Jiho didn't tell anyone he was going to audition.
Not Yunjae's parents, who still messaged him with stiff reminders and cold concern. Not the classmates who kept texting him like nothing had happened. Not even himself — not out loud, not in the mirror.
But he knew.
Something in him had shifted.
Not healed. Not fully. But shifted.
It started with silence. Long hours spent lying on Yunjae's bed, staring at the ceiling, scrolling through videos with the sound off. Music videos, dance practices, interviews with trainees, idol documentaries. He watched them all like they were pieces of a world he used to belong to or maybe dreamed of belonging to.
The idol world was brighter than anything Jiho had ever touched. Glossy, polished, full of perfect smiles and carefully practiced charisma. But beneath all that, he saw something else: the pain behind the eyes, the exhaustion in the shoulders, the flicker of something real when the cameras caught them off guard.
He understood that part. Maybe better than anyone.
Eventually, he turned the volume up.
He watched one idol group's training documentary on repeat. They had debuted two years ago under a mid-sized company. It not one of the Big 3, but still successful. Jiho wasn't looking for stardom. Just a place to try.
He wrote the company name down: ONYX Entertainment.
They were holding open auditions in three weeks.
He needed to know more. Not just about the company, but about Yunjae, about everything he'd walked into.
Jiho reached for the phone again and scrolled through Yunjae's emails and messages. A few from classmates. One from a teacher. And then, a thread from the school's counselor:
"Hi Yunjae, just checking in. I hope you're taking the time to rest and recover. Your leave has been approved through the end of the semester, and we can reevaluate from there. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"
Leave? That made sense. After what Yunjae had done, no one would expect him to show up at school the next day, acting like nothing happened. It gave Jiho time to breathe, time to figure out who he was now, and maybe time to try again.
Jiho clicked on the company name and scrolled for hours.
ONYX wasn't a mega-label, but it had reputation. Their idols weren't viral sensations, but they had loyal fans and sold out medium-sized venues. Their vocal coaches were praised online. Their CEO was known to give unknowns a chance if they showed potential.
Jiho wrote the company name down in Yunjae's old notebook.
"ONYX Entertainment."
Underneath, in a smaller scribble:"Don't waste this."
The first time he tried to sing again, he locked the bedroom door.
It felt weird. Not because of the voice, but because of how vulnerable it made him feel. Like he was cracking something open he'd buried too deep. The sound trembled in the air, thin and shaky, and he hated it.
"You're not good enough," he whispered
.
But something inside him — something he hadn't heard in years — whispered back:
"Not yet."
So the next day, he tried again.
He searched "how to warm up your voice" on YouTube. Watched a video made by a smiling vocal coach who reminded him of the nice substitute teacher he once had in middle school. He followed the exercises carefully. Placed a hand on his diaphragm. Focused on breathing.
He didn't sound good. But he sounded alive.
Dancing was worse.
Jiho moved the desk, rolled the carpet to the corner, and stood in the middle of the room with a Bluetooth speaker balanced on the windowsill. The first few routines he tried were disasters. Too fast. Too complicated. Too clean.
His muscles were stiff, his rhythm off, and his brain moved slower than his feet. But he kept going. He found easier choreographies, ones with more emotion than sharp angles. He repeated them slowly, again and again, until they lived in his bones.
His body ached every night.
But it hurt less than doing nothing.
There were moments he almost gave up.
One night, halfway through a dance practice, Jiho stopped mid-move and sank to the floor.
"What are you doing?" he whispered.
He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at the cracked mirror across the room. This wasn't his life. These weren't his dreams anymore. And if they were, he was already too late.
He curled up on the floor, face buried in his arms, and let the doubt wash over him. His brain spat out every excuse. Every insult he'd ever heard. Every reason he shouldn't even bother trying.
But through the static of self-loathing, a thought slipped in:
"If not this… then what?"
No answer came.
So he got back up.
He needed a song. Something he could manage, but not too easy. Something to show he cared and that he wasn't just showing up for fun.
He remembered an older solo artist he used to admire. Han Minho. A singer known for his rich tone and raw delivery.
The song: "Stay."
It wasn't flashy. Just a mid-tempo ballad with subtle emotions and a steady melody. The chorus had space to breathe and not too many high notes, but enough room for vulnerability.
He practiced it every night. Stared at his own mouth as he shaped each word. Listened to his tone. Hated it. Tried again.
By the end of the second week, he could get through the full verse and chorus without shaking.
By the third, he almost liked how he sounded.
The night before the audition, he didn't sleep.
He packed his bag carefully with a bottle of water, two granola bars, a clean change of clothes, a music sheet with lyrics rewritten three times, headphones, and nerves.
He changed into a plain black shirt and joggers — something clean, something comfortable. Then he stood in front of the mirror.
The person looking back wasn't Jiho, not exactly. And not Yunjae, either.
It was someone caught in between. Still bruised, still uncertain but standing.
"Why me?" he whispered.
The question had haunted him for weeks. Why was he here? Why Yunjae? Why this second chance when he didn't ask for it?
He still didn't know the answer.
But he did know this:
He couldn't waste it.
Jiho grabbed his bag, pulled on a hoodie, and stepped out into the cold morning air. Seoul hadn't woken up yet. But he had.
And he was on his way to ONYX.