Little Pink Starfish

Choi Ji-woon looked genuinely stunned.

Well, it was understandable.

No ordinary twenty-year-old would make this kind of choice.

But he already knew I wasn’t an ordinary twenty-year-old, didn’t he?

“Yes. I think it’s the best option.”

“It’s the best for Sedalbaekil… but what about you, Han Si-on? Are you really okay with it?”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“You really love that group, huh?”

It wasn’t something I could answer with words, so I just smiled.

But Choi Ji-woon seemed genuinely moved. He tapped the sofa lightly with his fingernail and then spoke.

“With the kind of money you gave me, settling for just a department head would be fraud. How about the head of the news division?”

“That’d be perfect.”

A division head was the best I could hope for.

Even better than that was the fact that Choi Ji-woon didn’t play any power games with me.

That meant a certain level of trust had been established between us.

After chatting a bit more with him, I left the law firm.

It was only early June, but the heat was already suffocating.

The weather service said an unusually early summer heatwave was coming…

Maybe it’s just that I’m not used to Korea’s seasonal changes anymore.

After all, for dozens of loops now, I’ve always spent June 2017 in either New York or LA.

Ah, right. There was that one time I came to Korea for a concert tour, and the news said, “Heavy rain across the country.” I was shocked.

Because in the U.S., rain “nationwide” usually means either a massive flood or the apocalypse.

Anyway, I need to get used to Korea now.

Because I’ve decided to take Sedalbaekil as far as it can go.

With that thought, I got in a taxi and called CEO Lee Hyun-seok.

“Hey, Si-on.”

After exchanging a few pleasantries, I got to the point.

“Hyung, do you happen to have a practice room we could use starting today? Price doesn’t matter. We’ll probably use it for about a month.”

“A practice room? Who’s going to use it?”

“Sedalbaekil.”

“Filming’s… Oh, right, you said it ended. Didn’t Lion Entertainment arrange one for you?”

As expected, Lee Hyun-seok had naturally assumed Sedalbaekil had signed with Lion Entertainment.

That was the general industry consensus—but we were the ones who rejected it.

Once he knows the full story, would he take our side?

I think he would.

He’s a bit of a maverick—someone who’s not really entangled in the music industry.

Still, Lee Hyun-seok has more influence in the industry than you’d expect.

Not enough to overpower Choi Dae-ho now, but maybe enough to play the joker card once Choi’s influence wanes.

I should fill him in on everything soon and bring him fully to our side.

“The show might be over, but the broadcast isn’t, so we wanted to try something on our own in the meantime.”

“Ah. So you’ll need dance practice space too?”

“Yes, just casually.”

“Just use Studio A. Move the couch and wardrobe aside, and you’ll have enough space. I’ll keep the schedule clear for a month.”

That sounded like he meant “use it for free,” which was a bit too generous.

Studio A, with all its state-of-the-art equipment, had a very high rental cost.

Reserving it for an entire month would be a serious financial loss for LB Studio.

But Lee Hyun-seok just scoffed when I mentioned it.

“Si-on.”

“Yes, hyung?”

“Remember what I said before? Let’s split the revenue from my online streams 50-50.”

“I do.”

Honestly, it was a ridiculous offer.

Lee Hyun-seok really had no political sense.

In a good way, he was pure; in a bad way, careless.

If I actually took his personal stream revenue, what would that mean?

His praise of me on-air would effectively become “promotion.”

That’s what we call advertising.

And if it’s not disclosed to the audience, we call it hidden advertising.

“With that money, you could probably rent Studio A year-round.”

“Really?”

“Actually, just Studio A? You could probably rent it for two years.”

Looks like he’s earning more than I thought.

Still, he’s a good guy.

“Then we’ll use it carefully for just a month.”

“No, use it longer if you want.”

“No, a month is enough. Can we come by today?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell the part-timer to clear out as much space as possible.”

After that call, I contacted a realtor.

Even if we use LB Studio for now, Sedalbaekil still needs a proper office and workspace.

“Yes. Please look in the Yeoksam area.”

The workspace has to be near my home.

I’m the one paying, so that much is allowed, right?

---

Sedalbaekil gathered at LB Studio.

With sponsorships done, everyone was dressed in their own styles again.

“Jaeseong.”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t those shorts a little too short?”

“These?”

Lee Ion, who was raised in a conservative household, was clearly surprised by Choi Jaeseong’s outfit—a small moment of comic relief.

“But where’s Si-on?”

“He said he had to talk to CEO Lee Hyun-seok for a bit.”

As the members waited in Studio A, Han Si-on walked in.

He placed four notebooks on the table.

“What’s this?”

“Kind of like error notebooks.”

“Error notebooks?”

Everyone knew what that meant: notes where you record your mistakes after taking a test.

Since they were about to start practice, maybe he wanted them to jot down things they were unsatisfied with?

But that wasn’t it.

“We’re not going to write in them yet.”

“Then?”

“You’ll understand when the time comes. Just write your name on the cover and leave it here. Anyone can write in them.”

“Anyone?”

“Yeah. Like, Jaeseong could write something he’s dissatisfied with about Tae-hwan.”

“…?”

They still didn’t fully get what Han Si-on was planning, but they let it be.

Han Si-on saying strange things wasn’t anything new.

And they had faith that if they followed him without complaint, they’d experience something amazing.

So the mysterious error notebooks were left on the table, and practice began.

The first session was simple.

Each member sang the songs they had performed on Coming Up Next.

In chronological order, this was how it went for Han Si-on:

“Edge of Dawn” → “Never Played Around” → “Under the Streetlight” (Remake) → “Seoul Town Funk” → “Crossroads” → “Sedalbaekil”

Excluding the B-Team selection round, and only including post-formation songs, there were six in total.

Three solo songs, and three group songs.

But since every member had to sing, a total of 18 performances were needed, which took quite a while.

It wouldn’t have been a fun practice to watch for outsiders.

But the Sedalbaekil members enjoyed it—they had memories tied to each moment.

“Wow, everyone’s gotten so much better.”

“Feels like I had some breakthroughs preparing for Sedalbaekil’s stage.”

“Me too.”

Especially On Saemi-ro and Lee Ion had improved dramatically.

After going through all the songs once, Han Si-on spoke up again.

“Now let’s try duets for the solo songs.”

“How?”

“However you want. Just pair up randomly. Who wants to sing ‘Edge of Dawn’ with me?”

Koo Tae-hwan shot his hand up, quickly followed by Choi Jaeseong.

“Tae-hwan was faster. It’ll be him and me… Who wants to sing Drop Out’s ‘Remind’?”

It was the song Tae-hwan sang during the Myeong-dong karaoke mission.

Everyone raised their hand, but On Saemi-ro was the fastest.

“Okay. Tae-hwan and Saemi-ro.”

They continued assigning parts this way and began practice.

Though “practice,” it wasn’t overly structured.

Si-on and Tae-hwan sang on one side, Ion and Saemi-ro on the other.

It wasn’t about staging a performance but matching parts and chemistry.

With five members, someone was always left idle.

Choi Jaeseong, watching the others sing, tilted his head.

‘This… doesn’t feel like Si-on hyung’s usual style.’

When they had prepped for the final performance “Sedalbaekil,” everyone had trembled under Si-on’s merciless standards.

Han Si-on was the toughest perfectionist Jaeseong had ever met.

“Repeat just ‘sweet taste lingers at the tip of my nose.’”

“Just the ‘sweet taste.’ Again.”

“What are you doing? You could sing the rest, but I told you to stop there. You have to only think about the phrase ‘sweet taste.’”

“Say ‘sweet.’ Sing it.”

“Now pitch the ‘dal’ sound.”

“Why do you pronounce it like ‘dwal’? ‘Dwalkomhan’?”

“That’s not ‘dalkomhan’—you’re separating the notes, which delays the rhythm on ‘masi.’”

Even thinking about it now gave him chills.

The worst part? Si-on genuinely believed he was being kind.

Well, technically he was.

He gave detailed, precise guidelines with no ambiguity and helped you until you could get it right.

But still…

‘It was terrifying!’

The vibe was intense.

Han Si-on wasn’t objectively scary-looking, but his cool aura and big, dark eyes staring at you made it nerve-wracking.

And if he looked like he was thinking, “Why can’t you do this?”—you’d instinctively swallow your saliva.

Jaeseong, who roomed with On Saemi-ro, once heard him sleep-talking.

“V-V-Vibrato! I can do it! I’ll get it right!”

He didn’t know what dream it was, but it was obviously directed at Si-on.

That kind of bootcamp-like training led to their performance in “Sedalbaekil.”

Honestly, singing in front of 2,000 people was easier.

Compared to having Si-on hyung staring you down.

So this felt off.

Dividing parts so loosely, letting people sing casually—that wasn’t his style.

He didn’t even correct anyone unless the pitch was seriously off.

‘What is he thinking…?’

Just then, Han Si-on called Choi Jaeseong.

This time, he wanted to sing “Seoul Town Funk” without the choreography.

“What do we do if there’s no choreo?”

“Do whatever you want. Stand still, gesture, whatever. Just imagine an audience in front of you.”

The group nodded and sang three songs in a row: “Seoul Town Funk,” “Crossroads,” and “Sedalbaekil”—all without choreography.

And that was the end of practice.

It felt anticlimactic, and On Saemi-ro spoke up.

“Si-on, are we doing the same thing tomorrow?”

“No. Tomorrow, everyone bring four of your favorite songs. Two Korean, two foreign.”

“Why?”

“You’ll know in a few days.”

The next day’s practice followed a similar pattern.

They sang their favorite songs, divided parts, and practiced.

Since the songs were less familiar, there was a bit more feedback—but it wasn’t coming from the perfectionist version of Si-on.

“Are we bringing new songs tomorrow too?”

“No. From now on, we’re just going to practice the ones we’ve already sung.”

And so three days passed.

At 1 p.m., like always, the members gathered at LB Studio.

And were met with a shocking announcement.

“Today, you have three performances.”

“…What?”