Chapter Text
The café was a hidden gem, tucked away from the main streets where industry insiders might recognize them. Warm lighting cast a golden glow over polished wood tables, and the gentle hum of conversation provided a comfortable blanket of anonymity.
Karina arrived five minutes early but found Irene already there, seated in a corner booth partially obscured by a potted plant. Even in casual clothes—a simple cream sweater and jeans—she carried that unmistakable poise that had made her Red Velvet's acclaimed leader. Karina hesitated at the entrance, suddenly aware of her practice clothes beneath her oversized jacket, her hair hastily pulled back after hours in the training room.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the table. Irene looked up from her phone and smiled, her expression warming with recognition despite this being only their third meeting ever.
"You found the place okay?" Irene asked as Karina slid into the seat across from her.
"Yes, thank you for the detailed directions," Karina replied, trying to keep her voice steady. The whispers back at the company building had followed her after someone spotted them talking that one time. Being a trainee singled out for Irene's attention had made her both the envy and the subject of endless speculation among her fellow trainees.
"I ordered for us already," Irene said, gesturing to an untouched iced Americano across the table. "Hope that's alright."
"It's perfect, thank you," Karina said, genuinely touched by the gesture. She took a grateful sip, the cool bitterness refreshing after hours of practice.
"So," Irene leaned forward slightly, her posture relaxed yet somehow still elegant. "How are you doing? How's training going?"
The question was simple, but something about Irene's attentive gaze made Karina feel like she truly wanted to know the answer. Despite her nervousness, excitement bubbled up, the events of the practice session still fresh in her mind.
"Actually, really well," she said, unable to contain her smile. "We just finished practice, and it was... different. Good different." She leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly. "Teacher Kim actually complimented me. Specifically me."
Irene's eyebrows raised, clearly understanding the significance. "That's not something he does lightly. What happened?"
"I don't know exactly," Karina admitted, wrapping her hands around her cold glass. "Something just clicked today. The choreography felt more natural, more... mine." She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. "Giselle—she's another trainee in my group—she actually said I was giving off an 'Irene aura' during practice."
A flicker of surprise crossed Irene's face, followed by a soft laugh that she partially hid behind her hand.
"An 'Irene aura'?" she repeated, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've only met you twice before today, and they're already saying that?"
Karina felt her cheeks warm. "Everyone at the company has been talking since they saw us together last time. I think they're all convinced you're personally mentoring me or something."
"The rumor mill works overtime," Irene said with a knowing smile. She took a sip of her own drink—a hot green tea, Karina noticed—and set it down carefully. "Does it bother you? The attention?"
Karina considered the question. "Sometimes. It puts more pressure on me, but..." She traced a pattern on the condensation of her glass. "It also makes me work harder. I don't want anyone thinking I'm getting special treatment."
A moment of comfortable silence settled between them, the café's ambient chatter filling the space. Karina gathered her courage, the question that had been nagging at her since receiving Irene's text finally bubbling to the surface.
"Can I ask something, unnie?" When Irene nodded, she continued, "Why did you want to meet me? I mean, I'm grateful, but..." She left the question hanging, unsure how to phrase it without sounding ungrateful.
Irene tilted her head slightly, studying Karina with thoughtful eyes. "I'm a bit intrigued, if I'm honest." A small smile played at her lips. "It's not every day someone manages to sneak into Red Velvet's practice room. Our manager was quite impressed by your determination."
Karina's face flushed hot with embarrassment. "I still can't believe I did that. I'm so sorry—"
Irene waved away the apology. "Don't be. I want to know what drove you to take that risk. Most trainees wouldn't dare."
Karina looked down at her hands. "It was about leadership," she admitted quietly. "My instructors had just told me I'd likely be leading my debut group, and I... I panicked. I wanted to see how you do it." She looked up, meeting Irene's eyes. "How you lead while still performing, how you keep everyone together but still shine yourself. You make it look so natural."
"I see," Irene said softly, understanding dawning in her expression. She was quiet for a moment, stirring her tea thoughtfully. "It wasn't always natural, you know."
She leaned back slightly, her gaze turning distant. "Before we debuted, I was terrified of failing them. The other members, I mean." Her voice grew quieter, more intimate. "I was the oldest, but that doesn't automatically make you a good leader. I used to practice my expressions in the mirror at night after everyone was asleep, trying to look confident even when I wasn't."
Karina listened, transfixed. This vulnerability from someone she'd only seen as perfectly composed was unexpected.
"Our main vocal, Wendy, she used to find me in the practice room at two in the morning, still going over formations." Irene smiled at the memory. "She'd drag me back to the dorm, saying 'If you collapse, who's going to lead us?' That's when I started to understand—leadership isn't about being perfect. It's about knowing when to push and when to rest, for yourself and for them."
She leaned forward again, her eyes finding Karina's. "The pressure you're feeling now? It doesn't go away after debut. It transforms. But that's not necessarily a bad thing."
"How did you handle it?" Karina asked, hanging on every word. "The pressure?"
"I stopped trying to be the perfect leader and started being their leader," Irene replied. "I learned their strengths, their weaknesses, when they needed a push and when they needed space. And I let them see me struggle sometimes—not always, but enough that they knew I was human too."
"Wow," Karina breathed, absorbing Irene's words. The image she'd built of the perfect, unflappable leader was being redrawn, becoming something more human, more attainable. "I never would have guessed. You always seem so..."
"Put together?" Irene finished with a small laugh. "That's the job. But behind the scenes—ask any of my members. They've seen me cry in practice rooms, stress-clean our dorm at midnight before comebacks, double-check stage positions until our manager physically pulls me away."
She took another sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Karina's face. "But I wanted to hear it from you as well."
"Hear what?" Karina asked, confused by the sudden shift.
Irene set her cup down deliberately. "How you're handling the pressure. Because from what I hear, it's only going to intensify." Her voice lowered, taking on a more serious tone. "I've heard that SM plans to position aespa as their next flagship group."
Karina nearly choked on her Americano. "What? But we haven't even—we're not even—" She stumbled over her words, trying to process this information. "Are you sure?"
Irene nodded slowly. "The executives have been discussing it. After SNSD, f(x), Red Velvet... they're looking for their next generation. The concept they're developing for your group is ambitious. Different from anything they've done before."
Karina felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. The weight of those expectations—to follow in the footsteps of groups that had defined K-pop for generations—was almost too much to comprehend.
"I don't know if I can—" she started, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You can," Irene interrupted gently but firmly. "That's why I wanted to meet with you. Not just because of your little infiltration mission." A small smile softened her serious expression. "I recognize something in you. The same thing our company clearly sees."
She reached across the table, briefly touching Karina's hand—a gesture so unexpected that Karina froze. "Leadership isn't bestowed, it's earned. Every day, in small moments that no one else might notice. The way you encourage a member who's struggling with choreography. How you handle criticism. Whether you take responsibility or make excuses."
Karina nodded, her throat tight with emotion and the enormity of what Irene was sharing.
"Is that why you agreed to meet me? Because the company asked you to mentor their next leader?" She couldn't keep a hint of disappointment from her voice.
Irene shook her head. "The company doesn't know about our meetings. This is between us." She smiled, a genuine warmth in her expression. "Consider it passing the torch, in my own way. Besides," she added with a hint of mischief, "anyone bold enough to sneak into our practice deserves at least a coffee."
The café had grown quieter, the afternoon lull settling in as most customers had returned to work. In their corner, the conversation had taken on an intimate quality, the kind that forms when two people recognize something of themselves in each other.
Irene stirred what remained of her tea, the spoon making a soft clinking sound against the ceramic. Her expression shifted, becoming more evaluative, though not unkind.
"Now, the big question," she said, setting the spoon aside. Her gaze was steady, penetrating in a way that made Karina feel like she could see right through any pretense. "What scares you most about debuting?"
The directness of the question caught Karina off guard. She opened her mouth to give the standard trainee answer—something about wanting to make her company proud or living up to fans' expectations—but the words died on her lips. There was something about Irene's genuine interest that made rehearsed answers feel inadequate.
She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid of failing them," she admitted quietly, her voice barely audible above the café's background music. "Winter, Giselle, and Ningning. They're..." She paused, searching for the right words. "They're so talented, each in their own way. Winter's precision, Giselle's adaptability, Ningning's raw talent... they deserve someone who can lead them properly."
Karina looked down at her nearly empty glass, watching a drop of condensation track down its side. "Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night wondering if the company made a mistake choosing me. What if I'm not strong enough to protect them when things get hard? What if I make decisions that hurt our group instead of helping it?"
She hadn't voiced these fears to anyone—not her fellow trainees, not her family, not even in her private journal. Speaking them aloud made them feel both more real and somehow less overwhelming.
"And the worst part is," she continued, finding it easier now to let the words flow, "they look at me like I have all the answers. Yesterday, when Teacher Kim was being particularly harsh with Ningning, she looked to me first—not our instructor—for reassurance. What if I can't be what they need?"
Karina finally looked up, half expecting to see disappointment or concern on Irene's face. Instead, she found something that looked remarkably like recognition.
"You know what that tells me?" Irene asked, her voice gentle but firm. "That you're exactly the right person for this."
She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "The worst leaders are the ones who never question themselves, who think they have all the answers. The best ones—the ones who last—are those who understand the weight of responsibility."
Irene's expression softened. "Those midnight fears you described? I still have them, five years after debut. Before every comeback, every tour, every major decision. The difference is, now I know those fears don't mean I'm weak—they mean I care enough to get it right."
She reached for her purse, pulling out a small notebook and pen. As she wrote something down, she continued speaking. "Your members already look to you because they sense that care, even if you think you're hiding your doubts. That's not something that can be taught or practiced. It's either there or it isn't."
Irene tore the page from her notebook and slid it across the table. "My personal number," she explained. "Not the one my manager handles. For emergencies, or..." she smiled, "for when those midnight doubts get too loud."
Karina took the paper with slightly trembling fingers, carefully folding it and tucking it into her pocket. The gesture felt significant—a lifeline extended across the gap between trainee and established idol.
"Which, speaking of being there, or not," Irene continued, her tone shifting to something lighter but no less thoughtful. She closed her notebook and set it aside. "I have another question for you, one I wish someone had asked me before I debuted."
Karina nodded, curious.
"What was your childhood dream? Before SM, before training. What did little Karina want to be?"
The question seemed simple, almost frivolous after their serious discussion about leadership. Karina opened her mouth to answer automatically—and found herself suddenly, unexpectedly speechless.
She blinked, her brow furrowing as she searched her memory. "I..." she began, then stopped. A strange tightness formed in her chest, a sensation she couldn't immediately identify.
Irene waited patiently, her expression curious but undemanding.
"I can't..." Karina tried again, her voice catching. "I can't remember."
The realization hit her with unexpected force. Images flashed through her mind: years of training, monthly evaluations, the constant refining of her dance, her voice, her appearance. Further back: the audition, the preparation for it, the single-minded focus on being noticed by the company.
But before that? The space where childhood dreams should have lived was a blur.
To her horror, she felt her eyes begin to sting. She blinked rapidly, embarrassed by this sudden emotion in front of someone she admired so much.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, reaching for a napkin. "I don't know why I'm—" She pressed the napkin to the corner of her eye, mortified.
"You don't need to apologize," Irene said softly. There was no judgment in her voice, only a deep understanding. "It happens to many of us. We get so caught up in becoming what others expect that we forget what we wanted in the first place."
Karina nodded, unable to speak for a moment as she tried to compose herself.
"Everything became about training," she finally managed, her voice steadier. "About improving, about not disappointing my parents after they supported my audition, about not letting down my instructors who said I had potential." She looked up at Irene, a mixture of confusion and revelation in her expression. "All my motivations became about meeting expectations. About being good enough."
"And are you?" Irene asked gently. "Good enough?"
The question hung between them, simple yet profound.
Karina considered it, really considered it for perhaps the first time. "I don't know," she admitted. "The goalposts keep moving. Every time I master something, there's a new skill to learn, a new standard to meet."
Irene nodded, her eyes reflecting a familiar weariness. "That never stops, by the way. Not after debut, not after your first win, not even after you've been in the industry for years."
She reached for her cup, found it empty, and set it back down with a small, decisive movement. "That's why you need something of your own. Some part of this dream that belongs just to you, not to the company, not to your members, not to your future fans. Something that reminds you why you're doing this beyond meeting expectations."
As Irene's words settled in the space between them, fragments of memory began to surface in Karina's mind—not the childhood dreams Irene had asked about, but the pieces of childhood she had willingly surrendered along the way.
Her twelfth birthday party, planned for weeks, canceled last-minute when an unexpected weekend training session was announced. Her mother's careful explanation that this was part of the sacrifice, her father's proud but worried eyes as he drove her to the company building instead of the party venue.
The gradual distance growing between her and school friends as training hours expanded, their messages becoming less frequent, their inside jokes evolving without her until conversations felt like speaking a language she once knew but had forgotten.
The first time she concealed physical exhaustion with makeup—sixteen years old, applying concealer to dark circles in a company bathroom, an older trainee showing her how to use eye drops to hide the redness from crying.
The quiet bathroom stall that became her sanctuary between grueling sessions, three minutes of silent tears before splashing cold water on her face and returning with a smile, because showing weakness meant giving someone else your spot.
These weren't memories she allowed herself to dwell on. They were simply the price of admission, the necessary steps on the path she'd chosen.
"I..." she began, unsure how to articulate these thoughts without sounding ungrateful for the opportunity so many dreamed of.
Irene's expression shifted, a shadow of recognition passing over her features. She seemed to sense the darker turn of Karina's thoughts.
"You know," Irene said softly, "the night before our debut, I locked myself in a supply closet and had a panic attack." She offered this confession with a small, self-deprecating smile. "Our manager found me there, hyperventilating among the cleaning supplies."
The image was so at odds with Irene's public persona that Karina couldn't help but stare. This was Red Velvet's leader—poised, composed, the industry standard for professionalism—describing herself at her most vulnerable.
"What happened?" Karina asked.
"He sat with me on the floor, among the mops and buckets, and let me cry it out," Irene said. "Then he told me something I've never forgotten. He said, 'Joohyun-ah, it's okay to be scared. But don't let fear make you forget that you chose this path because you loved it first.'"
The use of her real name, the intimate glimpse into a moment of weakness—Irene was offering something precious, a gesture of solidarity that transcended their different positions in the industry hierarchy.
But Karina found herself struggling to fully receive it. The Irene sitting across from her—sharing insecurities, admitting to panic attacks—didn't align with the flawless image she'd constructed and aspired to emulate. For years, Irene had been the benchmark, the standard of perfection to strive for. Acknowledging her humanity meant acknowledging that the ideal Karina had been chasing might not exist.
"That's... hard to imagine," Karina said carefully, unable to keep a hint of disbelief from her voice. "You always seem so confident, so in control."
A flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps—crossed Irene's face before her expression settled into understanding.
"I've had years to perfect that image," she said quietly. "But sometimes I wonder what it's cost me."
The café had grown quieter still, the late afternoon sunlight casting long shadows across their table. In that gentle illumination, Karina could see fine lines at the corners of Irene's eyes when she smiled—evidence of years of expressions carefully modulated for cameras, for fans, for the relentless scrutiny of an industry that demanded perfection.
Irene's words hung in the air between them: "Sometimes I wonder what it's cost me.”
Something shifted in Karina's perception—not suddenly, but like a lens slowly coming into focus. She had been sitting here, mentally taking notes, already planning how to apply Irene's advice, how to perfect this new understanding of leadership, how to craft the right balance of vulnerability and strength.
And in that moment, she recognized the pattern. The same mechanical process of absorption and execution she'd applied to every piece of feedback since becoming a trainee. See the standard, internalize it, reproduce it flawlessly. Even this conversation—this genuine connection Irene was offering—she was processing it as another performance to master.
A hollow feeling expanded in her chest as she realized that perfectly executing Irene's advice wouldn't fix what was fundamentally broken inside her: the disconnection from her own identity, her own joy.
"I don't think I remember," Karina said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Remember what?" Irene asked, leaning forward slightly.
"What it feels like to do something just because I love it." The admission felt like removing a mask she hadn't realized she was wearing. "Not to improve, not to impress someone, not to meet a standard. Just... for the joy of it."
Her hands trembled slightly as she wrapped them around her empty glass. "When I dance now, I'm always watching myself from the outside—analyzing, critiquing, adjusting. Even when Teacher Kim praised me today, my first thought wasn't happiness. It was relief that I'd finally executed correctly."
She looked up at Irene, no longer concerned about maintaining composure. "I'm afraid that even if I follow your advice—even if I find that piece of the dream that's just for me—I won't know how to feel it anymore. I've spent so long becoming what everyone needs me to be that I'm not sure who I am when no one's watching."
The vulnerability felt terrifying and liberating at once, like stepping off a cliff and finding herself falling not into an abyss but into open air—frightening, but somehow freer than the solid ground of perfection she'd clung to for so long.
"What if I debut, lead this group, achieve everything we're working for... and still feel this empty?" she asked, the question emerging from a place so honest it surprised even her. "What if I've forgotten how to feel anything real?"
Irene's expression softened with a recognition that suggested Karina's words had struck a chord. She reached across the table, her hand hovering near Karina's for a moment before gently resting beside it—close enough to offer connection without demanding it.
"That emptiness you're describing," she said quietly, "it doesn't mean you're broken. It means you're protecting yourself in the only way you know how."
She withdrew her hand, wrapping it around her empty teacup instead. "When I feel that way, I try to find small moments. Just tiny pieces of time where I do something with no purpose except that it feels good. Reading a book no one recommended to me. Taking a different route home. Singing songs that will never be on an album."
Karina nodded mechanically, already feeling herself retreat behind the walls of her practiced persona. She could see Irene was offering something genuine, something hard-earned from her own experience, but the words seemed to bounce off a protective barrier she couldn't lower.
"That sounds... helpful," she said, her voice taking on the polite, attentive tone she used with instructors. She was slipping back into trainee mode—absorbing information, filing it away, ready to execute later.
A flicker of disappointment crossed Irene's face, there and gone so quickly that someone less observant might have missed it. She seemed to sense that the moment of true connection was passing, that Karina was withdrawing to safer ground.
"It's not about being perfect at feeling joy either, you know," Irene tried again, her voice gentle. "It's okay to be messy with it, to not know how—"
"I should probably get going," Karina interrupted, suddenly unable to bear the kindness in Irene's eyes. She glanced at her phone, using the time as an excuse. "Evening practice starts in an hour, and I should change first."
Something in her wanted desperately to stay, to let Irene's words penetrate the armor she'd built, but a stronger instinct—the one that had gotten her this far—pushed her to retreat. Vulnerability felt too dangerous, too close to the edge of something she couldn't control.
Irene nodded, accepting the shift with grace. "Of course. I didn't mean to keep you so long."
They gathered their things in a silence that felt heavier than when they'd arrived. As Karina stood to leave, Irene spoke once more.
"The note with my number," she said. "The offer stands. Anytime."
"Thank you, unnie. For everything," Karina replied with a bow that was perhaps too formal for the intimacy they'd briefly shared. "This was... educational."
The word felt wrong as soon as she said it, reducing their conversation to just another lesson, but she couldn't find a way to take it back without revealing more than she was ready to.
Irene's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Take care of yourself, Karina. Not just your career or your members. Yourself."
Outside, the late afternoon air felt cool against Karina's face. She walked quickly, her mind already shifting to the evening's practice, mentally reviewing the choreography they'd be working on. The conversation with Irene began to recede, its raw edges already being filed down into something she could process, something she could use to improve.
By the time she reached the apartment complex where the four trainees lived together—a rare privilege granted to groups close to debut—Karina had almost convinced herself that the hollow feeling in her chest was simply pre-practice nerves.
The apartment was quiet when she entered. The others wouldn't be back for another half hour; they had stayed behind to work on individual parts while she met with Irene. The silence, usually a welcome respite from their energetic household, felt oppressive now.
Karina moved through the small living room, past the kitchen where breakfast dishes still sat in the drying rack, and into the bedroom she shared with Winter. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it for a moment before crossing to the small vanity mirror in the corner.
She sat down slowly, her practice bag sliding from her shoulder to the floor. The face that looked back at her in the mirror was perfectly composed—hair still neat despite hours of practice, skin glowing with the careful application of the minimal makeup allowed for trainees, expression pleasantly neutral.
Perfect trainee Karina, poised to become perfect leader Karina, ready to debut as the perfect center of SM's next flagship group.
She stared at her reflection, waiting to feel some connection to the image before her. The longer she looked, the more unfamiliar her own face became—like staring at a word for so long that it loses meaning, becomes just a strange arrangement of letters.
Who was this person looking back at her? This carefully constructed amalgamation of feedback and expectations, of praise reinforced and flaws corrected. This person who moved with practiced grace, who spoke with measured confidence, who had learned exactly how much personality to show and how much to conceal.
She reached up to touch her cheek, watching as her reflection did the same. The movement felt mechanical, disconnected—as if she were controlling an avatar rather than her own body.
The folded paper with Irene's number sat heavy in her pocket. She took it out, placing it on the vanity surface, staring at it as if it might offer some solution to the stranger in the mirror.
From the living room came the sound of the front door opening, followed by Giselle's laugh and Ningning's excited voice recounting something from practice. Winter's calmer tones followed, asking if Karina was back yet.
Karina quickly wiped away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. She straightened her posture, adjusted her expression to something appropriately pleasant but not too eager, and tucked Irene's number into the drawer of the vanity.
"I'm here," she called out, her voice steady and warm. "Just freshening up before we head back."
In the mirror, perfect trainee Karina smiled reassuringly. The stranger stared back.