Little Pink Starfish

Life is a series of uncertainties.

Things you never imagined can suddenly happen, and things you were certain about can collapse in the blink of an eye.

But people still vaguely believe that uncertainty won’t affect them.

For example, in Korea, an average of 650 traffic accidents happen per day, yet everyone believes they won’t be in one.

About 700 new cancer patients are diagnosed daily, but everyone believes they won’t be among them.

There’s no logic behind this belief.

They just believe.

But as a regressor, I can’t afford that luxury.

Because I’ve lived through countless moments where uncertainty struck like a thunderstorm.

I’ve experienced the death of teammates who stood beside me.

Some were shot. Some died from illness. Some were hit by cars.

Even more were injured.

I’ve seen people hurt on stage. I’ve seen bones broken from slipping in the shower.

At first, I felt guilt.

Would these people have suffered the same fate if they hadn’t been with me?

Probably not.

There’s no such thing as fate.

In movies, someone survives cancer only to get hit by a car the same day—because they were “meant to die.”

But real life doesn’t work that way.

If the disease is cured, you live.

Once I understood that, the guilt eased a little.

Whether someone lives or dies with me—or without me—is all part of that same uncertainty.

That’s what I had to believe, to keep living as a regressor.

It was self-justification, yes—but I didn’t think it was logically wrong.

So when I heard the news of Choi Jaesung and On Saemiro getting injured, two thoughts immediately came to mind.

First: Thank god they’re alive.

As long as they’re not dead, good days can still come.

With the money Sedalbaekil has made, most illnesses can be treated. And if not, I can help.

Second: This wasn’t my fault.

I know it’s a selfish thought, but it’s always hard to shake off when something like this happens.

Because if I don’t think that way, I’ll be overwhelmed with guilt—and they’ll be confused and uncomfortable, not knowing why.

But…

Eddy’s answer to how they got hurt shattered that second thought.

—I don’t speak Korean well, so I’m not totally sure…

“Just say it. Anything’s fine.”

—From the mood… I think it had something to do with Miro’s parents.

“What?”

—I can’t say for sure. Maybe I’m wrong. It’s just the impression I got from what they told me—not to tell you—when they briefly explained.

No… it’s probably true.

I can picture it.

To them, On Saemiro was their most valuable possession—and that possession is no longer theirs.

That would have driven them crazy, boiled their rage.

The worse their lives became, the more they’d resent him.

The more successful Sedalbaekil became, the worse it’d be.

They couldn’t stand that Saemiro was basking in glory they couldn’t claim.

I’ve seen too many people like that. I know them all too well.

So…

This was a man-made disaster.

It happened because of me.

If I had controlled them better—tightened the leash—this wouldn’t have happened.

I want to make excuses.

I wanted to handle the risks posed by Saemiro’s parents through legal means. I even asked Saemiro what he wanted to do.

But Saemiro wanted to handle anything related to his parents on his own.

There were times when things seemed to be getting better.

I’d even seen him awkwardly texting them to check in.

People like his parents don’t change easily—but they are his parents.

So I stayed out of it.

Even knowing there was a risk of something going wrong.

Which means—I can’t excuse myself.

This is my fault.

—Sion?

“…Thanks for telling me. I need to head to the airport.”

—Okay. Once I hang up, I’ll tell the Sedalbaekil members I spoke to you.

“…Do you know how bad the injuries are?”

—They were able to eat. I saw them carrying food. That’s all I know. Mr. Seo’s keeping the press off them.

“Okay. That helps.”

If they’re eating, that means they’re conscious, their metabolism is stable.

As long as they didn’t need IV nutrition right after the accident, they’re probably doing better than I feared.

That’s what I told myself as I stopped by the hotel to grab my things, then headed straight to the airport.

I had several missed calls from HR Corporation and Colors Media—probably after hearing the Sound Fact podcast.

But I didn’t call back.

I’d only call after seeing with my own eyes that Jaesung and Saemiro were okay.

At the airport, I booked the earliest flight to Korea.

Fortunately, there was a seat.

Worst budget airline, worst economy seat—but I didn’t care.

I was just grateful to be able to go.

While waiting to board, I texted HR Corporation and Colors Media, then left a message in the Sedalbaekil group chat.

Told them I was getting on the flight.

No one read it.

I tried calling Director Seo Seunghyun, but his phone was off.

And then, as I was going through boarding procedures, a new thought hit me.

Why did Saemiro’s parents suddenly act now?

People like that don’t always need a reason to lash out—but still, I’d met with them before.

I’d told them: if someone like Choi Daeho tried to contact them with a plan to harm Sedalbaekil, to bring me proof.

That I’d pay them well.

When Daeho released those articles about our parents, there was no evidence that he’d tried to manipulate Saemiro’s parents.

Plus, they were under pressure.

They feared me.

Looking back, maybe I should’ve kept watching them more closely. Met them regularly.

Still, I had taken some precautions.

So why did they act now?

Was it really just a spontaneous burst of rage?

Was it Daeho?

But… no. That didn’t add up.

Daeho’s a jerk, yeah—but he’s a businessman, not a gangster.

From what I know of him, he wouldn’t order violence.

And even if he did, he’d only do it for a clear monetary gain.

Right now, hurting Sedalbaekil brings him nothing.

It might make him feel better, but the risk outweighs the reward.

“….”

I don’t know.

Maybe it was just a random accident. Maybe the injuries aren’t that bad.

Maybe the info about a parent hurting other members was so sensitive that it was being over-controlled.

I pulled my hat down low.

Some of the Korean travelers were glancing at me.

---

I had a dream.

I knew it was a dream because Robin Chase was standing in Sedalbaekil’s practice room.

Robin Chase.

My teammate back when I was in a rap duo in New York. My friend, shot and killed by cousins from the local community.

A common ending for a rap star.

Too many American rappers die from gun violence.

But I couldn’t accept that.

In my next life, I found Robin again—and rebuilt the team.

“It’s like a crime to you that I wanted to help my family, huh?”

It was never quite the same as before.

Seeing him in Sedalbaekil’s dance studio—it had to be a dream.

Bang bang!

Then came a pounding at the door.

—Open up!

A voice.

It was Saemiro’s parents.

I opened my mouth.

“Don’t help them.”

Robin, who’d been staring at the door, turned to me.

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll die. Because you didn’t help him.”

“But—”

Bang bang!

—Open the damn door!

Robin said,

“He’ll die either way, won’t he?”

Bang!

This time, it wasn’t knocking.

It was a gunshot.

I whipped around, startled.

Saemiro was lying on the ground.

“Saemiro!”

No.

It wasn’t him.

The clothes, the hairstyle—they were his.

But the face was different.

“….”

It was Choi Daeho, young—maybe in his early twenties.

No, wait—it wasn’t Daeho either.

“I told you not to mouth off, didn’t I?”

It was Fade.

I sighed and kicked him in the head.

Now that the panic had passed, I could remember again—it was just a dream.

I opened my eyes.

—Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived…

Outside the window: the nightscape of Incheon.

I was in Korea.

---

I got in a taxi and turned my phone on.

A flood of missed calls and messages.

The hospital address I needed most had been sent by Hyung Ieon via private message.

He advised calling the manager before heading to the hospital, since no articles had been released yet.

I was about to call the members or Director Seo, but it was 4 a.m.

Maybe that was a good thing.

There’d be fewer people at the hospital.

I called our manager. He picked up, groggy.

Said he’d wait in the parking lot.

“Okay. I’ll call when I arrive.”

The taxi crawled like a slug out of Incheon toward Seoul.

I pulled off my hat in frustration—but thankfully, the driver didn’t seem to recognize me.

After what felt like forever, we finally arrived at the hospital.

I headed to the parking lot.

No need to call—among the parked cars, I spotted our manager with the van.

And then someone suddenly popped out in front of me.

I instinctively assumed it was a fan—and prepared to respond.

But it wasn’t a fan.

“Sion…”

It was On Saemiro.

The guy who was supposedly hurt—standing in the parking lot.

He looked fine.

Wearing regular clothes, not a hospital gown. A bit pale, maybe, and low on energy—but his movements didn’t seem restricted.

His speech was a little sluggish—made me wonder if he’d hit his head. But probably not.

If he had, he wouldn’t be out of the hospital in a few days. He’d still be in the ICU.

“You okay?”

“Jaesung… Jaesung, it’s because of me…”

My stomach dropped.

Because of what I’d heard earlier, I’d just assumed Saemiro was the one seriously injured.

But it was Choi Jaesung.

“Where is he? What’s hurt? How bad?”

Saemiro didn’t answer.

Instead, he started babbling—reconstructing the day of the incident.

His parents showing up at the dorm unannounced.

Him being too scared to face them alone, so asking Jaesung to come with him.

Having nowhere to talk, so they all got into the car he’d bought after getting his license.

The argument that started during the drive.

And then—

“Wait.”

I wanted to know.

I needed to know.

But now wasn’t the time.

Saemiro was circling around the point—scared to say it.

He was stalling because he couldn’t bring himself to say it outright.

So I asked again.

“Just tell me. Where is Jaesung hurt? How bad?”

After a long silence, Saemiro finally answered.

“His knee…”

That’s okay.

Unlike the spine, knee surgeries have high success rates. Advanced treatments exist.

“His arm…”

Also manageable.

Given that Saemiro is walking around okay, it probably wasn’t a shattering injury.

It can be treated.

But then came the final words—spoken through tears.

“…His neck.”

“His neck? How bad?”

“He might…”

Might not be able to speak again.

A word darkened in my mind.

Regression.