Little Pink Starfish

Album 5. First Broadcast

“Guys, why are you still practicing?!”

We were in the middle of stage rehearsals when the youngest writer burst in, flustered. We rushed toward the showers.

We had been told they’d be filming our reaction to the first broadcast, but I forgot.

It’s the environment’s fault.

We’re isolated in a controlled area in rural Pocheon, with barely anyone around.

Our days are filled with nonstop training and rehearsal in the dorms.

Cameras mounted in every direction.

All of it combines into a 24-hour surveillance experience.

So yeah—of course I forgot. We’re already constantly being filmed.

Also, we were focused on practice.

We washed up as fast as we could, threw on “effortlessly styled” dorm makeup (a term I learned from Choi Jaesung), and headed to the shared lobby. TakeScene was already waiting.

“Sorry we’re late!”

I shouted and sat down.

I noticed a few 3-1-100 members exchanging nods with the TakeScene guys nearby.

I’ve never really talked to them, but some of our members seem to have gotten friendly.

Especially Ready, who seems like a good guy, and Eye-on, who I’ve seen chatting with Choi Jaesung.

As for me, apart from Fade, I’ve got no beef with TakeScene.

But I also don’t care to get close to them.

Maybe it’s impossible because of the show’s format, but my goal right now is to beat TakeScene and debut.

“Everyone’s here, right?”

Producer Kang Seok-woo, wearing glasses, appeared. There didn’t seem to be a separate MC for the reaction shoot.

“Time really flies. The first episode is already upon us.”

“Yes!”

“Looking forward to it!”

“To celebrate the first broadcast, we have a gift for you. You’ve all done a good job taking care of yourselves, so… maybe the trainers will let it slide this once?”

He looked over at the fitness trainers. They sighed and nodded reluctantly.

Soon we each had a premium lunchbox in hand—some brand’s luxury set with pork rib steak.

Basically, this was PPL time before the show.

Wow…

We only pretended to eat it.

The trainers, who were smiling in front of the cameras, warned us behind the scenes not to swallow.

So we chewed, smiled, and spit it out.

“…….”

“…….”

Even I, who don’t really mind strict dieting, found this to be misery.

The food filled my mouth with flavor—and I wasn’t allowed to swallow.

Why do idols have to be stick-thin, anyway?

Not saying we need full-on bulking like in the U.S., but with a bit more muscle mass, we could at least eat better.

If I debut, I’m totally going to push for a gym-rat concept.

“Si-on hyung, the proper term for this is ‘meokbaet.’”

“There’s a term for this crap?”

“Of course. Meokbaet—eat and spit. Mukbang streamers pretend to eat delicious food on camera, then spit it out offscreen.”

“Then why even do mukbangs?”

“Some people just like watching others eat a lot, I guess?”

I knew what a mukbang was, but I didn’t know people got that specific about it.

Thanks to slang encyclopedia Choi Jaesung, I learned something new again.

While we were passing time apologizing to our taste buds, the final pre-show ad played.

And then, at last—

Episode 1 began.

I had two big questions going into today’s broadcast.

First: how much screen time I’d get.

Second: how the show was going to justify its own existence.

I’ve thought about it a lot—Coming Up! Next has no real justification.

Pitting the long-prepared TakeScene against a hastily assembled Team B?

Anyone with a shred of awareness can tell Team B’s just cannon fodder.

Sure, my arrival added some tension to the narrative—but still.

So what excuse did the producers come up with?

The only thing that comes to mind is CEO Choi Dae-ho playing the villain.

Make it seem like TakeScene got arrogant and needed a reality check.

But for that to work, TakeScene needs to come off as desperate, emotional, and humble—not actually arrogant.

That way, even if people hate on Choi Dae-ho’s comments, they won’t hate on the show’s premise.

Still, that’s not a clever solution. Just damage control.

If a show starts off like this, some viewers will get fed up right away.

Hmm.

No matter how I think about it, there’s no clean answer.

So—how did they get around it?

And then—

To my surprise, the producers brought out a stroke of genius.

“Wow. These insane bastards.”

Their solution was outrageous.

At the start, CEO Choi Dae-ho came out utterly firm and one-sided.

He just—

ignored it!

That’s right.

They cut any and all explanation for why this program exists.

[From now on, you’ll be competing with Team B.]

Choi Dae-ho said it like it was a universal truth, on the same level as the sky being above and the ground being below.

No explanation. No space for one.

[Honestly, I was really down. The previous competition was already hard, and now we have to fight for debut again…]
[What happens if we lose? That’s all I could think about.]

The show immediately jumped into TakeScene member interviews.

Choi Dae-ho even threw them a compliment.

[As a producer, my proudest moments are when I turn raw stones into gems. But TakeScene has been gems from the beginning.]

So shouldn’t there be a reason why these “gems” are being forced to compete?

Nope. None.

Wow. This is the worst.

I couldn’t hold back—I looked straight at Producer Kang Seok-woo.

“……”

He avoided my gaze.

Whether it was his idea or he just signed off on it, he looked ashamed.

Okay, fine. I get the intent.

Early on, people might criticize the show’s lack of logic.

But as it progresses, and viewers get sucked in, those complaints will fade.

Especially if the show is fun.

So they chose evasion. But still—this isn’t right.

While I was stewing over it, the episode split into two narratives.

One side showcased TakeScene’s appeal.

Member Action had to leave due to a family situation, and Fade joined the group.

The transition from their tearful goodbyes to intense practice scenes was documentary-level editing.

Meanwhile, the producers were shown scouting B-team candidates.

A montage of auditions and interviews blurred together—until one moment froze the screen.

And then: Eye-on appeared.

Yeah. Still ridiculously good-looking.

The guy who was ranked #1 by Forbes for “voice you don’t want to sound like” and “face you do want to have.”

[It says you were on a debut team at a smaller company. Why did you leave?]
[Because I wanted to give it my all.]
[What do you mean by that?]
[At my old agency, I always heard stuff like: ‘Your singing’s fine at this level.’ ‘Your stage presence is good enough.’ ‘You’ve got the right vibe, so it’s plenty…’]

I think I know what he meant but didn’t say:

—”With a face like yours…”

His agency probably wanted to debut him fast to cash in.

Once he debuted, they figured the money would just roll in.

They weren’t wrong.

Even if he didn’t land major gigs, he could’ve easily earned back the cost of producing one album.

Maybe they only wanted to debut him so they could use his face like a business card.

And sure enough, Eye-on basically said as much on screen.

[But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to make music—really make it. Desperately.]
[So you’re saying you didn’t have the opportunity?]
[No. I had plenty. I just kept giving in to temptation. I wanted to throw it all away and do it right. That’s why I chose Coming Up! Next.]

Did someone script that for him?

His lines were solid.

Looks like he didn’t leave his last agency on good terms, and Lion Entertainment helped smooth things over during production.

Otherwise, even MShow wouldn’t have aired something with that much real-world implication.

Or maybe they would.

These people did skip over the entire justification for the show, after all.

Anyway, Eye-on’s performance that followed was impressive.

[This night—! I’m still—!]

His tone isn’t for everyone, but he’s definitely not lacking in skill.

His dancing’s decent too.

[Thank you.]

He beamed onscreen as the segment ended.

Then TakeScene returned, this time focusing on Juyun’s extended vocal performance.

She’s good.

Honestly, every Korean artist I remember from the future—aside from bad blood—ended up wildly successful.

I only remembered Juyun because I once crunched the numbers and thought, “If we collaborate, maybe we can sell some albums in Korea.”

She’s not quite at her peak yet, but she’s clearly talented.

Just as I was thinking that—

[Oh, this contestant has an interesting reference.]
[Who is it?]
[You know PD Lee Hyun-seok? He runs a studio now.]
[Oh, the one who composed ‘Toothbrush’?]

A montage of Lee Hyun-seok’s hit songs played.

Then—I appeared.

They aired this?

I didn’t think my interview with Lion Entertainment’s rookie development team would make it on-screen.

---

Meanwhile…

A college art student sat in front of her computer. She’d first become interested in Coming Up! Next after tagging along with her friend Choi Se-hee to a live taping.

It had been a while since Episode 1 started airing.

Tonight’s broadcast was 100 minutes including commercials. About 30 minutes had passed.

“If I subtract the ads and assume 90 minutes of content… we’re about a third of the way in.”

And yet, Han Si-on hadn’t appeared at all.

More than half her reason for watching this show was Han Si-on.

She still couldn’t forget the performance she saw that day.

.

It didn’t feel like a trainee’s stage—it was something entirely different. Way too high-level. She was awestruck.

“That was supposed to be the first team mission, right? So the teams must have to be finalized before it airs?”

Judging by the pacing, he probably wouldn’t appear this week.

Maybe next week?

Disappointing, but okay.

She was still curious to see what else Han Si-on would perform later.

“Ugh, when is he coming on?”

And then it happened.

A contestant appeared, introduced as being recommended by composer Lee Hyun-seok.

[Hello, I’m Han Si-on.]

It was the moment she had been waiting for.