Damn Idol, Episode 42
As Choi Jaeseong had said, Han Sion had been frightening lately.
It wasn’t that he lost his temper easily or was overly sensitive.
If anything, he was much kinder and gentler than usual.
And yet, the reason he felt frightening was his attitude toward preparing for the stage.
It was the first time Seheon had ever felt that a person could become so completely obsessed with something.
At the same time, he found himself wondering whether he had ever lived like that.
He had practiced hard before.
But he had never risked his life.
Han Sion had.
Watching Han Sion like this from close by had a positive effect on Sedalbaekil.
“My goodness, you guys are really relentless.”
That was what vocal trainer Yoo Seonhwa said in front of the camera after watching them practice for quite some time.
Ryan Entertainment’s training system was so grueling that even the most hard-bitten trainees occasionally ran away.
Still, she hadn’t expected the members of Sedalbaekil, who had no experience with agency training aside from Iion, to keep up this well.
Han Sion was even getting up two hours earlier than everyone else while handling this training schedule.
When Gu Taehwan asked him what he was doing, he said he needed to tune his vocal color.
The feeling of watching Han Sion’s stage gradually being completed right beside them was…
“Won’t the internet go crazy once this airs?”
“I think so too. But I’m a little worried that it might not feel idol-like enough.”
“Hmm. That’s true. If the purists latch onto it, people might have things to say. They might start going on about ‘real music.’”
But then Choi Jaeseong shook his head.
“Come to think of it, it’s only because *Under the Streetlamp* had such a strong impact. The rest were all songs by our seniors, weren’t they?”
He was definitely right.
*Flowers Bloom*, *Boy Scout*, *I Wasn’t Teasing You*.
They were all songs by idol groups.
As Choi Jaeseong had said, *Under the Streetlamp* had simply made too strong an impression.
Especially that rearranged version.
That was when Iion cut in.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ah, we were talking about how people would react after Sion-hyung’s stage tomorrow.”
“Won’t he be treated like a madman—in a good way?”
“Right?”
“Let’s go for now. The producer told us to gather.”
“What? Is our break already over?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
It was one day before the first mission of the main competition on *Coming Up Next*.
* * *
At first, the members of Drop Out felt a little uneasy about entrusting the rearrangement to the original composer of *Selfish*.
Composition and arrangement weren’t entirely separate fields.
There were plenty of cases where an excellent composer was also an excellent arranger.
But when it came to K-pop, there were also quite a few cases where a composer’s skills and an arranger’s skills differed considerably.
Some people could create a good top line (main melody),
yet struggled to draw it out in the distinctive sound of an idol group.
Even so, Drop Out had entrusted the arrangement of *Selfish* to its composer, Zion, because—
“Let’s try to get Zion’s personal contact information.”
—of a request from their agency, Double M Entertainment.
“He’s sold songs to exactly two groups, you know? Us and NOP.”
“Wasn’t it that we took the song NOP was interested in?”
“No. Selfish was their first choice too, but they were also interested in *[ ]*. That’s the one they bought.”
“That one’s a title track too?”
“Yeah. A title track.”
He had sold title tracks to the two hottest boy groups at the moment.
That meant the composer named Zion hadn’t written a hit song by sheer luck.
Of course, they would have to watch him for a while longer, but there was a high probability that he possessed the ability to keep writing good songs.
“But the deal was brokered by BVB Entertainment’s head of A&R. That makes me nervous.”
“Seung Seunghyeon? That was his name, right?”
“That’s right.”
Drop Out even knew that an employee of another company named Seung Seunghyeon had taken the lead in arranging the contract.
Double M tended to actively share information with Drop Out, the face of the company.
“If he’s really that good a composer, we should at least get his business card. If we ask him to arrange something, won’t something come out of it? At the very least, an individual email address or messenger ID.”
“Exactly.”
“If his arrangement turns out to be mediocre, we can just pay him and choose not to use it.”
That was why Drop Out entrusted the arrangement of *Selfish* to Zion, but…
“Wow, what is this?”
“This is insane.”
Within a few days, a result of unbelievable quality arrived.
He had arranged it into a sound that fit Drop Out like a glove, and had meticulously marked out the part distribution suited to each member, along with points to be careful about in their expressions.
But what was even crazier than that was the guide vocal for the completed arrangement.
*Selfish* had originally come with English lyrics.
They didn’t know whether Zion had sung it, but there had been a crudely recorded home-demo version with terrible sound quality.
Everyone had thought the song was good despite the poor audio, but the version he had sent this time was beyond words.
Forget everything else—he sang incredibly well.
Even though it didn’t feel like he had sung it with every ounce of effort, the level of sophistication was insane.
“We could release this version separately.”
“We could just release it with these lyrics, couldn’t we?”
No Korean lyrics they attached would probably be better than the guide version.
The only drawback was that it had no rap section.
Still, there was a part in the bridge that could be sung like rap, so the rapper could breathe a sigh of relief.
“Should we suggest releasing an English version?”
“Can we use the lyrics exactly as they are?”
“The company will pay the songwriting fee anyway.”
“Then Zion gets the whole 4:4:2 (the conventional distribution ratio for lyrics, composition, and arrangement) for the English version?”
Once the arrangement was unanimously approved, the members of Drop Out began to grow curious.
About Zion’s identity.
“Is he really a rookie?”
“Doesn’t he sing too well?”
“Singing aside, the arrangement is incredibly precise. Does this feel like something a rookie can do?”
“I think the opposite. Even if the composition and arrangement can be handled technically, his singing doesn’t make sense.”
Drop Out was a self-producing group, so they knew how difficult the principle of being “neither too much nor too little” really was.
There were almost no rookies who could pull that off.
In the end, Sido, the leader who was known as the idol of idols, sent a message to Zion’s personal email saying that he wanted to have a meal together sometime, but…
“He ignored it.”
“He ignored your email, hyung?”
“Come on, he probably just hasn’t seen it yet.”
“……He read it and ignored it.”
He had been coolly left on read.
They didn’t know it, but Zion—or rather, Han Sion—was busy preparing for his stage on *Coming Up Next*.
* * *
Unaware of how her oppas were being treated,
Choi Sehee, a longtime fan of Drop Out, once again succeeded in applying for tickets to attend *Coming Up Next*.
Whether it was because of the post she had uploaded or because the show had begun a large-scale advertising campaign, there was a bit of competition this time.
But it was only 13 to 1, and Choi Sehee had a knack for getting accepted to audience applications like this.
‘I’m someone who even made it through Drop Out’s 322-to-1 odds!’
What was more, she hadn’t come alone this time.
She had come with a fellow fan.
“You said you’d buy pork belly if the guys weren’t any good, right?”
Her friend still didn’t trust the post she had uploaded to the community, however.
There was no way ten kids that good could be lying around in one place, she insisted.
“Promise me.”
“Ah, I’m telling you, it’s true.”
“Still, promise me.”
“Okay. But if there are any good ones, you’re buying.”
“Deal.”
Choi Sehee’s friend gave a crooked smile inwardly.
How absurd was the condition, “if there are any good ones”?
When someone was the object of your fandom, rookie bias, future-potential bias, and sympathy bias all came into play. But if they weren’t, the only standard of comparison was existing idol groups.
Whether it was Sedalbaekil or Take Scene, they could not help comparing them to the idol groups that already existed.
Even if there really were any good ones, there would probably only be one.
Just as the two of them were thinking different thoughts, all 500 audience members had finally been admitted.
That naturally didn’t mean the performance began right away.
Audience members at variety shows like this had to wait for an incredibly long time.
Knowing that all too well, the two women had applied for seats among the 250 chairs surrounding the stage rather than the 250 standing spots directly in front of the T-shaped stage.
How much time had passed?
As they struggled against boredom and passed the time on their phones, a small cheer arose.
“Oh, isn’t that Blue over there?”
“Looks like it. Choi Daeho is next to him.”
There were two more people who looked like judges, though Sehee didn’t know who they were.
Once they climbed onto the stage, the staff ran about, organizing the audience and beginning preparations for filming.
She had noticed it last time too, but *Coming Up Next* really was lenient about leaks.
To those who had brought cameras, all they said was to be careful not to get caught during the broadcast.
Other than that, they merely asked people not to film and upload the competition stages themselves.
It was a permissive attitude unbecoming of a survival program that should have been sensitive about leaks…
‘Ah. Is it because individuals aren’t eliminated?’
*Coming Up Next* was a team-versus-team competition, so eliminations wouldn’t occur until the final weeks.
Until then, perhaps they thought it was more important to generate as much buzz as possible and attract fans.
Or maybe they were simply worried that the program wasn’t popular enough.
While Choi Sehee was thinking along those lines, filming finally began.
*Coming Up Next* was hosted by Blue, a first-generation idol who had since found success as a broadcaster.
Whatever the planned format of the broadcast, Blue’s opening was quite brief.
The program introduction was short, and the members weren’t introduced at all.
They merely emphasized several times that the day’s format would have two teams with the same positions competing against each other.
There wasn’t even a VCR.
‘What a mess. Is anyone supposed to get immersed in this?’
This was why cable networks with little production experience were no good.
Just as Choi Sehee was clicking her tongue, Blue, who had been hosting, raised his hand and pointed to the left.
“Sedalbaekil!”
At that moment, five men appeared on the empty left side of the stage along with a lift.
Choi Sehee, attending *Coming Up Next* for the second time, knew all of their faces.
But most of the audience members were seeing them for the first time.
Even so…
A fairly loud cheer erupted.
It wasn’t because the audience members were kind.
It was because of Iion, captured on the screen.
“Holy crap. What is that?”
Choi Sehee nodded along as she heard her friend’s gasp of admiration.
That face was definitely a gangster.
It was enough to make her wonder why he hadn’t appeared on television until now.
“Another point for the pork-belly god?”
“Nope. Two points.”
“What did I tell you?”
“Wow, he’s really handsome. I admit it.”
Choi Sehee smiled contentedly at her friend’s admission, but in truth, her own gaze was drawn more to Han Sion than to Iion.
‘Is it because of his fan service?’
Of course, Han Sion was handsome too.
His fair skin and sharply defined features gave him a precarious, dangerous air, as though he might shatter at any moment—the kind of look she preferred.
But standing next to Iion, he wasn’t enough to steal her gaze outright.
‘Is it because of his aura?’
As Choi Sehee tilted her head, pondering that question, Blue pointed to the right this time.
“Take Scene!”
A much greater cheer erupted than before.
Perhaps because they had appeared on Ryan Entertainment’s content several times, there were already people holding banners.
And so, all ten contestants completed their entrance onto the stage.