After the third evaluations, the weight of the program finally began to sink its claws into the trainees.
For many of them, this was the first time they'd ever been plunged into an environment this intense—one that didn't let up, didn't coddle, and certainly didn't wait for anyone to catch their breath. Five and a half brutal days of nonstop training and classes, followed immediately by evaluations week. Tight rehearsal schedules. Constant scrutiny. Cameras everywhere. Expectations piling higher by the hour.
It was… a lot.
Those who entered the program with rose-colored dreams—imagining glamour, applause, and overnight stardom—were now facing a very rude awakening. This wasn't the fantasy they had built in their heads. This wasn't just singing and dancing under pretty lights.
This was endurance.
This was sacrifice.
This was pressure, relentless and unforgiving.
At first, many of them had laughed when Luca said that this program would force them to confront whether this life was truly what they wanted. It felt dramatic back then. Almost exaggerated.
Now?
No one was laughing.
Those same trainees were lying awake at night, staring at ceilings, replaying Luca's words over and over in their heads. If this already felt exhausting—if this already felt mentally and physically crushing—and they hadn't even debuted yet… what would happen if they did?
Would they survive the schedules?
The expectations?
The scrutiny of the public?
Would they even have the mental capacity left to keep going?
And that was the most sobering part of it all.
Because this was still the gentle version.
Foca had been treating them galaxies better than most idol trainees—and even many Western artists—were ever treated. They were given rest days. Mental health breaks. Proper instruction. Genuine guidance. Respect.
And yet, it still felt suffocating at times.
That realization alone was enough to crack something inside even the strongest hearts.
Slowly but surely, seeds of doubt began to sprout. Insecurities whispered louder. Questions they had long buried clawed their way to the surface.
Am I strong enough for this?
Do I really want this?
Is my dream worth the cost?
No one was exempt.
Every single trainee was plagued by these thoughts.
The difference was—some already knew how to fight them.
Those who came with a singular goal: to debut.
Those who walked in carrying years of dreams, sacrifices, and stubborn hope.
Those who had already bled, sweated, and cried for this path long before LEAVEN ever existed.
They were hurting too—sometimes even more than the newcomers. But they had something different anchoring them.
Time.
Sacrifice.
Family and friends who believed in them.
Dreams that had already demanded too much to be abandoned now.
They knew the pain. They understood the cost. And because of that, they kept moving forward—even when fear gnawed at their insides.
For them, doubt wasn't a stop sign.
It was just another obstacle to push through.
And in this unforgiving environment, that quiet determination—the kind forged long before cameras and applause—was what truly separated those who would endure…
from those who would quietly fall away.
****
And thus, it began.
At first, some tried to stay strong. They clenched their teeth, squared their shoulders, and convinced themselves—sometimes desperately—that this was truly their dream. That this was the life they wanted. That the exhaustion, the pressure, the doubt gnawing at their ribs were all just part of the process.
But by the middle of training week… people started falling.
Some stopped showing up to classes altogether.
They would wander around the island instead—slowly, deliberately—taking everything in one last time. The sea. The buildings. The places that had once buzzed with ambition and hope. It wasn't rebellion. It wasn't laziness. It was acceptance. A quiet, bittersweet goodbye.
They knew the rules. They knew what skipping training meant.
And when the time came—when they were informed that they would be dismissed for repeated absences—they accepted it wholeheartedly. No drama. No bitterness. They packed their belongings quietly, smiles still on their faces, genuinely grateful for the experience.
They had been treated with care.
They had lived in comfort.
They had learned things they never thought they would.
And unlike so many other programs, they were paid fairly for their time. Not fed the tired lie that "exposure" was compensation enough. That alone made them feel respected.
They left thankful.
Others woke up one morning and simply… knew.
This life wasn't for them.
It had been fun—singing, dancing, performing when it was casual, when it was light. But the past month had stripped the fantasy bare. When stakes were real, when expectations were suffocating, when every mistake felt amplified—this was no longer enjoyable.
This group was mostly made up of internet personalities. People who had joined hoping the show would catapult them into virality. But they quickly realized something uncomfortable: what worked online didn't always translate here.
This wasn't content.
This wasn't a trend.
This was a career.
And it wasn't one they wanted.
The indie artists tried to push through.
God, they really did.
But for some of them, the realization came slowly and painfully—they weren't built for a group. The idea of compromise, of shared identity, of being molded into something collective terrified them. They feared losing their individuality. Their voice. Their artistry.
They didn't want to be shackled.
So, in the end, they left too—choosing solitude over structure.
Then there were the unfortunate ones.
Those whose hearts were willing, but whose bodies simply couldn't keep up.
The sudden intensity. The stress. The pressure. It all piled on too fast, too heavy. Doctors intervened, firmly but kindly, insisting that recovery had to come first. As heartbreaking as it was, they were pulled from the program—not as punishment, but as protection.
They cried the hardest.
Because these were the ones who truly wanted to stay.
But sometimes, survival means knowing when to stop—so you can dream again later with a healthy body.
And then… there were those who left feeling invisible.
They felt unseen. Unacknowledged. Like no matter how hard they tried, no matter how much they gave, validation never came. That self-centered mindset—quiet at first—slowly devoured their potential.
They sabotaged themselves without even realizing it.
Foca and his mental health team did everything they could. Conversations. Support. Reassurance. Guidance.
But in the end, some listened to the cruelest voices of all—the ones inside their own heads.
"See? You worked so hard and still no one sees you."
"You're just not talented enough to be here."
"Look how unfair this is. They only ever notice him. Or them."
"Why stay somewhere you're not appreciated?"
Those thoughts were poison.
And once swallowed, they were almost impossible to fight.
It was a sad reality—but in showbiz, the show must go on.
Only the strong survive.
Only the resilient endure.
Passion alone is no longer enough to carry someone to their dreams.
One needs hard work.
Dedication.
And most of all—discipline.
Because dreams don't just ask to be loved.
They demand to be earned.