Conference room, 5th floor of CNet Broadcasting Station.
An inexplicable tension filled the air. The man sitting in the very center of the room waved his hand.
“...Next.”
Everyone let out a silent sigh.
It had already been six hours since they’d started screening the audition submission videos. After watching over a hundred teams perform, everything was beginning to blur together. No one especially outstanding, no one especially lacking. For the sake of program entertainment, this was the worst-case scenario.
“Not even these kids? Out of all the teams so far, they were the best.”
Seo Insoo, the PD listening to the writer’s comment, furrowed his brow.
“I told you, cut the middling ones on your own.”
Even the slightest twitch of his brow put everyone in the room on edge. They knew better than to cross him.
Producer Seo Insoo. Public nickname: “Idol Survival Specialist PD.” He had already produced three idol survival programs, all of them moderate-to-big hits. His most recent, Idol Maker 100, had broken the 10% mark on its final live broadcast, hailed as a new chapter in idol survival history.
Some called it “the devil’s talent,” acknowledging his skills. Others cursed him as a “psychopath.” Given that his devilish editing maximized spectacle and drama without the slightest regard for contestants’ images, the insult wasn’t exactly wrong.
“How the hell are we supposed to make this program a hit with nothing worth watching?”
The writer in charge of casting rolled his eyes anxiously. Of all the survival shows out there, why did it have to be a band one?
Damn it. Should’ve just stuck to idol survival... Why start some band survival nonsense now?
There was only one reason Seo PD’s nerves were so razor-sharp. Band Again had to succeed at all costs.
When Idol Maker 100 became a sensation, nearly everyone assumed his next project would be another idol survival. Instead, when he chose “band,” many were baffled.
[Heard Insoo’s doing a band survival?]
No way, my kimchi stew shop is ruined
-Why a band all of a sudden?
-Just stick to what you’re good at
-Who’s gonna feed me dopamine now
-Though, tbh, he’s been a notorious band freak for ages
-Should’ve realized back when he kept sneaking band songs into idol missions
└Ugh, I just got PTSD remembering my fave crashing and burning on stage
But what no one knew: idols weren’t his specialty. The fame he earned through idol survival shows was only the groundwork. His obsession with a band survival came from his grand ambition.
To create a new golden age for Korean bands.
Then, his right-hand man—the assistant PD—shifted the topic.
“Wow, so they finally entered after all?”
“Who?”
“Hitchhiker. Their agency wouldn’t give us a straight answer until the very end.”
Hitchhiker—rookies under GM Media, which specialized in bands. A group formed from musicians already active on various SNS platforms. As their video started playing, Seo Insoo’s expression brightened.
“Best we’ve seen so far.”
“Maybe because they’ve had professional training? Very stable.”
“And look, you can see the star quality right away.”
By his standards, their skill wasn’t all that. But their clean visuals and the quality of their original song tipped the scales. Given a choice between a technically solid but charisma-less band, and a slightly lacking band that could captivate, he would always choose the latter.
“Still... it’s missing something. We need at least one rival-level group against them to make it interesting.”
Showcasing skilled bands was one goal, but he wouldn’t abandon his PD instincts. The broadcast had to be entertaining first—only then would public interest in bands rise.
“Alright... next is the 121st team. They’re called Blank.”
Seo PD yawned wide enough to crack his jaw and stretched. While his eyes were shut, the others in the room stifled their own yawns.
“Let’s pick up the pace. Just thirty seconds. If they’re no good, skip.”
“Yes, sir.”
His first impression of Blank was simple: puzzlement.
Why name a band Blank?
Most bands picked fancy words or impactful names to grab attention. This one could even be taken negatively. He told them thirty seconds, but in truth he planned to tune out after the first line.
“What’s this, masks?”
“At this point, cheap gimmicks don’t even surprise me.”
“Not like this is a talent show.”
There were tons of acts trying to grab attention with surface-level gimmicks: wearing animal pajamas, clownish costumes, shooting in the mountains, going full-on visual rock with extreme styling...
And these guys? They’d even submitted their profile photos wearing masks. Seo snorted.
“Well, at least they’re tall.”
“But aren’t the masks too cutesy? All animals?”
“Is this Bremen Town Musicians or Old MacDonald’s farm?”
So far, not impressed. He knew all too well: flashy gimmicks usually meant hiding weak skills. He himself had exploited that trick countless times in idol survival shows.
Then the last seat, left empty, was filled. A man in a fox mask stepped forward to introduce the band. Nothing more. Yet Seo Insoo was struck by a strange sense of dissonance.
[Ahem, hello, we’re Band Blank! We’ll start our video audition now. This is our original song, “Shooting star.”]
“How much you think that mask cost?”
“Probably five thousand won on Moiso.”
“And that title... Shooting star? So childish.”
Naturally, no one expected much from Blank. In their fatigue, their indifferent, borderline rude reactions made Seo sigh.
Am I gonna have to assemble a new team myself...
He was disappointed no one else noticed. But his instincts, sharpened by over ten years in broadcasting, screamed at him. These were kids with star quality you couldn’t hide behind a mask. He’d been unsure when it was just the four members, but the moment the fox-masked man appeared, he was certain.
Whether his face under the mask was handsome didn’t matter. To most, “star quality” meant one of two things: magnetic looks or personality. A face is equal to talent, they said. He disagreed. Star quality couldn’t be manufactured—it was innate. There were people who seized your attention in an instant, surpassing even beauty or charm. In all his memory, only a few.
After over a decade in the industry, he trusted his instincts. And right now, he was absolutely certain.
He could sing a nursery rhyme and still pass.
The other staff, however, felt the opposite. Even lead writer Park Sowon was doodling absentmindedly, looking bored. A fox with a guitar, a rabbit on keys...
Shhhhring—
The clear, sparkling tone of a wind chime cut through the room, halting their fidgeting.
“What was that?”
“That was wind chimes, right?”
“Caught my ear immediately.”
Seo PD grinned. He’d been planning to push them through anyway, but now he wouldn’t need to waste words convincing anyone.
And then the fox-masked man proved him right in a single stroke.
[Billions of starlights
pouring from the sky,
among them, cradled in my arms,
the one and only shooting star]
“...Huh?”
“What the hell?”
In all the hundred-plus submissions, they’d never heard a voice like this. Fresh stimulation after endless trendy copycat styles. A voice that belonged to no one else, that sang in its own tone.
The music too was different. Not another repetition of money chords, nor the messy experimental kind that threw out even the basics. Sampling “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” took guts. Risky—an original song’s freshness could easily be smothered by the over-familiar children’s tune. Done wrong, it could’ve come off laughably childish.
But this arrangement reinterpreted the lullaby’s cozy charm into something new. Whoever composed it had guts.
“That was... unique. But that melody was so familiar—what was it?”
“Is there even a band doing music like this now?”
“This is an original, right?”
“Wow, and they don’t even look that old...”
Everyone felt the same trembling. The thrill of discovering a genius.
“Wait, that cheer—was that in the video or did one of us make that noise?”
“Both.”
“Are there people in front of them?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Just an ordinary practice room.”
Seo shut them up with a look. Stop interrupting. Truth was, he’d already noticed: the fox-masked man wasn’t looking at the camera lens. His gaze was aimed at someone in front of him. None of them caught it. Another sigh escaped him.
Gotta train these kids better...
The set ended, and they thought the video was done. But it kept playing.
The members put down their instruments and rushed up to the camera. The mature, confident bandmen from a second ago vanished, replaced by boyish, playful voices.
“Mom!”
“So, how was it?”
“It’s over!”
With proud voices and bubbling laughter, the video ended.
“That last bit was a total twist.”
“The performance was so grown-up, but their voices—so young! Shocking.”
“Their character potential is insane.”
Seo smacked his lips. Blank was extraordinary to the very end. No accident, either—they’d cut it deliberately so the last voices were included.
They clearly knew what the public loved. That was good news for him. It had been a long time since something lit his creative fire like this. The last time was when he’d put together Idol Maker 100, the show that earned him his reputation for “dancing with knives.”
Like the best ingredients laying themselves out on the cutting board. Already he was picturing how to cook the spiciest, tastiest broadcast possible.
Noticing the gleam in his eye, the assistant PD muttered quietly at the sight of the fox-masked man on the application form.
“As long as they don’t get butchered, they’ll make it.”