I woke before the alarm, Hyunki's words still echoing in my skull.
For a beta, you're holding your own.
The phrase shouldn't have mattered. It did.
I'd returned to Room 205 last night with just enough energy to shower and collapse onto my bunk. Doyun had been awake, hunched over his desk with lyrics scrawled across loose papers, muttering lines under his breath.
We'd stayed up together—him perfecting his rap flow, me drilling the Phantom lyrics until muscle memory took over.
By the time exhaustion finally dragged us under, I'd memorized every word, every pause, every breath.
Today felt different.
Yesterday's minor victory—Hyunki's grudging acknowledgment, Coach Song's satisfied nod, the way our voices finally worked—had carved out space inside me I didn't know existed.
Renewed vigor hummed beneath my ribs as I dressed quickly, applied a fresh patch, and swallowed another pill.
Practice Room 6 waited.
Today we'd integrate props, turning choreography into theater.
