Little Pink Starfish

The concept itself was pretty convincing.

But wouldn’t it look messy if they actually wore outfits like that?

‘Maybe not? If the colors are the same, it might give a sense of unity?’

PD Kang Seok-woo had that thought, but didn’t say it out loud.

Around that time, Take Scene delivered their self-designed costume proposal to the wardrobe team.

It was an outfit that matched well with the team’s concept of “film shooting in progress.”

“This is well thought out. Shouldn’t take long to put the outfits together. But the accents here are a bit too much. How about removing them or combining them into one?”

“Understood.”

“I’ll revise it!”

While Take Scene was updating their proposal based on the wardrobe team’s advice, Three Months and One Hundred Days had also completed theirs.

The lead designer smirked as they studied the latter’s draft.

“Interesting idea. But realistically, it’s going to be tough to match the color tones exactly, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How would you get British classic suits and hanbok to have the same brightness and saturation? It’s hard enough matching jeans and school uniforms in the exact same shade of blue.”

Today’s shoot order was to first take the version for the magazine feature, and during that time, each team would bring in the outfits they submitted as their concepts.

In fact, neither Take Scene nor Three Months and One Hundred Days had actually designed the outfits in full detail.

They didn’t have the skills or the need.

The teams only submitted concept-level drafts, and the wardrobe team would use them as references to pick out suitable clothes.

So when a team like Three Months and One Hundred Days demanded unified color tones, things got complicated.

Finding totally different designs with identical color tones in just a few hours wasn’t easy.

That’s when Han Sion suggested a solution.

“Can’t we just color-correct the tones after shooting?”

“Color-correct?”

“Yes. It’d be great if we could make the clothes ourselves, but since that’s not possible, isn’t this our only option?”

“Hmm… It’s not hard, but we hadn’t discussed it beforehand.”

When the lead designer glanced at PD Kang Seok-woo, he chuckled internally.

Han Sion’s sly little tongue had already wrapped around the lead designer.

It sounded like an ordinary conversation at first, but Han Sion had just pinned all responsibility on the production team.

If we could produce the clothes.
But since we can’t.
This is the only option.

These naturally arranged phrases created a context that implied: The fault is all yours, but I’m offering a solution.

Caught in that web, the designer was now only focused on “Can we do that?”

They weren’t even thinking about whether the outfit proposal itself was viable.

This kind of subtle maneuvering is a common skill for people with some seniority in the workplace.

It’s nothing extraordinary.

But that just means it’s a difficult thing for a twenty-year-old aspiring idol to pull off.

‘What a strange kid.’

That’s what PD Kang Seok-woo thought as he nodded at the designer.

At the same time, he looked over at Take Scene.

A signal not to favor Three Months and One Hundred Days only—make sure to color-correct for Take Scene too.

The lead designer seemed to catch the meaning perfectly.

“Okay, let’s do that. Then all we need is to find designs that match the concept drafts.”

“Will that be possible?”

“The concept is clear, so it shouldn’t be too hard.”

“We’re counting on you!”

“Thank you!”

Seeing Han Sion acting like a clueless chick again after getting exactly what he wanted, PD Kang Seok-woo chuckled.

---

While the self-designed outfits were being prepared, the magazine photoshoot began.

Today’s shoot format had Take Scene in Studio A and Three Months and One Hundred Days in Studio B shooting simultaneously.

“Okay, starting with group shots!”

Amusingly, both teams had a clearly defined ace and weak link.

Take Scene’s ace was Eye Level.

Their stage names all came from film terminology, and Eye Level referred to a camera angle shot at eye height.

The effect of this angle depends heavily on the actor’s performance.

For a top actor, it gives a calm, stable vibe. But for a third-rate one, it just looks boring.

In that context, Eye Level was like a top actor.

Even in identical poses with identical shots, they stood out.

“Nice! Look even more intense!”

The photographer, clearly enjoying it, began requesting various poses.

If Eye Level was Take Scene’s ace, then the weak link was Fade.

“Fade! Put some power in your eyes! No, look straight at the camera!”

He looked insecure and distracted.

The members of Take Scene were unsettled by this version of Fade.

Fade wasn’t that kind of person.

Sometimes blunt to the point of shock, sometimes bold to the point of discomfort.

Fade had once been dropped from the debut team, only to be brought back when a spot opened up.

Usually, someone in that position would feel downcast, but not Fade.

He acted like the team’s savior, full of confidence.

Some teammates appreciated that attitude, others found it annoying.

But no one denied that Fade was bursting with confidence.

And now he seemed completely crushed?

‘Did something happen?’
‘Don’t tell me… on the bus with Han Sion?’

That was the only thing that came to mind.

He seemed fine just that morning.

And their suspicion was right.

Han Sion hadn’t done anything particular besides sitting next to Fade on the bus, but that was what stung.

If Han Sion had picked a fight, Fade would’ve gotten angry, not broken.

But Han Sion hadn’t started anything. Hadn’t interfered.

He just quietly sat there sketching sheet music on a phone app.

Like he didn’t care about Fade at all.

But Fade couldn’t stop thinking about Han Sion.

He was sensitive to unspoken hierarchies and invisible power.

And it gnawed at him that no matter how you looked at it, he couldn’t compare to Han Sion.

That’s what made him regret it.

Starting something with Han Sion.

‘…Fuck!’

Then he felt shame for even having regrets.

That’s what shattered his mental state.

“Fade!”

“…Sorry.”

“Go cool off in the dressing room. I can tell you’re lost in thought.”

While Fade was being labeled the weak link in Take Scene, the same was happening with On Saemiro in Three Months and One Hundred Days.

“Try smiling brighter. No, smile for real!”

But it was a bit different from Fade.

It wasn’t a lack of confidence—she just looked awkward.

On stage, her ambition and passion made her feel like she had something to prove.

Off stage? She just seemed awkward no matter what she did.

Looking at the camera, smiling brightly, even goofing off.

Meanwhile, Han Sion was thriving like a fish in water.

In fact, Choi Jae-sung was also showing solid skills compared to the others, but Han Sion made him fade into the background.

‘Wow, this kid was born to be in front of the camera.’
‘If he were just a bit taller, he could’ve made it as a model.’

That’s what the top photographers in Korea were thinking.

“Han Sion, is your growth plate still open by any chance?”

Someone even asked out of genuine disappointment.

“Not sure.”

“How tall are you?”

“178.”

“Can’t you grow like 10 more centimeters?”

“Maybe 2–3 cm more, max.”

Honestly, Han Sion’s performance was no surprise.

He must’ve shot thousands of photoshoots by now, worked with hundreds of photographers.

Not just in Korea—he worked with Hollywood’s biggest names.

It would’ve been strange if he wasn’t this good.

But people around him, not knowing this, were dumbfounded.

Han Sion felt like a mistake made by God.

If someone had that much talent in composing and singing, they should’ve lacked in something else to balance it out.

But there was no flaw.

Great dancer, handsome, eloquent, charming on camera.

And not even the moody genius type—he got along well with the team.

Like how Flowers Bloom’s composer is Chris Edwards, luck was on his side too.

And PD Kang Seok-woo also knew just how socially intelligent Han Sion was.

‘He really is perfect.’

Except for occasional mood swings, he was practically flawless.

Because of that, no matter how the situation changed, the spotlight always ended up on him.

“Moving on to solo shots!”

As the group shoot wrapped up, Han Sion’s solo shoot began.

On Saemiro, who had been staring blankly at him in front of the camera, quietly stood up.

The photographer pushed her solo session, originally scheduled second, to the end.

So she could learn by watching the others.

No one minded when she walked off.

‘Where should I go.’

She wandered around the spacious studio like an intruder before heading to the dressing room.

It was only used by Take Scene and Three Months and One Hundred Days, so she was sure no one would be there.

But someone was inside.

It was Fade from Take Scene.

---

My solo shoot ran longer than expected.

Not because I did badly—
I did too well.

So the photographer raised the bar for the shoot.

Still, it wasn’t hard.

I must’ve soaked up gallons of Hollywood broadcast experience.

The only thing I still wasn’t used to was people calling me handsome.

Sure, I knew I looked decent.

But not to the point of being treated like some standout. That never happened in the U.S.

“At best, you’re alright for a supporting role. But your vibe is unique, so it works. Your looks emphasize that uniqueness.”

That was what a top-tier Hollywood makeup artist who charges nearly \$10,000 said to me.

A roundabout way of saying I looked average.

You’d probably need someone like Iion to surpass the racial unfamiliarity.

So after dozens of sessions getting that kind of feedback, it felt awkward suddenly being praised so much.

Thinking about that, I headed toward the dressing room.

I saw On Saemiro go in earlier, but she hadn’t come out since.

Maybe she got scolded by the photographer and ended up dozing off without realizing it?

She’ll get puffy if she sleeps.

As I was about to knock on the door, I heard voices from inside.

The words weren’t crystal clear.

But the door wasn’t soundproof, so if I focused, I could roughly get the gist.

And what I heard was absurd.

Fade was cursing On Saemiro with crude language.