Little Pink Starfish

“You stayed late.”

Choi Jaesung’s mother smiled gently.

“I just dropped by for a bit.”

“Thank you, as always.”

She even thanked me.

Her attitude toward me wasn’t fake.

But it wasn’t sincere either.

How should I put it?

Right, it felt like a theater actor performing on stage.

An actor’s performance is fabricated, but doesn’t it still require sincerity?

It was exactly like that.

Honestly, I don’t really understand the concept of family.

I do have parents I miss in my dreams.

I’ve endured an unmeasurable length of time just to save them.

But the actual time I spent with my parents is so faint.

I’ve even worried about it.

When I sell 200 million copies and they finally wake up…

Will we really be a parent and child?

The ‘Han Sion’ they remember doesn’t exist in this world.

Everything that makes up, supports, develops, and torments Han Sion is rooted in my regression.

Would they be able to love me the way they used to, without knowing I’m a regressor?

Their understanding won’t reach me. In terms of understanding each other’s existence, we’re strangers.

But one thing is clear—I can’t give up on my parents just because I’m afraid.

……

I went off on a tangent, but Choi Jaesung’s parents are like the imagined parents I fear the most.

They have no desire to know each other, and don’t really know each other…

Yet they live performing the role of a loving, harmonious family according to social norms.

They don’t even realize they’re acting, and believe they’re doing their best.

That’s why they didn’t understand when Choi Jaesung left home.

Or maybe they understood in a way that fits their level of common sense.

That’s why I find them uncomfortable.

No—honestly, unpleasant.

I just can’t bring myself to say that to a friend’s parents.

“I’ll be heading out now.”

I stepped aside and left the hospital room.

Just then, the hospital room door opened and Choi Jaesung’s mother followed me out.

“Um, Han Sion.”

“Yes? Do you have something to say?”

“What’s going to happen to Jaesung?”

“We’ll have to keep an eye on his condition, but he’s recovering well, they said.”

The doctor gave a prognosis yesterday.

He wouldn’t have trouble speaking.

Of course, we’ll need to monitor carefully for any lasting effects on his vocal organs.

When I conveyed that, Choi Jaesung’s mother let out a sigh of relief.

But still, does this situation make sense?

Why is she hearing her son’s medical status from someone else?

And why does she believe it?

Most parents would…

……

No.

Stay calm.

Maybe I’m just overly emotional right now.

I threw myself in front of a truck to meet the demon, met him, and had a long talk.

Though I’ve lived hundreds of years across over a hundred regressions, this was only the fourth time we met.

And the first time my regression was blocked.

I’ve always tried not to regress—never have I tried to make it happen.

So could it be that the demon blocked my regression?

Because I’m really close to success?

The demon did say if I just endured ‘time,’ my success rate would be 100%.

I thought that was obvious.

If my mind doesn’t break down, in infinite time, I’d eventually succeed at least once.

But the demon rephrased the argument.

[‘Time’ doesn’t encompass every regression.]

What does that mean?

At a glance, it sounds like if I just hold out through one regression, my success rate increases.

But the longest I’ve lived was until I was 42.

That’s American age—so 43 or 44 in Korean age.

It was early on in the regressions, so maybe I endured more, and that life wasn’t bad either.

If simple endurance led to success, shouldn’t I have succeeded then?

Thoughts like this float endlessly in my head.

The puzzle the demon threw me was a million pieces—and he matched about half of them before he left.

Maybe I’m so consumed by this that I don’t have room to manage my emotions.

Thinking back, even when I watched the variety show with the members earlier today, I burst out laughing in a way that wasn’t like me.

It wasn’t even that funny.

Why did I laugh like that?

So maybe the discomfort and anger I feel now aren’t normal either.

With that in mind, I took a deep breath to reset my emotions, but Choi Jaesung’s mother spoke up again.

Can’t she just stay quiet?

“Still, I heard singing will be difficult for him.”

“Did the doctor say that?”

“Yes. That’s what they said.”

“When?”

“During the interview right after the accident.”

“There are two rounds of rounds every day. A patient’s condition changes daily.”

“Then do you think he’ll be able to sing again?”

Sing?

Probably not.

Even before I met the demon, I thought that.

I know because I’ve been through it.

Any vocal injury, whether nodules or otherwise, is a critical blow to a singer.

Even as a regressor, it leaves an impact.

Which is absurd.

I’m someone who regrows severed arms with a single regression.

One time I busted my knee due to a stage accident, and two days after regressing, I was fine.

But producing sound is different.

I don’t know why—it just is.

If it’s this hard for a regressor, imagine how hard it is for a regular person.

That’s why so few singers return to normal after a vocal injury.

Sometimes you hear about singers overcoming nodules, but it’s probably faked.

Claiming nodules is an easy way to gain leverage in disputes with agencies.

If not that, then they must’ve caught it very early.

Even the demon chimed in on this topic.

[The concept of ‘original’ doesn’t suit a crossroads. But if you mean your own concept of ‘original’—then no, it’s not possible.]

He said Choi Jaesung can’t return to his original state.

But I’m going to bet on his rap.

Rap and singing are fundamentally different.

Singing requires resonance.

You use the human body like an orchestra instrument.

The body resonates and shapes sound, like a string instrument’s body.

The vocal cords modulate pitch, and the mouth acts like the bell of an instrument to output the sound.

This is how sopranos and tenors train.

But rap is different.

It’s the only genre in modern music that uses the human voice as percussion.

Until the 80s, people questioned whether rap was music, but it survived because of that unique quality.

Top-tier rap is pure talent.

Who can teach someone how to strike with their voice?

It’s not about rapping loudly or softly.

It’s a higher concept.

You can reach first-tier status with decent talent and teaching, but you can’t reach top-tier with lessons.

I, for example, fell short at that stage.

I released rap albums that topped the Billboard charts with every trick I knew, but I know better than anyone that my rap isn’t top-tier.

I still remember.

In 2027, Nike gathered legendary rappers for a special ad track.

It was probably the sequel to the <Classic> project they did in 2007 for the 25th anniversary of Nike Force.

All the legends gathered and even recorded together because of the making film.

As soon as the recording ended, I regressed.

I couldn’t bear the sense of inferiority among those naturally gifted legends.

They were giants, and I was the guy who climbed a ladder just to meet their eye level.

After that, I never touched rap again.

Only used it occasionally for flavor.

But Choi Jaesung probably has more talent than me.

An Asian guy with no backing (probably not fluent in English either) starts from the underground and appears on the AMA freshman cypher?

That’s not something average talent can pull off.

In this case, even with an injury, he’ll be okay.

Rap is spoken like normal speech.

Rappers who strain their throats and growl are mostly second- or third-tier—unless it’s a very unique style.

That’s the plan I have.

The future of Sedalbaekil, defined after the meeting with the demon.

“He won’t be able to sing.”

“Then I think…”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but please hear me out first.”

Choi Jaesung’s mother closed her mouth.

“He can still do music.”

“Like performing or dancing?”

“No. Like now.”

“But you said he can’t sing.”

“There’s a way. And that’s an internal team matter. Not something to be shared with outsiders.”

The suggestion to rap should be given to Choi Jaesung directly.

I don’t know how she interpreted my words, but after a long silence, she spoke.

“I can’t accept my son being unhappy.”

“You think he’ll be unhappy?”

“Yes. Even if he stays in the team out of pity, he won’t be at peace.”

Pity?

“Giving someone a spot they don’t deserve—Jaesung isn’t the type to enjoy that kind of thing.”

I really didn’t want to say this to a friend’s mother…

But hearing nonsense over and over, it’s almost entertaining.

So I decided to hear more.

“What do you want?”

“Our family is moving to the U.S. We’re taking Jaesung with us.”

“So?”

“Please give him the release notice. That way he can give up without lingering regrets and come with us.”

I didn’t see this coming.

That there was more nonsense beyond nonsense.

As I stood there silently, she added something—maybe guessing my thoughts.

“We’ve reviewed the contract. The company shares are tied to his artist contract, right?”

“Yes. Sedalbaekil owns the company.”

“We’ll give it up. We won’t cling to anything.”

Random words, but no matter how badly things go with my own parents, it couldn’t be worse than this.

And maybe I’m not being overly emotional after all.

Wouldn’t anyone be angry in a situation like this?

“Ma’am.”

“Yes.”

“There are a lot of words swirling in my head, but one won’t go away.”

“Please tell me.”

“Position.”

“What?”

“You’re the one trying to create a position for someone who has none right now.”

“……”

“Choi Jaesung’s position is here. Not in your household.”

“How could you say that…! We’re family!”

“It’s the difference between natural and chosen family.”

You may be the family given by the heavens, but we’re the family made by choice.

I tried to put it elegantly, but she seemed to understand the real meaning.

That she’s done nothing but ride on the family she was given.

Her eyes trembled slightly.

And then—

The door creaked open, and Choi Jaesung stepped out in a hospital gown.

“Go back.”

“Jaesung!”

“Even if I quit Sedalbaekil because I can’t sing anymore, I’m not going to the U.S. I’ll stay where my parents, and… my hyung are.”

“Then what will you do!”

“Even being a manager here is better than going there.”

Maybe they are family after all.

To me, it wasn’t even a big statement.

But to them, it was like a slap in the face.