Chapter 17

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Translator: MadScientist

Chapter: 17

Chapter Title: Self-Justification

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No matter the fact that what I'd experienced after dying wasn't some afterlife, but possession into the body of a little girl, there were still things I could do and things I absolutely could not.

Acting like a child wasn't all that hard, to start with.

Objectively speaking, my current appearance was pretty cute, and the benefits I could reap from leveraging that shell were endless.

Playing the part just right whenever camera shutters clicked or eyes turned my way was a piece of cake.

To be honest, the unconditional attention and affection pouring in from putting on that act wasn't something I entirely hated.

But there was one thing I could never do, not even if I died and came back to life. Act like a girl.

For instance, uttering terms like "oppa" or "unnie" that felt like exclusive territory for girls.

Putting on that coquettish charm unique to little girls in front of others, or wearing feminine clothes when there was no real need.

To me, with my past life's ego burning fiercely alive, those weren't just acts—they stirred up a visceral disgust that went beyond mere performance.

No matter how the world defined me as nine-year-old Seo Siyeon, the me inside still stood frozen at that boundary line.

In that sense, this stage didn't really call for a skirt, in my judgment.

Cheerleaders preferred active pants over uncomfortable skirts anyway.

Sure, those pants were a bit short, but factoring that in, I'd planned a missing-bottoms look with short pants and an oversized uniform.

Honestly, I thought this was me going all out, swallowing my pride.

For a cheerleader concept, wrapping up completely would feel off.

"Unnie thinks this would be the best."

"Eek...! That's way too revealing!"

"Huh? What's wrong with this much?"

The sketch Seo Ina brought hit me like a shock, drawing out a pathetic squeak.

Because there was just so much skin tone in it.

"Okay, fine, a skirt down below? Whatever. But why cut the top uniform up to show your navel? This isn't a bikini or anything...!"

"That looks cuter, right? Might as well go all out and make it as cute as possible while we're at it."

"N-no need for that. The outfit I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had in mind is cute enough already."

She grinned slyly the moment she heard that.

As if she'd been waiting for me to say it, words flowed from her like a waterfall.

"You're overlooking one thing. Stage lighting is completely different from everyday light. That oversized uniform you imagined? If your upper body looks bloated, the whole proportion falls apart."

"Short pants? Wear those wrong, and your legs look short on screen. Especially with low-angle Jimmyjib shots— the folds of a tennis skirt spreading out create a much more dynamic, prettier line. This isn't about exposure; it's aesthetics."

"S-still, it's my stage, so I know best...?"

"Sorry, but when it comes to stage outfits, I know way better."

I had nothing to say.

In my past life, sure, I was a chief producer, but I handled music overall—visuals had their own specialist.

I was nominally in charge, but honestly, my sense of style wasn't great, so I never meddled.

"Ugh... urk."

"Especially since you said you wanted maximum contrast with your opponent. For that, going cute and fresh is the way."

I was totally trapped.

These people never intended to let me wear low-exposure clothes from the start.

They'd been set on shoving me into that damn crop top all along.

My hands trembled.

Cameras were already rolling. I'd been logically cornered—if I insisted on my original plan now, I'd look like a tantrum-throwing kid.

At my age, it wouldn't even matter much.

'Still, I'd die before doing that.'

But thinking it over, wearing a skirt might not be so bad.

I'd have bloomers underneath anyway. With just those, wasn't it basically the same as shorts?

The bloomers were even longer than the denim shorts I'd planned.

'Huh? So isn't this actually less girly?'

Judging femininity by exposure level was already doomed logic, but I was too deep in to endure without self-justifying.

In the end, I had to concede defeat.

"Fine... but pull the top down a bit more. My line in the sand is right above the navel."

"Okay! I'll fix it right now. We've made stuff like this dozens of times! We beat most clothing stores at this."

Seo Ina bounded off excitedly somewhere.

Probably her dance academy, I guessed.

Her dance team was academy-affiliated, after all.

She'd probably whip it up in a day and bring it back.

Against my expectations, the final outfit reached me in under half a day.

The moment I tried it on and looked ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in the mirror, I couldn't deny it.

"Whoa, I'm freaking adorable."

It was a bit embarrassing to say it to myself.

After Seo Siyeon's second-round performance, all communities were laser-focused on the next round: the individual nominations.

Especially the showdown between Seo Siyeon, who'd claimed the massive No. 1 on Watermelon, and the effort-driven Im Jihye, who'd shown blatant hostility toward her. The narrative alone was dopamine fuel. Even the cold, hard world of betting sites reacted instantly.

But this analytical vibe exploded in a whole new direction the moment Singer Star's official YouTube uploaded the third-round teaser. Specifically, because of Seo Siyeon's outfit.

"Sheesh. Seeing a lot of folks who need putting down."

From my memory, society called those kinds of people lolicon.

Lusting after an elementary school girl? Utterly vile.

'Well, can't blame 'em entirely. Gotta look the part.'

This might come off narcissistic, but there was that crazy old guy who confessed after seeing me.

I stared at my thumbnail image on the YouTube teaser with a weird expression.

Uploaded just five hours ago, it had already hit 200k views—me with pursed lips in that cheeky outfit.

"Sheesh... they went and used this for the thumbnail."

At this point, hype around me and Blooming was at its absolute peak.

The Glassy Sky live clip had long surpassed a million views and was charging toward ten million.

Apparently, with K-pop globalizing, it was the hottest track out there—foreign viewer ratio suspiciously high.

"Kinda forcing the globalization, but it's happening."

Honestly, it was a bit surprising.

No group was dominating overwhelmingly, but Korean idols were steadily pushing worldwide.

Had to be the Big 3 Entertainment Companies' doing.

Hitting their golden age in the 3.5 generation, they were selling albums like crazy at home and abroad.

"So Singer Star's getting attention too."

Rumors said judges' fees were too high for next season already.

Amid all the buzz and controversy, the finals' third-round rival matches began.

18 matchups, 36 stages total.

Obviously, not every moment could air. Over three weeks, maybe twenty stages tops would make broadcast.

For contestants, screen time was as crucial as skill. Had to grab viewers' eyes to get editing picks.

Im Jihye nominating me was calculated gambling.

More than advancing, she wanted the powerhouse title of "beat Seo Siyeon"—and the explosive fame it'd bring.

She'd gone all-in on her music career.

The decisive day arrived. Im Jihye, right before my slot, delivered a near-perfect stage.

Her vocals, condensed from ten years, allowed no mistakes; the desperate high notes in her ballad hushed the audience.

As her transcendent performance ended, even judges applauded, entranced. Panting, Im Jihye glared toward my waiting room.

Her eyes held arrogant certainty: if you can, try it.

I stood with a sour face, brushing the hem of my short tennis skirt.

"Let's go."

Im Jihye's rosy dreams would end as midnight illusions.

Because I'd make it so.