- Han Si-on – 40 points
- On Saemiro – 35 points
- Kim Haeun – 33 points
- Nam Seongil – 32 points
- Lee I-eon – 32 points
- Shim Juwan – 30 points
- Kim Sungwoo – 28 points
- Choi Jaesung – 27 points
- Koo Taehwan – 25 points
- Park Sungjoo – 25 points
Unbelievable.
If they were going to show it like this anyway, was there really a need to call out everyone’s score one by one?
“As previously announced, participants can choose the order of the main competition based on their rankings from the pre-mission.”
Order? What’s the big deal about that, to cause this much fuss?
The results are going to be based on skill anyway—or based on viewer ratings, more likely.
Blue continued explaining the upcoming performance, but I was busy complaining in my head.
And then it hit me.
“…Ah.”
I’m not in a mentally stable state right now.
I haven’t fully shaken off the emotional overdrive I was just in.
It’s not good to stay like this.
I need to lighten up—fast.
But how?
“Alright then, participant Han Si-on, who placed first. Please choose your performance order.”
“I’ll go first.”
“…First?”
“Yes. Right at the front. Very first.”
Groans echoed from all around.
Especially loud from the contestants who had to go after me in the pre-mission and ended up tanking their stages.
But honestly? That’s not my problem.
“Are you sure you want to go first?”
“Of course.”
Yeah, I must be kind of a jerk.
Seeing the others’ miserable faces kind of lifts my mood.
The first stage of the main competition is a solo song mission.
At first glance, the only real difference from the pre-mission is that we’re performing a full song.
“If this were a nationwide singer audition, I wouldn’t ask anything of you.”
Judges intervene in song selection during the main rounds.
“I’d just let you sing whatever you wanted and clap.”
My mentor, Blue, continued.
“But Si-on, this is an idol audition, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you need to show us dancing.”
“You mean, perform a song by another idol?”
“Saying ‘songs by our seniors’ would sound better on TV.”
“Ah, sorry.”
Blue was right.
My mindset still wasn’t aligned with the idol world.
I nodded quietly, and Blue gave a small smirk before gesturing to remove the cameras.
“Off the record—you’re not really into idols, are you?”
“I wasn’t. But I really am interested now. I want to become an idol.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to sell a lot of albums.”
That’s 100% honest.
“Then can I ask you something off the record too?”
“What is it?”
“My impression is… when they picked Team B, they didn’t really consider dancing much, right?”
Now that I think about it, Rion Entertainment’s rookie development team never asked me to dance.
I don’t know what they were trusting in.
What if I moved like a wooden puppet?
Blue made a strange face and shook his head.
“Ah, that was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Apparently, your singing was so unique that they completely forgot to check your dancing.”
“…?”
That’s odd, considering Team Leader Choi Sooyeon never seemed too fond of me.
“But you’re kind of right. You know that Team B has a high chance of just being a foil to Team A, right?”
You’re really going to say that out loud?
Everyone knows it, but it’s different when a judge says it.
“Team B tends to be made up of people who are strong in one specific area. Individually, they’re impressive.”
“But as a team, they lose to Take Scene?”
“Exactly.”
Blue glanced over toward CEO Choi and continued.
“But it’d be boring if that’s how it ended, wouldn’t it? Personally, I’d love to see Team B beat Take Scene.”
I’m not sure what Blue’s intentions are.
He might be sincere, or he might be trying to establish himself as Team B’s ally.
Good cop, bad cop—it’s an old trick, but it usually works.
“Alright, let’s get back in front of the camera.”
Blue called the VJ to resume filming and said again:
“So you need to show us dancing.”
“You mean I should cover a song by an idol senior?”
“Exactly. Right now, you come across more like a genius solo artist. Someone who doesn’t need to be an idol.”
But why is that a bad thing?
When I was a rapper, I didn’t have a pure passion for hip hop.
When hip hop album sales slumped, I released an R&B album and it blew up.
At first, hip hop fans called me a fake—but only for a while.
If the music is good, it always gets love.
Same with GOTM.
I never pretended to have some grand love for band music.
I just said I wanted to make people who liked my music feel satisfied.
That I wanted them to be proud of the time they spent supporting me, and never feel like their money was wasted.
That wasn’t fake—it was real.
Money, fame, popularity—none of those can save me.
Only fans matter to me.
So to me, it doesn’t matter if it’s hip hop, rock, or K-pop.
But does that logic not apply to idols?
I tried to ask that indirectly, and Blue gave an unexpectedly sincere answer.
“If that’s how you really feel—and if you can show that truth—then that’s enough.”
“Is there a song that could show that?”
“Well…”
After a moment’s thought, Blue casually suggested:
“Just sing your favorite song, as is. No rearrangements. There’ll be plenty of chances to show your vocals and arranging skills later.”
I got it.
This was my first real conversation with Blue, but it was solid advice.
While casually chatting, I started thinking about a few song options.
Blue seemed curious about my musical background, but I had nothing to say other than “self-taught.”
“Oh right. Out of all the participants, who do you think is the best?”
“As of now? Probably On Saemiro. She’s a really good singer.”
“Sounds like you think that might change in the future?”
I didn’t really want to answer, but Blue was persistent.
“Goo Taehwan.”
“Taehwan…? Are you serious?”
I get why Blue reacted like that.
Taehwan placed dead last in the pre-mission.
Well, technically tied for last—he and Park Sungjoo both had 25 points.
That’s an average of 6.25 per judge.
But I saw it differently.
“Yeah. His sense of rhythm is insane.”
“Then what genre do you think he should sing?”
“I think he’d be great at singing rap. More bass-heavy than traditional style.”
“Hmm.”
I planned to stop there, but Blue surprised me.
“I’m actually Taehwan’s mentor. You and Taehwan are both under me.”
Makes sense—he got the top and bottom scorers.
“I’ll create an opportunity—why don’t you give him some advice?”
“Me? Wouldn’t it be better coming from you?”
“To be honest, I haven’t seen much potential in him. He tries hard, but they all do.”
“That’s kind of a lot of pressure…”
“You’re gonna eat lunch soon anyway. I’ll naturally bring it up. Promise you won’t look weird on camera.”
It’d be awkward to refuse when he’s asking this sincerely.
I agreed, under the condition that I’d keep it light and only go deeper if Taehwan seemed interested.
“Alright. Call me when you’ve chosen your song. And it’s better to move fast. There aren’t enough trainers.”
There are 10 participants but only 5 trainers—2 for vocals, 3 for dance.
So whoever finishes song selection first gets help first.
Only 8 hours left until the main performance, and everyone was moving fast.
Blue left, and I began focusing on picking a song.
Blue said to sing my favorite song as-is, but I didn’t necessarily agree.
If I had to choose between showing greater desire to be an idol or putting on a better stage—I’d choose the latter.
Sometimes fans seem to worship singers.
But no one seriously worships a singer for years if their music sucks.
In the end, the music matters most.
As I organized my thoughts, I began to sense what kind of song I should pick.
A song that showcases traditional K-pop performance but also highlights my skills.
A song that would make the audience believe Han Si-on can own any track.
And ideally—something unexpected. A one-man stage that doesn’t feel empty.
Then a song popped into my mind.
After getting cast for Coming Up Next, I started listening to a lot of K-pop.
Some were applause-worthy, others were cringe-inducing.
The song I picked was somewhere in between.
It had huge potential, but I couldn’t understand why the production was so terrible.
“Flowers Bloom.”
Who was the artist again?
Oh, Way From Flower.
They were probably the top girl group for the past few years.
And Flowers Bloom was their flop of a debut song.
I was watching Way From Flower’s dance video when Blue showed up with Taehwan and three lunch boxes.
“Too cramped with three guys here. Let’s eat in the break room.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, sir.”
And so began a lunch that doubled as small talk.
“Where do you live, Taehwan?”
“Near Dangsan.”
“With your parents?”
“No, I live alone.”
From his face, I thought he was older than me—but turns out Taehwan’s twenty, just like me.
“There are a lot of twenty-year-olds in this season. Anyway, Si-on, have you thought about your song?”
“I finished choosing after your suggestion earlier.”
“Already? What is it?”
When I said it was Way From Flower’s debut song, Blue tilted his head.
“You’re singing a ‘Flower Girl’ song?”
Is “Flower Girls” their nickname?
Maybe he calls them that because he knows them personally.
“Yes. I think it’ll be fun.”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t recommend doing a girl group song.”
“Why not?”
“Choreo’s totally different, the vibe’s different… can you really turn that into an advantage? And…”
Blue looked around before adding quietly:
“That song was a flop. I don’t remember clearly, but I think their debut sucked.”
“I checked the stats—it didn’t exactly flop. And I think it’s a good song.”
“You gonna perform it without rearranging it?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
Blue stared at me and asked:
“You’re not just trying to show off your high notes by singing a girl song in the original key, right?”
“Of course not.”
Wait, what kind of dumb question is that?
Little Pink Starfish 
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