Little Pink Starfish

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Kang Seok-woo clicked his pen rhythmically as he sat at his desk, replaying all the footage in his mind.

The only time he had directly intervened in filming was during B Team’s selection round—but that didn’t mean that was the only thing shot so far.

The second filming team had collected a bunch of interview clips and daily practice footage from TakeScene, and tomorrow, they planned to shoot reactions to the B Team’s performances.

They had also recorded personal interviews and day-to-day scenes with the B Team members.

On Saemi-ro and Lee I-on had the most footage, but Choi Jae-sung and Koo Tae-hwan had a decent amount too.

Then came the most problematic footage of all:

Han Sion’s Under the Streetlight recording.

Kang originally planned to film some candid moments and interviews with Sion after the session—he hadn’t notified him in advance, figuring a spontaneous vibe would feel more natural.

But after witnessing what happened at LB Studio, he realized—

Han Sion didn’t need screen time.

What he needed… was to show his music.

In idol audition programs, most personal footage carries the subtext of “please pay attention to me.”

But Han Sion didn’t need that.

Once people heard his music, they would lose their minds.
They’d want to learn everything about him.

“That’s how good he is.”

When Kang heard Sion’s version of Under the Streetlight during the first shoot, he thought it might dominate the season.

But the version at LB Studio?

It felt timeless.

One of those songs you obsess over for a while, forget about, then rediscover years later and still fall in love with.

A song you listen to for life.

So when a flushed Lee Hyun-seok asked after the performance, “What if we release this version as the official track?”—
Kang’s reaction was basically:

“You’re asking if we should not release this?”

Everything was falling into place.

Kang Seok-woo was going to highlight Han Sion’s artistry and genius.

Then, once the hype peaked, he’d reveal the story of Sion’s parents.

A genius left alone in the world, with parents in a vegetative state.

A story tailor-made for public sympathy.

Only one problem remained:

Spotlighting Han Sion clashed with the show’s original concept.

After all, Coming Up Next was created to debut TakeScene.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Kang finally stood up from his desk and headed to the Director’s office.

“Director. I mean—sunbae.”

“Well, look who’s suddenly being polite in the office. What’s up, Seok-woo?”

“I’d like to ask you a favor.”

“What is it?”

“You know what I’m directing right now, right?”

“Of course. That idol survival show with Lion Entertainment. Word is, it’s shaping up to be pretty interesting.”

“How much of TakeScene’s revenue do we get?”

Channel M Show was contractually entitled to a portion of TakeScene’s post-debut revenue for two years.

Without that deal, M Show wouldn’t have had any reason to help Lion Entertainment debut a group.

Technically, half of the channel’s cut is paid by Lion Ent, the other half by TakeScene themselves.
But no one says that out loud. It’s not even in the contract.
Lion simply covers it as an “external marketing expense.”

The Director’s pleasant expression turned cold, and after a moment, he answered.

“30%—excluding live event profits.”

“But events are where the real money is, no?”

“Exactly. And those numbers are often cooked for the invoices anyway. Not worth squabbling over.”

“So the more we boost TakeScene, the more valuable that 30% becomes.”

“Why are you repeating stuff we already know? Just say what you want.”

Kang nodded. He already knew this—he just needed to set the stage.

“There’s one contestant I want to push to the forefront. But if I do, I’m not sure TakeScene can still debut.”

“Oh? That good, huh?”

“It’s a team-vs-team format, so nothing’s guaranteed. But if it were based on individual merit, TakeScene wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Then just milk that kid in the first half and bring it back around to TakeScene later.”

“I’m not sure there’ll be anything left to milk.”

“Come on, Seok-woo. He’s just an idol trainee.”

“No. He’s a genius.”

The Director chuckled in disbelief.

“Seok-woo. You know how many ‘geniuses’ this industry has? The ones who make real money aren’t the geniuses—it’s the guys who copy them first.”

Normally, Kang might’ve agreed.

But Han Sion was different.

He didn’t just flaunt talent.
He knew exactly how to use it—and had the luck to back it up.

Kang didn’t know it, but he was seeing Sion for what he truly was:
A regressor—someone who had lived through dozens of timelines.

That kind of thing can’t be explained.

Even if he showed the Director a video of Sion’s performance, the best he’d get is a lukewarm “Yeah, he’s good. Use him for early hype.”

Kang hadn’t come here to ask for full approval.

“Then… give me two extra episodes.”

“Why?”

“I want to see just how far I can push this kid.”

In this world, approval doesn’t come before proof.
You earn it after you deliver.

“Hm… His name’s Han Sion?”

“Yes.”

The Director tapped the desk for a while, then nodded.

“Okay. I’ll give you two more episodes. But there’s a catch.”

“Name it.”

“Put some real effort into YouTube views and subscribers.”

In the past, power came from fixed TV channels.
Which is why the Big Three networks were so dominant.

But times had changed.

People didn’t watch on fixed schedules anymore.

Now it was all about OTT replays, YouTube highlights, and SNS clips.

For channels with tons of content like M Show, a YouTube drama summary reel could earn far more than rerun ad revenue.

That’s one reason Coming Up Next was greenlit.

K-pop fandoms are the most proactive viewers in existence.

Only the already-interested will watch a cable idol survival show—
and an in-house survival show narrows the pool even more.

But if they could funnel all that energy to M Show’s official YouTube?

It would be insanely profitable.

Especially since they already had a cut of TakeScene’s earnings.

“If this really takes off, I might go directly to CEO Choi Tae-ho.”

“Understood.”

Kang nodded confidently.

Hitting a specific revenue figure through music sales would be luck-based.
They couldn’t control release timing or competition.

But generating online buzz?

That he could do.

The next day, Channel M Show announced that its Saturday 4 p.m. variety show Lucky Day would be ending two weeks early.

In its place:

Coming Up Next.

It was a notice asking viewers to support the new program.

In short, Kang’s request for two additional episodes had been granted.

Even better—
the first broadcast was now airing two weeks earlier than planned.

Only three weeks remained until the premiere.

---

I woke up early and started my usual vocal tuning and stretching.

“Ah—ah—ah—”

From the lowest note to the highest, I slowly climbed and descended in half-steps, maintaining a consistent breath and volume.

The key was to never force the sound.

Everything had to come out naturally—and if a single note didn’t match my desired tone, I had to start over from the beginning.

It’s a simple method, but effective.

I actually developed this approach to tone training myself.

I studied the brutal techniques of Korean pansori masters,
the vocal practices of European gypsies,
the vocal dynasties of Germany,
and even the advice of Billboard vocal coaches.

No one on Earth has studied vocal tone as obsessively as I have.

Lots of people study voice, sure.
There are plenty of programs on how to sound good.

But those aren’t about developing a good voice, just learning to use what you have.

For untrained singers, even basic vocal technique can drastically improve their sound.

But I don’t just want to sound good.

I want to own a sound that’s better than anyone else’s.

After over two hours of training, I headed straight for Myeong-dong.

Today was a Coming Up Next shoot.

Theme: “Getting to Know Each Other.”

Honestly, I don’t know how close we’ll really get in front of a camera.

But I can fake it.

When I arrived at the set, a staff member recognized me and immediately shoved me into the makeup van.

Inside, the others had already arrived: Lee I-on, On Saemi-ro, Koo Tae-hwan, and Choi Jae-sung were getting their makeup done.

I was 20 minutes early—
and still the last one to arrive.

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

I greeted them and took a seat at the far end.

Choi Jae-sung, unable to turn his head because of his hair styling, smiled with just his eyes.

“You just got here, hyung?”

Seems like after the second mission, we’ve grown a bit closer—
he’s more casual with me now.

He even texted me once since then.

Oh right, I still haven’t replied to Koo Tae-hwan’s gifticon…

“Yeah, I just arrived. When did you get here?”

“A little before 10, I think.”

“Isn’t the shoot at 12?”

“Yeah, but I was too nervous to sit at home. The others got here about the same time as me.”

Makes sense. For most of them, this is their first time on a show.
Being nervous is natural.

I was worried some of them might freeze up, but watching them now, it didn’t seem that bad.

There was even a mounted camera inside the makeup van—
and while they were clearly aware of it, no one was acting overly awkward.

“Good luck today, everyone.”

Koo Tae-hwan finished first and left the van.

Next, Choi Jae-sung and Lee I-on.

Leaving just On Saemi-ro and me.

Even with makeup artists buzzing around us, the atmosphere felt a little… off.

Like the two of us were alone in an awkward bubble.

Not that I minded.