Chapter Text
The mirrored walls of Practice Room 3 were merciless. They reflected every flaw, every shaky movement, every drop of sweat as if mocking the effort behind it. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, pale glare over the polished floor, making every mistake impossible to ignore.
Anxin adjusted his cap, pulling it low over his eyes so the shadowed brim hid the tension in his gaze. He launched into the choreography for the sixth time that hour, muscles tight, movements precise. Every step landed on beat, every pivot hit the mark. His breath came sharp and measured, counting internally as a metronome marked the time: one-two-three-four. He wasn’t here to have fun. He was here to debut.
The company didn’t care how long you’d been training, or how many sacrifices you’d made, or how much of your teenage years you’d traded for a practice room and the faint scent of sweat and rosin. One misstep, one small falter, and it could all be over. Anxin wasn’t about to let anyone outwork him, not this month, not ever.
The door banged open.
Sangwon strolled in like he owned the space. Damp hair clung to his forehead and neck, droplets catching the light before sliding down. His hoodie hung open over a loose T-shirt, one sleeve pushed up carelessly. He dropped his duffel in the corner with a dull thud and stretched luxuriously, as if the entire room existed just for him.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Anxin’s narrowed. Sangwon’s glinted with amusement.
“You’re early,” Anxin said, voice clipped and controlled, each syllable deliberate.
“And you’re still uptight,” Sangwon replied without missing a beat. “What, did I ruin your precious solo time?”
Anxin didn’t answer, turning back to the mirror instead. Sangwon had a way of getting under his skin that no one else did. It wasn’t just the way trainers’ eyes followed him when he walked in, or how he seemed to pick up new choreography without breaking a sweat. It was that effortless charm that masked hours of work, hours Anxin had to grind through the hard way.
They weren’t friends. Not exactly enemies either. But in a company where only a chosen few trainees out of dozens would debut, rivalries weren’t optional, they were inevitable. Anxin was the golden boy of discipline: first in, last out, pushing until his legs trembled, his shirt soaked through with sweat. Sangwon? He could saunter in halfway through practice and nail every combination on the first try. It infuriated Anxin.
The company seemed to thrive on it. Monthly evaluations were almost the same every time. Anxin versus Sangwon, precision against charisma, discipline against natural talent. The tension between them had become its own kind of performance.
So when the trainers announced that morning, “For this month’s evaluation, you’ll work in pairs. Anxin and Sangwon, you’re together,” it felt like a trap.
Sangwon rolled his shoulders, grinning as though the world had just handed him a gift.
Anxin, however, felt anything but gifted.
He felt trapped.