Monday arrived in a haze of muted sunlight and thin November air, the kind that hinted at winter's quiet approach.
Lexie stood by the wide studio windows of SM's training center, her travel mug warm in her hand, eyes distant as the morning light filtered through the glass. Back to work, she reminded herself. No countryside air or quiet dinners to distract her now.
The vocal department floor was already buzzing. She passed by familiar staff—audio engineers, assistant directors, interns scribbling notes—and gave polite nods, her mind already running through the schedule.
Trainee evaluations, group harmonics, range assessments, choreography sync sessions for the debut teams—everything compacted into a back-to-back weekday calendar. She didn't mind. The weight of the work kept her grounded.
Inside Studio 5, two vocal trainees were already at it—loudly.
"That's not what she said! You came in flat again, and you're blaming me?"
"I'm not blaming you, I'm saying the timing was off because you rushed the line. Again."
Lexie closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Jisoo and Minho. Two of the top prospects from the current cohort. Both were sixteen, both talented, and both combustible when paired together.
She let their argument taper off naturally. Her silence always had a stronger effect than a shout.
"Let's go again," Lexie said, placing her coffee down and sliding into the main engineer's seat.
Jisoo opened her mouth to argue, but Lexie raised one eyebrow. The girl sighed and nodded instead.
The track started. A soft piano base filtered through the monitors. Their duet was part of an emotional ballad—the kind that required more than just technical precision. It asked for restraint, nuance, and vulnerability. All the things neither teen had fully grasped yet.
As the first verse began, Lexie leaned back and listened. Jisoo had improved—clearer breath control, better phrasing. But Minho...
His voice cracked slightly on a high note. Not from lack of skill, but from pressing too hard, reaching beyond control.
He looked over at Jisoo immediately.
Lexie hit pause.
"Minho," she said, evenly. "Why are you looking at her?"
He flushed. "I thought—"
"That she caused your pitch break? Or that she'd make it better if you stared hard enough?"
A few chuckles escaped from the assistants. Minho looked down.
"Try again," Lexie said. "And this time, don't force it. You're not here to out-sing her. You're here to blend. Understand the emotion, don't dominate it."
They nodded, chastened.
As the second attempt flowed smoother, Lexie leaned on her elbow, observing Minho more carefully. The way he shifted from self-doubt to defensive overcorrection—it was achingly familiar.
She'd seen it before. In a boy with headphones permanently slung around his neck. Who used to pace the edges of their shared studio in Vancouver, muttering lyrics to himself under his breath. Who got flustered when anyone complimented him but still aimed to be perfect.
Mark at fourteen.
That impulsive, brilliant chaos. It was right there in Minho's eyes.
She let the track play through. Then stood.
"Let's pause here. Jisoo, you're improving. Minho, you're not fragile. Stop acting like it. Rehearse separately for ten minutes, then we regroup."
They left quietly.
Lexie stayed.
She replayed the raw take, listening again. Minho had the kind of voice that could ache if he let it. He just didn't know yet how to let it.
There was a knock at the open door.
Junny leaned in, coffee in one hand, relaxed as ever in a soft denim jacket and cap.
"Morning, Lex."
Lexie smirked faintly. "You're here early."
"I had a recording nearby. Thought I'd come see how your prodigies are doing."
She gestured to the screen. "One of them's about to combust."
Junny stepped in, perching on the desk. "Who this time?"
She filled him in. He listened, sipping his coffee.
"You know," he said eventually, "it's kind of funny how worked up you get about these things."
Lexie frowned. "They're sixteen. They think their entire future hinges on this week. It's not funny."
"I mean 'funny' as in... telling."
She crossed her arms. "How so?"
Junny's tone was gentle, but perceptive. "You protect them. All the ones who remind you of someone. Especially the ones who remind you of yourself."
Lexie stilled.
He wasn't wrong.
She thought back to the early days in Canada. Trying to prove she belonged, that her voice wasn't just a byproduct of mimicry. That she could be good. Real. Not just the adopted girl with too much feeling and no place to put it.
She'd fought hard—internally, mostly. And now, she bristled anytime she saw that same insecure fire in others.
"Maybe," she admitted.
Junny offered a kind smile. "You're doing more than coaching. You're giving them something you didn't have."
She glanced down at her coffee.
It was true. Maybe part of her role here wasn't just about musical growth. Maybe it was emotional triage—teaching these kids how to fail safely. How to be seen without needing to be perfect.
"I just want them to last," she said finally. "To not burn out before they find out who they really are."
Junny nodded. "Then you're already giving them something most people never get."
They sat in the quiet hum of the studio a moment longer before the ten-minute break ended.
Lexie stood and exhaled, straightening her posture. "Alright. Time to regroup the chaos."
Junny grinned. "I'll grab you another coffee. You're gonna need it."
She smiled back, warmth returning to her voice. "Make it strong. It's only Monday."
* * *
Outside, the late afternoon sky had begun to dim, soft orange bleeding into cool grey. November in Seoul wasn't harsh yet, but it whispered of colder days ahead. As Lexie watched the trainees file back in, she remembered Mark again—how he'd always recovered from a stumble with a joke, or a nod, or a glance that said I'll get it next time.
She hoped Minho would too.
Even more, she hoped they all would.
Because the industry didn't wait for anyone to catch up. But if she could buy them just a little more time—soft landings, safer falls—it would be enough.
She picked up her notepad, and the session resumed.
The work was just beginning.
~~ 끝 ~~