Little Pink Starfish

To be honest, Team Leader Choi Suyeon liked Han Si-on from the moment he walked in.

She didn’t know which idiot took his profile picture with their feet (it was a selfie), but he looked way more handsome in person.

No—more precisely, his presence was overwhelming.

There was a strange sense of melancholy about him, along with a compulsive intensity.

And on top of that, an aura that made you think twice before treating him lightly.

“I didn’t prepare any performance or original compositions. I’m sorry.”
“…Alright. If you say so.”

Contrary to Han Si-on’s assumption, Choi Suyeon wasn’t upset by that exchange.

In fact, since he said “sorry,” it felt like Lion Entertainment was at fault for not informing him beforehand, which caught her off guard.

Originally, the plan was to hear the self-chosen song first, then the assigned one. But without realizing it, she let Han Si-on choose the order.

Considering how many trainees and idol hopefuls Choi had seen, for her to feel this way—it meant his presence wasn’t ordinary.

Still, in hindsight, that wasn’t even the big part.

The real deal started when he began singing.

When Han Si-on sang Flower Language, Choi Suyeon was stunned.

He was good.

Too good.

Sure, TakeScene could sing well too.

Their main vocal was even regarded as the best singer in Lion Entertainment history.

But Han Si-on was on another level.

She couldn’t explain it exactly—it was the kind of feeling you got from singers who earned the title “teacher,” the absolute legends in the industry.

It set off alarm bells.

This won’t do.

They couldn’t put him on the same stage as TakeScene.

They hadn’t yet decided how much viewer voting would count, but if they went head-to-head, he’d win by a landslide.

But then again…

“Let him go? Are you crazy?”

They had to put him on Team B, so they could scout him later as a trainee.

But even that plan started to unravel when he began his self-chosen song.

Tony Bright by Melisma.

A name and song she had never heard in her life.

Normally, the rookie development team doesn’t care much about musicality.

They don’t pick singers, they pick products.

Turning that product into a singer is the training team’s job.

When he said he arranged a 1940s blues song, she thought, Yup, definitely an indie nut.

But when the song began—everything changed.

He’s insane.

What kind of maniac sings something like this at an idol audition?

And then he had the nerve to walk out with puffed cheeks, like something pissed him off?

Was this a prank?

Like those social experiments where world-class pianists dress like amateurs and shock people?

Yeah, maybe that.

Maybe he was a pro singer from New Orleans or Berklee…

“Wait—he’s only twenty!”

The CEO had said to fill Team B with quirky characters.

But Han Si-on’s performance wasn’t quirky.

It was a nuke launched from “quirky.”

It was a problem.

They couldn’t not pick him. But if they did pick him… who knew what chaos would follow?

In the end, Choi Suyeon made a decision.

This was something CEO Choi Tae-ho needed to handle personally.

“Team Leader.”

“Oh—no, sorry. I was just thinking out loud.”

“Sorry?”

“Um… Never mind. What is it?”

“Could we listen to the original version of that song?”

“Ah, sure. Let’s see how much he changed it.”

So they pulled up Tony Bright by Melisma on YouTube…

“Can we even call this a ‘rearrangement’?”

It was just pleasant acoustic blues with a guitar.

No electronic sound at all.

At this point, he didn’t just rearrange it—he basically wrote a new song with the same lyrics.

Judging from the views and comments, the artist wasn’t even well known.

After thinking for a moment, Choi Suyeon made the call.

“Let’s leave this to the CEO.”

“Figured you’d say that.”

“That kid… he’s definitely going to blow up. He might even debut with TakeScene.”

Whether they’d use Han Si-on to spike ratings via Team B, or create a new spot in TakeScene for him—that wasn’t her decision.

“Send me the footage from today ASAP. Good work, everyone.”

“Uh, Team Leader?”

“Yeah?”

“We still have more applicants to see.”

“Ah, right. Gotta keep going.”

“Also, I just realized something.”

“What?”

“We didn’t see Han Si-on dance…”

“Oh. Crap…”

“What if he sucks at dancing?”

“Then maybe that’s a good thing? With skills like that, it’s only fair he has a weakness.”

“…Is that so?”

And that’s how they justified it to themselves.

---

As I left Lion Entertainment and checked my phone, I saw a bunch of missed calls from Seo Seung-hyun at BVB.

I didn’t hesitate and called him back—only for him to fire off a breathless question without greeting me.

“The songs you uploaded to SoundCloud—did you really compose those?”

“Yeah. I did.”

“Wh-Wh-What? Did you already sell them?!”

“Nope. Not yet.”

“None of them?”

“None.”

“Th-That… Might’ve been a mistake, but you linked my email on your SoundCloud profile.”

“Not a mistake.”

“What?”

“I did it on purpose. I wanted to talk to you separately.”

“Wait… You wanted to see me privately?”

“…No. What are you even saying?”

Ridiculous guy.

“I need someone who knows the idol industry inside out to sell my songs.”

“I’m a BVB employee, you know.”

“Songwriters and trainers are freelancers in showbiz. Know why?”

“Not sure.”

“Because their value isn’t tied to the company’s facilities. I think the same goes for A&R development.”

You find good songs, pair them with good arrangers, outsource to solid producers.

These are the most crucial tasks in an artist’s career—but they’re not as standardized as people think.

They rely entirely on the individual A&R producer’s personal skill.

There are song camps and seminars to fix this, but personal talent still rules.

“And let’s be real. The rule against A&R staff moonlighting is usually pretty flexible, right?”

It’s common for A&R people to help other companies connect with top composers.

A little favor now often pays off later.

“Let’s start by selling six songs. One of them would be perfect for NOP, right? So there’s your excuse.”

“What about the fee…”

“I’ll give you 50% of the sale price.”

“…! Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

If you offer 10%, they think it’s cooperation.
At 20%, they think it’s support.
But at 50%, they feel like they hit the jackpot.

No one skips out on lottery winnings just because the bank is far.

That’s the power of financial freedom.

Other people don’t have it. I do.

“Let’s sign a contract today. When do you get off work?”

---

My talk with Seo Seung-hyun went well.

We decided to sell a song called I’m Not Your Man to BVB for NOP’s comeback.

He also liked Selfish, but I had a different plan for that one.

“Let’s pitch Selfish to Drop Out. As a title track.”

There are things about Korea I’ve forgotten—but there are also things I couldn’t forget.

I know who the current president is. I know who the ace of the national soccer team is.

And I definitely know who’s at the top of the entertainment industry.

DROP OUT.

A five-member boy group.

I don’t know the details of their sales or debut year.

But there’s no way not to know them.

Even my greedy uncle probably knows one or two Drop Out songs.

They’re not just top-tier—they’re number one.

The only boy group that could go to a military base and get the soldiers to sing along.

“Drop Out? They don’t accept songs from outsiders. Since their first album, all title tracks have been self-produced.”

“Try pushing anyway.”

“They haven’t even announced a comeback. Could take years.”

“It’s happening soon. Trust me.”

I didn’t know the exact timing, but it would be this year or next.

The reason I want to sell Selfish to Drop Out is simple.

They always sing this song at encore concerts.

I’ve seen interviews where the members picked Selfish as their favorite.
I’ve seen them do special rearranged performances of it.

It’s one of the most useful songs I’ve ever written.

I never released it during my GOTM days—didn’t match the band image.

But Selfish was how I got my first Billboard #1 in most of my past lives.

It suits my voice. It’s timeless.

Whether released in 2019 or 2024—it can hit #1.

Of course, you need good marketing. But the song has that kind of power.

And since it matches Drop Out’s taste, I bet it’ll become a title track.

Some people might think I should sing it myself.

But that’s for the next life.

This time, I just want to watch Drop Out turn it into a K-pop track, write new lyrics for a boy group, and promote it.

I’m curious how it’ll perform.

And honestly? I’m not even that attached.

I’ve got plenty more songs as good as Selfish.

“What if they only want it as a B-side?”

“I’ll pass. Title track only.”

“That’ll be tough, but… okay.”

“I’ve got no other plans for the rest. Just sell them however. I’ll give you more songs soon.”

“But Han Si-on.”

“Yes?”

“Why me? With songs this good, you could just sell them directly to companies.”

The power of money is strong.

Offer 50%, and people unconsciously see themselves as the chosen one.

The real reason I chose Seo Seung-hyun? To build connections.

For a regressor, “connections” mean something different.

Even if I was close with Grammy voters in a past life—one reset, and it’s all gone.

No guarantee they’ll like me again.

A fellow artist who was a bestie could just as easily become an enemy.

So for me, “connections” means people whose behavior patterns I can predict.

People I can get closer to—or push away—depending on my actions.

People I can earn trust from—or destroy it.

Build enough of those, and a 20-year-old kid from the East (18 in U.S. age) can hit #1 on Billboard with a debut single.

But you can’t build connections with just “networking.”

You don’t walk around L.A. looking for tips on “How to hit Billboard #1.”

You have to enter the industry.

Do anything and everything you can—and eventually, you will make connections.

Like Lee Hyun-seok from LB Studio.

If I need to re-enter the indie scene in my next life, I’ll go to LB Studio.

Record the same songs at the same time.

That is what a connection means to me.

And right now, the only person I’ve properly made contact with in the Korean idol industry…

Is Seo Seung-hyun.

And he works at BVB—a pretty big company.

Even if I had other choices, he’d still be a solid starting point.

But I can’t say all that.

“I just liked your vibe, Team Leader Seo.”

“Like… my taste?”

“Wow. You’ve been saying weird stuff all day.”

And just like that, Seo Seung-hyun began working for me.

Originally, I planned to debut through BVB via him—but if I can’t get a pheasant, I’ll take a chicken. This path works too.

Now all that’s left…

Is for Coming Up Next to pick me.

But who knows?

Choi Suyeon’s face during the audition didn’t exactly look thrilled.

Maybe I’m just too far off from the typical K-pop style—it might’ve triggered a professional aversion.

If only I’d been a bit more overwhelming in skill…

Guess I’ll get back to practicing.