Verse 1
Won Ji-min spoke.
"Verse 1."
She plugged in the formula. A star shining as brightly as a celestial body—a celebrity. Even twinkling stars struggle to stand out, and with countless entertainers basking in the spotlight like the stars in the night sky...
"Getting there is tough enough."
The lyrics she scribbled furiously in her notebook captured that grueling journey. Pressing her determination and dreams firmly into every line, Won Ji-min moved on to verse 2.
She flipped to the next page and tapped her pen.
"Verse 2 will depict a singer past their prime slowly fading from people's memories. You said it yourself, oppa—once fusion is complete, the star explodes."
"Uh, hold on. Explodes?"
Ray clapped her hands.
"How about this move?"
She clutched her chest dramatically, then flung her arms wide, forming a small sphere with her hands.
Is that Earth?
It embodied the ambition to become a star famous enough to zip around the globe. Or at least, it looked that way. Without further explanation, Ray kept inventing choreography. She filmed herself over and over with the provided camera.
What had seemed like a wasted half-day of groaning and idling transformed in just five minutes into fervent stage prep. They'd nailed the lyrics and choreo skeleton; now the other members fleshed it out.
This left plenty of time to review the stage.
"Hmm..."
Won Ji-min refined the lyrics she'd jotted down on impulse. Now she needed to polish them until they stuck to her tongue. She mulled over the trickier lines, matching them to her mouth.
Then her full lips turned toward me.
Damn. She's insanely pretty.
This visual, which I'd thought epitomized pure innocence, shifted vibes with just a hint of lip color. Maybe swapping Opaz and the keywords wasn't such a bad call after all?
Stop with the dumb thoughts.
I met Won Ji-min's eyes.
Hey, Won Ji-min. Was that innocence just a rough sketch?
"What do you think, oppa?"
"Huh?"
I clutched my pounding chest and snapped back to reality. Won Ji-min pointed her pen at my laptop.
"I'm starting work now too."
Her pace was faster than expected. At this rate, I'd be the one lagging behind. After 15 minutes, her notebook brimmed with dense lyrics. I asked,
"How's it going? Lots to say, right?"
"Yeah. Even cutting repeats for the hook and using concise words, it's tough. The lines keep tangling."
The Supreme Beat Contest rating was all-ages, suitable for everyone.
...But the target audience was clear. More schoolkids than middle-aged viewers, so the lyrics needed addictive hooks that lingered in the mind—short and punchy.
I played the loop I'd planned as the killing part while watching Ray's choreo.
"Planning to build the hook around this melody."
"It's surprisingly simple."
"Yeah. With so much to convey, the melody line has to stay straightforward."
"So listeners can focus on the lyrics without constant changes?"
The song brainstorming ping-ponged like rapid-fire tennis, all captured on camera. With this narrative, the edit sketch should come together nicely.
"Haa. I'm dying."
Assistant director Shim Yu-jeong staggered. She flung open the door to the waiting room—labeled "Command Center" but really just a lounge—and collapsed.
The PD team's maknae handed her a Vita 500.
"Oh, thanks."
No strength to sit up. She chugged it lying down, choked, and hacked away. A real choke doesn't quit easy.
It even woke Jo Young-soo, the main PD, dozing on a cot in the corner. He yanked off his rabbit eye mask and stared blankly ahead.
"...What?"
"Your junior's dying here. And you say 'what'?"
"Doesn't look dead."
Jo Young-soo raised a hand.
"She's talking."
"...We've collected all the team footage."
"How is it?"
"How d'you think? Brutal. For me, and the idol teams too."
This self-reliant round demanded stages built solely on composers' and singers' grit. Shim Yu-jeong slumped her shoulders.
"Why the idols?"
"Bands and solos skip choreo anyway—bridge perf fills the gap. But idols have to create their own from scratch."
Jo Young-soo smirked.
"Who held a knife to their throat and forced idol life?"
Shim Yu-jeong shut up like she'd taken a haymaker to the jaw. Savage burn.
"You're too harsh, sunbae."
"Harsh how?"
The lounging PD sat up, scratched his matted bedhead, crammed it under a cap, and yawned wide.
"Everything's got pros and cons."
He patted the cot mattress and scooted forward on his knees. Shaking his half-awake head, he said,
"Think, Yu-jeong-ssi. Idols sucked up honey last round, right?"
"Honey... what honey?"
"Our contest doesn't decide pass/fail on judges alone."
"Ah."
No more explanation needed. Judge scores plus online votes—popularity polls in disguise. Even unpopular idols outpulled underground acts, coasting on blind fan votes from round 1 into 2.
The PD sniffed his crumpled socks from yesterday, nodded in satisfaction.
Why nod at that?
"I liked that ballad kid last time, but some boy group knocked 'em out."
Not pure skill ranking. If it were, they'd have blown up already—not scraping by here.
The dressed PD turned to Shim Yu-jeong.
"You know round 2, right? Live audience too."
"Nee?"
Shim Yu-jeong gaped. Already swamped with crowd control, now this? But the PD glared.
"Why freak? Pick your team to cheer, go watch live. Spread word, promo the show."
"W-Well, sure... but isn't it too early?"
He wasn't rookie PD for nothing. No counter to his "ratings-first" logic.
We're screwed. Loser main PD dumps onsite management on me too.
"Early? It's tournament now. Hype finals early."
Jo Young-soo rubbed his palms, hugging his puffed-up dreams.
"Let's go nuts like Superstar A. Make finals epic for next season. Got it?"
"Got it."
Treat winners right, contestants beg for season 2. Jo Young-soo crafts franchise hit Supreme Beat Contest, lands fat OTT deal on proven chops.
Happy ending for all.
Except Shim Yu-jeong.
But that bliss hinged on one thing: the show blowing up. Viewers flooding in, remotes clicking, mouths yapping—praise or curses, viral either way. Only then finals hype.
Jo Young-soo donned glasses, checked assistant dir's team-sorted memory cards.
"Ha. Gotta find the hooks."
He slotted cards, vetted audio. No salvage? Yank it. Repeat.
"And slap sanctions if judges chit-chat contestants on cam. Too chatty."
"Yes, sunbae."
Tons of artists, all buddy-buddy with judges—same old stew. Rumors swirled; PD squinted.
"I don't get it."
That stew existed here too.
"Wanna blow up, why suck up to them? Not me? Feed me the goods first."
PD tilted his head.
"Even for high scores, blade's in my hand."
And he swung it now.
Click.
PD hit enter. Another flop? He ditched the earbuds, grinned at the monitor.
"Found it."
We got slammed with nonstop bustle—and assistant directors swarmed.
Not us. Opaz over there.
If future stuck to memory, Opaz owned this round. Last time mere extras; now leads. Screen time surges, faces etched in viewers' minds for 2-3 weeks.
Opaz skyrocketing? Nah. Status quo's win. Not devil edits... more like they dove into the fryer with spicy seasoning. No knife forced the skimpy reveal.
Folks always seek comparisons for spice. I wanted Black Label as theirs.
Contestants paused work, turned to VJs chasing commentary. VJ close; our turn soon.
I prepped. Time for solid aggro.
As expected, mid-reps the VJ shoved the camera our way. Before Black Label members, I stepped up first, set example.
"Mind if I do the interview?"
VJ glanced at the trailing writer. She nodded indifferently—endless player shots; one composer pic fine.
VJ OK'd; I stepped aside.
White wall at back, writer spat her rote line, said a hundred times.
"Tournament battles start this round, right?"
"Yes, so I heard."
"Any team you wanna face? One in mind?"
"Uh..."
I paused for edit gold—Ads resume in 60 seconds...—then straight-faced to camera.
"Opaz."
"Mind sharing why?"
"Idols clashing fair and square."
Match made?