Little Pink Starfish

Still, it’s not like I hated Eddie or anything.

Just a few days ago, I was deep in a depressive funk from the regression. But when I heard Eddie would be joining as a judge, it lifted my mood.

His completely unhinged behavior was so absurd, I couldn’t help but be entertained.

“Edward!”

At that moment, PD Go—real name Kim Dal-in—approached and whispered something to Eddie.

Eddie gave a nonchalant shrug, waved at me, and disappeared. Then PD Kim turned to speak to me instead.

“Participant Han Si-on.”

“Yes.”

“If you chat too casually with the judge off-camera, other teams might worry about biased evaluations.”

Why is he saying this to me?

Eddie was the one who approached me.

“I’ll be careful.”

“And, Way From Flower wants to shoot some content with you—what do you think?”

“Like a talk show?”

“No, it’s for ‘Marble Live,’ a YouTube series where artists perform a medley of their hit songs live. They want to feature you as a special guest.”

That’s great.

It’s one step closer to debut.

It would also be a chance to show those who say my vocals are just studio magic what I can really do live.

“I’d love to appear.”

“Great. Our crew will accompany you as well.”

“Understood.”

It’s rare for audition contestants to appear in outside variety content, but if the opportunity fits, there’s no reason not to.

Especially since it’s a YouTube show.

While I was thinking that, PD Kim lingered around awkwardly even though the conversation had ended.

Wondering if he had more to say, I looked at him—and he suddenly pulled out a piece of paper.

“Could I get your autograph… just one…”

And this was the guy who just warned me about biased impressions?

No wonder PD Kang Seok-woo calls him “a pain in the ass.”

I gave him a dashing signature, and just then, a staff member waved for me to hurry onto the bus.

Today was the Coming Up Next photo shoot day.

Since we couldn’t shoot in Pocheon, we were headed to a studio somewhere in Apgujeong.

“All aboard!”

When I stepped onto the bus, the other contestants were already seated.

But since I was late, the only remaining seats were next to Choi Jae-sung or Fade.

“Hyung.”

Choi Jae-sung patted the seat beside him as if it was saved for me.

Hmm.

People call me “Hip-Sion.” I’m not entirely sure what “hip” means in this context, but it seems to imply doing things differently than others.

So… should I live up to the name?

“Hey.”

“……!”

As I sat next to Fade, I could feel everyone’s heads snapping toward us.

After all, it hadn’t been long since we were cursing each other out.

“You… why…”

Fade fumbled, seemingly unable to find the words.

Or maybe… maybe he wanted to curse but couldn’t because too many eyes were on him?

Anyway, he clearly didn’t understand why I’d sat next to him.

I hadn’t planned it, but there was a reason.

I wanted to remind him of exactly what kind of relationship we had.

Fade tried to pick a fight based on his supposed influence over the program, and I shut him down hard.

In the end, it came down to either Fade apologizing or me leaving the show.

Everyone probably thought the fight was ridiculous, but Fade was the one who apologized.

Since then, we’ve ignored each other—not because I avoided him, but because he avoided me.

I still have his apology video on my phone, and the buzz around the show is centered on me.

But lately, I’ve noticed Fade subtly poking at the members of Three-Month-One-Day (TMOD).

Not overtly, but in ways that are irritating.

Guys like him are so predictable.

He wants to prove that, even if he can’t beat Han Si-on, he’s still above them—driven by superiority.

And he wants to vent the humiliation he felt because of me—driven by inferiority.

Truly a consistent character.

I can’t remember every little activity from the For The Youth days, but I remember exactly what kind of people the members were.

Especially Fade—the absolute worst.

As the bus began moving and the stares faded (since we were in the very back), Fade pulled out his phone and typed a message to show me.

[Move over while I’m still being nice.]

He typed it out but didn’t send it—maybe thinking I was scheming something.

I wasn’t.

Well, maybe I was a little influenced by Eddie.

After living too many lives with too many personalities, I sometimes unconsciously mimic those around me.

When I’m with Eddie, I take on the brash persona from a past life where I lived like him.
When I’m with Fade, I channel the version of myself who manipulated others from the shadows.

All returners are hypersensitive and moody.

Well—by “all,” I mean me. I’ve never met another.

[Let’s be friends ^^b]

I replied in boomer-text, and Fade’s face darkened.

No need to push it further.

He’s sensitive about hierarchy and influence. He should get the message:
Don’t mess with me—stay in your lane.

---

Dance, vocals, visuals, physique, patience, mental strength, stamina…

There are many ways to evaluate an idol, and many ways to improve those traits.

Training can improve skills, surgery can fix looks.
A good manager can help with patience, and a therapist can handle mental health.

But there’s one thing—critical for an idol—that’s nearly impossible to develop.

Presence.

Call it aura, charisma, or “it factor”—but in essence, it’s about immersion.

How deeply can you immerse in a stage? And how well can you project that immersion?

That’s why some idols turn out to be brilliant actors.

You can learn acting—but the ability to immerse yourself in a role is a gift.

“And that’s why we’re doing today’s photo shoot.”

They’d seen their singing, dancing, and stage skills.

Now it was time to see—
Among these ten contestants, who had the most presence?

Who would shine most in front of a camera?

Time to find out.

“Um, PD-nim… didn’t you say this would be a lighthearted shoot?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘light’ in a survival show.”

“Wait, are we being judged, too?”

“Of course.”

The three photographers would be evaluating both TakeScene and TMOD.

Plus, the rankings would determine who gets first pick of the stage setup for the next mission.

When PD Kang Seok-woo explained this, groans spread through the group.

They came in expecting a simple shoot… only for it to become a high-stakes mission.

Still, both teams quickly accepted reality and huddled to discuss wardrobe ideas.

There were two parts to the shoot.

First: self-styled outfits based on their team’s concept—“what we think our team is.”

Second: a money-scented commercial shoot, for a photobook collab with a famous magazine.

“Self-styling will favor TakeScene—they’ve done this kind of thing a lot.”

As PD Kang predicted, TakeScene quickly started spouting ideas.
They may not have debuted, but they were a polished group.

Surprisingly, TMOD also came up with decent concepts.

“We should go with time travel, right?”

“Yeah, no time to build a whole new concept.”

“But time travel doesn’t have a clear visual symbol.”

“How about a pocket watch?”

“Oh, that’s good. Any other ideas?”

“An umbrella?”

“Ah—because traveling still involves, well, traveling?”

“Yup!”

“Hmm… okay, let’s jot it down. What about a compass or map?”

“Maps only show specific places, and compasses… I don’t know.”

“If it’s unclear, scrap it.”

Watching TMOD brainstorm, PD Kang couldn’t help but think of their last mission, Seoul Town Funk.

He’d assumed TMOD would crumble during the “Self-Composed Mission.”

Why?

Because of Han Si-on.

Han Si-on was a genius.

And geniuses usually can’t understand why others can’t keep up.

He didn’t expect the TMOD members to just follow Han Si-on’s orders either.

But what actually happened?

Han Si-on showed no signs of arrogance.

He respected their opinions—and even got scolded by teammates now and then.

At the same time, the team left all musical decisions to Han Si-on—except for the song choice.

And the result was Seoul Town Funk, an incredible performance.

It hadn’t aired yet, but PD Kang was convinced it would be a turning point for the show.

So far, 90% of the show’s buzz revolved around Han Si-on.

The hype was so strong, it barely felt like a survival program.

But once Seoul Town Funk aired, the true competition between TakeScene and TMOD would come into focus.

Sure, people might still say “Han Si-on’s TMOD vs. TakeScene,” but the tension would be real.

“How can someone with that much talent also be so collaborative?”

To the eye, Han Si-on wasn’t some erratic genius.

He knew how to lead solo stages and blend with teams.

Right now, Lee I-on was leading the discussion, with Han Si-on playing a supportive role.

But then Si-on suddenly made an odd suggestion.

“I think it’d be nice if I-on hyung’s pocket watch was a different color. Ours silver, his maybe purple? Or gray instead of purple.”

“Huh? Why?”

“It’s too long to explain here…”

“Give us the short version.”

“On the bus, I just finished arranging Edward’s song in my head.”

“Wait—really? Can you play it?”

“It’s all in my head. But while arranging it, I imagined a stage with pocket watches as props.”

“Ah, so that’s why you mentioned pocket watches?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm… then let me ask you this—”

I-on looked at Si-on.

“Is this Hip-Sion talking? Or God-Sion?”

“Huh?”

“I’m asking whether the color change idea came from your ‘hip’ side or your ‘god’ side.”

“…Feels weird saying it myself.”

“So, God-Sion. Got it. I’ll allow it.”

With that, the team settled it quickly and moved on to styling decisions.

From what I overheard, each member would wear something different.

Lee I-on: Victorian-era British suit.
Goo Tae-hwan: Joseon dynasty hanbok.
Choi Jae-sung: Modern Korean high school uniform.
On Sae-mi-ro: Futuristic racing suit.
Han Si-on: 70s–80s American retro fashion.

Total chaos, visually.

But they’d unify it with color palette and matching pocket watches.

It was time travel—so they intentionally avoided tying themselves to any single era.