The Perfect Sinabro Stage
“……
Wow, these guys are really good.”
Vocal trainer Hyun Ji-yeong’s admiration spilled out as she watched the Sinabro team’s stage unfold right before her eyes. Rap trainer Mr. Pudding leaned in and whispered,
“Both of my picks are right there.”
“Pudding-ssi, wasn’t Hae-sol your number-one pick?”
Mr. Pudding playfully wagged a finger.
“Hae-sol is still my number one, but if I get to choose one more, it’s Ye-chan.”
“Ye-chan? Ye-chan’s a vocalist.”
Hyun Ji-yeong’s eyes flew wide at Mr. Pudding’s words—he was openly eyeing the trainee she had been quietly favoring.
“You saw him last time. The kid raps like a monster. He’s a gem. An absolute gem. Someone like that has to rap.”
“What are you talking about? Ye-chan has to sing! Ye-chan was born to sing!”
“You two. The stage is still going.”
Dance trainer Riri’s icy reminder shut both trainers up at once.
Look closely and it shatters on the ripples;
turn around and it’s caught on the ends of my hair again.
How long will you keep playing this sluggish game of tag?
The temperature between you and me,
the distance between you and me,
the space between you and me.
The stage had reached its climax, and Seonwoo I-gyeong’s dance break began.
It was not his usual powerful street style but something closer to contemporary dance—soft, flowing—and yet Seonwoo I-gyeong executed it with startling elegance. Dance trainer Riri, seated beside him, had even clasped both hands in front of her chest and was watching with something close to reverence.
Every member has popularity, sure, but their skills are solid too.
More than anything, the stage composition was flawless: each person knew exactly what they did best and was placed precisely where that strength would shine.
Ah, the moon has hidden itself.
Three minutes of tightly woven performance—hard to believe amateurs had built it—passed, and the cloths the trainees had thrown landed on the floor in perfect unison. The trainers erupted into applause as one.
“That was insane. You put this together in just a few days?”
“I don’t even know where to start praising. There were too many good parts.”
“This is hands-down the best stage so far, right?”
Under the waterfall of praise, Ye-chan—still catching his breath—grinned.
Even he thought this was the most satisfying stage he had ever put together on Choose My Prince.
When you don’t have to downgrade the concept to match the members’ level, it turns out this good.
Objectively, the average skill of his current teammates sat above Lee:Spirit’s, never below. Ye-chan had always built stages around members who were a little lacking or a little lazy—hiding weaknesses, wringing every drop of strength from what they had. Completing a song with trainees who already possessed solid fundamentals and who begrudged even mealtime because they wanted to practice more was a strange, exhilarating experience.
At first they were all so overeager they flailed a bit, but…
As the excited trainers tumbled over one another with praise, the production staff gave a signal.
“Ah—one at a time. Okay, got it. Then Composer PiPiPi, you’ll go last again this time?”
At Mr. Pudding’s question, PiPiPi nodded a beat late.
“Then I’ll start. First, I want to give a round of applause to trainees Ye-chan and Hwi-gyum for vocals that can only be called perfect. I knew both of them were good from the first time I saw them, but how do they keep getting better?”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Ye-chan and Woo Hwi-gyum bowed at the vocal trainer’s praise.
“Honestly, this stage isn’t even at the level where you can pick it apart with words. I just wanted to forget about evaluation and simply enjoy it.”
Mr. Pudding’s playful exaggeration drew laughter across the hall. Grinning wide enough to show his teeth—exactly the reaction he had hoped for—he continued.
“Still, I’m the rap trainer, so let’s talk rap. First, the rhymes weren’t predictable; they were stylish. And the flow was so natural it felt great to listen to. That feeling of ‘this song needs this rap and nothing else’? Kang Hae-sol, once this program ends you and I are making a track together. I’ll chase you down until it happens.”
“Uh—I’d be the one who’s grateful if you’d work with me.”
Kang Hae-sol, dazed by the flood of sweet praise, bent deeply at the waist. His pale face was flushed beyond control; he clearly felt wonderful.
Favorable comments from the dance trainer and composer MJ followed, and then composer Kim Soo-jung spoke.
“I felt the Korean-flavored lyrics and choreography were truly in harmony. And even though the word ‘sinabro’ never appears once, the moment you hear the title is Sinabro, you understand it naturally—that’s how strong the lyric delivery was. Thank you for showing us a wonderful stage.”
The members bowed toward Kim Soo-jung this time. It was an evaluation that precisely caught every delicate choice Ye-chan had placed.
“Ah, right. There wasn’t a single English lyric either, was there? The intro was fun, and those little ad-libs in the middle too. Whose idea was that? The leader is trainee Hae-sol, right?”
“Yes, I took the leader position.”
Kang Hae-sol glanced sideways at Ye-chan standing next to him, then faced forward again.
“The decision not to put any foreign words or loanwords into the song was Ye-chan’s. Suggesting we write lyrics that would call to mind the word ‘sinabro,’ which means ‘little by little without realizing,’ was also Ye-chan.”
He then flicked a look toward Seonwoo I-gyeong.
“The broad framework of the choreography was set by I-gyeong hyung, the intro idea came from Hwi-gyum, and the ad-libs were Seung-heon.”
The trainers watched with proud eyes as Kang Hae-sol, face still tight with nerves, carefully listed every member’s contribution one by one.
“Then what did leader Kang Hae-sol do?”
“Uh…… I cheered really hard.”
“What? So Leader Kang just rode the bus?”
At the trainers’ teasing, Ye-chan’s hand shot straight up.
“Trainee Ha Ye-chan, go ahead.”
“Hae-sol hyung had a hand in every single field! Even the parts that weren’t his, he checked as carefully as if they were his own!”
“That’s right! I didn’t make the choreography alone—Hae-sol and I planned it together!”
Seonwoo I-gyeong backed Ye-chan up at once. Kang Hae-sol looked back and forth between the two in flustered irritation.
“No, that wasn’t just me—we all did it together.”
“The choreography using this cloth was Hae-sol’s idea too!”
“Would you listen to me for a second?!”
Seonwoo I-gyeong, completely ignoring him, snatched up the cloth lying on the floor and waved it around excitedly. Kang Hae-sol bristled. The trainers and composers burst into laughter.
“This team even gets along. Perfect.”
“They’ve got everything.”
“So.”
Just as the warm evaluation seemed about to wrap up, PiPiPi—who had kept his mouth firmly shut until now—finally spoke.
“Who did the arrangement?”
The sunken voice was nothing like the sticky tone he used when clinging to Jeong Ui-tak. The atmosphere flipped in an instant. Kang Hae-sol swallowed hard and raised his hand.
“Hae-sol and I did.”
That was right. Five days had passed since the fourth training camp began. One of those days had been the ranking announcement, the next a fansign, and they had only received the song on the third day. The actual practice time—meals and sleep included—barely stretched past two days. In that short window the Sinabro team had finished lyrics, choreography, and even the arrangement.
You can sleep all you want when you’re dead.
Both Ye-chan and Kang Hae-sol were the type who thought exactly that, which was why they had been able to stay up until morning in the arrangement room, eyes wide open, and still finish.
“You even did the arrangement?”
The trainers, who had never heard the original, looked stunned.
“How is that even possible on this schedule……?”
Leaving Mr. Pudding’s bewildered voice behind, Ye-chan calmly fixed his gaze on PiPiPi. After a stretch of silence, PiPiPi asked again.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because it felt like it would suit the atmosphere of the song better.”
Ye-chan answered with his usual unflappable calm, completely uncowed by the cold tone. PiPiPi’s fists trembled.
Looks like he’s got nothing to say.
PiPiPi’s original track had certainly been excellent. But because he had not known the stage costumes, he had finished the song in a very modern, simple mood, and using it as-is had felt jarring. That was why Ye-chan and Kang Hae-sol had carved out nonexistent free time and gone into the arrangement room. The current Sinabro—colored with Korean tones to match the costumes and choreography—suited this stage far better than the original, no matter who listened. And that was exactly why a crack had appeared in PiPiPi’s sky-high pride.
When I checked with production there was no clause forbidding arrangement, so he can’t even complain.
As a still-inexperienced rookie composer, he had never imagined anyone would dare touch the perfect song he had made, and so of course he had never thought to put such a restriction in place. PiPiPi—real name Pi Dae-gi—hated anyone laying a finger on his songs with a passion. Ye-chan, who had worked with him several times before, already knew he had never once allowed a remake request from another artist. It was entirely within expectations that PiPiPi would now harbor hostility toward Ye-chan and Kang Hae-sol for touching a song that was like his own flesh and blood.
So how were they going to fix it?
Why would we fix it?
The ones evaluating this round were the audience and the viewers, not composer PiPiPi. Whether PiPiPi spent the whole night clawing at his blanket in rage was none of Ye-chan’s business. If they debuted successfully through Choose My Prince, top-tier professional composers would line up begging them to take their songs. Even without that, Ye-chan and Kang Hae-sol had more than enough composing ability of their own; there was zero need to tiptoe around one stubborn composer.
Once we squeeze maximum efficiency out of this song, we’re done with that guy anyway—why skip the arrangement just to spare his feelings?
Ye-chan drew a silent victory V in his mind. Kang Hae-sol, looking tense, carefully opened his mouth.
“Is there a problem with the arrangement?”
“……
Ah. You two. It’s…… very good.”
The face under the mask was surely the opposite, but all anyone could see was the endlessly smiling smile mask. Ye-chan answered at once.
“Thank you! Hearing praise from the composer really gives us energy!”
“……
Thank you.”
Kang Hae-sol still wore a faintly puzzled expression, as if something felt off, but when Ye-chan jabbed him in the side he offered the greeting anyway.
The Sinabro team returned to their seats, and the fifth team took the stage: Count Down, a dance-pop number layered with a sexy concept. Park Na-gil, who had shared Ye-chan’s first performance, was leader; Chae Eun-seong, who had ranked well in both previous ranking announcements, was center. Like the fresh concept of Raindrop, Count Down had built a stage that could be called textbook for the given concept, and they received a “not bad” evaluation.
“Trainee Chae Eun-seong came from modern dance, so at first he couldn’t adapt to this kind of choreography, but now it suits him a little better.”
Dance trainer Riri’s comment was the highest praise any Count Down trainee received.
They took a hit just by going after us.
If they had performed earlier they might have earned quite a bit more praise. But luck was part of skill too. The Count Down team, who had stepped out full of confidence, filed back in looking deflated by the lukewarm response.
The final team was Beom Se-hyuk and Shim Sang-rok’s Auspicious. Even if they were not quite at Sinabro’s level, the trainers started buzzing again at the sight of such stacked trainees.
“This team and Sinabro are the clear favorites for first, right?”
“I’ve never been disappointed by trainee Beom Se-hyuk even once.”
“That face already isn’t a trainee’s face. Same over here.”
Beom Se-hyuk, smiling brightly without a hint of embarrassment at the fuss, suddenly turned toward the side where the trainees sat.
Hm?
His eyes met Ye-chan’s exactly. Beom Se-hyuk deepened his signature eye-smile, then turned his head away again.
What was that? A declaration of war?
Just as Ye-chan’s competitive fire was about to catch, the intro began to play.