other path.

Talent for music and talent for being an idol are not the same thing.

“Still, the boys might take it differently. The nonstop competition could wear them out.”

“Then pass it along unofficially. Just hint at it.”

“As in, say it’s just for promo?”

“Exactly. What’s the second condition?”

“What’s the official reason for this show? You need a proper justification to make a survival program fly.”

No one’s going to publicly say, ‘This is a fake competition to promote our group and pick up a few trainees on the side.’

You need a plausible reason.

That’s when CEO Choi looked away.

“…?”

“…I couldn’t come up with one.”

“…!”

“…I’m counting on you.”

“…!!!”

His name may mean ‘great tiger,’ but this so-called CEO was nothing more than a wildcat who’d just dumped a pile of overtime work on Park.

That conversation had taken place four months ago.

It was when the survival program COMING UP NEXT, co-produced with M-Show, was conceived—

A show that would later take an unexpected turn thanks to a certain Han Sion.

---

“Yeah, Uncle. I already ate. Did you?”

I stepped out of LB Studio while talking to Uncle Hyunsoo.

Originally, I planned to leave by Sunday night once my greedy great-aunt’s husband gave up and went home.

But the studio owner said I could stay longer if I wanted.

He didn’t even charge.

Instead, he asked to sit in and watch me compose, and I said sure.

Then he started crying.

“Why! Why the hell! Why does it have to be idol music?! Why not just be a producer?!”

He even tried suggesting an idol band instead.

He said he knew some people, could make introductions.

But nope. Not interested.

For this life, I need to experience the most typical form of idol-dom.

If I go with a weird or unique concept group, the information I collect could get skewed.

So I turned him down flat and asked him to recommend me for Lion Entertainment’s survival show.

I didn’t need the recommendation, but it’d make things easier.

Then, he told me more about COMING UP NEXT—

How it was basically a fake survival show made to promote an already decided group.

No matter what I did, I wouldn’t debut.

Everyone in the industry knows it’s just a business move.

He said I’d be better off finding another route.

But honestly, the more I heard, the more I liked it.

First, I’d be on TV.

I’d be able to show the world that Han Sion exists.

I might not be super handsome, but I’m not hard to look at either.

I’ve got a certain charm.

Not my opinion—it’s what a top Hollywood styling team said, and they only work with A-listers.

So even if the show only captures a fraction of my talent, I’m sure some agency will offer me a debut contract immediately.

The casting notice even says eliminated contestants are free to go wherever they want.

Sure, Lion Entertainment won’t make it easy, but I’m not the type to get cornered.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after living this long through countless regressions—

Choosing is always better than being chosen.

I don’t want a company that hesitates over whether to debut me.

I want to pick a company that’s dying to debut me.

The second advantage?

The show will help me rapidly adapt to the idol world.

I don’t know much about being an idol, and I’ve been away from Korea for too long.

I need an adjustment period.

COMING UP NEXT is like a crash course.

And most importantly—

It won’t be boring.

Sure, I could audition for a company and probably get accepted.

I could train and debut the traditional way.

But that’s so boring.

They’ll make me learn things I already know.

Correct me on things I’m already better at.

Probably even get scolded by people less skilled than me.

I don’t have the patience for that.

And considering how fragile my regression trigger is, I might just reset without even realizing it.

That’s why I’m going on COMING UP NEXT.

Of course, there’s always a chance they don’t pick me.

But if a company doesn’t have the eye to scout me?

Then I probably wouldn’t learn anything from them anyway.

—Sion?

“Just block Great Aunt’s number.”

—She’s still your family…

“She didn’t even come visit when my parents got hurt, and now she’s showing up because she wants legal guardianship. Garbage.”

—…Alright. Got it.

After ending the call, I dug through my wallet and pulled out Seo Seung-hyun’s business card—the A&R team leader from BVB Entertainment.

Over the past three days, I’d created seven songs.

Aside from “The Pros (꾼들),” the other six weren’t entirely new.

It’s more accurate to say I reproduced tracks I’d already written in past lives.

All six had ranked on the Billboard Hot 100.

I handpicked the ones that had been popular in Korea too.

Three had even hit No.1 on the Hot 100.

The genres ranged from electronic pop to hip hop.

I plan to sell them.

Hyunseok from LB Studio offered to help, but I’ll leave the consignment to Seo Seung-hyun.

I didn’t build that connection for this reason, but hey—use what you’ve got.

‘First, I need to record some guides.’

I hadn’t recorded vocals in the studio.

After nearly three days without sleep, my voice was shot.

It’ll be rough, but I’ve got home recording gear.

I was a singer hopeful even before my deal with the devil.

Honestly, I’m kind of curious—

How the idol-centric K-pop industry will rearrange these songs, write lyrics for them, and assign them to artists.