Little Pink Starfish

Those with deep musical knowledge—especially producers, who could be considered Saoi’s potential rivals—felt a strange sensation.

Technically, it was just bass and vocals.

The instruments only kicked in when the vocals came in, but they weren’t leading the song’s structure.

So why… did it sound so good?

Of course, if the whole song stayed like this, it would get boring.

But…

“There’s no way it’s that simple.”

Kyo, the only producer among this season’s contestants, understood Saoi’s true skill.

He had no idea who Saoi was.

He’d scoured every hip-hop production circle to figure it out, but came up empty.

Still, that person’s talent was real.

Out of every musician he’d ever met in his life, Saoi was the best.

So there was no way someone like that would create a dull song out of self-indulgence.

Sure enough—

Even the bass disappeared, leaving no accompaniment, as Saoi spoke.

When I was Zero
Back then, I didn’t know,
What number am I on?
I don’t have reality

At that moment, the narrow spotlight stage, reminiscent of a standing-room show, suddenly expanded.

A burst of light exploded, the curtains behind the stage lifted—

Drums, bass, guitar, piano.

A full band began performing at full volume, and Saoi’s voice saying “When I was Zero” was used like an instrument itself.

For the first time, a completed sound poured out.

The crowd screamed.

They screamed so loudly, it didn’t even sound like “Waaaah”—it was more like “Yeeeeaaah!”

Because everything Saoi had shown until now was just the intro.

16 bars.

A 1 minute 8 second intro.

And after that, the real song, <Reality>, began.

The sound sources were hinted at in the intro, but the mood had completely shifted.

If the intro had been lyrical, the song now felt grand—and oddly lighthearted.

Through that, Saoi’s rap came charging in, as if to say “Kept you waiting?”

Before stepping
On the stage, the air
Is intense

People often said they liked that Saoi didn’t boast through his rap.

He focused only on what sounded good—there was no need to show off.

But that was a misconception.

Would a jazz master ever boast, “Hey, I can swing”?

Of course not—because it’s a given.

And at that level, the skill just seeps in whether you intend it or not.

Watching Onsaemiro
Nervously backstage
That’s the realest moment

In live rap, the full lyrics often don’t come through clearly.

Sure, it’s not impossible if you design a track purely for lyrical delivery.

But this was a full-volume band performance, and it was loaded with subtle layers.

So while the audience didn’t catch all of Saoi’s lyrics, they heard a few distinct words:

Onsaemiro. Nervous. Real.

“Onsaemiro? From Sedalbaekil?”

The thought flashed through some minds—but the stage was still going, so they brushed it off.

Maybe they heard wrong. Or maybe it meant something else.

But something felt off again—

When Gutaehwan’s intro
Plays, we
Be a thing

Gutaehwan?

The moment his name came up, it became almost certain.

That earlier mention of Onsaemiro definitely referred to that Onsaemiro from Sedalbaekil.

And now Gutaehwan too?

“Be a thing”? Like “become a trending topic” when Gutaehwan’s intro plays?

Ieon hyung’s face
Feels unreal
Unfair

At that moment, a few sharp listeners figured it out.

There had been rumors.

That Saoi was Han Sion.

But the idea had seemed far-fetched and unrealistic.

Still…

Jaeseong
Watches and dances
Like a meerkat

Would these lyrics even make sense if this weren’t Han Sion?

Of course, only a handful of people made this connection in real time.

Most were simply caught up in the sheer power of the band and the rhythm of the rap.

Ba-ba-bam!

The brass section exploded, and during a six-second beat break, Saoi danced however he wanted.

People screamed.

Nobody ever imagined Saoi would dance on stage, based on his past performances.

<Reality>.

The song’s message was clear.

The life described in the intro was Han Sion’s original reality.

Carrying a guitar to a 2-pyeong studio, buying beef with his first performance fee for his parents.

But back then, he didn’t know—

What number am I on?

That he’d end up wandering through so many cycles, so exhausted he’d lose track.

I don’t have reality

That he might end up losing reality altogether.

But in the end, Han Sion regained his reality.

He didn’t know how it happened.

By now, you’d think he wouldn’t feel this way—but when he sees Onsaemiro trembling backstage, it still feels real.

When Gutaehwan’s intro plays, they become the talk of the stage. When Ieon’s face—too unreal to be believed—feels real.

Choi Jaeseong always watching like a meerkat, scribbling down his older brothers’ weird habits in his diary…

And most of all—

He is here.

This life had a lot of strange twists.

Back then, in the heat of the moment, he chose Sedalbaekil instead of Take Scene.

If it were the old Han Sion—the regressionist—he would have chosen Take Scene.

No matter how good the Sedalbaekil members were as people, Han Sion didn’t trust people.

Somewhere in that strange gap, he had never truly adapted.

At one point, Andrew Bryant, president of HR Corporation, had said:

“You say you want to sell more albums, but your actions are strangely… pure.”

For some reason, that comment had really irritated him.

Andrew never brought it up again afterward.

But now, Han Sion understood.

Somewhere along the way, this became his perfect reality.

He realized that while making this song.

And so, the masquerade was over.

Not just the physical mask he wore for Show Me.

Even the curtain in his heart.

That, too, had been a mask.

Meanwhile, the first verse of <Reality> had ended.

It was time for the chorus—time to sing.

Han Sion didn’t sing right away.

Originally, he was supposed to sing over a pre-recorded chorus using AR, but he didn’t.

Instead, he paused.

He looked at the screaming, laughing, sweaty crowd.

And removed his mask.

Then he tossed it offstage and began the chorus.

But his singing wasn’t heard clearly.

“WHAT THE HELL!!!”

“UWAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!”

“IT’S HAN SION!!!”

Because the audience exploded into chaos.

---

“Heh. Damn.”

Show Me’s PD Yoon Jeongseop chuckled as he looked at the stage—at Saoi. No, Han Sion.

From start to finish, nothing had gone according to plan.

He wasn’t supposed to take off the mask during the Top 4.

He wasn’t supposed to unmask at the end of the first verse, either—it was supposed to be after the performance ended.

For fairness.

Han Sion was a superstar—he had sold the most albums in Korea over the past 18 months.

If someone like that unmasked during the performance, it could influence audience votes.

Han Sion didn’t seem to care about that sort of thing, but PD Yoon did—as the main director.

He wanted to create a flawless myth.

If he unmasked during his winner’s speech, after a perfect masked victory, it would leave no room for doubt—only admiration.

Han Sion had agreed to that.

But then he changed his mind, and did things off-script at the wrong time.

But…

That kind of moment can’t be directed.

Logically, the picture Yoon had drawn was stronger.

But emotionally—this was better.

“…Cool.”

Yoon Jeongseop suddenly thought.

Up until now, Sedalbaekil’s and Han Sion’s music had felt like the product of perfect calculation—a cold kind of art.

The artists had warm hearts, but their planning was cold, precise.

But going forward, it felt like their music would be warmer.

Yoon thought this as he turned to the woman seated next to him—Oh Sohee.

“Writer Oh.”

“……”

“Writer Oh?”

When he turned, he found her crying silently.

Overwhelmed.

“Our boy is the best…”

“Um, Writer Oh?”

“What now!”

“He can’t be your boy. He’s way too handsome.”

“Weren’t you the one asking him to call you hyung? You senile old man. Shameless.”

“….”

Yoon went dizzy for a moment, but quickly steadied himself.

They had work to do now.

---

After Show Me 7’s semifinal ended, the audience was buzzing.

The four performances had been flawless, and the competition intense—but what really got them riled up was Saoi’s identity.

Some people thought:

‘I’m never telling anyone.’

But more people thought:

‘I gotta post this online right now.’

Some wanted to play coy about it, too.

Do you know who Saoi is?

I went to the semifinal taping, and wow—I was floored.

Once this airs, the entire country’s gonna lose it.

This let them keep their NDA with the broadcaster and show off at the same time.

But plenty of others were ready to say it outright: Saoi = Han Sion.

All of them were logging into their favorite communities, ready to post.

[Who’s Saoi, really?]
[Saoi’s an idol?!]
[Wait… is Saoi using Shadow Clone Jutsu or what?]

Nearly every trending topic online was about Saoi.

If you checked the internet, it was already chaos.

People with audience wristbands and selfies were all claiming Saoi was someone else.

–I nearly fainted when he took off the mask. And then he drops Dropout right there.
–What are you talking about? It was Han Sion.
–No way. It was pianist Oh Jaeyul.
–;; Are y’all drunk? It was Curry. (1st-gen rapper)

Truth can’t be hidden just by covering it up.

Truth must be hidden inside lies.

–So like, who the hell is Saoi?
–Pretty sure he’s got clones lol
–Why does everyone have proof they went to the recording but all their stories are different?
–Did the network plant fake fans or what?
–LOL that’s it, nailed it

That last comment—meant as a joke—was actually true.

This was PD Yoon and Writer Oh Sohee’s top priority.

Flood the internet with misinformation.

Yes, someone did upload a blurry photo of Han Sion onstage.

(Photo)(Photo)

But those were easy to counter.

Just post some random other singer’s stage photo.

Of course, this wasn’t something the network could officially do—so it was all handled covertly.

Didn’t require that much manpower anyway.

And so, even after the semifinal taping ended, the secret of Saoi’s identity was protected.

And then—

Broadcast day finally arrived.