Little Pink Starfish

While the audience held their breath, completely absorbed in the song, Han Sion’s hand moved and touched the keyboard.

Pianos have velocity sensitivity, but keyboards don’t.

Because of that, amateur arrangers often ran into problems when trying to substitute a piano part with a keyboard.

Of course, Han Sion wasn’t one of them.

“The shadow laid out, faintly blurred in color, Why, in orange…”

Han Sion’s “velocity” was in his voice.

The keyboard sound stayed solid and consistent, but thanks to Han Sion’s vocals, the audience could still feel dynamics — softness and strength.

The audience might not have noticed, but Jo Gijeong, the special guest session player, bit his lip.

During rehearsals, it hadn’t been difficult to maintain balance while playing. But on the real stage, the immersion was completely different.

If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up getting more caught up in the song than Han Sion and make a mistake.

Already, his picking rhythm was slightly being pulled into Han Sion’s rhythm.

“Freakin’ lunatic.”

That’s what Jo Gijeong thought when he first saw the fully arranged score, and again during recording sessions.

Han Sion wasn’t some mere 20-year-old aspiring singer.

He didn’t even want to use the word “genius” — because “genius” always implied young and raw.

Han Sion’s music wasn’t raw at all.

That’s why he was a freak.

He couldn’t exactly call him a master yet, but still—

“Standing there, blankly, Under the orange streetlight…”

On the foundation laid by the drums, the bass and guitar frolicked, and the keyboard roofed it all over.

And the voice — that voice soared beyond it all.

Jo Gijeong felt another surge of jealousy.

If only he had that kind of talent.

How much more could he have done?

But the jealousy didn’t last long.

Soon enough, he was just swept up in a deep sense of bliss as he continued playing.

“You and I, Under the streetlight!”

Pre-hook.

After a brief intentional gap between the driving drums and keyboards, the chorus exploded.

Here——!

Han Sion was someone who knew how to create something good to listen to.

He knew that no matter what, he couldn’t mess with the chorus of this song.

Even if he could improve it — if he changed the song’s identity, it would become something unfamiliar.

And then they wouldn’t get the reaction they were getting now.

“WAAAAAAAH!”
“YEEEEAAAH!”

The moment the familiar chorus burst out, the audience’s energy exploded.

It didn’t matter if they loved the original or hated it.

Anyone who had heard the song even once shouted along.

Jo Gijeong originally wanted to build the feeling in like this:

Slowly progressing through the 1st and 2nd verses toward a treasure — a beautiful, perfect treasure.

He thought the beauty of the climax could only be maximized by enduring a bit of boredom first.

But seeing Han Sion’s stage made him realize:

That kind of composition was a mistake.

Challenging the audience with, “Can you endure this?” was arrogance.

Han Sion’s version was beautiful from start to finish.

It felt like walking down a beautiful trail, entering a stunning garden, and uncovering a precious treasure — all without hardship.

Of course, that’s not something just anyone can do just because they want to.

If it were, why would musicians all over the world struggle so hard for beautiful development in their songs?

But Han Sion’s smoothly flowing melody completely fulfilled it.

Here——!

Then, he launched into a chorus an octave higher.

It was a shocking debut stage from Han Sion, who had spent countless lifetimes honing his craft.

---

After Han Sion’s stage ended, filming had to be paused briefly.

The audience reaction was so hot they needed time to settle down.

There was even an encore call.

Once the excitement finally died down, the audience began to feel puzzled.

Today’s format was a position battle.

And the battle order was clearly reverse-ranking, from 5th to 1st.

Han Sion, holding the “Sub Vocal” title, was ranked 4th.

Meaning the singers coming up should be even better… right?

Were they witnessing the birth of an incredibly successful group?

That’s how it felt.

However—

[Lead Vocal – Koo Taehwan vs. Fade]

“What the heck? That was bad.”

“Did he mess up?”

Fade, who performed right after Han Sion, clearly ruined his stage.

He couldn’t erase Han Sion’s impact from his mind and forgot what he needed to do.

Koo Taehwan, who already knew about Han Sion’s ability, did better than Fade — but still failed to showcase anything special.

The next battle between SeeU and Lee Ieon was similar.

At least Lee Ieon sang better than expected, surprising people who had underestimated him based on his looks.

The only worthwhile stage was between the two main vocals: On Saemiro and Joo Yeon.

“Leave at that moment—!”
“I was happy, with everything—!”

Joo Yeon managed to put on a stage good enough to make the audience briefly forget about Han Sion.

On Saemiro wasn’t as good as Joo Yeon but still earned solid applause.

Honestly, if Han Sion hadn’t been there, Joo Yeon would have been 1st place, and On Saemiro 2nd.

But—

“What was his name again? Han Sion?”
“Will they release his performance as a track? It’ll be huge if they do.”
“I’m sharing it on SNS.”
“If the broadcast airs, he’s gonna blow up instantly.”
“He’s handsome too. Look, I took a picture.”
“Holy crap, the vibe is unreal.”

Everyone leaving the set was talking about Han Sion.

And Choi Sehee—

“This is a guaranteed hit. Sure, some antis will nitpick out of fear for their faves, but still!”

She smiled, admitting her earlier misjudgment.

However—

Where there’s light, there’s also shadow.

The light Han Sion brought had cast a heavy shadow on someone else.

“……”
“……”

It was the production team.

It’s great when a contestant does well.

Even better if they create massive buzz.

But if it’s enough to change the color of the program itself, it becomes a problem.

This was supposed to be Lion Entertainment’s idol survival debut show…

“At this rate, people might think it’s a national audition show instead.”

Even that wasn’t the worst issue.

The real problem was the skill gap between Han Sion and the other members.

People watching Han Sion’s clips would tune in expecting similar thrills — but if no one else could deliver?

They would only root for Han Sion.

And the final main characters of the show were supposed to be — not Han Sion.

Meaning Han Sion would eventually have to be eliminated.

That was the problem.

“What do we do…?”

“Should we push Joo Yeon a bit more? He did well today. Got a good response too.”

“Yeah, but…”

It felt like comparing an Asian Games gold medal to a Ballon d’Or.

The main writer couldn’t shake that thought.

In the end, feeling a sense of crisis, the main writer went to see PD Kang Seokwoo.

But PD Kang didn’t seem worried at all.

“So what?”

“Huh?”

“Our first priority is making the show a success, right? Just think about that first.”

“But you also have to think about the revenue share with Take Scene. If that shrinks, the higher-ups won’t like it.”

“Hmm… fair. At least we need to show CEO Choi Daeho that we made a sincere effort.”

“Exactly.”

“The next mission was individual stages anyway, right?”

Technically, it was a two-person or three-person split — but it leaned more toward individual performances.

“Instead, let’s pull forward the third mission.”

The third mission was the Self-Producing Mission.

Of course, it wasn’t real songwriting — just choosing a song, setting the arrangement, parts, concept, choreography, and styling themselves.

At first glance, it seemed like something Han Sion would excel at.

But Kang Seokwoo predicted that Three Moon Hundred Days would have a hard time here.

Geniuses like Han Sion often couldn’t understand why others couldn’t do things like they could.

And it wasn’t like the other members would obediently follow Han Sion’s lead.

Also, Kang suspected Han Sion might be resistant to typical idol aesthetics — he seemed more like a musician than an idol.

“Compared to that, Take Scene will have it easier. They can pretend to ‘self-produce’ by just grabbing some pre-prepared title track candidates.”

“But PD-nim.”

The writer, listening quietly, finally spoke up.

“What if he even does that well? Then we’ll really be screwed — he’ll be unstoppable.”

Kang Seokwoo just chuckled.

There was a conversation he hadn’t shared with the staff yet — one he had with the network head.

“Honestly, I need to see how much money Han Sion can make us in two more episodes.”

“Hmm… okay. I’ll give you two more episodes. But under one condition.”

“Go ahead.”

“Focus on YouTube views and subscriber growth. If the results are impressive enough, maybe I’ll negotiate with CEO Choi Daeho myself.”

If Han Sion and Three Moon Hundred Days got big enough, they might pivot the whole plan.

But that was only if everything went perfectly.

From Kang Seokwoo’s perspective, it was unlikely that Three Moon Hundred Days would dominate the self-producing mission.

Even so, Han Sion’s image wouldn’t take a hit — any uncomfortable moments would be carefully edited out.

Han Sion was now a product that couldn’t afford scratches.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, prepare for the mission change.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll explain it to CEO Choi myself.”

---

Satisfied.

I’d done my best for a week and produced my best possible stage.

Sure, it wasn’t the greatest stage ever — but I couldn’t be perfect all the time.

Doing my best was enough.

After the stage, the judges, including CEO Choi Daeho, said a few things, but I didn’t really listen.

They were just saying things that would sound good for broadcast.

“Wait, that melody variation at the intro — Han Sion arranged that himself?”

Only composer Lee Changjoon’s comment stood out a little.

Honestly, if I had faltered even a bit today, the judges would’ve torn me apart.

I knew it too.

Today’s stage wasn’t idol-like at all.

There was no dancing, just keyboard play and vocals filling the entire performance.

But so what?

Next time, I’d show them something that would win over the hardcore idol fans too.

And anyway, wasn’t it PD Kang Seokwoo who told me to sing the remix of in the first place?

While I was thinking that, the next mission was announced.

Hmm, and it seemed… pretty interesting.

So what I’m wondering now is…

Have they already given up on debuting Take Scene?