Little Pink Starfish

Choi Jaesung was right—these days, Han Si-on was kind of scary.

Not in the sense that he was angry or sensitive.

In fact, he was kinder and more gentle than usual.

But what made him intimidating was his approach to preparing for the stage.

It was the first time anyone had seen someone so singularly obsessed with something.

It made them wonder if they’d ever lived that way themselves.

Sure, they’d practiced hard before.

But they’d never staked their life on it.

Han Si-on had.

Watching him work like that had a noticeable effect on the rest of SeDalBaekIl.

“You guys are seriously something else.”

That was what vocal trainer Yoo Seon-hwa said on camera after watching and watching again.

Even the toughest trainees at Ryan Entertainment sometimes ran away from training.

She never expected SeDalBaekIl—most of whom had zero prior agency training except Lee Ion—to keep up like this.

Han Si-on even got up two hours earlier than everyone else, despite the brutal schedule.

When Goo Taehwan asked why, Si-on just said he needed to tune his tone.

Watching his stage come together step-by-step gave everyone a weird sense of awe.

“Once this airs, the internet’s going to explode, don’t you think?”

“I think so too. But I’m a little worried. What if it’s not ‘idol’ enough?”

“Yeah, I get that. Once the ‘pigeon sniffers’ show up, they’ll probably start ranting about real music and stuff.”

But Choi Jaesung shook his head.

“I mean, aside from Under the Streetlamp, all the songs were from idol groups, right?”

True.

Flowers Bloom, Boy Scout, Never Just Playing Around—all from idol groups.

It was just Under the Streetlamp that left such a strong impression.

Especially that rearranged version.

That’s when Lee Ion walked over.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Oh, we were wondering what kind of reactions Si-on hyung will get after his stage tomorrow.”

“He’s gonna get called insane—in a good way.”

“Right?”

“Anyway, let’s go. The PD said to gather.”

“What? Break’s over already?”

“Yeah. Let’s move.”

It was the day before the first official Coming Up Next position battle.

---

At first, the members of DropOut felt uneasy about letting the original composer of Selfish do the arrangement.

Composing and arranging aren’t totally separate things.

Many great composers are also great arrangers.

But in K-pop, it’s not uncommon for a good composer to be a poor arranger.

Some can write amazing toplines but struggle to shape them into the idol-friendly soundscape.

Still, DropOut agreed to let Zion, the composer of Selfish, do the arrangement.

“Let’s try to get Zion’s personal contact.”

That push came from their agency, Double M Entertainment.

“He’s only sold songs to two teams so far—us and NOP.”

“Didn’t we grab a song NOP was eyeing?”

“Yeah. Selfish was their top pick too, but they also wanted I’m Not Your Man. They bought that one.”

“That their title track too?”

“Yep.”

Zion had now sold title tracks to two of the hottest boy groups.

That meant his hits weren’t just lucky flukes—he probably had the skills to deliver consistent quality.

“The deal was managed by BVB Entertainment’s A&R director. That’s sketchy.”

“Seo Seung-hyun? That was the name, right?”

“Yeah.”

DropOut even knew that a staffer from another agency had managed the deal.

Double M shared a lot of inside info with DropOut, given their flagship status.

“If he’s really that good, we should get his card. Even if it’s just for a guide vocal, the arrangement will give us a clue. Worst case, we don’t use it.”

That’s why they asked Zion to arrange Selfish.

Then, a few days later…

“What the hell is this?”

“This is insane.”

The result was a ridiculously high-quality track.

Perfectly tailored to DropOut‘s sound, with detailed notes on part assignments and vocal techniques for each member.

But the real jaw-dropper was the guide vocal on the finished version.

Selfish originally had English lyrics.

No one knew if Zion himself sang the guide, but there was a rough home-recorded version floating around.

Even though the audio quality sucked, the vocal had been really good.

But the new version? Beyond words.

Forget the audio quality—the singing was just insanely polished.

Not in an overly forced way either—just effortlessly stylish.

“We could just release this version.”

“Seriously, we could keep these lyrics as-is.”

No matter what Korean lyrics they tried to add, they’d never beat this.

Only downside? No rap part.

But the bridge had a rap-like section, so their rapper could still jump in.

“Should we ask if we can release an English version?”

“Can we even use these lyrics?”

“The agency’ll cover the lyric fee anyway.”

“So if we go with this version, Zion gets the full 4:4:2 cut for lyrics, composition, and arrangement?”

Once they unanimously approved the new version, DropOut started getting curious.

Who was Zion?

“Is he really a rookie?”

“He sings too well.”

“It’s not just the vocals—the arrangement is too precise. Can a rookie really do this?”

“I think it’s the opposite. Anyone can arrange technically, but that vocal? Unreal.”

As a self-producing group, DropOut knew how hard it was to hit the sweet spot of “not too much, not too little.”

Rookies almost never pull that off.

Eventually, their leader Si-do, a.k.a. “the idol of idols,” emailed Zion and asked to meet for a meal.

“…He ghosted me.”

“He ghosted you?”

“Come on, maybe he just didn’t see it.”

“…It was read.”

Totally ghosted.

What they didn’t know was that Zion—Han Si-on—was just too busy preparing for Coming Up Next.

---

Unaware of how her idols were being treated, long-time DropOut fan Choi Se-hee once again won a ticket to be in the audience.

Maybe because of her post, or maybe due to the ramped-up advertising, the competition was a bit fiercer this time.

But still, only 13:1 odds. And Se-hee had her ways.

“I survived DropOut’s 322:1 fan event!”

And this time, she wasn’t alone—she came with a fellow fan.

“You promised me samgyeopsal if they’re no good, right?”

Still, her friend didn’t believe her post. No way there were ten new idols worth watching.

“Promise me.”

“I’m telling you, they’re good.”

“Promise anyway.”

“Okay. But if they’re good, you’re buying.”

“Deal.”

Her friend smirked. “As if. ‘If they’re good’—what even is that?”

If it’s someone you already stan, you apply filters: rookie bias, potential bias, sob story bias.

But for newbies? They’re judged by the same standards as established idols.

At best, maybe one of them would pass.

While the two debated, all 500 audience members finally entered.

Obviously, the performance didn’t start immediately.

This kind of recording always comes with long waits.

They knew better than to pick the 250 standing spots in front of the T-stage. They chose the 250 seated spots around it.

Who knows how long had passed?

As they scrolled their phones in boredom, a small cheer broke out.

“Hey, isn’t that Blue?”

“Yeah—and that’s CEO Choi.”

Two others joined them onstage—judges, probably.

As they took their places, the staff rushed to organize the audience and prep the cameras.

Once again, Se-hee noted how Coming Up Next was surprisingly chill about leaks.

All they told camera-holding fans was to be careful not to disrupt the broadcast.

Just don’t upload full videos of the performances.

Not your typical survival show paranoia.

“Oh… maybe because it’s a team competition?”

No one gets eliminated until the final round.

So until then, building buzz and fan engagement might be more important than secrecy.

Or maybe… they were just afraid the show wouldn’t take off.

While Se-hee pondered, the cameras started rolling.

The show’s MC was Blue, a 1st-gen idol turned TV host.

Whatever the format, he didn’t waste time.

Intro? Short.

No individual member intros either.

He just kept hammering home one point: today’s stage is a position battle between the two teams.

No flashy VCRs.

“This is a mess. How are we supposed to get into it?”

Typical cable rookie production.

As Se-hee clicked her tongue, Blue raised his hand and pointed left.

“SeDalBaekIl!”

A lift brought five boys up from the left side of the stage.

For Se-hee, who was attending for the second time, they were familiar faces.

But most of the audience had never seen them.

Even so…

A big cheer erupted.

Not because the audience was generous.

It was because Lee Ion popped up on the screen.

“What the hell…”

Se-hee nodded at her friend’s gasp.

That face was something else.

You had to wonder how he hadn’t been on camera more.

“Adding one point to the samgyeopsal tally?”

“Nope. Two points.”

“Told you.”

“Damn, he’s really good-looking. Fine, you win.”

Se-hee grinned, but her own attention was already drifting to Han Si-on.

“Is it the fan service?”

Sure, Si-on was handsome.

Pale skin, sharp features, that dangerously fragile vibe—definitely her type.

But standing next to Lee Ion, he didn’t exactly steal the spotlight.

“Is it the aura?”

While she puzzled it out, Blue pointed right this time.

“TakeScene!”

An even louder cheer exploded.

Some fans had even brought banners—they’d seen these faces through other Ryan Entertainment content.

And with that, all ten contestants were on stage.