Little Pink Starfish

I’ve spent a long time drifting through the showbiz industry, and I’ve gotten pretty damn good at forming business relationships.

Not saying I have a 100% success rate—
there are definitely people out there you just can’t work with, no matter what.

But compared to most, I’m a lot better at making professional connections.

Just… not in this life.

This life is clearly a filler loop. A fast-track loop.

The reason I showed my best side to PD Kang Seok-woo was because I figured that’d be the quickest way to debut.

But I have no reason to do that with On Saemi-ro.

If she’s actually a talented vocalist—someone I’ll need to complete my ultimate team someday?

Then I’ll treat her right in that life. Not now.

I was just thinking that when she suddenly spoke to me.

“Um, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“You said you’re not a trainee. Not signed with any agency, either.”

“That’s right.”

“So… how many hours a day do you practice singing?”

Huh. If we’re talking about literally singing, probably not that many.
But if we count the time I spend doing things for my singing?

A lot.

Like this morning—I trained for over two hours but didn’t sing a single line.

Most of my life revolves around music.
But until debut, I try to save my voice.

“Maybe around eight hours?”

“Every day?”

“As often as I can.”

“Then… what do your parents say?”

Where’s that coming from?

Maybe she’s having trouble with her parents—maybe they’re against her being a singer?

“They don’t really say much.”

“…Okay. Thanks.”

The way she responded made me think she wasn’t really asking what she said out loud.

It felt like she was circling around the real question.

But I didn’t press.

If she has more to say, she’ll say it.

Just then, the makeup van door opened—and it wasn’t PD Kang.

It was another PD I’d heard Kang call “PD Go” before.

“Hello. How much longer for the last two?”

“On Saemi-ro’s done now.”

“Han Sion will need a little longer.”

“Got it. Then, Saemi-ro, head to set. The PD will guide you.”

She stood, bowed politely, and left.

PD Go—no, this guy—sat down next to me and started talking.

“Sion, you know who I am, right?”

“Yes. I believe you’re PD Go.”

“…That’s actually a nickname PD Kang made up. I’m Kim Dal-in.”

…Maestro Kim?

How do you mess up someone’s surname?

I’ve heard Kang call him PD Go more than once.

“Sorry, PD Kim.”

“No worries. PD Kang really does call me that. Didn’t think you contestants heard it.”

Now I was curious.

Kinda wanted to ask why he got that nickname.

“Anyway, I’m here because we got a message from HR Corporation.”

“HR?”

“They’re a major entertainment company in the U.S. If I say ‘a Billboard giant,’ does that help?”

From the way this is going, it doesn’t seem like I’m in trouble for pretending to be an HR rep.

Not that I’d care if I was—
I wrapped that whole bit up cleanly with Andrew Bryant anyway.

“What did they say?”

“The composer of Flowers Bloom, which you sang in the first round—that song’s from an HR artist. Not sure if you know him—Chris Edwards…”

“That was an Eddie track?”

“Huh? Eddie? Is that what fans call him?”

“Ah—no, nothing.”

I blurted it out without thinking.

Flowers Bloom was Eddie’s song?

That explains so much.

No wonder the melody felt so familiar—like I’d heard it before.

Back when I sang it, I was sure there had to be an original male version.

I mentally rearranged it in my head, imagining what that version would sound like—
and it came together way too easily.

Turns out, it was one of the closest rearrangements to the finished version I’d ever done entirely in my head.

Back then, I figured I just liked the original, and that’s why the ideas came so fast.

But if that song was Eddie’s… it all makes sense.

I learned a lot from Eddie—especially in the early loops, when I first left for the U.S.

How to write from instinct.
How to turn outside stimuli into creative drive.
How to build Billboard-tier tracks.

He laid the foundation for my composition skills.

Sure, I’m a better composer than him now.

But I’ve never stopped being grateful.
We clicked, too—on a personal level.

When even a regressor can still call someone “friend” after so many resets—
it means something.

But wait… Eddie made a K-pop track?

That’s news to me.

He wasn’t involved with GOTM, but we were close during my solo era.

“So what did Chris Edwards say?”

“Oh, the message wasn’t from him directly. It came through HR.
They confirmed Flowers Bloom was originally written for a male vocalist.”

“Right.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“Not really.”

“So… Chris Edwards wants to meet you. But he set a condition.”

“What is it?”

“He wants to hear the version you mentally arranged—
you know, the one you reimagined in your head. What’s that about?”

I couldn’t help laughing.

PD Kim was hiding something.

If I’m right, Channel M Show and HR had a financial dispute.

HR probably asked for a fee since their big-name composer was being featured.
M Show lowballed the offer.

Knowing Eddie, he likely insisted on coming to Korea on his own, regardless.

HR, worried about setting a bad precedent in the Asian market, backed off.

So they compromised—they’d gauge my talent first.

If the rearrangement is good enough, they’ll let Eddie appear despite the money issue.

And knowing myself?

There’s no way the track won’t be good.

If I want, I can bring Eddie onto this show.

Tempting.

I know Eddie’s personal number and email by heart.

If I really wanted to, I could meet him without M Show involved at all.

If this were a serious loop—one where I was gunning for the 200 million album mark—
that’s exactly what I’d do.

But in this loop, letting M Show handle it might be smarter.

So what’s the most I can get out of them in this situation?

Money? Don’t need it.

Fame? I’ve already leveraged that.

Honestly, there’s not much left they can offer me right now.

“Sion?”

“Ah, sorry. Got it.”

In moments like this, the smartest move is simple:

Let them owe you.

Ask what they can give you—after they realize what you can do.

Time to rack up that debt.

“Can I speak with PD Kang about this?”

“He’s not on set today. You can tell me and I’ll pass it along.”

“Then—how much did Chris Edwards’s team ask for in appearance fees?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m guessing HR made a price demand that M Show couldn’t meet. That’s why they added this condition.”

“…!”

Kim’s eyes were visibly shaking.

“I—I can’t disclose that.”

“Then how much did M Show offer?”

“Even less I can tell you!”

Guess Kim’s not used to this kind of negotiation.

If he were, he’d have played dumb.
Said there was no negotiation in the first place.

“Then could you pass a message to PD Kang?”

“What message?”

“Everything we just talked about—
and also, let him know I can get Chris Edwards on the show.”

“…”

Kim opened and closed his mouth several times, then finally nodded.

“Thanks. You’re very kind.”

As he left the makeup van, he turned back and stared at me for a moment before disappearing.

But I wasn’t alone in the van.

Someone else had heard our entire conversation:

The stylist working on my hair.

In the mirror, I could see her sneaking glances at me.

What’s with the looks?

It’s not like I’m the first regressor she’s ever seen.

---

Today’s shoot was B Team’s first group segment since formation.

We were filming at a BBQ restaurant in Myeong-dong—one of the show’s sponsors.

Shooting audition programs is tough.

You’re working with regular people who aren’t used to being on camera.

Sometimes you get gold from their raw reactions,
but it also means a lot more handholding.

“Make sure to glance at the whiteboard the writer’s holding between shots. Got it?”

“Yes!”

“Got it!”

“And please eat like you mean it. You’ll be on strict diets back at the dorm.”

So we started with a meal.

People are more relaxed and social when they’re full.

Watching the boys dig in, the head writer found herself rethinking her first impressions.

Of Lee I-on, Han Sion, Choi Jae-sung, Koo Tae-hwan, and On Saemi-ro, the one with the coldest first impression was clearly Koo Tae-hwan.

If you added in mannerisms and tone, Han Sion came off as even more aloof.

He had that “low boiling point” aura.
Sometimes gave off an obsessive, melancholic vibe.

But just in terms of looks, Koo Tae-hwan had that sharp, cold aesthetic.

His features were striking, and even with minimal makeup, he looked like he was wearing smoky eyeliner.

“He doesn’t have a thug face… more like a ridiculously handsome army officer.”

Kind of a “strict but fair” vibe.

Not that the writer had ever been in the military, being a woman herself.

And yet, Koo Tae-hwan right now?

“Should I cook it a little crispier?”

He was more focused on grilling meat than eating it.

He’d grabbed the tongs and scissors, proudly declaring he was good at it, and now he refused to give them up.

He kept stealing glances at everyone’s reactions, especially Han Sion’s.

And Sion?

His eating was something else entirely.

“He looks like a Hollywood star.”

It wasn’t just eating—it was savoring.

Like when foreign actors visit Korea and try samgyeopsal for the first time.

A mix of fascination and genuine enjoyment.

That’s what it looked like.