"For the final group," Luca announced, voice dropping just enough to make everyone lean forward, "those who will be under 4 of Scones."
A collective inhale rippled through the theater.
"This group," Luca continued, "is possibly made up of the most unique set of trainees we've ever seen."
He began to pace, letting each word marinate.
"A trainee who showed incredible artistry paired with straight-up athleticism—never once falling behind when it came to singing, rapping, or giving his whole damn soul on stage."
People started side-eyeing each other.
They already knew.
"A trainee from a small-town farm," Luca went on, "who came here with nothing but a voice soaked in raw emotion and a dream bigger than the city lights."
The cheers got louder.
"A trainee who blended in like a chameleon for most of the program—until tonight, when he finally said, 'Actually? Watch this,' and shined."
At this point, the audience was vibrating. Anyone who had followed LEAVEN even casually knew exactly who Luca was talking about.
"And lastly," Luca said, pausing dramatically, "a trainee who entered this program by placing dead last—"
He didn't even get to finish.
A loud, sharp scream cut through the air.
Everyone snapped their heads toward Leo.
Leo froze.
Realized everyone was staring.
Instantly turned red.
"Sorry—sorry!" he blurted out, mortified. "Please continue. I just—couldn't help myself."
The theater burst into laughter.
"No, Leo," Luca said warmly, smiling right at him. "Don't apologize. That scream was completely valid."
Leo blinked.
"Because congratulations," Luca continued, voice lifting, "on debuting—along with Nikola, Isaac, and Nox!"
The theater erupted.
And this time, Leo didn't even try to be composed—he screamed again, jumping, clutching his chest like his soul had just left and come back with a contract.
Nikola stood frozen.
The fuck?
The fuck?
The fuck?
He turned toward the audience just in time to see his best friend Mikko laughing his entire ass off, pointing at him like this was the funniest shit he'd ever seen.
Okay. Not a hallucination.
Isaac beamed—eyes watery, smile blinding, teeth so bright they could power the stage lights.
Nox, meanwhile, remained calm. Cool. Collected. The only giveaway being the soft, proud smile tugging at his lips.
Everyone collectively thought, Yeah… that's just Nox.
The four stepped forward together and bowed deeply, then made their way to the artists' section—welcomed immediately with cheers, hugs, and emotional whiplash from those already announced.
As the celebrations slowly settled, a murmur crept through the crowd.
"…What about Bobby?"
Someone said it out loud.
Even Bobby himself looked confused, glancing around like, Did I miss a memo?
"You're probably wondering where Bobby fits into all of this," Foca said gently.
A beat.
"Well—honestly? Bobby made it incredibly hard for us to decide."
The audience laughed.
"Bobby is the kind of artist who could fit into all five groups—and still shine as a soloist."
Foca smiled brighter than usual.
"So we decided… not to limit him."
The room stilled.
"Bobby," Foca continued, "from this moment forward, you will hold the title of OperaCake—named after your favorite dessert."
The LED screen shifted. A new branch sprouted from LEAVEN.
Gold. Elegant. An exquisite slice of Opera Cake rendered like fine jewelry.
"You will operate as a solo artist," Foca said, "but you'll also join the other five groups when needed—featured tracks, sub-units, collaborations. A wild card. A bridge."
The crowd lost its mind.
"And," Foca added casually, "you'll be working with me in the studio from time to time. A lyricist like you shouldn't be left to stagnate."
That was it.
Bobby broke.
Not cute crying.
Not aesthetic crying.
Ugly, shaking, soul-leaving-the-body crying.
He stepped forward, bowed deeply—hands trembling—as the screen glowed behind him.
In the audience, his parents and grandmother stood, hands clasped, tears streaming freely. After all the no's. The ghosting. The rejections. The years of being overlooked.
Their Bobby didn't give up.
And now—he made it.
As Bobby reached the artists' section, he was swallowed by warm hugs, congratulations, and whispered you did its.
The dream wasn't just alive anymore.
It had officially debuted.
****
After the screams, the hugs, the tears, and the champagne-pop level joy…
What remained was the quiet weight of disappointment.
The trainees still standing on stage straightened their backs, jaws set tight, eyes glossy but stubborn. They clapped for their friends. They smiled. They meant it.
But fuck—being happy for someone else didn't magically make the ache disappear.
Foca stepped forward again, his presence grounding the room like a steady heartbeat.
"To those of you who were not called," he said, voice firm but wrapped in warmth, "this is not the end."
Every word landed heavy.
"You still have chances. Real ones."
The LED screen shifted, numbers appearing as he spoke.
"Pandesal Fac7ory is meant to have seven members. Four spots are still open.
Salt x Bread will have six members—one slot remains.
MelonBun House is set for five—two slots are still waiting.
4 of Scones is complete… for now.
And Jeweled Macaroons?" He smiled. "A wild card. It could stay as it is—or grow if someone demands their way in."
The room murmured.
"And remember," Foca continued, eyes sweeping across the trainees, "we are no longer looking only for group members. Just like Bobby, we're also searching for artists who can LEAVEN beyond expectations. Soloists. Wild anomalies. Rule-breakers."
Hope flickered.
"So take this moment," he finished gently, "pick yourselves back up, and keep moving forward."
Tuesday didn't waste a second.
"LISTEN," she snapped, stepping in. "This right here? This ain't a wall—it's a speed bump. Y'all trip, you scrape your knee, you cuss a little, then you get back up and RUN IT AGAIN."
She pointed straight at the trainees.
"Don't you dare fold now. You keep fighting, you keep grinding, and you make it impossible for us to ignore you. Period."
Something shifted.
Spines straightened. Eyes hardened.
Resolve set in.
They would fight for this dream—even if it took everything.
"But," Luca added calmly, "do not get complacent."
The lights dimmed.
"For the latter half of LEAVEN… new blood will be joining the fight."
A beat.
Then—
The massive LED screen split open.
Silhouettes appeared.
The theater lost its damn mind.
Online? Absolute carnage.
@Masatoshi_K: Y'ALL—are they ACTUALLY showing us the new challengers right now?!
→ @mothblade: If this is what I think it is… this is about to be ABSOLUTE CINEMA.
→→ @Hyouka_Icecream: I'M IN THE THEATER RN AND PEOPLE ARE SCREAMING LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW. INCLUDING ME.
The figures stepped forward.
Gasps. Screams. Hands flying to mouths.
A familiar face emerged—stronger, healthier, smiling.
A trainee once forced to withdraw for health reasons.
"Missed me?" Louie grinned.
The stage erupted as his fellow trainees stared at him like they'd just seen a ghost come back hot and alive.
Then—
"The FUCK?!" Nikola yelled.
Because right there—walking out like he owned the damn place—was Mikko.
Nikola's best friend.
Mikko lifted a hand and gave a teasing little wave.
Nikola looked like his soul left his body, circled the building, and came back screaming.
The newcomers kept coming.
Two trainees walked side by side, impossible to ignore—one with deep ebony skin glowing under the lights, rich and luminous, the other ethereal, pale as snowfall, hair and skin like moonlight. Their contrast was unreal. Visuals doing criminal damage.
And then—
A face the world knew.
A former top idol.
Once beloved.
Then destroyed by controversy, conspiracy, funeral wreaths, and protest trucks screaming hate.
Abandoned by his company. Well loved by his global fans. But condemned by his home country "fans". Survived what should've ended him.
The air turned electric.
Even the OG trainees swallowed hard.
These weren't just rookies.
These were threats.
"And with that," Cat announced, voice ringing through the chaos, "let the second part of LEAVEN commence!"
The lights flared.
The stage burned bright.
This wasn't just a competition anymore.
This was war.
And it's about to get real messy.