"Number thirteen?"
Minju had repeated the phrase approximately seventeen times since the rankings had dropped.
Actually, Haru had counted.
"Thirteen!" she shouted again, circling him like a satellite as they walked through the trainee dorm hallway. "Out of fifty! Thir-teen!"
"Yes, I was there," Haru muttered, adjusting his hoodie like it might make him disappear.
"Like—bam!" she burst, throwing her arms wide, spinning midair. "You just snuck in like a quiet little legend! No warning! No buildup! Just 'Hi I'm Haru, watch me casually obliterate expectations!'"
"Minju," he sighed, "please stop narrating my life."
She gasped, offended. "Rude. But also fair."
With a dramatic flair, she flipped upside down and floated backward ahead of him, arms flung open like a tragic theater ghost. Her soft glow left trails of light across the walls. "Forgive me! I simply didn't expect my protégé to be this competent this soon!"
"I didn't either," Haru said under his breath.
As they turned the corner toward the common area, Minhee joined them, emerging from one of the side halls with the slow, deliberate walk of someone who'd already finished his morning workout and was casually judging everyone who hadn't.
He sipped from a sleek, black protein bottle, barely looking winded. "Congrats," he said casually. "You've been improving."
Haru blinked, caught off guard by the compliment.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"What?" Minju gasped dramatically, floating up to his ear. "No snark? No passive-aggressive tone? He didn't even insult your footwork!"
"Don't jinx it," Haru whispered back, eyes darting to make sure no one was watching him talk to thin air.
Minhee tilted his head slightly. "You good?"
"Yeah!" Haru said too quickly. "Just—uh—practicing lines. For… acting class. Method stuff."
Minju floated upside down in front of him. "Acting class? That's your excuse?"
"I panicked," Haru muttered.
Minhee shrugged, already losing interest. "Whatever works," he said, then took another sip and walked off.
Haru exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. "I need better cover stories."
Minju twirled beside him with a smug grin. "You need better improv skills. And glitter. Always glitter."
While most of the trainees spent the days after the rankings either celebrating or sulking—some throwing low-key victory parties with stolen soda cans, others spiraling into overpractice and despair—one boy did neither.
Han Seojun.
Trainee #2.
He sat alone in Studio 4, back pressed against the mirrored wall, legs crossed, arms resting loosely on his knees. The studio lights cast long, sharp shadows across the floor, and the only sound was the soft echo of performance audio looping over and over. He watched the evaluation footage like it held secrets only he could decode. Not blinking. Not reacting. Just absorbing.
Riki stood beside Haru in the hallway, peering through the open door like he'd spotted a ghost.
"Han Seojun," he muttered, voice tight. "Top three every month. Looks like a mannequin. Dances like he's on fire."
Minju phased halfway out of a wall mirror, floating in sideways with a wicked grin. "Ohhh, that guy. He was rumored to get pre-debut offers before the show even aired. Some fans call him the Phantom Prince."
Haru raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"He barely speaks," she said, hovering in slow circles, "but judges love him. Never smiles. Barely breathes. I'm pretty sure he communicates exclusively through eyebrow raises."
"Wonderful," Haru said flatly. "Just what I needed. A brooding dance elf who hates me."
At first, it seemed harmless. Coincidental, even.
But then Haru started to notice the looks.
Not just glances. Calculations.
During water breaks. During hallway passings. During warm-ups and cool-downs and half-second windows where most people didn't pay attention to anything.
But Han Seojun did.
And each time, his gaze lingered a little too long.
Haru wasn't sure whether to feel creeped out or honored.
Then, one evening—after a particularly brutal self-led practice session where his legs felt like wet cement and his shirt clung to him like defeat—he exited the studio only to find Seojun standing beside the vending machine.
Silent. Still.
Waiting.
Haru froze mid-step. "…Hi?"
Seojun didn't look at him right away. Just leaned slightly against the wall, gaze fixed on something invisible.
"You're not what I expected," he said at last, voice low and even.
Haru blinked. "Uh… sorry?"
"You jumped twenty spots."
There was no accusation in his voice. Just observation. Like he was reading off a stat sheet.
"I… guess I had a good week," Haru replied awkwardly.
Seojun tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "People don't jump that far without reason."
"I had a ghost haunting me into cardio."
Minju appeared behind Seojun's shoulder, eyes wide. "Okay, this guy gives me 'I sleep with one eye open and keep a knife under my pillow' vibes."
Seojun didn't react. Didn't laugh. Didn't even blink.
Just stared.
Haru coughed, glancing away. "Guess I got lucky."
There was a pause.
A slow blink.
And then Seojun straightened, brushing past him without another word. But as he moved, he spoke—quiet, steady, as if it were a fact of the universe.
"You won't stay lucky."
Then he was gone.
Minju floated beside Haru in the aftermath, eyebrows raised.
"Well," she said. "That's either your rival… or your villain origin story waiting to happen."
Haru swallowed. "Why do I feel like I've just been warned?"
"Because you have," she whispered.
"Okay!" Minju clapped her hands in the middle of the dorm that night, the sound echoing off the narrow walls like a declaration of war. "Clearly, we need to develop your stage aura."
Haru looked up from where he was lying flat on the lower bunk, one sock half-off, his hair sticking up in every direction. "My what?"
"Your aura!" she repeated, floating dramatically backwards like she was about to write it on an invisible chalkboard. "Right now, it's giving 'lost hamster at a science fair.' I need sparkling threat to society."
"That's… not a real thing."
"It is now," she said with a grin that probably would've gotten her kicked out of heaven. "We're going full anime rival arc, Haru. Think trench coats. Think wind machines. Think mysterious glances over your shoulder."
"I don't even power nap properly," he muttered.
Undeterred, Minju dropped a stack of worn idol magazines onto his chest like sacred scrolls. The glossy pages slid across his hoodie.
"Study these," she said, pointing. "These are your ancestors. See how they pose like they invented cheekbones? That's presence. That's intent. That's stage chemistry strong enough to shatter lightsticks."
"I'm just trying not to fall off the stage," he mumbled, flipping to a centerfold of an idol frozen mid-dance, looking like a deity summoned from fog and eyeliner.
Minju hovered inches from his face, her glow soft but her stare unrelenting. "And that's why I'm here. To guide you. To unlock your inner star. To turn you from soggy ramen into sharp, glistening kimbap of destiny."
"That's… a metaphor, I guess."
She placed a hand over his heart. "Tonight, we ignite your sparkle core."
"Please don't ever say that again."
"Too late. It's canon."
Minju, in her infinite ghostly determination, launched what she dramatically titled:"Project Haru: Be Scary But Sparkly."
The goal?Transform Haru from "confused backup dancer energy" into a silent, magnetic force of stage dominance.The method?
Chaos.
The curriculum included:
Practicing slow turns in front of mirrors for hours, complete with moody lighting and whispered affirmations.
Watching idol interviews on mute, mimicking the mysterious way top idols smirk, nod, or raise a single brow like they held the secrets of the universe.
Walking in slow motion down the hallway while dramatic K-pop instrumentals blasted from Minju's invisible playlist.
Saying vague, ominous things like "You'll see…" before walking out of a room without explanation—then immediately bumping into a wall.
It was terrible.
And absolutely hilarious.
Minju was thriving—beaming, buzzing, glowing brighter than usual like she'd finally found her true ghostly purpose. She kept score on a floating clipboard titled "Haru's Aura Meter," complete with star stickers and doodles of fire.
But the wild part?
Haru… was actually improving.
It started small. A firmer posture. A longer pause before responding to a question. A quiet intensity in his eyes during rehearsals that hadn't been there before.
And then came the expressions.
He stopped smiling apologetically after every mistake.He started owning the silence between moves.He moved with intention—even if it was awkward at first.
One afternoon, Riki leaned over during vocal practice and blinked. "You glared at the coach today."
"I didn't glare," Haru muttered, flipping through his notes. "I had a cramp."
"Still," Riki said, clapping him on the back. "It was terrifying. I'm proud."
Haru gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Why do I feel like I'm being raised by wolves?"
Minju hovered above him, holding up a sparkly drawing of Haru with devil horns and glitter eyes. "Correction. Raised by icons."
One night, long after the last dance track had faded and the lights of the practice rooms had dimmed to a low hum, Haru slipped away to the rooftop.
It was quiet up here.
Above the noise. Above the competition. Above the breathless scramble to be seen, ranked, remembered.
The city stretched out beneath him—glittering, vast, indifferent. Rows of golden windows blinked across high-rises like constellations, tiny lights marking the lives of people who didn't know him and never would. It made everything feel strange. Distant. Like the world was moving and he was just hovering at the edge of it.
Minju floated beside him, cross-legged in the air, arms around her knees.
For once, she didn't speak.
He appreciated that.
"You ever feel like this isn't real?" he asked quietly, not looking at her.
Minju tilted her head, letting her glow fade into a soft shimmer. "Every second."
He exhaled. His breath fogged in the cool night air. "I mean… I was just a regular student. I didn't even want this."
She glanced at him but didn't say anything yet.
"I didn't dream about debuting or being on stage or any of it," Haru continued. "I just… ended up here. And now I'm fighting so hard for something I don't even know I wanted."
Minju was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle. Different.
"Maybe… because it's not just my dream anymore."
He looked at her.
And for the first time, she didn't look mischievous or smug or like she was about to launch into one of her signature pep talks.She looked still.Soft.Almost… lonely.
He reached out, nudged her shoulder—his hand passed through her like it always did. But he did it anyway.
"I'm not doing this for you, you know."
"I know."
"But… I'm not not doing it because of you either."
A faint smile tugged at her lips. Not bright. Not sarcastic.
Just… honest.
"Close enough," she whispered.
The next day, the air in Studio 3 buzzed with tension.
Some trainees were rehearsing full-out. Others paced nervously, waiting for their turn to be scolded or praised. Coaches moved like ghosts—sharp-eyed, quiet, watching every breath, every stumble.
And there, already in the room when Haru arrived, stood Han Seojun.
He wasn't stretching. Wasn't warming up.Just standing by the mirror.Watching.
He didn't speak.
Didn't even blink as Haru crossed the room.
But this time, Haru didn't look down.
He didn't shuffle past, or pretend to be invisible.
He walked—chin up, shoulders squared, eyes forward.
Something had changed.
He didn't know what it was exactly, but it lived somewhere in the way his steps landed. In the way he carried the exhaustion now, like something earned.
As Haru passed Seojun, he caught it—just at the corner of his eye.
A smirk.
Small. Subtle.
But real.
Like Seojun was finally starting to see him—not as a fluke or a mistake, but as a player.
A piece worth watching.