Little Pink Starfish

Due to the members complaining that “club” sounded lame, we ultimately decided to call ourselves a crew.

Sedalbaekil Crew.

The dictionary defines “crew” as sailors on a ship.

But in the music industry, it’s used differently—more like a group bound by camaraderie rather than contracts. Especially in hip-hop or dance scenes, “hip-hop crew,” “dance crew” implies a group that gathers without formal agreements.

Of course, being a crew doesn’t mean you’re not doing anything commercial.

You can hold joint performances, or even drop compilation albums.

But the motivation is closer to “we’re together, let’s do something” than “let’s make money.”

If a crew adopts a commercial purpose, it becomes a label.

And a label is basically just an agency.

Strictly speaking, a label means a “record company,” but in Korea, it’s all blurred—entertainment companies do everything: planning, producing, marketing.

Naturally, the members were confused.

“So… we’re idols with no agency and no debut?”

“If that’s hard to grasp, think of it like a self-managed label. We’re doing the work of an agency—just the five of us.”

“But how do we do music activities?”

“What do idols usually do?”

“They make music, hold showcases, go on music shows… oh, and attend events.”

“Exactly. We’ll do those. We’ll make music and hold showcases. Music shows might be out for a while, but we could still get event offers.”

Despite the explanation, confusion only deepened.

Koo Tae-hwan hit the point:

“Then why doesn’t every idol group just do it that way?”

Exactly.

If you could operate independently and keep the profits, everyone would.

“They can’t.”

“Why not?”

“If Dropout or NOP went independent, would they stop performing?”

“No. They’d do fine.”

“Why?”

“They’re already famous? People want them?”

“Exactly. They’ve proven themselves.”

Dropout and NOP are K-pop superstars.

“So why can’t rookie groups go independent?”

“Because no one knows them. They haven’t proven anything.”

Jae-sung nailed it.

I nodded.

“That’s why we need to prove ourselves and become known.”

“How?”

There’s not much I can say here.

I don’t have a concrete plan yet.

If it were Billboard, I’d know what songs trended which year, which controversies made an impact—but this is K-pop.

Aside from the big strokes, I’m in the dark.

But while I don’t have a plan, I do understand how it works.

And if you understand the method, you can build a plan.

“We’ll figure out the specifics soon. But the principle’s simple. We start in three weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“That’s when Coming Up Next episode 10 airs.”

Now that I’ve turned down Take Scene, I don’t know how the edit will turn out.

For ratings, they might keep my image clean—or they might tear me apart in the final episode.

That’s why we can’t finalize our moves until Coming Up Next ends.

“Our goal is to make sure that in the month after the show ends, people are still talking about us.”

“To shift the buzz from the program to Sedalbaekil Crew?”

“Exactly. That Sedalbaekil left Coming Up Next and started making music—that everyone knows.”

“Isn’t that easy? The show had, like, 10% ratings.”

“Even if we hold a press conference, not a single article will show up in entertainment news. Reporters might not even come.”

That finally got through.

Everyone went silent.

And I smiled.

“Sounds fun, doesn’t it? We’ll be the first in Korea.”

This is an industry where massive agencies and broadcasters control the narrative—it’s called show business for a reason.

And we’re five nobodies daring to charge in headfirst.

Everyone will mock us, say we’re doomed.

…We’ll see.

I’m feeling good about this.

Maybe they saw the fire in my eyes—because their expressions relaxed too.

Guess this is what leadership looks like.

“So, is Lee I-on our leader now?”

“…Huh?”

“He was the one who suggested we ask the producers to let you debut.”

“Yeah. That’s where it all began.”

“Right. Then I-on should be the leader.”

As I said that, they all burst into laughter.

“Si-on’s really got a kick to him these days.”

“It’s like watching a noob sneak into the boss room and poke the monster.”

Guess they were joking.

Well, I don’t want to be the leader anyway.

I just want the biggest voice in shaping Sedalbaekil Crew’s direction.

And no, it’s not because I’ve got some protagonist complex from being a regressor.

“So what do we do for the next three weeks?”

“What else? We train.”

I scanned the group.

“In live combat.”

“Live… combat?”

Oh, right—first I need to settle some things with PD Kang Seok-woo and CEO Choi Tae-ho.

---

PD Kang Seok-woo chose an old tuna restaurant deep in Dongdaemun Market for our meeting.

A run-down exterior—but the food was legendary.

Even VIPs who’d once frowned at the place’s shabby look later begged for reservations.

As Kang made the call, he confirmed how he felt.

This was a spot he reserved for important people.

And when Si-on called, he instinctively chose this place.

Meaning—he saw Han Si-on as someone important.

Whatever happens, this wasn’t someone to treat poorly or write off.

“He’s just twenty, for god’s sake.”

Kang thought as he walked in and met Si-on.

And was surprised.

Si-on looked at ease.

Throughout the show, Kang had often wondered—

What kind of pressure haunts this genius? What nightmares does he fight through? What thoughts fill his quiet moments in the practice room? Where does that gloomy aura come from?

“You said you fell asleep yesterday?”

“Yes. I guess I relaxed after the show ended.”

“Not exactly the most relaxing situation, is it?”

Kang jabbed lightly, but Si-on just smiled.

“Technically, I should’ve met with CEO Choi first. But I wanted to see you first.”

“Why?”

“To thank you. And to apologize, for how things turned out.”

Kang had imagined many versions of this meeting.

But not one where he got such a clean, genuine thank-you and apology.

So he realized two things:

1. Han Si-on had a clear grasp of the power dynamics.
   He didn’t make his choice out of some youthful dream. He knew he had turned both M-Show and Lion Entertainment into enemies.
2. And still—he had no intention of going back.

Si-on would not return to Take Scene.

A long silence followed. Food arrived. Then Kang finally spoke.

“Honestly, I came here to persuade you. But I don’t think I’ll succeed.”

“What about threats?”

“Wouldn’t work either.”

“Smart man.”

“But answer me honestly. Why’d you do it? You wanted to debut quickly. Take Scene was the best option, wasn’t it?”

“It was. I still think it was the right choice.”

“Then why?”

“Because I knew it was wrong. But I still wanted to choose it.”

“So now what?”

“I’ll make the wrong choice… right.”

Kang paused, then gave a small smile as he picked up a piece of tuna.

“Eat. It’s good.”

“Thank you.”

They ate in silence for a while.

Then Kang said, out of nowhere:

“I made a choice like that once too. Knew it was wrong, but I went for it.”

“What was it?”

“Moving to M-Show.”

He’d done it to escape the pressure. It was a coward’s move—but it felt good at the time.

“I don’t know what you’re running from. And we’ll probably be on opposite sides from now on…”

But Kang had still launched Han Si-on’s first career.

So he figured this much encouragement was deserved:

“Do your best. I won’t be cheering—but I’ll be watching.”

“Then can I ask one thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“If M-Show and Lion are starting to fight behind the scenes—arguing about whose fault this is…”

Si-on leaned in.

“Then air the rest of Coming Up Next with Sedalbaekil as the stars.”

“Why? It’ll only piss off Lion more.”

“No. They’ll get scared.”

“…?”

“If M-Show pushes Sedalbaekil as the face of the show—but Take Scene still debuts with Lion—what do you think will happen?”

“…!”

“The public will see them as two separate entities. And public perception is powerful.”

Kang’s eyes widened.

“In a little time, Lion will get nervous. Because all the footage—all the triggers—are in M-Show’s hands.”

“…”

“If execs turn over in a few years and the employees change—only the blackmail remains.”

Kang was stunned. He’d never thought of it that way.

Of course, Si-on didn’t know everything.

He didn’t know M-Show was already sharing revenue from Take Scene with Lion.

Or so Kang assumed.

He was wrong.

“So, M-Show should publicly announce they won’t share profits with Take Scene.”

“We’re not—”

“Say it anyway. At first, Lion might like it. But they’ll crunch the numbers and come begging: Take some of the money.”

“Han Si-on. There’s no profit-sharing…”

“Staying tangled up together means they’re both within the blast radius.”

Kang sighed. Si-on’s confidence was terrifying.

“If this blows up, I’ll be the first to go. I’m the director.”

“That’s why you don’t blow it up. Shoot blanks—not real bullets.”

“…”

“You weren’t going to leak anything anyway. So what changes, besides M-Show getting the upper hand?”

So here was Si-on’s real play:

Air the show with Sedalbaekil as the focus.
Announce you don’t want Take Scene’s profits.

That alone will rattle Lion.

And eventually, they’ll offer to share anyway.

Nothing changes.

Except Sedalbaekil gains visibility.

“So in the fight between whales… only Sedalbaekil wins.”

“True. But it benefits you too, doesn’t it?”

“How so?”

“Didn’t the audience vote get devalued in the final scores, while the judges’ scores shot up?”

“How’d you know that?”

“I did the math. If actual manipulation gets exposed, you’ve got your alibi.”

Kang saw where this was going.

“You’re the director. What could you do if the judges went rogue?”

“…”

“You just pushed Sedalbaekil because you thought they deserved it.
What do you think?”