Little Pink Starfish

The video began with a pure white space, at the center of which sat a pitch-black electric guitar.

As the camera lingered on the guitar, faint static white noise could be heard in the background…

Click, click.

The rhythmic sound of footsteps echoed from somewhere.

At that moment, a hand reached out and grabbed the guitar, and as if by magic, a black cable connected to an amp appeared.

As the camera tilted up from the hand, Han Sion came into view.

Grinning, Han Sion began playing the electric guitar.

It was a masterful solo.

The kind you’d believe came from a headliner guitarist of a legendary hard rock band.

The camera stayed tight, capturing Han Sion passionately swinging as he played.

As he strummed the guitar body roughly, the camera was knocked sideways, and Lee Eon appeared.

As I look around me!

The opening line burst forth, almost like a shout.

Reverb-heavy, the moment the line rang out, Han Sion’s guitar blazed once more.

But interestingly, the guitar’s power diminished; instead, it became more melodic.

As if Lee Eon were the first electric guitar and Han Sion the second melodic guitar.

Satan wanna put me in bowtie.

Lee Eon normally made great effort to harmonize his sharp, rough tone with precision.

But this time, he didn’t hide his rasp at all.

In response, Han Sion’s guitar softened its playing even more.

What started as a hard rock intro had, within just two measures, transitioned into contemporary rock.

Just then, Goo Taehwan appeared from seemingly nowhere in the white space and began to sing.

The entire space shifted to a bright, vivid orange.

What you gonna do?

Han Sion had long ranked Sedalbaekil’s talent as lower than the other teams he’d built.

It was a cold but accurate assessment, considering his previous teams scaled Billboard and won Grammys like a stroll up the neighborhood hill.

But there was one exception: Goo Taehwan.

I need all the love,

Tone, pronunciation, and vocal technique can all be corrected.

Unless you’re born with an unfortunate timbre like Lee Eon, they can all be fixed.

But Goo Taehwan’s sense of rhythm was something truly innate.

Even with autotune or timing software, it’s impossible to replicate.

How much breath you use for each word.

How long you hold the breath between measures.

When to take a breath, and when to empty your lungs.

All these countless factors blend instinctively to create what we call “rhythm.”

I mean all of us

Under the vivid orange light, Goo Taehwan sang just as Han Sion always wanted to see him.

His voice had such rich elasticity that what once felt like contemporary rock now sounded like rock-based contemporary R&B.

The moment Goo Taehwan inhaled at the end of his short part, the camera spun, and the world turned purple.

Simultaneously, Choi Jaesung danced excitedly to the electric guitar.

The “breakdown” that birthed hip-hop originated with drums.

The human heartbeat syncs to external rhythm, and as drums speed up, the heartbeat follows, prompting the brain to interpret it as excitement.

That’s exactly where Choi Jaesung’s dancing hit.

He started first, and then the delayed beat of the drums followed—initially confusing, but eventually addictive.

What had been a powerful guitar solo from Han Sion now felt like a looped sample section, while Lee Eon’s initial war cry became a melodic chant.

Goo Taehwan’s rhythmic echoes lingered inside the drums, which Choi Jaesung fully embraced.

The message this stage aimed to convey was simple:

We excel individually.
But imagine what we can do when we unite.

The screen filled with blue light.

Sedalbaekil’s color.

As I look around me!

Lee Eon shouted again, but this time it wasn’t aggressive.

Still sharp, but now blending into the beat.

It wasn’t a declaration of war.

It simply signaled that the song was now truly beginning.

Then On Saemiro jumped in at an elevated octave.

Colorful Struggle.

Originally, Han Sion wrote this song out of his exhaustion with show business.

The public saw only his glitz, but behind it was constant struggle.

As the lyrics say, Satan wants him in a bowtie (the kind worn at funerals), but only love can save him.

So he had no choice but to sing.

In front of a dirty mirror

Only the stained mirror knows his full story.

But strangely enough, though Han Sion had sung Colorful Struggle in nearly every regression, and handed it to others when he couldn’t, he had never once performed it as a team.

This was his first time singing it with Sedalbaekil.

They found me

---

When the video ended, Paul, chief manager at Colors Media, finally closed his gaping mouth.

He fell deep into thought.

When he first heard the name “3 Months 100 Days,” he was baffled.

Three months and a hundred days?
Even for a band name, it was weird.

It reminded him of when he first heard names like Hollywood Undead, White Zombie, or System of a Down.

But after hearing the song, it weirdly fit.

Just like when he first heard Cigarettes After Sex and was dumbfounded, but understood after listening to their music.

Yet, Paul still felt an odd discomfort.

Why was that?

Was it because they were Asian?

Absolutely not.

Paul wasn’t a racist; he was deeply interested in the Asian market and artists.

Was the video quality lacking?

Nonsense.

What impressed him was how perfectly the performers executed the producer’s intentions.

Technically speaking, the stage composition was a bit chaotic.

Guitar solo?
Harsh vocal intro with genre shifts?
Suddenly a rhythmic R&B feel?
An abrupt dance break?

If they were to release an official audio version, the guitar intro to the dance break would likely be cut.
The real song would start afterward.

And yet, Paul had been completely absorbed because the performers flawlessly embodied the producer’s vision.

Any slight misstep would’ve made it messy, but there was none of that.

It was perfect.

Was the music lacking?

“Fuck.”

He cursed at himself for even thinking it.

He analyzed his feelings again.

“Is it because there are too many members?”

That was a factor.

Color Show typically focuses on one performer—two at most.

But if a team can perform this cohesively, does it even matter?

In short, he didn’t know what was bothering him.

Unable to find an answer, Paul took the video to another manager.

Of course, explaining was difficult.

“So you’re telling me it’s an unknown genius K-pop artist collaborating with legendary producers?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but just watch it.”

“Are you sure this isn’t fake?”

“Whether it is or isn’t, let’s talk after watching.”

The manager reacted exactly as Paul had.

After watching, still caught in amazement, he finally spoke.

“Wow, who are these guys? 3 Months 100 Days?”

“K-pop artists.”

“But K-pop boy bands don’t usually feel like this.”

“Forget that for now. What did you think?”

“The song and video were great, but something felt… unpleasant.”

“Huh? Why?”

“This format—it’s Color Show’s style. Except for the frequent color changes, it’s exactly like our productions.”

“So? Plenty of portfolio videos mimic us.”

“True… but… huh? Why was I so bothered?”

“Right? You feel it too?”

“You as well, Chief?”

“Exactly. That’s why I showed it to you.”

Ironically, it was an intern who accidentally solved their mystery.

Working nearby, the intern happened to see the video and said:

“Wow! This is amazing!”

“What is?”

“A new media team took over, right? This looks so good!”

“Huh?”

“When’s this coming out? I think people will go crazy for it.”

At that moment, Paul and the manager realized what had made them uncomfortable.

The 3 Months 100 Days portfolio video…
Looked better than anything they had produced at Colors Media.

Not in terms of pure camera work or editing — there were flaws there.

But the overwhelming presence of the performers erased any awkwardness.

With budget, the technical parts could be easily upgraded.

The more important issue was the video’s essence — its concept and execution.

And on that front, it surpassed their official content.

The manager spoke up.

“Chief.”

“What?”

“Can we make something better than this if we take it on?”

“…”

“At the very least, we’d have to top this portfolio video…”

Paul couldn’t answer quickly.

But that made him even more determined.

“We’ll do it.”

“Should we contact the artist immediately?”

“Yes. Get an interpreter too, in case of language issues.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll start analyzing this with the art team.”

Paul was fired up.

What he failed to realize was that he had very easily greenlit Sedalbaekil’s appearance.

Color Show had never featured a K-pop artist, nor a full group.

The reason was simple.

Han Sion had deliberately pressed Color Show’s panic button — by making something that looked better than their own content.