The Calm Before the Reaping
The air was different in March. Crisper. Tense.
Jiho could feel it even in his bones — not the weather, but the way the building hummed. There was always a strange quiet before evaluation week, like the trainees themselves had forgotten how to breathe.
He kept his routine precise.
Stretch at 4:30 a.m.
Vocal scales until 6.
Choreography until 11.
Lunch. Observation. Political calculus.
He watched the others like a chessboard.
And someone had just knocked over a rook.
The Announcement That Sparked War
One email changed everything.
Subject: Mid-Year Showcase Line-Up Revisions
Due to interest from several external producers, this month's showcase will now serve as an informal scouting event. Top performers may be considered for early pre-debut opportunities.
You are now being ranked against one another.
They always said the showcase was just for feedback.
Now it was a battlefield.
And Jiho wasn't the only one who saw it.
The Elite Start to Panic
Suddenly, Hyunwoo started attending extra dance rehearsals.
The ever-confident Ryu Chan asked to partner with Jiho during freestyle duets — something he'd never done before. Three of the prettier trainees began skipping meals, trying to "tighten" their faces and jawlines.
Jiho said nothing.
He just watched them all make the same mistake:
They fought to be seen.
While he planned what to show.
Seungmin Tries to Reach Him
"You've changed," Seungmin said again one night, voice brittle.
This time, Jiho didn't pretend not to understand.
"I'm doing what I have to," he said. "You should, too."
"That's not what I meant."
Jiho didn't look up from where he was annotating lyrics on his notebook.
"I know."
A pause.
"You've been talking to the staff. Backroom deals. Getting insider tips. Some of the others say you're… manipulating."
Jiho finally met his eyes. "Do you believe them?"
"I don't want to."
"But you do."
Seungmin hesitated. "You're not the same kid who came in here two years ago with sparkles in his eyes."
Jiho smiled faintly. "Good. He wouldn't have lasted much longer."
Hyunwoo's Mask Slips
They were paired for a special duet arrangement — Hyunwoo as lead, Jiho as vocal support.
At first, Hyunwoo acted as if he didn't mind. But Jiho saw it: the twitch in his jaw when Jiho hit high notes better than him. The passive-aggressive "corrections." The whispered remarks when trainers weren't listening.
Then one night, after practice, Hyunwoo cornered him near the stairwell.
"You really think this little act of yours is going to get you a debut?"
Jiho blinked. "Act?"
Hyunwoo stepped closer, just enough to make the air heavy. "You're not one of us. You're background. A shadow. No one remembers the shadow."
Jiho stared at him for a long, cold moment.
Then, almost kindly, said: "They will when the shadow swallows the spotlight."
The Trap
Two days before showcase, Jiho arrived to find his choreography track corrupted. The flash drive he'd prepared meticulously now spat static. No backup. No cloud access. Just white noise.
He didn't ask how it happened.
He already knew.
What Hyunwoo hadn't learned yet was this:
Jiho had two versions of every file.
He simply retrieved the second from a hidden folder under a dummy trainee profile and transferred it again.
And when the tech staff found out about the corrupted file, he gave them one name.
"Someone must have logged in under my credentials," Jiho said, eyes wide, voice controlled. "Only a few of us have the password."
The staff nodded solemnly.
Hyunwoo was called in the next morning.
He came back pale.
Jiho said nothing.
Seungmin's Final Choice
Showcase week arrived like a storm.
The rehearsal room buzzed with anxiety.
Jiho was flawless. But it wasn't just skill anymore — he'd learned how to control the room, not just the routine.
Every glance. Every breath. Every pause between lines was deliberate.
And people started noticing.
Seungmin pulled him aside the day before the final performance.
"You're doing it," he said. "You're really doing it."
Jiho tilted his head. "Doing what?"
"Becoming one of them."
Jiho didn't flinch.
"I don't want to lose you," Seungmin whispered. "But I don't know if I recognize you anymore."
Jiho looked at him, long and deep. For one second, something soft returned to his gaze.
"Then remember me like this," he said. "Before it gets worse."
The Performance That Changed Everything
When Jiho took the stage, the lights hit like fire. The audience — staff, scouts, and top-tier producers — leaned forward.
The music started.
Jiho didn't just perform.
He devoured the stage.
He made vulnerability a weapon. Turned raw pain into seduction. He looked straight into the camera, into the judges' eyes, into the bones of the room — and dared them to look away.
When he sang the final line, everything went still.
Then applause.
Real. Reluctant. Reverent.
For the first time since he entered the industry, everyone saw him.
But at What Cost?
Afterward, the other trainees kept their distance.
Some with jealousy. Some with fear.
Seungmin didn't speak to him at all.
Hyunwoo? Demoted. Reassigned to a secondary training group for "attitude issues." No more main stage for him.
Jiho returned to the dorm late that night, soaked in sweat and cold silence.
He opened his notebook.
He wrote one name.
Then crossed it out.
Hyunwoo was done.
But Jiho wasn't finished.
There were more.