Little Pink Starfish

“Hahahaha!”

This time, it was CEO Choi Dae-ho who burst into laughter.

Unlike Lee Chang-jun, it wasn’t a laugh completely free of awareness of the cameras.

He was clearly conscious of being on camera—it was the kind of laughter that builds up to a compliment.

But that doesn’t mean it was fake.

Because that performance really was bold, and incredible.

“So, who wants to start with the critiques? Anyone?”

“I’ll go first.”

Blue raised his hand—even though he still hadn’t figured out what exactly Han Si-on had done.

With his level of musical understanding, he couldn’t grasp the full picture. He had a vague idea, sure, but could’ve been wrong.

Trying to act like he knew what he didn’t was a surefire way to embarrass himself—or look like a pretentious jerk.

So the best move was to just react like a viewer. Go with the emotions.

Blue made up his mind and started showering Han Si-on with praise.

---

It was a satisfying performance.

Of course, there were things to nitpick.

It would’ve sounded far better with a full band instead of just an MR backing track.

And while the audio equipment itself was decent, the mic EQ was way too generic. Adjusting the mids and highs to match his tone would’ve made a big difference.

Also, the main hall of the convention center was too big for the tiny audience. Without enough acoustic dampening, the reflections were annoying.

Not enough to cause noticeable latency—but still not ideal.

But overall? Still satisfying.

Given my current vocal skill and my not-quite-refined tone, I showed my best.

This might be a personal superstition, but if my first stage in a regression flops, the whole cycle usually crashes and burns.

Glad I cleared that first hurdle cleanly.

I was thinking all that as Blue continued his flood of compliments.

Listening closely…

Yep. This guy has no clue what I did.

Maybe he’s being cautious in case he’s wrong?

Or maybe he’s just leaving the technical stuff to composer Lee Chang-jun?

“I’m giving 10 out of 10.”

I bowed after getting a perfect score from Blue.

“Thank you.”

Next up: vocal trainer Yoo Seon-hwa.

First time meeting her, but her evaluations of my tone and vocal technique were spot-on.

She seemed like the real deal.

“I’m giving 10 as well.”

Then CEO Choi Dae-ho took the mic.

I’d expected him to go last, but he was the third.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Sorry?”

“I was waiting too—through that whole verse—for the chorus to drop. But then I remembered… we only get one verse. And so…”

Choi added, simply:

“I was dying to hear more.”

Exactly.

A star should always leave people curious.

That doesn’t mean hiding your private life like a recluse with a mystery concept.

You can show your down-to-earth side in variety shows all you want.

But with music?

You should always leave people wondering what you’ll do next, and how you’ll do it.

I didn’t respond with words—just smiled.

Not cocky. Just enough to show pride and happiness.

“Coming Up Next… the title pretty much means ‘what’s next,’ right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s still early… but so far, the most anticipated ‘next’ is you, Han Si-on. Well done.”

Choi gave me 10 points too.

“Oh, so all the musical commentary is getting dumped on me now?”

“You laughed the loudest and now you’re backing out?”

“Fair enough. I did laugh.”

Lee Chang-jun chuckled again and picked up the mic.

Without delay, he raised the scorecard—10.

“Well, that score’s obvious. Let’s talk about the music now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You arranged it yourself, right?”

“Yes.”

“When did you put it together?”

Two hours ago, in the practice room.

I heard the song in the cab on the way here. It was a song I used to sing a lot as a kid, and it hit me with a wave of nostalgia.

Then when the “one verse” mission was announced, the idea just clicked.

But saying all that would just sound smug, wouldn’t it?

“I got an idea and worked on it for quite a while.”

“Sure. That’s not something you can do overnight. It was a really clever experiment.”

Lee Chang-jun smiled warmly and launched into the explanation.

People were obviously dying to know what I did.

“Harmony. He added harmony.”

“That didn’t feel like just harmony, though,” Yoo Seon-hwa said.

Lee nodded.

“Right. It wasn’t your standard vocal harmony. Normally, when we talk about harmony, we mean layering vocals that sound good together.”

Take the notes C-E-G—that’s a C major chord.

If the lead vocal’s on C and you layer in E and G, it creates a pleasant harmony.

Of course, real songs are more complex than single-note singing, but that’s the basic idea.

“But what Han Si-on did was add tones with his voice that changed the overall vibe of the song.”

Lee got excited.

“Think of it like this: What if you play an electronic guitar riff over a karaoke MR? It’d sound lively, right?”

“Yes, as long as it fits.”

“Well, that’s what he did. Rather than just singing, he used his voice like an instrument. It required hitting precise notes, too.”

“Wait… you can do that?”

“Not with modern songs. And even with older songs, it’s not easy to pull off. But Under the Streetlight had the kind of structure that made it possible.”

He was right.

Over time, chord progressions in music have become more varied, with lots of experimental touches.

Look at diminished or augmented chords—they used to be rare, but now they’re part of main melodies.

What made this arrangement possible was that Under the Streetlight uses very static chords.

And I have the kind of arranging skills that can play around with that kind of source.

“And unless you’re incredibly gifted, you just can’t pull that off. It’s insanely hard to hit exact pitches with your voice—especially when singing over an MR.”

He wasn’t wrong. I can even reproduce flat notes precisely with my voice now.

Not something I could always do. But through endless practice, I’ve learned.

If I keep going, I’ll be able to express even microtones in my prime.

“Let’s just say it was a fusion of musical theory and raw talent. A rearrangement done vocally. Brilliant.”

He didn’t seem unaware of what else I’d done—just politely left it out.

There were more tricks.

I used intentional dissonance to build tension before the PRE-HOOK, and played with the rhythm using subtle bends.

I even tweaked the lyrics slightly to fit the scale shift.

Like changing “geogi-eseo” (there) to “geogie” (that place).

But if I explained all that, viewers wouldn’t get it.

This level of explanation was probably perfect—easy to follow, and satisfying for me too.

Honestly, I had a bad history with Lee Chang-jun.

“Bad history” makes it sound more dramatic than it is—it’s long gone now.

Still, I was genuinely pleased with his feedback today.

“Thank you.”

---

“…What the hell was that?”

Director Kang Seok-woo, the main PD of Coming Up Next, turned to his junior producer.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s not just me, right? I’m not the only one who didn’t get it?”

“Nope.”

“…Well, doesn’t matter, I guess.”

From a director’s point of view, critiques don’t matter that much.

What matters is that they’ve found the main character for the show.

But even more important—

“Why didn’t we let him finish the song?!”

That’s it.

Are you kidding?

After a performance like that, you have to let him finish after the critiques!

Don’t you want to know how Han Si-on’s version of the chorus goes?

He was dying to hear it.

This is going to blow up.

Once episode 1 airs, the protagonist won’t be Lion Entertainment or Take Scene.

Not even Han Si-on.

It’ll be Han Si-on’s version of Under the Streetlight.

“But won’t the other contestants feel robbed?”

Yeah, sure.

You could see the next six contestants trembling in their seats.

Still…

“So what? Not our problem.”

As long as it makes money.

M-Show doesn’t care about Lion’s internal dynamics.

Sure, they’re supposed to share some profits from Take Scene’s revenue over the next two years, but…

From the network’s perspective, what matters is ratings, ad sales, and streaming revenue.

Some contestant melts down over Han Si-on’s performance?

Great. That breakdown becomes more screentime for Han Si-on.

“Go secure a release date. Get the original rights cleared for a remake.”

“…You’re planning to release that pre-mission song?”

“That wasn’t part of the original plan…”

“So what? If a golden goose lays eggs in your yard, you just leave them?”

“We live in an apartment…”

“HEY!”

“…Sorry.”

“I’m telling you, that thing’s gonna hit trending #1.”

“Trending search isn’t that powerful these days.”

“Then it’ll top YouTube’s trending videos. Happy now? Mr. Ko?”

“I’m not Ko…”

“You’re a pain in the ass, that’s what you are.”

PD Kang exploded on the junior producer and shouted again.

“Call them now! Get the recording scheduled! The release! And clear it with the original artist!”

As the junior left to make the calls, filming paused briefly.

The remaining contestants were too shaken to continue right away.

During that break, Kang Seok-woo approached Han Si-on and suggested they head to a studio to record a full band version for release.

Han Si-on replied simply.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Think about it? Why would you pass up a chance like this?”

“It’s just… a bit early to decide.”

As a rich regressor, he already knew.

When it came to ratings-hungry broadcasters, pressure always worked.

---

DROP OUT.

A five-member boy group from Korea’s top label—Double M Entertainment.

Now entering their 8th year, they remained the idols that idols idolized.

But DROP OUT had one unusual trait.

They had flopped, once.

Because of their debut song.

Double M might be one of the Big 3 now, but when DROP OUT debuted, the composing team was a disaster.

Their first single bombed. Their follow-up title track from the first album also tanked.

Considering the members’ skills, charm, and stage presence, the songs must’ve been really bad.

They were on the verge of disbandment… until one thing saved them.

A self-produced track.

A last-ditch self-made music video filmed in their dorm blew up.

It was almost cinematic.

From that point forward, DROP OUT’s title tracks were always self-produced.

They’d still accept company songs for B-sides or singles, but never for title tracks.

Through one full album and four mini-albums, dozens of top-tier composers tried pitching title songs—but the policy never changed.

Until now.

For the first time, that unshakable principle was wavering.

Because of an unknown composer named ZION—and a song called .