The training room smelled like sweat, lemon cleaner, and ambition.
The kind of smell you couldn't scrub out, no matter how many times the staff mopped the floors. It had seeped into the mirrors, into the mats, into the very air itself. Haru inhaled it like oxygen, his nerves electric under the bright white lights overhead.
The room hadn't changed.
The same wall-length mirror stretching across the far side. The same slightly scuffed speaker in the corner. The same black lines of tape on the floor to mark spacing. But everything felt different.
Because this time, Haru wasn't just another trainee standing off to the side.
This time, he was dead center.
Under the brightest light.
This time, he was a debut candidate.
The debut team evaluation had begun.
Across the room, four other trainees filled the space—each moving in their own rhythm, stretching, running lines under their breath, adjusting headbands or fixing the fall of their shirts. The tension was real. Palpable. No one said it out loud, but they all knew: this wasn't just another training session.
This was the beginning of judgment.
Minju hovered just behind the mirror, arms crossed like a film director with high standards and no budget. She was wearing ghost glasses today—unnecessary, obviously—and a translucent headset like some imaginary performance manager.
"I'm just going to say it," she declared, tapping a ghost clipboard with a ghost pen. "This group? Has vibes."
Haru's lips twitched, but he said nothing. He was too busy trying to regulate his breathing.
His team.
He had a team.
Jihoon stood on the far left, stretching his arms above his head like a jungle cat. Haru had already noticed that everything Jihoon did was sharp—from the angles of his choreography to the comments he threw around without blinking. He moved like he knew the camera was always on him. Like he'd been born performing.
Taeyul sat against the wall, sipping from a water bottle and looking like he hadn't slept in a year. His voice, though—deep, golden, and precise—was the kind that stopped people mid-conversation. He hummed as he drank, running scales under his breath.
Hyunsoo, the youngest, bounced nervously from foot to foot. He had tripped over the intro choreography at least three times already that morning and had apologized each time with such intensity it made Haru want to pat his head and reassure him it was okay.
And then there was Jisung—quiet, calculating, always scribbling in a tiny notebook with a pencil worn down to its last breath. He rarely spoke. But when he did, it was either something painfully insightful or deeply weird. Sometimes both.
It was a strange lineup.
But somehow, it worked.
Or it would, once they survived the week.
"Do you think they'll like you?" Minju whispered beside him, nudging his shoulder midair.
"They don't have to," Haru muttered, trying to crack the tension in his jaw. "We just have to look good as a team."
Minju grinned. "Wow. Listen to you. Talking like a future leader already. Are you going to make a dramatic speech before rehearsal too? Something about unity and perseverance?"
"Shut up," he whispered under his breath.
The door opened with a creak loud enough to shatter any lingering illusions of calm.
A new trainer stepped in—a tall woman with bleached hair tied in a high ponytail, black joggers, and a clipboard that already looked angry. She clapped once.
"Positions," she barked. "Let's begin."
Rehearsals were brutal.
Worse than Haru remembered.
No, that wasn't fair—he'd been through worse. But back then, the pressure had been broad. Abstract. He was one of many. Here, it was targeted. Focused. Like the spotlight was constantly burning through him, looking for flaws.
They worked until sweat soaked through their shirts and pooled on the polished floor. Until voices cracked and legs trembled. The choreo wasn't even that hard—it was clean choreography. Minimalistic, sharp, emotional. That made it worse. There was no room to hide behind flashy moves. No counts to fill with extra flourishes. Every step had to be felt.
"Again," the trainer said flatly. "You missed the beat. Again."
"Hyunsoo, you're a second behind."
"Taeyul, watch your blend on the harmonies."
"Jihoon, you're leading too hard—this isn't a solo stage."
Haru fumbled a high note on the second day and flinched like he'd been slapped.
The vocal coach didn't miss it.
"No room for hesitation," she snapped. "You're not trainees. You're candidates now. That means precision. Consistency. Control. And if you want sympathy—there's the door."
Minju hovered near the ceiling, chewing invisible gum like she was at a bad concert. "She's got real drill sergeant energy today. Like… if she had a whistle, you'd all be dead."
By day four, Taeyul's voice cracked halfway through the chorus. Jihoon got so frustrated at Hyunsoo for missing the transition step again that he threw his sweat towel and stalked off for ten minutes. Jisung forgot to eat lunch, again, and nearly keeled over during a run-through. Minju caught him by the sleeve before he tripped.
And Haru?
Haru held steady.
Barely.
He didn't outshine.
But he didn't break.
He gave exactly what he had. Even when it hurt. Even when his lungs burned and his throat begged for rest.
That night, when the rest of the team dragged themselves out of the practice room—one by one, muttering about ice packs and sore calves—Haru stayed behind.
He rewound the track.
Played the section again.
One more time. Just that bridge. The harmonies. The breath support.
His reflection in the mirror was pale, damp, exhausted. But his eyes still held a spark.
Minju floated silently for a while.
Then she landed beside him, folding her legs midair like a tiny spirit monk. "You're scared," she said softly.
He didn't reply.
"You think if you mess up now," she continued, "it'll prove you were just lucky before."
His jaw clenched.
"Minju—"
"But you weren't," she cut in. "You earned this. You sang your way here. You wrote your way here."
He looked down at his shoes. They were fraying again. Same as before.
"What if they regret picking me?"
"They won't," she said firmly. "Because they didn't pick someone perfect. They picked you."
Her voice didn't echo in the room.
But it echoed in him.
He stared at her for a moment. His ghost best friend. His unofficial producer. The only person who never once told him to "tone it down" or "try something safer."
"…Thanks," he whispered.
She grinned. "You better not cry. I already used my emotional speech quota for the week."
The next morning, something shifted.
Not the schedule. Not the choreo.
Haru.
His posture had changed. Shoulders squared. Feet planted. Not aggressive, not cocky. Just ready.
His voice didn't shake during warmups. His eyes didn't dart to the coach for approval after each note. He just… sang. Steady. True.
The others noticed.
Jihoon side-eyed him during a break and muttered, "Okay, okay, confidence arc unlocked. Look at ghost boy go."
"Ghost boy?" Haru repeated, confused.
Jihoon smirked. "Rumor is you talk to yourself when no one's around. Or, like, the ceiling. It's kinda freaky. But cool, I guess."
Minju was howling with laughter in the corner.
"I like it," she whispered through her cackles. "Ghost boy. Has a ring to it. Like a weird indie superhero."
Haru rolled his eyes.
But he smiled.
Because yeah. Maybe he was haunted. By a ghost girl with too many opinions. By a friend who sang his last song through Haru's voice. By the version of himself who didn't believe he'd make it this far.
But he had a team now.
A goal.
A spotlight waiting.
And for the first time in a long time—
He wasn't afraid to stand in it.