Hollow eyes, rough skin, hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in who knows how long.
Chocolate bars hidden between piles of printed papers on the table, empty coffee cans stacked like they might tumble with the slightest nudge.
A natural sight in the meeting room of a variety show still in production.
So natural that no one even found it strange.
But there was one exception.
Normally, people would be sprawled all over, making it hard to tell if they were zombies or corpses…
But there was life.
They were even having a passionate debate.
“Come on, this guarantees ratings!”
“Just for a cable program contestant…”
“Are you kidding, director? Just show his face in the promotional ads. The ratings for episode one will explode!”
“…Really?”
“Of course! The final episode of Coming Up Next got 11%! Eleven!”
The Stage Number 0 team at SBN was raising their voices for one reason.
That morning, an unexpected applicant knocked on their door.
Sedalbaekil, the best output produced by Coming Up Next, even mentioned for boosting national prestige through the Color Show.
And one of its members, Choi Jaesung.
The head writer insisted on casting Choi Jaesung, while the main PD hesitated.
The difference in their attitudes was simple.
The writer was a freelancer, while the PD was full-time staff.
Both cared about ratings, but only one was desperate to secure a raise during the next contract renewal.
Frankly, if Choi Daeho were to boycott a program that used Sedalbaekil, would he boycott the writer or the PD?
At that moment, the assistant writer chimed in.
“Okay, let’s all calm down. We’re running on caffeine highs and sugar highs; our brains aren’t working.”
“So, you’re saying we shouldn’t cast him?”
“No, that’s not it. First, we need to check if it’s even possible. Our company doesn’t usually cast people who belong to other agencies, right?”
Stage Number 0 accepts applicants from ages 1 to 99, but if you’re signed to an agency, you’re disqualified.
To be precise, if you have an agency, you need to pay official sponsorship fees for promotion.
They pretend to be independent on-air and join agencies after the show wraps.
“They’re independent now, right?”
“Still, the team Sedalbaekil must have some contract binding them together, right?”
“Hmm, is that so?”
“I’ll call and check. Let’s verify that first.”
The assistant writer then directly called Choi Jaesung.
His response was very simple.
Despite Sedalbaekil having taken down Lion, filled up Korea’s entertainment news columns—
-It’s a club activity. Can I call it a crew to make it sound cooler?
It had been reduced to a club activity.
“So, there’s no contract?”
-Nope. None.
“How do you split the profits? You get paid for performances, right?”
-Oh, we call those donation performances.
“Do-donation performances?”
-Yeah, we just split it evenly. Since it’s crew performance revenue.
Listening to the speakerphone, the Stage Number 0 staff became increasingly confused.
Indie bands, which move as a team, have weak crew culture.
But in hip-hop, crew culture is strong since most rappers play solo anyway.
They pool money to rent venues, perform, and split profits.
Some members have agencies; others don’t.
Even R&B singers doing Black music often belong to crews like this.
So, in that sense, Choi Jaesung’s explanation made sense.
But—
‘Since when is a crew this big?!’
That’s where the cognitive dissonance hit.
“Wait, wait. So if you sign with an agency, what happens to Sedalbaekil?”
-Well, activities would slow down. But I don’t really plan to sign with any agency.
“Then why are you applying?”
-I want to prove myself as a solo artist.
“U-understood. We’ll call you again.”
-Feel free to call anytime!
The call ended, leaving silence behind.
The first to grasp the situation was the PD.
“Hey, are these guys trying to use our show to break into TV appearances?”
“Even better.”
“Huh?”
“Isn’t that even better? They’ll definitely behave, follow instructions, and everything will go smoothly. Plus, Choi Jaesung’s fans guarantee ratings.”
Back to the core issue, the PD fell into thought.
Honestly, at first, he was afraid of Choi Daeho’s potential boycott.
In Korea’s music industry, the power of major agencies ultimately comes from their ability to boycott.
Lion, Double M, LPL.
The big three agencies in Korea.
Sometimes combined with BVB and NT to call them the big five.
These agencies compete for the limited pie of the music industry but unite in emergencies.
If all five boycotted his show, disaster could strike.
But then again, if the program tanked right now, what did it matter?
It’s not like the five agencies would pool money to fill his pockets for refusing to cast Choi Jaesung.
“Writer Kim.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s do it. But get full Sedalbaekil to send us a support video. Since it’s come to this, let’s bait the hell out of it for the preview.”
“How?”
“Make it feel like all of Sedalbaekil is appearing. What do you think?”
When the suddenly darkened PD grinned, the head writer shivered from head to toe.
He loved it.
If Sedalbaekil appeared together in the preview saying, ‘We want to do our best’—
Korea would flip.
By then, the Color Show would probably have aired too.
“Director.”
“What?”
“You’re freaking awesome.”
“Let’s go for it. Audition programs are all about ratings anyway.”
The assistant writer shook his head watching the head PD and head writer’s antics.
Now he understood why these two had done so many programs together.
But it was interesting.
From what Choi Jaesung said, he didn’t want to leave Sedalbaekil.
By being upfront with the production team, he was subtly telling them not to tie him to other agencies.
From Top 10 onward, most contestants either already belong to agencies or get snatched up by agencies pouring in sponsorship money.
So even if Choi Jaesung advanced, he would likely stop at Top 10.
But…
‘Can he resist the temptation?’
If Choi Jaesung really made it to Top 10 with skill alone, countless showbiz temptations would pour in.
At a level hard for someone under twenty to endure.
The assistant writer was curious about that.
[Hyung, I got cast.]
[See you in Korea.]
I closed my smartphone.
Choi Jaesung would do well, and Stage Number 0 was a program that would do well even if left alone.
Since coming to America, I hadn’t paid attention, but back in Korea, I always saw it perform well.
Even when it flopped by chance, it pulled over 10%; at its peak, it reached 17%.
For reference, the season I appeared in went even higher.
I don’t remember exactly, but I think it passed 20%.
Back when accident reports and articles about my parents flooded the headlines daily.
I used to hate it.
It was only the second season then; my emotions hadn’t yet dried out.
But now, I don’t care.
No matter how big the issue around me, I can create even bigger ones through music.
I have to, to sell 200 million albums.
That’s why I came to New Jersey.
Self-objectivity is crucial for regressors.
Normal people live based on their own standard of ‘self,’ but I have no ‘self.’
Even one regression erases all my accumulated history.
So even if I grow attached to Sedalbaekil members, I’m prepared to part ways someday.
What matters to me is music.
Across countless regressions, the only thing that accumulates is my musical skill.
No one remembers I once placed joint fourth in the Chopin Competition, but the things I learned there live inside my music.
So I couldn’t just let it slide that my music had changed.
I had to figure out how.
Has it improved or worsened?
Has it softened or hardened?
I needed to analyze everything.
To do that, I had to pour everything out.
“Get`it!”
“Hey!”
Right now, there was no better place than New Jersey.
New Jersey is a dull, gray city overshadowed by New York, but Seaside Heights is different.
Maybe because of Jersey Shore, or maybe it was always like this…
There are a lot of crazy people here.
And a lot of music-obsessed people.
In the gray background of this multicultural city, underground clubs brimming with intense energy, small stages mimicking Apollo Theater, and impromptu jams on the beach exist everywhere.
So I decided to empty everything out.
To see how I’ve changed.
Carrying just a guitar, I headed where music was playing.
In front of a guy frantically beating a weird drum on a bench, I started playing guitar.
The drummer looked awkward as I joined but quickly changed his expression.
He knew within 30 seconds.
That I was better than him.
As he got pushed by my tempo and reduced to mere backup sound, a shaggy-haired Indian American shouted and stopped.
“Hey!”
“What?”
“Try again.”
This time, I started playing first.
Thinking about which vibe to go for, I started with a progressive rock feel.
The drummer twitched his hands, thinking of how to join, but I didn’t leave him room.
If he could enter, he could. If not, too bad.
With Sedalbaekil, I always made room for everyone.
This person comes in here, that person there.
It’s not that I disliked it.
It’s just how this life required it.
But now it was different.
At first, I started the performance half to tease the drummer, but soon I was deeply immersed.
Though the surrounding noise made it hard even to hear my own playing, it didn’t matter.
I know exactly what sound comes from which finger movement, and how slight changes affect it.
I can confidently say, no one in the world has handled this instrument more than me.
I don’t remember how many regressions I’ve gone through, but I’ve never gone without playing guitar even once.
Well—except maybe when I did EDM.
But back then, my mental state was too broken, so I hardly remember.
Maybe I should try a bit of electronic sound now?
You can’t produce electronic sound with an acoustic guitar, but you can trick people’s ears.
I played like a madman.
I must have played for over 30 minutes, but no drum sounds joined.
I only stopped when I noticed blood at my fingertips.
They weren’t calloused enough yet.
When I put the guitar down—
“Bravo!”
People of various ethnicities, each holding instruments, applauded.
There were quite a lot of them.
“Big band. Jazz. How about it?”
Saying that, I picked up the guitar again.
My fingers hurt, but the stage was set.
I started playing again, emptying myself completely.
Chris Edwards, who had arrived at Seaside Heights, was a little irritated since Han Siwon wasn’t answering his phone.
They said I’d find him here, but how am I supposed to search this huge place?
And he wasn’t alone—he had come with Donald McGus.
“Let’s just look around.”
“Don’t be so anxious. Musicians are like this. Let’s grab a beer first.”
At the pub where they stopped for beer, Chris Edwards finally heard what he wanted.
Over the past four days, Han Siwon’s name had spread mouth-to-mouth among musicians filling this beach town.
As an absurd genius musician from the East.
Apparently, over ten agencies had already dispatched managers to scout Han Siwon.
Little Pink Starfish 
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