Minjun made it through the first week. Barely.Each morning, his alarm tore him from half-sleep at 5:30 AM. Each night, his sore legs threatened to buckle on the bus ride home. Sometimes he drifted off standing up, forehead bumping the bus window until a startled jolt woke him. His mother's rice balls in foil were his only real meal before he dragged himself back to the rooftop with his notebook, scribbling lyrics and beats in the darkness while the city roared below.
On Friday, the trainer gathered the trainees in Practice Room A — the biggest studio, the one with the clean mirrors and pristine sound system. Minjun's sweat still clung to him like second skin from the warm-up drills.
"All right, listen up," she barked, her voice echoing off the polished floor. "You've survived one week. That doesn't make you special — it means you're slightly less worthless than the kids we already cut. Next week, your next test: a performance evaluation. You'll pair up, choreograph a piece to a given song, and perform it live for the creative directors. Duo or out."
A low murmur rippled through the room. Pair up. For Minjun, those two words were heavier than any push-up set. He barely knew anyone here — no one really spoke to him unless it was to remind him he was a nobody. He felt eyes flick his way: not out of curiosity, but to make sure they didn't accidentally get stuck with him.
He glanced at Taesung, who was leaning against the mirror, arms crossed, hair perfectly in place despite the hour of drills. A cluster of other trainees hovered around him — orbiting him like planets to a sun.
Minjun turned away before Taesung's smirk found him. He scanned the room, heartbeat skittering. Who—
"Hey."
A soft voice, almost swallowed by the chatter. Minjun spun around to see a boy standing behind him. Shorter than him by a head, slightly stocky, with a round face and big eyes hidden behind sweat-damp bangs. He clutched a notebook so dog-eared it looked ready to fall apart.
"You don't have a partner, right?" the boy asked. His voice cracked a bit. "I'm Jiwoo. Third week here. I… don't really know anyone either."
Minjun let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He bowed, relief flooding him so fast it made him laugh — a short, tired bark that startled Jiwoo. "Yoon Minjun. I don't know anyone either. So… let's not get cut together?"
Jiwoo grinned. His teeth were slightly crooked. It made Minjun like him immediately.
They found an empty corner in the hallway while other trainees scrambled to claim practice spots. Jiwoo flipped open his battered notebook. It was filled with scrawled chord progressions, vocal warm-ups, old dance counts. Minjun recognized the handwriting — the same frantic, half-legible mess he had in his own pages.
"You write too?" Minjun asked.
"A bit. Mostly lyrics," Jiwoo said, shyly scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not good at dancing though. I, um… failed the first cut last month. They gave me one last chance. If I fail this time, they won't renew my trainee pass."
Minjun nodded. His own chest tightened. They were both dangling by the same frayed thread.
The song they'd been given was a fast pop track — a leftover demo from one of Starline's mid-tier boy groups. Catchy but uninspired. A simple, relentless beat that needed choreography strong enough to stand out.
"We can't do anything too flashy," Jiwoo said, tapping his pencil against the lyrics sheet. "We'll mess it up. But… what if we do something that tells a story? If we can't out-dance Taesung and the pretty boys, we can at least make them remember us."
Minjun's mind lit up. A story — that, he could do. He started scribbling on the floor with his finger. Beats, counts, a push-pull movement where Jiwoo mirrored him. He hummed a melody line over the chorus, twisting it in his head until it felt like it belonged to them.
They practiced until the hallway lights flickered to warn them the building was closing. Jiwoo's footwork was clumsy, but he had a natural bounce, a softness Minjun realized they could use — a contrast to his own sharp angles. When Jiwoo stumbled for the tenth time, he laughed instead of cursing. Minjun found himself laughing too, and for the first time since stepping into Starline's sterile halls, it didn't feel forbidden.
By Wednesday night, they'd run through the routine so many times Minjun could see it when he closed his eyes. But Jiwoo's knee was swelling, and Minjun's throat was raw from counting beats aloud over and over. He dug into his pocket and handed Jiwoo the last rice ball his mother had packed.
Jiwoo blinked. "You should eat too."
"I'll eat later," Minjun lied. He pushed the foil into Jiwoo's hands. "Eat, rest that knee, then we'll run it two more times."
They sat on the cold hallway floor, backs against the mirror. Jiwoo unwrapped the rice ball like it was treasure. Between mouthfuls, he nudged Minjun's shoulder.
"You know… you're scary when you dance," Jiwoo said.
Minjun looked at him, startled. "Scary?"
"I mean that in a good way! It's like you're fighting with the floor. Like it owes you money or something." Jiwoo laughed at his own joke. "I wish I had that. I just… move."
Minjun thought about it. He'd never seen himself that way, but maybe he was fighting. With the floor, with the beat, with the world that kept telling him he wasn't enough.
"Then let's make it work," Minjun said quietly. "You be the soft part. I'll be the sharp. Like… a wave hitting a rock. That's our story."
Jiwoo nodded, eyes bright behind his fringe. "Wave and rock. I like that."
On the day of the performance evaluation, they were the last pair to go. The other trainees sat cross-legged along the practice room wall — Taesung front and center, arms folded, wearing an expression that said hurry up and fail.
Minjun squeezed Jiwoo's hand once before they stepped forward. Jiwoo's palm was clammy, but his grip was solid.
The music started. The beat hit. Minjun moved — sharp, precise, cutting through the space. Jiwoo mirrored him, softer, flowing around him like water. Push, pull. Attack, retreat. The story was there: a clash, then a blend. Two kids clinging to a rhythm that might spit them out any second.
When the final beat faded, they froze in place, panting, chests heaving. The silence after the last note felt louder than the music.
The creative director at the back of the room scribbled something down, face blank. The trainer didn't react. Taesung raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. But Minjun didn't care. For the first time, he hadn't danced alone.
Outside the practice room, Jiwoo turned to him, sweat dripping from his fringe.
"Even if we get cut," Jiwoo said, voice soft but fierce, "thanks for not letting me do it alone."
Minjun cracked a tired grin. He clapped Jiwoo's shoulder.
"No one's getting cut," he said. "Not today."
But in his gut, Minjun knew: this was only the beginning. There would be more cuts, more battles, more nights with no sleep and no answers. But now, he also knew he didn't have to stand on the rooftop alone. Not anymore.