Little Pink Starfish

Word of Coming Up Next started quietly leaking through idol community circles.

Talk of the show itself had already been around, but now the focus was shifting—people were starting to talk about the contestants.

The initial spark came from a DSLR photo someone snapped of Lee E-On.

• “How much editing went into this lololol”
• “If he actually looked like this, no way he’d still be a trainee. He would’ve been picked up already.”
• “If he really looks like the photo, grandma’s ready to feed him with her wallet.”

At first, most people assumed it was just a lucky shot.

The most circulated picture had clearly been heavily edited.

But things shifted when regular audience members started sharing their own photos.

Not every audience member at Coming Up Next was a hardcore idol fan.

In fact, in the early episodes, there were more casual viewers.

Their photos—taken on phones—had a regular-person kind of vibe.

• (photo), (photo), (photo)
• “These look like what you’d realistically expect from a fan cam.”
• “But his visuals are anything but realistic…?”

Still, he looked good.

The angles and focus were off, but he still stood out.

Skeptics remained.

• “Wait, is this for real…?”
• “We’ll know once it airs lol. My bet? I’m gonna be disappointed.”
• “Show airs in a week.”

Curiosity was growing.

• “(photo) Isn’t TakeScene better overall in terms of visuals?”
• “True. They totally have that classic Ryan Entertainment look.”
• “Look how trendy they all look.”
• “LMAO here come the ones insisting only Lee E-On’s photos are edited and TakeScene’s are raw.”
• “TakeScene already has a fanbase?”
• “Of course—Ryan stans are everywhere lol.”
• “Feels more like viral marketing than legit fans. Looks like Ryan Ent’s already running their playbook.”

TakeScene had enough strength that Ryan Entertainment backed them with a survival show.

CEO Choi Daeho had handpicked them for their visuals, and they’d trained long and hard.

Their debut song Scene Stealer also had great internal reviews.

As buzz steadily built under the radar, actual audience members started joining the community conversations.

But they weren’t talking about Lee E-On.

And not TakeScene either.

They were talking about Han Si-On.

• “Sedal 101 Ep. 4? He killed it.”
• “Yep. My mom’s future son-in-law. Oh, and I’m the bride.”
• “I’m excited to watch. I got goosebumps from his live performance lol.”
• “Hope the episode drops soon. We getting a digital release too?”
• “If they don’t release it, that’s just dumb lol.”

Reactions to Han Si-On’s stage were consistent.

He absolutely crushed it.

Oddly enough, though, hardly anyone described the actual performance in detail.

The reason was simple.

No one was exactly sure what he’d done.

Everyone agreed it was a flawless group performance of Under the Streetlamp.

But the competition version was a remix, not the original, and it wasn’t clear how it had been restructured.

There was no behind-the-scenes VCR showing how the song was made.

The only things anyone remembered were that it was insanely good and the chorus hit hard.

Audience members who tried writing reviews of Han Si-On’s stage…

—

“Under the spotlight, Han Si-On sat in front of the keyboard. As soon as the drums and guitar came in, he started singing…”

—

“What even was that sound?”

…gave up halfway because they couldn’t capture the feeling in words.

So the commentary kept getting boiled down to one line:

He crushed it.

Eventually, it became a meme.

• “I was there. Han Si-On crushed it lol.”
• “Exactly. Si-On the Slayer did his thing.”

It wasn’t exactly positive in tone.

Still, the production team monitoring the online buzz didn’t worry.

Once the stage aired, it would all speak for itself.

And honestly, most of the people posting those reviews probably hadn’t even attended.

If just 5 out of 100 people share their firsthand experience, that’s 500 secondhand accounts.

And if each of those 500 tell just one other person, the ripple spreads to 1,000.

Despite all the noise, there weren’t any critical spoilers.

Some performance clips popped up here and there, but they were quickly taken down.

What really had the production team on edge was the Self-Production Mission.

After a short break, the Self-Production phase had started—and TakeScene was doing well.

EyeLevel and Ready had received extensive composition training as trainees. Fade had a good instinct for choosing tones.

One behind-the-scenes detail that wouldn’t make it into the show? TakeScene was revisiting a song they’d already worked on during their monthly evaluations.

They weren’t faking it—they weren’t pretending it was a brand-new piece.

But they were tweaking a track they’d already created and received feedback on.

It wasn’t manipulation per se, but if viewers found out, they might feel a bit cheated.

So the team made sure it stayed hidden.

TakeScene was steadily progressing.

Sedal 101, on the other hand, was… complicated.

“Is this going well? Or is it crashing and burning?”

The production staff couldn’t tell.

But if they had to sum it up in one line:

“Han Si-On is getting scolded!”

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“Uh, yeah. Day 1 of Sedal 101’s Self-Production Making Film… or something like that? Anyway, here we go.”

Lee E-On held up the 8mm camera handed to him by the crew, looking a little awkward.

Everyone could guess why he got the camera.

Only a few unedited fan cams of him had been released, but the buzz was wild.

People had high expectations for his visuals—but actual results are never guaranteed.

Good looks are an advantage, but they don’t guarantee success.

One K-pop boy group flopped in Korea but became a sensation in South America—topping the “Best Natural Visuals” list voted by plastic surgeons.

So yeah, Lee E-On was handed the camera.

The Self-Production mission began with a planning meeting.

“Si-On’s the leader, right? Shouldn’t he lead the meeting?”

“Oh, right. I’ll do it.”

Technically, he’d been the leader from the start, but there hadn’t been a real need for that role—until now.

People weren’t sure if Han Si-On could handle it…

“Raise your hand if you want to speak. No interruptions while someone else is talking. If everyone agrees, let’s begin.”

He was surprisingly smooth.

He even looked comfortable in the role.

Given that Han Si-On had often come across as socially awkward, it was unexpected.

So Sedal 101’s first self-production meeting got underway.

“We’re not writing a new song just because this is self-produced. We’ll rearrange an existing track to match Sedal 101’s style. So first—we need to pick a song.”

“Got any ideas in mind?”

“Personally, I think adapting a major pop song could work.”

“Adapting?”

“E-On hyung, please raise your hand before speaking.”

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t asking—I was just reacting.”

“Okay. Does everyone know how K-pop songs are generally structured?”

Everyone glanced around awkwardly—no one nodded with confidence.

Many trainees only focused on performance, so they didn’t know the actual music production process.

Since no one in Sedal 101 had debuted before, none of them had learned this firsthand.

So they all leaned in as Han Si-On began explaining.

It was good stuff to know, and even those who kind of knew didn’t pretend.

“There are lots of ways to write a song, but here’s the standard process.”

[Composition – Arrangement – Lyrics – Part Distribution]

Onsaemiro raised his hand.

“What’s the difference between composition and arrangement?”

“If I come up with a melody like ‘ah—ah—ah,’ that’s composition. That core melody is called the ‘top line.’ But how that melody turns into a full song? That’s up to the arranger.”

Han Si-On tapped on his MacBook and played the ‘ah—ah—ah’ melody on piano.

“Let’s say this is the top line. What kind of song could an arranger build around it?”

He tapped again. Cheerful synths and trumpets layered over the melody.

Then came some event-style drums—it sounded like typical upbeat music you’d hear at a festival.

“…Trot?”

“Correct. But another arranger might think, ‘Why trot? Let’s make it hip-hop.’”

He switched again. The same melody looped with a heavy old-school drumbeat.

Rapid hi-hats. Punchy brass stabs.

Suddenly, it was an 80s East Coast hip-hop track.

“That’s what arrangement is. Deciding what beat to pair with the top line. Even with the same genre, arrangement affects how polished it sounds.”

“…”

“…”

“Was that too hard to understand?”

Han Si-On tilted his head at the silence.

But it wasn’t confusion. It was disbelief.

“…Hyung, was that beat something you already had saved?”

“Raise your hand.”

“Ah—right.”

Choi Jaesung raised his hand. Han Si-On pointed at him.

“Was that beat you just made from an existing track?”

“Of course not. I made the top line on the spot. The beat was just for explanation.”

Han Si-On shrugged, like it was no big deal.

But the other members were stunned.

They’d heard tons of amateur tracks from friends at music academies.

Even from instructors.

Yet the beat Han Si-On had whipped up in under two minutes blew all of them away.

Unless it was some pre-made showmanship—which didn’t fit his personality—Han Si-On had serious talent in beat making too.

While everyone sat in quiet awe, Han Si-On continued.

“Anyway, I’m suggesting we take a top line from a pop song.”

“Can you give an example?”

“Hmm… you all know Justin Bieber’s Baby, right? We take a part of the chorus as the top line and build a beat that fits us. Rewrite the lyrics, basically creating a localized version.”

“What part would we take? The ‘baby–baby–’ chorus? Or the beat during that part?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just take the sound that people most associate with that song. Could be the melody, the beat—or both.”

Hearing that, the members all started imagining it—each forming their own version in their heads.