"You're late!"
Minju's voice pierced the morning silence like a firecracker, sharp and dramatic as she zipped into view—her translucent form suddenly nose-to-nose with Haru. He flinched, blinking hard against the bright light already reflecting off the glass tower behind her.
He stood just outside the trainee dormitory, suitcase in one hand, heart clutched tight in the other.
"It's 6:05 a.m.," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and nerves. "Orientation's at eight."
Minju crossed her arms mid-air, her expression deadly serious in that overly theatrical way she'd perfected. "Yes. And you haven't mentally prepped yet."
Haru frowned. "Mentally prepped?"
"For rejection, judgment, exhaustion, and soul-crushing self-doubt," she declared with a sweep of her arm. "This is the idol industry!"
He gave her a long look. "Wow. Inspirational."
Minju beamed, utterly unfazed. "You're welcome!"
With a sigh, Haru adjusted the strap of his backpack and turned to face the building—his new home for the foreseeable future. The structure rose above him like a monument to ambition: tall, all glass and sharp edges, its mirrored windows reflecting the golden haze of early morning. It looked clean, expensive, and unforgiving. The kind of place that dared you to dream—then made you prove you were worth it.
To the outside world, it would look impressive.
To Haru, it looked like a trap with a lobby.
His steps echoed faintly as he crossed the tiled entryway. The automatic doors slid open with a polite whoosh, welcoming him into something that felt anything but warm.
The inside hit him all at once.
Shouts bounced off polished walls—some playful, others sharp with tension. The steady pound of bass thumped through the ceiling, leaking from a nearby dance studio. Somewhere behind a half-open door, music blared—off-key singing layered over rapid choreography counts. Sneakers squeaked across waxed floors. And the air—dear god, the air—smelled like sweat, cheap hairspray, and synthetic citrus disinfectant trying and failing to cover it all.
A receptionist glanced up from her tablet, barely making eye contact, and gestured down a long hallway with a bored flick of her pen.
He nodded silently and walked on, his suitcase wheels thudding softly behind him like reluctant backup dancers.
"Welcome to hell," Minju whispered in his ear, her voice low and eerie like a horror movie narrator with too much time on her hands.
He was led down a long, sterile hallway—walls bare, lights flickering with a faint buzz—until they stopped at a plain white door marked DORM 3B. The staff member gave a half-hearted knock, then opened it without waiting for a response.
"Here," the man said. "Unpack. Orientation's upstairs."
And just like that, he was alone again.
The dorm room was... underwhelming. Narrow and cramped, with barely enough space for two people to stand without bumping into each other—let alone four. Two metal bunk beds took up most of the room, their gray frames chipped and creaking, mattresses stiff and hospital-white. A closet the size of a shoebox sat wedged into the corner, one door already hanging slightly ajar. Above it all, a ceiling light flickered like it was on its last breath.
Three boys had already claimed their spaces.
One was crouched beside an open suitcase, meticulously unpacking large tubs of protein powder and lining them up like they were precious artifacts. His tank top clung to a muscular frame, and every movement looked like it came with sound effects.
Another boy sat cross-legged on the floor, folding socks with terrifying precision—each pair matched and squared with military-level symmetry.
The third lay fully clothed on the top bunk, face-down, unmoving, as if he had been dropped from a height and simply stayed there.
Haru stood in the doorway, gripping his suitcase handle tighter than necessary. He cleared his throat.
"Uh… hi."
The sock-folder looked up first. His face was calm, unreadable. "You must be Haru," he said, already back to folding. "I'm Minhee."
"Nice to meet you," Haru replied.
The protein guy glanced over his shoulder, then—completely unnecessarily—flexed. "Riki," he said with a confident grin. "Don't touch my stuff."
The boy on the top bunk didn't move. Not a twitch.
"He's Jae," Minhee explained, still folding. "He only wakes up for food. And survival evaluations."
Haru frowned. "Is he… okay?"
"He got in trouble last week for calling the vocal coach a fossil."
"Ah."
From beside him, Minju materialized with a smug little smile, arms folded. "This is your squad now," she said, voice dripping with mock authority. "Train hard. Eat clean. Don't die."
Haru sighed. "Thanks, coach."
She leaned in. "I'll haunt your cereal if you slack."
Training began at 6:30 a.m. the next day.
Not that Haru had really slept. Between the creaky bed, his nerves, and Jae's occasional sleep-talking ("not the fossil again"), he had barely closed his eyes.
They were herded into a mirrored dance studio that felt more like a battlefield—floor scuffed with past struggles, air thick with sweat and cold fear. The instructor entered like a storm in a tracksuit, a clipboard in one hand and disappointment already radiating from his expression.
Within twenty minutes, Haru had tripped over his own foot, knocked shoulders with Riki mid-turn, and flailed so wildly during a spin that he almost took out a speaker.
The instructor sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You," he barked. "What's your name?"
"Haru."
"Well, Haru, stop moving like a stunned octopus."
Haru nodded, trying not to pass out.
It didn't get better from there.
Vocal training wasn't kinder.
The room smelled like old microphones and broken confidence. The vocal coach, a woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that could pierce drywall, stood with arms crossed as Haru attempted a simple run.
He barely got halfway through when she held up a hand.
"Stop singing like your soul is hiding under the bed."
He tried again. The note came out cracked, pitiful, and uncertain.
Minju, hovering in the corner like an overenthusiastic ghost judge, scribbled furiously on her glowing clipboard.
"Dance: four out of ten," she announced. "Vocals: five. Sass level?" She paused. "Still at zero."
Haru glared at her. "I hate you."
She winked. "You say that, but you keep listening."
Lunch was held in a brightly lit cafeteria that smelled vaguely of soy sauce, overcooked rice, and dreams being quietly crushed.
Haru sat at a long, stainless steel table with his dormmates, barely tasting the soup in front of him. His muscles still buzzed with exhaustion from morning training, and his throat felt raw from vocal drills. Around them, chatter buzzed in every corner of the room—fifty trainees crammed into one space, all whispering, speculating, analyzing.
Minhee was already deep into conversation, voice low but tense.
"I heard the company might announce an early cut," he said, not looking up from his bowl of rice.
Haru blinked. "A cut?"
Riki stabbed his chopsticks into a boiled egg like it had offended him. "Yeah," he muttered. "Heard they only want to keep the top ten."
Haru dropped his spoon with a clatter. "There's fifty of us!"
"Exactly." Riki leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "They want to clean house early."
Across from him, Jae was only halfway awake, slumped forward over his tray, chewing slowly like he was processing more than just food. "And most of them are good," he said, voice muffled by a mouthful of kimchi. "Like, backup-dancer-on-TV good."
The words hit Haru like a cold wind. He hadn't even made it through a warm-up without tripping over his own feet.
He stared down at his tray, appetite vanishing.
Minju appeared beside him, her glow dimmer than usual in the harsh cafeteria light. Her voice came soft, almost like a secret. "You'll get there."
"I can't even touch my toes," he muttered.
"You can touch your dreams," she said gently. Then, with a teasing nudge: "Now stretch."
By the time they got back to the dorm that night, Haru felt like his body had been through a car crash.
His arms ached. His legs were jelly. His brain felt like it had been melted, stirred, then microwaved again just for good measure. He didn't even bother changing out of his practice clothes. He dropped onto his bunk with a grunt and just lay there, limbs splayed like a marionette with cut strings.
The room was dark. Riki was already snoring faintly. Minhee was journaling quietly by flashlight. Jae was curled up under a hoodie that had somehow become a blanket.
And Haru…
He just breathed.
Let himself feel it all. The failure. The exhaustion. The knowledge that he was far behind, maybe too far behind.
And yet…
He hadn't walked out.
Somewhere inside him, past the ache and fear, was something stubborn. Small. Flickering.
Still burning.
Minju floated silently above him, her glow soft and blue in the shadows of the dorm room. She didn't speak right away. She just hovered there, watching him with quiet eyes.
"You didn't cry today," she said finally, her voice low.
"I wanted to."
"But you didn't."
He stared at the ceiling. Let the silence settle over them like a blanket.
"Why me, Minju?" he asked after a long moment. "Out of all people. Why stick around me?"
She drifted lower, until their faces were level—hers gently illuminated in the dark, more wistful than mischievous.
"I think…" she said slowly, "because you listen."
He blinked. "That's it?"
She smiled, soft and strange. "That's everything."
A faint laugh escaped him—tired, quiet, but real. "You're weird."
Her grin widened. "Takes one to know one, trainee."