The first day of work feels both thrilling and nerve wracking. My thoughts keep racing back and forth. What if I've underestimated the group? What if they turn out to be awful, treating their staff like nothing more than slaves? Worst of all, I couldn't even rely on the internet for reassurance. I hadn't the faintest idea who this group really was. And yet, during the interview, one of the guys looked so strangely familiar. Who could it possibly be?
The train swayed gently as I sat clutching my bag, dressed in a cute skirt and a casual shirt. My messy bun kept getting loose by every turn of the train, and I'd done my best with makeup to look fresh, even though my nerves betrayed me. Around me, strangers read newspapers, scrolled through their phones, or dozed off, while I tried to keep myself collected.
Holy crap! I nearly missed my stop. The chime rang, the doors slid open, and I jumped to my feet just in time, my heart racing as I squeezed past the other passengers. It felt like a warning from the universe to pay attention, this is where it all begins.
****
The glass doors closed behind me, sealing me inside the whirlwind of NOVA Talent. Staff hurried across the polished floors with clipboards, earpieces, and armfuls of costumes, everybody seemed to have a task. I barely had time to take it all in before a sharp voice sliced through the noise.
"What are you doing just standing there?"
I blinked, startled. A woman in her late thirties strode toward me, heels clicking like a metronome. Her sleek black blazer and no-nonsense expression made her look like she'd been born in this building. She crossed her arms, raising a brow at me.
Before I could stammer an excuse, the manager who had escorted me from interview appeared at her side. "She's the new one," he explained quickly. "Fresh staff. She'll be under your care for the week. Teach her everything—make sure she can manage on her own by the end of it. If anything doesn't work out..." His pause was heavy. "...let me know."
The woman's eyes flicked over me, assessing me from head to toe like she was deciding whether I was worth the trouble. Then, to my surprise, the corner of her mouth twitched upward into the faintest smirk.
"Great. A rookie." She gestured for me to follow, already turning on her heel. "Come on. I don't have time for wide-eyed staring, we've got a bust schedule almost everyday, and you'll need to learn fast if you want to keep up."
This job seems like it will be quite demanding. While it may be enjoyable and fun it certainly requires quick mind and strong legs.
We made our way through a maze of hallways alive with motion. Some rushed off to plan out the next schedule or show that the stars would make an appearance in. Others were preparing new costumes, hairstyle and make up for the next performance or new album covers. It was obvious that these stars were't just beginners, they meant more in the industry than I initially thought.
"First rule," she said without looking back, "don't get lost. This place eats time if you don't know your way around."
She stopped at a door, pushed it open, and swept her hand toward the neatly lined racks inside. "Dressing room. Costumes for every stage, shoot, or event. If the boys ask for something specific, you find it here or you hunt it down. Got it?"
Before I could answer, she was already moving on.
Next, she pushed through another door. A wave of perfume, hairspray, and chatter hit me at once. Stylists darted around, curling irons in one hand, brushes in the other. Vanity mirrors lined the walls, bulbs glowing like tiny suns. "Makeup and hair. Same room, same chaos. Never, ever block the stylists, they're the lifeblood before every performance."
She continued, heels clacking against the floor until we reached a wide set of double doors. She pulled one open, revealing a cavernous space bathed in lights. Cameras stood on tripods, wires snaked across the floor, and the air buzzed with voices giving instructions. "Studio. Practice runs, recording, this is where the magic happens. "
I nodded furiously, clutching my bag tighter.
Then came a quieter hallway, where she gestured toward a glass-walled room filled with desks, computers, and stacks of paperwork. "Office. Managers, coordinators and schedule control, this is where the real work happens. Half the drama happens here, too, so keep your ears open."
Finally, she stopped at a doorway from which the warm scent of curry and rice drifted out. Inside, long tables filled the room, with staff chatting in groups and trays clattering. "Lunch room. Everyone eats here, staff and talent alike. It's the only place you'll see people drop the act for a minute."
She turned to me then, arms crossed again, but this time her expression softened just a little. "That's the basics. You'll memorize it soon enough. Stick with me for this week, learn fast, and maybe you'll survive."
She suddenly stopped so fast I nearly bumped into her. Turning on her heel, she eyed me with that same sharp gaze.
"Alright, rookie. Time for your first task."
My heart skipped. Already?
She pointed back toward the dressing room. "The boys have a rehearsal in an hour. They'll need their stage outfits ready before makeup can even touch them. Go in there, find the labeled garment bags, and lay everything out neatly in the prep area. Double-check for missing pieces—belts, accessories, shoes. If anything's gone, report to me immediately."
I swallowed, nodding quickly.
"Sounds simple?" Her eyebrow arched.
"Yes," I said, though my voice came out higher than I intended.
"Good. Then prove it. First rule of staff work: nothing is ever as simple as it looks."
With that, she waved me off and strode away, already taking a call on her earpiece.
I stood in the hallway for a second, nerves and excitement colliding in my chest. It was just costumes, sure—but it was also my first responsibility in this new universe. I squared my shoulders and pushed open the dressing room door.
The dressing room was bigger than I expected, racks stretching wall to wall, hangers crammed with every style imaginable—glittering jackets, crisp uniforms, casual sets that looked like they belonged on magazine covers. I froze in the doorway, the sheer volume of choices overwhelming.
Okay... garments bags, labeled... where?
I walked carefully between the racks, scanning tags, lifting sleeves, opening zippers. But nothing matched. My heart thudded harder the longer I searched. There were names scribbled on a few tags, but none I recognized. And even if I did find one, how would I know it was today's outfit and not last week's?
I bit my lip, glancing toward the prep area. Empty. Not even a hint of where to start.
"Having fun in there?"
I jumped at the voice. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that faint smirk playing on her lips again.
"I—I can't tell which ones are for rehearsal," I admitted, heat creeping up my neck.
Without a word, she tapped the wall right beside the door. A laminated sheet hung there, perfectly visible if I'd only thought to look. Bold letters read: TODAY'S REHEARSAL — WARDROBE LIST.
I stared at it, cheeks burning.
"Lesson three," she said dryly. "Always check the schedule board before you start running around like a headless chicken. Everything you need is right in front of you."
I exhaled, half embarrassed, half relieved, and hurried back to the doorway. Sure enough, the list had each member's name neatly matched with their outfit: black rehearsal jackets, plain white sneakers, numbered accessories.
She gave me a sharp nod. "Now you know. Get moving. You've got thirty minutes."
This time, I squared my shoulders and headed into the racks with new determination. I wasn't about to fail my first task twice.
With the list clutched in my hand, everything finally made sense. I hurried down the rows, scanning for the labels I'd missed before. One by one, the garment bags revealed themselves, tucked neatly on their hangers, each marked with a member's name.
"Okay... black rehearsal jackets... check. Sneakers... check." My voice was a whisper, more to calm myself than anything else.
I carried the outfits carefully to the prep table, laying each piece out in order—tops folded, shoes aligned, accessories placed on top. The work was simple enough, but my hands shook from the pressure of getting it right.
Halfway through, my heart skipped when I realized one pair of sneakers was missing. The list called for plain white, size 10. But the rack only held size 8s and a pair splattered with glitter from some previous performance.
Panic fluttered in my chest. Do I ask her? Do I admit I've already messed up?
I retraced my steps, scanning the floor and corners of the racks. At last, beneath a heap of dry-cleaning bags, I spotted a familiar shoebox. Tugging it out, I opened the lid with trembling hands—perfect white sneakers, size 10, crisp and clean.
Relief washed through me. I set them neatly on the table and stepped back to inspect my work. Five outfits, perfectly arranged and waiting.
The woman appeared in the doorway again, arms crossed as always. Her eyes swept over the table, sharp and quick.
"Not bad, rookie," she said at last. "You found them all, even the ones some lazy intern shoved in the wrong place."
I blinked. "That was a test?"
"Everything here is a test." Her smirk returned. "But you passed. Barely. Now grab a bottle of water—you're about to meet the boys, and trust me, you'll need the energy."
My stomach flipped again, but this time with something closer to excitement than fear. The moment I'd been waiting for was finally coming.
The woman kept up her running commentary as we walked—where staff should stand, how to time water breaks, which stylist was the fastest, even the fact that one member hated hairspray near his eyes. I tried to absorb it all, nodding furiously, when a playful voice cut through her lecture.
"C'mon, give the girl a break."
I turned toward the sound. A tall boy leaned casually against the counter, his hair damp from practice, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Is this your new victim after all these years? Stop torturing her already."
The woman clicked her tongue but didn't deny it. Meanwhile, my pulse hammered in my ears. This wasn't just any staff member—it was one of them. One of the stars. And he was looking directly at me.