(Flashback)
Sixteen Years Old. Seoul. Winter.
Jiho's mother didn't cry when he left.
She stood in the kitchen doorway in her worn slippers, arms folded tight across her chest. "You won't make it," she said flatly, not cruel, just certain. "You're too quiet. You don't have the look. You don't fight."
Jiho didn't reply. He zipped his duffel and turned away before she could see the flush in his cheeks. Cold air cut across his face as he stepped outside.
He didn't look back.
The Dorms
The agency building in Mapo was smaller than the videos made it seem — dull concrete, flickering fluorescent lights, hallways that reeked of sweat and industrial cleaner.
The dorm was worse: six boys in one room, bunk beds stacked high, a single cracked mirror in the corner. Jiho got the top bunk by the heater — not because he wanted it, but because no one else did.
His new "roommates" barely looked at him.
Trainees didn't waste time on each other unless they saw value.
Jiho was small. Plain. A little too skinny. A little too shy.
Easy to ignore.
Day One
Training started at 5 a.m.
Jiho didn't complain, even when the vocal coach snapped at him for his breath support, or when the dance instructor told him he moved like a "delicate twig."
He didn't flinch when the others laughed behind their hands during freestyle.
He just practiced harder. Alone.
Every night after curfew, he tiptoed to the hallway mirrors and danced until his feet blistered. Then he'd sing in the bathroom, humming into a towel to avoid noise complaints.
He told himself: If I don't cry, I can stay.
First Cuts
After two months, the company culled the trainee list.
Jiho wasn't even called to the office. His name wasn't on the list.
He wasn't important enough to be cut.
Just ignored.
Hyunwoo
The golden boy.
He arrived on a Monday — all perfect jawline, charming laugh, and confidence like cologne.
Within a week, everyone wanted to be near him. The staff liked him. The coaches praised him.
He barely noticed Jiho at first.
Until one night, Jiho outperformed him in vocal drills.
It was small. Just one run. But Hyunwoo noticed.
And from then on, things changed.
Little Things
Sheet music went missing. Jiho's shoes ended up soaked in the bathroom. His solo was reassigned "for balance."
He said nothing.
He smiled. Bowed. Stayed late.
He still believed hard work would be enough.
Seungmin
The only trainee who treated Jiho like a person.
They shared leftovers. Walked home together when the bus routes ended. Whispered under the covers after lights-out.
"I think you're better than all of them," Seungmin once said, voice warm in the dark.
Jiho didn't know what to say.
It was the first time anyone had ever said that.
The First Time Jiho Broke
It was pouring when he got the text:
You're cut from the showcase. Not your look. No explanation needed.
Jiho sat in the stairwell alone, drenched from walking back from rehearsal. His knees shook.
Then Seungmin showed up, out of breath, holding a convenience store umbrella.
"You weren't at dinner," he said.
Jiho didn't answer.
Seungmin sat beside him, silent.
Jiho didn't cry.
But a part of him broke that night. Quietly. Permanently.
And Yet…
He didn't leave.
The others assumed he would.
But Jiho stayed.
He began to change.
No more late-night talks. No more waiting for praise. No more hoping someone would notice.
He watched. He listened. He memorized the system. The way people climbed. The lies they told. The faces they wore.
And he learned something:
Pretty faces didn't last long. But quiet ones? If they were careful — if they were smart — they could survive.