The waiting room was too quiet for how many people were inside.
Thirty, maybe forty hopefuls sat in rows of plastic folding chairs, spaced too close together but feeling miles apart. Some hunched over phones, others silently humming into their hands, mouthing lyrics to themselves. A few were stretching. Their legs outstretched, wrists rotating, heads slowly rolling from shoulder to shoulder like clockwork toys being wound up for showtime.
The only real sound was the low hum of lights overhead and the occasional squeak of sneakers against the floor.
Jiho sat near the back, motionless, his hands curled around his phone. He wasn't looking at it. Not really.
He was watching them.
The way they carried themselves with confidence and focus. Every person in that room had something he didn'. It wasn't just training, but belief. A girl near the corner repeated a short dance combo in her seat, her arms cutting through the air with practiced precision. Two guys dressed in matching hoodies were going over harmonies, softly tapping rhythm against their knees. A boy who looked barely sixteen paced slowly, mouthing words and twitching with nerves.
Jiho's throat was dry.
They all belonged here.
Did he?
Three weeks ago, he hadn't even danced in front of another person. He'd watched beginner tutorials in secret, replaying the same two steps until his knees ached. He couldn't even make it through a full cover without stumbling or running out of breath.
But still, he was here.
Maybe that meant something.
Or maybe it was just another mistake he was about to make.
He stared at his scuffed sneakers, then up at the wall clock. The hands moved too slow, and yet his chest was already tight with anticipation.
His mind started to spiral. What if they laugh? What if they stop me mid-performance? What if I forget the lyrics? What if I mess up and this whole second chance I've been given just… slips through my fingers?
He could leave now.
No one would stop him. No one here even knew his name. He could walk out the door, blend into the street outside, and vanish. Just like he had so many times before.
But a memory flickered — standing in front of Yunjae's mirror late at night, sweat running down his spine, voice cracking as he whispered along to the chorus of "Stay."
That version of him hadn't been perfect, but he'd believed.
A voice called from the front.
"Yunjae?"
Jiho flinched. It took a beat before he realized they meant him.
He stood quickly, nearly tripping over his own bag. All eyes stayed down. No one looked up. It was almost comforting.
The hallway outside the waiting room was long, sterile, and quiet. He walked beside a staff member who offered him a tight-lipped smile but didn't speak.
The silence made the pounding in his ears feel louder.
He paused at the door before stepping in.
The audition room was nothing like he imagined.
Just four white walls. Three judges behind a folding table. A mic stand in the middle. No music posters, no lights. No mirrors.
Jiho stood on the taped X on the floor, hands shaking at his sides. The judges didn't even look at him at first — one typed notes on a laptop, another sipped from a takeaway cup, the third flipped through papers.
"Name?" the one in the middle finally asked.
"Y-Yunjae," Jiho replied, the sound of it felt strange coming from his own mouth.
"Age?"
"Nineteen," he said even though it felt like a lie.
One judge looked up for the first time. Their gaze wasn't unkind, but it was sharp. Like it was measuring him.
"What will you be performing?"
"'Stay,' by Han Minho."
"Go ahead."
Jiho took one breath. Then another.
The music started.
The first few lines came out shaky, barely above a whisper. His voice cracked slightly on the second phrase, and panic threatened to bloom in his chest.
But he didn't stop.
He thought of the cracked mirror back in the apartment, the long nights of practice, the quiet pain in Yunjae's journal.
This wasn't just about proving himself.
It was about holding onto something.
He moved into the dance slowly. It wasn't perfect. His arms weren't sharp enough. His transitions were messy. But he stayed on beat. Remembered where to move. The rhythm came from muscle memory, not confidence.
By the chorus, something shifted.
His voice wasn't strong, but it was clear.
Soft, with a raw edge. Unpolished, but felt.
He didn't sing loud because he didn't need to.
He sang like someone trying to reach a hand through the dark.
When the music ended, he stood frozen for a second too long. The room felt ten degrees colder than when he entered.
One judge scribbled a few more notes.
"You're not trained," one said flatly. "Your breath control is lacking. And your transitions need work."
Jiho nodded, already bracing for the thank-you-and-goodbye.
"But," another added, "you didn't fall apart. That's rare."
"You have potential," the third said, looking directly at him for the first time. "Real potential. It's rough. But it's there."
Jiho's lips parted, the words stuck somewhere between his chest and throat.
"T-Thank you," he said, bowing low. "Thank you so much."
The judges gave him no more than a nod.
Jiho walked out slower than he came in, legs shaking with every step, heart rattling in his ribcage.
He didn't know if he made it.
But they'd seen him.
Really seen him.
That, in itself, felt like more than he'd ever had before.