Little Pink Starfish

Even Kim Sung-woo, who had scoffed at my song choice earlier, approached me.

“Wow, hyung. You were amazing. I never imagined you’d sing it like that.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I ask where you trained?”

“Home training.”

“Sorry?”

He kept trying to make small talk, acting all friendly, but… sorry, you’re out.

After seeing his pre-mission performance, I knew—he had no unique trait.

If I were a judge, I wouldn’t pick someone like him no matter how skilled they were.

Anyway, the reason he’s chatting with me now is because he’s already done his performance.

The ones still waiting? They’re all avoiding me.

“……”

“……”

Well, I actually think that’s the right attitude.

They can’t change anything now, but they can change their mindset.

If I were a judge, I’d be giving more points for focus than skill from here on.

Anyone who could mentally erase my stage and fully commit to their own has strong mental fortitude.

As I was thinking that, the filming resumed.

“Fifth performer, contestant Lee I-on.”

Lee I-on.

Not someone I remember from a past life.

But probably someone I’ll remember from now on.

He’s too good-looking.

The moment I saw him, I couldn’t help but wonder, “If I looked like that, how many albums would I have sold?”

But… the performance itself? Just average.

He clearly worked hard, but there wasn’t any natural talent on display.

He danced with grit, his singing wasn’t bad—but the tone of his voice?

It’s harsh.

A difficult tone to integrate into a team.

If we put him in, he’d have to be the centerpiece of the song—but he doesn’t have the skills for that.

Worst of all, that voice tone isn’t something you can fix.

Some tones can be trained or adjusted. His? Can’t be helped.

Still…

“Wow…”

“What the hell is that.”

With a face like that, does he even need to be an idol?

He’s not stuck in some loop like me, needing to sell albums just to survive.

“Thank you!”

The performances continued.

I’ve been more devoted than anyone to discovering talented singers, and I’ve spent a long time honing that ability.

In the early regression loops, I didn’t even consider scouting rookies.

I thought, “I already know who’ll hit it big. I’ll just use that info.”

But it didn’t work like that.

I joined a band that had an insanely successful track record in my past life—and it flopped.

Even though I was leagues above their old vocalist.

And that wasn’t the only time.

I produced for a vocalist who had gone double platinum (2 million albums) with a debut album forged in tragedy—except under me, they only sold 800,000.

I protected them from all the pain and misery… and yet.

The next album did hit 4 million, but then they had a sudden panic disorder and retired.

In the original timeline, they were a consistent artist with 7 albums over 9 years.

After going through all that, I had no choice but to accept the truth.

Signing a future star doesn’t mean you’ll get the same result.

Since then, I’ve dedicated myself to discovering new talent—and I’ve developed a decent knack for it.

From that perspective, among today’s contestants, the ones I’d actually want on my team?

None.

Not a single one met my standards.

Of course, some were charming.

First up was Goo Tae-hwan, and the sixth performer, On Sae-mi-ro.

Those two had charisma and potential, and they knew how to focus.

Especially Tae-hwan, the dancer. He’s not technically polished yet, but he could pop off if he catches the rhythm.

He doesn’t realize it, but his sense of rhythm is outstanding.

Sae-mi-ro is already good.

Out of the ten contestants, if I exclude myself, she’s easily the strongest vocalist.

But I don’t want her as a teammate.

Anyone who hears this might think I’m arrogant.

But it can’t be helped.

To me, a teammate isn’t just someone I perform with.

They’re someone who has to walk with me toward the insane goal of selling 200 million physical albums.

They need relentless ambition, optimism, rare talent with a high ceiling.

On top of that, they have to be diligent, grounded, and not easily swayed by temptation.

There’s no one like that among the Coming Up Next contestants.

At least, not with any real probability.

“……”

That long-standing regression-induced depression started creeping in again.

I still think Coming Up Next is a good opportunity—no change there.

But logic gets swallowed up by emotion real quick.

Maybe all of this really is pointless.

Can I really gain anything from a dumb rigged show where the outcome’s already decided?

Maybe I’d be better off joining a major agency and scouting talent from the inside.

Or maybe…

Maybe I should just give up on this damn idol dream altogether.

The whirlwind of thoughts brought waves of sadness with them.

I tried to shake it off with logic, but negative emotions aren’t that easy to dispel.

And finally…

Disappointment set in.

VROOOOM—!

I could almost hear a car engine from somewhere, even though that made no sense.

I looked around, still in the convention center.

But if I closed my eyes and opened them again…

It felt like I’d be at an intersection.

---

When was it that I first realized the “rules of regression”?

Oh, right.

At an after-party hosted by Billboard Magazine.

Probably around the 12th loop.

Until then, I thought regression just triggered naturally.

I assumed if I personally decided that selling 200 million albums wasn’t possible, I’d go back.

Because that’s how it always worked before.

Like when I got 2nd place on Stage Number Zero.

I felt like no matter what I did, I couldn’t escape the image created by that show.

And that image would stop me from ever getting close to 200 million.

VROOOOM—!

And next thing I knew, I was standing at a four-way intersection.

But in truth, that wasn’t the rule.

“Zion, do you think your 3rd album will go Diamond—ten million units?”

A reporter at that party had asked.

It was a casual question.

No malice. Just genuine curiosity—maybe even a hopeful tone, like they wanted to write a good article.

And yet, the moment I heard it, everything felt… empty.

Adjusting to life in the U.S. after leaving Korea took a long time.

When I first moved there in loop 8, I couldn’t even break out of the underground scene.

It wasn’t until loop 9 that I entered the mainstream.

Getting into the Billboard Hot 100 took time. Album 200 was no cakewalk.

From loop 8 to 13—that’s almost 60 years.

I didn’t count exactly, but yeah, about that.

And finally, after all that, I succeeded.

1 on the Billboard Hot 100. #1 on the Billboard 200.

Recognized as a superstar across America. Went on a world tour.

My success was a headline in Korea, and I became a symbol of Asian pride.

A flawless, indisputable success story.

But still…

“So what?”

I didn’t even have a single Diamond album.

As impressive as it all looked, my first and second albums combined only sold 8 million.

Even if my third album went Diamond, that’s still under 20 million total.

To hit 200 million? How many albums would I need?

10? 20?

How many years would it take?

Would I still be popular by then?

Would people still care?

“Why aren’t you answering? Don’t tell me you’re not confident, Zion?”

I don’t remember what I said in response.

But it didn’t matter.

Because my body was already slipping into the black hole again.

The scenery around me distorted and blurred, rushing past me.

At first, the colors were vivid, then they turned orange, then white.

And then—

VROOOOM—!

I was at an intersection again.

And that’s when I realized the real rule of my regression.

I go back… when I give up.

It’s not about whether selling 200 million albums is actually impossible.

It’s about whether I believe it is.

Giving up is voluntary.

Even if I could do it, the moment I lose heart—it’s over.

Worse, giving up can be subconscious.

For someone reliving life over and over, depression comes easily. Disappointment only makes it worse.

Disappointment leads to despair, and despair brings surrender.

So I’ve lost count of how many loops I’ve gone through.

There was a time I passed through immigration in the U.S., only to blink and be back at that intersection.

Another time, I left the hospital with Uncle Hyun-soo seeing me off—and blinked, intersection.

So yeah…

This damn regression is cruel.

---

“…Mr. On?”

“……”

“Han Si-on!”

I blinked.

The car noise was gone, and people were looking at me.

Before I knew it, every contestant except me was already onstage.

“Did you doze off?”

“Sorry, I felt a little dizzy.”

“Do you have a medical condition?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Please come up on stage.”

I quickly made my way up. But something felt off.

No matter how well I performed earlier, I should be getting scolded in this situation.

Even if they don’t air it, the judges usually make a show of it.

If not that, then why was the main camera tracking me?

Was this for some malicious editing later?

But then I realized—that wasn’t it.

It was because of my parents.

At this point in time, I’m the tragic guy whose parents fell into a vegetative state just a month ago.

With my backstory in the mix, this makes for good content.

But I don’t care.

Pity me all you want. Feel better about yourselves comparing your life to mine.

Call me a fashion orphan, spread rumors that I caused the car accident to get my parents’ insurance.

I don’t care who you are, or what you think.

As long as you buy my albums.

As long as you save me.

That’s all that matters.

Then, the judges who had been spouting empty words started announcing the pre-mission scores.

“First place, with a perfect score of 40, is Han Si-on.”

“Thank you.”

I bowed, but honestly, it wasn’t a performance worthy of unanimous perfect scores.

This is just how these audition shows work—they get hyped about freshness, and they love pushing their chosen ace.

“Second place is…”

It was On Sae-mi-ro.

Her name’s pure Korean, so it’s easy to remember.

I think it means “unchanging state.”

If she changes after debuting, does she become Off Sae-mi-ro?

…No. I shouldn’t say that.

Sounds too old.

“Third place is…”

With only ten contestants, the ranking announcement ended quickly, and the rankings appeared on the stage screen.