GOTM was completely captivated by the three songs I played for them.
“If you do well on this stage, I’ll give you a few more like those.”
Just that one line made them lose their minds.
It was such a powerful motivator that drummer Andrew Gunn came up to me and said something I never expected.
“Sion.”
“What?”
“I think I can play the drum part live, instead of relying on the backing track.”
“…You want to play that live?”
Hip-hop is the genre most drummers avoid playing live.
Either it’s too exhausting or too boring.
A slow BPM means endlessly repeating the same beat—mind-numbing.
A fast BPM means your wrists and forearms are going to get shredded.
Especially trap-style songs—playing those live is more labor than music.
And the song I’m performing in the Show Me the Money finale? It’s exactly that kind of song.
It’ll look cool live, sure, but…
“It’s going to be tough.”
“Yeah, but still.”
“There’s a reason?”
Andrew’s eyes sparkled.
“There is. That second song you played yesterday—it was written for me, wasn’t it?”
“You figured it out.”
“Of course. At first it sounded like the bass was the core of the rhythm, but it was the drums. And it was my style.”
“True.”
Actually, no.
But he looked so genuinely happy that there was no need to correct him.
And really, he’s not entirely wrong.
If you’re not a drummer who’s weirdly in love with hi-hats, you couldn’t fully bring that song to life.
“But hey, Sion.”
“Yeah?”
“Is there no chance you could do the vocals too? The guide track you sang was killer.”
“Vocals? That’s going to be hard.”
“Why?”
“Because even inside HR Corporation, there’s politics.”
I’ve never worked with HR directly, but I know the company well.
Their main market is white, mainstream Western culture.
Sure, they try to diversify—target the Asian market, sign artists of color.
But when it comes to their main product, they’re very reluctant to let non-Western sensibilities in.
Especially Lloyd Macker, who runs his division in the opposite direction of Andrew Bryant—I know that guy.
He eventually breaks off from HR and forms a company called ROYAL INC.
And that company ends up being heavily influenced by my success.
If ZION becomes successful in the U.S. mainstream, ROYAL INC turns out just okay.
But if I stumble, ROYAL INC becomes a sturdy, massive dinosaur of a company.
A kind of butterfly effect—my success has ripple effects on Billboard culture.
Lloyd Macker, currently in charge of GOTM’s direction, probably doesn’t like the idea of me being involved in their debut album.
When I explained all this, Andrew Gunn asked again.
“Not that. I mean, how do you feel? Wouldn’t it be fun to do it together?”
“Hmm…”
Would it be fun?
I’m not sure.
I’ve already done it all before.
The songs I gave them—I’ve sung those thousands of times on stage.
In countless episodes, countless performances.
There’s no excitement left for me.
But I do hope GOTM does well with these songs.
A band without a fixed vocalist needs a hit debut album to attract strong guest vocalists.
“If I could, I wouldn’t be against it.”
“Then I’ll try saying something to James Dean.”
“Go ahead.”
It’s not going to happen anyway.
Fueled by this motivation, GOTM managed to perfectly synchronize their sound by the second day.
Now Sedalbaekil joined the practice.
They’d be handling chorus vocals, harmonies, backing sound—and dancing.
I would’ve liked Choi Jaeseong to take on the hype-man role (the rapper’s support on stage), but he wasn’t ready for that.
Up until now, Sedalbaekil had been rehearsing to a recorded MR track.
Now they had to adapt to the live version.
“Sion.”
“Yes, hyung.”
“Could you tell them we’re counting on them for today’s practice? And that we might make mistakes since it’s our first time with live sound?”
“You could say that much in English, can’t you?”
“Oh, right.”
Iiyon stepped forward and awkwardly relayed the message to GOTM.
The two teams already knew of each other.
PLAYERS was a track performed by GOTM with Sedalbaekil on vocals.
Well, over 50% of the vocal part was mine, but still.
Since the instrumental and vocal recordings had been done separately, there hadn’t been much opportunity for the two teams to bond.
Still, there was mutual goodwill, and conversation quickly flowed.
What was amusing was how both teams admired each other.
Sedalbaekil saw GOTM as a band that had taken Billboard by storm.
And that was accurate.
Players had peaked at number 6 on the Hot 100 and ranked 2nd on rock and band-specific minor charts.
If the number 1 song at the time hadn’t been from a band, they might’ve taken first there too.
And the credit for the song’s chart success—well, that was mostly thanks to GOTM.
Sedalbaekil didn’t contribute much.
GOTM had performed all their shows with guest vocalists.
If a particular vocalist got a great reaction, HR would release endless remix versions with them.
The initial Billboard entry was due to the song’s strength, but the sustained success came from HR Corporation’s remix strategy.
Conversely, GOTM saw Sedalbaekil as Asia’s rising dragon.
Their first and second albums had ranked high on the Billboard 200—without even promoting in the U.S.
So Sedalbaekil thought GOTM was more amazing, and GOTM thought Sedalbaekil was more amazing.
They were united in one thing: complaining about me.
“He really made us the backing band?”
“We’re backup dancers!”
“He really called in this level of connections just to win as a rapper?”
“Right?!”
Unbelievable.
As I quietly approached, they all went silent, like guilty kids caught in the act.
“Alright, let’s get to practice.”
And so, we began.
I observed Choi Jaeseong without making it obvious.
He was almost back to a normal, healthy state.
But his original vocal ability hadn’t returned.
I heard him singing—and instinctively, he was tightening his throat and forcing the sound from under his jaw.
It’s natural.
There’s no such thing as perfect rehab after a vocal injury.
It’s not about returning to what you were—it’s about starting anew from where you are now.
[The concept of ‘original’ has no place at a crossroads. But if you’re asking in your own sense of the word—then no, it’s not possible.]
As the devil had said—definitively.
Still, this time he was only dancing, so it was fine.
What I was watching for wasn’t skill—but mindset.
I just hope he regains that drive to improve.
Whether as a vocalist, a dancer, or a rapper.
As long as he has something that gives him a reason to keep climbing on stage.
The semi-finals of Show Me the Money Season 7 created an unprecedented result in broadcast history.
Ratings aside—the buzz was insane.
Entertainment industry veterans were saying you only saw this kind of buzz around presidential elections.
The numbers weren’t literally that high—but close enough to make the comparison.
So when Saoi took off the mask and revealed Han Sion of Sedalbaekil—it was, with only slight exaggeration, a moment seen by the entire nation.
To be honest, Han Sion’s marketing strategy was nothing new.
Talent. Mystery. Recognition.
Very common keywords.
You spark curiosity with skill, hide your identity, and then shock the public when you finally reveal it.
Even Masked Singer does this.
But what made the semi-final phenomenal was that—for the first time ever—all the pieces were perfect.
Skill?
Overflowing.
The entire season’s slogan was “Beat Saoi.”
Mystery?
Flawless.
Han Sion slowly revealed parts of his career, teasing curiosity.
He was a born showman.
Recognition?
Unparalleled.
Most industry folks had expected that once Saoi revealed himself, his popularity would drop.
But the opposite happened.
Han Sion proved he was one of the top-tier rappers—and reached untouchable status.
The leader of the idol group that sold the most albums in South Korea last year—also dominating in rap.
A perfect trinity.
Usually, with this kind of marketing, one thing falls short: either the talent’s lacking, the mystery is weak because the identity leaks, or the public just doesn’t care after the reveal.
But this time, it was flawless.
So the finale of Show Me the Money Season 7 shattered expectations—even for ratings.
The first to notice was the control room at Channel Motion.
“Senior, hurry! The director wants spot rating numbers!”
Spot meant short commercial segments.
Ads between programs.
The ones after the show trailer aired were called “pre-program ads,” and the first few before a program were called the golden slot.
They might seem similar—but the price difference between those ad slots was massive.
So here, “spot” referred to ads that aired before the “coming soon” trailer for Show Me What You Got.
Normally, spot ratings didn’t mean much.
Unless the station wanted to spin them to sell ad packages.
So the fact that the director was asking for spot ratings was unusual—and felt like overkill.
…That’s what the control room staff thought—until they saw the numbers.
“13%.”
“Come on, don’t joke.”
“I’m serious. 13%.”
“Say that again and I’m reporting you straight to the director.”
“Go ahead. Want me to send the data?”
“…For real?”
“Yeah. Oh—wait. Never mind. Just hit 14%.”
“…No way…”
That moment, Show Me’s spot rating matched Channel Motion’s top 5 ratings of all time.
The audience had taken their seats and were enjoying the show.
But the stage they were enjoying wasn’t the face-off between Saoi and Savior.
It was a joint performance by the previously eliminated contestants.
Even though they’d been eliminated, only those who had made the finals were performing—so the quality was still high.
Normally, after the show ends, Show Me does a national tour with the Top 10 or Top 16.
It’s good money.
So the audience today was basically getting a preview of that future concert.
“Wow, Breathe’s really good.”
“Savior and Breathe—it’s just a matter of taste.”
“Honestly, if Breathe made it to the finals, no one would’ve complained.”
“Blus is killing it too.”
“His name’s Blue Screen.”
“Ugh, shut up.”
That continued—until the MC walked on stage and ramped up the tension.
The grand finale of Show Me the Money Season 7 was finally beginning.
The first performance would be Savior.


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