Little Pink Starfish

There were plenty of things that made me anxious.

Despite everything I’d done, I hadn’t even sold 50 million albums—let alone 200 million. That hopeless, sinking feeling.

The frustration of having nowhere to share my genuine story.

The bitter emptiness of knowing that no matter how much I succeeded, it would all just vanish someday.

And most of all—the thing that tortured me was cognitive dissonance.

I wasn’t sure anymore if I was really Han Si-on, or just a lunatic trapped in a delusion.

Panic disorder and depression from all those causes ate away at me. Eventually, I was just drugged up all the time.

Even in that state, all I had left was obsession with album sales—so I fought daily with staff, clashed constantly with management.

Sidenote, but… back then, Koreans didn’t like me.

Actually, they hated me.

Because I shouted “I love Japan” to try and sell a few more albums—and people called me a traitor for it.

That’s how desperate I was to sell even one more copy.

Without that kind of validation, I couldn’t survive each day. I even made management report daily sales numbers to me.

Depending on those numbers, I’d go from manic highs to depressive lows.

That fifth life was an all-out battle—and a failure.

And when it all fell apart, I suddenly wanted to run away.

To leave success and failure in someone else’s hands.

That’s why in my sixth life, I decided to become an idol.

Looking back, I didn’t even like idols during my first life.

No real reason—just a clueless guy with a bad case of indie-kid syndrome and hipsteritis.

But by the sixth life, those feelings were gone.

Plus, if I succeeded as an idol, I could dominate not just Korea and Japan, but China and Southeast Asia too.

So after two years of trainee life, I debuted as the leader and main vocal of a group called For The Youth.

The group took off instantly.

The debut title track I pushed topped the digital charts, and the follow-up song I composed won 1st place on the Big 3 music shows.

After every song I touched turned into a hit, the company began to see me differently.

Not just as the leader of an idol group—but as a genius artist.

I had full freedom to pursue solo activities too.

But the success was short-lived.

Friction started to build. I can’t even remember what sparked it.

Maybe my solo career? Maybe an end-of-year award show?

The memory’s fuzzy—and maybe I tried to forget it.

At first, I got along well with the other members of For The Youth, so I tried to fix things.

I split my solo income evenly, fought the company to support the members’ individual activities.

But the discord only deepened.

No matter how hard I tried, people hated me.

And they said it was all my fault.

Because I prioritized solo over group activities. Because I bulldozed ahead without regard for the others. Because I was a genius who looked down on the less talented.

Even the fans said so.

Eventually, For The Youth disbanded.

But oddly enough—I didn’t regress.

Even after the breakup, I still had a large fanbase as the main vocalist and leader, Zion.

My image took a hit for a bit, but once I was left as the only one still in the industry, it bounced back quickly.

I came back as a solo artist and found success again, selling albums in Japan and China.

But then, three years after the disbandment, I regressed again.

It started when the former members—now regular people—reached out, saying they wanted to meet.

They apologized.

Said they’d been blinded by jealousy, that seeing my success stirred up regret and longing.

They asked if we could reunite—for the fans still waiting for the full For The Youth lineup.

If it were now, I would’ve laughed in their faces.

Or rather, I wouldn’t have let things get to that point in the first place.

But back then, I was softer.

Foolish enough to be hurt by people.

At the same time, I was starting to feel the limits of being a soloist. Album sales were slowly dropping.

So I accepted their apology and began preparing for a full-group comeback.

But in the end, one contract clause ruined it all:

“Solo income shall be divided equally.”

The same desperate measure I had proposed once to keep the team together.

Now they were demanding it again. But I wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that kind of obvious move.

So they spat in my face and walked away—again.

And when I opened my eyes…

Beep, beep—

I was standing at an intersection.

After that, I grew cold.

Maybe it was because of my failure as a team leader. Or maybe it was because I’d seen how ugly people could be.

So in my seventh life, I chose For The Youth again.

I wanted to run a test.

What would happen if I treated the team not with warmth—but with logic, contracts, and capitalism?

That second run was even more successful. The plane soared higher than ever.

But the outcome was the same.

“You labeled us as assholes from the start. You think we didn’t notice?”
“You’re a selfish bastard.”
“You couldn’t stand talentless leeches eating the crumbs off your genius spoon, could you?”

Maybe they were right.

Maybe the collapse in my seventh life really was my fault.

But it didn’t matter.

Afterward, I moved to America—and achieved even greater success.

All while distrusting and suspecting every teammate I worked with.

That’s why GOTM was special to me.

Because during my time with them, I could actually relax.

I thought I’d forgotten For The Youth.

It was ancient history, after all. And technically, it didn’t even happen in this world.

But then—

“I’m Fade of TakeScene. Nice to meet you.”

Seeing one of those faces again brought all the feelings flooding back.

---

Why is Cho Yong-seong here?

He’s supposed to debut in For The Youth two years from now.

I never saw him on TakeScene’s YouTube. Never came across him while monitoring.

I was confused for a second—but quickly found the answer.

I vaguely remembered hearing that Yong-seong had been in another debut team before For The Youth.

That team must’ve been TakeScene.

Of course, in my memory, he never debuted with TakeScene.

But that’s only the memory of seven lifetimes.

Once I moved to the U.S., I stopped caring about what happened in Korea.

It’s entirely possible that in one timeline, Yong-seong debuted with TakeScene.

The more timelines you live, the more you run into things you’ve never seen before.

You can repeat something ten times, and the eleventh time, for no reason, everything changes.

Maybe it’s a shift in someone’s heart. Maybe it’s a butterfly effect I caused.

Whatever it is—it doesn’t matter.

I don’t need revenge on Cho Yong-seong. I don’t need to burn with old emotions.

In this timeline, he’s meeting me for the first time. Getting worked up over him now would be pathetic.

But I do feel fired up.

Because no matter how well I do, Three Months isn’t debuting. That’s just how capitalism works.

TakeScene is already confirmed to debut.

But if I can get people to say:

“Honestly, Han Si-on should’ve debuted instead of Cho Yong-seong.”

Then I’ve won.

It’s petty—I know.

But for someone who’s been through countless regressions, motivation has to be manufactured.

And this is enough for me.

Just then, a staff member approached and explained the situation to us.

They had selected overlapping songs from our favorite karaoke lists. 50 audience members had already voted.

I didn’t hear Cho Yong-seong—no, Fade’s—performance.

And he didn’t hear mine either.

That’s why Fade was smiling calmly, eyes on the monitor, waiting for the result.

And then it appeared.

Three Months – Han Si-on: 41 votes
TakeScene – Fade: 9 votes

Fade’s expression crumbled in an instant.

Hmph. Who are those nine tone-deaf voters anyway?

How can anyone vote for him over me?

Must be family.

Still, seeing his wrecked face made me feel great.

In For The Youth, that guy was the worst of the lot—the one who always attacked me.

Of course, I didn’t show any of that on camera.

“…Ah.”

I faked a bit of awkwardness at the overwhelming win, gave a quick bow to the audience, and returned to my team.

As I sat down, Lee I-on leaned over and whispered:

“It’s 2 to 2 now.”

“Score?”

“Yeah.”

I’d assumed Sae-mi-ro had won, but judging by his gloomy face, maybe not.

Based on the seating order, they must’ve gone up against Juyeon.

At this point, I don’t know exactly how good Juyeon is—but I remember him being really talented.

Still, surely the vote wasn’t as lopsided as mine and Fade’s.

As I watched the TakeScene members comfort Fade, the final contestant stepped up.

Three Months – Choi Jae-sung
TakeScene – Eye Level

I wasn’t particularly interested in whether our team won overall, but I was curious about how Jae-sung would perform.

How would my advice—to intentionally break his balance—affect him?

“Woo, tonight!”

I listened with anticipation—

And got something I never expected.

Did Jae-sung sing worse than usual?

No.

Did he sing better than usual?

Also no.

He was exactly the same.

Even though the song had natural half-line breathing points, he sang each full line in one breath—and there was no noticeable change.

His breath support is ridiculous.

He must be a genetic marvel. Maybe Coming Up Next accidentally recruited a pro swimmer or a free-diving record holder.

“That perfect vibe, the cool breeze—”

If I had to compare, I’d say his longer breaths did make it sound smoother.

His old habit of shifting tone each bar was gone.

It’s a subtle difference—but that means my advice was on point, and that’s enough for me.

And the result?

Choi Jae-sung won with 28 votes.

That made it 3 to 2—a victory for Three Months over TakeScene.