Little Pink Starfish

Kang Seok-woo, when it came to musical understanding, was your average joe.

None of the programs he had directed so far had anything to do with music, and he wasn’t someone particularly passionate about listening to music either.

Just your typical Top 100 listener.

So if someone like Kang Seok-woo was shocked by the name of a foreign composer, it had to be one of two things.

Either the person was ridiculously famous, or had been involved in some incident that made headlines in Korea.

Right now, it was both.

“Did you say Chris Edwards? I don’t think that was the name listed as the composer of Flowers Bloom.”

“Chris Edwards is his stage name. His real name is Danish. But yes, it’s really him. I double-checked through multiple sources because I couldn’t believe it either.”

“Uh…”

Chris Edwards had become a very hot name over the past two years.

He had three #1 songs on the Billboard Hot 100, and over 20 songs that made it into the chart.

On top of that, he was good-looking and well-spoken, so he appeared regularly on U.S. talk shows.

The only reason he wasn’t a top star himself was because he couldn’t sing. If he had pursued a career as a singer-songwriter, he could’ve easily been a global star.

But what made him blow up in Korea wasn’t any of that—it was film music.

By chance, he ended up working on the score for a Korean film, and that movie went on to draw 10 million viewers domestically.

Not only that, it was invited to major festivals including Cannes, and the music won Best Original Score at an awards show.

Thanks to that, the soundtrack composed by a foreigner for a Korean film charted on Billboard.

He even topped the domestic music charts—something nearly unheard of for a foreign artist.

“Didn’t Chris Edwards appear on a Korean variety show at some point?”

“Not counting interviews for the film, he only showed up on one variety show.”

“Hmm. Then maybe he talked about writing songs for K-pop idols during that?”

“I’m not sure… but probably not. If he had, NT would’ve made a huge fuss about it.”

NT—Way From Flower’s agency.

“Right, NT kept pretty quiet about the whole thing.”

“The fact that they didn’t hype it up at all makes me wonder if maybe there was some kind of falling out between NT and the composer?”

“Maybe… or maybe they didn’t even know.”

“What?”

“Think about it. Flowers Bloom came out four years ago. Chris Edwards wasn’t famous in Korea back then, was he?”

“True, that makes sense.”

Kang Seok-woo rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

To be honest, there was no way they could afford to bring Chris Edwards onto Coming Up Next with their current budget.

No, not just hard—impossible.

Even securing a video interview would cost a fortune in that industry.

To book a composer who’s topped Billboard multiple times, you’d need ratings of at least 10%.

Which meant, there was a good chance Han Si-on’s claim would remain a mystery forever.

‘But… is that really such a bad thing?’

After a long pause, Kang Seok-woo finally spoke.

“Hey. Go PD.”

“For the last time, I’m not Go.”

“You’re always poking your nose in things like an old advisor—go-moon-gwan. So you’re Go PD, got it? Anyway, find a way to send the video to the composer.”

“Unilaterally?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter how, just make sure he sees it. Add subtitles—Si-on’s performance and the post-stage interview.”

“Should we do it in Danish or English?”

“Ugh, just do both!”

“No need to yell, jeez.”

“Whatever.”

If what Han Si-on said was true, there would definitely be a response from Chris Edwards.

Musicians are wired that way.

And if there wasn’t?

Then Under the Streetlight could be the star of Episode 1.

Flowers Bloom would become one of those mysterious talking points with no clear resolution.

“And find someone who left NT that can’t keep their mouth shut. We might get a leak from them.”

“Got it.”

---

Looking at it now, you really gotta admit—these broadcast folks are something else.

Who thinks to build a dance studio inside a convention center?

It clearly wasn’t a space that existed before. Looked like they bought mirrors and had the whole place renovated…

Wouldn’t it have been cheaper to just rent a big studio instead?

Well, broadcasting’s full of behind-the-scenes deals and hidden interests.

Maybe the convention center offered a sponsorship in exchange for something…

“Si-on hyung!”

“Huh? Oh.”

“Are you listening to us?”

“Ah, sorry. Zoned out for a sec.”

My reply made the Winning Team members look a bit baffled, then they spoke up.

“We wanted to know what you think. From our perspective, the group choreography doesn’t look right.”

“I dunno. I think it looks fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. For this level, it’s good enough.”

We were reviewing footage now.

After four hours of choreography practice starting from 5AM, we were watching our first full run-through.

But… it was boring.

Not the act of reviewing footage itself, but the time we were in.

Saying that might make it seem like I didn’t care about the performance, but that’s not it.

I still love performing.

And I still find enjoyment and fulfillment in preparing for a stage.

Without that, I wouldn’t have survived this Truman Show-like endless loop.

Still, the reason I felt bored was because…

“Doesn’t it feel slightly off somehow?”

“Yeah, I think so too. The angles look fine, but…”

“What if we adjusted the formation a bit? Like putting taller members on the sides.”

It was because the team was obsessing over meaningless details.

I don’t know if this is just how I’ve always been or if it’s a result of looping, but I hate wasting effort in the wrong direction.

Watching people pour their passion into the wrong thing is just… exhausting. And dull.

And scary.

What if human passion and energy is finite?

What if when the real opportunity comes, I have nothing left to give?

That fear sits deep in me.

It soon morphs into self-loathing.

Honestly, it pisses me off that I have to coordinate with teammates having these kinds of pointless debates.

I was a Grammy winner, and now I’m just a contestant on an idol survival show.

I know—it’s selfish and irrational.

This life might be a temporary detour for me, but for them, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime shot.

Sometimes even failure is sweet, and overcoming it can bring ecstatic joy.

I was just never allowed that kind of happiness.

“Si-on hyung, are you really okay with this?”

Choi Jae-sung, who insisted on calling me hyung even though he was only two years younger, asked cautiously.

I originally didn’t plan to get involved.

I figured that just influencing the song choice would be enough to shape the outcome I wanted.

But if the whole team flounders like this, it becomes a problem.

What I want from the second mission is for me to not be the star—not for the whole stage to fall apart.

I made up my mind and spoke.

“Let me ask you this. Is choreography really that important?”

“Huh? Of course it is. Half of being an idol is the performance.”

“No, not just choreography. I mean—does perfect synchronization really matter that much?”

To me, what matters in this second stage isn’t robotic group dancing.

Sure, I understand the visual appeal of it.

Unity is one of the core elements of dance.

Even if you’re dancing solo, maintaining consistent angles and rhythm creates that sense of cohesion.

But not this time.

“We all met for the first time yesterday and only started practicing today, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“There’s no way we can pull off a perfect synchronized routine. It’s not about difficulty—it’s just impossible.”

If that were possible in a day, dancers wouldn’t be grinding down their joints and cartilage to get it done.

Those guys are probably better dancers than us anyway.

“But if we keep working at it—”

“Sure, there’s a chance. But the payoff won’t be worth the effort.”

“…What do you mean by payoff?”

“No matter how great our stage is, the five of us aren’t all going to pass together.”

On Sae-mi-ro, who’d been listening quietly, spoke up.

“What are you really trying to say?”

“The direction of the performance.”

People often ignore obvious truths because it’s more comfortable.

That’s what’s happening now.

Striving for synchronized dancing is the easy route—not physically, but mentally.

Because if you just try your best and still get eliminated…

“At least you can say you tried. And feel a tiny bit satisfied.”

“…”

But truly facing the reality isn’t comforting at all.

Personally, I didn’t want to be in the same group as Yi I-on because of our clashing vocal tones, but he’s definitely going to pass.

If I were a judge, I’d pass him too—with that face and that level of skill.

Next, On Sae-mi-ro will probably pass as well.

Maybe not with four votes immediately, but she’s clearly more vocally talented than most.

As for me, well, that goes without saying.

Three spots are already locked.

There are only five spots total for Team B in Coming Up Next.

That means two seats remain, and there are seven people fighting for them.

So what’s important now isn’t trying to force a perfect synchronized routine—that’s a dead end.

“You need to outshine the person next to you.”

I didn’t mention I-on or Sae-mi-ro directly, but everyone seemed to get what I meant.

“Dancing the same moves is an opportunity, right? A chance to show you can do them better.”

Just match the rhythm and timing.

Then highlight the parts where you dance best—that’s a hundred times better than breaking down trying to match exact joint angles.

If Winning Team were truly my team, I wouldn’t be saying this.

But this is a temporary alliance.

Kim Sung-woo, who hadn’t said much until now, chimed in.

“Is that why you pushed so hard for Boy Scout?”

Not super skilled, but quick on the uptake.

“Exactly.”

NOP’s Boy Scout had a lot of individual movement.

The whole concept was about playful scouts, so there were tons of quirky gestures—less unity, more energy.

Of course, it still had group choreography sections that required some practice, but it wasn’t about perfect synchronization.

“So let’s take our performance in that direction. Match rhythm and timing—but try to outdo one another.”

“…”

Everyone exchanged glances, then nodded slowly.

Once everything was settled, I felt a delayed wave of anxiety.

The cameras were rolling—did I overstep?

Did I sound too much like a boss?

Maybe it’s the habit from wrangling the wild GOTM members for so long.

Still, it’s better than ruining the performance with pointless busywork.

Plus, PD Kang Seok-woo seems set on milking Under the Streetlight for money, so he probably won’t edit me badly.

He’ll cut it clean.

That’s what I told myself—until I overheard Choi Jae-sung’s interview and almost choked.

“Si-on hyung? Honestly… I was kinda moved.”

…What?

“His words were sharp, yeah, but I could tell he really wants us to succeed.”

Me?!

“And now I get why he took on the rap part too.”

Choi Jae-sung beamed.

“When I was in ninth grade, I had this homeroom teacher who scared the hell out of me, but in hindsight, he really cared about me.”

“Si-on hyung reminded me of him.”

Wait… hold up…

Do I sound… old?