The announcement hit like a punch to the gut.
Haru hadn't expected much from his lunch—just a moment to breathe, a few minutes of peace between grueling practice blocks. But there it was, taped to the cafeteria wall in bold black letters that felt like a death sentence.
"First Monthly Trainee Ranking Evaluation: Friday, 7:00 p.m. Auditorium. Attendance mandatory."
He froze, spoon midair, the rice sliding slowly off like even it had lost the will to go on.
Around him, the noise in the cafeteria didn't falter—but the tension thickened. Conversations shifted. Heads turned toward the poster. Eyes widened. Chatter turned into anxious murmurs.
Riki, mid-bite, choked on a chunk of grilled mackerel and started coughing violently. Minhee didn't flinch—he simply sipped his soup with the quiet detachment of someone who had already accepted their fate long ago. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers tightened slightly on the chopsticks.
Jae? Jae was asleep. Head in his rice tray. A slow, even snore rising from the sticky grains like nothing in the world could touch him.
Haru swallowed hard. He felt the color drain from his face.
Minju appeared over his shoulder, hovering just a little too gleefully, her eyes wide and glinting.
"Oooh," she breathed. "It's happening. The Hunger Games of K-pop."
He turned sharply toward her, voice low and panicked. "Why do you sound excited?"
"Because this is it," she said, leaning in. "Where you either rise to glory… or get brutally eliminated on livestream in front of thousands. Maybe millions. Classic trainee trauma!"
"Minju—"
"Some will cry. Some will faint. One kid might throw up. There's always one."
"You're not helping!"
She grinned, unbothered. "Wasn't trying to."
The entire building changed.
It wasn't gradual. It was a switch—flipped the moment the ranking poster went up. Suddenly, everything shifted. The air thickened. The halls pulsed with urgency. Laughter disappeared. Smiles vanished. The building transformed into a pressure cooker, and every single trainee was either boiling or about to explode.
Practice rooms became battlegrounds. Schedules that had once allowed for breathing space were now stacked wall to wall—morning to midnight, midnight to morning. Every mirror fogged over with the sweat of desperation, streaked with handprints from frustrated dancers and trembling vocalists. The floors groaned under the weight of ambition.
And the sound—oh, the sound.
Every hallway echoed with grunts, vocal runs, breathless counts of "five-six-seven-eight," and, occasionally, the quiet sob of someone losing it in the far corner of a stairwell.
Even the dorm rooms weren't safe.
3B became a war zone.
Minhee took to the bathroom, rehearsing his vocal runs in the shower like a man possessed—his falsetto echoing off tile in ghostly loops. Riki abandoned his beloved protein powder in favor of throat coat teas and slippery elm lozenges, muttering things like "I need clarity, not mass." The change was unnerving.
Jae… well, Jae continued to sleep. But even his snores were tenser now. Like his subconscious knew what was coming.
And Haru?
Haru was dying.
Not in the literal, tragic sense. But spiritually? Emotionally? Existentially?
A puddle of self-doubt with legs.
Minju didn't help. If anything, her coaching had leveled up from "mildly annoying" to "personal boot camp sergeant with chaotic ghost energy."
"Posture!" she barked during one practice session, circling him like a shark with a clipboard. "You're not a sad tulip, Haru! Lift your chest!"
He straightened.
"Now sing! And breathe properly. No—not like a fish out of water! You're a human! Use your diaphragm, not your face!"
He gasped halfway through a line, choking on a high note.
She clapped once. "Smile! With your eyes! No—what is that? You look like you embezzled taxes in three countries!"
"Minju!" he wheezed, clutching his chest mid-spin. "I have two left feet and anxiety! What do you want from me?"
"To survive!" she yelled, floating higher for dramatic effect. "That's the theme, Haru. Survival!"
He collapsed onto the floor, gasping. "You're already dead!"
"And that's why you shouldn't be!" she declared, halo of ghostly hair flaring like she was the patron saint of struggling trainees.
Thursday night settled like a weight.
Most of the building had gone quiet—just the soft hum of vending machines and the occasional footstep echoing down distant halls. But the practice room on the third floor still burned with light, its mirrored walls reflecting exhaustion, one trembling breath at a time.
Haru stood in front of the mirror, drenched in sweat, hoodie clinging to his back like regret. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven gasps. Every muscle screamed. His legs felt like they'd been poured from jelly and left out in the sun. Even his throat—raw from hours of failed notes—ached with a quiet kind of hopelessness.
He stared at his reflection.
Just a boy.
Shorter than most of the others. Not particularly flashy. His hair stuck up strangely in the back no matter how many times he tried to fix it. There was a stubborn smudge of mascara beneath one eye where he'd rubbed his face during practice without thinking.
He looked... lost.
What am I even doing here?
Behind him, the air shimmered softly.
Minju appeared like moonlight—glowing faintly, hovering just above the floor. She didn't speak right away. For once, she didn't tease or poke or float upside-down for dramatic effect. She just watched him.
When she finally did speak, her voice was quieter than usual. More human.
"You know," she said, her reflection appearing beside his in the mirror, "when I was alive, I used to watch these evaluations. Just… as a fan. I'd sneak into livestreams, replay performances a hundred times. Take notes on outfits and eye contact."
Haru didn't move. Didn't respond. Just stood there, still breathing hard, eyes fixed on the version of himself he hated most—the tired one. The scared one.
Minju's voice softened further. "It felt like watching heroes being forged."
A beat of silence.
"I wanted that," she whispered. "I didn't care about fame. I just… wanted to belong. On that stage. With the others."
Haru's gaze dropped. His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"What if I don't?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "What if I don't belong anywhere?"
Minju's reflection turned toward him. She wasn't glowing now—not really. Just a shimmer in the glass. Just a shadow of a girl who once dreamed too big.
And then she smiled.
A quiet, wistful smile.
"Then fake it," she said. "Until you do."
Haru looked at her, eyes searching.
"That's what everyone else is doing," she added. "Even the ones who look like they've already made it."
Another silence passed between them.
The kind that didn't feel empty.
Just honest.
Friday.
Ranking Day.
The tension started before sunrise.
The entire building buzzed with a nervous, electric hum—like it had soaked in everyone's fear and was now sweating it back out through the walls. Trainees moved through the halls like ghosts in track suits, eyes hollow with sleep deprivation and stress. Makeup was applied with trembling hands. Outfits were steamed, fixed, changed, and fixed again. Even the coaches seemed tenser, their usual critiques sharpened to surgical precision.
And by the time they were herded into the auditorium, Haru felt like he was about to combust.
The space was massive—ceiling high, lights hotter than the sun, and filled to the brim. Rows of trainees lined the seating area, buzzing in clusters. The judges sat in the front row, flanked by staff and camera crews. Large LED screens flanked the stage, rotating through high-resolution stills of the trainees—photos taken during practice, faces frozen in time, some smiling, some mid-dance, some clearly not ready for their close-up.
The stage itself gleamed under blinding white light, stretching across the room like a battlefield.
Some boys stood near the sides, stretching stiffly, counting under their breath.
Some sat with their hands pressed together, murmuring silent prayers to any deity willing to listen.
Others just… stared.
Frozen. Hollow. Stiff as statues.
Haru stood backstage with his group, pulse racing, sweat already prickling at the base of his neck. His hands wouldn't stop twitching. His throat felt dry even though he'd drunk nearly half a water bottle in five minutes. It was like his body was staging a quiet rebellion.
He was trying—desperately—not to barf.
His group was third in the lineup. A pre-selected cover song with full choreography. They had rehearsed it until it carved itself into his dreams.
And yet…
It had never felt more unfamiliar.
Minju floated overhead like a sparkly drone, weaving around lighting rigs and cables with the grace of a showbiz ghost. She buzzed close to his ear.
"Okay! Remember—breath control. Eyes on the center camera. Project confidence." She leaned in dramatically. "And if you fall, fall cool."
Haru blinked. "Noted," he croaked.
His heart was thudding against his ribs like it was auditioning for its own debut.
Then—
"Group Three. You're up."
The stage manager's voice cut through the air like a knife.
Everything went still.
Haru stepped forward, the stage swallowing him in white. The heat of the lights hit instantly, turning sweat to steam. For a second, all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing, and the faint ringing in his ears.
The auditorium hushed. Expectant.
Too quiet.
The music began.
And somehow—he moved.
Not perfectly. He missed a cue by half a beat at the start, almost turned the wrong way once. But his feet remembered more than his brain did. His body picked up where his doubt left off.
Clean steps. Strong posture. Arms precise. A little shaky—but steady.
And his voice—
Didn't crack.
Didn't shake.
It wasn't flawless, but it held—even on the high note that usually made him wince.
Somewhere in the blur of choreography and lyrics, he made eye contact with the center camera. Then again. It felt strange, powerful, like talking without speaking. He didn't overthink it.
For three minutes, he wasn't a kid from Japan who barely knew how to keep his balance.
He wasn't the anxious boy trailing behind stronger dancers or watching confident vocalists from the corners of practice rooms.
For three minutes, he was just someone trying.
And somehow… that felt like enough.
Backstage, the adrenaline crashed.
Haru's legs gave out the second he stepped off the stage. He sank to the floor with a graceless thud, heart pounding in his ears, breath coming in ragged bursts. Sweat clung to every part of him—his hoodie, his hair, the inside of his elbows. His vision pulsed with leftover stage lights.
He had no idea what just happened.
Riki appeared beside him, dropping into a crouch and clapping him on the back hard enough to rattle his spine.
"You didn't die!" he said, grinning like he'd witnessed a miracle.
Minhee, standing nearby with arms crossed, gave a nonchalant thumbs up. "Better than the last rehearsal," he said dryly—but there was something faintly approving in his voice.
Even Jae—who hadn't spoken more than five words in three days—grunted in acknowledgment from where he sat against the wall, arms crossed, eyes halfway open.
That alone felt like a standing ovation.
Minju hovered above the group, glowing a little brighter than usual, hands clasped like a proud mom watching her child win a kindergarten talent show. She didn't say anything yet. Just floated. Smiling.
Then—
The room dimmed.
And the screen flickered to life.
RANKINGS
Fifty names. One screen. A slow, merciless countdown.
#50...The first name appeared. Someone gasped quietly in the corner. Another cursed under his breath.
#49... #48...Each name hit like a dropped weight. Some trainees visibly flinched. Others sank lower in their seats, staring at the screen as if sheer willpower could drag their name higher. A few nodded quietly, expressions unreadable.
Minju drifted lower, her glow flickering slightly. She began chewing her bottom lip.
"Okay…" she muttered. "Maybe I overestimated how forgiving this system was."
Haru didn't take his eyes off the screen. "Gee, you think?"
"Shhh," she whispered. "It's still coming."
#30... #29... #28...
Still nothing.
No "Haru Kim."
He didn't expect much. Wasn't delusional. He knew he wasn't top ten material. Maybe not even top thirty. All he wanted—desperately—was to not see his name next to a number below 40.
Minju floated closer, voice barely audible now. "Please don't let this be awkward. Please don't let this be awkward."
#21... #20... #19...
Riki exhaled. "That's me," he mumbled, nodding once. He didn't sound disappointed. Just surprised.
Haru braced himself. His palms were slick. His heart was somewhere near his throat.
#13: Haru Kim
Silence.
Actual, stunned silence.
A few scattered gasps rippled across the auditorium. Heads turned. A couple of trainees whispered.
Haru blinked.
Once. Twice.
He stared at the number as if it might vanish.
Minju squealed—an actual high-pitched squeal that echoed against the ceiling tiles. She darted into a midair flip, arms thrown wide.
"YOU DID IT!" she shrieked.
Riki's jaw dropped slightly. "You just beat me," he said, incredulous. "I'm at 19."
Jae, now fully awake, muttered, "No way."
Minhee tilted his head, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Beginner's luck?"
Haru opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
He closed it again.
"I…"
Minju floated in front of him, eyes glowing brighter than he'd ever seen them.
"You did it," she whispered, softer this time. Sincere.
Haru shook his head slowly. "I… I don't get it."
She tilted her head, smile gentle now—no jokes, no noise. Just something warm.
"Maybe it's not about getting it," she said. "Maybe you just… earned it."
And for once, Haru didn't argue.
He just sat there, stunned and blinking beneath the glow of a dream that suddenly didn't feel so far away.
That night, the dorm was dark and still.
Outside, the city blinked quietly through the frosted windows—neon signs flickering in rhythm with distant traffic, their light casting slow-moving patterns across the ceiling. The others were asleep, or close to it. Riki's soft snoring drifted from the lower bunk. Minhee occasionally shifted with the rustle of sheets. Jae hadn't moved in hours, dead to the world in his usual starfish sprawl.
But Haru was wide awake.
He lay on his back, staring at the slats above him, eyes open, mind racing.
Only this time, it wasn't anxiety keeping him up.
It wasn't fear of failure, or the sick ache of not measuring up.
It was something else.
Something buzzing just beneath his skin—quiet, insistent, alive.
A whisper in his chest.
A spark in his spine.
For the first time since he'd arrived, the thought didn't feel ridiculous. Didn't feel like a lie he told himself to survive another day.
Maybe I can do this.
He turned his head slightly, eyes finding the faint glow in the corner of the room.
Minju was floating near the ceiling, half-shrouded in shadow. She didn't say anything right away. Just watched him with that small, knowing smile.
And then, barely above a whisper:
"Welcome to the game, Haru."
Her voice hung in the dark like a promise.
And this time, Haru didn't doubt it.