Little Pink Starfish

Cameras were being set up inside LB Studio.

This had become a fairly common sight lately.

There had been many Coming Up Next shoots at LB Studio.

But today’s shoot wasn’t a broadcast production; it was a Sedalbaekil production.

More precisely, it was a shoot organized by Create X, whom Sedalbaekil had hired.

For reference, Lee Hyunseok had received permission from Han Sion to stream today’s recording session on his personal broadcast.

He could already imagine how much his viewers would enjoy it if he added some behind-the-scenes commentary.

As he watched the Sedalbaekil members warming up, Lee Hyunseok couldn’t help but think,

‘They’re doing better than I expected.’

When they first cut ties with Ryan Entertainment, he thought they would be ostracized from the industry.

That’s why he initially felt the need to help them.

But in reality, his help was minimal—lending them studio space before they secured a dorm and practice room, and using some of his personal connections to quickly source the necessary equipment.

Aside from that, Sedalbaekil had accomplished everything as true self-made artists.

And yet, the results they were achieving were remarkable.

By this point, Sedalbaekil seemed more like an indie band to Lee Hyunseok than an idol group.

Despite the public misconception, being an indie band doesn’t mean playing a niche genre.

It simply means being independent from corporate control, true to the literal meaning of “independent.”

And in a capitalist society, complete independence is impossible anyway.

More realistically, it meant maintaining artistic control even while affiliated with a company.

By that definition, Sedalbaekil was a genuine independent act.

‘Since K-pop has essentially become a genre now… I guess you could call them an indie band doing K-pop.’

It sounded odd, but it best described what Sedalbaekil was.

Besides, in the Western market, “boy band” is often used instead of “boy group.”

If Sedalbaekil succeeded as they were now, they might become the most successful indie band in Korean music history.

However, Lee Hyunseok lacked a business mind.

He couldn’t recognize just how big of a chance Sedalbaekil had foolishly let slip.

In the industry, there was a lot of buzz about how Sedalbaekil went silent during their golden window of opportunity.

Max Taeho, who had been closely monitoring them, was especially dumbfounded.

But regardless of how others viewed them, Sedalbaekil didn’t care.

For the past week, all their focus had been on recording Resume.

“Sedalbaekil, you may begin.”

At the cue from the studio staff, Han Sion nodded and pushed Lee I-on into the recording booth.

‘Huh? Starting with Lee I-on?’

It was common knowledge that the song’s intro belonged to Goo Taehwan.

But then again, recording order didn’t have to follow verse order.

With that thought, Lee Hyunseok quietly found a spot among the staff to observe without disturbing the recording.

He had actually offered to help with directing, but Han Sion had politely declined, saying he wanted to handle it himself.

Lee Hyunseok wasn’t offended, though he found it a bit surprising.

Of course, Han Sion had already proven his recording skills.

Starting from Under the Streetlight, most of his recordings had wrapped in just two takes.

Lee Hyunseok couldn’t recall a session that had lasted even an hour.

But directing others’ recordings was an entirely different skill.

You had to guide someone else’s performance, not just execute your own.

Especially for prodigies like Han Sion who did everything easily—it could actually be more difficult.

You can’t teach someone to control their diaphragm when they’ve been breathing naturally their whole life.

For Han Sion, music seemed as effortless as breathing itself.

‘If a problem comes up, I’ll step in.’

At that moment, Lee I-on’s mic level adjustments finished, and the recording began.

That’s when something very odd caught Lee Hyunseok’s eye.

Lee I-on wasn’t listening to the beat.

At first, he thought it was a mistake, but Han Sion’s calm demeanor said otherwise.

Without hearing the beat, Lee I-on began singing a cappella.

Woo- Good morning

Did you have

Sweet dreams

Warm feelings

The timing was so precise it was as if a metronome was playing.

But what surprised Lee Hyunseok wasn’t the timing—it was Lee I-on’s voice.

It sounded different.

‘Did his tone change?’

But that wasn’t it.

Vocal tone doesn’t change that quickly, and Lee I-on’s tone was unique to begin with.

Rather, it was—

‘Vocal pressure?’

The sound pressure felt different.

It was like going from 720p to 1080p video resolution—or maybe even higher.

It was clear, vivid.

But not stiff or harsh. It was smooth and warm.

Korean, unlike English, has fewer connected vowels and more sibilant sounds.

That’s neither good nor bad—it’s just different.

But certain genres require different textures.

Bedroom pop demands a soft, warm, rounded sound.

It’s hard to achieve with Korean, yet Lee I-on had nailed it.

He wasn’t slurring; his articulation was perfect and pleasant.

‘How did he do this?’

Sharper sound, softer texture, and crystal-clear diction.

Individually, these aren’t groundbreaking changes.

But achieving them all together in such a short time is remarkable.

Usually, improving one compromises another.

Lee I-on’s tier as a vocalist had clearly jumped multiple levels.

Lee Hyunseok was amazed.

But Han Sion, today’s director, was not.

“Again. Do it properly, hyung.”

Properly?

What level of perfection was he aiming for?

But as the session continued, it became clear Han Sion was right.

Lee I-on could do better.

Two hours later, two perfect bars of recording were complete.

What Lee Hyunseok didn’t know was that during Resume’s live performance, Lee I-on had sung from the bathroom not for realism, but to soften his uncomfortable tone.

Now, that wasn’t necessary.

“Next. Goo Taehwan.”

Goo Taehwan also didn’t listen to the beat.

He listened to Lee I-on’s recorded vocals.

“Your emotion should be slightly more subdued than I-on hyung’s.”

“Got it.”

Lee Hyunseok ranked Elton John as the greatest rhythm singer in the world.

Elton John was one of the most commercially successful musicians in pop history.

Among Beatles, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, and Elton John—the top record sellers of all time.

But his vocal prowess wasn’t necessarily god-tier.

He was great, sure, but not 300-million-records-great based on technical singing alone.

His secret weapons were timbre and rhythm.

Timbre may be innate, but his rhythm was uncanny.

Even if the sheet music was identical, his phrasing made it entirely different.

It was impossible to imitate.

And now, Goo Taehwan was giving off a hint of Elton John.

Not that he was on Elton’s level—but you could taste the flavor.

Starting phrases with nearly imperceptible pianissimo downbeats, then suddenly bursting into full power to maximize auditory satisfaction.

Unable to contain himself, Lee Hyunseok approached Han Sion.

“Elton John?”

“Ah, yes. You noticed?”

“How did you replicate that? You can’t just copy it.”

“We didn’t copy. Just took it as inspiration.”

“But how?”

Han Sion tilted his head.

“You just create the vibe. You can’t copy the tone, but you can emulate the feel.”

“…”

This is what’s maddening about geniuses.

They can do it, but can’t explain it.

‘But how did he train them like this if he can’t even explain it?’

Actually, this was a misunderstanding.

Han Sion could explain. He just couldn’t be bothered.

He wasn’t born a genius; he simply acted like one out of convenience.

Goo Taehwan’s session wrapped much faster than Lee I-on’s.

Now Lee Hyunseok was genuinely excited.

What kind of transformation would Choi Jaesung and Oh Saemi show?

In short, Choi Jaesung had leveled up across the board.

No single area dramatically improved; instead, everything improved evenly.

This was even more baffling.

No trainer can teach this. Only time usually does.

Yet somehow Han Sion had accelerated it.

Oh Saemi initially seemed unchanged.

But once she hit her high notes, it was clear.

She had refined only her high register.

Previously, there had been a trade-off between her expressiveness and vocal technique.

But now both were above 70%.

Her high notes were dazzling.

You couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if she reached 100%.

At this point, Lee Hyunseok had a strange thought.

‘Aren’t the members almost as skilled as Han Sion now?’

Technically, Han Sion was still ahead.

More precise, more polished.

But people are rarely impressed when someone who’s always good continues being good.

And then—

“I was an idiot.”

Han Sion was simply on another level.

Perhaps he had been holding himself back to maintain balance within the team.

If he unleashed himself fully, it might have destabilized the group.

But now that the members had risen so dramatically, he rose too.

He had no choice.

The director from Create X approached with admiration.

“This is amazing. Do all singers sound like this live?”

“Of course not.”

“Will this quality carry over into the final track?”

Lee Hyunseok laughed.

This wasn’t the floppy disk era.

Aside from analog sound preferences, today’s digital audio is much higher quality than old LPs.

“Of course it will.”

“Then why don’t most singers achieve this?”

“I think you misunderstand. What you’re witnessing here isn’t what most singers can do.”

As he said this, his heart pounded.

What would happen once this track was released?

---

The recording wrapped after a grueling 14 hours.

Mixing and mastering remained, but in my mind, everything was already complete.

I could already hear the final sound.

All that was left was executing it.

The members, exhausted from the long session, stared at me expectantly.

I opened my mouth to satisfy their curiosity.

“…70 points.”

My friends clenched their fists in triumph.