Little Pink Starfish

Jo Ki-jung was slightly taken aback.

The drums, keyboard, and bass had cycled through a few bars to get in sync—but he hadn’t been given any time at all.

Han Sion had probably gotten caught up in the feeling and started singing without realizing it.

Still, it wasn’t a problem.

Jo Ki-jung was both the original singer and composer of Under the Streetlight.
Within this song, he could adapt to any kind of performance.

The intentionally plain arrangement of the original didn’t fit here anymore.

The keyboard was already pouring out such intense melodies—if he tried to stay restrained, he’d just get buried.

It made more sense for the guitar to challenge the keyboard head-on.

“This is the beauty of improvisation.”

With that thought, Jo Ki-jung began playing, as if possessed—listening to Han Sion’s voice.

The shadows cast, faint and dull
Why are they orange…?

The drums held their ground, the keyboard took the lead.

The guitar joined the keyboard in a fierce competition, and the bass anchored everything from behind.

Over it all, Han Sion’s voice swept in.

Jo Ki-jung became more and more absorbed in the sound.

He didn’t know how it had happened, but the balance was perfect.

The four of them sounded like they’d practiced off a shared score.

And beyond that—

Han Sion’s singing was stunning.

Just standing—frozen—
Under the streetlight, orange glow

He wasn’t the only one feeling this.

Even Kang Seok-woo, watching in a daze, was stunned.

This wasn’t just a different version of the song.
It wasn’t Jo Ki-jung’s original, nor was it the version Sion sang before.

To be precise, it felt like Sion’s vocal take had been layered with a completely new arrangement—
and yet it fit like a custom-tailored suit.

“This is… good.”

Someone muttered, barely above a whisper, but it hit deep.

It didn’t sound like today’s pop music—but songs like this don’t age. They transcend time.

Soon, they reached the pre-hook.

And then—
CRASH. CRASH.

Han Sion slammed the keyboard with intentional dissonance.

You and—me—
Under—the streetlight!

The drums and keyboard abruptly dropped out.
But the guitar and bass kept going, unfazed.

That brief second of silence felt like it was holding its breath.

Everyone was waiting for something—

And then, the chorus exploded.

Together—!
Right here—!
Right here——!

Under the Streetlight had always been beloved for its soaring chorus.

That’s why Sion hadn’t altered it much.

Changing the identity of a song isn’t a remake—it’s a rewrite.

Still, he didn’t sing it the same way.
He escalated each note cleanly like climbing stairs—
and swapped out the original’s raspy, emotional wail for a crisp, crystal-clear tone.

The result?

A chorus that satisfied fans of the original and felt far more refined.

The delivery was so flawless it sent chills down people’s spines.

They might have screamed if this had been a concert,
but with cameras rolling, everyone held it in.

Still—

Right here—!
Right here——!
Right here———!

When Sion raised the pitch and belted again, someone couldn’t help it and gasped.

LB Studio turned into a concert hall.

---

After the impromptu performance, Jo Ki-jung called me up to the roof.

“Smoke?”

“Oh, I don’t smoke.”

Smoking is a major no-no when tuning your vocal tone.

Although, phrased like that, it sounds like I might once I’m done tuning—which I won’t.

I don’t touch cigarettes. Not even when I was messed up on antidepressants.

Who knows how many albums I’ll have to release to sell 200 million, but at least 10.
Vocal health is my top priority.

As I was thinking that, Jo Ki-jung blew out a cloud of smoke and spoke.

“That arrangement just now. You all planned it without me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sunbae. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry… Why?”

“I wanted to show PD Kang how convincing the song could be.”

That was the reason.

The performance had been rehearsed the day before with Lee Hyun-seok and Lee Young-ha.

“Ever thought about rearranging the original version?”

“PD Kang probably wouldn’t like that.”

“Right, it might clash with the image he has in mind…”

If the PD doesn’t like it, the solution’s simple:
Make him like it.

From all the producers I’ve dealt with, I’ve learned one thing:
Even they’re swayed by personal taste.

They say they’re making decisions for ratings, but in the end—
They want to air the stuff they like and cut what they don’t.

Jo Ki-jung, more business-savvy than Lee Hyun-seok, understood immediately.

“Is the PD really that against a fully rearranged version?”

“In the show, I just sang over your original track. If there are two different versions, viewers might get confused.”

“At this level? Who cares. PD looked fine with it, didn’t he?”

True.

Kang Seok-woo didn’t say it outright, but he gave away that he liked the new version several times.

“Business stuff’s not my field anyway… What I really wanna know is—how the hell did I end up syncing with your arrangement?”

The three of us had rehearsed, but Jo Ki-jung had improvised.
Yet he somehow ended up playing exactly how I hoped.

Not perfectly—maybe 80% close—but still uncanny.

Of course he’d be thrown off.

He thought he was improvising, but I’d already anticipated everything.

“How’d you do it?”

The method was simpler than he thought.

I analyzed Under the Streetlight.

From that, I figured out how Jo Ki-jung connects melodies, what kind of chords he prefers, and his general composing mindset.

I also got a sense of the kind of composition he idealizes.

Using all that, I nudged his improv in the direction I wanted.

So it wasn’t prediction—it was guidance.

I started singing right away so he wouldn’t second-guess himself and overthink it.

Of course, this worked because Jo Ki-jung’s a bit of an old-school composer with a classic structure to his writing.

Still, even after my explanation, he didn’t seem satisfied.

“That’s it?”

Eventually, he smoked through two cigarettes, then slowly nodded.

“Yeah. A genius explaining what they did doesn’t make it any less genius.”

“That’s not it, sunbae.”

“You’re an idol, right? Doing some kind of team-based survival show?”

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t seem to know the exact format of Coming Up Next, but I didn’t bother explaining.

Then Jo Ki-jung said something I wasn’t expecting.

“Is it even possible for your team to stay together?”

“…Sorry?”

“Even I’m jealous of you. You think the others won’t be?”

“…”

“If they’re not jealous, they have no talent.
If they’re swallowing it, they have no fire.”

“…”

“Am I wrong?”

Honestly, I thought Jo Ki-jung would say what Lee Hyun-seok did:

Why is someone like you doing idol stuff? Why not go solo or try a different genre?

Lee Hyun-seok’s point made sense.

He didn’t hate idols or hold any prejudice.
But he believed solo artists and idol groups had fundamentally different artistic lanes.

In a team, the group’s identity takes precedence over the individual’s.
That means you have to create music that fits the group, not you.

That was what made him feel regretful.

But Jo Ki-jung’s question carried a different weight.

Can your team even hold together?

I was at a loss for words.

Not because of my Coming Up Next teammates—On Saemi-ro, Lee I-on, Koo Tae-hwan, Choi Jae-sung.

I don’t even consider them “my team” yet.

The reason I was speechless goes back further.
To memories I tried to bury.

6th loop.

“Who do you think people will believe? Us four, or you?”

“People say they pity us. That we’re just Han Sion’s lackeys.”

And 7th loop.

“You’re really one selfish bastard.”

“Lucky you, huh? Born a genius.”

“What, you couldn’t stand watching scraps fall into the mouths of nobodies like us?”

Why did I leave for the U.S. and ignore the K-pop scene?

Why did I keep putting off pursuing an idol path, even knowing I couldn’t hit 200 million sales with GOTM?

And why…

Why this “damn idol” thing?

Because I’ve done it before.

Because it’s one of my worst memories.

“Han Sion?”

“…”

“Han Sion!”

“Ah. Sorry, I was just lost in thought.”

“Guess that was a sensitive question. My bad.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Jo Ki-jung looked at me silently, then changed the subject.

“If you’re gonna record the rearranged version, what’ll you do for the session?”

“I was going to play most of the instruments myself.
For drums, either hire a session player or use virtual instruments.”

“Can I play guitar?”

“Hm… Not sure if there’s enough production budget to pay you.”

“I’ll do it for free. The song’s worth it.”

Maybe he meant that as a way to comfort me…

But honestly, I’d rather play it myself.

Still, featuring Jo Ki-jung on the track would be a huge asset.

He’s got tons of old fans, and his name alone could shut down any negative takes on the remake.

“Thank you.”

“Alright. I’ll head down first.”

Left alone on the rooftop, I turned over the question Jo Ki-jung had posed.

GOTM had been the team I felt most comfortable with.
Even they sometimes got jealous.

In fact, some lineup changes happened precisely because of that.

If even GOTM couldn’t avoid it, what about K-pop trainees in Korea?

Will I ever find people with the talent and drive to run this race with me?

Even if they exist, how many more loops will it take to make them my team?

I don’t know.

But one thing’s for sure—

“Damn it.”

I still hate this damn idol thing.

At that moment, my phone vibrated.

[Han Sion-ssi. Let’s talk about the track. Come downstairs.]
A message from PD Kang Seok-woo.

When I returned to LB Studio, he had clearly finished reviewing the footage.

“Here’s what we’ll do. You know you’re meeting TakeScene soon, right?”

“Yes.”

“The first mission is a one-on-one battle between each team’s matching roles.”

“You mean main vocal vs. main vocal, lead vocal vs. lead vocal, that kind of thing?”

“Exactly. You’ll perform the rearranged version of Under the Streetlight.”

Not a bad idea.

Repeating a song comes with risk, but in this case, it’s fine.

We only showed the first verse in the pre-mission, and Under the Streetlight is all about that chorus.

“Understood.”

“Let’s make it a good one.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Yeah… It’s not time to loop back yet.

I still have more to try.

With that in mind, I shook PD Kang’s hand.