Little Pink Starfish

The final stage of Coming Up Next, the “Free Song Mission.”

The order was decided: Saedal Baekil would go first, and Take Scene would perform second.

It was the obvious business choice.

The first act is always at a disadvantage in audience voting, and they probably didn’t want to miss the symbolic ending of the show being decorated by Take Scene.

Still, it didn’t matter.

I’m not someone who rejects business logic—I actively use it.

But just this once, I’m going to compete purely on the strength of the performance.

“How’s everyone feeling? Choi Jaeseong, how about you?”

“I feel great. Really great. Honestly, the duet stage helped me relax.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The stuff you taught me was a little confusing at first, but by the middle of the process, it was going so well it surprised me.”

“You were confused at first?”

Choi Jaeseong nodded—but nah.

“You were f***ing amazing from the start.”

Lee Ieon jumped at the curse word, glanced at the camera, and sighed like he gave up.

Guess the kindergarten’s closed today.

Anyway, Jaeseong’s right.

Lee Ieon, On Saemiro, Koo Taehwan, Choi Jaeseong—

All of them came back from the duet stages with solid results, filled with confidence.

Because they now felt what they were capable of.

There’s only one thing left now:

Mindset.

“How did you feel while preparing the stage?”

The first to answer was Lee Ieon.

“It was awful.”

“Why?”

“Too hard.”

Fair enough.

Ieon had only two bars to sing, and he worked like a madman for it.

To the point where he’d wake up every hour to sing and check if his body had memorized it perfectly.

Even so, Ieon didn’t completely succeed.

But he didn’t fail either.

Just… imperfect.

If he nailed the very first note of the first line, he considered it a success. If not, a failure.

The problem was no longer technical—it was psychological.

I listened to a precision recording of it, and there was no difference between the “successful” and “failed” attempts.

Same sound. But sometimes he felt it was right, sometimes wrong.

This kind of thing—even I can’t fix it.

Humans aren’t machines.

So all I can do is hope he nails it on the actual stage.

“It was overwhelming. Too many things to do.”

This time it was On Saemiro, recalling rehearsals with a pale face.

Also understandable.

Saemiro has a beautiful voice and great vocal ability, but he can’t connect the two.

When he makes his best sound, he can’t bring out the power. When he sings powerfully, the sound quality suffers.

To correct that, I was… well, not abusive, but definitely strict with him.

Next, Choi Jaeseong said it felt sorrowful.
Koo Taehwan said it was frustrating.

“So in short, it was hard for everyone?”

“Yup.”

I nodded, looking at the members and choosing my words.

There’s a phrase I hate more than anything:

“The one who enjoys it will always beat the one who tries.”

That’s wrong.

You can’t enjoy something without trying first.

If you goof off offstage and say you “enjoyed” yourself on stage—that’s just irresponsible.

Even if you fail, only those who worked for it deserve to enjoy it.

So we deserve it.

“You might make mistakes on stage. Ieon might lose his first note. Saemiro might fall back into bad habits.”

“But you know what?”

“No matter how badly you mess up, it’ll still be better than your best from two weeks ago.”

“Even if Saemiro bombs today, it’ll sound better than him screeching two weeks ago.”

“So let’s just enjoy it.”

Not obsessing over not making mistakes, but going up with a mindset that mistakes are okay.

Even if someone stumbles, I hope we accept it warmly—and enjoy it.

It’s the real final performance.

“Oh wow, looks like Shion’s social training is finally complete.”

“For real. That was touching.”

“His words were kind of cliché, but somehow it hit differently because it was Shion.”

Choi Jaeseong, Lee Ieon, and Koo Taehwan laughed and joked.

“Quack…”

Only On Saemiro looked slightly glum.

But no one cared—that’s what made it funny.

Until now, the other Saedal Baekil members thought Saemiro was edgy and sharp, but that wasn’t it.

It was just a temporary mask from inferiority and jealousy. His true self… is kinda pathetic.

A bit of a dweeb, really.

Once we figured that out, Jaeseong even asked, “Can I call him ‘cringe’ now?”
Ieon replied, “If you’re good-looking, it’s just charming cringe.”

Taehwan didn’t say anything.

But I’m sure he was thinking something.
He doesn’t say much, but his brain is always running with unnecessary thoughts.

Just like that, we’d grown familiar and comfortable with each other.

And now, I can confidently say this:

Landing on this show by accident, I ended up meeting great teammates—and it’s been fun.

That’s when it happened.

WAAAAAAAAAAAA!

The crowd screamed.

Did the VCR just end?

But the staff haven’t called us yet—

“Was it a close-up of me?” Ieon mumbled.

Everyone gave a half-laugh just as a panicked staff member came rushing over with a standby call.

“Saedal Baekil! Three minutes to go!”

We put on our in-ears and got into position.

A few moments later, the final performance began.

---

As the stage went dark, the noise from the audience suddenly vanished.

Maybe out of respect for Saedal Baekil’s final stage, or maybe it was just the power of darkness.

In that silence, some audience members thought about what they’d seen in the VCR.

The exact concept wasn’t clear—but the song had been revealed.

Saedal Baekil’s “Saedal Baekil.”

It sounded like a perfect title for a final stage—or something kind of cheesy.

But one thing was certain: it was an original song.

“Original songs kinda suck.”

“Would’ve been sick if they did something like Seoul Town Funk again.”

Some people were thinking that.

Audiences tend to have mixed feelings about original songs on survival shows.

Most of them end up low-quality or just weird.

But more than anything—it’s the unfamiliarity.

Unfamiliar melodies and lyrics make you work harder to judge it.

But on the flip side, an original song that shatters those lukewarm expectations?
That always earns a standing ovation.

People rooting for Han Shion hoped this song, “Saedal Baekil,” would do just that.

Those who didn’t like him—hoped the opposite.

Of course, if Han Shion had heard this debate, he’d have just laughed.

No way someone who’s repeated this timeline dozens of times would write something mediocre.

That’s when it began.

Step. Step. Step.

Footsteps echoed on the pitch-black stage.

They started faintly—then grew louder…

Ddaang—

A clear, bell-like sound rang out, like a marimba.

A single spotlight appeared.

Inside it stood Lee Ieon, dressed in a sharp suit like something a CEO would wear.

The outfit gave off business vibes more than idol energy.

Although, no actual businessman would ever look that good.

“Ieon?”

Some Saedal Baekil fans tilted their heads in confusion.

He’d appeared on TV, but everyone thought producer Han Shion favored Koo Taehwan for opening lines.

Taehwan had never disappointed his expectations.

So naturally, everyone assumed he’d open again—but instead, it was Ieon.

Ieon fumbled through his suit pockets inside the spotlight.

Nothing.

He tried stepping outside the light but turned back—swallowed by darkness.

Looking slightly resigned, he glanced around…

And suddenly began to sing.

A cappella.

Oooh~ When time has passed, and I look back That moment Seemed to fly by too quickly

He wasn’t belting it out.

More like he was humming to himself.

Still, it was worth listening to. Actually kind of nice.

Maybe he thought so too, because he sang it again:

Oooh~ When time has passed, and I look back That moment Seemed to fly…

But this time, he stopped with a dissatisfied expression.

Like that wasn’t quite it.

Then—

Ddaang—

The marimba sound rang again.

Startled, Ieon looked around.

Ddaang— Ddaang— Ddaang.

It rang out repeatedly.

Four more spotlights appeared.

Inside each—

WAAAAAAAH!

KYAAAAAH!

—stood the members of Saedal Baekil.

The stage was still dark, but those five beams made it feel a little brighter.

“Is this time travel?!”

Fans familiar with Saedal Baekil’s storyline scanned the stage.

To understand the setup, you had to look at the outfits.

And they were all different.

Ieon and Saemiro wore suits, but with very different cuts and vibes.

Ieon looked like a CEO.
Saemiro like a junior employee.

Choi Jaeseong wore a dandy casual outfit—basically a boyfriend look.

Koo Taehwan looked unpolished, wearing an apron.

And Han Shion?

A doctor’s coat with a stethoscope.

That’s when people started to realize.

The VCR right before had this conversation:

[If Ieon hyung didn’t do music, what do you think he’d be doing in 10 years?]
[Me? CEO.]
[CEO?]
[Yeah, running a fashion e-commerce business. What about you, Jaeseong?]
[Probably just a jobseeker. I’d be 29 by then… Barely scraping by in my 30s.]
[Just a regular office worker here. Just got hired.]
[I think I’d be helping out at my parents’ restaurant.]
[What about you, Shion?]
[If I didn’t do music… maybe a doctor?]
[Wow, he went all-in on sounding cool.]
[Me? You think I sound big? Ieon hyung said CEO.]
[Nah, his company probably wouldn’t even break even.]
[…Jaeseong.]

10 years later.

They were standing on stage exactly as they imagined.

The outfits weren’t coordinated, but somehow—thanks to clever color balancing—it didn’t look messy.

“So they time-traveled to their future selves? Then is this possession?”

“Ahh, so that’s why Ieon acted that way at the start…”

But the thought trail broke off.

Because apron-wearing Koo Taehwan grinned at Ieon—and wagged his finger left and right.

Not like that.

Then… he started to sing.

Oooh~ When time has passed, and I look back That moment Seemed to fly by too quickly

Marimba sounds burst with clarity as the tropical house beat dropped in.