Little Pink Starfish

“No Filter, No Brakes”

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“LOL Han Si-on’s got some balls.”
“This is unreal.”
“Hyunseok-hyung, pull yourself together!”
“Dude’s frozen.”

Lee Hyunseok was live-streaming a reaction to Ruin Detector with his viewers.

The vibe? Pretty good.

Since Sedalbaekil had no official label announcement, no social media, and no fan interaction platform, fans naturally flocked to Hyunseok’s stream.

Roughly 60–70% of his viewers were Sedalbaekil fans.

Of course, some trolls joined in to stir the pot.
But years of streaming had taught Hyunseok one truth:

Ignore them—attention is their fuel.

Still… this?

“What do you think? From a composer’s perspective, Hyunseok-hyung?”

Though he gained popularity as a Han Si-on supporter, the root of it was the music.

He truly admired Si-on’s work.

But “Selfish”—it was genuinely impressive.

Maybe not a classic yet, but give it time.

Musical quality-wise, “Sedalbaekil” and “Selfish” weren’t far apart.

But in terms of melodic flow and mass appeal, Selfish clearly edged ahead.

So Hyunseok chose honesty:

“Musically they’re both excellent. But in terms of accessibility, I think Selfish is the stronger song.”

Chat blew up.

Still, something gnawed at him.

‘Why did Si-on answer like that?’

Han Si-on was a cold, analytical musician.
Self-aware to a scary degree.

Even star composers often stumbled on bias—they couldn’t judge their own work objectively.

But not Han Si-on.

Take Under the Streetlight.
He made two versions:

1. A cover, using the original MR.
2. A remake, with entirely new instrumentation.

And in the remake?
He cut the most beloved parts from the cover version—without hesitation.

Because the new version was better.

Hyunseok doubted he could’ve made that same call.
Artists grow attached to what audiences love.

But not Si-on.
He was ruthlessly precise.

So this time?

‘Did he really not know?’

If he’d performed Sedalbaekil solo, maybe.

But… he knew.
He had to.

Luckily, the chat moved on—because a new question dropped.

And it was worse.

[Which group do you support more—NOP or Drop Out?]
[NOP.]

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“Damn. Even knowing it was coming… this is brutal.”
“Check live chat—it’s chaos out there.”

Choi Jaeseong shrugged.

Honestly? He hadn’t expected this much heat.

He wasn’t dumb—he knew his answers would piss off fans of both NOP and Drop Out.

America wasn’t any different.

Newcomers criticizing the old guard? That never went over smoothly.

But context mattered too.

Nikki Sixx once played a concert with “Kill Bon Jovi” scrawled on his bass.
Eminem attacked Britney on his debut.
Migos dissed Joe Budden in a joint interview.

Some of it earned hate, some applause.
It all depended on nuance.

Jaeseong had thought long and hard about whether this would blow up.
Sure, Ruin Detector was infamous—but everyone knew its format.

He was under a lie detector, forced to pick one of two options.

“Surely I won’t get ruined just for an honest answer.”

But he’d underestimated things.

This world was colder and crueler.

Jaeseong’s friend and analyst Choi Jaeseong summed it up well:

“It’s because everyone’s a potential rival. Fans tear down others to make more room for their own idols.”
“You think they actually calculate that?”
“Maybe not consciously. But instinctively? For sure.”

Fandoms were something else.

Not sarcastically—Jaeseong genuinely admired the devotion.

When NOP fans once mistook him for a new member and lost their minds, or when Way From Flower stans attacked him—he saw it.

It went beyond support.
It was symbiosis.
They lived and breathed through their idols.

(“If I call it unity-of-fan-and-idol, will I sound old?”)

He’d handled most of the remaining questions well.

The real landmines would’ve been about Coming Up Next or Lion Entertainment—but the show avoided those.

Watching the stream, Koo Taehwan asked:

“How are you dodging so cleanly?”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I mean… yeah. But the detector doesn’t catch it.”

Taehwan wasn’t wrong.

Jaeseong had a secret:

He could cheat the polygraph—by remembering the right life.

He first realized this during the FBI interrogation.

He’d been forced to lie under a lie detector.

But with thousands of lifetimes lived, it wasn’t hard to recall one that fit.

To the FBI, he seemed like a deranged gambler who’d bet everything on trash stocks.
They closed the case.

So when he saw Ruin Detector’s format?

“Perfect.”

Round 2 ended.
Round 3 began.

“Isn’t Round 3 the hard one?”
“Not really.”

Actually, it was easier for him.
2nd round focused on people—trickier.

Round 3 was mostly facts.
Easier to handle.

Chat started calling it boring.

[This episode is like “Hope Edition.”]
[Yeah, really.]

Even the MCs said it on screen.

The staff had been unsure at first—but warmed up to him.

His episode might inspire other half-ruined celebrities to reach out.

As the show wound down, the final two official questions arrived.

First:

[What’s your biggest regret? What past would you change?]

A poetic way of asking for your darkest moment.

Jaeseong’s answer was obvious:

The car accident.

That day, they were heading to the airport for a family trip.

He had overslept.

They were supposed to leave at 2 a.m., but he’d fallen asleep early—and overslept again even after being woken up.

They left at 2:30.

30 minutes later, the accident happened.

His father wasn’t speeding, but they were hurrying—because he had made them late.

It was my fault.

So he answered:

[I once overslept.]
[That’s the moment I most regret.]

The polygraph said TRUE.

But of course, the MCs wanted more:

[What happened because you overslept?]
[I invoke my right to remain silent.]

He used his only veto here—at the very end.

Viewers were confused:

• “Wait, you’re using it now?”
• “LOL did he get dumped for sleeping in?”
• “Maybe it’s from kindergarten.”

MCs, stunned, moved to the final question.

They were bound by the show’s rules.

[What is your ultimate goal, Han Si-on?]

This one tripped up a lot of guests.
No one’s real goal was “To give back to my fans.”

Usually, it was “get rich and chill.”

But Si-on answered simply:

[To sell as many albums as possible with Sedalbaekil.]
[Until when?]
[Hmm… maybe until I’m 70.]

A modest goal.
But real.

Math checks out.

One album a year from age 20 to 70 = 50 albums.
Each needs to sell 4 million copies = 200 million total.

Some albums will be hits.
Some will be production credits.
He could do solo and group albums in a year.

But in all his lives, he’d never succeeded in this goal.

He could do it.
But his teammates never could.

Not just For the Youth, where things ended bitterly.
All of them.

By year 5, idols start thinking about what to do with the money they’ve saved.

And they’re not wrong.
Maybe he’s the one in the wrong—for being disappointed in that.

But when his answer came back TRUE, the chat exploded.

“Till the dinner show!”

Wait, what?

A dinner show—like, in a big hotel ballroom?

He’d done one in Vegas once.

Oh.
They meant he should get that big.

That’d be nice.

And so, Ruin Detector ended.

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[Han Si-on of Sedalbaekil: “‘Sedalbaekil’ is a better song than ‘Selfish’”]
[New idol’s “too honest” comments spark backlash online.]
[Rookie idol stirs controversy with blunt answers on Ruin Detector.]
[Han Si-on names NOP over Drop Out—fan wars ignite.]
[Drop Out’s ‘Selfish’ tops weekly charts. Where does Sedalbaekil stand?]

The articles flooded in.

Entertainment headlines were always provocative—but this time, it was aggressive.

Reporters were going all in.

And the public was biting.

“Wow, dude’s got guts.”
“That’s not guts. It’s arrogance from a newbie who got a little screen time.”
“Didn’t he always seem kinda full of himself?”
“Yeah. Just lives off his own hype.”

From the moment he stepped into a rivalry with giants like NOP and Drop Out—this was inevitable.