Chapter Text

Jang Cheol-hyuk pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner and shouldered through the glass doors of SM Entertainment's executive floor. January still bit at his ears, but the building thrummed with its usual chaos—trainees rushing between rooms, managers barking into phones, the thump of a studio somewhere across the hall.

 

"Had some happy holidays?" He didn't look at his assistant as he shrugged off his coat.

 

Kim Min-ji scrambled up from her desk, tablet clutched against her chest. "Yes, sir. Family gathering in Busan." She matched his stride down the corridor. "Your nine o'clock canceled, but—"

 

"Good." Cheol-hyuk pushed into his office. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Seoul's skyline, still glittering with leftover Christmas lights that nobody had bothered to take down. "Sit."

 

Min-ji perched on the edge of the leather chair across from his desk. Her fingers danced across the tablet screen.

 

"Hearts2Hearts." He dropped into his chair and spun to face the window. "Tell me we're ready."

 

"Debut showcase is locked for February twenty fourth." Min-ji swiped through her notes. "Marketing loved the connection. Pre-orders for the debut album have already hit three hundred thousand."

 

"Without a single photo released."

 

"The mystery campaign is working." She pulled up a graph. "Social media engagement has increased four hundred percent since we started dropping hints. The fanbase theories alone generated two million impressions yesterday."

 

Cheol-hyuk tapped his pen against the desk. "And our other problem?"

 

Min-ji's shoulders tightened. "Aespa."

 

"Aespa." He swiveled back to face her. "Four years at the top. Best-selling girl group in company history. And now?"

 

"Now we have Hearts2Hearts."

 

"Exactly." The pen clicked faster. "You can't run two locomotives on the same track, Min-ji. One has to yield."

 

She shifted in her seat. "The girls won't like it."

 

"Which girls?"

 

"Either of them."

 

Cheol-hyuk's expression softened. He walked around the desk, perched on its edge closer to Min-ji. "You know what I appreciate about you?"

 

She blinked at the sudden shift. "Sir?"

 

"You care." He folded his arms, voice dropping to something almost paternal. "Three years working with me, and you still care about these girls like they're your younger sisters."

 

Min-ji's grip on the tablet loosened slightly. "Someone should."

 

"Exactly. Someone should." He nodded slowly. "That's why I need you in this transition. Not some heartless executive who sees numbers instead of faces. You."

 

She straightened in her chair, a flush creeping up her neck.

 

"Tell me," Cheol-hyuk leaned forward, "what do you think happens to Aespa if we keep pushing them at this pace?"

 

"They... continue performing?"

 

"They break." He let the word hang. "I've seen it before. Wonder Girls. f(x). Even SNSD toward the end. We push and push until something snaps—a member leaves, someone collapses on stage, mental health becomes a public crisis." He rubbed his temple. "Is that caring for them?"

 

Min-ji shifted. "No, but—"

 

"Hearts2Hearts isn't replacing Aespa. They're providing room to breathe." He stood, paced to the window with measured steps. "Think of it as... tag team wrestling. One team rests while the other performs. Strategic. Sustainable."

 

"The girls won't see it that way."

 

"Because they're too close to it." He turned back, hands spread. "You know what Karina said to me last month? She said she doesn't remember what food tastes like. Everything is about calories and weight." His voice carried carefully crafted concern. "That's not success, Min-ji."

 

She set down her tablet. "You're worried about them?"

 

"I'm terrified for them." He returned to lean against the desk. "Winter's anxiety medication dosage doubled last quarter. Giselle hasn't seen her parents in eight months. Ningning—" He paused, shook his head. "Ningning smiles for the cameras and cries secretly."

 

"How do you know that?"

 

"Because I pay attention." His eyes met hers directly. "Just like you do. The difference is, I have the power to actually help them."

 

Min-ji uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "By replacing them with younger girls?"

 

"By giving them time to remember why they loved this in the first place." He picked up a framed photo from his desk—Aespa at their debut showcase, eyes bright with possibility. "Look at them here. Now remember what they looked like at yesterday's meeting."

 

She didn't need to look. No time to reminisce about old novelties.

 

"Hearts2Hearts can carry the weight for a while," he continued. "Let Aespa do select appearances. Quality over quantity. Prestige projects only." He set down the photo gently. "They come back refreshed, grateful, ready to reclaim their throne."

 

"And if Hearts2Hearts claims it first?"

 

"Then we have two successful groups instead of one burnt-out liability." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Min-ji, this industry eats its young. You know this. I'm trying to change the menu."

 

She picked up her tablet again, swiping absently. "The board won't frame it that way."

 

"The board speaks money. I speak money to them, humanity to you." He moved closer. "That's why I need you to help me sell this to both groups. You have something I don't."

 

"Which is?"

 

"They trust you." He placed a hand briefly on her shoulder. "When you walk into a practice room, they don't see an executive. They see someone who remembers their birthdays, who brings them tea during recordings, who actually listens when they complain."

 

Min-ji's expression wavered. "You're asking me to lie to them."

 

"I'm asking you to protect them from a truth they're not ready for." He withdrew his hand, walked back to his chair. "Would you rather I send Kim from Finance to explain the transition? Watch him read from a PowerPoint about market optimization while they cry?"

 

"No." The word came quickly.

 

"Then help me do this gently." He sat down, pulled his laptop closer. "We're not abandoning Aespa. We're evolving the company structure to support multiple acts. Natural growth."

 

Min-ji nodded slowly. "Like when we added NCT units while Super Junior was still active."

 

"Exactly." His fingers flew across the keyboard. "That transition worked because we had the right people managing expectations. People like you."

 

She straightened her blazer. "What do you need me to do?"

 

"First, we need to talk about Hearts2Hearts' structure." Cheol-hyuk pulled up a folder on his laptop, spinning it toward her. Eight faces stared back—young, polished, camera-ready. "More specifically, their leader."

 

Min-ji leaned forward. "You've decided?"

 

"I decided six months ago." He tapped the center photo. "Choi Jiwoo."

 

The girl in the image looked younger than the others, her smile perfected but somehow genuine. Min-ji studied the face. "She's..."

 

"Nineteen. Born in 2006." He pulled the laptop back. "Trained with us since she was fourteen."

 

"Young for a leader."

 

"Young for an ordinary leader." Cheol-hyuk opened another file—performance evaluations, training scores, psychological profiles. "Jiwoo is anything but ordinary."

 

Min-ji scanned the data. "Perfect attendance. No disciplinary actions. Top scores in every evaluation."

 

"Keep reading."

 

"Helps other trainees with choreography. Organizes group study sessions for Japanese lessons. Volunteers to clean practice rooms." She looked up. "She's a company dream."

 

"She's more than that." He stood, walked to his bookshelf, fingers trailing across the spines. "You know what's rare in this industry?"

 

"Talent?"

 

"Compliance without resentment." He pulled out a binder—old trainee evaluations. "Most idols follow rules because they have to. Contract obligations, fear of termination, desperation for debut. But Jiwoo?" He set the binder down with a decisive thud. "She believes in rules."

 

Min-ji frowned. "That seems... unusual."

 

"Her father is a military officer. Mother's a teacher. She grew up thinking structure equals love." He returned to his chair. "When other trainees complain about diet restrictions, Jiwoo thanks us for caring about their health. When we extend practice hours, she says it's an opportunity to improve."

 

"She's thorough."

 

"No." He shook his head firmly. "I thought that too, initially. Had her monitored—casual conversations, private moments. She means every word."

 

Min-ji shifted uncomfortably. "You spy on the trainees?"

 

"I protect investments." His tone carried no apology. "And Jiwoo is a significant investment. She genuinely believes that SM knows what's best for her."

 

"That's..."

 

"Powerful." He pulled up video footage—a practice room, dated three months ago. "Watch this."

 

On screen, Jiwoo stood before seven other girls, all in practice clothes, all exhausted. Her voice came through the speakers, clear despite the poor audio quality: "I know you're tired. But the company scheduled these hours for a reason. They see potential in us we can't see yet."

 

One girl—bleached hair, sharp features—rolled her eyes. "They see money."

 

"So?" Jiwoo's response came without hesitation. "If we make them money, we succeed too. Our goals align. Why fight that?"

 

Cheol-hyuk paused the video. "That's your future leader. Someone who turns corporate interest into team motivation."

 

"The others accept her?"

 

"They follow her." He closed the video. "There's a difference. But that's where you come in."

 

Min-ji set down her tablet. "You want me to solidify her position."

 

"I want you to make her believe she earned it." He leaned back. "Jiwoo responds to authority, but she worships earned authority. If you win her over, the group follows."

 

"How do I win over someone who already agrees with everything?"

 

"That's the challenge." He smiled. "Her values are set in stone. Traditional. Hierarchical. She believes older means wiser, experience equals authority."

 

"But I'm only twenty-eight."

 

"Which is why you need to establish yourself as more than age." He stood again, pacing. "Jiwoo respects three things: dedication, sacrifice, and institutional knowledge."

 

"Institutional knowledge?"

 

"She memorized the company’s history as if it were the bible. Knows every group we've debuted, every milestone we've hit." He stopped at the window. "Quiz her sometime. She'll tell you what TVXQ ate before their first Music Bank win."

 

Min-ji made notes. "So I should—"

 

"Become her senior in every way that matters." He turned back. "Share stories about Aespa's early days. Tell her about challenges they overcame. Make her feel like she's inheriting something sacred."

 

"Manipulate her."

 

"Guide her." The correction came sharp. "Jiwoo wants to believe in something bigger than herself. Give her that framework."

 

Min-ji tapped her stylus against the tablet. "What about the other members?"

 

"Secondary concerns." He dismissed them with a wave. "A-na follows trends—she'll follow Jiwoo if it seems advantageous. Juun wants fame—she'll do whatever gets her there. The twins just want to debut."

 

"Twins?"

 

"Ah, right. We haven't announced that." He pulled up two photos—identical faces, different expressions. "Marketing goldmine. But that's for next month's meeting."

 

She studied the photos briefly, then returned to Jiwoo's. "She seems... intense."

 

"She's focused." He moved behind his desk. "Yesterday, she practiced the same eight-count for six hours. One move. Six hours."

 

"Why?"

 

"Her pinky finger was two degrees off the prescribed angle." He sat down. "That's your leader. Someone who sees two degrees as the difference between perfect and failure."

 

"That level of perfectionism could break her."

 

"Or break records." He pulled up sales projections. "I'm betting on the latter."

 

Min-ji stood, paced to the window herself. "You're asking me to use this girl's beliefs against her."

 

"I'm asking you to use them for her." His voice carried deliberate patience. "Jiwoo wants structure, guidance, purpose. You provide that, she provides group stability."

 

"And if she figures out what we're doing?"

 

"She won't." He sounded certain. "Because we're not lying. We're selectively presenting the truth. Aespa does need rest. Hearts2Hearts does deserve an opportunity. The company does need evolution."

 

"But the real reason—"

 

"Is all of the above plus profit." He opened another file. "Look at her predebut content engagement. Three million views on a thirty-second practice video. She hasn't even officially debuted."

 

Min-ji returned to her chair. "The fans love her."

 

"They love her story. Hardworking. Humble. Grateful." He counted on his fingers. "Every parent's dream child. Every company's dream idol."

 

"Then how do I get to her?"

 

Cheol-hyuk smiled—genuine this time. "Now we're speaking the same language." He leaned forward. "Tomorrow, she has vocal practice at seven AM. Be there at six-forty-five."

 

"Why?"

 

"Because she arrives at six-thirty to warm up alone." He pulled up her schedule. "Bring her tea. Green. No sugar. Tell her you noticed she was losing her voice during yesterday's run-through."

 

"Was she?"

 

"No. But she'll panic thinking someone noticed a flaw." He highlighted time slots. "Then mention how Taeyeon used to protect her voice. Share some backstage stories. Make it personal."

 

Min-ji typed quickly. "Build connections through history."

 

"Exactly. Then, casually mention you're concerned about the group dynamics."

 

"Are we?"

 

"We are now." He pulled up training footage. "The blonde—A-na—she's been challenging Jiwoo's calls. Small things. Song interpretation, formation spacing. Plant the seed that A-na might be gunning for leader position."

 

"Create external threats to solidify internal loyalty."

 

"You're learning." He closed the laptop. "Jiwoo will work twice as hard to prove she deserves leadership. The group sees her dedication, naturally falls in line."

 

"And A-na?"

 

"Gets a reality check. She's talented but lazy. Jiwoo's work ethic will shame her into compliance or expose her as uncommitted."

 

Min-ji stood. "This is elaborate."

 

"This is necessary." He stood too. "We're not just debuting a group. We're creating a hierarchy that will sustain them for years."

 

"Through manipulation."

 

"Through management." He walked her toward the door. "Every successful group has a strong leader. We're just ensuring Hearts2Hearts has the right one."

 

She paused at the threshold. "What if Jiwoo cracks under the pressure?"

 

"Then she was never the right choice." He opened the door. "But she won't crack. She'll crystallize. Pressure makes diamonds, Min-ji."

 

"Or it makes dust."

 

"Not with the right materials." He checked his watch. "Set up the timeline presentation for two o'clock. And Min-ji?"

 

"Sir?"

 

"Wear something authoritative tomorrow. First impressions matter, especially to someone like Jiwoo."

 

She nodded, left. Cheol-hyuk closed the door, returned to his desk. On his screen, Jiwoo's profile remained open. Nineteen years old. Perfect scores. Absolute faith in the system.

 

He minimized the window, pulled up Hearts2Hearts' debut budget. Numbers filled the screen—costume costs, studio time, marketing allocation. But his mind stayed on Jiwoo.

 

She was perfect. Too perfect, maybe. But that was tomorrow's problem.

 

Today, she was the solution.

Chapter Text

Min-ji checked her phone. 6:43 AM. The practice room corridor stretched empty in both directions. She shifted the tea from her left hand to her right, the heat seeping through the paper cup.

 

Green tea. No sugar. Concern about voice. Taeyeon story.

 

She'd rehearsed it twelve times on the subway. The words had felt smooth then, natural. Now they are stuck in her throat like chalk.

 

You're overthinking. She's nineteen. A trainee.

 

But Cheol-hyuk's words echoed: Her values are set in stone.

 

Min-ji straightened her blazer—charcoal gray, sharp shoulders, the one that made her look older. More authoritative. She'd even worn her glasses instead of contacts. Every detail had been taken into account.

 

Footsteps.

 

She turned, expecting—

 

"Hello."

 

Jiwoo stood three feet away. No sound had announced her approach. She wore simple practice clothes—black leggings, oversized company shirt—but held herself like someone in designer wear. Spine straight, shoulders back.

 

"Everything okay?"

 

The question hit Min-ji like cold water. Those eyes—dark, steady—seemed to catalog everything. The tea. The blazer. The ‘casualness’ of Min-ji's stance.

 

She knows.

 

Min-ji's pulse hammered. She sees right through—

 

"Yes! Just—" Min-ji forced a laugh. "You startled me. I didn't hear you coming."

 

"Sorry. Dance training makes us quiet." Jiwoo tilted her head slightly. "You're here early."

 

"So are you."

 

"I'm always early." Not a boast. Just a fact. Jiwoo's gaze dropped to the tea. "That for someone?"

 

Min-ji extended the cup. "You, actually."

 

Jiwoo didn't take it immediately. "Me?"

 

"Green tea. Thought you might need it." Min-ji kept her voice light. "Yesterday's run-through was intense. Eight hours straight, right?"

 

"Eight and a half." Jiwoo accepted the cup, fingers wrapping around it carefully. "Thank you. But why—"

 

"Your voice." Min-ji leaned against the wall, aiming for casual concern. "Third run of the bridge section. You pushed through, but I heard the strain."

 

Jiwoo's eyes widened—just a fraction. "You noticed that?"

 

"It's my job to notice." Min-ji pulled out her phone, scrolled to nothing in particular. "Reminded me of Taeyeon, actually. 2012, right before their Japanese showcase."

 

"The one where she—" Jiwoo stopped herself.

 

"Lost her voice completely. Three days before the performance." Min-ji pocketed her phone. "She'd been pushing through a mild strain. Thought she could power through."

 

Jiwoo sipped the tea. Her hand trembled slightly.

 

"But you know what saved her?"

 

"What?"

 

"She admitted she needed help." Min-ji pushed off the wall. "Asked for adjusted rehearsals. Protected her instrument instead of proving her dedication."

 

"But that's—" Jiwoo paused, choosing her words carefully. "Wouldn't that show weakness?"

 

"It showed wisdom." Min-ji watched Jiwoo process this. "The showcase went perfectly. But if she'd kept pushing?" She shrugged. "No showcase at all."

 

Jiwoo stared into the tea. "I didn't think anyone noticed."

 

"Cheol-hyuk notices everything."

 

The name drop worked. Jiwoo's posture somehow straightened further. "He mentioned me?"

 

"He mentions all of Hearts2Hearts." Min-ji started walking toward the practice room. Jiwoo fell into step beside her. "He's particularly interested in group dynamics right now."

 

"Dynamics?"

 

"Chemistry. How you work together." Min-ji glanced sideways. "Any concerns there?"

 

"No." Too quick.

 

Min-ji stopped walking. "Jiwoo."

 

"We're fine. We're all committed to debut."

 

"That's not what I asked."

 

Jiwoo's grip tightened on the cup. "A-Na thinks the chorus choreography should be sharper. More aggressive."

 

"And you disagree?"

 

"I think we should follow what the choreographer set." Each word came measured. "He's the professional."

 

"But A-Na's challenging that?"

 

"She's... expressing opinions."

 

Min-ji started walking again. "How often?"

 

"Daily." Jiwoo matched her pace. "But it's fine. Discussion is healthy."

 

"Is it discussion or undermining?"

 

Jiwoo stopped. "I don't want to speak badly about a teammate."

 

"Even if that teammate is threatening group cohesion?"

 

"She's not—" Jiwoo caught herself. "Is that how it looks?"

 

Min-ji turned to face her fully. "How it looks matters as much as how it is. You know that."

 

"I do." Jiwoo's voice dropped. "But I can handle it."

 

"By yourself?"

 

"Who else would—" Realization crossed Jiwoo's face. "You're offering to help."

 

"I'm offering perspective." Min-ji resumed walking. "Five years of watching groups succeed and fail. You know what separates them?"

 

"Talent? Work ethic?"

 

"Leadership that knows when to ask for support." They reached the practice room door. "Aespa almost disbanded six months before debut."

 

Jiwoo's breath caught. "What?"

 

"Power struggle. Two members wanted creative control." Min-ji grasped the door handle but didn't turn it. "Karina was going to quit."

 

"But she's the leader now."

 

"Because she learned to manage personalities, not just schedules." Min-ji opened the door. "She had help learning that."

 

The practice room sprawled before them—mirrors, scattered water bottles. Jiwoo walked to the center, set down her tea.

 

"A-Na's talented." She spoke to Min-ji's reflection. "More naturally gifted than me."

 

"Natural gift without discipline is just potential."

 

"But the others might follow potential over..." She gestured at herself.

 

"Over what? Dedication? Consistency? Reliability?" Min-ji joined her in the mirror. "You think leadership is about being the best dancer?"

 

"Isn't it?"

 

"It's about making eight individuals move as one." Min-ji adjusted Jiwoo's shoulders—minute corrections. "You do that naturally. A-Na creates eight soloists on the same stage."

 

Jiwoo met her eyes in the mirror. "You've watched our practices."

 

"I watch everything that matters."

 

"And we matter?"

 

"You're about to become SM's next generation." Min-ji stepped back. "That's not just a debut. That's our legacy."

 

Jiwoo turned from the mirror. "Is that why you're really here? Legacy?"

 

The question carried weight. Min-ji felt the moment balance on a knife's edge.

 

"I'm here because in three weeks, you'll stand on that stage. Five thousand people watching live. Millions online." Min-ji picked up the tea, handed it back to Jiwoo. "I want you ready for that. All of you."

 

"But especially me."

 

"Especially the leader." Min-ji let the title hang in the air. "Whoever that is."

 

Jiwoo's fingers tightened on the cup. "It hasn't been decided."

 

"Hasn't been announced." Min-ji headed for the door. "There's a difference."

 

"Wait." Jiwoo's voice carried new urgency. "If you've been watching, if Cheol-hyuk has been watching, then—"

 

"Then we see everything. Including potential that needs guidance." Min-ji paused at the threshold. "Your vocal coach canceled this morning. Flu."

 

"What? But I need—"

 

"I've arranged for Kim Jongkook to fill in. He trained Taeyeon." Min-ji smiled. "Protect your voice today. You'll need it for what's coming."

 

She left before Jiwoo could respond, the door clicking shut behind her.

 

In the hallway, Min-ji exhaled shakily. Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone, typed a message to Cheol-hyuk: Contact made. She's questioning but compliant.

 

His response came immediately: Good. Make her grateful for answers.

 

Min-ji deleted the conversation, pocketed the phone.

 

Through the door's window, she watched Jiwoo warm up—precise, methodical, alone. The girl moved through positions like a robot, each gesture exact.

 

Too perfect, Min-ji thought.

 

But perfect was what they needed.

 

Perfect was what sold.

 

—

 

Jiwoo pressed her ear against the door. Nothing. The twins had gone to the convenience store. A-Na was showering—she could hear water running two rooms over. Juun slept like the dead.

 

She had.. maybe fifteen minutes.

 

Her thumb hovered over her mother's contact. The photo smiled back—her mother in her teaching uniform, rigid smile, hands folded. Jiwoo hit call before she could reconsider.

 

One ring. Two—

 

"It's late."

 

Not hello. Not how are you. Just judgment wrapped around in three syllables.

 

"I know. I'm sorry." Jiwoo sat on her bed, pulled her knees up. "Practice ran long."

 

"Until eleven at night?"

 

"Debut's in three weeks."

 

"And they're not giving you proper rest?" Her mother's tone sharpened. "Should I call the company?"

 

"No!" Jiwoo gripped the phone tighter. "No, please. I chose to stay late."

 

"Why?"

 

"To perfect the routine."

 

"Was it not already perfect?"

 

Jiwoo closed her eyes. "Almost."

 

"Almost." Her mother let the word hang. "What did your father always say about almost?"

 

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

 

"Exactly. So was it perfect or not?"

 

"My transitions were slightly behind the beat." Jiwoo picked at a thread on her sweatpants. "Just milliseconds, but—"

 

"But noticeable."

 

"Only to me."

 

"If you notice, others will too." Papers shuffled on her mother's end. "Are you eating?"

 

"Yes."

 

"How much?"

 

"Enough."

 

"Jiwoo."

 

"1,200 calories today." The lie came smooth. It was 900.

 

"That's not enough for the practice schedule you're describing."

 

"The company nutritionist—"

 

"The company wants you thin. I want you healthy." Her mother's voice carried that teacher tone—the one that made thirty teenagers sit silent. "Are the other girls maintaining their weight?"

 

"Everyone's on the same diet."

 

"That's not what I asked."

 

Jiwoo shifted on the bed. "A-Na cheats sometimes. Orders delivery."

 

"And faces no consequences?"

 

"She... works it off."

 

"So she breaks rules without punishment."

 

"It's not that simple—"

 

"It's exactly that simple." Her mother cut through. "Either rules matter or they don't. Is she talented?"

 

"Very."

 

"More than you?"

 

Jiwoo's chest tightened. "In some ways."

 

"Which ways?"

 

"She's... naturally flexible. Picks up choreography faster."

 

"So she's better."

 

"Different. Not better."

 

"The company will choose better, Jiwoo-yah. They always do."

 

"They're looking at more than just dance." Jiwoo stood, paced to the window. "Min-ji said—"

 

"Who's Min-ji?"

 

"The CEO's assistant. She watched practice today."

 

"Why?"

 

"To evaluate group dynamics."

 

Her mother went quiet. Then: "They're choosing a leader."

 

"Nothing's confirmed."

 

"But they're choosing." Not a question. "It's between you and this A-Na."

 

"I don't know—"

 

"Jiwoo-yah." Sharp. Decisive. "Listen carefully. This is your moment. The one we've prepared for since you were fourteen."

 

"I know."

 

"Do you? Because it sounds like you're letting some naturally talented girl take what you've earned."

 

Jiwoo's free hand clenched. "I'm not letting anyone take anything."

 

"Then why is the CEO's assistant evaluating? Why isn't it already decided?"

 

"Because—" Jiwoo caught her reflection in the dark window. Pale. Exhausted. Ordinary. "Because maybe I'm not the obvious choice."

 

Silence. Long enough that Jiwoo checked the connection.

 

"Do you remember," her mother's voice came softer, more dangerous, "what we sacrificed for this?"

 

Jiwoo's stomach turned. "Yes."

 

"Your father's retirement fund. Your brother's college tuition going to your training fees."

 

"I know—"

 

"Four years of monthly payments. Diet programs. Dance lessons. Vocal coaching. Korean lessons to fix your accent."

 

Each word landed like a stone in Jiwoo's chest. "I remember."

 

"Your brother works two jobs now."

 

"Mom—"

 

"Your father delays his heart medication to save money."

 

"Stop." Jiwoo's voice cracked. "Please."

 

"I'm not saying this to hurt you. I'm saying it so you understand. We invested everything in your success."

 

"What if I'm not good enough?"

 

"Then you become good enough." Her mother's tone brooked no argument. "You work harder. Practice longer. Weigh less. Smile more. Whatever it takes."

 

Jiwoo heard footsteps in the hall. "Someone's coming."

 

"This debut isn't just yours, Jiwoo. It's ours. The family's."

 

"I have to go."

 

"Leader position means better contracts. More endorsements."

 

"Mom—"

 

"More money to pay back what we've spent."

 

The footsteps stopped outside her door. "I'll call tomorrow."

 

"Be perfect, Jiwoo."

 

"I will."

 

"Not almost perfect. Perfect."

 

The line went dead. Jiwoo lowered the phone as her door opened.

 

A-Na leaned in, hair wet from the shower. "Talking to yourself?"

 

"Just running through tomorrow's schedule." Jiwoo set the phone aside, pulled her expression neutral.

 

"At midnight?"

 

"Preparation prevents poor performance."

 

A-Na rolled her eyes. "God, you even sound like a leader." She stepped into the room uninvited, flopped on Juun's empty bed. "That assistant really got in your head, huh?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Please. Everyone saw her pull you aside this morning." A-Na examined her nails. "Special attention from management. Must be nice."

 

"She was checking on all of us."

 

"She was checking on you." A-Na sat up. "What'd she say?"

 

"Nothing important."

 

"Right. That's why you've been acting weird all day."

 

"I haven't—"

 

"You redid the bridge section twenty-three times." A-Na's eyes narrowed. "I counted. You never do more than ten."

 

Jiwoo pulled her covers back, climbed into bed. "I wanted it perfect."

 

"It was perfect at ten. At twenty-three, you were proving something."

 

"Maybe I was."

 

"To who? Me?" A-Na laughed, but it had edges. "I'm not your competition."

 

"I never said you were."

 

"You don't have to." A-Na stood, moved to the door. "But here's some free advice—whatever Min-ji promised you, whatever the company's dangling, remember they can take it away just as fast."

 

"Speaking from experience?"

 

A-Na paused at the threshold. "My sister trained here for six years. Led her group right up until debut." She looked back. "They gave it to someone younger. Someone who followed rules better."

 

"What happened to her?"

 

"She works at a coffee shop in Gangnam." A-Na's smile turned bitter. "Sometimes she serves coffee to idols she used to train with."

 

She left, door clicking shut.

 

Jiwoo lay in the dark, phone heavy in her hand. 

 

Be perfect.

 

They can take it away.

 

She pulled up her alarm. 5:00 AM.

 

She changed it to 4:30.

 

Then 4:00.

 

Perfect required sacrifice.

 

Perfect required suffering.

 

Perfect was the only option when everyone else had already paid for your dream.

Chapter Text

—
The apartment door rattled as someone knocked—three sharp raps that echoed through the living room.

"Mail," Ningning called from the kitchen, already moving toward the door. Her socks slid against the floor.

Karina didn't look up from where she sat cross-legged behind Winter, fingers working through bleached strands. "If it's another fan package, just leave it in the pile."

"It's from the company." Ningning held up the envelope—official SM stationary, their comeback coordinator's handwriting across the front.

That got Giselle's attention. She lowered her phone, sat up straighter on the couch. "Finally. We've been waiting two weeks for those lyrics."

Winter remained still as Karina sectioned her hair, but her eyes tracked Ningning tearing open the envelope. "What's the concept supposed to be again?"

"Girl crush meets corporate badass." Giselle made air quotes. "Whatever that means."

Ningning unfolded the papers, scanned the title. "It's called 'Dirty Work.'"

"Original." Giselle extended her hand. "Let me see."

Karina twisted another section of Winter's hair into a small bun. "Read it out loud."

Ningning passed the papers to Giselle, who immediately frowned. "You've got to be kidding me."

"That bad?" Karina secured the bun with a clip, starting on another section.

"Listen to this." Giselle cleared her throat dramatically. "World domination, I don't gotta say it." She looked up. "We're really starting with world domination? In 2025?"

"Keep going," Winter said, though her voice sounded distant, unfocused.

Giselle continued reading, her expression souring with each line. When she hit the chorus, she actually laughed. "Sharp teeth, bite first, real bad business, that's dirty work. They're just... repeating dirty work over and over."

"How many times?" Karina's hands stilled in Winter's hair.

"I'm counting." Giselle's finger tracked down the page. "Twenty-three times in one song. Twenty-three."

Ningning perched on the arm of the couch, reading over Giselle's shoulder. "The bridge is just 'drop it low' repeated."

"With 'work it out' thrown in for variety." Giselle tossed the papers onto the table. "We have to work with this shit?"

"We've worked with worse." Karina resumed styling, though her movements were sharper now.

"Have we though?" Giselle picked up the papers again. "I'm not an it girl, more like a hit girl. Mafia ties going back to the old world." She looked at each of them. "Mafia ties? You kidding?"

Winter finally stirred, tilting her head despite Karina's protest. "Let me see."

Giselle handed her the lyrics. Winter read silently, her expression blank.

"Well?" Ningning leaned forward.

"It's... aggressive."

"It's garbage." Giselle stood, paced to the window. "Four years of building our sound, and they give us this?"

"Maybe it'll sound better with the track," Ningning offered, though her voice lacked conviction.

"The track won't fix 'call me the reaper, I'm knock knock knocking.'" Giselle turned back. "Who wrote this? A fourteen-year-old who just discovered The Godfather?"

Karina finished the last section of Winter's hair—six small buns creating a crown effect. "The songwriter's probably someone Cheol-hyuk's golf buddy recommended."

"Or his nephew." Giselle returned to the couch. "Remember that ballad they tried to give us last year? Turns out the CEO's cousin wrote it."

"We refused that one," Winter reminded them, still staring at the lyrics.

"After threatening to leak it ourselves." Karina stood, examined her work. "Your hair looks cute."

Winter didn't respond, kept reading.

"Earth to Winter." Ningning waved a hand in front of her face.

"The Korean parts are even worse." Winter set down the papers. "얄팍한 Rule 따윈 한 겹의 Glass. They're mixing metaphors that don't even connect."

"At least your parts will be in Korean." Giselle grabbed the papers again. "Look at my section. Pure English cringe."

"You wanted more English lines," Karina reminded her.

"Good English lines. Not whatever this is." She read in an exaggerated accent: "Real bad business, that's dirty work."

Ningning giggled despite herself. "You sound like a cartoon villain."

"I'll sound like an idiot." Giselle slumped back. "Twitter’s gonna have a field day with us."

"Since when do you read comments?" Karina moved to the kitchen, pulled out water bottles.

"Since they started being right." Giselle accepted a bottle. "Remember 'Spicy'? At least that had clever wordplay. This is just... loud."

"Loud sells," Winter said quietly.

They all turned to look at her.

"That's what they told us, right?" Winter touched one of the buns Karina had made. "Volume over substance. Attitude over artistry."

"When did they say that?" Ningning asked.

"Last meeting. When we asked about creative input." Winter's voice remained flat. "Cheol-hyuk said the market wants impact, not poetry."

"Impact." Giselle held up the lyrics. "This isn't impactful. It's assault."

Karina sat back down, pulled her knees to her chest. "We could request changes."

"Like they'd listen." Giselle's laugh was bitter. "When's the last time they took our suggestions?"

"The second verse of 'Drama,'" Ningning offered.

"One line. They changed one line." Giselle stood again, too restless to sit. "And only because it literally didn't make grammatical sense."

"So what do we do?" Winter finally looked at them directly. "Refuse?"

"And get shelved?" Karina shook her head. "You know what happened to Red Velvet when they pushed back too hard."

Silence settled over them.

"Maybe we can make it work," Ningning said finally. "Good performance can elevate bad lyrics."

"We're not miracle workers." Giselle picked up the papers one more time. "Dirty work. They're literally calling our comeback dirty work."

"Maybe it's meant to be ironic," Karina suggested without conviction.

"Or maybe," Winter stood, moving towards her room, "they just don't care what we think anymore."

Karina stood quickly, the water bottle forgotten. "What do you mean, they don't care what we think?"

Winter paused in her doorway, didn't turn around. "You know exactly what I mean."

"No, I don't." Karina's voice sharpened. "Expand on that idea."

Winter finally turned, leaned against the doorframe. "Hearts2Hearts."

The name dropped into the room like ice into warm water.

Ningning straightened. "The trainees?"

"They debut next month." Winter's fingers traced the doorframe's edge. "Eight members. Dreamy concept."

"So?" Karina crossed her arms. "We debuted when ITZY was huge. Groups can coexist."

"Can they?" Winter's laugh was hollow. "Ask Red Velvet."

Giselle set down her phone completely now. "That's different."

"Is it?" Winter moved back into the living room, sat on the coffee table facing them. "2020. We debut. Suddenly Red Velvet's comeback gets pushed three months. Then six. Then indefinitely."

"They were already established—"

"They were twenty-six. Twenty-seven." Winter picked up the lyrics, crumpled them slightly. "Ancient in idol years."

Karina shook her head. "That makes no sense. We literally just won Song of the Year at MAMA. Album of the Year at MMA."

"In 2024." Giselle pulled her knees up. "2025 is the turn of a page. They don't care about what came before that."

"That's dramatic, even for you." But Karina's voice wavered.

"Think about it." Giselle started counting on her fingers. "Our practice room got moved. Budget meetings keep getting postponed. Now we get these trash lyrics with a take-it-or-leave-it deadline."

"You're paranoid."

"I'm pattern-matching." Giselle grabbed her phone, pulled up their schedule. "Look at this. February—one variety show. March—two fan signs. April—nothing confirmed."

"They said they're still planning—"

"They said that to Red Velvet too." Winter smoothed out the lyrics she'd crumpled. "Right until they didn't."

Ningning moved from the couch arm to sit properly. "But we're not Red Velvet. We're bigger. More profitable."

"Were." Winter's correction came soft but firm. "Past tense."

"Our last comeback sold one million copies," Karina protested.

"After three weeks." Giselle pulled up the data. "Hearts2Hearts' pre-debut content already has five million views. In two days."

"Views aren't sales."

"Tell that to investors." Giselle showed them her screen. "Stock forums are calling them the next evolution of K-pop. Gen Five point five, whatever that means."

Karina snatched the phone, scrolled through comments. Her face paled. "These are just rumors."

"Dispatch posted about them yesterday." Ningning pulled up the article. "Exclusive practice footage. Professional quality. That doesn't leak accidentally."

"The company's building buzz." Winter stood again, moved to the window. "Same playbook they used for us."

"While Red Velvet was in Japan, conveniently out of the spotlight." Giselle's voice turned bitter. "We were the shiny new toys. Now Hearts2Hearts gets their turn."

Karina threw the phone down. "We're not even thirty. We're twenty-four, twenty-five—"

"And they're eighteen, nineteen." Winter pressed her forehead against the glass. "Younger. Hungrier. Cheaper."

"Don't forget more obedient." Giselle picked up the lyrics again. "They'll probably record 'Dirty Work' with grateful tears and call it an honor."

"You don't know that."

"I know how desperate trainees are." Giselle's expression darkened. "I was one, remember? You'd sing the phone book if they promised you'd debut."

Ningning pulled her legs up, wrapped her arms around them. "So what happens to us?"

Silence stretched.

"Japanese activities." Winter didn't move from the window. "Endorsement deals. Solo projects if we're lucky."

"The retirement track." Giselle's laugh was sharp. "Smile for cameras, release a single every eighteen months, fade into variety show appearances."

"Stop." Karina's hands clenched. "We don't know any of this for sure."

"We know they gave us 'Dirty Work.'" Winter finally turned around. "That's not a comeback song. That's a placeholder. Something to keep fans busy while they pivot resources."

"To Hearts2Hearts."

"To the future." Winter returned to the coffee table, picked up the crumpled lyrics. "We're the past now."

"After four years?" Karina's voice cracked slightly. "Four years and we're disposable?"

"Welcome to the industry." Giselle stood, stretched. "Where you're only as valuable as your next comeback."

"And our next comeback is apparently about being knock-knock-knocking reapers." Ningning tried for humor, fell flat.

Karina grabbed the lyrics, read through them again. "Maybe we can rework them. Make them better."

"With what leverage?" Winter asked. "We push too hard, they delay the comeback. Delay too long, fans move on."

"To Hearts2Hearts." Giselle moved toward the kitchen. "Who'll debut with some perfectly crafted, age-appropriate anthem about dreams and friendship."

"While we're out here claiming mafia ties." Ningning actually laughed. "God, it's so bad."

"It's a strategy." Winter sat back down. "Give us something unmarketable. When it underperforms, they have justification."

"For what?" Karina's question came out strangled.

"For exactly what they did to Red Velvet." Winter met each of their eyes. "The slow fade. The grateful goodbye. The 'pursuing individual activities' announcement."

"You're overthinking."

"I'm pattern-matching too." Winter pulled out her phone. "Want to know something interesting? Our choreographer just got reassigned."

"What?" All three spoke in unison.

"Mina-unnie told me yesterday. He's working with a new group now." Winter's smile held no warmth. "Guess which one."

The apartment fell silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.

"They wouldn't." Karina's protest sounded weak even to herself.

"They would." Giselle returned with beer, started distributing cans. "They did. They are."

"So we just accept it?" Ningning opened her can. "Roll over and sing 'Dirty Work' while they replace us?"

"Or we fight." Karina stood, paced. "Demand better material. Better treatment."

"And get labeled difficult." Winter sipped her beer. "You know what that leads to."

"So we're trapped." Ningning's voice was small.

"We're transitioning." Giselle raised her can in mock toast. "To the glorious senior group phase. Welcome to irrelevance, ladies."

Chapter Text

 

The alarm hadn't gone off yet. Jiwoo stared at her phone—3:59 AM—and killed the sound before it could ring. No point waking the others.

 

She swung her legs out and stood up. The room tilted. She grabbed the bedframe, waited for the black spots to clear, then moved towards her bag. Four hours of sleep. Maybe five if she counted that half-conscious doze on the floor yesterday.

 

Her roommate stirred. "Jiwoo?"

 

"Go back to sleep."

 

"What time is—"

 

"Early. Sleep."

 

The mirror showed what she expected: hollow eyes, skin gone gray under the light. She splashed water on her face until her hands went numb, then reached for her toothbrush. It slipped. She watched it bounce off the edge and clatter to the floor.

 

"Shit."

 

She picked it up, rinsed it, and started over. Her reflection brushed its teeth while her mind ran through the day's schedule. Vocal practice at five-thirty. Dance evaluation at seven. Recording session at nine if she earned it.

 

Earned it. A-Na's words from yesterday. "They'll drop you the second someone hungrier comes along."

 

Jiwoo spat into the sink harder than necessary.

 

In the kitchen, she grabbed a protein bar from her stash—the one marked with her name in three different places—and stuffed it in her bag for later. Her stomach cramped at the thought of food. She'd eat after practice. Maybe.

 

The hallway stretched longer than usual. She counted her steps. Forty-three to the elevator. Six floors down. Another hundred and twelve to the street.

 

Cold air hit her like a slap. February in Seoul at four-fifteen AM. She pulled her jacket tighter and checked the bus schedule.

 

"No."

 

The LED display at the stop confirmed it: NEXT BUS - 5:02 AM.

 

She could wait. Stand here for forty-five minutes while her muscles stiffened and her body temperature dropped and every other trainee who actually slept got that much closer to taking her spot.

 

Or.

 

She pulled up the map. SM Entertainment: 3.2 kilometers. Walking time in normal conditions: thirty-five minutes. Walking time when you had something to prove: twenty-five. Maybe twenty.

 

Her breath clouded in the air as she started walking. The first few blocks, her legs protested. Her right knee—the one she'd tweaked during yesterday's run-through—sent up warning signals with each step. She ignored it.

 

A store clerk watched her through the window, probably wondering what a teenager was doing out at this hour. She kept her head down, picked up the pace.

 

Her phone buzzed. Mom.

 

She almost ignored it, then remembered the time difference. She would be getting ready for her night shift at the restaurant.

 

"You're awake," her mother said without preamble.

 

"Walking to practice."

 

"Good. Did you eat?"

 

"Yes." The protein bar sat in her bag.

 

"The leader position. Have they said anything?"

 

Jiwoo's jaw tightened. "Not yet."

 

"You need to push harder. Your father took another loan for your training fees."

 

"I know."

 

"Forty million won, Jiwoo. Do you understand what that means?"

 

She stepped off the curb wrong, caught herself before her knee buckled. "I understand."

 

"I don't think you do. Your brother needs—"

 

"I said I understand." The words came out sharper than intended. She softened her tone. "I'll get it. The position. I'll get it."

 

Silence. Then: "You better."

 

The line went dead.

 

Jiwoo shoved the phone in her pocket and walked faster. The cold numbed her fingers through her gloves. She should have grabbed the winter ones, but they were buried somewhere in her locker at SM, and she hadn't had time to—

 

No. No excuses. Winners didn't make excuses.

 

A taxi rolled past, slowed. The driver looked at her questioningly. For a second, she calculated: eight thousand won to get there warm and fast. Eight thousand won she didn't have. Eight thousand won that could buy groceries for three days if she stretched it.

 

She shook her head. The taxi moved on.

 

Halfway there, her body started cooperating. The knee went quiet, probably frozen into submission. Her breathing found a rhythm. She checked her phone: 4:31 AM. On pace.

 

Another trainee passed her on a bicycle—one of the boys from the hip-hop team. He glanced at her, did a double-take.

 

"Jiwoo? Why are you—never mind." He pedaled faster, probably rushing to claim a room before she could.

 

She ran the last kilometer.

 

The SM building loomed against the dark sky, a few windows already lit. Other trainees were here, of course. They always were. But she'd beaten the bus, and that counted for something.

 

Her keycard beeped green. The security guard nodded, used to her by now.

 

"Early today," he said.

 

"Every day."

 

He smiled, but it looked like pity. She took the stairs two at a time to prove him wrong.

 

The practice room she wanted—the one with the good speakers—was empty. She dropped her bag, peeled off her jacket, and caught her reflection in the wall.

 

Hollow eyes. Gray skin. Knee probably swelling under her pants.

 

She hit play on the sound system and started stretching.

 

Perfect wasn't going to achieve itself.

 

—

 

The door slammed open at 5:15.

 

"Look who's trying to impress the ghosts," A-Na said, strutting in with Juun trailing behind. "The building's practically empty and you're already sweating."

 

Jiwoo didn't break her plank position. "Some of us need practice."

 

"Some of us are desperate." A-Na dropped onto the floor, not stretching, just sitting. "You realize we're all debuting anyway, right? Me, you, Juun—"

 

"Actually." Juun picked at her sleeve. "About that."

 

A-Na's smirk faltered. "What?"

 

"The twins are gone."

 

Jiwoo's arms shook. She held the plank another five seconds out of spite, then lowered herself down. "Gone?"

 

"Contracts terminated yesterday." Juun wouldn't meet their eyes. "Their parents pulled them."

 

"You knew?" Jiwoo turned to A-Na.

 

A-Na shrugged, but her jaw tightened. "Heard rumors."

 

"That's not all." Juun pulled out her phone, scrolled. "New trainees joined this morning. Five of them."

 

Jiwoo's stomach dropped. "Five?"

 

"Nyoman Ayu Carmenita—"

 

"Carmen." A-Na sat straighter. "I've heard of her. She was at JYP."

 

"Yu Ha-ram, Kim Da-hyun, Jeong Lee-an, and Kim Na-yeon." Juun read the names like a death sentence.

 

Jiwoo did the math. Eight trainees before. Minus the twins made six. Plus five new ones made eleven. For a seven-member group.

 

"Four of us won't debut." The words came out flat.

 

"Three," A-Na corrected. "I'm safe."

 

"Based on what?" Jiwoo stood, started pacing.

 

"Based on reality. I've been here the longest. I have the visuals. My vocals are—"

 

"Replaceable." Jiwoo stopped mid-stride. "That's what you told me yesterday. We're all replaceable."

 

A-Na's eyes narrowed. "I was talking about you."

 

"Were you?"

 

Juun stepped between them. "Can we not? It's too early for this."

 

"It's never too early for the truth." A-Na stood, brushed off her pants. "You want to know what I think? They brought in Carmen because she's got international appeal. Southeast Asian market."

 

"And the others?" Jiwoo asked.

 

"Who knows? Maybe one's rich. Maybe one's connected. Maybe they're all just younger and hungrier than us."

 

"Nobody's hungrier than—" Jiwoo bit off the rest.

 

"Than you?" A-Na laughed. "Please. Hunger's cheap. Everyone here is starving."

 

The door opened again. Kim Min-ji entered, tablet in hand.

 

"Good morning, girls." Her smile was too bright for 5:20 AM. "Glad to see you're all here early."

 

They bowed. Jiwoo's was the deepest.

 

"I need you three in Conference Room B at six-thirty. We're doing group dynamics testing with the new trainees."

 

"All eleven of us?" Juun asked.

 

Min-ji's smile tightened. "All eleven. Don't be late."

 

She left.

 

"Group dynamics." A-Na kicked the wall. "Code for elimination."

 

"You don't know that," Juun said.

 

"I know patterns. First they bring in competition. Then they test chemistry. Then they cut whoever doesn't fit their vision."

 

Jiwoo resumed stretching, her movements sharp. "Then we fit their vision."

 

"We?" A-Na scoffed. "There is no 'we' anymore. It's every trainee for herself."

 

"It always was," Jiwoo muttered.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing."

 

A-Na grabbed her water bottle. "You know what your problem is? You think suffering equals success. Like if you just hurt enough, practice enough, sacrifice enough, they'll have to debut you."

 

"Better than thinking I'm entitled to it."

 

A-Na stepped closer. "What did you say?"

 

"You heard me."

 

Juun grabbed A-Na's arm. "Don't. She's not worth it."

 

"I'm not worth it?" Jiwoo laughed, bitter. "I'm the only one here actually working."

 

"You're the only one here deluding herself." A-Na shook off Juun's grip. "You think Min-ji cares about you? You think management sees your dedication? They see a desperate girl they can manipulate."

 

The words hit like ice water.

 

"At least I'm not coasting on two years of seniority."

 

"At least I'm not killing myself for a company that's already planning my replacement."

 

"Stop." Juun's voice cracked. "Both of you, just stop. We find out about the new girls in an hour. Can we just—can we not tear each other apart before then?"

 

Silence stretched between them.

 

A-Na picked up her bag. "I'm getting coffee. Real coffee, not that convenience store shit." She paused at the door. "You coming, Juun?"

 

Juun looked between them, torn. "Jiwoo?"

 

"I need to practice."

 

"You need to eat," Juun said softly.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"When's the last time you—"

 

"I said I'm fine."

 

Juun sighed. "The offer stands."

 

They left. Jiwoo faced the mirror alone.

 

Eleven trainees. Seven spots. Four cuts.

 

She pulled up the new trainees' profiles on her phone. Carmen—eighteen, former JYP trainee, specialized in contemporary dance. Yu Ha-ram—sixteen, vocal focus. The others were younger. Fifteen. Fourteen.

 

Younger and hungrier.

 

Her reflection stared back, exhausted and desperate.

 

A-Na was right about one thing. Suffering didn't equal success.

 

But it was all she had left to offer.

 

She hit play on the music and started the routine from the top.

Chapter Text

—

Karina slumped against the mixing board, her forehead nearly touching the cold metal. "We're really doing this."

"Doing what?" Winter asked, though her tone suggested she already knew. She spun slowly in her chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles.

"Recording this." Giselle waved the lyric sheet like a white flag. "This... whatever this is."

Their producer, Jun-ho, adjusted his glasses and pulled up another file on his laptop. "Look, I'll level with you. The lyrics aren't that different from what you've done before." He clicked open the Armageddon file. "See? Both songs have that whole 'bad girl' concept, the aggressive posturing—"

"Armageddon meant something," Ningning interrupted, surprising everyone. "This has... what? 'Work work work work work'? We sound like construction equipment."

Winter snorted. "Construction equipment. 'I'm not an it girl, more like a hit girl'? What does that even mean?"

"It means someone in A&R discovered a rhyming dictionary," Giselle muttered.

Jun-ho rubbed his temples. "At least Armageddon had an attitude. It had conviction. This feels like..." He paused, searching for diplomatic words.

"Like they fed our old lyrics into ChatGPT and asked for a cheaper version?" Karina lifted her head, her usually perfect hair mussed from pressing against the console.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were thinking it."

Jun-ho's silence was answer enough.

Winter stood abruptly, pacing to the booth. "We're really supposed to sell this? To perform it with straight faces?"

"You've performed worse," Jun-ho said, then immediately winced. "Sorry. That came out wrong."

"No, you're right." Giselle tossed the lyrics onto the table. "Remember 'Next Level'? We made that work. Somehow. No pun intended."

"Next Level was experimental. This is just ass." Karina picked up the sheet, scanning it again. "'Real bad business, that's Dirty Work.' They couldn't even bother with proper grammar."

"Maybe that's the point," Ningning said quietly. "Make it bad enough that when we underperform—"

"Don't." Winter's voice cut sharp. "Don't even finish that thought."

But they all knew she was right. The elephant in the room trumpeted louder with each passing second.

Jun-ho cleared his throat. "Should we at least try a run-through? Get a feel for it?"

"A feel for what?" Giselle laughed, bitter. "Our retirement soundtrack?"

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" Karina stood, her chair rolling backward. "Come on, Jun-ho. You've been in this industry longer than any of us. You know what this means."

He couldn't meet their eyes. Instead, he focused on his laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Let's just... let's try to make it work. That's what we do, right? We're professionals."

"Professionals." Winter repeated the word like it tasted sour. "Right."

Ningning moved to the mic first, surprising them again. "He's right. We are professionals. So let's be professional about this."

"Since when are you an optimist?" Giselle asked.

"Since I realized crying won't change anything." Ningning adjusted the mic stand. "Besides, if we're going down, we might as well go down properly. Future generations should know we tried."

Karina laughed despite herself. "That's the most depressing pep talk I've ever heard."

"Would you prefer a lie?"

"Maybe?"

Jun-ho pulled up the backing track. The opening beats—generic, forgettable, mediocre. "From the top?"

Winter joined Ningning at the mic. "Why not? Not like we have anywhere else to be." She glanced at the others. "We love a reduced schedule."

"Don't remind me," Giselle groaned, but she moved into position anyway.

Karina took her place, squaring her shoulders. Leader to the end, even if the end was approaching faster than any of them wanted to admit. "PD-nim, can we at least try to add some bass to this? If we're doing construction equipment, let's at least sound like expensive construction equipment."

He cracked a small smile—the first genuine one. "I'll see what I can do."

"And maybe speed up the tempo?" Winter suggested. "If we have to repeat 'work' twenty times, let's at least get through it quickly."

"Twenty-three times, actually," Ningning corrected. "I counted."

"Of course you did."

Jun-ho made adjustments, fingers flying across the board. "Better?"

The modified track played. It wasn't good, but it was less terrible.

"It'll do," Karina decided. "Let's get this over with."

They positioned themselves, four shadows of the superstars they'd been just months ago. The red recording light blinked on.

"Aespa, 'Dirty Work,' take one," Jun-ho announced to the control room.

The music started. They opened their mouths to sing words that meant nothing, for an audience that was already looking past them to whatever came next.

Professional to the end.

—

Through the booth window, Karina's silhouette moved with the beat, her lips forming words none of them could hear through the soundproofing. She actually looked like she meant it.

"How does she do that?" Giselle slumped deeper into the couch, its springs protesting.

"Do what?" Ningning asked, though her eyes tracked Karina's every movement.

"Pretend. Like any of this matters."

Winter pulled her knees to her chest, perched on the armrest. "Maybe she's not pretending."

"Please." Giselle rolled her eyes. "She's not stupid. She sees what's happening."

"Seeing and accepting are different things." Ningning picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Besides, we don't actually know what's happening yet."

Giselle sat up so fast the couch squeaked. "Are you serious right now?"

"What?"

"We don't know? They gave us a song that sounds like a rejected B-side from a nugu group. Our choreographer got reassigned. Our schedule's been cut. What else do you need? A formal termination notice?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?"

Ningning met her stare evenly. "I meant we're thinking ten steps ahead of a problem that's only three steps in. Yes, the signs are bad. But we're assuming we know the ending."

"Because we've seen this movie before." Giselle's voice cracked slightly. "Red Velvet. f(x). Even SNSD. This is the SM special. The slow fade."

"Red Velvet is still active," Ningning pointed out.

"One comeback a year isn't active. It's life support."

Winter shifted between them. "Stop."

"Stop what?" Giselle turned on her. "Stop being realistic? Stop preparing myself for—"

"Stop doing their work for them." Winter's voice stayed low, but something in it made both of them pause. "This is exactly what they want."

"What are you talking about?"

Winter uncurled slightly, her feet touching the floor. "Think about it. Why give us a bad song? Why make it so obvious they're shifting resources?"

"Because they don't care anymore," Giselle said flatly.

"Or because they want us to think that." Winter looked between them. "If we're too busy fighting each other, too busy being bitter, we won't fight them. We'll just... fade. Like you said."

Ningning straightened. "You think this is intentional? The whole thing?"

"I think a united Aespa is harder to shelve than a divided one."

Through the glass, Karina hit a high note, her face concentrated, professional. Jun-ho nodded along, adjusting levels.

"So what, we're supposed to just smile and take it?" Giselle's hands clenched into fists. "Pretend everything's fine?"

"No." Winter shook her head. "But we're not supposed to turn on each other either."

"I'm not turning on anyone. I'm being honest."

"Your honesty sounds a lot like giving up."

"And Karina's optimism sounds a lot like denial."

"Maybe," Ningning interjected, "it's neither. Maybe she just knows something we don't."

Both Winter and Giselle turned to stare at her.

"Like what?" Giselle demanded.

"I don't know. But she's been taking a lot of meetings lately. Alone."

Winter frowned. "What kind of meetings?"

"The kind she doesn't talk about after."

A heavy silence settled over them. Through the window, Karina finished another take, pulling off her headphones. She gave Jun-ho a thumbs up, her smile bright enough to sell toothpaste.

"You think she's planning something," Winter said slowly.

"I think our leader doesn't give up easily." Ningning stood, stretching. "And I think writing us off while she's still fighting is premature."

"Fighting what? The inevitable?" Giselle's bitterness hadn't faded, but uncertainty crept into her voice.

"Nothing's inevitable until it happens."

"That's a pretty quote. Should I embroider it on a pillow?"

"Giselle—"

"No, I'm serious. You want to hope? Fine. Hope. But I'm not going to stand here and pretend that trash song in there is anything other than what it is. A message. A clear, brutal message that we're done."

Winter grabbed Giselle's wrist as she stood to leave. "And if you're wrong?"

"Then I'll be the happiest wrong person alive." Giselle pulled free gently. "But I'm not wrong."

The door to the booth opened. Karina emerged, hair slightly mussed, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She looked between them, reading the tension immediately.

"Bad time?"

"No," Winter said quickly.

"Yes," Giselle said simultaneously.

Karina's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Ningning intervened. "Just discussing the song."

"Ah." Karina's expression shifted, understanding dawning. "That conversation."

"How can you be so calm about this?" The question burst from Giselle before she could stop it.

Karina tilted her head. "Who says I'm calm?"

"You're in there selling that disaster like it's our next hit."

"Because that's my job." Karina moved past them to grab her water bottle. "Our job."

"Our job is to perform good music. That's not—"

"Our job," Karina interrupted, her leader voice emerging, "is to be Aespa. Good song, bad song, no song. We're Aespa until we're not."

"And when will that be?" Giselle's question hung sharp in the air.

Karina took a long drink of water before answering. "Not today."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

Jun-ho's voice crackled through the intercom. "Ningning? You're up."

Ningning moved towards the booth, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm with Karina. We're Aespa until we're not. And we're not. Not yet."

She disappeared inside, leaving the three of them in silence.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind them. Juun stretched her arms overhead, joints popping. A-Na was already halfway down the hall, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

 

"Wait up," Juun called, jogging to catch her. "You hungry?"

 

A-Na shrugged without breaking stride. "Always."

 

They pushed through the building's doors into the chill. Delivery scooters weaving through traffic, convenience store signs blazing, office workers stumbling towards their nearest subway stations. Juun zipped her jacket to her chin.

 

"The group's looking better," she ventured, matching A-Na's quick pace. "That formation change in the second verse really—"

 

"Stop." A-Na halted at a crosswalk, red light reflecting in her eyes. "Just stop with the fake optimism."

 

"It's not fake. We're improving."

 

"Seven spots. Eleven girls." A-Na jabbed the walk button repeatedly. "Math doesn't care about our formations."

 

The light changed. They crossed in silence, Juun stealing glances at A-Na's rigid profile. Semil's warm yellow glow beckoned from the corner.

 

Inside, the restaurant wrapped them in garlic-scented heat. A server gestured toward empty tables. They slid into a booth near the back.

 

"One pomodoro to share," A-Na told the server without looking at the menu. "Green salad. Two sparkling waters."

 

Juun nodded agreement, though her stomach growled for more. She watched A-Na drum her fingers against the table—index, middle, ring, pinky, repeat.

 

"You're thinking about her," Juun said.

 

A-Na's fingers stilled. "She's an idiot."

 

"That's harsh."

 

"Is it?" A-Na leaned forward, elbows on the table. "She actually believes them. Min-ji feeds her some bullshit about leadership potential, and she swallows it whole."

 

The server returned with their waters. A-Na grabbed hers immediately, downing half in one go.

 

"Maybe she needs to believe it," Juun offered. "Not everyone can afford to be cynical."

 

"Can't afford?" A-Na laughed, sharp and bitter. "You think I can afford this? You think any of us can?" She gestured around the nearly empty restaurant. "We're all drowning. The only difference is some of us know it."

 

"So what, we should just give up?"

 

"No. We should stop fighting each other." A-Na's voice dropped. "Every time Jiwoo glares at me like I'm the enemy, they win. Every time she stays late to out-practice me instead of asking why they're making us compete—they win."

 

The pasta arrived, steam rising between them. Juun twirled a fork in the noodles.

 

"Have you tried talking to her?"

 

"Have you seen her?" A-Na stabbed a tomato. "She's beyond talking. She's on some mission to destroy herself for a promise they'll never keep."

 

"You don't know that."

 

"Don't I?" A-Na's fork clattered against the plate. "My sister trained for six years. Six. They told her she was leader material too. Two weeks before debut, they cut her for someone younger. Someone hungrier."

 

Juun had heard whispers but never the details. She pushed the salad between them, a peace offering.

 

"Jiwoo's not your sister."

 

"No. She's worse." A-Na picked at the lettuce. "At least my sister saw it coming at the end. Jiwoo will let them grind her into dust and thank them for it."

 

"She's scared."

 

"We're all scared."

 

"No, I mean—" Juun chose her words carefully. "I heard her on the phone yesterday. With her mom. They've bet everything on this. Like, everything."

 

A-Na paused mid-chew. "And?"

 

"And maybe that's why she can't see what you see. If the game is rigged, she's already lost everything. Her family has already lost everything."

 

"So she'd rather lose everything slowly?"

 

"She'd rather believe there's a chance."

 

A-Na resumed eating, mindlessly now. "There's always a chance. Just not the one they're selling."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I mean we're stronger together. All eleven of us. But they know that, so they keep us starving and suspicious." She pointed her fork at Juun. "When was the last time all of us sat down together? Talked? Ate a real meal?"

 

Juun couldn't remember.

 

"Exactly." A-Na pushed the pasta toward her. "Eat more. You're too skinny."

 

"We're all too skinny."

 

"Another thing they win at."

 

They finished in relative quiet, just the clink of silverware and kitchen noise. Juun watched A-Na's face soften slightly, exhaustion replacing anger.

 

"I don't hate her," A-Na said suddenly. "Jiwoo. I don't hate her."

 

"I know."

 

"I hate what they're doing to her. To us." She signaled for the check. "But mostly her, because she's letting them."

 

"Maybe after the evaluation—"

 

"After the evaluation, four of us are gone." A-Na pulled out her wallet. "And Jiwoo will think she earned it through hard work, not realizing they decided weeks ago."

 

The server brought the check. They split it wordlessly, both calculating how many meals they'd have to skip to balance it.

 

Outside, the temperature had dropped further. They walked back slowly, no rush to return to the practice room where the others were still drilling the same eight counts.

 

"You could try again," Juun suggested as the building loomed ahead. "With Jiwoo. Maybe start small."

 

A-Na stopped at the entrance, hand on the door handle. Through the glass, they could see the elevator.

 

"Yeah?" She turned to Juun. "And say what? 'Hey, stop killing yourself for people who see you as disposable'?"

 

"Maybe something gentler."

 

A-Na yanked the door open. "There's nothing gentle about what they're doing to us."

 

The elevator rose, carrying them back to the tenth floor, back to the mirrors and the music and the rivalries that kept them all in line.

 

The elevator hummed past the seventh floor. Juun watched the numbers climb, stealing glances at A-Na's reflection in the door.

 

"You never answered my question," Juun said.

 

"Which one?"

 

"Why you care so much if Jiwoo believes them."

 

A-Na's jaw tightened. "I told you. It makes us weaker."

 

"That's not it."

 

The doors opened at ten. The hallway stretched before them, practice rooms leaking music through closed doors. A-Na strode forward, but Juun caught her arm.

 

"Wait."

 

"What?" A-Na yanked free but didn't keep walking.

 

"You need her to see it. Why?"

 

"Because someone has to." A-Na's voice cracked slightly. "Someone has to see through this bullshit besides me."

 

They stood facing each other. Down the hall, someone was practicing high notes, the sound piercing through walls.

 

"You feel alone," Juun said.

 

A-Na laughed, brittle. "We're all alone. That's the point."

 

"No, I mean—" Juun searched for words. "Everyone else, they're either true believers like Jiwoo or they've given up like—"

 

"Like who?"

 

"Like maybe you have."

 

A-Na stepped back. "I haven't given up."

 

"Haven't you? You see through their games, but you still play them. You show up at 5 AM. You skip meals. You compete." Juun moved closer. "What's the difference between you and her, really?"

 

"The difference is I know it's meaningless."

 

"Then why do it?"

 

"Because—" A-Na turned away, faced the wall. Former idols smiled down at them, frozen in their moment of triumph. "Because what else is there?"

 

"That's something she would say."

 

"No." A-Na spun back. "She would say it matters. That her suffering means something. That if she just pushes harder, practices longer, she'll earn it."

 

"And you know better."

 

"Yes."

 

"But you're still here. Still pushing. Still practicing."

 

A-Na's hands clenched. "Stop."

 

"Why does it bother you so much that she believes?"

 

"Because she makes me—" A-Na caught herself.

 

"Makes you what?"

 

Silence. The high notes down the hall stopped.

 

"She makes you doubt," Juun said softly. "Whether you're right."

 

A-Na's laugh came out strangled. "You think I want to be right? You think I enjoy knowing we're disposable?"

 

"I think you need to be right. Because if Jiwoo's faith actually matters, if trying actually matters—"

 

"It doesn't."

 

"But what if it does? What if her breaking herself actually gets her somewhere?"

 

"It won't."

 

"But what if—"

 

"It won't!" A-Na's voice echoed off the walls. She pressed her palms against her eyes. "It can't."

 

Juun waited. Somewhere, a door opened and closed. Footsteps passed them, heading for the elevator.

 

"My sister believed," A-Na said finally, hands dropping. "Really believed. Like Jiwoo-level believed. She did everything right. Everything they asked. She carved herself into exactly what they wanted."

 

"And they cut her anyway."

 

"Two weeks before debut." A-Na's voice went flat. "They called her in, thanked her for her dedication, and replaced her with a fourteen-year-old who'd been training for six months."

 

"That's not—"

 

"Fair? No shit." A-Na started walking toward their practice room. "But at least I learned early. The game isn't rigged—there is no game. Just them moving us around until we break or age out."

 

Juun followed. "So why not leave?"

 

"You first."

 

"I'm serious."

 

"So am I." A-Na stopped at their door. Through the window, they could see the others still drilling. Jiwoo was in front, perfect form despite the sweat dripping down her face. "Why don't you leave?"

 

"Because... I still think there's a chance."

 

"Exactly. Even you. Even after everything you've seen." A-Na watched Jiwoo nail a particularly difficult turn sequence. "We all have just enough hope to keep us here. Just enough delusion."

 

"It's not delusion if—"

 

"If what? If one of us makes it? One out of eleven?" A-Na pressed her forehead against the glass. "Those aren't odds. That's a lottery."

 

Inside, the music stopped. The girls collapsed, breathing hard. Jiwoo immediately stood, ready to go again.

 

"Look at her," A-Na whispered. "She'll destroy herself for this."

 

"Like you are?"

 

"I'm not—"

 

"You are. You're just honest about it."

 

A-Na pulled back from the window. "There's a difference."

 

"What?"

 

"I don't know anymore." The admission seemed to surprise her. "I used to know. I used to be so sure that seeing clearly meant something. That knowing the game was rigged gave me some kind of... advantage. Or at least dignity."

 

"But?"

 

"But she just keeps going." A-Na's eyes tracked Jiwoo through the glass. "Every day, she believes harder. Pushes more. And part of me—" She stopped.

 

"Part of you envies it."

 

"Part of me needs her to break." The words came out rushed, desperate. "I need her to see what I see. To admit it's hopeless. Because if she doesn't, if she keeps believing and suffering and trying—"

 

"Then maybe you're wrong."

 

"Or maybe I'm weak." A-Na's voice dropped to barely audible. "Maybe the difference between us isn't that I see clearly. Maybe it's that she's strong enough to believe despite everything, and I'm just... not."

 

Juun touched her shoulder. "A-Na—"

 

"Don't." She shrugged off the contact. "I know what I sound like. The bitter trainee who can't stand watching others hope."

 

"That's not what I was going to say."

 

"No?"

 

"No. I was going to say maybe you're both right. Maybe it is hopeless and maybe believing matters anyway."

 

A-Na stared at her. "That makes no sense."

 

"Doesn't it? You're both here. You're both destroying yourselves. The only difference is the story you tell yourself while you do it."

 

Inside, the music started again. Jiwoo moved to the front, marking positions for the next run.

 

"She makes me tired," A-Na said. "Looking at her makes me so tired."

 

"Because?"

 

"Because if she quits believing, then what? Then I'm right? Then we can all stop pretending?" A-Na's hands shook. "Or because if she quits believing, then what the hell have I been killing myself for?"

 

The question hung between them. Through the door, the bass thumped, relentless.

 

"Maybe that's what you have in common," Juun said. "You're both terrified of the same thing."

 

"Which is?"

 

"That none of this suffering means anything. She fights it by believing harder. You fight it by refusing to believe at all."

 

A-Na reached for the door handle, paused. "And you?"

 

Juun shrugged. "I eat pasta and try not to think about it."

 

Despite everything, A-Na cracked a small smile. "Healthier than either of us."

 

She opened the door. Music crashed over them. The others were mid-formation, moving in perfect synchronization. Jiwoo's eyes flicked to them in the mirror, narrowed slightly, then refocused on her own form.

 

"Five minutes," Carmen called out. "Then we run it again."

 

A-Na moved to her position. Juun grabbed her water bottle, watched as A-Na and Jiwoo stood at opposite ends of the formation, mirror images.

 

The music stopped. In the silence, everyone breathed hard, waited.

 

"Again," Jiwoo said, though nobody had asked her.

 

"Again," A-Na agreed, though her legs trembled.

 

They looked at each other across the space.

 

The music started again.

Chapter Text

—
Giselle yanked the elastic from her wrist and scraped her hair into a tight bun. The mirrors reflected three exhausted figures, their synchronization fraying at the edges after two hours of the same eight-bar sequence.

"Again," Winter called out, not waiting for agreement. The opening beats of the track thumped through the speakers.

Ningning groaned but hit her mark. Halfway through the combination, she stumbled on the turn sequence and stopped. "This is pointless." She grabbed the hem of her oversized shirt and knotted it below her ribs. "We've been at this since four. Where the hell is Karina?"

"Probably in another one of her secret meetings." Giselle collapsed against the mirror, legs splayed. A water bottle sailed through the air—Winter's throw—and she caught it one-handed. "Thanks."

"She said she'd be here by five." Winter checked her phone. "It's six-thirty."

"Of course it is." Giselle took a long pull from the bottle. "Because why would our leader actually lead?"

Winter's reflection caught Giselle's eye in the mirror. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. I'm stating facts." Giselle pushed herself up, pacing to the sound system. She jabbed the pause button. "We're here sweating through this garbage choreography for a garbage song while she's off playing politics."

"Maybe the politics are working." Ningning stretched her hamstring against the barre. "Maybe that's why she's—"

"Working?" Giselle barked out a laugh. "Name one time playing nice with management has worked for any group in this company. I'll wait."

Winter grabbed her own water bottle from the corner, unscrewing the cap. "Red Velvet lasted ten years."

"Lasted. Past tense." Giselle pulled out her phone, scrolling aggressively. "And look how that ended. Gradual schedule reduction, budget cuts, and then—surprise!—indefinite hiatus."

"They're still technically together," Ningning offered weakly.

"Right. Technically together." Giselle's laugh was bitter. "Want to know something funny? Soon they'll have three out of five. Wendy-unnie and Yeri-unnie are on their way out. SM is pushing Irene-unnie and Seulgi-unnie as a unit, while Joy-unnie is left out to dry 'acting.'" She made air quotes around the last word.

Winter froze mid-stretch. "How do you know that?"

"I have eyes. And ears." Giselle scrolled through her phone. "Wendy's been posting about anything but Red Velvet. Yeri's basically living in the art studio these days. When was the last time you saw all five of them in the building together?"

"That doesn't mean—"

"It means exactly what we think it means." Giselle shoved her phone at Winter. "Look at their schedules. Two members here, two members there. Never five. They're being split apart."

Ningning grabbed a towel from her bag, dabbing at her neck. "Maybe they want it that way. Maybe they're tired."

"Of course they're tired. Ten years of this would exhaust anyone." Giselle snatched her phone back. "But you think SM cares what they want? They're creating the narrative. 'Natural evolution,' they'll call it. 'Members pursuing individual passions.'"

"You don't know that for sure," Winter said, but her conviction was crumbling.

"I ran into Wendy-unnie last week. In the elevator." Giselle pulled at a loose thread on her pants. "She looked right through me. Like she had one foot on the door."

The practice room suddenly felt smaller, the mirrors reflecting their uncertainty back at them.

"So what?" Ningning's voice cracked slightly. "We just accept it? Roll over and wait for our turn?"

"What's the alternative?" Giselle challenged. "Pretend we're different? Special? That the rules don't apply to us?"

Winter grabbed her water bottle, gripping it hard enough to crinkle the plastic. "We are different. We broke records—"

"So did they. So did SNSD. So did f(x)." Giselle counted on her fingers. "Every group breaks records until they don't. Until someone younger and hungrier comes along."

"Hearts2Hearts hasn't even debuted yet," Ningning protested.

"They don't need to. The machine is already turning." Giselle stood, pacing now. "You've seen the articles. 'The future of K-pop.' 'SM's next generation.' We've gone from 'revolutionary' to 'established' in four years. You know what established means in this industry?"

"Stop." Winter's voice was sharp.

"It means old. It means expensive. It means replaceable."

"I said stop."

"Why? Because the truth hurts?" Giselle spun to face them. "We're watching Red Velvet get dismantled piece by piece, and we're next in line. The only question is whether we go quietly or—"

"Or what?" Ningning demanded. "Make a scene? Burn bridges? End up blacklisted?"

"We’d lose in all three anyway."

Winter threw her water bottle into her bag. "You think being bitter and cynical is the way to go? It's just another way of giving up."

"And what do you call what we're doing now?" Giselle gestured at the practice room. "Dancing to a song we all know is trash, pretending our leader isn't keeping secrets, acting like we have a future when—"

"We do have a future." Winter's hands clenched into fists. "Maybe not the one we planned, but—"

"But what? We become Instagram influencers? Open coffee shops? Fade into obscurity while teenagers take our place?"

"Better than becoming bitter shells of ourselves." Winter shot back.

Giselle stepped closer. "I'd rather be bitter and aware than delusional and—"

The door handle rattled. They all turned, expecting Karina, but it was just a janitor checking if the room was empty. He mumbled an apology and left.

The interruption deflated the tension slightly. Ningning sank onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. "This is exactly what they want, you know. Us turning on each other."

"No," Giselle corrected, sitting beside her. "What they want is us being good little soldiers. Grateful for whatever scraps they throw at us."

Winter turned to look at her directly. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" Giselle's voice pitched higher. She scrambled to her feet, energy suddenly crackling through her. "You want to know what's wrong with me?"

"Yeah, I do." Winter stood too, matching her stance.

"How about we start with debut prep?" Giselle's hands moved as she spoke. "Six months of 'media training' that was really just them telling me to hide half of who I am. 'Don't mention you're Japanese when Korean-Japanese relations are tense. Don't mention it when they're good either—might alienate fans.'"

Ningning pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

"Or we could talk about the meetings." Giselle paced now, her bun coming loose. "Special meetings just for me. 'Your face is too sharp. Your expressions are too Western. Smile softer. Bow deeper. Be Korean, but not too Korean because you're not, but don't be too Japanese either.'"

"Giselle—" Winter started.

"I'm not done." She yanked the elastic from her hair completely, letting it fall around her shoulders. "Remember when those photos surfaced? Me at seventeen, holding a beer at my friend's birthday in Japan—where it was legal, by the way. But did that matter? No. Hours of meetings. PR strategies. Apology letters I had to draft for being a normal teenager."

Winter's shoulders dropped slightly, but Giselle was building momentum.

"The smoking rumor? Based on me holding a lollipop stick in one blurry photo. But they made me do a health check. Published my lung capacity results. Like I was livestock being verified as premium grade."

"That was—"

"Humiliating? Degrading? Just another day at SM?" Giselle's laugh was sharp. "And my old Instagram. God forbid I had a life before they owned me. Every post scrutinized. That photo with my ex-boyfriend? Gone. That comment about liking hip-hop? 'Too urban,' they said. We all know what that meant."

The practice room's lights hummed.

"They deleted everything. My whole history. Like I didn't exist before Aespa." Giselle's voice cracked slightly. "Seventeen years of being Aeri, gone. Because Giselle can't have a past. Giselle has to be perfect and grateful and—"

"We all gave things up," Winter said quietly.

"Did you?" Giselle spun on her. "Did they question if you were Korean enough? Did they make you take a pregnancy test because of a rumor started by someone who didn't like your face?"

Winter flinched.

"Did they pull you aside after every music show to tell you your Japanese accent was showing? Did they monitor your sodium intake because your face was 'too puffy' and reinforcing 'certain stereotypes'?" Giselle's hands shook. "You want me to go on?"

"No," Ningning whispered from the floor.

"Because I can." Giselle wiped at her eyes roughly. "Four years of material. The diet pills they 'suggested.' The skin lightening treatments they 'recommended.' The way they made me practice my laugh because mine was 'too aggressive.'"

Winter took a step forward. "I didn't know—"

"Of course you didn't. Because I'm a good soldier, right? I shut up and smiled and pretended it was all worth it for the dream." Giselle's voice broke completely. "And now they're taking that too. After everything I let them strip away, they're going to discard us for a younger version who'll smile while they do it all over again."

The silence stretched.

"So yeah," Giselle continued, quieter now. "Something's wrong with me. I'm tired of pretending this company sees us as anything more than products with an expiration date. And I'm tired of acting grateful for the privilege of being consumed."

Ningning slowly uncurled from the floor. "Unnie..."

"Don't." Giselle held up a hand. "I don't want pity. I want us to stop pretending this is normal. That this is okay."

Winter stared at her, something shifting in her expression. "You're right."

"What?" Both Giselle and Ningning turned to her.

"You're right. This isn't okay." Winter's voice gained strength. "None of it. Not what they did to you. Not what they're doing now."

"But?" Giselle waited for the qualifier.

"No but." Winter moved closer. "It's easy to sit here and complain. What's your plan? What are you going to do to change all of that?"

Giselle's mouth opened, then closed. Nothing came out.

"Exactly." Winter's voice hardened. "You want to rage against the machine? Fine. But then what? You'll storm into Lee Soo-man's office and demand justice? Post a tell-all on Instagram? Burn it all down?"

"That's not—"

"That's not what? Realistic?" Winter stepped even closer. "Neither is sitting here acting like you're the only one who's suffered."

Giselle's face flushed. "I never said—"

"You don't have to. It's written all over you. Poor Giselle, the company was mean to her." Winter's hands clenched at her sides. "You know what I gave up?"

Ningning shifted uncomfortably against the mirror.

"Three generations of military service." Winter's voice stayed controlled, but something dangerous flickered underneath. "My grandfather, a decorated general. My father, air force colonel. My mother, military nurse. And me? I was supposed to be at the academy. First female fighter pilot in the family."

"Unnie—" Ningning started.

"Do you know what it took to convince them to let me audition?" Winter cut her off. "Months of fighting. Screaming matches. My father didn't speak to me for half a year. My grandfather died thinking I'd betrayed everything he stood for."

The light above them flickered once.

"But I don't talk about it." Winter's jaw tightened. "Because what's the point? Will crying about it change anything? Will it bring him back? Will it make my father proud of what I chose instead?"

"That's different—"

"How?" Winter demanded. "Because it was my choice? You think any of this was really a choice? Once you're in, you're in. We all knew that."

Giselle took a step back, hitting the mirror.

"You want to know what else I don't complain about?" Winter wasn't done. "The stress fractures in my feet from practicing in bad shoes they gave back when we were trainees. The time they made me lose eight kilos in three weeks for pictures. The personality training where they told me I was too cold, too stiff, too military."

Her voice cracked on the last word.

"They made me watch videos of myself for hours. Pointing out every moment I looked 'intimidating.' Every time my posture was 'too rigid.' They hired an acting coach just to teach me how to look softer. More approachable. More like an idol, less like a soldier's daughter."

Giselle's anger deflated slightly. "I didn't—"

"Know? Of course you didn't. Because I don't broadcast my pain like it makes me special." Winter wiped her face roughly. "We all have our sob stories, unnie. Every single person in this building could tell you how SM broke them down and rebuilt them into something sellable."

"Then why do you defend them?" Giselle's voice was smaller now.

"I don't defend them. I just accept reality." Winter's laugh was hollow. "You think your anger makes you righteous? It just makes you exhausting."

"Exhausting?" Giselle's spine straightened.

"Yes. Exhausting." Winter turned away, then spun back. "Every day it's something. The company's evil. The song's terrible. We're being replaced. We get it. You're angry. But you don't see me complaining about it."

"Maybe you should." Giselle pushed off the mirror. "Maybe if more of us complained—"

"What? They'd suddenly care?" Winter's voice dripped sarcasm. "They'd realize the error of their ways? Apologize for the trauma and give us creative control?"

The question hung between them like a blade.

"At least I'm honest about what this is," Giselle said quietly.

"And I'm not?" Winter's eyes flashed. "I know exactly what this is. A business. A transaction. I gave them my youth, my family, my body to break and remake. And in return, I got to perform. To be Aespa. Was it worth it? I don't know. But I made that trade."

"We were kids. We didn't know what we were trading."

"Maybe." Winter grabbed her water bottle. "But we're not kids now. So what's your excuse?"

Ningning finally stood, moving between them. "Stop. Both of you."

Neither looked at her, locked in their stare down.

"This is exactly what they want," Ningning continued. "Us tearing each other apart instead of—"

"Instead of what?" Winter and Giselle asked simultaneously, finally agreeing on something.

Ningning's hands trembled as she pressed them against her thighs. "Instead of remembering we're supposed to be a team."

"Team?" Giselle scoffed. "What team? The one where our leader disappears for meetings? Where we're learning choreography for a song designed to fail?"

"The one that debuted together." Ningning's voice gained strength. "The one that survived COVID restrictions, that performed for empty stadiums, that—"

"That's getting discarded like yesterday's trash." Giselle finished.

Winter dropped her water bottle into her bag. "So your solution is to implode? Speed up the process?"

"My solution is to stop pretending."

"And then what?" Ningning stepped forward, forcing herself into their sightline. "We fight each other until they don't even have to push us out?"

Giselle's mouth opened, then closed.

"She's right." Winter's agreement came grudgingly. "Whatever's happening with the company, with Hearts2Hearts, with that disaster of a song—destroying each other won't fix it."

"Nothing will fix it." Giselle's voice cracked. "That's my point."

Ningning grabbed Giselle's hand, then Winter's, pulling them closer despite their resistance. "Maybe not. But I'd rather face the end together than alone."

Winter yanked her hand away. "Pretty words won't change reality."

"No, but they might change how we handle it." Ningning's grip on Giselle tightened. "You're both right, okay? The company screwed us. They're probably screwing us right now. But Aeri-unnie, your anger is eating you alive. And Winter-unnie, your acceptance is turning you cold."

"I'm not—" Winter started.

"You are." Ningning cut her off. "You've both built these walls. Different walls, but walls. And now you're throwing grenades over them at each other."

Giselle pulled free, wrapping her arms around herself. "So what do you suggest? Group therapy? Trust falls?"

"I suggest we stop letting them win." Ningning's voice hardened. "Every minute we spend attacking each other is a minute we're not figuring out how to survive this."

"Survive." Winter tested the word. "Not win. Survive."

"Is there a difference anymore?" Ningning asked.

The question settled over them like dust. Giselle moved to the barre, stretching her calf. Winter checked her phone.

"I saw Wendy-sunbae too." Ningning's admission broke the silence. "Last month. In the bathroom."

Both Winter and Giselle turned.

"She was crying." Ningning studied her sneakers. "Not pretty crying. Ugly, can't-breathe crying."

"Did she say anything?" Giselle's voice softened.

"She said, 'Don't let them turn you against each other. That's when you really lose.'"

Winter's phone slipped from her fingers, clattering on the floor.

"Then she fixed her makeup and walked out like nothing happened." Ningning retrieved Winter's phone, handing it back. "Ten minutes later, she was on stage, smiling for the cameras."

"That's..." Giselle trailed off.

"Our future?" Winter supplied. "Yeah."

They stood in triangle formation, muscle memory positioning them perfectly

"I don't want to end up crying alone." Ningning's confession was barely above a whisper.

"Too late." Giselle's attempt at humor fell flat.

Winter moved first, breaking formation to grab her jacket. "We should go."

"Karina's still not here." Ningning checked the time.

"She's not coming." Winter zipped her jacket with sharp movements. "Whatever she's doing, it doesn't include us."

"Maybe she's trying to help." Ningning offered weakly.

"Maybe." Giselle gathered her things. "Or maybe she's negotiating her solo career."

Winter paused at the door. "Would you blame her?"

The question caught Giselle off-guard. "I... no. Not anymore."

Something shifted in Winter's expression—not quite warmth, but less ice. "Me neither."

They filed out, leaving the practice room. The hallway stretched before them, identical doors hiding identical dreams being built and shattered.

"Tomorrow?" Ningning asked as they reached the elevator.

"Tomorrow." Winter confirmed.

"We'll be here." Giselle added, then softer, "Together."

That had to count for something.

Chapter Text

Irene slammed the apartment door harder than she meant to. The sound echoing through the hallway.

"Sorry," she muttered, though Seulgi had already brushed past her into the living room.

"Don't be." Seulgi dropped onto the couch, still in her practice clothes. "I wanted to slam something too."

Irene kicked off her sneakers and followed, collapsing into the armchair.

"She's really doing it," Seulgi finally said.

"Yeah."

"I mean, she's really leaving."

"I know."

Seulgi's jaw tightened. "Stop saying that like you've come to terms with it."

"What else am I supposed to say?" Irene shot back. "We've tried everything. Management won't budge."

"We haven't tried everything."

"Name one thing."

Seulgi opened her mouth, then closed it. Her fingers drummed against her thigh.

Irene leaned forward. "We asked them to reduce her schedule. They said no. We asked for a hiatus. They said no. We asked if she could transition to production work—"

"Don't." Seulgi's voice cracked. "Don't list it all out like that."

"Why not? It's the truth."

"Because it makes it sound like we failed her."

The words hung. Irene felt them settle in her chest.

"We did fail her," she said quietly.

Seulgi was on her feet before Irene finished the sentence. "No. Don't you dare."

"Seulgi—"

"We fought for her. Every single day, we fought."

"And it wasn't enough."

Seulgi paced to the window, her reflection ghostlike. "Remember when she asked about the vocal coaching position?"

Irene's stomach twisted. "Yeah."

"She lit up. First time in months I'd seen her actually excited about something."

"I know."

"And they shot it down in less than twenty-four hours." Seulgi's laugh was bitter. "Can't have an active idol teaching trainees. Might give them ideas."

"Ideas about having a voice," Irene added.

Seulgi turned from the window. "Is that what they're afraid of? That she'd tell them the truth?"

"Probably."

"God." Seulgi pressed her palms against her eyes. "When did we become the seniors watching our members break?"

Irene didn't answer. She remembered being a rookie, watching SNSD, thinking it would be different for them. They'd be smarter. Stronger. They'd protect each other better.

"She cried in the bathroom yesterday," Seulgi said suddenly.

Irene's head snapped up. "What?"

"After the meeting. I followed her, but she locked the door. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of just... sobbing."

Irene's hands clenched in her lap. She hadn't known. Wendy hadn't told her.

"I stood outside like an idiot," Seulgi continued. "Couldn't even knock. What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, I know the company is destroying you, but please stay anyway'?"

"You could have—"

"What? Given her false hope? Made more empty promises?" Seulgi's voice rose. "We've been doing that for months."

"We've been trying to help."

"Have we? Or have we just been trying to keep the group together?"

The accusation stung. Irene forced herself to meet Seulgi's eyes.

"Both," she admitted. "Is that so wrong?"

Seulgi's shoulders sagged. "I don't know anymore."

She returned to the couch, curling into the corner like she was trying to make herself smaller.

"Remember debut?" Seulgi asked. "When we promised we'd be different?"

"Young and stupid."

"Were we? Or were we just... hopeful?"

Irene considered this. "Maybe there's no difference."

"There has to be." Seulgi's voice was fierce. "Otherwise, what's the point? Why did we go through all of this?"

"I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

Seulgi grabbed a pillow, hugging it to her chest. "She asked me if I thought she was being selfish."

Irene's breath caught. "When?"

"Last week. After she told us she was meeting with other companies."

"What did you say?"

"I lied." Seulgi's knuckles were white around the pillow. "Told her she deserved to be happy. That we supported her no matter what."

"That's not a lie."

"Isn't it? I want her to stay. I want it so badly I can't breathe sometimes."

Irene moved to the couch, sitting close enough that their knees touched. "That doesn't make you a bad person."

"Doesn't it? I'm asking her to keep suffering just so I don't have to lose her."

"You're asking her to stay because you love her."

"Same thing."

"It's not."

Seulgi finally looked at her, eyes red-rimmed. "How is it different?"

Irene struggled for words. How could she explain the distinction between love and selfishness when she wasn't sure where the line was herself?

"I think," she said slowly, "loving someone means wanting them to stay. But it also means letting them go when staying hurts too much."

"Philosophy major Bae Joohyun strikes again."

"Shut up."

Despite everything, Seulgi's mouth quirked into an almost-smile. It faded quickly.

"I keep thinking about Aespa," she said.

Irene frowned at the subject change. "What about them?"

"They have no idea what's coming."

"Maybe it'll be different for them."

Seulgi gave her a look.

"Okay, probably not," Irene conceded. "But that's not our problem."

"Isn't it? We're the seniors now. Shouldn't we warn them?"

"Warn them about what? That the company will use them up? That they'll be replaced the second they stop being profitable?" Irene shook her head. "They'll figure it out."

"Like we did?"

"Exactly like we did."

"And look how well that turned out."

Irene stood abruptly, the sudden movement making Seulgi flinch.

"You know what? No." She crossed her arms. "I'm tired of taking responsibility for SM's failures."

"I didn't say—"

"You implied it. Like we could have done something different." Irene's voice sharpened. "What exactly? Should I have agreed to go solo? Split the group's resources even more?"

Seulgi's eyes narrowed. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? They pitched it three times, Seulgi-ah. Three times they wanted me to abandon the group."

"I know."

"Do you? Because you weren't in those meetings. You didn't see their faces when I said no." Irene paced now, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. "They looked at me like I was insane. Turning down guaranteed success for what? Loyalty?"

"I never asked you to turn it down."

"You didn't have to." Irene spun to face her. "Your face when they announced the possibility was enough."

Seulgi shifted uncomfortably. "That's not—"

"And the duo project? Remember that brilliant idea?" Irene's laugh was harsh. "Irene and Seulgi, the sub-unit. Leave the others behind while we play favorites."

"Stop it."

"Why? It's what they wanted. Divide and conquer, right?"

"STOP!" Seulgi's voice cut through the room.

They stared at each other, breathing hard like they'd been fighting physically instead of verbally.

"I get it," Seulgi said finally, her tone carefully neutral. "Still doesn't solve Wendy's problem."

Irene deflated, sinking back into the armchair. "I know."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I don't have answers. I never did." Irene pulled her knees to her chest. "Who was there to solve our problems? Who helped us navigate this mess?"

"We had each other."

"That's not what I mean." Irene's voice turned bitter. "I mean outside intervention. Someone with actual power to change things."

"The company—"

"The company caused our problems." Irene cut her off. "Who was there for me when the whole thing with the stylist happened?"

Seulgi's face softened. "I was."

"You held my hand while I cried. That's not the same as someone actually doing something about it."

"I tried—"

"I know you did. That's not the point." Irene rubbed her temples. "We're expected to give a crap when others need help, but who gives a fuck when we do?"

The profanity hung between them. Irene rarely swore, even in private.

Seulgi leaned back, studying her. "You're pissed."

"I'm tired."

"No, you're furious. And you have every right to be."

Irene met her gaze. "Do I? Because it feels like being angry is just another way of excusing myself."

"How do you figure that?"

"Angry people make mistakes. Say things they can't take back. Burn bridges." Irene's voice dropped. "I can't afford to be angry."

"But you are."

"Yes."

"At who?"

"Everyone." The admission came out raw. "The company. The industry. Myself. Even Wendy, sometimes, for not being stronger."

Seulgi didn't flinch at the honesty. "And me?"

"Sometimes."

"For what?"

Irene hesitated. "For still believing we can fix this."

"Someone has to."

"Why?"

"Because the alternative is giving up." Seulgi pulled her legs up, mirroring Irene's position. "And I watched you refuse three solo offers. I watched you fight for this group every single day. So don't tell me you're ready to give up now."

"Fighting didn't change anything."

"It kept us together this long."

"For what? So we could watch each other break one by one?"

Seulgi had no answer for that.

Irene's phone buzzed on the coffee table. They both looked at it but neither moved.

"It might be Wendy," Seulgi said quietly.

"I know."

"Aren't you going to check?"

"In a minute."

But the minute stretched on, both of them frozen in their respective corners, afraid of what news might be waiting. The apartment felt smaller somehow, like the walls were slowly closing in.

"Remember when we thought making it would be the hard part?" Seulgi asked.

"We were idiots."

"We were kids."

"Same thing."

The phone buzzed again. This time, Irene reached for it, her hand trembling slightly.

"It's Joy," she said, scanning the message. "Asking if we've heard anything."

"What do we tell her?"

Irene set the phone down without responding. "The truth, I guess. When we figure out what that is."

"Sounds to me like we do know what the truth is."

Irene's head snapped up. "Don't finish that damn sentence."

"We just don't want to accept it."

The words landed. Irene grabbed her phone, needing something to do with her hands before she threw something.

"I'm calling Joy."

"Now?"

"Why not?" Irene hit the call button harder than necessary. "Maybe she'll have good news for once."

Seulgi snorted. "When has anyone in this company ever had good news?"

The phone rang twice before Joy picked up.

"Unnie?" Joy's voice filled the room as Irene switched to speaker.

"Hey. You're on speaker."

"Oh good, saves me from calling twice." There was rustling in the background. "You guys sitting down?"

Irene and Seulgi exchanged glances.

"Why?" Seulgi asked.

"Because I just got off the phone with my agent."

"And?"

"Three more drama offers." Joy's voice was carefully neutral. "Two leads, one supporting but it's Kim Eun-sook writing."

Irene gripped the phone tighter. This wasn't new—Joy had been fielding drama offers for over a year now. But the frequency was increasing.

"That's... good," Seulgi managed.

"Is it?" Joy's laugh was hollow. "I've been turning them down for eighteen months. They're starting to think I'm crazy."

"You're not crazy," Irene said automatically.

"Aren't I? Who turns down Kim Eun-sook?"

"Someone who values their group."

"Right. The group that's—" Joy cut herself off. "Sorry."

Seulgi leaned closer to the phone. "What did you tell them?"

"Same thing I always say. Schedule conflicts. Prior commitments." A pause. "They're getting harder to convince."

"Because we barely have a schedule anymore," Irene said quietly.

"Yeah."

The silence stretched uncomfortably. Irene could hear traffic in the background of Joy's call—she was probably in a car, between whatever individual schedules they'd managed to book.

"Oh," Joy said suddenly. "Heard about the new group?"

Irene and Seulgi locked eyes. They both knew about Hearts2Hearts, had been tracking SM's investment in the project, watching resources flow away from Aespa. The pattern was unmistakable.

Seulgi opened her mouth, but Irene spoke first.

"No. What about them?"

Seulgi's eyes widened. Irene quickly raised her finger to her lips in a silent shush, praying Joy hadn't heard Seulgi's sharp intake of breath.

"Really?" Joy sounded surprised. "I thought—well, anyway. Yeri heard from one of the makeup artists. Apparently, they're getting the full treatment. Best producers, choreographers from America, the works."

"Sounds expensive," Irene said carefully.

"That's what I thought. Especially when they just told Aespa their budget was cut."

Seulgi grabbed a pillow, pressing it against her face to muffle any sound. Irene kept her voice steady.

"Where did Yeri hear this?"

"You know how she is. Friendly with everyone." Joy's tone shifted. "The kids are scared, unnie."

"The kids?"

"Aespa. Ningning was crying in the bathroom last week. Karina's been having meetings with management that she won't talk about."

Irene's free hand clenched. "How do you know all this?"

"Try dropping in more often, unnie. You’d be amazed." Another pause. "They’re done."

The weight of that statement pressed down on all of them.

"Joy—" Seulgi started, pulling the pillow away from her face.

"I should go," Joy interrupted. "Almost at the photoshoot. Just... wanted to check in."

"We're fine," Irene lied.

"Sure you are." Joy's voice was knowing. "Talk later?"

"Yeah."

"Love you both."

The call ended. Irene set the phone down carefully, like it might explode.

"Why did you lie?" Seulgi demanded immediately.

"What was I supposed to say? 'Yes, we know about the group that's replacing Aespa just like they replaced us'?"

"She already knows."

"Knowing and confirming are different things." Irene rubbed her face. "She's got enough to worry about."

"Like turning down Kim Eun-sook?"

"Don't."

"Someone has to say it." Seulgi threw the pillow aside. "She can't keep turning down opportunities forever."

"She can make her own choices."

"While we what? Pretend everything's fine?"

Irene stood, needing distance. "What do you want me to do? Tell her to leave? Give her permission to abandon ship?"

"Maybe."

Chapter Text

The call comes in the middle of counts.

 

“—six, seven, eight—Jiwoo!”

 

Her name cuts across the music. She stumbles on the turn, heel scraping the floor. A-Na doesn’t miss a beat; if anything, her next move hits harder, sharper, like she’s dancing for both of them.

 

Jiwoo straightens. The assistant at the door—one of the newer staff, hair scraped back, tablet hugged to her chest—crooks a finger.

 

“Choi Jiwoo. Min-ji-ssi wants you in her office.”

 

A few heads swivel, then snap back to the mirror. Nobody wants to be caught staring.

 

“Now?” Jiwoo asks, breath still heaving.

 

The assistant checks her screen. “Yes. Bring your notebook.”

 

Jiwoo grabs her things from the corner: notebook, pen, the cheap lip balm her mother mailed in a care package with a note about “keeping up appearances.” Her hand shakes just enough that the pen almost slips.

 

A-Na watches her through the mirror, eyes narrowed. “Don’t trip on your way to paradise,” she mutters, low enough that only Jiwoo hears.

 

Jiwoo pretends she didn’t. She follows the assistant into the corridor.

 

Her calf muscles twitch. She presses her fingers into the knot in her thigh as they walk, quick steps echoing on the floor.

 

“Did she say what it was about?” Jiwoo asks.

 

The assistant shrugs without looking back. “You’ll see.”

 

They pass the framed posters—Girls’ Generation, Red Velvet, Aespa. Jiwoo keeps her eyes straight, but she feels the weight of their smiles. The Aespa poster is already a little crooked. No one has fixed it.

 

On the ride up, strands of hair stick to her temples. She drags her fingers through them, trying to smooth herself out. Leader material doesn’t look like she just crawled out of hell.

 

Leader.

 

A topic that had been floating around practice all week, never said outright, always implied. Staff asking who calls the counts. Who organizes warm-ups. Who calms the crying ones. Jiwoo has answers for all of those.

 

The elevator doors open. The air on this floor smells different—less like sweating bodies.

 

Min-ji’s office door stands half-open. Papers stack in neat piles on a side table. A plant droops in the corner, surviving against company odds.

 

“Come in,” Min-ji calls.

 

Jiwoo steps inside. Min-ji sits behind her desk, blazer still on despite the hour, hair pinned back. She looks up with a small, measured smile that never quite reaches her eyes.

 

“Jiwoo-ah. Sit.”

 

Jiwoo bows, then perches on the edge of the chair, notebook balanced on her knees.

 

“Am I…” She stops. Her mother’s voice flashes through her head: don’t ask, listen. She presses her lips together.

 

Min-ji studies her for a moment, then leans back, folding her hands.

 

“You’ve been standing out.”

 

Jiwoo’s fingers tighten around her pen.

 

“In a bad way?” she asks before she can stop herself.

 

Min-ji huffs a quiet laugh. “If it were bad, you’d be in a different office.”

 

Jiwoo’s shoulders drop half a centimeter.

 

Min-ji continues. “We’ve been watching the group very closely. Dynamics, work ethic, how you respond to pressure.” She tilts her head. “You know why that matters.”

 

“Because…” Jiwoo straightens. This is a test. There is always a right answer. “Because Hearts2Hearts needs a leader who can… hold everyone together. Represent the company. Maintain standards.”

 

“Exactly.” Min-ji nods once. “Someone the others naturally follow.”

 

Jiwoo swallows. A-Na’s scoff from earlier echoes in her memory. Naive, she said. Manipulable.

 

“We’re considering you,” Min-ji says. “For leader.”

 

The room goes very quiet. Jiwoo hears the distant thud from a room below. Her mother’s last message flashes in her mind: Leader is more money. Leader is security. Leader is our chance.

 

“Me?” Her voice comes out thin. She clears her throat. “I mean— I’ll work hard. I already am, but I can do more. I can—”

 

Min-ji holds up a hand. “I know how hard you work. That’s one of the reasons you’re sitting here.” She gives a small, approving nod. “You set the tone. The trainers mention you by name.”

 

Heat blooms in Jiwoo’s chest. “Thank you.”

 

“This isn’t official yet,” Min-ji says quickly. “I need to be clear about that. Nothing is decided until the debut lineup is finalized. But…” She taps a file on her desk. Jiwoo recognizes the logo of the trainee evaluation reports. “You’re in a very good position.”

 

Jiwoo forces herself not to lean forward. “What do I need to do?”

 

Min-ji’s mouth curves. “I thought you’d ask that.”

 

She stands, moves to the side table, and pours water into a paper cup. She hands it to Jiwoo. Her gaze lingers on Jiwoo’s shaking hand.

 

“First,” Min-ji says, “breathe. We’re not cutting you.”

 

Jiwoo exhales, a ragged sound she didn’t realize she was holding back.

 

“Second,” Min-ji continues, “I want you to think beyond yourself. A leader isn’t just the hardest worker. A leader understands people. A leader knows who needs a push, who needs protection, who needs to be… managed.”

 

The last word hangs in the air.

 

Jiwoo nods quickly. “I can learn that. I—I watch everyone already. I know who forgets counts, who—”

 

“And A-Na?” Min-ji interrupts, voice still mild. “How well do you understand her?”

 

Jiwoo’s fingers freeze around the cup. “She’s… talented,” she says carefully. “She doesn’t like rules. But she works hard when it matters.”

 

Min-ji watches her face. “You fought this morning.”

 

Jiwoo flushes. So someone had been watching.

 

“She said it was every trainee for herself,” Jiwoo admits. “I disagreed.”

 

“Good.” Min-ji’s tone sharpens just a fraction. “A team can’t debut if everyone’s only looking out for themselves. A leader’s job is to keep the group aligned with the company’s vision.” Her gaze pins Jiwoo. “Do you think you can do that?”

 

Jiwoo’s chest tightens. The image forms without permission: seven girls on a stage, lights hot on her face, her mother crying in the crowd she’ll never actually be able to afford. Jiwoo at the front.

 

“Yes,” she says. The word comes out stronger than she feels. “I can.”

 

Min-ji smiles again, that same controlled curve. “Then this is what I need from you…”

 

—

 

The camera blinks red in the corner.

 

Small room, scuffed floor, mirrors on one side, folding chairs stacked against the wall. No trainer. No Min-ji. Just the camera.

 

The staffer who led her here taps a clipboard. “This is a team dynamics evaluation,” she says. “We’re observing how you lead in a small group. You’ll run a simple formation and timing exercise.”

 

Jiwoo nods, palms damp. “Who’s in my group?”

 

“You’ll see.” The staffer hesitates, then adds, “Just lead them through the exercise, we won’t intervene.”

 

Meaning: whatever happens, you’re on her own.

 

The door opens. A-Na strolls in first, hair in a high, careless ponytail. Juun follows, adjusting her glasses. Stella trails behind, chewing her lip, hugging a water bottle.

 

Of course. Why’d she expect someone else?

 

“Wow,” A-Na says, spotting the camera. “Is this our good side or our mugshot?”

 

“Line up,” Jiwoo says before anyone else can speak. She keeps her voice even. Leader voice. “Mirror side. I’ll explain.”

 

A-Na raises an eyebrow but moves. Juun falls beside her. Stella hangs back half a step, eyes on the floor.

 

Jiwoo steps into the center. The camera behind her. A leader keeps the group aligned with the company’s vision.

 

“We’re running the chorus section,” Jiwoo says. “Basic formation changes, focus on timing and spacing. It’s not about skill right now, it’s about moving as one. Got it?”

 

“Sure, captain,” A-Na says lightly. “Do we salute or just bow to your greatness?”

 

Juun gives A-Na a quick side-eye. “Let her talk.”

 

Stella shifts, grip tightening on her bottle. “Um… do we know which part we’re… singing?”

 

“We’ll use counts,” Jiwoo says. She glances at the camera, then back. “No vocals needed.”

 

“Of course,” A-Na mutters. “Wouldn’t want anyone to notice if some of us never get lines.”

 

Stella flinches. Jiwoo files that reaction away.

 

She claps once. “Positions. A-Na center, Juun left, Stella right. I’ll call counts.”

 

“Why is she center?” Stella blurts. Her cheeks blaze red the second the words are out.

 

Jiwoo blinks. “Because she’s strong on sharp transitions. We need—”

 

“I can hit transitions,” Stella says fast. Her voice trembles. “I get two lines in the whole song and I’m shoved in the back for half the choreo. This is supposed to be about teamwork, right? Why is the same person always in the center?”

 

A-Na snorts. “Welcome to SM, baby.”

 

Juun looks between them. “Stella, this is just an exercise—”

 

“That’s the problem,” Stella cuts in. Her breath hitches. “It’s always ‘just’ something. ‘Just’ this evaluation, ‘just’ this stage, ‘just’ for the teaser. I’m always ‘just’ there, never—”

 

Her voice cracks. She clamps a hand over her mouth.

 

The camera keeps rolling.

 

Jiwoo’s mind races. Stella was quiet yesterday. Now she’s exploding in front of a camera? Too sudden.

 

She swallows.

 

“Okay,” Jiwoo says. She softens her tone. “Stella, I hear you.”

 

A-Na rolls her eyes. “Wow. Leadership 101.”

 

Jiwoo ignores her. She steps closer to Stella, leaving space. “You’re right that line distribution can feel unfair. We don’t control that. What we can control is how we look when they point the camera at us.” She nods toward the lens. “Like now.”

 

Stella sniffles, doesn’t quite meet her eyes.

 

Jiwoo continues, faster. “If you want center, I need you solid. No shaky timing, no second-guessing yourself. Show them you can handle it, and I’ll back you when they ask for feedback. Deal?”

 

Stella’s head jerks up. “You’d… say something?”

 

“If it helps the group, yes.” Jiwoo lets the promise hang. Vague enough to be safe. Concrete enough to be real.

 

Stella wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll try.”

 

“Good.” Jiwoo steps back. “Switch. Stella, center. A-Na, right.”

 

A-Na barks a laugh. “That’s cute. No.”

 

Jiwoo’s patience strains. “What?”

 

“I’m not moving,” A-Na says. She plants her feet. “You don’t just shuffle people around like chess pieces because you’re playing leader for the camera.”

 

Juun inhales, low. “A-Na—”

 

“No, say it,” A-Na snaps. “Jiwoo wants to ‘back’ people? Cool. Who backed me when my chorus went to Carmen last week? When my center got cut because some exec liked another face better?”

 

Jiwoo’s jaw tightens. Instruction number two: someone openly defiant.

 

“A-Na,” Jiwoo says, fighting to keep her tone even, “this isn’t about center in the music video. It’s a timing drill.”

 

“Timing drill my ass,” A-Na says. “Everything’s a test. You think they’re not watching who obeys, who complains, who breaks? Newsflash: complaining gets you cut. Breaking gets you pitied. Obeying gets you used.”

 

“Can we just run it?” Juun says sharply. Her hands tremble now. “We’re wasting time.”

 

Jiwoo looks at her. Juun’s face is too tight, her breathing shallow. She’s near the edge.

 

We don’t intervene.

 

Jiwoo’s heart pounds. She claps again, loud. “Everyone, listen.”

 

The sound slices through the room. Even A-Na startles.

 

Jiwoo points to the floor. “This exercise is about moving as one unit under pressure. Right now, we’re failing. I’m failing. I’m not asking you to trust the company. I’m asking you to trust me—” she looks at A-Na “—for ten minutes.”

 

A-Na hard stares, searching. “And after ten minutes?”

 

“After ten minutes, you can go back to hating me,” Jiwoo shoots back. “But if we tank this, we all look bad. Together. You know that.”

 

Silence stretches. The camera’s red light burns in the corner.

 

Juun’s breath starts to stutter. She presses her fingers to her eyes. “I can’t—if we don’t start, if this goes in my record, my mom—”

 

Her voice breaks completely. Tears spill over.

 

There it is. Breakdown.

 

Jiwoo’s chest aches. They’ve turned her friends into props.

 

She moves to Juun’s side, lowering her voice. “Juun-ah. Look at me.”

 

Juun drags her gaze up.

 

“This isn’t your whole record,” Jiwoo says. “It’s one video. You’ve never missed counts. They know that. Breathe with me. In, four counts. Out, four counts.”

 

She demonstrates. Juun follows, shaky at first, then steadier.

 

Jiwoo lifts her eyes to the mirror. A-Na meets her gaze in the reflection, expression guarded.

 

“Ten minutes,” Jiwoo repeats. “Let’s survive them, then fight later. Okay?”

 

A-Na clicks her tongue, then shoves her hands into her pockets. “Fine. Ten minutes.”

 

Stella nods quickly, eyes still damp. Juun takes one last breath and straightens.

 

Jiwoo turns toward the camera for half a second. She doesn’t speak, but her spine lengthens, chin lifts.

 

“Music,” she says.

 

The staffer hits play. The beat slams into the room.

 

“Five, six, seven, eight,” Jiwoo counts, voice firm, cutting through the sound.

 

Four girls move. Not perfectly. Not harmoniously. But forward.

 

—

 

By the time Min-ji calls her in, Jiwoo’s hair is dry, her T-shirt changed, but her legs still hum.

 

“Come in,” Min-ji says, eyes on her monitor.

 

Jiwoo steps into the office, closes the door softly, then folds her hands in front of her. Her notebook rests under her arm, habit by now.

 

Min-ji clicks something, then turns. “Sit.”

 

Jiwoo perches on the chair again. The same plant droops in the corner. The camera from earlier has been replaced by a laptop on the desk, paused on a frame of four girls in a practice room.

 

Her practice room.

 

Min-ji taps the space bar. The video plays for a few seconds—Stella wiping her eyes, A-Na refusing to move, Juun’s shoulders shaking. Jiwoo hears her own voice: “Ten minutes, then you can go back to hating me.”

 

Min-ji stops the video. “You did well,” she says.

 

Jiwoo’s chest loosens. “I— Thank you.”

 

“Considering the circumstances,” Min-ji adds.

 

The gratitude catches in Jiwoo’s throat. “Was it… bad?”

 

Min-ji leans back, steepling her fingers. “No. Not bad. You kept the group from collapsing. You redirected Stella, stabilized Juun, reframed the situation for A-Na. That shows instinct.”

 

Jiwoo sits a little taller. “Then—”

 

“But.” Min-ji’s gaze sharpens. “Leadership isn’t just crisis management. It’s mindset.”

 

Jiwoo’s fingers tighten around her notebook. “My… mindset?”

 

“You still frame things like a trainee,” Min-ji says. “Not like a leader who understands the system she’s part of.”

 

Jiwoo searches her face. “I don’t understand.”

 

Min-ji reaches for the mouse, rewinds a few seconds, then hits play. Jiwoo hears herself again: “If you want center, I need you solid. No shaky timing, no second-guessing yourself. Show them you can handle it, and I’ll back you when they ask for feedback.”

 

Pause.

 

Min-ji looks up. “That was good. You validated her, then redirected her focus to performance. Very textbook. Trainers will love that.”

 

Jiwoo exhales, relieved.

 

“Then you said this.” Min-ji lets the video run, and then rewind, and rewind. “We don’t control that. We don’t control that. We don’t control that.”

 

She stops the clip. “That,” she says, “is the problem.”

 

Jiwoo blinks. “But… we don’t. Trainees don’t decide line distribution.”

 

Min-ji’s tone stays calm. “True. But saying it that way frames the company as an unpredictable outside force. Something to fear, not to trust. A leader aligns her members with the company’s decisions. She doesn’t plant the idea that those decisions are random or unfair.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to—” Jiwoo starts.

 

“I know,” Min-ji cuts in. “You meant to comfort her. But your language revealed your mindset. You still see yourself as separate from us. Like you and the other girls are on one side, and the company is on the other.”

 

Jiwoo’s pulse spikes. “I… I’m grateful. I don’t think we’re against—”

 

“I believe you.” Min-ji softens her voice. “This isn’t about gratitude. It’s about clarity. The company doesn’t sit around rolling dice to decide who suffers. We make strategic choices. Some people are simply… not as useful for certain positions. That’s not cruelty. That’s allocation.”

 

Jiwoo stares at her notebook. The pen imprints a small groove in the cover under her thumb.

 

“Allocation,” she repeats.

 

Min-ji nods. “Stella’s feelings about line distribution are irrelevant to the goal. Your job is not to entertain debates about fairness. Your job is to keep her productive. If she can’t handle a supporting role, she’s—”

 

Min-ji pauses, choosing the word.

 

“Dead weight?” Jiwoo says quietly.

 

Min-ji’s eyes don’t flicker. “Expendable,” she corrects. “And a leader doesn’t let expendable people drag the whole unit down.”

 

Jiwoo swallows. “I didn’t mean to let her drag us down. I thought—if I acknowledged it, she’d calm down.”

 

“And she did,” Min-ji says. “Which is why you ‘did well considering the circumstances.’” She leans forward. “But a stronger leader would have done it without echoing her doubts. ‘I understand you’re upset, but the company knows how to position us. Our job is to show them they’re right about us, not complain.’ Something like that.”

 

Jiwoo plays the sentence in her head. It sounds smoother. Cleaner. Less messy than “we don’t control that.”

 

“I see,” she says.

 

Min-ji studies her. “Do you?”

 

Jiwoo forces herself to meet her gaze. “I should have reinforced trust in the company. Not… reinforced her feeling that it wasn’t fair.”

 

“Exactly.” Min-ji smiles, small and approving. “You let your own questions bleed into your leadership. I’ve heard you in the dorm. Asking why the twins were cut. Why younger girls keep coming in. Why the schedule is so harsh.”

 

Heat crawls up Jiwoo’s neck. “I was just… trying to understand.”

 

“Understanding is good,” Min-ji says. “Questioning the logic behind every choice is not. That’s how you burn out. That’s how you start thinking the system is the problem instead of your own preparation.”

 

Jiwoo’s stomach twists. “So… this is my fault.”

 

Min-ji doesn’t rush to deny it. “It’s your responsibility,” she says instead. “Which is different. You have potential, Jiwoo-ah. You’re close. But you’re not there yet.”

 

“How do I get there?” Jiwoo asks, voice small but steady.

 

Min-ji sits back. “You accept that not everyone can be saved. Some will buckle. Some will resist. Some will always feel slighted. You can’t carry all of them. You focus on the ones who respond to corrections and align with the narrative, and you keep the others from poisoning the group until the company makes a decision about them.”

 

Jiwoo thinks of Juun’s shaking shoulders. A-Na’s hard stare. Stella’s wet eyes.

 

“Isn’t it my job to… pull them up?” she asks.

 

“No.” Min-ji’s answer is instant. “Your job is to keep the machine running smoothly. The company pulls up who they deem worth the effort. You provide clean data. Today’s video? Mixed.”

 

Jiwoo flinches. “Mixed.”

 

“You showed heart and control,” Min-ji says. “You also showed doubt. That tells us you’re not fully devoted yet. Still divided inside. Still thinking about ‘fair’ instead of ‘effective.’”

 

Devoted.

 

“I am devoted,” Jiwoo says, almost pleading. “I wake up at four. I—”

 

“I know what time you wake up,” Min-ji says quietly. “Devotion isn’t measured in hours; it’s measured in alignment. You work like someone trying to earn our trust. You need to work like someone who already belongs here and is terrified of betraying that trust.”

 

Her lungs tighten. “So I failed.”

 

Min-ji tilts her head. “You learned. Failure would be refusing to adjust.” She closes the laptop. The frozen image of Jiwoo in the practice room disappears. “Next time, when someone complains about fairness, what will you do?”

 

Jiwoo answers without hesitating this time. “I’ll shut it down. Reaffirm the company’s decision. Bring them back to what we can control.”

 

“And if someone can’t keep up?” Min-ji presses.

 

“I… won’t let them slow everyone else,” Jiwoo says. The words scrape her throat. “I’ll give them a chance to adjust, but if they don’t… I’ll prioritize the group.”

 

Min-ji smiles, satisfied. “Good. That’s the mindset of a leader. Not someone begging the system to be kinder, but someone strong enough to implement it.”

 

Jiwoo nods slowly. The shame in her chest shifts, sharpens. Not “they tested us unfairly,” but “I wasn’t strong enough to handle it the right way.”

 

“Can I see the video again?” she asks suddenly.

 

Min-ji raises a brow. “Why?”

 

“So I can take notes on what I did wrong,” Jiwoo says. “And fix it.”

 

Min-ji’s smile widens by a fraction. “Not now. Later. For today, I just wanted you to understand the feedback.”

 

Jiwoo stands. Her legs heavier than when she came in. “Thank you for telling me.”

 

“Thank you for working hard,” Min-ji replies. “Don’t waste the chance the company is giving you. They don’t offer potential leader spots to just anyone.”

 

“I won’t,” Jiwoo says.

 

She bows, then leaves the office. 

 

As she walks, the scene replays in her head. Not A-Na’s defiance, not the staff’s silence, not the light of the camera.

 

Just her own voice saying, We don’t control that.

 

She grits her teeth.

 

Next time, that won’t be true. Next time, she’ll be more disciplined. More aligned. She’ll close the gap between what the company wants and what she is.

 

If she failed today, it’s because she wasn’t devoted enough. That’s something she can fix.

 

—

 

A-Na lies flat on the floor, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. Juun stretches in the corner, counting under her breath. Stella sits cross-legged by the mirror, picking at the tape on her water bottle. Carmen, Yuha, Stella, Ian, and Ye-on cluster near the speakers, trading stories from vocal class.

 

The door swings open. A junior staff member steps in, tablet in hand.

 

“Okay, girls,” she says. “Quick talk before next block.”

 

The room quiets. A-Na doesn’t get up, but she turns her head.

 

“Is this about the hunger games?” she asks.

 

The staffer gives her a tight smile. “About the evaluation, yes.”

 

Stella tenses. Juun’s stretch falters.

 

“You all did your parts,” the staffer says briskly. “Thank you for cooperating with the instructions you were given. Management got what they needed.”

 

“Parts,” A-Na repeats. “Like we’re cast members in the ‘Break Jiwoo’s Spirit Show.’”

 

Carmen frowns. “What instructions?”

 

Yuha leans forward. “We just did regular dance drills.”

 

The staffer checks her tablet. “Only four of you were in the targeted test this round—A-Na, Juun, Stella, and Jiwoo.”

 

“And we all got pulled aside beforehand,” A-Na says. She pushes herself up, sits cross-legged, watching closely. “Except Jiwoo.”

 

Juun’s eyes widen. “Wait.”

 

Stella’s face drains. “So the crying—”

 

“—was requested,” the staffer says, without apology. “Not fake, but prompted. Same with the defiance and line complaints.”

 

A-Na lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Figures.”

 

Ian tilts his head. “What was the point?”

 

The staffer glances around, like checking for other adults. “We’re calibrating for group dynamics,” she says. “Jiwoo is being looked at for leader, so we’re testing how you respond to her.”

 

Silence slams into the room.

 

Carmen’s mouth drops open. “Leader?”

 

Ye-on’s eyes dart to A-Na, then to the door, then back. “Unnie, you knew?”

 

A-Na barks another laugh, sharper this time. “Nope. I just knew we were lab rats. Didn’t know who the lab coat was.”

 

Juun wraps her arms around her knees. “They told us it was about how we handled pressure,” she says quietly. “Not… her.”

 

Stella stares at her hands. “They said I needed to show ‘authentic frustration.’”

 

“And you did great,” the staffer says. “Very convincing. Management noted it.”

 

Stella’s shoulders jerk. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

 

Yuha shifts closer. “So… Jiwoo was the only one who didn’t know it was staged?”

 

The staffer nods. “She believed the situation was organic. That’s how we measure her instincts.”

 

A-Na snorts. “Instincts. Right.”

 

Stella finally looks up. Her eyes shine, but she blinks fast. “She tried to help,” she says. “I could tell she thought I was actually breaking.”

 

“She was supposed to,” the staffer replies. “A leader candidate should attempt stabilization. And she did. There are notes on her approach.”

 

“What kind of notes?” Juun asks. Her voice is too calm.

 

The staffer scrolls on her tablet. “You don’t need all the details,” she says. “Bottom line, the company sees strong potential in Jiwoo. She still has areas to improve—everyone does—but someone like Jiwoo is what we reward.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

Carmen shifts her weight. “Someone like Jiwoo,” she repeats slowly. “Meaning… what? Exactly like?”

 

The staffer shrugs. “Consistent. Obedient. Hard-working. Aligned. She doesn’t waste time second-guessing decisions. She executes.”

 

A-Na’s jaw flexes. “So the rest of us are… what? Practice dummies?”

 

“You’re being evaluated too,” the staffer says. “How you respond to her matters. If you support leadership, it reflects well. If you resist, it says something else.”

 

“Like that we’re ‘dead weight’?” A-Na asks. She smiles without humor. “I can read between the lines.”

 

The staffer doesn’t deny it. “This industry is competitive. The company needs reliable pillars. Jiwoo shows that potential. If you’re smart, you’ll follow her lead instead of fighting it.”

 

Yuha chews her lip. “So we’re graded on how much we… like her?”

 

“On how much you cooperate with her,” the staffer corrects. “No one said you have to like her.”

 

Stella glances at the door, then back. “Will she know?” she asks. “About us being told to… act like that?”

 

“No,” the staffer says. “She doesn’t need that context. It might cloud her thinking. Let her focus on her development. You focus on yours.”

 

Juun flinches. “So she’ll think that’s just… who we are.”

 

“Probably,” the staffer says. “And how she handles that perception is part of the evaluation. Anyway—” she checks the clock “—you’ve got five minutes before the next session. Use the restroom, stretch, hydrate.”

 

She leaves as quickly as she came, door shutting with a soft click.

 

The room stays quiet for a beat.

 

Then Carmen exhales. “Wow.”

 

“Someone like Jiwoo is what we reward,” A-Na mimics under her breath. She spits the words out like they taste bad. “I can’t believe she bought that whole ‘I’m on your side’ act.”

 

“She didn’t know,” Juun says.

 

“Does it matter?” A-Na sits up straighter. “We look like chaos, she looks like stability, they pat her on the head. That’s the tape they’re showing upstairs.”

 

Ye-on toys with her phone case. “She… did try to calm you, though. All of you.”

 

“Yeah, because that’s the assignment she didn’t know she had,” A-Na says. “And we were the props.”

 

Stella’s voice is small. “She promised she’d back me on lines.”

 

Carmen looks at her. “Do you think she will?”

 

Stella hesitates. “I… don’t know.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” A-Na cuts in. “They just told us what actually matters: not how we dance, not how we sing. How much we let them run us through their little experiments without complaining.”

 

Juun hugs her knees tighter. “They told me to panic,” she says. “They didn’t say what it would do to my file. I thought… if I break, they’ll think I’m weak.”

 

Ian leans against the mirror. “Now they know how you break,” she says. “That’s data.”

 

“Stop.” Yuha shivers. “You’re making it worse.”

 

A-Na pushes to her feet, rolling out her shoulders. “Fine,” she says. “New reality: Jiwoo’s their golden girl. We’re the chorus. You can either resent her, or use her.”

 

“Use her how?” Carmen asks.

 

“Stand near her,” A-Na says. “Smile when she talks. ‘Support leadership.’ If they reward her, maybe crumbs fall on us.”

 

Stella rubs her thumb raw against the plastic on her bottle. “And if she messes up…?”

 

“Then she’s a perfect shield,” A-Na says. “Something cracks, they blame the leader, not the background. That’s what leaders are for, right?”

 

Juun closes her eyes. “She’ll destroy herself trying not to crack,” she whispers.

 

No one answers.

 

Outside, the hallway speaker blares the next track. A staff shouts, “Hearts2Hearts, let’s go!”

 

A-Na grabs her towel. “Teacher’s pet or scapegoat,” she mutters, heading for the door. “Either way, they just made sure none of us will ever see her the same again.”

 

Stella stays frozen for a moment, then slowly stands, eyes fixed on the floor—right where Jiwoo usually takes center.

 

—

 

The dorm is quiet enough that Jiwoo can hear the fridge humming.

 

Everyone else is out—late vocal lesson, extra practice, a convenience store run that turned into an excuse to breathe. Jiwoo sits on her bunk with her back against the wall, blanket pulled over her legs, phone in hand.

 

She scrolls past texts from trainees, past practice videos, down to “엄마.”

 

She hesitates for one heartbeat, then taps.

 

The ring tone feels louder at night. Once. Twice. Three times.

 

“여보세요?” Her mother’s voice comes in brisk, already keyed up. “Jiwoo-ya? Why are you calling so late? Is something wrong?”

 

Jiwoo forces her shoulders to relax. “Nothing’s wrong. I just finished practice.”

 

“This late?” A clatter in the background—dishes, or the ancient fan on the kitchen counter. “You sound tired.”

 

“I’m fine,” Jiwoo says automatically. “It’s… a good kind of tired.”

 

She twists the edge of the blanket around her fingers. In her head, Min-ji’s voice loops: You still see yourself as separate from us. Not fully devoted yet.

 

Her mother exhales. “Tell me. Updates. Did they mention the leader position?”

 

Jiwoo bites the inside of her cheek. “They’re… evaluating,” she says carefully. “There was a test today. Group dynamics.”

 

“Test?” Her mother’s tone sharpens. “What kind of test? Did you pass?”

 

Jiwoo laughs once, a short puff. “It’s not like school, Mom. There’s no score. They just watch how I handle things.”

 

“How you handle what?”

 

Stella’s tears, A-Na’s defiant stare, Juun’s shaking hands. Then Min-ji pausing the video, saying, That is the problem.

 

“Conflict,” Jiwoo says. “Pressure. They put me with some of the girls and… made things difficult.”

 

“Made things difficult how?” Her mother presses. “Did they yell? Did anyone touch you?”

 

“No, no,” Jiwoo cuts in quickly. “Nothing like that. It’s… psychological. They want to see if I can keep everyone focused. If I can keep the group aligned with the company.”

 

She hears herself. Aligned with the company. She’s proud she can say it without stumbling now.

 

On the other end, her mother goes quiet for a second. “And? Could you?”

 

Jiwoo thinks of Min-ji’s laptop snapping shut. Mixed.

 

“I did okay,” she says. “Min-ji-ssi said I did well considering the circumstances.”

 

“‘Considering’?” Her mother pounces on the word. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means I can be better,” Jiwoo says. She sits up straighter, as if Min-ji can see her through the phone. “She said my mindset still sounds like a trainee’s. I let my own questions show when I talked to the others. I should’ve been stronger.”

 

Her mother snorts. “Questions. You and your questions. Since you were little, always asking ‘why’ instead of just doing. I told you, this isn't a debate club.”

 

Jiwoo flinches, but she nods even though her mother can’t see. “I know. I know that now.”

 

“What did you question?” her mother demands. “You didn’t say something stupid, did you?”

 

“I…” Jiwoo squeezes the blanket so hard her knuckles pale. “I told one of the girls we don’t control line distribution. That it can feel unfair.”

 

Silence. Then her mother’s voice drops, cold. “You said that on camera?”

 

“Yes,” Jiwoo whispers.

 

“Jiwoo.” Her mother sighs, long and heavy. “Why would you put that in their heads? The company feeds you, houses you, gives you a chance most girls would kill for. And you talk about unfair?”

 

“I wasn’t complaining,” Jiwoo rushes out. “I was trying to comfort her. But Min-ji-ssi said it shows I still see the company as separate. Like something outside us. She said a leader should reinforce trust, not doubt.”

 

Her mother’s tone shifts, sharp to approving. “She’s right. Listen to her. You’re not there to cry with them. You’re there to win. If they feel it’s unfair, they can go home. You can’t.”

 

Jiwoo’s chest tightens. “I know.”

 

“Do you?” her mother pushes. “Because it sounds like you’re still half-soft. You can’t afford that. Not after what we’ve put into you. The loans, part-time jobs, the years I spent on buses to Seoul. Leaders don’t have the luxury of weakness.”

 

“I’m trying,” Jiwoo says. “I really am.”

 

“Trying isn’t enough.” Her mother’s voice cracks, then steadies. “You have to live like the company is always right. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. That’s how you survive long enough to matter.”

 

Jiwoo shuts her eyes. Min-ji’s words overlap with her mother’s: Devotion isn’t measured in hours, it’s measured in alignment.

 

“Min-ji-ssi said almost the same thing,” Jiwoo says. “She said the problem isn’t the system, it’s my preparation. My alignment.”

 

“And she’s right,” her mother says. “If they’re testing you this hard, it means they see something. They don’t waste time on hopeless cases.”

 

Jiwoo’s breath catches. “I thought that too,” she says quickly, wanting to hold onto that thread. “If they’re testing me this hard, it means they believe in me. Right?”

 

“Exactly.” Her mother seizes it. “They’re shaping you. Iron in the fire, Jiwoo-ya. If you bend, they throw you out. If you hold, they make you a sword. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be indispensable?”

 

“Yes,” Jiwoo says. The word comes out fast, almost desperate. “Yes. I want that.”

 

“Then stop worrying about what’s fair,” her mother says. “There’s no fair. There’s win or lose. You think the girls on the poster got there by asking why the others faded? No. They outlasted them.”

 

Her gaze drifts to the crooked Aespa poster she saw in the hallway. She presses her nails into her palm.

 

“So next time you’re in those tests,” her mother continues, “don’t think about who’s sad or tired. Think, ‘What answer do they want from me?’ Give them that. Every time.”

 

Jiwoo nods, swallowing the sting in her eyes. “I will.”

 

“Good,” her mother says. Some of the edge leaves her voice. “Eat properly. Your face looked a little gaunt last video call.”

 

“That’s… good for camera,” Jiwoo says automatically.

 

“Not if you collapse,” her mother snaps. “Find the balance. You know what’s at stake. I’m not scared of hard work, you know that. But I didn’t break my back so you could almost make it.”

 

“You won’t have to,” Jiwoo says. The words a promise and a weight. “I won’t waste it.”

 

“You can call again after evaluations,” her mother says. “With good news. Leader news.”

 

“I’ll do my best,” Jiwoo says.

 

“Not ‘best,’” her mother corrects softly. “Do what it takes.”

 

The line clicks off a minute later after the usual goodbyes.

 

Jiwoo sits there, phone still at her ear, screen gone dark. Min-ji’s feedback and her mother’s words fuse into one voice in her head.

 

Not devoted enough.

 

Not aligned enough.

 

She swings her legs off the bed, feet hitting the cold floor. Her muscles scream, but she bends down anyway, reaching for her sneakers.

 

If they’re testing me this hard, she thinks, lacing them tight, they believe I can be more.

 

The unfairness of the test doesn’t even cross her mind.

 

Only the fact that she wasn’t perfect in it—and that next time, she has to be.

Chapter Text

—

The track cut out mid-chorus.

 

Karina stayed in formation for half a second longer, then dropped her arms and bent over, hands on her knees. Sweat dripped off the ends of her hair.

 

“Again?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

 

“No,” Giselle said immediately, ripping off one of her in-ears. “If I hear ‘work, work, work’ one more time I’m going to kill someone.”

 

Ningning snorted and flopped onto the floor, limbs spread. “Who’s got the winning numbers, unnie?”

 

Winter walked to the speaker and tapped her phone. The opening beat threatened to start again; she jabbed pause and turned to them.

 

“I can’t believe someone got paid to write this,” Giselle went on. “Like, someone clocked in, typed ‘Real bad business, that’s Dirty Work’ and was like, ‘Yup. Art.’”

 

Karina straightened and rolled her shoulders back. “Play nice. Maybe they wrote it as a cry for help.”

 

Ningning raised her hand from the floor. “If that’s a cry for help, then they’re fucked.”

 

Winter bit back a laugh, failing. “The chorus rhymes ‘work’ with ‘work’.”

 

“Welcome to emphasis,” Karina said, deadpan. “We’re not just doing work. We’re doing dirty work. Repetitively. With… passion. Kinda.”

 

“Yeah, my passion is dying,” Giselle said. She paced to the mirror and scowled at her own reflection. “We used to get metaphors. Remember metaphors? You know? Like lyrics that didn’t sound like slogans for gymrats?”

 

“Hey,” Karina said, lifting her water bottle like a toast. “At least we’ll be very relatable to treadmills.”

 

Ningning rolled over, hugging her own bottle. “Can we put that in an interview? ‘This is a song that makes you feel like cardio you didn’t consent to.’”

 

Winter dropped down next to Ningning, stretching her legs out. “They’d edit it to, ‘This is a song that makes you feel.’”

 

Karina laughed, quick and sharp, then cut it off, glancing toward the door. Habit. She took a long drink, buying time, smoothing the annoyance off her face. When she lowered the bottle, she wore that worked up smile that never quite reached her eyes.

 

“Okay,” she said. “The lyrics are… all there. But we’ve survived worse.”

 

Giselle turned, eyebrows up. “Have we?”

 

“That stage where my mic pack died,” Karina said. “That was way worse.”

 

Ningning perked up. “Or that variety show where they made Minjeong-unnie throw a kiss to the camera.”

 

Winter shuddered. “Don’t bring that up. I still wake up at night hearing the MC say, ‘One more time, Winter-ssi.’”

 

Giselle threw her head back. “Fine. We’ve survived worse. But this—” she gestured at the speaker “—this is like they took every criticism we ever had and said, ‘What if… we didn’t fix any of it?’”

 

Karina met her eyes in the mirror. “Then we look good while suffering,” she said. “Call it: glamorous resignation.”

 

Ningning wheezed. “That’s very fancy for something this cheap.”

 

The door clicked open.

 

All four of them turned at once.

 

A staffer in a black SM hoodie stepped in, tablet hugged to her chest. Eyes flicking over the members before settling on Karina.

 

“Karina-ssi,” she said, bowing slightly. “Director Park wants to see you. Just you.”

 

Silence dropped. The air tightened.

 

Winter’s foot stopped mid-stretch. Ningning pushed herself up. Giselle’s jaw clenched.

 

Karina didn’t move for a beat. Neither did her face. Then she exhaled, just enough to pass for a sigh, and nodded.

 

“Got it,” she said. “Probably boring stuff. Don’t wait up.”

 

She walked to her bag, not hurrying, not slowing, towel over one shoulder. She wiped her face then tossed the towel back in.

 

Winter watched her fingers.

 

“Text us,” Ningning said. It came out too fast, then she tacked on, “If it’s… you know. Actually boring.”

 

Karina smiled at her, softer now. “I’ll send you all the thrilling details about budget spreadsheets.”

 

Giselle’s laugh was short and humorless. “Can’t wait.”

 

The staffer stepped aside to let Karina pass. As Karina reached the doorway, she hesitated just long enough to look back.

 

“Run it once more without me,” she said. “Make fun of me in my parts.”

 

Winter gave her a two-finger salute. Ningning tried to smile and almost pulled it off. Giselle didn’t say anything.

 

The door shut behind Karina with a quiet click.

 

For a moment, no one moved.

 

Giselle stared at the door, throat working. Under her breath she said, “Boring stuff is how they separate the herd.”

 

Winter heard her. So did Ningning.

 

The latter let out the breath she’d been holding and sat back down. “You know she’s not the one holding the cattle prod, right?”

 

Giselle tore her eyes from the door. “Did I say she was?”

 

“You implied,” Ningning said. “Like, bold font implied.”

 

Winter stood and walked to the speaker, thumb hovering over the play button, then dropping. “We should… stretch,” she said weakly.

 

No one moved.

 

Giselle tossed her water bottle into her bag. “I’m not calling Karina the enemy. I’m saying they know exactly who to pull when they want things to go down smoothly.”

 

Ningning frowned. “She didn’t write the schedule.”

 

“No,” Giselle said. “She just gets it handed to her first, again.”

 

Winter dragged a hand through her hair, pulling it into a messy ponytail. “We’re not doing this,” she said. “Not again.”

 

“Yes, we are,” Giselle shot back. “Because every time someone knocks on that door for ‘just Karina,’ something bad happens to us later.”

 

Ningning hugged her knees to her chest. “We also get paid for it,” she said. “We still share the same bank account, unnie.”

 

“That’s not the point.”

 

“Then what is?” Ningning’s voice sharpened. “That she should refuse? You want her to say, ‘No thanks, Director Park, I prefer my slow fade unsupervised’?”

 

Winter’s mouth twitched. She tried to hide it, but failed. “That would go viral though,” she muttered.

 

Giselle paced to the mirror and back. Her socks slid on the floor; she caught herself with a hand on the wall, swearing under her breath. “The point is,” she said, “they know she’s the most level-headed of us. They use that. They put everything on her first because she doesn’t crack. Then they can tell us, ‘See? She gets it.’”

 

Ningning stared at the door again, softer. “She doesn’t ‘understand,’ she adapts. Two different verbs.”

 

“Same result,” Giselle said.

 

“No,” Ningning said. She dropped her feet and stood. “If they told me half the stuff they tell her, I’d start crying. Winter-unnie would start overthinking. You would start shouting. She… doesn’t.”

 

Winter closed her eyes for a second, then opened them. “Look,” she said, voice calm but strained, “we don’t know what this is. It could be about the comeback. It could be about a brand deal. It could be—”

 

“About our funeral,” Giselle said.

 

“Unnie.” Winter shot her a warning look.

 

Giselle raised her hands. “Fine. Our ‘extended vacation.’”

 

Ningning’s mouth twitched. “We’re not important enough for a funeral.”

 

Winter sighed. “My point is, if we spiral now and it turns out to be ‘choose between two outfits,’ we’re going to feel stupid.”

 

Giselle blinked. “You think they called her in to talk about sequins?”

 

“I said could,” Winter said. “Not did.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Just… let’s wait. Give it an hour before we call it war on them.”

 

Ningning nodded quickly. “Yeah. I vote to postpone the group meltdown.”

 

Giselle stared at both of them. “You two are acting like we haven’t been here before.”

 

“We have,” Winter said quietly. “And we’re still here. That still counts.”

 

“Does it?” Giselle asked.

 

Ningning crossed the room and bumped Giselle’s shoulder with hers. “If she was really the enemy,” Ningning said, “she wouldn’t be the one staying up until 3 a.m. rewriting fan letters because the company translations sucked.”

 

Giselle looked away. “Once.”

 

“Thrice,” Ningning said. “And she rewrote yours too when you got stuck after ‘Thank you for supporting me even though—’” She mimicked Giselle’s tone.

 

Giselle’s ears went red. “I didn’t sleep well that day.”

 

Winter leaned against the wall. “Ning’s right about one thing,” she said. “We can’t keep treating Karina-unnie like she’s… on the other side.”

 

Giselle’s jaw tightened. “I don’t. I treat her like she’s in the middle.”

 

“But leaning towards them,” Ningning said quietly.

 

The room went still.

 

Winter pushed off the wall and clapped once, too loudly. “Okay,” she said. “Track on. Run it without her. She told us to, and if she comes back and we’re still arguing, she’s going to prove their point and it’s actually going to be our fault.”

 

Ningning groaned. “Wonderful.”

 

Giselle hesitated, then walked to her mark. “If she comes back with news that we’re headlining some festival, I’m going to print this conversation and eat it,” she said.

 

Winter hit play. The beat slammed back into the room, cheap and relentless.

 

“Work, work, work—”

 

Giselle made a face and started the choreo anyway. “If we’re making a fuss out of nothing,” she shouted over the track, “I reserve the right to complain about that too.”

 

Ningning laughed, moving in sync. “Deal.”

 

Winter slid into her part, counting under her breath. “Just… wait it out,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Please let this be nothing.”

 

—

 

“…If it keeps the peace in the group, I’ll talk to them,” Karina said.

 

They stood in the hallway outside Director Park’s office, the door already closed behind them.

 

“Good,” he said, relief obvious. “We knew we could count on you to keep them professional about the comeback.”

 

Karina’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag. Professional. She nodded once. “I’ll handle it.”

 

“Just frame it as a challenge,” he went on. “Concept shift. Growth. You know the drill.”

 

“I know,” she said.

 

He offered a quick smile, already half-turned away. “You always do.”

 

He walked off toward the elevators, tapping something into his tablet.

 

Karina exhaled slowly, then shook her shoulders out like she could dislodge the last fifteen minutes. Talking points lined up in her head—phrases Director Park liked, words like “trust” and “big picture” and “phase.”

 

She turned the corner toward the practice rooms.

 

Giselle, Winter, and Ningning were clustered outside the studio, backs against the wall, sitting on the floor like they’d just collapsed there.

 

Three heads snapped up at once when they saw her.

 

“You’re alive,” Ningning said. “Good. I told them they weren’t going to turn you into a cyborg.”

 

Winter elbowed her lightly.

 

Karina forced a small smile and quickened her pace. “Sorry,” she said. “Took longer than I thought.”

 

Giselle pushed herself to her feet. “So,” she said, brushing off her sweatpants, eyes sharp. “How boring was it?”

 

Karina stopped a few steps away. She kept her expression neutral, Aespa’s leader shining through. “Just… comeback stuff,” she said. “Scheduling. Concept talk. You know.”

 

Winter stood too, slower, watching Karina’s face more than listening. Ningning stayed on the floor, gaze flicking between all three of them.

 

“Did they finally realize the lyrics read like bathroom instructions?” Giselle asked.

 

Karina’s laugh came out thin. “Not exactly.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ningning asked.

 

Karina shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “They just want us to stay focused,” she said. “Be united. No… drama. You know how, like every comeback.”

 

Giselle, Winter, and Ningning exchanged a quick look over her shoulder. It lasted less than a second.

 

Winter cleared her throat. “They said something specific?”

 

“Specific-ish,” Karina said. She picked at the edge of her wristband, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before she pulled them back up. “They’re worried about… attitude. Noise. They want us to be ‘positive’ about the song.” She added air quotes with one hand.

 

Giselle’s mouth flattened. “Translation: ‘Don’t complain where anyone can hear you.’”

 

Karina didn’t deny it. “They don’t want any internal tension right now,” she said instead. “They’re expecting questions about the direction. About, um… the sound.”

 

“The sound,” Ningning repeated, deadpan. “You mean the sound of us playing to work nine to five.”

 

Winter bit back a smile. “Ning.”

 

“What?” Ningning said. “I’m being positive. I didn’t say it was something bad.”

 

Giselle watched Karina. “So they sent you to tell us to shut up and smile,” she said. “Because we trust you.”

 

Karina met her gaze. For a moment, she let the mask slip just a fraction—enough for exhaustion to peek through.

 

“They sent me,” she said quietly, “because if they said it themselves, we’d take it worse.”

 

Karina rolled her shoulders, resetting. “Look. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. They love the track. They think it’s catchy and ‘global’ and they’re not changing it. At all. So our options are: we fight the immovable wall, or we make the wall look good and get through this intact.”

 

Giselle crossed her arms. “And by ‘intact’ they mean…?”

 

“In good shape,” Karina said. “Together. Not benched. Not sidelined. That’s what I care about.”

 

Winter studied her. “They said something about being sidelined?”

 

Karina hesitated a heartbeat too long. “They said there’s a lot of attention on other projects right now,” she admitted. “That we need to prove we’re still ‘on top of our game.’ Their words, not mine.”

 

Ningning made a face. “Prime,” she muttered. “We should come with a battery percentage.”

 

“Mine’s at eight,” Giselle said.

 

Karina huffed a quick laugh, then sobered. “I know, it sucks,” she said. “I hate the lyrics too. But if we start dragging it publicly, they’ll use it against us. ‘Unprofessional.’ ‘Difficult.’.”

 

Giselle tapped her foot. “So what exactly are you asking us to do?”

 

Karina met each of their eyes in turn. “Be honest with each other,” she said. “Fake it for everyone else. Get through promotions without giving them an excuse to write us off.”

 

She didn’t add: more than they already are.

 

Winter nodded slowly. Ningning sighed and pushed herself up. Giselle looked away, jaw tight.

 

“Fine,” Giselle said. “But if this blows up in our faces, I’m saying ‘I told you so’.”

 

Karina’s smile was small, but real. “Deal,” she said. “If we get an encore, you can say whatever you want.”

Chapter Text

—

“Leader to leader,” the PR rep said, tapping her tablet like the phrase itself was a bullet point.

 

Irene sat at the end of the table, hands folded, back straight. Across from her, three people in varying shades of black.

 

“Like with Karina-ssi before Aespa’s debut,” the rep went on. “It got great media traction. Senior passes the torch, you know?”

 

“You mean the video where I told her to eat and sleep and they cut everything except ‘work hard and trust the company’?” Irene asked.

 

The rep’s smile tightened. “It tested very well with fans.”

 

“I’m sure it did,” Irene said.

 

Another staffer leaned forward. “We want to recreate that moment with Hearts2Hearts,” she said. “You meet their leader, Choi Jiwoo. Give advice. Talk about pressure, teamwork, longevity. Very ‘sisterly.’” She made air quotes.

 

Irene raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already decided she’s the leader?”

 

A pause, brief but noticeable. “She’s the frontrunner,” he said. “It’s not confirmed, but she’s who we’re building around.”

 

“So the ‘leader to leader’ part is hypothetical,” Irene said. “Cute.”

 

The junior rep jumped in. “It frames Hearts2Hearts as the next generation. A natural progression. Red Velvet, Aespa, now them. You passing on your legacy—”

 

“My legacy,” Irene repeated, tasting the word. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

 

Kim’s smile didn’t slip. “The public does.”

 

Irene drummed her fingers once on the table, then stopped. “If this is a next-generation thing,” she said, “why isn’t Karina doing it?”

 

Three sets of eyes blinked at her.

 

“We considered that,” Kim said carefully. “But… there’s concern about mixed messaging.”

 

“Mixed how?” Irene asked. “She’s the one they actually listen to right now. Kids don’t debut because a woman in her thirties tells them to hydrate.”

 

“That’s exactly why we want you,” the junior rep said quickly. “You represent stability. History. You’re… iconic.” She winced slightly at the word choice.

 

Irene leaned back in her chair, expression flat. “Translation: I’m no longer competing for their budget.”

 

No one agreed out loud, but no one denied it either.

 

Kim cleared her throat. “There are rumors about Aespa’s future,” she said. “We don’t want the public to read anything into Karina welcoming a new girl group. Comparisons, speculation about replacement… You understand.”

 

“I understand you’re already replacing them,” Irene said. “You just don’t want the hashtag.”

 

The junior rep shifted in her seat. “Sunbaenim…”

 

“I’ll do it,” Irene cut in.

 

They blinked again.

 

“You will?” Kim asked, surprised.

 

Irene nodded once. “Sure. Sit with the kid. Smile. Say something wise about teamwork.” Her mouth twitched. “You’re going to script it anyway.”

 

“We’ll prepare some key talking points,” Kim said, relief spreading. “But of course, we trust your judgment. You always know what to say.”

 

“That’s not true,” Irene said. “I just say it slowly so you think it is.”

 

The junior rep laughed a little too loudly, then coughed. “We can film it as a short content piece,” she said. “‘Irene’s Advice to a Rookie Leader.’ Post it across platforms. It positions you as—”

 

“A museum exhibit,” Irene supplied. “Do I get a plaque?”

 

Kim chose to ignore that. “We’re scheduling Hearts2Hearts’ next practice room shoot for Thursday,” she said instead. “Could you join us then? Just a quick visit. We’ll pull Jiwoo out for fifteen, twenty minutes.”

 

“Thursday,” Irene repeated. “That’s the day Aespa’s doing the second choreography shoot, isn’t it?”

 

Another tiny silence.

 

“Yes,” Kim said finally. “Which is another reason it’s better if it’s you, not Karina. We don’t want to disrupt their filming.”

 

Irene let that sit. “Of course,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt anything.”

 

She reached for the bottle of water in front of her, twisted the cap off, and took a sip.

 

“What’s she like?” Irene asked. “Jiwoo.”

 

“Hardworking,” the junior rep said immediately. “Very respectful. Perfectionist. She idolizes you and Taeyeon-ssi.”

 

“Of course she does,” Irene said. “You showed her all the right clips.”

 

Kim brightened. “Exactly. This will mean a lot to her.”

 

“It’ll mean something,” Irene said. “Whether that’s good or not depends on what you cut it down to.”

 

“We’ll send the draft to your team for approval,” Kim said smoothly. “We want you to be comfortable.”

 

Irene smiled without humor. “Comfortable,” she echoed. “In a ‘passing the torch’ video while my own group is…” She searched for a word that wasn’t ‘fading.’ “…resting.”

 

Kim folded her hands. “We’re keeping Red Velvet’s legacy alive,” she said. “This conversation is part of that.”

 

Irene capped the water again. “Legacy, torch, next generation,” she said. “You’ve been busy with the thesaurus.”

 

“We’re just doing our jobs,” Kim said.

 

“So am I,” Irene replied. “Send me the time and place.”

 

She stood. The chair’s legs scraped softly against the floor.

 

As she headed for the door, the junior rep called after her, “Sunbaenim, we really appreciate you doing this for Jiwoo.”

 

Irene didn’t look back. “I’m not doing it for Jiwoo,” she said. “I’m doing it so when she realizes what this place really is, she remembers at least one person looked her in the eye first.”

 

—

 

Traffic crawled on the Olympic Expressway, cars packed nose to bumper. Irene’s navigation system giving directions she didn’t need; muscle memory would drive her to SM.

 

She drummed her fingers on the wheel, then stopped when she realized she was matching the radio jingle. She shut it off. 

 

“Jiwoo idolizes you and Taeyeon-ssi.”

 

The PR girl’s voice replayed in her head. Idolizes. She snorted under her breath.

 

She used to idolize someone too.

 

The memory slid in before she could stop it.

 

Practice room. The old Cheongdam building, smaller mirrors, worse lighting. Her lungs burning, legs shaking from running the same chorus for the ninth time. The door opened mid-count.

 

Taeyeon walked in in a hoodie and a mask, hair tucked under a beanie, a staff member trailing behind her. She was shorter than Irene had expected. That’s what Irene remembered most—how someone that small could feel that big.

 

“Keep going,” the trainer had said. “Don’t stop just because she’s here.”

 

As if Irene could have. She’d never danced harder in her life.

 

Taeyeon had taken off her mask and smiled, small, tired. “You’re good,” she’d said afterward, voice quiet but clear. “Don’t rush yourself.”

 

Irene had bowed so fast she almost smacked her forehead on her knees.

 

“I— I watch everything you do,” she’d blurted. “I mean— all your stages. I— I want to be like you.”

 

Taeyeon’s eyes had softened. “Don’t,” she’d said.

 

It stunned her. “What?”

 

“Don’t try to be me,” Taeyeon had said. “They already have one of me. Be… whatever you are. It’s cheaper for them that way.”

 

The trainer had laughed like it was a joke. Irene hadn’t understood it then.

 

A horn blared.

 

Irene jerked back to the present—the car ahead had stopped dead. She stomped on the brakes. Her seatbelt locked, biting into her collarbone. The hood of her car stopped an arm’s length from the bumper in front.

 

“Shit,” she hissed.

 

The driver behind her laid into their horn. She raised a hand in the mirror, then forced both hands back to ten and two.

 

Heart hammering, she stared at the license plate in front of her until it stopped doubling.

 

“Pay attention,” she muttered to herself.

 

Her fingers shook once, then stilled. She rolled her shoulders against the seat, loosening muscles she hadn’t realized she’d tensed.

 

The navigation system spoke again. “In eight hundred meters, keep right.”

 

She exhaled, a short, humorless laugh. “I know,” she told the dashboard. “I’ve been keeping right for ten years.”

 

The memory didn’t leave. It shifted, jumped ahead—music show hallway, years later. Irene already debuted, hair sprayed, makeup thick, hands cold inside warm sleeves.

 

Taeyeon passed her, pausing just long enough to squeeze her arm. “You’re doing well,” Taeyeon had said. “Are you… okay?”

 

Irene remembered nodding. “I’m fine, sunbaenim.”

 

Taeyeon looked like she didn’t quite believe her. Like she’d heard that answer before.

 

Another honk snapped her back; the cars moved again. Irene eased forward, eyes fixed on the road this time.

 

The steering wheel felt rough under her palms. She tightened her grip.

 

Wide-eyed girls didn’t see the cracks. They saw lights and award shows. The Taeyeon she worshiped had been a poster, not a person.

 

Jiwoo would walk into the meeting with that same poster in her head—only now Irene’s face was taped next to it.

 

“Leader to leader,” PR had said.

 

Legacy. Torch. Next generation.

 

She checked her blind spot, then changed lanes.

 

For a moment, she imagined yanking the wheel, taking the next exit, driving anywhere but to that building. Turning off her phone. Not showing up.

 

It lasted one second.

 

Then she pictured Jiwoo in the hallway, nervously straightening her shirt, told for days that Irene senior is coming, cameras ready, staff whispering, “Don’t be awkward. This is important.”

 

She sighed.

 

“You’re not Taeyeon,” she told her reflection. “But she’s still you.”

 

The light ahead turned red. She slowed, this time before the car in front needed to remind her.

 

On the sidewalk, a group of schoolgirls walked past, one of them wearing a Red Velvet backpack charm faded from too many washes. Irene’s chest pinched.

 

The navigation pinged. “Turn right in two hundred meters.”

 

She signaled, merged, and finally saw the SM building rise into view.

 

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. A message from her manager flashed on the screen.

 

[Today: just be warm. Remember the cameras.]

 

She snorted softly and put the phone face down.

 

“Warm,” she repeated, pulling into the parking garage. “Right.”

 

She killed the engine and sat for a beat inside the car. Then she unbuckled, grabbed her mask, and stepped out.

 

Time to go be somebody’s poster.

 

—

 

Irene sat on a folding chair by the wall, mic clipped to her collar. 

 

“Jiwoo-ssi is on her way,” a PR staffer murmured. “She’s a little nervous.”

 

“Great,” Irene said mildly. “Being paraded in front of strangers for content is so relaxing.”

 

The staffer gave a strained laugh and backed away.

 

The door opened.

 

Jiwoo stepped in, almost tripping over the threshold. Ponytail tight, training shirt tucked, eyes already wide before they got wider at the sight of Irene.

 

“Annyeonghaseyo, Choi Jiwoo-imnida!” she blurted, bowing again. “It’s an honor, sunbaenim.”

 

For half a second, Irene saw herself—same stiff shoulders, same too-deep bow, same frantic politeness stretching every syllable.

 

She got to her feet. “If you bow any lower, you’re going to headbutt the mirror,”

 

Jiwoo snapped upright so fast her ponytail bounced. “Sorry!”

 

“It was a joke,” Irene said. “I do those sometimes.”

 

“Oh.” Jiwoo’s mouth twitched like she’d been given a math problem. “Yes, sunbaenim.”

 

“Don’t call me sunbaenim every sentence,” Irene added. “Makes me feel old.”

 

Jiwoo froze, recalibrating. “I— Yes… un—” She aborted mid-word, panicked. “I mean… Irene-ssi.”

 

“That’s worse,” Irene said. “Just… talk like you won’t get graded on it.”

 

Jiwoo gave a tiny, strained laugh. “I’m… not sure how to do that.”

 

“Fair,” Irene said.

 

PR clapped once. “Let’s start! We’ll roll as you sit and talk. Natural vibe.”

 

“Nothing says ‘natural’ like three cameras,” Irene muttered.

 

They sat—chairs angled just so, knees almost facing each other. A ring light glared from the side. 

 

“Ready?” a cameraman asked.

 

“Ready,” Irene said.

 

Jiwoo said, “Yes!” a beat too loud.

 

“Rolling. And… cue.”

 

Irene turned slightly toward Jiwoo, slipping on the gentle smile she’d perfected over a decade. “Hi, Jiwoo-ssi,” she started. “We finally meet.”

 

Jiwoo straightened even more, if that was physically possible. “Yes, it’s—it’s such an honor to meet you. I’ve admired you since I was in middle school.”

 

There it was. The line.

 

“What year?” Irene asked, lightly.

 

“Ah— 2015,” Jiwoo said. “When ‘Ice Cream Cake’ came out.”

 

Irene smiled for the camera. “So you liked my blonde era,” she said. “Interesting choice.”

 

Jiwoo let out a quick, obedient giggle. “You looked so cool. I remember thinking, ‘I want to be exactly like that.’”

 

Exactly like that.

 

Irene’s brain slid sideways for a heartbeat— Taeyeon in that beanie, the same sentence falling out of her own mouth.

 

PR nodded encouragingly from behind the camera. “Maybe you can share some advice, Irene-ssi,” she prompted.

 

“Sure,” Irene said automatically.

 

She turned back to Jiwoo. Her eyes shone, pupils a little too large. Sweat clung to her hairline. Her posture screamed: Pick me. Approve me. Tell me how to survive this.

 

“So,” Irene said, “you’re… the leader candidate, right?”

 

Jiwoo’s shoulders twitched. “I— I don’t know yet,” she said quickly. “Nothing’s confirmed. I’m just… trying to do my best in the position they give me.” It came out smooth, automatic. Company-speak.

 

Irene heard her own voice echo through it. I’m grateful for any opportunity. I’ll work hard no matter what.

 

“What’s the hardest part so far?” Irene asked.

 

Jiwoo inhaled. “Um… balancing everything?” she said. “Vocals, dance, leadership, monitoring the members, managing my own emotions so I don’t cause trouble—”

 

Don’t cause trouble. Don’t be a burden.

 

“—and making sure I live up to the company’s expectations,” Jiwoo finished. “They’ve invested so much. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

 

She’d said that to Taeyeon too. Almost word for word. Except she’d added her parents. Her mother’s face. She’d promised everyone she wouldn’t waste this chance.

 

Irene nodded slowly, but the room blurred at the edges. Jiwoo’s voice tangled with younger Irene’s.

 

I know it’s hard, but I’ll never complain. I’m just grateful to be here.

 

She’d meant it then. Believed it so deeply it almost felt like love.

 

“…so I always remind myself that if I just work harder than everyone else, everything will be okay,” Jiwoo was saying, nodding as if to convince herself. “The company knows what’s best, so I just have to follow their direction and not… waver.”

 

Follow. Don’t waver. Trust. Trust. Trust.

 

Taeyeon’s voice overlapped. It’s cheaper for them that way.

 

“Irene-ssi?” PR’s voice cut in gently. “Maybe you can respond to that?”

 

She realized she’d been staring at Jiwoo a second too long, smile gone, expression naked.

 

Jiwoo shifted, worried. “Did I… say something wrong?”

 

Irene blinked, forced her features back into place.

 

“No,” she said. “You just reminded me of… someone I used to know.”

 

“Ah…” Jiwoo gave another dutiful smile. “A sunbaenim?”

 

Myself.

 

“Something like that,” Irene said.

Chapter Text

Jiwoo slammed the door.

 

Carmen and Yuha had gone somewhere—dinner, probably. Didn’t ask. Didn’t care.

 

She pressed her back against the door and slid down until she hit the floor.

 

She knew.

 

Irene had looked at her and saw something. Not the polished trainee. Not the future leader. Something else. Something underneath.

 

Jiwoo's hands shook.

 

"Trust the company," she whispered, mocking her own voice. "Work harder than everyone else. Don't cause trouble."

 

She'd sounded like a robot. A puppet with someone's hand shoved up her back.

 

And Irene's smile had flickered. Just for a second. Just long enough.

 

Jiwoo pushed herself up and paced the space between the bunks. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn.

 

What did she see?

 

The question clawed at her.

 

You're faking it.

 

No.

 

You don't actually believe any of it.

 

She believed it. She had to believe it. The company chose her. Min-ji said—

 

She says a lot of things.

 

Jiwoo stopped pacing. Her reflection staring back. Hollow eyes. Chapped lips. Hair scraped back so tight her scalp ached.

 

"You looked pathetic," she told the reflection. "Pathetic, desperate and obvious."

 

Her reflection didn't argue.

 

The leader position isn't optional, Jiwoo-ah.

 

A-Na's smirk in practice. Teacher's pet.

 

Irene seeing right through the pleasantries.

 

Her fist connected with the wall before she realized she'd swung.

 

She gasped, cradled her hand against her chest, and the skin split across her knuckles. The blood welled up.

 

"Stupid," she hissed. "Stupid, stupid—"

 

She couldn't injure her hand. She had an evaluation in two days. If she couldn't dance—

 

Then they'll cut you. Just like the twins.

 

Jiwoo stumbled to the sink and shoved her hand under water. 

 

The sting made her eyes water.

 

"Get it together," she ordered herself. "Get it together."

 

The door swung open.

 

Jiwoo spun around, shoving her hand behind her back. Water dripped down her wrist.

 

A-Na stood in the doorway. Her eyes dropped to the red smear on the wall. Then to Jiwoo's face. Then to the arm twisted awkwardly behind her back.

 

"What happened?"

 

"Nothing." Jiwoo's voice came out too fast. "I slipped."

 

"Into the wall? With your fist?"

 

"It's none of your business."

 

A-Na stepped inside and closed the door. She didn't turn on the lights. The room stayed dim, lit only by the glow seeping under the door.

 

"Show me your hand."

 

"No."

 

"Jiwoo-ssi."

 

"I said no."

 

A-Na crossed the room in three quick strides. Jiwoo backed up until her shoulders hit the window. Nowhere left to go.

 

"Show me," A-Na repeated. "Or I’ll tell everyone you're having some kind of breakdown."

 

"You wouldn't."

 

"Try me."

 

They stared at each other. Jiwoo's hand throbbed behind her back. Blood trickled between her fingers.

 

She pulled her hand out.

 

A-Na looked at Jiwoo’s knuckles. The swelling had already started. The way Jiwoo's fingers trembled.

 

"Okay," A-Na said quietly. "That's bad."

 

"It's fine."

 

"You can't dance with that."

 

"I said it's fine."

 

A-Na grabbed Jiwoo's wrist and dragged her toward the sink. Jiwoo tried to pull away, but A-Na's grip was iron.

 

"Stop fighting me for five seconds."

 

"Why do you care?" Jiwoo's voice cracked. She hated the sound of it. "You hate me. You think I'm a naive idiot who bought into the company's lies. So why—"

 

"Because if you can't dance, they'll cut you." A-Na shoved Jiwoo's hand under the faucet and turned on the water. "And if they cut you, they'll need a new scapegoat."

 

The cold water hit Jiwoo's knuckles. She sucked in a breath.

 

"Scapegoat," she repeated.

 

"That's what leaders are. You didn't know?" A-Na's laugh was hollow. "When things go wrong, management needs someone to blame. Someone who isn't them. Congratulations."

 

"Fuck you."

 

"Ask your friend Irene how it works."

 

Jiwoo yanked her hand free. Water splattered across the floor.

 

"She's not my friend. I met her once. For a stupid PR segment that—"

 

She stopped.

 

A-Na raised an eyebrow. "That what?"

 

That made me feel like a fraud. That made me realize everyone can see through me. That made me want to tear my own skin off and become someone else entirely.

 

"Forget it."

 

Jiwoo turned away, cradling her hand against her chest. She needed A-Na to leave. Needed to be alone. Needed to—

 

A-Na grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

 

"No." A-Na's face was inches from hers now. "You don't get to drop something like that and then shut down."

 

"Let me go."

 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

 

Jiwoo's chest seized.

 

"Nothing's wrong with me!" The words tore out before she could stop them. "That's the problem!"

 

A-Na's eyes narrowed. Her grip tightened on Jiwoo's shoulder.

 

"Oh, I get it." A-Na's voice dripped acid. "You think you're perfect because you don't act the way we do, right? You look at us like—" She mimicked Jiwoo's posture, chin lifted, eyes cold. "Pfft. Rookies."

 

Jiwoo opened her mouth to deny it.

 

Nothing came out.

 

Because she had looked at them like that. A-Na's complaints. Stella's whining. Juun's panic attacks. She'd watched them crack under pressure and felt—

 

Superior.

Not because she was stronger. Not because she handled it better.

 

Because she didn't feel anything at all.

 

"You can't even deny it." A-Na laughed. "Unbelievable."

 

"You don't understand."

 

"Then explain it to me, leader." A-Na shoved her backward. Jiwoo's spine hit the window frame. "Explain why you walk around like you're above all of this. Like we're insects and you're—"

 

"Because I'm empty!"

 

The word echoed in the small room.

 

A-Na froze.

 

Jiwoo's breathing came ragged now. Her injured hand throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She couldn't stop. Couldn't shove the words back down.

 

"You think I look at you like that because I think I'm better? I look at you like that because you feel things. You get angry. You get scared. You fight back." Her voice cracked. "I don't. I just—perform. Every single second. And I don't know how to stop."

 

"That's—"

 

"I watched you scream at the trainers last week. You know what I felt? Envy. Because you could do that. Because something inside you is still alive enough to be angry."

 

A-Na's jaw worked. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

 

"So what? You want me to feel sorry for you now?"

 

Something snapped inside Jiwoo's chest.

 

"How about you try!?"

 

The words came out raw. Desperate. Nothing like the controlled tone she'd spent years perfecting.

 

A-Na recoiled like she'd been struck.

 

Jiwoo pressed forward. "You blame me for looking down on everyone when everyone looks down on me."

 

"And with good reason!"

 

"Is there any reason good enough to hate someone?"

 

The question hung between them. Heavy. Suffocating.

 

A-Na's expression flickered. For half a second, Jiwoo thought she saw something crack in that wall of contempt.

 

Then A-Na's eyes narrowed.

 

"Did you have a good reason to look down on us?"

 

Jiwoo's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

 

Did she?

 

She thought about watching Stella cry after evaluations. Juun's trembling hands before every practice.

 

She'd seen all of it. Catalogued it. Filed it away under "weaknesses to avoid."

 

Never once had she thought—

 

They're suffering too.

 

"I..."

 

"That's what I thought."

 

A-Na's foot connected with Jiwoo's chest.

 

The impact drove the air from her lungs. She stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling, and crashed into the window. The glass rattled in its frame. Pain exploded across her shoulder blades.

 

She slid down the wall and hit the floor hard.

 

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare up at A-Na standing over her, chest heaving, face twisted with something beyond anger.

 

Hurt.

 

"You want to talk about reasons?" A-Na's voice shook. "My sister trained for six years. Six years. She gave everything. Her health. Her education. Her entire life. And they cut her three weeks before debut because some executive decided the group needed a different 'visual balance.'"

 

Jiwoo pressed a hand against her sternum. Drew a ragged breath.

 

"A-Na—"

 

"She tried to kill herself."

 

The words landed like stones in still water.

 

"She's okay now. Mostly. But she'll never be the same." A-Na crouched down, bringing her face level with Jiwoo's. "And you walk around here acting like you're owed this. Like your suffering is special. Like the rest of us are just obstacles in your way."

 

"I didn't know about your sister."

 

"You never asked."

 

Jiwoo had no response to that.

 

A-Na stood. Walked to the door. Stopped with her hand on the handle.

 

"Is there any reason good enough to hate someone?" She didn't turn around. "Maybe not. But there's plenty of reasons to stop caring whether they survive."

 

The door opened.

 

"A-Na."

 

"What?"

 

Jiwoo pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her chest ached. Her hand throbbed. Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed.

 

"I'm sorry about your sister."

 

A-Na's shoulders tensed.

 

"Save it for someone who believes you."

 

The door slammed shut.

Chapter Text

—
Giselle slumped against the wall of the booth, headphones sliding off one ear.

Jun-ho didn't look up from the mixing board. "We need that second verse again."

"Which part?"

"The mafia line."

She closed her eyes. "Of course we do."

"Giselle."

"I know, I know." She straightened, repositioned the headphones, waited for the count-in.

The track kicked in—synths, bass. She hit her cue.

"I'm not an it girl, more like a hit girl—"

She stopped.

Jun-ho's fingers hovered over the keyboard. He exhaled slowly through his nose.

Giselle yanked the headphones down around her neck. "I can't do this."

"You were doing fine."

"Fine?" She laughed, sharp and humorless. "What am I? Skibidi toilet?"

He rubbed his temples. "It's not my song."

"I know it's not your song." She gestured at the lyric sheet. "Mafia ties going back to the old world? What does that even mean?"

"It's meant to be edgy."

"It's cringe." She kicked the stool. It scraped across the floor. "They gave us a concept from 2016 and lyrics a middle schooler would write."

Jun-ho leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You done?"

"No. The chorus—'real bad business'—we repeat it, what, fifteen times? And then we're told to 'drop it low' like we're backup dancers at a club."

"Giselle."

"Don't 'Giselle' me. You hate this too. I see it on your face every time you hit play."

He didn't argue. Just stared at the waveform on his screen.

She slumped against the booth again. "When did they decide we weren't worth the effort anymore?"

Jun-ho looked up. His expression softened, just slightly. "This isn't about effort."

"Then what?"

He hesitated. "You know what."

She did. So did he.

Jun-ho leaned forward, clicked something. "Look. I get it. But we still have another hour to go."

Giselle tilted her head. "Is this your way of saying I get to complain for another hour?"

"It's my way of saying we have another hour to get this done."

"Same thing."

He almost smiled. "From the bridge. The 'drop it low' section."

She groaned. "I hate you."

"I'm doing my job." He queued the track. "Quit stalling."

The music started. Giselle shifted her weight, found her breath, delivered the line. "Drop it low, low, low, low, low, low—"

Jun-ho stopped the playback.

"What now?"

"You're phoning it in."

"I thought we established I hate this song."

"Hating it and half-assing it are different things." He crossed his arms. "If you're going to suffer through it, at least make it sound good."

Giselle pulled off the headphones again. "You want me to sell a line about dropping it low with conviction?"

"I want you to do it like you've always done it. Like you did with Spicy, like you did with Black Mamba. You get what I mean."

"No. Actually, I don't."

Jun-ho stopped adjusting levels. Turned to face her fully. "Then how did you get it back then?"

"Naiveté, ignorance, you name it."

Jun-ho leaned back, studied her through the glass. "You really believe that?"

"I believed what they told me to believe." Giselle picked at the edge of the lyric sheet. "That we were special. That the company invested in us because we were worth it. That if we worked hard enough, trusted the process, everything would—" She stopped. Crumpled the paper slightly. "Yeah. Naiveté covers it."

"And now?"

"Now I know better."

Jun-ho tapped his pen against the desk. Three beats, then four. "So what changed? The songs or you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, actually. It does."

Giselle shifted her weight. "I thought that giving your all for something you believed in would give results."

"And it didn't?"

"It didn't give me the result I wanted, I guess?" She crossed her arms. "You like the thought of giving your life and soul for something and then realizing how disposable you actually are?"

Jun-ho's expression didn't change. "The guy before me probably didn't."

Giselle blinked. "What?"

"Lee Sang-min. Worked here for fifteen years. Produced half the tracks you grew up listening to." Jun-ho gestured at the chair beside him. "Sat in this exact studio. Same board, same setup."

"I don't—"

"They let him go eight months ago. Budget cuts, they said. Brought me in at half his rate." Jun-ho adjusted a fader absently. "He called me once. Drunk. Asked if I knew what I was getting into."

Giselle stared at him.

"So yeah. I know what disposable feels like." He met her eyes. "The difference is, I walked in knowing it."

"That's supposed to be comforting?"

"It's supposed to be perspective."

She laughed, sharp and bitter. "So what, we're all just cogs? That's your point?"

"We're all replaceable." Jun-ho pulled up the track again. "The question is what you do with the time you've got."

"Sang-min gave them fifteen years."

"And you've given them four."

Giselle's jaw tightened. "Whose side are you on?"

Jun-ho didn't hesitate. "Neither. I'm not on your side. I get what you mean, but I'm not on your side."

"Why not?"

"When your livelihood is involved, ego gets out of the way."

Giselle let out a short laugh. "Geez, didn't know your last name was Jung."

Jun-ho's expression didn't shift. "I mean it. If you don't believe them, I wouldn't expect you to buy into the message they always sell."

"At least it's hopeful."

"Are you buying the message right now?"

Giselle paused. Looked down at the crumpled lyric sheet in her hand. "Guess not."

"Exactly." Jun-ho leaned back in his chair. "So stop pretending like you do."

"That's what they pay me for."

"They pay you to perform. Not to lie to yourself."

She stepped closer to the glass. "What's the difference?"

"A performance ends when you leave the stage. A lie follows you home."

Giselle pressed her palm flat against the partition. "You think I don't know that?"

"I think you're trying to convince yourself there's still a version of this where everything works out." Jun-ho gestured at the booth around them. "Where if you just work hard enough, believe hard enough, they'll remember what you're worth."

"And you don't think that's possible?"

"I think it doesn't matter what I think." He pulled up the waveform again. "What matters is what you actually believe when you're singing. Not what you wish you believed. Not what you're supposed to believe. What's actually there."

Giselle stayed quiet for a moment.

"You know what the worst part is?" she said finally.

Jun-ho waited.

"I used to be able to compartmentalize. Show up, do the work, leave it at the door." She tapped the glass with one knuckle. "Now it just bleeds into everything. I hear the track and I think about Hearts2Hearts. I see the comeback schedule and I wonder if it's our last. I can't just—" She exhaled sharply. "I can't turn it off anymore."

"So don't."

"What?"

"Stop trying to turn it off." Jun-ho leaned forward. "Use it. Put it in the recording."

"They don't want that."

"They want a product they can sell. Whether you're numb or angry or whatever—as long as it sounds good, they don't actually care."

Giselle studied him. "You really believe that?"

"I've seen them sell worse."

Giselle raised an eyebrow. "Care to share with the class?"

"You've been in here longer than I have. Shouldn't you be the one telling me?"

"Touché."

Jun-ho saved the current file, then swiveled his chair to face her fully. "What are you really trying to accomplish, Aeri?"

The use of her real name made her pause. "What do you mean?"

"You still believe in something. Not in what you say you do, but something else. What is it?"

Giselle set the headphones down on the stool. Crossed her arms. "I don't know. I don't think I know what I want anymore."

"Nice cop-out."

"Excuse me?"

"You're angry. But a very specific kind of anger—the kind that comes from caring too much, not too little." Jun-ho leaned forward. "So what is it you actually want? Not what the company wants. Not what your parents want. You."

Giselle turned away, stared at the soundproofing foam on the wall. "Does it matter?"

"Yeah. It does."

She was quiet for a long moment.

"I wanted to matter," she said finally. "Not as a product. Not as a demographic. As a person who made something that connected with people."

"And you don't think you have?"

"I don't know what we made." She gestured vaguely. "We sold albums. Trended on Twitter. Got brand deals. But did any of it actually mean anything? Or were we just another cycle in the machine?"

Jun-ho tilted his head. "You don't think your music meant something to the people who listened?"

"I think they would've listened to whoever SM put in our place."

"Maybe. But they didn't hire someone else. They put you four."

Giselle turned back to face him. "For now."

"For four years. A while if you ask me."

"It's not enough."

"Enough for what?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I wanted to build something that lasted. Something that would—I don't know—outlive the expiration date they stamped on us."

Jun-ho nodded slowly. "And now you think that's impossible."

"Now I think I was naive to believe it was ever an option."

"So what changed? The system or your understanding of it?"

"Does it matter?"

"You keep asking that. Yeah, it does." Jun-ho pulled up a different file on his screen. "Because if the system changes, you're a victim. If your understanding changes, you have choices."

Giselle laughed bitterly. "What choices? Record the song or get shelved. Smile for the camera or get labeled difficult. Play along or get replaced."

"Those aren't the only choices."

"Name one other."

Jun-ho stayed quiet.

Giselle waited. When he didn't respond, something shifted in her expression. "You don't actually think I had another choice, do you?"

Jun-ho covered his face with his hands. His shoulders tensed.

Giselle's eyebrows rose.

When he lowered his hands, his eyes were wet. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear them.

"You remember our first session for Whiplash?"

"Yeah..?"

"You guys had come off hot from Armageddon. All the pressure was on us for that to be a success." He wiped at his eyes quickly. "The label breathing down our necks, the timeline impossible, everyone watching to see if we could deliver."

Giselle nodded.

"I miss the strength you had back then." Jun-ho's voice cracked slightly. "The pressure was on, and you still delivered."

She stepped closer to the glass. "Jun-ho—"

"You were terrified. I could see it." He met her eyes. "But you did it anyway. You found something in yourself and you gave it everything you had."

"That was six months ago."

"I know."

"So what changed?"

"You tell me." He leaned forward. "Because the person who recorded Whiplash wouldn't be asking permission to care about her work. She'd just do it."

Giselle felt something tighten in her chest. "That person was stupid."

"That person was brave."

"Same thing."

"No. It's not." Jun-ho grabbed a tissue, wiped his face properly. "Stupid is not knowing the risks. Brave is knowing them and doing it anyway."

"And look where it got us." Giselle gestured around the booth. "Right back here, recording another song that doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

That stopped her.

Jun-ho stood, walked to the glass partition. Put his palm against it. "Every session we do—it matters. Not because of what the company does with it. Because of what we make together in this room."

"Jun-ho—"

"You think I don't know they're setting you up to fail? That this song is a test you're supposed to lose?" His voice hardened. "I know exactly what this is. I've seen it happen to every group I've worked with. But I still show up. And I still try. Because the alternative is accepting that none of it ever meant anything."

Giselle pressed her hand against the glass. "Maybe it doesn't."

"Then why are you still here?"

She didn't have an answer.

"You could've walked out an hour ago," Jun-ho said. "Called in sick. Phoned it in. But you didn't."

"That doesn't mean—"

"It means something in you still cares. Still wants this to be good, even if you're terrified of admitting it." He stepped back. "So stop asking me for permission and just decide."

Giselle stared at him. At the tears still clinging to his lashes.

"What if I fail?"

"Then you fail." He sat back down. "But at least you'll fail trying instead of failing by giving up."

She picked up the headphones. Her hands were shaking.

"One more take," she said quietly.

Jun-ho positioned the playback marker. "Make it count."

"I will."

Jun-ho hit play.

The beat kicked in, aggressive and overproduced. Giselle closed her eyes, letting the first measure pass. Found her breath.

"I'm not an it girl, more like a hit girl—"

Her voice cracked on the first line. She didn't smooth it over.

"Mafia ties going back to the old world—"

"Fear in their eyes, I'm always watching—"

Her throat tightened. She pushed through it.

"Call me the reaper, I'm knock, knock, knocking—"

Jun-ho leaned closer to the monitor.

The chorus came. The stupid, repetitive bridge.

"Hold tight, get tough—"

She gripped the mic stand harder.

"Real bad business, that's dirty work—"

"Real bad business, that's dirty work—"

"Real bad business, that's dirty work—"

She opened her eyes. Stared at Jun-ho through the glass.

He was watching her like she was the only person in the building.

The track ended. Silence filled the booth.

Giselle pulled off the headphones slowly. Her hands were still shaking.

When she finished, Jun-ho was nodding.

"That's it," he said. "That's the one."