Little Pink Starfish

Onsaemiro and I push our vocal ranges higher and higher, competing as we pour out the chorus.

But there’s no hostility in the harmony.

A spirit of competition?

Yeah, that’s probably the best way to put it.

Then Choi Jaeseong adds a harmony as if to say “don’t fight,” and Koo Taehwan hums like it’s no big deal.

“Let’s just dance instead,” says Lee Ieon from the center, moving with exaggerated flair.

It’s rare for a live performance to surpass rehearsal.

Most musicians just hope to match their practice on stage.

But right now—

We were putting on a performance far better than anything we’d rehearsed.

The tension from competition.

The pressure from the audience.

The fear of making a mistake.

This was our reward for overcoming it all.

A crooked smile escaped me.

Saying “we” still feels foreign.

Up until now, I probably just referred to them as the “100 Days of Three Months” members.

Yeah, I’m a defensive person.

An infinite regression of lifetimes means I never settle into any relationship.

In a past life, I showed kindness to a friend and got swindled, and someone I loved ended up hating me.

Those experiences forced me to build defense mechanisms that only grew thicker with time.

But now, at least on this stage, we are “us.”

The desire to give a great performance wasn’t about relationships or gains and losses.

Offstage, I’ll go back to calculating costs and weighing social connections, but…

Don’t believe me just watch!

Don’t believe me just watch!

Not here.

Here, I’m happy.

And just like that, <100 Days of Three Months> completed its first performance as a full team.

---

As the last chorus of 100 Days of Three Months ended, a bolt of lightning struck the stage.

CRACK!

The burst of bright light and thunderous sound startled the audience, who had been completely absorbed in the show.

And when the light disappeared—

The members of 100 Days of Three Months were gone from the stage.

The musicians looked baffled by their sudden disappearance, but…

Doom! Doom-doom! Doom-doom!

The music didn’t stop.

Then, the stage lights blacked out, and letters appeared on the screen, a part of the stage setup:

It was the ending.

“Wooooaaaahhh!”

The audience erupted in cheers, but also began processing what they’d just seen.

“A time travel concept, right?!”

The stage’s background looked like the Goryeo or Joseon era, and the musicians wore traditional outfits with traditional instruments.

But every time lightning struck, members of 100 Days of Three Months appeared, dressed in distinctly modern clothes.

It was undeniably time travel.

People from the future crash-landed in the past, performed modern music, and disappeared.

And if you think about the ending, the members returned to the future, but left the music behind in the past.

“So fun!”

Most audience members stopped their thoughts there—but not the ones familiar with idol culture.

“Insane!”

Their minds started racing about the group’s concept.

If the team’s lore is about time travel, there are tons of possibilities.

First thing that comes to mind—medieval Europe.

What if 100 Days of Three Months arrived in Beethoven or Mozart’s era?

They could sample classical music from the time and create a song from it.

Something orchestral with a string base could be born.

And it doesn’t even have to be the past.

They could set it in a dystopian future Earth, or a world where humans have gone extinct and only robots remain.

“Cyberpunk would work too!”

Of course, a conceptual stage like this only works if the song is great and the members can pull it off. Otherwise, it just induces secondhand embarrassment.

But 100 Days of Three Months seems capable.

You can’t 100% trust VCRs, but Han Sion’s producing skills seemed real, and the members’ stage presence was excellent.

It was a really entertaining stage.

“When does this air? I wanna rewatch it from the beginning.”

“I thought TakeScene was good, but 100 Days is the real deal.”

“Freaking awesome.”

As the audience chattered excitedly, Blue stepped on stage.

The evaluations were about to begin.

---

As the judges for Coming Up Next began to critique the performance, Chris Edwards and Alex exchanged looks.

Alex spoke first.

“No doubt it was an amazing stage, right?”

“Of course. I’m glad I came to Korea. I want to write a song now.”

“That’s good to hear. So how many points for this stage?”

“Hm… I’m torn.”

Alex tilted his head.

Chris had expected him to just shout out “100,” so the response was unexpected.

And even more unexpected was his actual score:

“I’m thinking… 84.”

“Really? Why?”

“It should’ve been better. It could have been better. A few elements were lacking.”

“Like what?”

“Most notably, the short one and the pale one.”

“Who? Give me their outfit colors.”

“Purple and black.”

Chris Edwards was referring to Choi Jaeseong and Lee Ieon.

“The short one has a voice that’s too delicate and doesn’t really understand funk and soul. So his singing felt kind of floaty.”

“And?”

“The pale one’s tone stands out too much. Han Sion knew that and tried to level it out with EQ. But the fact that such compensation was needed is already a point off.”

“Wait, hold on.”

Alex understood what Chris was saying.

But his evaluation framework felt off.

He’s judging based on the choice of vocalists?

And docking points for that?

“They’re reality show contestants. It’s not like he got to choose his singers.”

“Oh…!”

Chris Edwards realized his mistake too late.

He’d evaluated the previous team based on the context of a reality show.

But he judged 100 Days of Three Months by absolute standards—as if comparing them to the best existing music out there.

The fact that he still gave them 84 points under those standards was shocking.

“What was the name of that earlier team again? ReadyAction?”

“TakeScene.”

“Right. So you’re saying I should judge 100 Days using the same standards as TakeScene?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s 100. No matter what standards you use, they were the best on this show.”

“What if they released a single?”

“Well, the original’s super famous, so that’s a variable… but I’d say it could easily make the Hot 100.”

Alex nodded.

Hearing Uptown Funk—or rather Seoul Town Funk—had gotten his heart racing.

And he rarely misjudged when it came to betting on music that made his heart race.

But what he needed to think about wasn’t the performance—it was Han Sion.

Would Han Sion make it in the U.S.?

If yes, how much would it be worth investing?

That was technically a management call, but Chris Edwards had been the first to recognize Han Sion’s genius.

“Eddie, do you think our genius boy can make it on Billboard?”

“As a songwriter? 100%. I’d bet my entire fortune.”

“Hm…”

“Alex, you can believe me. Sion’s never really shown what he’s fully capable of. This reality show is just shackles for him.”

What if Han Sion had performed Seoul Town Funk alone?

Or if there had been five Han Sions singing?

If Producer Han Sion had personally chosen five singers?

No matter the scenario, Chris was confident it would’ve been way better than what we saw.

Why would someone with that level of talent join a reality show?

Does he still lack confidence in his own abilities?

As those thoughts circled, Chris Edwards suddenly stood up.

“I need to meet Sion right now. Where do I go?”

“Hold on. The meeting’s scheduled for tomorrow. The interpreter’s coming tomorrow too.”

“Forget the interpreter. A piano and Google Translate are more than enough.”

Seeing Chris’s face, ready to bolt out the door, Alex could only nod.

He wanted to meet Sion too, honestly.

Still, there was a process.

“Okay. Then let’s at least meet the show’s producer first.”

“You go ahead. I’m heading to the waiting room.”

“What?”

“Living as a successful artist sucks sometimes, but it does have perks. Like getting away with impulsive behavior.”

Chris grinned and started walking toward the filming crew.

Alex sighed and pulled out his phone.

Time to ask Mr. Kang, the showrunner, for a favor.

---

The thrill and high of a successful stage performance tends to linger.

Maybe that’s why the members were still buzzing with excitement back in the waiting room.

“Man, that felt so good.”

“Ieon hyung, when you came in on verse two? That was insane!”

“We didn’t make any mistakes in the choreo, right?”

“I don’t think so!”

Well, they had every reason to be hyped.

The audience loved it, and the judges’ reviews were great too.

Our total score from the four judges was 396.

Blue and Yoo Sunhwa gave 100.

Lee Changjun and Choi Daeho gave 98.

Lee Changjun said the stage was great, but the song structure felt a little messy, so he docked 2 points. Choi Daeho said it was excellent, but the five didn’t feel perfectly in sync—so he also deducted 2.

Honestly, they probably just needed an excuse.

If they gave a perfect 100 now, they’d have nothing left to say later.

As I thought that, watching the members chatter away, Choi Jaeseong tapped my shoulder.

“Our leader-slash-producer of 100 Days should say something too!”

“Um… good job, everyone. It’s not easy to outperform rehearsal, but you were flawless.”

“Sometimes I think Sion hyung has already debuted a few times.”

A few? More like dozens.

Then Lee Ieon gave me a sly grin.

“Suddenly trying to act all calm, huh?”

“…”

“What was it you said right after the performance? Something about our members being—”

“Stop. Please stop.”

…That wasn’t sincere.

The performance high flooded my brain with endorphins and made me say some sappy crap.

It’s just… a regressioner’s struggle.

Doing similar things over and over dulls your sense of reality, but when you perform, it all feels real again.

It’s like… a glitch caused by how much I love music and the stage.

While I was lost in thought, the members burst out laughing.

“First time I’ve seen Sion embarrassed!”

“Keep going! Say more nice stuff!”

…Damn it.

Please don’t let this air.

The members kept chatting away for a while after that.

Saying stuff like how they wanted the broadcast to air soon, or how we needed an official team chant.

“We’ve got free time until 8, right? Wanna grab dinner together?”

Choi Jaeseong made the most unnecessary suggestion yet.

“Sounds good. Everyone okay with that?”

“Yes!”

“Yeah, I’m in.”

Even Onsaemiro agreed, so I had no choice but to nod.

Fine. I’m a sociable person too.

We’ll be living together for over two months—might as well get along.

As I was thinking that, the waiting room door suddenly swung open.

A white guy wearing sunglasses appeared.

“Wow!”

The members looked startled by the unexpected foreigner.

But I recognized him instantly.

Eddie.

No—Chris Edwards, wasn’t it?