Little Pink Starfish

As soon as we entered the studio, I turned off all the cameras the broadcast station had set up.

It wasn’t like I was about to say something no one could hear—but there was no reason to leave footage of this scene behind either.

“Don’t just stand there. Sit on the couch.”

On Saemiro sat without a word.

Even though he’d been dragged here out of nowhere, he didn’t show much reaction. I guess he thought nothing mattered anymore.

Honestly, I didn’t care either.

But I was planning to correct a few of Saemiro’s misconceptions.

I pulled over the engineer’s chair and sat down across from the couch after shutting off the cameras.

“On Saemiro. You asked if you could ever beat me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t. That’ll never happen. You know why?”

“Because… your talent’s better?”

“Not wrong, but not the right answer either.”

“Then what?”

“It’s not just you who can’t beat me.”

“Then who else?”

“Every single person in the world doing music right now.”

Saemiro blinked slowly, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.”

This wasn’t comfort.

“It’s the truth.”

A cold, hard truth.

It doesn’t matter to me if On Saemiro gives up on music out of despair. It doesn’t matter if Coming Up Next becomes his last performance.

But if the reason is “because I despaired over the talent of someone in my own team,” then that’s the wrong reason.

Because I’m not just some guy.

I want him to reframe that despair as “despairing after seeing the most gifted musician alive.”

I’m not a natural genius.

But endless time turned me into one.

So I can say this with absolute certainty:

There’s no musician alive on Earth right now who’s more talented than I am.

“On Saemiro. Say something. Anything.”

“Like what?”

“Literally anything. ‘Fade is a bastard,’ stuff like that.”

“…Coming Up Next.”

I repeated “Coming Up Next” a few times under my breath, then grabbed my guitar.

“Watch this. This is freestyle.”

Then I played.

Saemiro has ears—he’ll notice.

He’ll realize that the rhythm and pitch of that random phrase he just said is now the main melody of a song.

It’s a pretty listenable piece.

“Again. Say anything.”

“…On Saemiro.”

“Should’ve had that level of self-love a little earlier, huh?”

This time, I played bass following the syllables of “On Saemiro.”

“I’ll do the keyboard however I feel like.”

I played the keyboard, then sequenced the drums using virtual instruments since I don’t know how to play them.

I played all four layers at once.

“…!”

I could feel Saemiro’s surprise.

Honestly, even I was a little surprised.

This is… actually good?

“Composition done. Took 25 minutes. Let’s arrange it for pop. You like PBR&B?”

“I don’t even know what that is…”

“You know The Weeknd?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it.”

The Weeknd was the artist I looked up to when I first started trying R&B.

By 2025, his official album sales surpass 200 million.

Well, that’s according to RIAA stats, which include unit sales and streaming.

Probably includes EPs and compilations too.

If you only count physical albums—the devil’s standard—it’s probably just over 50 million.

Wait, I shouldn’t be thinking about this right now.

I tend to over-focus when it comes to album sales.

Anyway, I arranged the song instantly.

It takes time to polish the sound, but the arrangement itself is always fast for me.

As I arranged, I also created a vocal line.

Since I didn’t have time to write lyrics, I pulled lines from a song I sang during a previous R&B episode.

Then I sang it.

At full effort.

Saemiro’s face lit up with surprise.

This is probably better than anything I’ve sung on Coming Up Next.

Of course it is.

Mission songs come with limitations. You have to stay within the structure.

This song? Made without constraints.

And sung solo, too.

To be blunt, the kind of group I want is one where there’s no difference in quality between “Han Sion solo” and “group performance.”

GOTM was that kind of group.

As soon as I finished singing, I picked up the guitar again.

I started deconstructing and rebuilding the melody I had just sung.

No, seriously—this is really good.

I’ve made good songs by accident before, but it’s been a while since a spontaneous one turned out this great.

Feeling good, I started jamming harder—and noticed Saemiro looking a little overwhelmed.

Even if he doesn’t know music in depth, he must’ve realized I just expressed the same melody in dozens of variations.

And that I then broke those dozens into dozens of measures to modify again.

I kept working on the track.

Partly to show Saemiro.

And partly because I really wanted to polish this piece.

Once the completely restructured song was done, I messaged him the lyrics.

“Try singing it.”

“Me?”

“The melody’s already stuck in your head. I’ll guide you a bit—you’ll manage.”

Saemiro hesitated, but when I played the beat, he began singing.

“No, drop that note rhythmically.”

“Pitch higher—comfortably. Don’t tighten your chest.”

“Don’t think of the sound starting from your throat—imagine it launching from the back of your head and shooting forward between your eyes.”

Huh. I thought this would be frustrating, but he’s keeping up surprisingly well.

This is way more talent than I expected.

How didn’t I notice?

“You’ve had vocal training before, right? Even if you got dropped, you were in an agency.”

“Yeah, but it was short.”

“How short?”

“Two months tops. Maybe two weeks.”

“…”

Even the best trainer has their own method and vocal style.

So if you keep changing vocal coaches, it just ruins the singer.

Come to think of it, during the B Team selection, didn’t he do a copycat version of Under the Streetlight?

But when I gave detailed direction for Seoul Town Funk, he did well.

That means On Saemiro doesn’t have a current baseline.

No wonder his vocal performance wavers so much depending on his mental state.

After some time, he finished recording.

It wasn’t an album take, so I let a few things slide, but some moments were more expressive than I expected.

“Take a listen.”

I played his recording at full volume.

It’s a great song. And great vocals.

But honestly, my one-take guide version is still better.

And that version had a worse beat than this one.

“Now do you get it?”

Saemiro nodded.

“I guess… I do have talent.”

What is he even talking about?

This was supposed to be about my talent, not his.

But then he suddenly started crying, so I didn’t say anything.

After a while, once he’d gathered himself, Saemiro spoke.

“I get it now.”

“…”

I’m not sure if he really gets it.

But I’m still human, and in this kind of moment, I can’t bring myself to say, “Yeah, comparing yourself to a genius like me will only lead to despair.”

Then he looked me in the eyes and asked,

“If you have this much talent… isn’t everything just too easy? What’s your goal?”

I paused but decided to be honest.

“200 million albums sold.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a dream. That if I sold 200 million, my parents would wake up.”

“…”

“When I woke up from that dream, the whole world felt fake. But… I figured I had no choice but to believe in it.”

Saemiro didn’t say anything for a while, then slowly nodded.

I don’t know exactly what he’s thinking.

But I do know he’s not drowning in despair anymore.

Coming Up Next will end, and SeDalBaekIl will disband. When this episode ends, I’ll regress.

But at least Saemiro won’t be quitting music.

“And if it helps to hear this—PD Kang won’t ask you for that money back.”

“How do you know?”

“You know what an advance means? It’s money pulled forward. So where do you think he pulled it from?”

“…?”

Ugh, this guy.

“He pulled it from future On Saemiro. He thinks you’ll still be appearing on M Show even after Coming Up Next ends.”

“…!”

Saemiro looked genuinely shocked.

“And you think he’d give it to you for nothing? It’s his way of saying: ‘Even if you make it big and don’t need M Show anymore, keep your loyalty.’”

Looks like PD Kang gave Saemiro way too much credit politically.

Well, Saemiro does look pretty composed, I guess.

“Plus, that kind of money could easily come out of dividing just the PPL revenue by ten.”

Also, Saemiro eats pretty well on camera.

During the karaoke mission in Myeongdong, he single-handedly devoured 3–4 servings of pork belly.

Didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I understand why.

He just hasn’t had many chances to eat food like that in his life.

People are more subjective than they realize—they judge the world by their own standards.

So people from “normal” households can’t really imagine what poverty feels like.

Honestly, I don’t know either.

A high schooler giving up their entire future and working nonstop just to survive?

But after living a long life, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

Don’t judge someone else’s life. Just accept it.

…But Fade’s life? I seriously don’t get that one.

“Wait, you said Fade asked you to go after my weakness with him?”

Next time I get the chance, I’m definitely punching him again.

---

[Choi Jaesung – SeDalBaekIl Observation Log]

Choi Jaesung didn’t start keeping an observation log of SeDalBaekIl that long ago.

It probably started when they began preparing Seoul Town Funk.

Because sticking a passionate 19-year-old in a place like Pocheon leaves him with way too much free time.

Sure, the joy of practice and performance was there, but it’s hard to live 24/7 for just that.

So at first, he started writing a diary. But since he was always around the SeDalBaekIl members, it slowly turned into an observation log.

Now he’s writing it full-on.

[Case_1]

[Hyung Ieon said something ridiculous again today. Said everyone else is getting more handsome thanks to camera magic, but he’s not changing at all.]

[I stared at him, dumbfounded, and Taehwan hyung calmly replied, ‘That’s because you already maxed out your score.’]

[Ieon hyung didn’t deny it. He just said, ‘Ah, I see.’]

[Seriously, I don’t get this guy.]

[It’s not narcissism. It’s not arrogance. Ieon hyung is just… extremely objective.]

[Maybe that’s it. He’s just honestly evaluated his own face.]

[Case_2]

[Since this morning, something’s been off between Sion hyung and On Saemiro hyung.]