Little Pink Starfish

But Goo Tae-hwan, unaware of all this, could only react with confusion.

“The indie gigs failed, didn’t they?”

“What do you mean ‘failed’? We’re all improving. Still a long way to go, but.”

“What about buzz? Public attention?”

“Ah, that?”

The truth was, before Tae-hwan brought it up, Han Si-on had been deep in a completely different train of thought.

It took him a second to catch up.

“You thought us doing a few indie performances meant we were fighting Lion Entertainment?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Not even close. I said it from the start—this isn’t the fight yet.”

He had said it very clearly:

“We’ll begin actual activity in 3 weeks.”

“Three weeks?”

“Yeah, when Episode 10 of Coming Up Next airs.”

Episode 8 had aired today. That left two weeks.

“So everything we’re doing right now… it’s all just for improving our live performance?”

“For now, yeah. How is it? You feel like you’ve improved?”

The Sedalbaekil crew nodded.

The time wasn’t long, but the number of shows they’d done was massive.

That led to a variety of performance scenarios—some good, some brutally difficult.

Small venues with roaring support, cold and hostile crowds, drunk hecklers, and even a DJ who messed up the EQ so badly the backing track sounded warped.

All that—in just a single week.

It would’ve been stranger if their skills hadn’t improved.

“So stop overthinking. Just go write your review notes from yesterday’s show—you haven’t yet, have you?”

They had performed just the day before—on a Thursday.

Most of their shows were packed into weekends, but weekdays weren’t empty either.

Venues were cheaper and easier to book on weekdays.

Yesterday’s show, though, was different.

A pure hip-hop showcase—no vocalists at all.

What Sedalbaekil learned there was rhythm.

Hip-hop fans didn’t hate vocals—but only responded to ones with rhythm they could nod along to.

Whether rock or R\&B, if the groove didn’t catch, they didn’t react.

It’s like how jazz has “swing”—that unexplainable core of groove.

You can’t define it, but you can feel when it’s there.

Yesterday, Sedalbaekil felt that firsthand.

The crowd that barely clapped under streetlamps came alive when a rhythmic song dropped.

In that sense, Goo Tae-hwan was the night’s MVP.

His natural rhythm was blooming—yesterday, he even got more cheers than Si-on.

Though of course, Si-on couldn’t take that lying down, so he suddenly dropped a rap verse and stole the energy back.

The others were stunned.

They’d heard his rap in “Boy Scout” by NOP, and figured he was decent.

They didn’t know he was that good.

Honestly, if someone told them he was a currently active pro rapper, they’d believe it.

Then Choi Jae-sung raised his hand high.

“Trainer Han Si-on.”

“What.”

“My body hurts too much.”

“Eventually you’ll miss the soreness. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“It’s not. One day, when you don’t feel sore, you’ll think you slacked off.”

“Wouldn’t I look like a tank by then?”

Si-on smirked.

“If muscles were that easy to grow, why would bodybuilders exist?”

Jae-sung hesitated but then got to the real point.

“I’m curious about something.”

“Go on.”

“Yesterday, when Tae-hwan got more cheers… did you start rapping out of jealousy?”

A tiny shift in Si-on’s expression.

Almost imperceptible.

But they’d lived together for over three months—they noticed everything.

The glint in everyone’s eye returned. Rare as it was, teasing Si-on was fun.

“Of course not.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

“Then why’d you suddenly rap when it wasn’t on the cue sheet? Borrowing an MR from the previous performer, too?”

“I’d made a verse for that MR before. Got hyped in the moment.”

“Hmm.”

“And I was curious how my rap would be received in a hip-hop crowd.”

“Hmm.”

“Plus, the mic was set up for rappers, not vocalists. Low reverb, weird EQ.”

“Hmm.”

Jae-sung kept repeating “Hmm,” while Si-on kept up his perfectly logical deflection.

The more technical the explanation, the more obvious the truth: Si-on absolutely rapped out of pride.

Because Si-on never explained himself this much.

On the 8th “Hmm,” Si-on finally admitted it.

What he said earlier was true—but yes, he also did it because he felt his solo moment was lacking energy.

“Direct hit landed.”

Everyone burst into laughter at Jae-sung’s verdict.

Their silly banter died down, and Si-on clapped his hands.

“Alright, focus.”

At first they thought he was trying to change the subject out of embarrassment, but no.

He had something important to say.

“You guys know we’ve got five shows tomorrow, right?”

“That’s a record.”

“Luckily, two are in Hongdae in the early evening, and three are in Itaewon after midnight.”

“Lucky how?”

“Because that gives you time to travel. You’ll be using subway or taxis tomorrow.”

“Why? What about you?”

“I can’t come. Got something to do.”

“Something?”

What Si-on said next shocked them.

“I’ve got a variety show to shoot.”

“A variety show? Someone invited you?”

“No. I contacted them. Asked to be filmed.”

“Which show?”

When he dropped the name, they were stunned.

Yes, it was wildly popular.

But…

“You’re going on that show??”

“Yup.”

“That’s where people go to destroy their careers…”

Lee Ion, Tae-hwan, and Jae-sung looked horrified.

Even On Sae-mi-ro, who never watched variety shows, shared their reaction after watching a clip on Jae-sung’s phone.

But Si-on stayed calm.

“I won’t get wrecked.”

“Really? Then you won’t even get screen time. That’s the gimmick.”

“Maybe it’s time someone broke that gimmick.”

“Where do you get this confidence?”

“Experience.”

They laughed—because it was true.

Still, they nodded.

“Your part will probably air two weeks from now—right when Coming Up Next ends.”

That’s when they realized: this was part of the plan.

And that realization came with dread.

They’d have to do tomorrow’s performances without Si-on.

He had always handled emergencies flawlessly.

They’d grown used to thinking, “we just have to sing well.”

But now? It was up to them.

Which meant…

“I’ll take responsibility,” thought Lee Ion, the eldest.

“Guess I’m the only one reading the room,” thought Goo Tae-hwan.

“They’ve all grown up sheltered,” thought On Sae-mi-ro.

“They don’t even grasp the weight of being idols,” thought Choi Jae-sung.

Unknowingly, the Four-Man Responsibility Force was born.

Ironically, Si-on wouldn’t have minded if the shows bombed.

All artists fail eventually.

Unless they’re time-travelers.

Better they fail now—when nothing’s riding on it.

No fans, no reputation, no risk.

“One last thing: we’re starting album production on Monday.”

“Our album? A full one?”

“Nah. Just an EP.”

“Mini-album, right?”

“Right.”

“You doing all the songs and arrangements?”

Si-on shrugged.

He could, but that wasn’t the point.

“I’ll arrange. But I want the songs to come from well-known names—like Eddy.”

“Besides Chris Edwards, anyone else lined up?”

“Not yet. But I’ll find them.”

He didn’t say more—but it was clear he had a plan.

That’s when On Sae-mi-ro asked the important question:

“What about money?”

“Huh?”

“Right now all we spend is gas. But album production takes serious cash.”

He was right.

Despite Coming Up Next breaking 10%, their appearance fee wasn’t even 3 million won per person.

And the show wasn’t even paying every contestant—only some, and only because it was team-based.

Top 10 members might start getting paid soon, but not yet.

As for music revenue? That takes 3 months post-release to show up.

None of them had seen a single won yet.

“So how’re we covering album costs?”

Si-on answered like it was obvious.

“On credit, of course. What—you didn’t know? Even our gas is on a tab.”

“Credit? With who?”

“Me.”

That’s when the crew understood.

That visit from the “great-uncle” during filming, the lawyers, the inheritance…

Han Si-on had won.

“But what if we fail?”

“Then I lose the money.”

“Isn’t that money you can’t lose?”

“Then don’t lose it. Succeed.”

Easier said than done.

But for the first time, Sedalbaekil felt the weight of this endeavor.

They called themselves a “crew”—something closer to a club than a company.

But soon, they’d be putting more on the line.

First it’s Si-on’s money and their own sense of duty.

Then it’ll be time.

Eventually… it’ll be their lives.

All the wins and losses, joys and heartbreaks—etched into the name Sedalbaekil.

So they had to succeed.

They had to be good.

This was the first time they truly felt that desperation.

“Si-on… your shoot’s tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck. I’m worried, but… I trust you.”

“Thanks.”

“Then we’ll make sure to crush tomorrow’s shows.”

“Mm. Good.”

Their hearts burned with resolve and duty.

But Han Si-on?

He didn’t really care.

“This is how every agency works anyway.”

Training fees, housing, production costs—all debts.

Only to be paid back when revenue kicks in.

And so, in that tiny misunderstanding, Sedalbaekil’s passion only burned hotter.