Little Pink Starfish

CEO Choi Dae-ho was a stubborn man, full of old-school mentality and the kind of pride only successful middle-aged men tend to have.

That’s why he sometimes drove projects into the ground or made decisions that seemed completely irrational to outsiders.

But the fact remained—he was the CEO who built one of Korea’s top three entertainment agencies.

He had an eye for planning and business.

And from his perspective, the success of Coming Up Next depended entirely on Team B.

If A and B teams were shown equally on screen, the audience would simply assume B was there to be sacrificed.

So, they needed a twist.

The spotlight had to be placed firmly on Team B in the early episodes.

To the point where viewers would wonder, “Why are they only showing these guys?”

That’s why Team B’s filming started first.

And in the same vein, what really mattered in the current “preliminary mission” wasn’t the quality of the performances.

Singing?

Sure, it’s nice if you can sing well.

But what really mattered was the self-introduction.

It was about imprinting your character onto the viewers.

What if someone froze up from nerves and couldn’t sing a single note?

They might look like a failure.

But what if, even though they couldn’t sing, they desperately danced what their body remembered?

And what if it wasn’t half bad?

Then the audience would understand: That contestant is a dancer—and someone who gets easily nervous.

That’s a win.

And if that contestant later ends up singing decently in the main competition?

That’s a huge win.

Of course, you couldn’t orchestrate such dramatic moments on purpose, but Choi Dae-ho at least hoped contestants would show some clever intentions in their choices.

Whether it worked or not, he wanted to see that intent.

But…

“Kinda disappointing,” said composer Lee Chang-jun.

It really was.

Everyone was just too focused on trying to sing well.

“Right? No one’s really thinking about how to showcase their charm,” said Yoo Seon-hwa.

“Well, to be fair, if these kids were at the point of factoring that in already, it’d be their second life,” Blue added.

He wasn’t wrong—but it didn’t make the disappointment any easier.

Just then, the fourth contestant stepped onto the stage.

Han Si-on.

“Senior Choi. That’s the kid, right? The one who did the arrangement?”

“Yup.”

Choi Dae-ho had shown Han Si-on’s audition video to composer Lee Chang-jun to convince him to join the show.

Well, he ultimately got him with money, but still.

“Did he really do the arrangement himself?”

“I haven’t verified it, but if he didn’t, it’ll get found out pretty fast.”

Vocal trainer Yoo Seon-hwa, who had remained quiet during the other assessments, finally spoke up.

“Arrangement? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, that kid sang a self-arranged version of a song during his audition.”

“Was it really an arrangement, though? Not just a few tweaks to the style?”

Choi Dae-ho shook his head and backed up Chang-jun.

“No, he changed the genre. Completely.”

“To that degree? Now I’m curious.”

As the judges chatted, they glanced over Han Si-on’s application.

They had agreed not to bring up his personal history, so the questions stayed light.

“Han Si-on, why did you apply to our program?”

“I dreamed of becoming an idol, but didn’t know how. Then I happened to see the notice for Coming Up Next.”

“Why do you want to become an idol?”

“I’ve been asking myself that since I wrote my application… and I honestly don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No. I feel strongly about it, but I can’t pinpoint where or when it started.”

Blue smiled at that answer.

“Right? Sometimes you don’t really know where a dream comes from. It just appears in your heart one day.”

It wasn’t a bad answer.

All the others had said they liked singing or being on stage.

The judges threw out a few more light questions, and Han Si-on’s responses were never dull.

Then Yoo Seon-hwa asked the final one.

“What was your thought process behind your song choice? To be honest, it’s not a very compelling pick.”

Worried her words might come off as criticizing the song itself, Blue quickly jumped in.

“Under the Streetlight is a great song, of course. But in this format—showcasing yourself in just one verse—it might not be ideal. Especially the first verse.”

Yoo Seon-hwa gave him a grateful look and nodded.

“Exactly. The first verse doesn’t really highlight the song’s appeal.”

“I thought it could work if I sang it a bit differently.”

“Differently? How?”

Han Si-on smiled.

“Wouldn’t it be better to just show you?”

He had that quality—something magnetic when he spoke.

With previous contestants, it felt like a Q&A session. But with Han Si-on, it felt like a conversation—on equal footing.

‘Ah, I want this kid,’ thought Choi Dae-ho, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

He had a natural charisma. The kind perfect for a team leader role.

“Alright. Let’s hear it.”

“Looking forward to it.”

The judges’ words faded, and the intro began to play.

---

Four judges.

Nine other contestants.

A dozen camera crew.

A similar number of production writers.

Just under forty people in the audience watched as Han Si-on took the mic.

Endless regression was painful.

Exhausting. Numbing.

Sometimes he wanted to lose his mind and break free from the loop altogether.

But still, the reason he hadn’t given up—

Was because of fans.

Even if everything resets with each regression like some twisted Truman Show, the cheers for his music remained real.

‘Is that too cheesy of a reason?’

But Han Si-on meant it.

He especially enjoyed performing when the audience looked skeptical, arms crossed.

Because when he flipped that expression into something else—that’s when the world felt real.

So he opened his mouth.

At the end of a gray alley— Beneath an orange streetlight

A different start from the original.

‘Ah, he raised it by an octave.’

A few of the contestants nodded to themselves.

The song’s original intro sits in a really low register, usually sung in a flat tone.

Raising the octave wasn’t exactly revolutionary, but it was a smart move.

The judges, however, weren’t impressed.

“Hmm…”

“Mmh.”

Worst choice.

Because the original is so low, singing it an octave higher doesn’t sound unstable—it still sounded clean.

But the problem was, all the song’s strengths vanished.

Under the Streetlight isn’t a great pick, but it can become unique if you sing it with emotional depth and emphasize the low notes.

It appeals to people who like that raw, Dylan-esque vibe.

But when you raise the octave?

It becomes nothing special.

There are already countless songs with better vocal lines in this range.

In other words, there was now no reason to sing this song.

A shadow, softly smeared— Why is it orange?

‘His voice tone suits it.’

‘He sings cleanly. Why’d he pick this?’

‘Sounds stable…’

Still, the consensus remained—bad choice.

It worked up to this point.

The problem with the first verse of this song is how repetitive it is—vocal lines repeat every two bars, with only minor variations.

Even if the tone is pleasant, hearing it four times gets dull real quick…

Maybe it’s because my path Leads to your home at the alley’s end—

‘Wait, what?’

Blue, the judge with the weakest musical sense, blinked.

What Korean guy hasn’t tried this song to show off high notes?

But everyone agrees—the build-up to the chorus is just boring.

So why… was this good?

Something felt different.

This was clearly not the Under the Streetlight he knew.

Just raising the octave wouldn’t cause this.

Standing there—frozen still Beneath the streetlight, in orange—

“Huh?”

“What the…?”

Contestants started murmuring.

They were a beat behind Blue, only now realizing that Han Si-on was doing something different.

But what, exactly?

If he’d altered the melody or gone into falsetto, it’d be obvious.

But he hadn’t.

It was very close to the original.

Maybe some subtle vocal line tweaks or bending—but nothing major.

Only one thing stood out:

It wasn’t boring at all.

It sounded good.

Orange— Opposite the setting sun—

“Heh.”

At that moment, composer Lee Chang-jun let out a small chuckle.

Not for the cameras—it was involuntary.

‘He really is a genius, huh?’

He’d honestly suspected that Han Si-on’s arrangement of Tony Bright was done by someone else.

And the moment he picked Under the Streetlight, that suspicion grew into certainty.

Still, he could respect it.

Even if someone else had arranged it, performing it that well was impressive.

But after this performance?

He knew.

Han Si-on did arrange it himself.

No one else could pull off this kind of subtle transformation unless they fully understood arrangement.

‘Even if you explain it, most people couldn’t replicate this.’

And now the end of the verse was drawing near.

Everyone could feel the powerful chorus approaching.

‘Since he raised the octave… he’s gonna go high in the chorus too?’

‘That’s way too high though…’

The chorus of Under the Streetlight is the real deal.

If you survive the dull verse, the chorus delivers cathartic euphoria.

That’s why it once ranked as the #1 song men sang in karaoke.

And also the #1 song women hated hearing in karaoke.

Just a short walk away— The place where we, you and I— Stayed, stayed, stayed…

Han Si-on no longer hid his intention.

The song now clearly diverged from the original.

He had turned measures 11 and 12 into a pre-hook—something the original didn’t have.

He hadn’t touched the MR, yet completely transformed the song structure.

The vocal register steadily climbed toward the chorus.

Like a rollercoaster clicking toward its highest point.

One more bar, and it would explode into a high-note-laden, fireworks-of-a-melody chorus.

You and I— Under the streetlight—!

Right now!

—Cut.

“……”

“……”

“…?”

Everyone was stunned.

A broadcast error?

The contestants, who were mentally singing along, thought that.

And instantly felt bitter.

No—furious, actually.

It was just about to hit!

That killer chorus was right there!

Damn broadcast team, can’t they do anything right?

Only one person stayed calm.

Han Si-on.

He smiled gently and bowed.

“Thank you.”

That’s when the others realized the truth.

“Oh…”

“Ah…!”

They remembered they were filming Coming Up Next’s preliminary mission—and that by rule, they could only sing one verse.