Not a Baby!
On the day of the fourth round, Seo Siyeon, assigned the first slot, stepped onto the stage in light attire.
The lyrics are all mastered, no mistakes in rehearsal...
Good. Now the important thing is my emotion.
This song had a similar vibe to the girl in that photo.
Not overly difficult, but the melody line itself was exceptionally strong.
The issue was the short, intense rap part in the middle... but Siyeon figured it'd somehow work out.
Studio lights dimmed one by one, leaving only a pin light mimicking an old streetlamp on stage.
Siyeon walked out slowly, big beanie pulled low.
The song's message was simple.
The feeling of wanting to succeed and repay the people I cherish.
Narrowing it down: improving life for the nursery kids she was close with.
This wasn't fabricated emotion—it was close to Siyeon's true heart.
Because those kids had been her strength when she was isolated at the nursery and school.
Siyeon wore baggy pants that reached her knees and beat-up sneakers so big her heels slipped with every step.
The audience murmurs from the seats died the moment she gripped the mic.
Park Hansu's narration, recorded himself:
"So the girl prayed to the sky."
A sharp piano melody shattered the silence with the final line. Heavy bass soon pounded the floor.
"—when I pray for the sky"
"The sky didn't even answer."
Her 9-year-old voice delivered English rhymes in a rap so cool and refined it chilled.
Behind the stage, a massive screen showed monochrome footage: rundown nursery hallways, kids' hands fiddling with cheap candy.
"Success? That's a ghost on TV—"
"My reality: hand-me-down shoes, hole ripped in the heel."
No teary emotion. She kept it brutally calm, sometimes riding the beat with singing rap.
That flat tone stabbed deeper into hearts.
Screen footage: edited monochrome clips from her previous shoot with the nursery kids.
Chorus hit—beat exploded grandly. Siyeon stared at the crowd, voice rising.
"I prayed for this!"
"Night after night, I prayed!"
"To be the star of this stage—"
"I prayed for this! Always hoped!"
"For my song to be hope for my little sibs—"
Smooth high-note climax passed clean. Then the brutal fast rap demanding quick diction.
Siyeon nailed it with practiced finesse, no stumbles.
Beat calmed, subtle kick drum underneath, guitar strings scraped. Eyes closed, she wrapped it.
"This time, hope I find it—"
"An angel to hear my wish."
Last beat faded into silence. Siyeon pulled off her beanie and gave a light bow.
Short track, just over two minutes.
But enough time to convey her feelings to the audience, she thought.
Amid the cheers, Siyeon wiped sweat beading on her forehead.
Truth is, hip-hop is a towering wall no one but pro rappers can even approach.
The diction pressure like machine-gun fire, beat-making worlds apart from other genres, and above all, lyrics built on self-narrative or razor-sharp critique.
No wonder diss culture exists as its own thing.
Hip-hop laced with boasting and venom is a tough sell to the masses.
So mainstream hip-hop plays it safe: tone down the brag, swap ear-splitting beats for sweet melodies.
Sure, pure skill has broken through sometimes, but it's rarer these days.
Joo Jinwoo knew the game better than anyone—he was in his uni's hip-hop club.
So when he heard Seo Siyeon drew hip-hop, conflicting emotions swirled inside.
Cold truth: slim odds she'd pull it off.
Genius or not, this screamed stage flop. Maybe even crash out of TOP 10.
Jackpot for him. He'd aimed for this season's win—his biggest rival self-destructing meant victory on lock.
But a corner of his heart felt off.
He didn't want a win like that. Craved a fair head-on clash, crush her with pure skill.
If she flopped lamely, even clutching the trophy wouldn't feel like true victory.
Plus, the public? They'd buzz: 'Singer Star 5's real winner is Seo Siyeon.' Undermining his crown.
In the end, Joo Jinwoo watched her stage with weird, split hopes: mess it up decently, but not enough to drop.
Her performance started on the waiting room TV.
Arms crossed, expecting meh—by mid-song, they fell limp.
Post-stage, camera skipped the waiting rooms, but he stared blankly forever, roughly wiping his eyes without thinking.
"How do you not cry watching that..."
Siyeon calmly spilling her orphanage story on stage? Impossible to hold back tears.
Only a stone-cold heart stays dry hearing an actual orphan's tale.
So he thought, cracking a water bottle.
To him, she'd been a monster kid or overly mature child.
But linking the girl who collapsed crying last time to this stage girl voicing her wishes? Competitor faded—she felt like a kid to protect.
Not quite her intent.
She'd wanted to look like a mature kid succeeding despite hardship, prioritizing nursery sibs.
But most reactions aligned with his: she was too young, too cute a creature.
"Poo..."
I scowled at the comments on my live video.
One cheek puffed out—like an angry squirrel if anyone saw.
But that wasn't the point.
"Why are all the reactions just pity?"
Sure, some hit the vibe I wanted.
But those barely got likes, buried at the bottom in popularity sort.
Top comments? Predictably...
"Mommy. For real."
"Sis! No bad words!"
"Ok."
Summer break was just about to kick off at school.
The nursery holds its annual mini sports day right before it gets brutally hot.
Kids gripe every year—feels like dying in the heat—but it's pushed through for the exercise.
Oh, and no skipping. Everyone must run at least one event.
But this time, thanks to me, that rule finally bent.
Consensus among teachers: too harsh making the kid grinding weekly broadcasts run in blazing sun.
So I got exempt from races.
But eye for eye, tooth for tooth—they slotted me for a forced opening performance before it started.
"At least the stage is shaded."
Not an original, obviously.
These gigs need a crowd-pleaser everyone knows to amp the mood. I brought a fitting one.
"Everyone! To celebrate our Evergreen Sky Nursery sports day, a famous singer's visiting!"
The director hollered, pumped. Donations rolling in lately had her in high spirits.
"Introducing: Evergreen Sky Nursery's Seo! Si! Yeon!"
"Woooah!"
"Everyone clap!"
"Clap clap clap!"
Soul-less cheers and applause erupted. Swallowing my shame, I climbed the stage.
You might say national TV's no biggie compared to this, but nah—performing for people you know is peak cringe.
Rhythmic guitar kicked in, followed by that upbeat melody everyone knows.
I matched it with creaky dance moves and started singing.
"One more time!"
For some reason, I felt like dying.