Little Pink Starfish

Chris Edwards had always thought of himself as someone blessed with good luck.

That’s how life had gone so far.

Even when he wasn’t seeking opportunities, they came to him. And when he grabbed them, good things followed.

He thought he’d live his whole life in Denmark, but somehow ended up studying abroad in the UK—that was luck. His roommate turned out to be the guitarist of a fairly well-known band—also luck.

If he traced it further back, it was luck that he learned piano from his grandfather, who used to write children’s songs.

All those little bits of luck stacked up and eventually made him a composer.

He wrote a song to impress a girl, his roommate’s band performed it, it got popular, and that got the attention of a promoter.

From there, he ended up in the U.S. and scored hits on the Billboard charts.

And yet, lately, things weren’t going his way.

The songs he poured effort into kept flopping. His new single’s promotion had been wrecked by a political mess in the U.S.—completely unrelated to him.

His relationships, both personal and business, were getting messy. Problems were popping up left and right.

Usually, whenever things got this bad, some new event would flip the situation in his favor.

But this time… it wasn’t happening.

“Alex, I need a vacation.”

“Again? You just came back from one.”

“That was a fake vacation. A schedule-packed fake. I need a real one.”

Alex, his manager, shrugged and turned his laptop screen toward Chris.

“Before you start looking at flight tickets, take a look at this first.”

“What is it?”

“A Korean broadcast station sent this over. They’re asking if this is your song. Ever heard of it?”

“Korea?”

Chris had a good impression of Korea.

Once, at an awards show, he was swept away by a Korean director’s eloquence and impulsively agreed to score his film. That movie ended up a massive hit.

“Yeah, that was lucky too,” Chris muttered. He hadn’t even planned on attending that awards show.

“What song is it? A film score?”

“No. K-pop.”

“K-pop?”

Chris raised a brow as Alex played the video.

On screen, a group of Korean girls were singing a song.

He’d never heard it before.

“This is supposed to be my song?”

“That’s what they’re claiming.”

“What the hell are they talking about? I’d never write a chord progression like—”

Chris stopped mid-sentence.

The song being played wasn’t something he had produced.

And yet, it sounded oddly familiar.

More precisely, the way the song unfolded around the highlight melody—he recognized it.

“Wait, wait.”

Chris pulled the laptop closer, eyes fixed, trying to concentrate.

Still confusing.

But when he replayed the intro—he knew.

A cold, crisp melody carried by a flute.

Yes. He had written this.

With that realization came a rush of memory—when he composed it, who he sold it to, even the working title.

Norway Flower.

He’d composed it after seeing a single flower blooming in the snow during a bitterly cold trip to northern Norway.

“Right. This is mine. But why the hell did they butcher it like this?”

“So it is yours? Then that’s a breach of contract. You’re telling me there’s a song of yours out there your agent doesn’t know about?”

“No, no. That song was made by Pelle Jørgensen.”

Pelle Jørgensen was Chris Edwards’ real name.

His management had suggested the more American-sounding stage name “Chris Edwards,” saying his Danish name was hurting his marketability. And now, he barely used his real name.

“I joined a songwriting camp back when I was broke. Nothing was clicking, so I pulled out an old composition—Norway Flower.”

“How was the contract handled? Are you still getting royalties?”

“Pretty sure I sold it outright. For like ten grand.”

“You sold that song for ten thousand dollars?”

“That was huge money back then. No one knew who I was. I had no work.”

“When was this?”

“Five, six years ago?”

“Guess your skills weren’t all that back then. The song’s kind of mid.”

Chris scowled.

“What are you talking about? That’s not how the original sounded.”

“Then what was it?”

“It was written for a male vocalist from the start. Honestly, I thought it’d fit a Hong Kong noir film.”

“Like… Jackie Chan?”

“Whoever. Just not this. And who the hell mangled the key like that? What’s the name of the group?”

“Way From Flower. Song title’s Flowers Bloom.“

Alex tapped at his keyboard for a moment, then pulled up another screen.

This time, a still frame of a pale-skinned boy standing with a mic.

“Then how about this?”

“What is it? Another one of mine?”

“Apparently.”

“I don’t remember selling anything else…”

“Could be the same song.”

Chris shrugged and hit play.

The video opened with that same flute-led intro.

Same song?

He assumed it was just a cover performance—until he focused on the details.

Alex was a sharp manager and had been the one to guide Chris to Billboard success. Chris trusted his judgment.

Then the song changed.

The intro stayed the same—but the verse dropped in a whole octave.

Roughly a full eight-tone drop, by his guess.

And it sounded good.

Then, two bars later, the melody shifted again. About 11 semitones.

It kept modulating, then suddenly climbed up—likely to match the Flowers Bloom key—and the boy’s voice soared in full chest voice.

Chris was glued to the screen.

He liked everything about it.

Well, except for the fact that the kid was dancing. But even that, he had to admit—was kind of amazing.

It was clearly live. Not even a hint of backing AR. And yet the boy was pulling off about 80% of the vocals cleanly while dancing.

He was choosing which 20% to skip entirely, probably to avoid weak delivery.

And that decision-making?

Spot-on.

The empty spaces felt intentional. He knew exactly how to make the listener feel relaxed at the right moments.

“Wow.”

When the song ended, Chris couldn’t help clapping.

“Incredible talent. How old is this kid? No—what does he do? Is he like Korea’s Justin Bieber or something? What song is this? This is the original, right? And the girl group’s version is the cover?”

“Chill. Watch his interview first.”

“Does it have subtitles?”

“Yeah. English and Danish.”

“Wow, they really did their homework.”

He could feel it—this Korean production team had a plan.

“Let’s watch the English one. So we can both follow.”

“Sure.”

The video began.

—I think this is the song’s original form.

—Flowers Bloom was likely written for a male vocalist during its early production. Probably reworked for a female singer later, once casting was finalized.

—So I didn’t change anything, really. I just sang it the way it was probably meant to be at the start.

Alex gave him a side glance.

“I saw this earlier and thought it was BS… but judging by your face, maybe it’s not?”

“It’s BS.”

“Wait, really?”

Norway Flower was indeed written for a male voice. And yes, the company who bought it had probably reworked it for a female one.

Alex frowned.

“Then he’s right?”

“He’s wrong about the most important thing.”

The boy hadn’t simply changed the key.

This wasn’t Chris Edwards’ version of the song.

The structure was similar. The melodic expansion, the intentions behind certain melodies, even the deliberate dissonance going into the chorus—all identical.

But the level?

Far beyond.

Chris had never been able to write something like this back then.

“This isn’t a song I composed. It’s the ideal version I had in my head when I was composing.”

Just because a composer lacks the technical skill doesn’t mean they lack vision.

He’d always had a vivid sound in his mind—it just didn’t come out the way he imagined.

But this Korean boy had pulled it straight from his head and brought it to life.

It was ridiculous.

He’d heard a gender-swapped, watered-down version of a song—and reconstructed the original, ideal form?

Is that even possible with talent alone?

“But the boy—Si-on, was it?—he didn’t rearrange it, right? Just changed the key.”

“Si-on? That’s his name?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice name. Suits his voice.”

“Answer the question?”

“Right. He didn’t rearrange it. Just changed the key. But it’s clear he mentally rearranged the entire thing. And sang to match that.”

“How can you tell?”

“You just can. It’s all there in how he sings.”

As Chris listened, he could hear the final arrangement that Si-on must’ve imagined.

It was astounding. The kid was definitely a genius.

Meanwhile, Alex scratched his head.

Chris always believed he got where he was through luck, but Alex didn’t buy it.

Chris was a genius too.

He just needed external triggers to activate it—like now.

Chris started humming, walking around, piecing together melodies.

Then, he suddenly stood up.

“Forget the vacation.”

“You’re going to Korea, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I need to meet this Si-on kid right now.”

Chris Edwards was convinced this, too, was luck.

Maybe all the recent bad breaks had been leading up to this moment.

If things had gone well, he wouldn’t have seen the video. Wouldn’t have noticed the boy.

“What are you going to do? Offer him a song? Collaborate?”

“I dunno.”

“No goal?”

Chris just grinned.

“When you meet a genius, something always happens.”

And with that, he walked out of the hotel room.

Alex gave a small, baffled laugh.

He wasn’t even heading to the airport yet—so what was he rushing out for?

As he shook his head, Alex glanced back at the frozen screen of Si-on.

To be honest, he didn’t feel anything that genius-level in the performance.

But he trusted Chris’ instincts.

Alex picked up the phone.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m forwarding you an email. Get in touch with the sender. See what the Korean network wants, and how much they’re willing to pay.”

If two geniuses were about to collide, it was management’s job to turn that into profit.

And Alex—one of HR Corporation’s top-tier managers—was damn good at his job.

“Just don’t make any promises yet. Act like we’re just curious.”