Little Pink Starfish

A world without Constellations.

We decided that would be the theme for our debut song.

The concept had been in the works…

Ever since the planning meeting held at YN Entertainment headquarters.

All the Laurea members were present, along with their respective agency representatives and staff dispatched from CYB.

“…How about a male Hunter concept?”

That suggestion came from none other than the damned CEO of my agency, Jeong Moonsik.

“Isn’t it a good idea? Our company already had a big hit with a girl group based on the female Hunter concept…”

Was that really your idea, sir?

That question nearly escaped my throat, but I swallowed it down.

The success of White Lily, the group with the female Hunter concept, was thanks to the members’ hard work. The fact they managed to act naturally while wielding CGI weapons was a massive achievement. Even kind-hearted Amil would twitch her eyebrows every time the group’s concept came up…

<Hunter?>

I heard Saetbyeol’s voice in my mind.

I turned and looked at his face.

He stood upright with his hands behind his back, a grin forming at the corner of his mouth.

<…Hmph. Watching you pose with a sword would be quite the comedy. “Hiyah! Take this!” while you battle 3D monsters? I’d love to laugh out loud clutching my stomach, but I’ll hold back since this seems important.>

‘I’m never doing anything like that, so don’t even dream about it…’

I replied in earnest.

And I wasn’t the only one silently suffering.

Every member except for Madojin was staring at me with the same look: please shut your CEO up.

“Uh, sir, I don’t think that’s the best idea…”

I raised my hand and tried to interject, when—

“Sunbae…”

It was Myeong Suk-ja, seated beside Jeong Noeul, who spoke up.

“…You really do love that era, don’t you?”

She gently wrapped her hands around Noeul’s, her expression calm. As the CEO of Hyacinth Studio, Noeul’s agency, she had also lived through the Gate era as a Hunter alongside Jeong Moonsik.

“Well…”

Jeong scratched his neck.

“Rather than loving it, I just… can’t stand the thought of it being forgotten. Maybe you don’t like it, but I still appear on historical programs now and then to make sure the younger generation remembers our era…”

“Personally, just remembering my comrades who died is painful enough.”

Still wearing her gentle smile, Myeong Suk-ja spoke.

“Even though the Gates are all closed now, the dead don’t come back. I can’t even sleep without sleeping pills these days.”

She was politely criticizing Jeong Moonsik, all while holding Noeul’s hand as if to acknowledge the burdens he carried as Abrilah’s reincarnation.

‘Right…’

As if Noeul didn’t already suffer enough from his past life. Asking him to play a Hunter—the saviors of humanity—was basically torture.

“Putting aside your respective points…”

Jin Sol, director at Hanbit Entus and once a member of Codess with Rowen, spoke up.

“…I think asking young people who didn’t even experience that era to portray Hunters is a bit much. It might end up burdening them with the weight of historical awareness.”

“But White Lily did just fine…”

Jeong Moonsik protested with a wounded expression, but—<Not every era needs to be remembered.>

Mika cut him off.

<I’ve worked with various Constellations while at CYB. Well, mostly through documents, of course.>

…Lying while sitting right here in person.

<And none of them particularly favor that era. Think about it. History is made up of countless events. Sure, the Gate crisis was an unprecedented catastrophe, but I don’t think it’s necessary to preserve the trauma of the victims just to remember the tragedy. Besides…>

Mika turned to Jeong Moonsik with a gentle smile.

His expression stiffened.

Thinking back on what Moonsik whispered to me the first time he met Saetbyeol as my road manager…

‘…He must know who Mika really is.’

<More than anything, I personally question whether CEO Jeong’s “creative direction” is really helping preserve that history at all.>

Only someone like Mika could verbally shut down a heavyweight like Jeong Moonsik in a place like this.

“Ah… haha… is that so.”

<Of course, I do think it’s admirable that you’ve consistently donated to Gate-related relief efforts and do volunteer work.>

It’s easier to win someone over by offering medicine after handing out the poison.

<…You’ll definitely go to heaven.>

As Mika declared Jeong Moonsik’s afterlife destination—

“Th-thank you…”

He bowed his head awkwardly, smiling stiffly.

<Now then…>

Mika stood.

<I believe hearing directly from the project team members would be most helpful for this meeting. After all, it’s the road manager—who has to be up at dawn—and the members themselves who’ll be out on the front lines.>

A smile curved at Mika’s lips.

I heard a sharp tch from Saetbyeol beside me.

<…Don’t you all agree?>

Finally, it was our turn.

I let out a sigh of relief with my head bowed.

<Shall we go one by one?>

Mika’s gaze shifted to Madojin.

<Shall we start with you, Madojin?>

“Eh? Uh…”

Madojin looked genuinely flustered—a rare sight. Like a student called to read a passage after dozing off in class.

“I… um…”

He glanced at me for help.

“I…”

His blue-tinged eyes wavered, but I had nothing useful to offer. I just shrugged my shoulders.

“I hope our concept can… soothe people’s pain…”

An answer worthy of an elementary school poster contest entry.

<And what else?>

Mika wasn’t about to let him off that easily.

“…Mm.”

Madojin bowed his head.

“Back during the CYB third regional round in Jeju…”

He gathered his thoughts, then spoke.

“…Our team focused on a song with a theme of mourning. We performed with the goal of easing the pain of the victims. But after that, I watched a documentary…”

“There was an interview with someone who lost their son.”

Jeong Noeul joined in.

“I saw it too. Regardless of our performance, the person looked heartbroken. So much that no song could reach them. That’s why I’m against the Hunter concept too.”

<Then what kind of concept would you like to see, Jeong Noeul?>

Mika asked.

“Something fun!”

Noeul gave another grade-schooler-worthy answer.

“Because sometimes sadness fades when we talk about happy things instead!”

‘Well… yeah…’

I rested my chin on my hand and nodded.

He wasn’t wrong. But we still had no concrete direction.

“Uh, I get everyone’s intentions, but…”

Han Iro finally spoke.

“I can’t picture anything with this. So let’s try fleshing it out. Something to comfort people’s pain… and something fun. Basically, we don’t want a dark theme, right?”

“Yes!”

Said Noeul.

“Mm… Right.”

Madojin agreed.

“But if it’s just cheerful for the sake of it, I don’t think that’ll sell.”

Han Iro gave a realistic assessment.

“I’m against the Hunter concept too, but I do think we need something equally impactful. We’re debuting as a project team, sure, and we have CYB’s backing, but…”

Han Iro narrowed his eyes.

“As you know, not all CYB project teams who debut in the rankings go on to succeed like Codess. That project team from last season totally flopped. I even forgot their name…”

“…Laul.”

I supplied.

Iro nodded.

“Right. Laul. Their debut song was just blandly cheerful. Lyrics were boring… something about waiting for a girl they liked to get off her part-time job.”

‘…Yeah, that was pretty bad.’

Even among CYB top-rankers, not everyone stayed famous. Plenty faded into obscurity.

One actor debuted as the top domestic finalist but was so convincing as a psychopath in a thriller that he got typecast. It took him seven years to claw back his image in a family drama playing a dad.

On the other hand…

‘Laul…’

They debuted with a boring song, and angry fans of lower-ranked trainees tore into them. The group sank before they could make a splash.

They even made it to the global stage, only to be mocked so hard they couldn’t recover.

“No need to worry about the sound.”

Min Heejae finally spoke.

“I’ll be producing. What everyone’s said so far is enough for me to work with. Inspiration isn’t something that arrives fully formed—it becomes clear in the process. That’s where an artist’s skills shine. So don’t worry about the song ending up ‘just cheerful.’”

He was right.

Ideas don’t have to start out fully clear.

And with Heejae producing our debut song, it was practically guaranteed not to be generic.

‘Still…’

I scratched my neck, lost in thought.

‘It’d be nice if something really clicked into place…’<This is truly frustrating.>

Suddenly, Saetbyeol’s voice rang in my mind.

<Do you mortals have such short lifespans that even your sense of history is shrunken? You imitate military uniforms for fashion, you repurpose traditional garments however you please… Just look at that Jeong Moonsik guy. Dressed like a medieval noble. What on earth is he—no, the CEO—doing in that outfit?>

‘He said it’s his personal taste…’

I sighed.

‘Wait…’

As I exhaled hard, the mental weight lifted—and an idea sparked.

‘Are you saying we should look even further into the past for inspiration?’

I asked Saetbyeol.

<Exactly, you ignorant creature. Must I hold your hand through all things?>

‘Ah…’

A light flickered in my brain.

“What if… we tried something like this?”

I raised my hand.

“A story where each character has a personal problem they’re struggling to solve…”

But they live in a world with no Constellations.

Not merely a reflection of the past.

“…It’s a time when the Constellations have all withdrawn their support, so no one can rely on them.”

It was a setting that could just as well reflect our future.