Little Pink Starfish

Album 8. Business Game

The polished term: burnout.
The less refined: post-nut clarity.
The truly unglamorous: crash and reality check.
Or maybe those last two are just different names for the same thing.

Anyway, I once studied why that post-high crash hits us.

You kind of have to when you’ve lived through as many regressions as I have.

It’s hormones.

After a rush of dopamine from intense motivation or achievement, your levels drop below average—and with them, your will to keep going.

…Dammit. What am I even doing?

Here I am, trying to justify myself.

Let’s put it simply: I crashed. Hard.

“……”

Just yesterday, I turned my back on Take Scene and chose to debut with Sedalbaekil.

CEO Choi Tae-ho was furious. PD Kang Seok-woo looked like he’d seen a ghost.

But so what?

I said I wouldn’t do it. End of story.

With the air tense and chaotic, filming wrapped, and we ended up drinking at the mushroom farm run by Koo Tae-hwan’s parents.

Jae-sung, the minor, stuck to soda. But the mood? Good.

For the record, Sae-mi-ro cried. Said he never thought I’d choose this.

Pathetic guy.

Jae-sung teased him relentlessly, calling him a softie. Meanwhile, Lee I-on… cleaned.

Turns out, when he gets drunk, he compulsively cleans. The man swept the entire guest house like a pro from a cleaning company.

Only Tae-hwan stayed sober and calm. Even after drinking a fair bit, he just observed everyone like it was all part of some personal experiment.

Apparently, people-watching is his hobby.

The next day, after all the good vibes, the crash came.

I don’t regret my choice. I’d do the same thing again.

But as a regressor, it was undeniably a bad move.

Someone might ask, “If you’re just going to live a thousand lives, why not do whatever you want in one of them?”

But it’s not that simple.

I’ve tried “just doing whatever” before—partying it up on California beaches with the money I made in previous loops.

But that also meant giving up on selling 200 million albums.

And giving up triggers regression.

That’s how my rules work.

Sure, you can pretend you haven’t given up—live in denial for a week, two weeks, a month—throw parties, drown yourself in booze.

But one day you’ll wake up on a yacht, hungover, surrounded by glitter and empty bottles, thinking:

“There’s no paradise at the end of escape.”

So to survive, I need that faint hope: that I might one day sell 200 million.

Even if I don’t make it, I have to try.

Like this time—when I tried to live the life of a “typical” K-pop idol.

That wasn’t giving up. That was preparation.

But in that light, Sedalbaekil’s current situation is bleak.

Coming Up Next pitched itself as “instant debut for the winner, freedom of choice for the loser.”

Which technically means we’re free to go wherever now.

But c’mon.

The show didn’t flop—it’s pulling nearly 10% ratings.

One in ten Koreans knows our names.

And Lion Entertainment—who bankrolled the entire production—will just let us walk?

No way.

That’d make them look like chumps in the industry.

Now comes the pressure.

“If you leave Lion, you’ll never debut anywhere.”
“You won’t last in this business.”

Not a bluff.

CEO Choi Tae-ho has that kind of clout.

There are real cases of trainees who got blacklisted for years after crossing the wrong agency.

And don’t forget—we pissed off M-Show too.

Sure, they didn’t lose money—ratings spiked, ad revenue flowed, the top-charting songs were all distributed by M-Show anyway.

But their pride took a hit.

They were supposed to deliver Han Si-on, neatly gift-wrapped, to Lion Entertainment.

They gave me sweet edits, made everything easier for me—and I just… left.

They can’t stay silent. That would mean they’ve lost control.

And I suspect—though I can’t prove it—that M-Show was going to get a cut of Take Scene’s revenue.

Why else would a broadcaster host their own internal audition show?

So my choice cost them real money.

Even though they profited off my back—they’ll call this a loss.

So what now?

They’ll crack down.

Threaten me.

Pressure the others.

I know how to deal with this, of course.

I don’t know Korean society that well, but I do know how show business works.

There are ways.

But will the other Sedalbaekil members believe in that?

Believing in my music is one thing.

Believing I can outmaneuver a titan like Lion is something else.

I-on, Sae-mi-ro, Tae-hwan, Jae-sung.

They’ve been pure up to now.

They worried for me. They wanted me to debut. And they acted on it.

But soon, they’ll be forced to weigh their dreams against reality.

They’ll be told that staying with me means saying goodbye to being idols.

And on the other side of that scale, it won’t just be fame—it could be their families.

[Sedalbaekil – Lee I-on (21): I have a meeting with PD Kim Dal-in. Going with my parents.]
[Sedalbaekil – Koo Tae-hwan (20): PD Kang is coming to our store, apparently.]
[Sedalbaekil – Choi Jae-sung (18): Someone’s visiting me too. But why the network? Isn’t this Lion’s business?]

Messages from our group chat—sent about four hours ago.

They’ve either just had their meetings, or they’re in them now.

The only one who hasn’t messaged?

Sae-mi-ro.

Knowing his background, I doubt his parents would sit back quietly.

He’s probably the first valuable thing they’ve ever had.

And me?

No calls.

Not because of my parents’ situation—but to isolate me.

Make me vulnerable.

Scramble my judgment.

I lay on my bed, still turning things over in my mind.

Weird sleep schedule from the show has me drowsy by 7 p.m.

“……”

But I didn’t want to sleep.

I felt like I’d have a nightmare.

Like Sedalbaekil turning into “For the Youth.”

Or Coming Up Next airing as “Stage Number Zero.”

“……”

Then—it happened.

Like being sucked into a black hole.

The world twisted and blurred past me.

BWAAAAANG—!

I was suddenly standing at an intersection.

…Seriously?

Am I regressing again?

But the members haven’t even made their decisions yet…

Ding-dong!

“…Ugh.”

Back in bed.

I feel the mattress beneath me.

Did I regress and wake up in the hospital?

No. I’d just fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing.

The doorbell had woken me up.

Doorbell?

I glanced at the clock on the wall as I stumbled into the living room.

Just past 9 p.m.

Only slept two hours?

Felt like a lifetime.

I opened the door—and froze.

Sunlight poured in.

Not 9 p.m.—9 a.m. I’d been sleeping all night.

And standing at the door… were the Sedalbaekil members.

“You were sleeping, huh?”

“…?”

“Dude, look at your skin. How long did you sleep?”

I couldn’t keep up.

As I stared blankly, I-on stepped forward.

“Mind if we come in?”

“How did you know where I live?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, so PD Kang gave us your address.”

“…Come in.”

I found my phone—dead under the blanket.

Once it charged, it lit up with over twenty missed calls: from the members, Kang PD, CEO Choi, even Uncle Hyun-soo.

Right. I remember now. The thoughts I had before I passed out.

“You met with the PDs yesterday?”

Tae-hwan nodded.

“Yup.”

“What did they say?”

“If I sign with Lion, they’ll debut me within two years. Said it’s the safest path. Going to another company would be tough.”

Not untrue.

“And you?”

“My dad said to just do what I want. Told the PD to leave.”

I-on and Jae-sung had similar stories—though with a different tone.

“My parents always wanted me to be a teacher. I think they’re secretly relieved.”

“Mine too.”

…I didn’t see that coming.

Not all parents want a child in entertainment, I guess.

And Sae-mi-ro?

“I’ll do what I want.”

He had bruises on his face—but his eyes were steady.

And suddenly, I felt ashamed.

Here I was, spiraling yesterday—and they were rock-solid.

Living their one shot at life like it actually matters.

Guess the regressor’s the coward after all.

Too afraid to give it my all because I think I’ll always get another chance.

But that ends now.

It’s time to get strong.

So I asked:

“Okay. We’ve made enemies of M-Show and Lion. Anyone got a plan?”

“Shouldn’t we find a company to take us?”

Tae-hwan asked.

I shook my head.

There won’t be a company.

Screwing over Lion wasn’t just about them—it sends a message to the whole industry.

It’s like why a corporation will fight tooth and nail over a single labor lawsuit: not because of the payout, but because of the precedent.

If we walk away clean, others might follow.

“No doubt someone will offer to take us. But we’ll have to be careful.”

It could be clueless rookies—or worse, Lion’s proxy scouts.

The room grew quiet.

They were finally starting to grasp how complicated this was.

Then Sae-mi-ro asked:

“What about you? Got any good ideas?”

Of course I do.

I just didn’t know how to explain it—until the right word popped into my head.

“A club.”

“…Huh?”

“We’re an idol club.”

No agency. No official debut. No music show appearances.

If Choi Tae-ho really flexes, maybe we’ll even be scrubbed from the charts.

But we’ll sell a ridiculous number of albums.

Rack up hundreds of millions of views on our MVs.

Work with top-tier musicians. Break into Billboard.

I’m curious too.

When that happens—will the Korean music industry still be able to pretend we don’t exist?

My original goal of becoming a typical idol is gone.

Now, I just want to see how far I can go with these people.