Little Pink Starfish

Round 1…

No, maybe I should call it Round 0.

Whatever you call it, before the start of the infinite regressions, I was just an ordinary aspiring singer.

I carried around playlists filled with blues classics from the 1940s–50s and rock band tracks from the 1980s–90s. I liked uniquely emotional Korean indie bands.

I had a bad case of hipster syndrome and dismissed all mainstream music as trash, while craving to be treated like a genius, believing—mistakenly—that my talent was exceptional.

At the same time, deep down, I had a strong desire to be a star, and a craving for attention—wanting people to recognize me.

Just like those musicians I used to play music with in Hongdae, whose faces I no longer remember.

So I was just a typical aspiring singer.

And I always wondered.

What kind of life would I have lived if the curse of infinite regression had never happened?

Would I have played hungry music in Hongdae until I got pushed into the military, come back and gotten my head on straight?

Then, maybe, I would’ve ended up living as an average member of society instead of a musician.

Maybe my parents, unable to watch me struggle, would’ve opened a small music academy for me.

I know how annoying that sounds, but my parents were rich.

If not that, maybe I would’ve ended up on an audition show like Stage Number Zero and started a singing career that way.

Looking at myself in Round 1 now, my skills were lacking—I’d probably sigh. But they weren’t completely unlistenable either.

If they had been, I wouldn’t have been the runner-up in Round 2’s Stage Number Zero.

Sure, that second place was largely thanks to public sympathy around my parents, but I did the basics well enough to earn it.

Now that I think about it, I don’t think I would’ve ever completely given up on music, no matter how hard things got.

I probably would’ve kept crawling down that path, eventually compromising with popularity to some degree.

Whenever I had pork belly and soju with friends, I’d say mainstream music was garbage—but truthfully, I liked quite a bit of it.

Yeah. I think I would’ve lived a life like that.

But…

All of this speculation is meaningless.

Because now, to the being known as Han Sion, regression is inseparable.

I always started over.

Round 1 taught me that indie vibes alone couldn’t make you a star, and I painfully acknowledged the importance of popularity.

In Round 2, I became a temporary star after placing second in Stage Number Zero, but learned that image was everything.

No matter what song I put out, people always said it felt depressing and sorrowful.

As the rounds went on, I tried joining an idol group called ForTheYouth and realized the importance of team members.

Most people are low-level and lack ambition.

It was a hard truth to learn: that such people couldn’t walk alongside me.

After that, I realized the Korean market alone wasn’t enough and knocked on the doors of Japan and China, then finally set my sights on the U.S.

The so-called land of opportunity—America—is not a place that gives opportunity easily, and it’s especially hard for Asians to become stars in mass media.

Actors at least have roles that only Asians can play, but singers don’t have that luxury.

Whatever I did, there was always a “but” attached.

We get that he’s a good singer, but does the frontman of a band really have to be Asian?

We get that he’s got talent, but do we really need to invest that much money to release his R&B album?

After that, I worked hard to erase that “but”—to develop overwhelming skill.

Time passed. I met countless people, hurt them, got hurt, remembered them, and forgot them.

My life stretched on endlessly, and those connections lasted mere moments.

But I couldn’t get trapped in those moments—because the road ahead of me was too long to see the end.

After what may have been a hundred, two hundred, maybe even more years, I created GOTM.

I had confidence.

It was a team built on all the know-how and skill I’d accumulated, future knowledge, and understanding of trends.

In a way, all my previous lives had just been experiments, and this was my first real challenge.

But even GOTM failed—and I crash-landed back in Korea.

I didn’t have the strength to try again in the U.S.

Because after pouring everything I had into GOTM, I was left hollow.

And into that hollow shell, unexpected friends stepped in.

Sedalbaekil.

The people I met through Coming Up Next, what CEO Lee Hyunseok called “a garbage program.”

They gave me a sense of freedom—because I wasn’t responsible for their lives.

And yet, they trusted and followed me more than anyone ever had, and they had a fierce drive to improve.

Funny thing is, if it were the me from Round 1, I probably wouldn’t have liked Sedalbaekil.

I don’t remember exactly what I was like, but one thing’s clear: I hated model-student types.

To be a rock star, I thought, you had to make trouble and rebel.

That was my immature way of thinking.

So the fact that I came to like Sedalbaekil is because of regression.

If you take regression away from Han Sion, you can’t explain anything about me anymore.

So now, the best method I have left…

Is regression.

And so…

I never once doubted it.

BEEEEEEP!

That there could ever be a case where I couldn’t regress.

“Hey, you crazy bastard! Are you insane?!”

Drivers who see me standing in the middle of the intersection blare their horns and curse.

They’re watching me.

The space doesn’t warp. The colors don’t bleed. There’s no scent of the extraordinary.

This intersection still belongs to humans.

Not the devil.

My brain freezes.

Why…?

There were countless times I tried not to regress.

But each time, the result was unconscious regression.

Because my regression rule is simple:

If I give up, I regress.

And giving up is really easy.

The more rounds I went through, the easier it became.

Even when I thought I was being logical, emotionally I gave up and ended up regressing—countless times.

That’s why the ending of GOTM was so hard.

I was afraid I’d accidentally regress.

I wanted to win a Grammy while saying goodbye to friends who had been with me for decades, even if those years were forgotten.

So I barely slept.

Even when I had no choice but to sleep, I played videos filled with our good memories.

To keep my unconscious mind from giving up.

I endured—and the moment I won the Grammy, I regressed.

That’s how easy giving up is to me. And that’s how easy regression is.

But—

HOOONK!

The cars that pass, honking because I’m in danger, show no signs of vanishing.

Did I fail to give up?

Do I still believe Sedalbaekil can sell 200 million albums?

Or maybe… am I afraid to meet Sedalbaekil again in a timeline where all our memories are gone?

A bitter smile creeps across my lips.

When I wanted to hold out, I was forced to regress—and now?

Fine, I can admit it.

Maybe I already knew this.

Come to think of it, there was a time when the Sedalbaekil members tricked me to throw a surprise birthday for me.

I was disappointed then, but I didn’t regress.

Strange.

Normally, even a much smaller thing than that would have me on edge—thinking, If I’m not careful, I might regress.

But not that time.

I was just… a little hurt by them.

Still—it’s not like I have no way to trigger regression.

---

So far, I’ve met the devil three times.

The first was when we made the contract.

The moment the devil hurled me into a closed timeline, using my parents’ lives as collateral.

That was when infinite regression began.

The second time was when my mind had completely broken down.

As I cycled through unconscious regressions in despair, the devil appeared before me.

The devil was the most terrifying being imaginable—but at that time, I felt more rage than fear.

So I lashed out.

I demanded a logical explanation for this stupid contract.

If this wasn’t about toying with my soul, then convince me with reason.

[The world is no longer a wheel spun by those caught between life and death.]

[It is a windmill spun by those screaming at the highs and lows of value.]

[If someone tries to possess a single moment of another using something of ultimate worth—that is offering, that is worship, that is conquest.]

[I merely stand at the crossroads of value, indulging in the desires bound to it.]

It was absurd—but the moment I accepted the devil’s explanation, I felt oddly at peace.

At least this being wasn’t mocking me or trying to destroy me for fun.

The devil wanted me to succeed, in its own way.

The third time…

I don’t want to remember it.

I’ve recalled my meetings with the devil before, but not the third one.

Even just thinking about it brings back regression depression and overwhelming self-hate.

But now, I’ll choose that third method.

The third method is…

To take my own life.

---

I’ve tried to forget it, but it’s still vivid.

I was so exhausted and broken that I didn’t want to live anymore.

I went to the hospital and saw my parents sleeping.

Even after five years, they hadn’t aged a day.

Time was frozen.

The hospital had reached out countless times saying they wanted to study this unique case—but I rejected all of them.

I just stared blankly at my parents, the same as in my last memory.

And then…

I went to the hospital rooftop.

Don’t know why—but I sang, loudly and clearly.

Then I jumped.

To end the infinite regression.

That’s when I realized—

It wasn’t just my parents’ lives or my mind trapped in this closed timeline.

My life was also trapped.

Which means—I couldn’t even die.

BAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

A massive horn from a freight truck and a flood of headlights slam into me.

Sound and light.

I can imagine the impact about to follow.

But in that instant, a colossal, indescribable presence floods in, and the sound retreats.

At the same time, the light scatters.

Like ink dropped into a water bottle, the sound and light swirl and spread—until they mix into the canvas of the world.

The ordinary space transforms into the extraordinary.

There are no more cars passing through the intersection.

The truck is gone. The moment I threw myself into its path—gone.

Instead, something else stands before me.

An intersection. A crossroads.

A place that governs every choice, every turning point.

[You were disappointed, but you didn’t give up.]

[You were in despair, but you didn’t collapse.]

[You were just, like a child, throwing a tantrum—wanting someone to notice your pain.]

[Return.]

[Instead of spying on the moment that has not been permitted.]

The devil of the intersection.