Little Pink Starfish

One of Channel Motion’s prized shows, Show Me What You Got, wasn’t actually a huge ratings hit.

Even during its record-breaking Season 4, the peak minute-by-minute rating was only 7.6%.

The regular peak ratings? Around the mid-6% range.

But Show Me brought in far more revenue than those numbers suggested.

As a foundational piece of Korea’s party culture and a major hip-hop show, it was a goldmine for event bookings.

That said, ratings weren’t meaningless.

Public perception still revolved around those numbers.

That’s why one of the control room staff at Channel Motion was caught off guard.

“What the heck is this?”

“What?”

“Wait, what was last year’s highest Show Me rating again?”

“Wasn’t it 4.1%? Something like that?”

“Right? Then why are we already at 4% now?”

“Huh?”

The pre-broadcast rating for episode 3 of Show Me had already hit 4%.

“Pre-broadcast” refers to the rating for the ads right before the show begins.

It varies based on the popularity of the previous program, but it’s practically a stand-in for the show’s starting rating.

So that means the actual broadcast would definitely go higher than that.

“Damn. Show Me might blow up this season.”

“That’d be great for us too.”

The control room didn’t directly manage show ratings, but the vibe of the whole station still mattered.

As those employees chatted, the rating ticked upward.

In the end, episode 3 of Show Me started with a pre-broadcast rating of 4.2%.

---

The episode began with Sa-oh-ee.

Just like the end of episode 2, it aired his full stage again, this time with extra commentary from the judges.

[Okay, seriously, who is he?]

[We don’t know either. Only the PD and head writer do.]

[Is he supposed to be famous?]

[It kind of felt that way, yeah.]

Show Me was practically issuing a quiz.

They wanted viewers to try and guess Sa-oh-ee’s identity.

But oddly enough, that was the entire segment about Sa-oh-ee in episode 3.

It couldn’t be helped.

The second mission wasn’t just about Sa-oh-ee, and Show Me couldn’t revolve entirely around him.

Instead, it seemed they were trying to build up rivalries between Sa-oh-ee and other contestants.

[The performance was nice, but… can we even call that hip-hop?]

A few contestants made disapproving faces and gave their critiques.

Of course, Sa-oh-ee had critiques of his own.

[The way you produce sound feels old-fashioned.]

He seemed like a very cool-headed person.

He said this to a first-generation rapper, someone most contestants would be starstruck by.

But he also had an unexpected side.

[That had a wild vibe. I don’t know why he got eliminated.]

This was his comment about someone who’d been unanimously cut by the judges.

-No matter how hard I try, I still can’t tell who it is from the voice alone.

-Same… I got nothing;;

Han Siwon had lived long enough to develop all kinds of vocal tones.

Changing his voice just a little wasn’t difficult at all.

Even TT wouldn’t have been able to tell it was Han Siwon.

Which made it all the more impressive that writer Oh Sohee had identified him based on small movements and physical features.

Though, to be fair, she had access to the full raw footage—not the edited version.

So Show Me episode 3 ended without any new stage from Sa-oh-ee.

That didn’t mean they didn’t drop any hints.

They showed him sitting in the waiting room, chatting with other contestants.

The teaser also included a brief glimpse of his upcoming stage.

By this point, everyone could tell:

Show Me’s early episodes had one goal—sustain curiosity.

They were stockpiling audience interest in Sa-oh-ee’s identity, to hook viewers and keep them watching.

The industry that reacted most sharply to this was, of course, entertainment.

“Who is it? Sa-oh-ee?”

“No idea. I tried to dig around, but there’s literally nothing out there.”

“Is he really a top star?”

“If he pulls off the mask and he’s a nobody, there’ll be a huge backlash.”

“What kind of level would be enough?”

“If he’s an actor, it’d have to be someone like Cha Woosung. Anyone lower might get flamed. For singers, maybe Kito or Do Jaewook.”

“For idols? Drop Out or NOP. Or Sedalbaekil. Has to be at least that level.”

Cha Woosung, Kito, Do Jaewook, Drop Out, NOP, Sedalbaekil.

Names that were either currently huge or had long-standing popularity.

People in the industry didn’t know who Sa-oh-ee was, but they felt like whoever it was, he had to be at that level to satisfy audience curiosity.

Ironically, this led many to think he wasn’t anyone that famous.

They figured he was a flash-in-the-pan or mid-tier celeb with limited name recognition.

It made sense.

Think about it—if Sa-oh-ee were that famous, would PD Yoon Jungseop bother masking him?

It’d make more sense to reveal him in the teaser with a caption like, “*He’s joining Show Me?!” and let the buzz spread.

In other words, it was nitrogen packaging.

They were making someone look famous precisely because they weren’t.

“PD Yoon’s got guts. How’s he gonna handle the backlash when the mask comes off?”

“Isn’t Yoon a freelancer?”

“I think he’s under contract—3 or 4 years.”

“Do they even do contracts like that now?”

“Show Me is kind of a special case. If Yoon leaves, the whole writing staff might follow, and then the show collapses.”

But ultimately, the conclusion among industry insiders was simple:

“Sigh. Can’t believe this mystery box marketing works so well.”

“Should we just throw a handsome guy in a potato sack and debut him like that?”

Making a living in this industry was hell.

Just when the buzz around “the real Original” (revealed as Goo Taehwan) started to die down, Sa-oh-ee started heating up.

And quietly, the next Masked Singer winner—Harmless Electrolyte—was beginning to make noise.

The cruel thing about the entertainment industry?

The winner takes everything.

Which meant that whenever a new winner emerged elsewhere, everyone else became a loser by default.

“Man, I hope Sedalbaekil’s variety show tanks.”

“If that does well too, the first half of the year is toast.”

---

Sometimes I think about it.

No, more like feel it.

When everything’s going well, it makes me uneasy.

Still, this life is one of the most stable I’ve had in all my returns.

Even without mentioning my lucky connection with Sedalbaekil, just starting life again in Korea was a good choice.

If I had ended things with GOTM and started again from the bottom in the U.S., I wouldn’t have held up mentally.

But I must still be a weird guy.

Because when I finally faced a sharp, clear malice again, I felt like I was truly alive.

Lately, hiding my face on Show Me, I’d started to lose touch with my “Han Siwon” self.

“Are you even listening?”

The one radiating malice before me, of course, was Fade.

Honestly, it was a little annoying.

It was only natural for me to punish Fade.

He was the one who threw a wrench into my peaceful life.

And because of that, Choi Jaesung got hurt.

I know Jaesung’s injury was bad luck.

Out of a hundred people in that situation, how many would end up with a neck injury?

Causality is hard to assign when you’re dealing with randomness and unfairness.

But it doesn’t change the outcome.

Fade was still the one who planted that seed of misfortune.

While I was thinking that, Fade suddenly snapped.

“Hey!”

“Fade. No—Jo Yongseong.”

“What?”

“Your name’s Jo Yongseong, right? Since you left the name ‘Fade’ behind at Lion Entertainment.”

“Did you bring a gun? Or a knife, maybe?”

“…”

No answer.

I jerked my chin toward the window.

“There are three bodyguards in that car. Unless you take me out in one hit, you’re not gonna get far.”

I didn’t say it out loud, but I’d probably beat him in a fight anyway.

I’d learned a lot just to avoid being underestimated in macho America.

I even learned yacht fishing over there—something I never did in Korea.

“…You coward.”

“What part of this is cowardly?”

Meeting someone who could potentially harm me and showing up alone? That’d be stupid.

I’d already checked his outfit the moment we met.

Tight shorts, pocketless shirt.

Nowhere to hide a weapon.

“Alright. Say what you came to say. I already know the conclusion.”

Fade’s voluntary withdrawal had been decided and would be announced soon.

Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after.

It hadn’t taken much.

The SBI Entertainment team took care of it all.

In the entertainment world, burying someone is easy if you’ve got the info and the cash.

Especially someone like Fade, who wasn’t even that popular.

That’s why Choi Taeho had been shocked.

Lion Entertainment couldn’t bury Sedalbaekil.

While I was thinking that, I expected Fade to ask, “Why’d you do this to me?” or some whiny line like that.

The Jo Yongseong I remembered from For The Youth was that kind of guy.

Someone who never thought about his own faults, always blaming others.

But what came out of Fade’s mouth was truly unexpected.

For the first time ever, he was outside my predictive range.

“Why’d you cast Juyeon?”

That was his first question.

Was it because he had to retire and couldn’t stand Juyeon succeeding?

“To compensate for the damage.”

“Damage?”

“You know this. Our fight hurt TakeScene’s image.”

I’d tried to minimize it, but TakeScene and Fade weren’t entirely separate entities.

Especially not in the idol industry.

So pushing Fade all the way to retirement caused real damage to the group.

“Think of it as a form of compensation.”

“…”

“It doesn’t concern you, does it?”

I didn’t feel overwhelming guilt toward TakeScene.

I was sorry—but not enough to drive my actions.

Still, I acted out of that small sense of regret, because show business isn’t a solo game.

No matter how talented I am musically, I need the support of others.

So how others see me matters.

“So basically… you attacked me, hurt TakeScene, and cast Juyeon as payback?”

“Exactly. But why does that bother you?”

Fade didn’t answer.

Weird.

Knowing this guy, I wouldn’t have expected him to care what happens to TakeScene.

He only cares about himself.

Then he opened his mouth.

I thought he’d blow up in rage—but oddly, his voice was calm.

“Han Siwon. I’ve always wondered… Do you really think that fight back then, on Coming Up Next, was all my fault?”

Of course I remember.

During the Myeongdong karaoke mission, I crushed Fade by a ridiculous margin, and the vibe got icy.

Even the Sedalbaekil members were awkwardly glancing at TakeScene.

So I tried to smooth it over like a professional.

“Um, do you like songs by WITH?”

“What’s your point? Happy you won?”

That was Fade’s response.

The rest was predictable.

He eventually apologized to me.

But now, Fade spoke again.

“Do you really believe that fight was just because of me?”