Little Pink Starfish

• Instruments evoking a beautiful beach, a melody like a breeze swaying palm trees.

That’s how tropical house is usually described.

Saedal Baekil’s “Saedal Baekil” was tropical house too.

But the audience didn’t picture a peaceful exotic beach.

Instead, they saw something else.

Choi Jaeseong sprawled out to one side, Koo Taehwan quietly observing the members.

Han Sion tapping away at his MacBook, with On Saemiro singing beside him.

And Lee Ieon walking over, holding drinks.

Strangely enough, it was the exact image of Saedal Baekil shown in the VCR.

As Koo Taehwan continued to sing, the light around him grew larger.

Eventually, his light reached and merged with the one surrounding Choi Jaeseong—like two droplets colliding.

The stage grew brighter. The marimba sound became clearer.

Then Choi Jaeseong began to sing.

The sweet taste Lingers at the tip of my nose

This was the perfect display of why Jaeseong loved tropical house.

It felt like he was running barefoot across the beach Han Sion had created.

He picked up the vibe from Taehwan’s intro and carried it forward.

Sion always felt a bit of regret about Jaeseong’s talent.

But that’s just the reality for someone who has to sell 200 million records through regression.

A team needs people like Choi Jaeseong.

Just like a soccer team can’t have eleven strikers, not everyone in a group can be the “main character.”

Balance is essential.

For Saedal Baekil, that balance was Jaeseong.

Sure, he could’ve been dissatisfied with the role. Wanted more spotlight.

But at least on this stage—he wasn’t.

Because he trusted the brothers who would follow him—Han Sion and On Saemiro.

Like you said This moment, not forever

The stage lights grew brighter.

Saedal Baekil, who had been only slightly moving, now burst into choreography—cheers erupted.

It was shuffle-based group choreo, but it didn’t feel excessive.

More like playful, teasing movements.

And yet, the precision of angles and timing added to the fun.

At the end of this time We say goodbye Both hands full Sending our regards

Han Sion and On Saemiro took turns continuing the song.

Their layered vocals created rich harmonies that elevated the mood, enhanced by distorted electric guitar.

Normally distortion gives a rough sound—but in “Saedal Baekil,” it felt more like beautiful chaos.

Like adults living 10 years in the future turning back into messy, reckless boys.

On Saemiro shot out a piercing high note, jumping up an octave.

Goodbye-!
Stories that were once just words

Choi Jaeseong took it from there.

Goodbye-!
Photos captured with laughter

Then Koo Taehwan jumped back in with the same melody as the intro.

Oooh~ When time has passed, and I look back

What would they feel when looking back at Saedal Baekil 10 years from now?

Happiness? Regret? Nostalgia?

No one could say.

But one thing was certain:

It wasn’t bad.

It was pretty damn good.

That feeling flowed—neither too cheesy nor too polished.

Still, some audience members felt something odd in the middle of their enjoyment.

“Where’s Lee Ieon?”

Ieon hadn’t sung a part.

Aside from making live vocal effects, he hadn’t sung at all.

He did open the song with an a cappella line—but that felt more like acting.

If the upcoming chorus was Sion’s part—what about Ieon?

Then—he picked up the mic.

---

Obviously, Lee Ieon knew he was good-looking.

He was the eldest son in a conservative family of educators, went to an all-boys middle and high school…

But still, his looks had impact.

He was grateful to his parents for that.

But after entering the agency, moments came when he started to hate it.

“Are you just coasting on your looks?”

It was unfair.

He didn’t know how to do it—that’s why he wasn’t good yet. Why did that mean he wasn’t trying?

So he gritted his teeth and worked hard.

And that effort paid off. He wasn’t incredible, but he became pretty solid.

But nothing changed.

“Whoa, you sing well too?”

People always judged him through the lens of his face.

And the worst part? He couldn’t talk about it.

Friends would say, “Then switch places with me.”

Strangers would think he was arrogant.

So when he joined Coming Up Next, he was a bit surprised.

No one expected anything from him.

“Coming Up Next—literally, ‘who’s up next,’ right?”

“So far, I’d say the most anticipated next is Han Sion. Thank you.”

Han Sion.

A person who seemed like a mistake by the god of music.

Even just his vocals didn’t sound like someone in their early twenties.

And it wasn’t just singing—he could dance, rap, compose—everything.

Sion, oddly enough, didn’t seem impressed by Ieon’s singing.

It didn’t show in his attitude, but the implication was clear.

He later explained why:

“Your voice needs to be the main character. It doesn’t blend with others.”

Sion didn’t care about appearances at all.

That changed over time—but at first, he genuinely didn’t care.

So when he evaluated Ieon, he didn’t add any bonus for looks—if anything, he deducted points.

It was… disorienting.

And made him wonder:

“Am I just dead weight?”

Especially as the others grew stronger.

But that didn’t make Ieon despair.

Strangely, he felt liberated.

He’d always wanted to be evaluated just as himself.

Even if it was a cold evaluation—he wouldn’t complain.

But he didn’t want to stay in that cold place either.

So he asked Sion:

“What if it’s just two lines?”

“…Your chances go up. But, hyung, then your solo part on the final stage would be less than 10 seconds.”

“I still want to do it.”

Time to find out.

Would Ieon be remembered as baggage on Saedal Baekil’s last stage?

Or…

As someone we wished we could’ve made more music with?

---

Pre-hook. Bridge. Pre-chorus.

Interchangeable terms. But the meaning’s the same:

The section between the verse and the chorus.

Usually added when the gap in mood or sound between them is too big.

But what I gave Ieon was something more complex.

This pre-hook wasn’t optional—it was essential. Without it, the chorus wouldn’t land.

After Jaeseong’s part, Taehwan repeated the intro melody:

Oooh~ When time has passed, and I look back

It was a signal.

The members, immersed in their past selves, had now returned to the present—ten years later.

So what would future-us miss the most?

Friendship? Events? Our bond?

No.

The answer was: the stage.

Seoul Town Funk, Crossroads, and Saedal Baekil.

If we really went 10 years into the future, those are what we’d remember.

The three performances we did as a full group.

So Ieon’s two lines had a simple mission:

Play the guitar.

Metaphorically.

Like overlaying the Korean anthem onto Pachelbel’s Canon.

Of course, you can’t just stack them. The melodies have to be adjusted to fit.

But when done right, people hear both at once—and it works.

Ieon had to do that.

Layer the chorus melodies from Seoul Town Funk and Crossroads over Saedal Baekil.

With his voice.

Hard? Yes.

But it’s just two lines.

If he failed—not just the pre-hook, the whole chorus would fall apart.

But if he succeeded—

It would be epic.

I don’t trust people.

A regressor can’t afford to trust people easily.

But I trust his work.

If you can’t trust the effort, what can a regressor even believe in?

Two lines.

Two lyrics.

8.9 seconds.

Everything rides on that moment.

Ieon raised the mic. Opened his mouth.

Time slowed.

His first line: the chorus of Seoul Town Funk.

Don’t believe me just watch.

Don’t—

He hit the note perfectly. But was it “right”? Hard to say.

Ieon had nailed the first note before—and still felt like he failed.

Then—he looked at me.

Just for a second.

He smiled.

And then—he let it rip.

Don’t believe me just watch!

His rough tone hit the notes like a guitar: exact pitch, spacing, and pressure.

The rest of the group chimed in with a joyful “Watch!” echo.

Second line:

Wheeled truck on the highway! —the chorus from Crossroads.

Perfect again.

The audience screamed.

They’d definitely heard Seoul Town Funk and Crossroads.

…Maybe not Crossroads. It hadn’t aired yet.

Still, the melodies had been laid down.

Only one remained:

The chorus of Saedal Baekil.

The five of us, driving— da-da Diving into memories— da-da

That part—I was singing now.

To the sound of massive cheers.

---

Among today’s audience was Lee Youngha, music major and niece of Lee Hyunseok.

She liked Saedal Baekil, but 70% of that was because of Han Sion.

He was just a genius.

Even from a conservatory student’s perspective, his talent was incomprehensible.

The remaining 30% was Taehwan and Saemiro.

Jaeseong didn’t stand out. Ieon? Nothing memorable except his face.

But now—hearing Ieon’s part—she got chills.

She understood exactly what he had done.

The way Han Sion once sang under a streetlight, using his voice like an instrument—

Ieon had just done it.

Youngha had watched Coming Up Next, been intrigued, and tried recording songs in her studio.

And ended up stunned.

She couldn’t figure out how Sion had done it.

It wasn’t just difficult—it felt impossible.

So when Ieon’s voice layered Seoul Town Funk and Crossroads over Saedal Baekil, she couldn’t help but scream.

And she wasn’t alone.

Most of the audience erupted into thunderous cheers.