As the trainees rested and tried—keyword: tried—to enjoy their day, an announcement echoed across the island, calling everyone to gather at the small colosseum-style stage.
The mood shifted instantly.
They followed instructions, but curiosity buzzed under their skin, tangled with something far less pleasant. The last time they were summoned like this, it hadn't exactly ended well. So naturally, minds spiraled.
Some worried another bombshell article had dropped.
Others feared something worse.
A few tried to convince themselves—very aggressively—that this wasn't serious.
Others had learned their lesson and kept their guards firmly up.
Low-grade PTSD was definitely in the room.
Once everyone had arrived and taken their seats, heels clicked against the floor.
Tuesday strutted in like she owned oxygen itself, giving supermodels worldwide a reason to re-evaluate their life choices.
The trainees immediately erupted—cheers, applause, whistles.
Tuesday only beamed brighter, waving like a damn celebrity.
"Hey guys! How are y'all doing?" she asked cheerfully.
The responses came scattered and honest.
"Getting better."
"Good."
"Scared," one trainee said jokingly—except it wasn't a joke at all.
That earned a ripple of laughter, the nervous kind.
"Well, I do sincerely hope you're all feeling better," Tuesday said, her smile softening. "As you know, legal proceedings have already begun. That's why Foca and Luca aren't here today."
The air sobered.
Still, the trainees took it better than expected. Many silently wished for justice. Some clenched fists. Others exhaled.
Then Tuesday continued.
"Before Foca left, he gave me one instruction."
She paused.
"He told me to tell you all to pack your bags."
Record scratch.
Confusion. Fear. Absolute terror.
"What—"
"Is the show cancelled?!"
"No, no way… right?"
"Given everything that happened, I wouldn't even be surprised…"
Tuesday said nothing.
She watched it unfold—the spiraling thoughts, the tension climbing. It wasn't cruelty. It was deliberate. A mental health check. And… okay, a little suspense for funsies.
Then she finally relented.
"Relax, guys. Everything's fine," Tuesday said, hands up. "We want you to pack your bags because—"
She grinned.
"We're going on vacation."
Silence.
Then—
"WHAT?!"
"Vacation?! NOW?!"
"Holy shit—like, an actual vacation??"
"But… this island already feels like a vacation?" one trainee said weakly.
"Good question," Tuesday teased. "Any guesses?"
Brains were still buffering. Nothing landed.
So she dropped the nuke.
"Pack for the cold, everyone. We're going skiing in Switzerland."
The reaction was instant and deafening.
Cheers roared through the colosseum. Trainees jumped to their feet. Some screamed. Some cried. A few did both at the same time.
"Everything's been prepared," Tuesday said, smiling at the chaos. "All you need to do is bring your stuff—and yourselves."
She paused, her tone turning gentler.
"After everything that's happened, Foca wanted you all to forget the article fiasco. To heal. To rest. And most importantly—to enjoy."
"SIR FOCA—WHEREVER YOU ARE—THANK YOUUUU!!" someone yelled at the top of their lungs.
The shout spread like wildfire.
"Alright, go pack," Tuesday said, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips. "We leave tonight. And when we arrive in Switzerland… there's a little surprise waiting for you."
That was all it took.
The trainees bolted for their dorms, excitement buzzing in the air, laughter spilling down hallways, suitcases already mentally half-packed.
It was obvious.
Foca's plan had worked—perfectly.
****
Once everyone arrived at Nadi International Airport, the forty-five remaining trainees were greeted with their first surprise.
A first-class–only flight.
Yes. Only first class.
So everyone—every last trainee—would be flying in unapologetic luxury.
And the production crew?
Oh, don't worry. They were also on a first-class–only flight… just a separate one, leaving earlier.
Well. Except for the select few assigned to film the trainees during mid-flight.
And so, the trainees flew to Switzerland wrapped in comfort and excess.
The moment they stepped onto the plane, jaws hit the floor.
The design.
The beds—actual beds.
The amenities.
The food that looked illegal to be served on an aircraft.
It felt unreal. Like a once-in-a-lifetime experience they weren't sure they'd ever touch again.
Some whispered.
Some laughed in disbelief.
Some just sat there quietly, afraid that blinking too hard would make it disappear.
After roughly twenty-seven to thirty hours, the trainees arrived in Switzerland—shockingly energized.
Jet lag?
Never heard of her.
That was the power of first class.
Upon landing at Zurich Airport, they were ushered into a high-end luxury bus for a three-hour drive to their final destination.
St. Moritz.
The energy inside the bus was electric. It buzzed through the air, bouncing off windows and laughter.
Every turn revealed another breathtaking view.
Some trainees fell silent, staring out the windows in reverent awe.
Others couldn't shut up if their lives depended on it.
Mountains dusted in snow.
Forests standing tall and proud.
A kind of beauty that made you believe—if only for a moment—that the world wasn't such a cruel place.
And then they arrived.
The hotel stood before them—grand, majestic, impossibly beautiful.
Part castle.
Part mountain cabin.
Entirely holy shit.
Waiting for them was Cat, bundled in a massive puffer jacket and beanie, looking effortlessly gorgeous.
"Trainees," she greeted warmly, "did you have a pleasant journey?"
"YEAH!"
The response was so loud it could've triggered an avalanche.
"That's good," Cat laughed—then paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
"…Eli?"
She tilted her head.
"Are you sure you're wearing enough? Isn't it cold?"
Why the concern?
Because surfer boy, allergic-to-shirts Eli was standing there in a tight tank top and jeans. Boots, yes—but his jacket was casually wrapped around his waist like an accessory.
"He couldn't be bothered," Monarch answered immediately, grinning.
"The cold doesn't bother me anyway," Eli shrugged good-naturedly.
"Amen!" Pink raised a dramatic hand. "Let it go, hoe. Let it go!"
"We like him like this," Kitty purred. "It's giving eye-candy realness."
"Mmhmm!" Javi and Aqua snapped in agreement.
Laughter rippled through the group.
"Well," Cat chuckled, shaking her head, "I'll let you be, then."
She clapped her hands once.
"Now… Miss Tuesday mentioned a little surprise waiting for you upon arrival, correct?"
"Yeeaaah…" the trainees replied cautiously.
"Well," Cat smiled, stepping aside, "take a look."
The doors opened.
And just like that—
Everything shattered.
Gasps.
Frozen silence.
Then tears.
Some dropped their bags.
Some covered their mouths.
Some started sobbing instantly.
"M-Jenny? Oh my God—Jenny!"
Mika didn't hesitate. He ran straight into his sister's arms, clinging to her like the world had almost swallowed him whole.
"MAMA!" Jordan shouted in Mandarin, sprinting forward as his mother wrapped him in the tightest embrace imaginable.
"M-mom…? D-dad…?"
Kang Ian stood frozen.
He rubbed his eyes once.
Twice.
They were still there.
His parents—faces wet with tears, arms open wide.
The dam broke.
He rushed forward, collapsing into their embrace, crying as they cradled him like they'd never let go again.
But not everyone had family waiting.
Nikola lifted his head slightly, forcing the tears back.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
His family had always wanted him to be an athlete.
Everyone in the family was one.
Choosing art meant choosing exile.
So he swallowed the familiar ache—until—
"Fucker, what's good?"
Nikola froze.
"…Mikko?"
Standing there was his best friend. His roommate. His fellow B-boy.
"Who else would it be?" Mikko grinned.
"Motherfucker!" Nikola laughed through tears as they collided into a brutal bro hug, breaking into their ridiculous secret handshake—ending, of course, in a B-boy freeze.
Messy. Loud. Perfect.
And for the rest—those who expected no one—
They, too, found their people waiting.
Best friends. Mentors. Chosen family.
Because sometimes—
Blood doesn't make family.
Love does.