Little Pink Starfish

The stage ended.

While the contestants clapped as directed by the production crew, the judges leaned in, whispering intensely among themselves.

At the end of their discussion, it was Blue who raised his hand.

“PD-nim, is there any chance we can watch the original performance video of the song?”

Audition programs are far more scripted than most people think.

Many scenes have scripts, and even things that seem spontaneous often have a set A to Z.

Later in the competition, it’s not unusual for eliminations or passes to be decided even before the stage is performed.

But this wasn’t one of those times.

The contestants’ song choices hadn’t been revealed in advance.

And even judges don’t remember every performance of every song.

“Would it be okay to show it on the big screen, with the contestants watching too?”

“Yes, let’s do that.”

Soon, Way From Flower’s stage performance began playing on the screen behind the stage.

“Ah, right.”

“This is how it went.”

The contestants, though tempted to react, held their tongues.

Girl group fandoms are generally seen as lighter than boy group ones—but when it comes to the hardcore fans, that’s not true.

Saying the wrong thing here could lead to complete and utter cancellation from a top-tier fandom.

Still, they were all thinking the same thing.

“This feels awkward.”

“Why did they raise the pitch?”

“Technically, they didn’t raise it—Si-on lowered it…”

But Han Si-on’s version felt like the original.

Way From Flower’s version sounded like a cover—and not a particularly good one.

Which was astounding.

They had just heard Han Si-on’s version once, and the original dozens of times.

That meant one performance from Si-on had left a stronger impression than countless listens of the real thing.

The judges exchanged glances, nodding.

As the video ended, the first to grab the mic was mentor Blue.

“Han Si-on?”

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I didn’t even know!”

“You mean the choreography?”

“Yes. You reversed the direction of the choreography, didn’t you?”

Technically, Han Si-on didn’t reverse all the choreography.

Reversing the entire routine wouldn’t make sense.

But the key movements—he had flipped them.

Movements where hands were meant to push open were now pulling closed.

Steps that extended outward now closed inward.

Chest-opening motions were reversed into folding ones.

The crazy part?

It all looked perfectly natural—and it fit the altered vibe of the song.

That’s why no one noticed—neither the contestants nor the judges.

Not even Blue.

Han Si-on’s answer was simple.

“I thought it’d be more fun if you watched it without knowing.”

What a cocky thing to say.

It meant he didn’t see Blue as a mentor or judge—but as a member of the audience.

But when someone has the skills to back it up, that kind of cockiness becomes charm.

Choi Tae-ho continued.

“You were expressing falling blossoms, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Why?”

“When I first heard this song, the lyrics felt double-edged. They suited blooming—but also falling.”

“Could you explain that more?”

It was a surface-level answer—but it wasn’t a lie.

Putting a period on a long night Finally greeting the world—Hi

Originally, those lyrics meant ending a long, cold winter night and greeting the spring.

But to Han Si-on, they sounded more like a final farewell—right before falling.

The warmth around me Your hand brushing my skin Maybe it was all for today

Even the lyric about “warmth” gave that impression.

Rather than anticipating spring’s warmth, it felt like clinging to the last remnants of it—just enough to endure the winter to come.

Some might argue: Do you really have to twist a spring-themed song this hard?

But that’s art.

These contestants may be rookies singing a somewhat awkward song—but it’s still music. Still art.

And how art is interpreted belongs to the consumer.

Even if that consumer is someone trapped in infinite regressions, endlessly blooming and withering over and over again.

Choi Tae-ho made a strange expression, then nodded.

“Did you change the key to better express your interpretation of the lyrics?”

“There was no rearrangement. I only changed the pitch.”

To be precise, there were several parts where changing only the pitch would’ve made the song sound awkward.

Han Si-on had subtly altered the vocal delivery in those parts.

But even that wasn’t a full rearrangement—just allowable rubato (free tempo to suit personal expression).

“Yeah, it’s hard to call that an arrangement. If you asked for an arranger’s fee just for shifting the octave, you’d get roasted.”

Composer Lee Chang-jun jumped in with a joke.

“But even so, the mood of the song completely changed. It was amazing.”

Then the two began a deep-dive musical conversation—one that would never make it to broadcast.

Just when the producers began considering whether they should cut it, the conversation hit a broadcastable moment.

“Wait a second, Han Si-on. Something’s off here.”

“Yes?”

“From the way you’re talking, it sounds like you don’t think you changed anything?”

“Correct. I believe this is the original form.”

“The original form?”

“I think Flowers Bloom was originally composed for a male vocalist. During production, they probably changed it to suit a female singer.”

“…”

“So I didn’t change anything. I just brought it back to the early version.”

If they let that comment go, they had no sense of drama.

Regardless of how much they liked Han Si-on, a broadcast needs spice.

And Han Si-on probably said it knowing that.

“You’re saying you believe your version is the better one?”

Han Si-on shook his head.

“Not at all. I sang this version because I’m a man. If I were a woman, I would’ve sung the original. I really just wanted to sing this song.”

“Why?”

“Because I really love it. The lyrics speak to me.”

“But…”

Choi Tae-ho trailed off, then shut his mouth.

He realized Han Si-on’s trap.

That kid was intentionally avoiding any direct mention of the difference in quality between the two versions.

In fact, he was speaking as if there was no difference at all.

To call him out, Choi would have to say something like:

“But isn’t your version way better than the original?”

He couldn’t say that.

It was a trap.

“This little punk…”

And there was an even deadlier trap.

You couldn’t ask:

“Did you really need to interpret a cheerful spring song so gloomily?”

Not when you knew Han Si-on’s backstory—and what happened to his parents.

In short, he’d left no room for criticism.

And his performance couldn’t be critiqued on technical grounds, either.

So the judges only had one option.

Compliment him.

“Your stage had everything—vocals, dance, even interpretation. You seem like a fully formed artist.”
“I expected dance to be your weak point, but it wasn’t at all. Pulling off a solo performance with such presence isn’t easy.”
“The blooming choreography would’ve been hard to do alone, but the falling blossom theme worked even better solo.”

Praises, all around.

“Is he just smart? Or is this instinct?”

He must’ve wanted to show off his talent.

But he knew if he bragged, the conversation would shift to the quality difference between versions.

Choi Tae-ho was more stunned by that than by Han Si-on’s musical skill.

When the feedback ended, the score was revealed: 39 points.

Choi, still a little salty about being manipulated, gave him a 9.

---

After the stage, I sat back down and felt eyes on me.

I may have lived through a thousand lifetimes, but I can’t read minds.

Still, if I had to guess…

“Why the hell did that bastard go first and wreck the curve…?”

“Should I talk to him? Pretty sure he’s locked in for Team B.”

*“Damn it. This world is unfair. He’s good at singing *and* dancing.”*

Yeah, probably something like that.

These aren’t random guesses—they’re based on a thousand lifetimes of hearing backstage gossip.

While I sat there thinking, Koo Taehwan glanced at me and gave a nod.

Probably meant, “You did great.”

I nodded back, like “You do great too.”

Then I started watching the next performance.

Up next was rapper Park Sung-joo.

He tied for last with Koo Taehwan in the pre-mission, but lost rock-paper-scissors and had to go right after me.

“He’s probably eliminated.”

Then came Choi Jae-sung, a vocalist.

Not bad.

He didn’t stand out in any one area, but had no real weaknesses either—a balanced, well-rounded type.

A bit lacking now, but he could be great with training.

Still… something about him felt familiar.

I was sure I’d seen him somewhere, but couldn’t place it.

I figured I’d remember once I heard his voice.

I forget faces and names—but never timbre.

But I couldn’t place it.

There was this hazy memory of a stunning performance from someone with that voice.

“Weird… If it really was him, he’d have more potential.”

Maybe he succeeded in something like musical theater and that’s why I’m not connecting the dots.

I stared at him in frustration, and he glanced at me mid-performance—then made a mistake.

“…”

You’re supposed to be watching the judges, not me.

Feeling a little bad, I looked away.

He seemed to relax and continued singing.

Probably a shy guy.

And shyness isn’t something you can fix.

I hope he gets eliminated so I don’t end up on the same team as him.

Next was the guy I helped: Koo Taehwan.

He picked an interesting song.

“Slow Down” by the R&B megastar LAZY BOY.

Even in Korea, almost everyone knows Lazy Boy.

Maybe not his face—but once they hear the song, they’ll recognize it.

It’s always playing in emotional scenes on variety shows.

Slow Down is one of his most polarizing tracks.

It’s very slow and entirely built around vocal skill.

If you can’t sing well, it sounds flat and awkward.

That’s why it became a meme: the “vocal skill detector.”

That meme made it go viral.

Personally, I never thought it was a great song.

In one life, I actually met Lazy Boy. He told me he wrote it as a joke—something people would laugh at.

Then a serious cover challenge went viral on YouTube and he got freaked out.

Anyway, it’s not a great pick for an idol survival show.

And it doesn’t suit Taehwan either.

As expected, the judges all tilted their heads.

Everyone had the same expression:

“He’s really gonna sing that?”

Then Taehwan glanced at me and gripped the mic tightly.