Little Pink Starfish

The Show Me run by PD Yoon Jungseop had several distinct differences from other audition programs.

The biggest one? Show Me was a true nationwide audition.

Most audition shows conduct rigorous first-round document screenings and second-round regional auditions. Contestants meet the main judges only after these filters, by which point only about 100 or so have been selected.

And many of those are already linked with agencies—even if not officially signed yet.

But Show Me was different. The main judges actually judged tens of thousands of applicants.

Individually.

This is why phrases like “3-second screening” or “10-second cut” exist, but regardless, that’s the reality.

This culture traces back to Show Me Season 1, when the producers simply couldn’t get a handle on things.

“Wait, this guy is supposed to be good? And this one’s bad? What’s the difference?”

“To us, the ‘good’ guy sounds off and the ‘bad’ guy sounds fine.”

In most major audition shows, the first two rounds aren’t really about skill. As long as contestants meet a minimum standard, it’s fine.

Of course, you need around 30% of clear standouts, but the rest can be filled with good stories or broadcast-friendly characters.

But Show Me’s staff couldn’t even define that “minimum standard.”

So they ended up with a structure where the judges had to watch everyone.

Then Show Me became wildly popular.

Season 1 had manageable applicants. Season 2 got busier. Season 3 overflowed. By Season 4, it was saturated.

And it stayed that way.

Even as the show’s ratings dipped, the number of aspiring rappers only grew.

That’s why judges openly said round one was the hardest—and contestants agreed.

Tens of thousands of people wore number tags and waited outside gyms. Some, no exaggeration, waited 24 hours.

There were people who arrived at 7 a.m. and didn’t leave until 7 a.m. the next day.

Judges had to rotate shifts like a night patrol to make it work.

Things got a little better last season when they split the first round over three days.

It tripled the production cost—but they couldn’t keep going the old way anymore.

Still, it was a madhouse.

Even split into three, that was still over 7,000 people per day out of 21,000 total applicants.

Not all online applicants showed up, but still—more than 6,000 would.

“God. How long are we gonna keep doing this?”

“Once a year is manageable. Twice a year and I’d have quit.”

As the camera crew grumbled, the paired writers and VJs started moving.

Traffic management was done.

Of the 1–1000 numbered applicants, key people were flagged—those worth filming and those with potential.

There were even two that had to be passed no matter what.

In those cases, the judges heading to the contestant zone got a subtle mention.

Not “please pass them,” but “please keep an eye on this one.”

Funny enough, even with that, the odds of them actually passing were still 50/50.

One judge even once got annoyed by such a request and handed over a pass necklace without even listening to the rap.

“If they’re passing anyway, why waste time.”

“Contestants 33 and 177 are the must-passes… and this one?”

Writer Lee Miyeon, in charge of applicants #1–1000, tilted her head.

Contestant #452’s info was strange.

The request came directly from main PD Yoon Jungseop—to film as thoroughly and in as much detail as possible.

Not unusual. High-potential contestants often had extra cameras following them.

But the weird part?

All the info was classified.

Not even a name.

She’d never seen anything like it.

She briefly wondered if it was some big celebrity—but in that case, it would’ve been discussed at the pre-production meeting.

Plus, the notes said: “Judge fairly, but if there’s an opportunity to give them a second chance, please do.”

In her six seasons working Show Me, she’d never seen an instruction like that.

As Miyeon frowned in thought, a message came from the field crew.

Judging was ready to begin.

Applicants #1–100 were queued up, and she moved with the judge to the venue.

No surprises.

#33, the must-pass, did fine.

Two other so-called “name-value” contestants passed smoothly as well.

Honestly, early numbers have an advantage.

Later ones deal with judges who’ve been sitting for 10+ hours and are far more impatient.

Judging continued and soon reached the 400s–500s.

Miyeon immediately looked for #452.

And was disappointed.

“What the…”

He was wearing a cheap mask.

Last season, after Sedalbaekil’s Masked Bandit caused a buzz in the indie scene, there had been a wave of masked contestants.

Some even made it to the finals.

But masks had two big problems:

First, it was hard to build a core fanbase without a face or story. You had to rely purely on skill—and that was a disadvantage in finals with public voting.

Second, once the mask came off, most of the time the reaction was… nothing.

The one who made it last season got unmasked early in the team mission. Turned out to be someone unknown from the underground scene.

He was apparently respected in that circle—but the public didn’t care.

Ironically, his popularity dropped after unmasking.

Before that, at least the audience could enjoy the mystery box effect.

Contestants seemed aware of this too. Very few had shown up with masks this season.

“What even is that mask?”

Not even a cool Masked Bandit type—more like something a kid would wear.

But after watching for a moment, something felt off.

How to describe it…

He felt like an entertainer.

Entertainers are trained to stand in front of a camera—and that shows in their posture.

Normal people look stiff, hunchy, and uncomfortable under the lens.

But this masked guy wasn’t like that.

Even without seeing his eyes, Miyeon could sense what his face behind the mask might look like.

His body, too—he had the kind of frame you only get from managing body fat.

The shoulder line, the posture—it was all camera-ready.

“An actor? A singer?”

She wasn’t sure.

But she was definitely intrigued—and it became clear why PD Yoon had requested close filming.

If you framed him right, viewers would also think, “There’s something about him.”

Of course, the rap still had to be good.

And the judge for this block—D.D.—was notorious for being harsh.

Unless the network begged him, he only judged by skill.

And he hated rappers with no fundamentals.

While Miyeon was thinking all this, judging resumed.

Mostly 10-second cuts.

That was actually generous. If it passed the 10-hour mark, it usually turned into 3-second cuts.

Still, one passed, and finally it was time for #452.

D.D. clearly had noticed him earlier—his eyes kept flicking to the mask.

‘He doesn’t like it.’

As expected of a first-generation rapper who values fundamentals, the mask probably rubbed him the wrong way.

“Hey, contestant four-five-two.”

“Yes.”

“What should I call you?”

“Hmm… Masked Man?”

“Ah, sure. Masked Man. Let’s hear what you’ve got.”

As soon as D.D. finished speaking, contestant #452 began rapping.

Miyeon had been a Show Me writer for years, so her ears were sharp.

She still didn’t fully get niche styles, but she could immediately tell whether someone had basic skills.

And Masked Man—no, let’s call him Sa-O-I (452 in Korean pronunciation)—Sa-O-I had solid fundamentals.

Even with no backing track and no mic, his voice rang out powerfully, and his delivery was razor-sharp.

Miyeon thought that.

But D.D. had a different thought.

‘What the hell, he’s good.’

No—not just “good.”

Exceptional.

He hated the mask, but there was nothing to criticize in the rap.

And rappers can tell each other apart.

This guy had definitely performed before. Maybe even still active.

As soon as the rap ended, D.D. handed him the pass necklace.

Then asked:

“You active?”

“…?”

“I mean, I knew as soon as I heard you. Just wondering if you’re still active.”

“Oh. Then yes—I am active.”

“Then why the mask? You want to be judged just on skill?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“I just thought… it’d be fun to take it off in the finals.”

“What if you don’t make it?”

“Then I guess I’ll get eliminated with the mask on.”

Watching this, Miyeon realized two things.

First—Sa-O-I was confident in his skill.

Plenty of people say they’re aiming for finals, but this guy had a different aura. Like he assumed it was obvious.

Second—he wasn’t like the previous masked contestants.

Wearing a mask hides your face. But this guy wasn’t trying to hide his character.

He was slowly building an image on a blank canvas.

He was active, confident, and skilled.

And if he made the finals, he’d reveal his face. If not, he wouldn’t.

“Interesting.”

He was a fun character.

And the kind of character viewers would want to see unmasked.

Of course, if the public was disappointed after the reveal, that’d be a different story.

“But I don’t think so.”

This guy was definitely a celebrity.

You could tell from how he moved and spoke, even behind the mask.

“I’m curious. Who’s behind the mask?”

“I’d like to show you, too.”

“Thanks for your time. See you in the next round.”

And so the 400–500 block ended.

Two passed, and went to do interviews with the writers.

Miyeon hadn’t originally been assigned to Sa-O-I.

But now she was curious.

She swapped with a junior writer to take over the interview.

And at the interview room, accompanied by a VJ, the interview began.

“You’re not going to give us your real info, right?”

“Hmm… twenty questions is too much, but I’ll allow maybe three.”

“Three? As in, three questions?”

“Yep.”

“Okay… Would the staff know who you are?”

“Probably.”

“You said you’re active—are you a singer?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenties.”

After this light Q&A—which probably wouldn’t make the final cut—Miyeon asked:

“What’s your reason for appearing on the show?”

“I suggested to someone that they should try rapping. I believe that person would be amazing at it. Even better than me.”

“Okay… and?”

“They said they’d try it if I won Show Me.”

“Alright… and?”

“That’s it.”

“…?”

“So I came.”

Miyeon was momentarily confused.

If this airs, he’s definitely going to come off as cocky—

“Oh.”

This man… is way smarter than she thought.