Little Pink Starfish

“The Owners of Inspiration”

Chris Edwards quickly scanned the track titles:

Forever, Wood, Man in the Dangerous—nothing fancy.

“What is this?”

– “Songs I wrote while thinking of certain people.”
“Who? Don’t tell me… your girlfriend?”
– “Gross. No. One of them is actually inspired by you.”
“Oh, shit. So what do you want me to do? Give feedback?”
– “No.”

What Han Si-on said next was strange:

– “I want you to play the songs for the people they were inspired by.”
“Who are they?”
– “You’ll know when you hear them. That’s part of the fun.”
“What if I guess wrong?”
– “Then I wrote them wrong.”

Confident. Self-assured.
Chris had always heard that East Asians were shy, but Si-on was clearly different.
Then again, it’d be stranger not to be bold with that level of talent.

“Alright. I’ll listen. But hang on—”
– “Still got something to say?”
“Let’s talk after I figure out who these songs belong to.”

Chris hung up and paused.
The term “inspiration’s owner” suggested these weren’t technical pieces—they were emotional.
He powered on his desktop and began listening through his monitor speakers.

Each track was short:

• Shortest: 58 seconds
• Longest: 1 minute 21 seconds

Too brief to be a finished song—more like musical seeds.

He hit play on Track 1: Forever.

Chris’s face twisted strangely.
He knew this music.

‘…This is my song.’

Not something he’d written—but something he’d want to write.
A track that triggered a flood of ideas instantly.

But the weird part? He didn’t know why.
The inspiration felt real—but intangible.

Moving on:
Track 2 – Wood.
About 30 seconds in, Chris froze.

‘This is Lucid Bean!’

That unmistakable soul-punk tone.
Lucid’s musical DNA was all over it.

But Chris owned every Lucid Bean album.
Unless Si-on hacked Lucid’s computer, he’d composed this himself.

Yet again—something felt off.
Lucid Bean famously used his own face as album covers.
His latest cover showed him, now in his late 50s, smiling brightly.

And yet—listening to Wood, Chris didn’t picture the elder musician.

He saw the young Lucid Bean.

Track 3 was the same.

Man in the Dangerous → It screamed Yankos Greenwood.
Pop-jazz at its finest. But again: young Yankos.

Chris didn’t even know what young Yankos looked like.
But his mind painted the image anyway.

He played through all 8 tracks—each evoking legendary musicians in their prime:

• Lucid Bean
• Yankos Greenwood
• Moscos
• Eric Scott
• Roots Robbie
• Mary Jones
• Donald MacGus
• Himself (Chris Edwards)

After finishing, he immediately called Si-on back.

“Let me guess. First one’s me, right?”
– “Correct.”
“The rest are Lucid, Yankos, Moscos, Eric, Robbie, Mary, and… last one is tricky. Donald MacGus?”
– “Bingo. Why tricky?”
“Couldn’t visualize his youth.”
– “Makes sense. MacGus’s music didn’t change much with age. The god of blues.”

Chris had guessed right.
Si-on had recreated the spirit of these musical giants—specifically, their younger selves.

But why? How?

Chris was overwhelmed with questions—but decided to keep it moving:

“How should I deliver these?”
– “Naturally. But tell them a story.”
“What kind?”
– “Say a young musician dreamed of becoming them. Woke up and recorded the music he played in the dream. Couldn’t write anything better since.”
“So what do you want, exactly?”
– “I want them to make a song from it.”
“You’ll sing it?”
– “I’ll arrange and sing the Korean version. Let them handle the rest. HR can take over.”
“So co-composer credits?”
– “Of course.”

Chris laughed.

“You planning to conquer the world with this?”
– “With this? Nah. Just some nostalgia bait. They’re all has-beens now—except Roots Robbie maybe.”
“What are you talking about? Yankos is Billboard No. 1.”
– “Not on the Billboard 200. He topped the jazz chart, right?”

Chris couldn’t help but laugh harder.
Even if the jazz chart isn’t Hot 100-level, it’s still major.
But Si-on spoke as if it were nothing.

And strangely—it didn’t feel arrogant.
It just felt honest.

– “Don’t overthink it. Just pass them along.”

But Chris couldn’t take it lightly.

Some of these seeds could easily get Grammy nominations depending on how they were developed.

Especially Track 1—Forever.

The potential was enormous.
But that also made it harder to work with.

So many creative directions to take.

And then, it hit him:

“Wait… are these inspired by their youthful selves?”
– “Exactly.”

Like aging footballers who finally understand the game—
but whose bodies can no longer keep up.

Musicians are the same.
When young, they’re raw, untamed, burning like suns.
But they lack technique, structure, and control.

Later, they learn all those things—
but the flame dies down.

Chris understood now:
Han Si-on had distilled their younger fire—
and was giving it back to them.

“…How is that even possible?”
– “I studied their music. Learned from them.”
“Then what about my track? Is that what my younger self sounds like to others?”
– “Nah. Yours is a message from your future self. Time to grow up.”

– “If you like it, don’t overthink. Just use it.”

Chris nodded. He would.
He figured the other musicians would do the same.

Still, he teased:

“You know these people are rich, powerful legends, right?
Delivering this to them won’t be easy.”
– “Really?”
“I’ll have to tour the U.S. to meet them. How do I get compensated for that?”
– “Hmm. I’ll call Alex. But the first track gets deleted.”
“WHAT? Hey!”

Chris huffed—but deep down, he was thrilled.

It was a ridiculous request—but not impossible.

In fact, he was already working on an HBO project:
A documentary-style program featuring conversations between current and past musical icons.

So meeting these people? Easy.

The strange thing?
That project was supposed to be secret.

He never told Si-on about it. Only that he’d return to the U.S. for work.

“…Does he know somehow?”

Chris shook the thought away.
Didn’t matter.

What mattered was what these songs could become.
The possibilities were intoxicating.

He glanced at his schedule and his eyes lit up.

In two days—he’d meet Yankos Greenwood.

Would the pop-jazz legend see his younger self in Si-on’s music?

Would he feel the fire again?

---

Meanwhile…

Choi Se-hee, who backed Drop Out as her main group and Sedalbaekil as her side project, had mixed feelings.

On the one hand—she was thrilled.
Drop Out’s new single Selfish was smashing every record.

• Goosebumps from the first note.
• A music video that perfectly matched the song.
• A god-tier idol performance.

It was the holy trinity of idol perfection.
And watching NOP fans go quiet was just icing on the cake.

But…

She was also upset.
Because Sedalbaekil had vanished since being eliminated from Coming Up Next.

Everyone assumed TakeScene would win—it was obvious they were being groomed to debut.
So the loss didn’t sting that much.

What did hurt was Sedalbaekil’s complete erasure.

No news articles.
No online mentions.
No indie gigs anymore.

“They’ve definitely been blacklisted.”

Somehow, they crossed Chae Taeho.

So now, Se-hee was desperately waiting for 6 PM.

When Han Si-on’s episode of Ruin Detector would go live.

The teaser had shocked her—but now, she was grateful.
At least it meant Sedalbaekil hadn’t been completely locked out.

And if the show really asked the tough questions…
She might finally get clues about what really happened.

The clock ticked.
6:00 PM.

The video dropped.