Little Pink Starfish

became quite a hot topic among aspiring idols.

Even among those who knew the hidden intentions behind the program.

“It’s going to air anyway, right? Whether I stay with the company or leave after getting eliminated—that’s up to me.”

The world doesn’t always flow in a reasonable way, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either.

In this atmosphere, the number of applicants for Coming Up Next steadily increased.

Some were confident in their skills, while others had faith in their story.

But Lion Entertainment had a clear selection standard.

Team B of Coming Up Next ultimately existed to spotlight Team A—TakeScene.

Yet they also had to consider ratings and the possibility of recruiting future trainees for Lion Entertainment.

Which meant a few things were more important than raw talent.

First, good looks.

For idols, a pretty face is both a talent and a narrative.

Sure, those who rely only on looks and lack skill are criticized…

…but Team B needed those flower-wall types.

Guys so handsome that they immediately earn viewer support, but as the missions go on, fall clearly short in core abilities compared to TakeScene.

Through them, TakeScene can gain a compelling “overcoming the odds” arc.

Even if they’re not as visually stunning, the fire in their eyes for their craft makes it feel like they’re pushing past obstacles.

And if Lion Entertainment trains these pretty boys for a few years before debuting them, they get an easy self-growth narrative too.

“Back on Coming Up Next, he seemed like just a pretty face, but he improved so much by the time he debuted.”
“You can tell how hard he worked. I’m proud.”
“He looked like he was getting emotional on his debut stage—like it reminded him of the past.”

Once people start saying things like that? Game over.

Second, personality.

It didn’t matter if Team B members were individually more skilled than TakeScene.

Actually, that was ideal.

But Teamwork? TakeScene had to dominate.

So Team B had to be a collection of strong individuals who didn’t mesh well.

They shine during individual missions early in the program but weaken in team missions.

The more of them there are, the more TakeScene stands out.

Finally, tragic backstories.

Any kind works.

But the best are the ones that bring viewers to tears.

These members boost viewership and generate buzz.

But they also create fatigue.

It’s a powerful hook once—but twice, three times, and audiences subconsciously start to feel drained.

Now sprinkle in some editing magic?

You can emphasize moments where Team B members act overly sensitive or unyielding.

Then the TakeScene members, who grew up sweet and unblemished, get a reverse charm effect.

In short, Team B’s stories were cards to be used and discarded for initial success.

The person in charge of selecting Coming Up Next trainees at Lion Entertainment was rookie development head Choi Suyeon.

And she understood this perfectly.

And then—

“Han Si-on. The name’s not bad.”

On paper, this Han Si-on kid seemed to check all three boxes.

She didn’t trust profile pics too much—but he was definitely good-looking.

And the one who recommended Han Si-on? Lee Hyun-seok, head of LB Studio.

A guy with a great reputation in the industry, known for selflessly pushing talented indie musicians.

And Han Si-on was someone Lee praised to the skies.

Skipping the first online screening and second interview, Han Si-on had jumped straight to the final round—all thanks to Lee.

“He said he’s good at playing instruments and composing?”

If Lee was that impressed, the kid had to be legit. Which meant there’s no way he lacked individuality or strong opinions.

Maybe he gave off that typical “hipster indie boy” vibe?

And finally…

“The family situation’s pretty intense.”

His parents were recently in a car accident and are now in a vegetative state.

Hard to believe, since some trainees do fake family tragedies. But after checking with the hospital—it was real.

There’s no official diagnosis yet, but the attending doctor—close to the family—was clearly delaying the inevitable.

The feeling hit hard.

A talented indie musician who never cared about idols suddenly changed because of his parents’ accident.

Maybe he wanted to earn money to treat them. Maybe he wanted his music to reach the skies for their sake.

Either way, he applied to Coming Up Next in a rush.

“As long as he’s not tone-deaf, he’s in.”

If he could establish his role through composition, even lacking vocals was fine.

Composers usually have good rhythm, so a little rap training would go a long way.

His application said “vocal,” though.

“Team leader, should we let him in?”

“Yeah. Let’s begin.”

And so, the final third-round interviews started with three rookie development staffers from Lion Entertainment.

Eight applicants in total today.

They didn’t have to select anyone—but if they did, only one would make it.

“Hello! I’m Jo Tae-su!”

The first interview began, and after four applicants—

“I’m Han Si-on.”

The fifth and most-watched candidate walked in.

---

I’ve done a ton of auditions.

These days, when someone tries to enter a field, they think about potential.

Like, “If I become a rapper, can I sell 200 million albums?”
“If I win America’s Got Talent, can I build a sustainable career?”
“What’s the ceiling in this field?”

That kind of stuff.

But in the early days of my regression, when I was still a newbie, I didn’t think like that.

I just jumped on whatever was trending right now.

As a solo artist who gained moderate popularity in my first life, I appeared on Stage Number Zero in my second.

Even now, I think it was a dumb name, but I remembered something from my first life:

Stage Number Zero, or StageNoZero, would go on to record the highest national ratings in public audition program history—17%.

I placed second.

To be honest, my skills at the time were Top 10 at best—not second place.

But because of my tragic story—my parents in a vegetative state—I got nationwide sympathy.

And that sympathy crushed my career in my second life.

The image I built—depressed, desperate—trapped me.

No matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the shadow of StageNoZero.

I tried to switch things up by releasing a soft spring song, but the top comment on the official MV?

“Our parents may seem eternal, but one day they’ll leave us. Go see cherry blossoms with them this spring.”

That was it.

Damn. Still pisses me off.

Anyway, my point is—I’ve been through auditions. A lot.

So I knew exactly what the judges wanted from me.

They wanted my story.

And they had zero expectations for my singing.

My story?

I don’t mind selling it.

I used to hate talking about my parents, but not anymore.

If I’m just decent, the story swallows the music.

But if I’m incredible, the music stands on its own.

Still, it’s a bit of a problem if they’re not expecting much from my voice.

“Alright, let’s see your skills. Would you like to start with your singing?”

“Singing first? Isn’t that all I’m doing?”

“I heard from your reference that you’re quite skilled in performance and composition.”

“I didn’t prepare any instrumentals or original songs. I’m sorry.”

“…Alright. If you say so.”

Choi Suyeon, the interviewer, looked slightly displeased.

Her tone dragged.

But oh well.

As long as I do well, it’s fine.

“What would you like to sing first?”

I had two songs prepared.

One assigned by Lion Entertainment—chosen from a list of three.

And one of my choice.

“I’ll start with the assigned song. Flower Language, please.”

To be honest, I don’t like it much.

Early 2000s Korean ballads all have similar chord progressions and sound variation.

Having lived into the 2030s, I find them a bit dull.

Not timeless classics or anything.

But I chose it because it suits my current level.

I still need vocal training.

If my singing in GOTM as their main vocal was a 100, I’m maybe at a 50 now.

So a clean, manageable song was the better pick.

I’ve got experience—no way I’ll lose to these one-lifers just because I sing comfortably.

“Let’s begin.”

As the track played, the long intro typical of 2000s ballads started.

Then the song began.

No special emotions.

I immersed myself, delivered emotion, and sang clearly.

No pitch issues, no rhythm problems.

If your tone isn’t bad, doing the basics well earns you “great singer” praise.

Even among professionals.

The basics are the hardest, after all.

But—

After finishing, Choi Suyeon’s expression annoyed me.

A subtle frown. An ambiguous look.

“…Thank you.”

Why?

My singing wasn’t ambiguous.

That’s a fact proven by years of experience.

Sure, tastes vary. Some might find it just “okay.”

But even that “okay” would easily surpass other applicants.

Maybe I lived in the States too long and don’t match the K-pop vibe?

“You submitted an MR for your self-selected song. Tony Bright, was it? Who’s the artist?”

“It was sung by Melisma. Released in the 1940s.”

“Is it R&B?”

“The original is Delta Blues, but I arranged it with a Chicago Blues feel.”

“Oh, okay… Let’s hear it.”

As the MR played, funky drums and electric guitar poured out.

I guarantee no one can listen to this and sit still.

At the very least, a head bob or finger tap.

As expected, the interviewers’ expressions shifted.

Clearly, this wasn’t the “blues” they imagined.

Delta Blues has strong rhythms, powerful vocals, and lots of slide guitar.

I reworked it into a Chicago Blues vibe with electric guitar.

Really, it’s not far from modern electronic pop.

I nodded to the beat and grabbed the mic.

🎵 The gypsy woman told my mother / Before I was born—! 🎵

I cut through the electric guitar with a syncopated entry, lowering the pitch by half-steps.

Yet my breath stayed relaxed, returning to the beat.

🎵 I got a boy child’s comin’ / He’s gonna be a son of a gun 🎵

Now I raised the dropped notes back up in half-steps.

From the downbeat to the syncopation.

The rollercoaster melody delivered an auditory thrill, each note grazing the edge of the beat.

This is what I’m good at.

And what I love.

It’s not unfamiliar.

Modern R&B evolved from blues.

R&B literally means Rhythm and Blues.

🎵 He gonna make pretty women’s / Jump and shout! 🎵

I pulled the note high all at once, hitting a peak falsetto, then dropped into a low vibrato to increase volume.

With just 12 bars, I showed:

What I can sing.

This should’ve erased any ambiguity…

Or so I thought—until I saw Choi Suyeon’s face.

She wasn’t just impressed.

She looked troubled.

Why that expression?

Was this not the direction they wanted?

But with my skill, direction shouldn’t matter.

Maybe I needed to show more.

I tightened my grip on the mic and dove deeper into the song.

---

“…”

“…”

“…”

The three rookie development staffers interviewing that day stayed silent.

Ever since Han Si-on left with a slightly disappointed look—

The same question lingered in all their minds.

That kid…
If we pick him…
Could he debut with TakeScene…?