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Chapter Text

The gleaming grand piano in the corner of the room sat untouched. Instead, Aeri Uchinaga hunched over her textbook, the scratch of her pen the only sound disturbing the library's hallowed silence. Light streamed through the gothic arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing above her notes.

But beneath the crisp uniform and perfectly pinned hair, a different rhythm pulsed. Aeri tapped her foot against the mahogany table leg, a barely perceptible beat that mirrored the hip-hop track blasting through her earbuds, hidden beneath a curtain of dark hair. 

A shadow fell across her textbook. She glanced up, her polite smile faltering slightly at the sight of her history teacher, Mrs. Sato, her expression pinched with disapproval. 

“Aeri,” Mrs. Sato said, her voice a low admonishment. “Daydreaming again? I trust your essay on the Meiji Restoration is progressing well?”

Aeri removed one earbud, her smile returning full force. “Of course, Sato-sensei. I find the socio-political climate of the era fascinating.” 

Mrs. Sato’s eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Indeed. Well, do try to contain your…fascination. We wouldn’t want your focus to wander during next week’s exams, would we?”

Giselle inclined her head, the picture of obedient contrition. As soon as Mrs. Sato moved on, she discreetly adjusted her earbud, the insistent beat of the music a lifeline back to the world where she truly came alive. 

Later that night, the bassline throbbed through the floor, vibrating up Aeri's legs and settling in her chest like a second heartbeat. The air in the club, thick with smoke, crackled with a different kind of energy than the refined atmosphere of her parents' dinner parties. Here, in this dimly lit basement club, she was just Giselle, another soul drawn to the magnetic pull of the beat.

She’d shed her school uniform, trading it for a black bomber jacket, ripped jeans, and a pair of chunky combat boots. Her hair, usually perfectly straight and smooth, was pulled back in a high ponytail, stray strands escaping to frame her face. Gone was the carefully cultivated image of Aeri Uchinaga, the diplomat's daughter. Here, in the heart of Tokyo's underground hip-hop scene, she was free.

Tonight was a special night. It was "Mic Check Monday," a weekly cypher where aspiring rappers and seasoned veterans alike took turns spitting fire on the stage. Giselle had been a regular for months, her skills honed through countless hours of writing rhymes in her bedroom, her flow perfected in the quiet solitude of her closet, which served as her vocal booth.

The crowd, a mix of university students, young professionals escaping the drudgery of their 9-to-5s, and die-hard hip-hop heads, roared their approval as the current rapper finished his set. Giselle felt a familiar surge of adrenaline, a mixture of excitement and nerves, course through her veins. She caught the eye of DJ Ryu, his dreadlocks bouncing as he nodded towards the stage. It was her turn.

Taking a deep breath, Giselle adjusted the microphone, the cool metal grounding her as she stepped into the spotlight. The beat dropped, a heady mix of trap and old-school boom bap.

Her flow was effortless, sharp and precise, her words a mix of Japanese and English as she weaved tales of societal expectations and the hypocrisy she saw around her. She rapped about the pressure to conform, the weight of legacy, the struggle to find your voice amidst the ocean of others' expectations.

The crowd, captivated by her raw energy and undeniable talent, swayed to the beat, their cheers fueling her performance. She fed off their energy, her confidence growing with each verse. This was her stage, her microphone, her voice. And she wasn’t about to let go.

As the last beat faded, the room erupted in a deafening roar. Giselle stepped back from the microphone, her chest heaving, sweat dampening her brow, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. This, this feeling of exhilaration, of connection, of pure unadulterated passion – this was what she craved. This was her truth.

A hand on her shoulder startled her out of her reverie. It was Hana, a fellow rapper and Giselle’s closest confidante in this world. Hana, with her bright pink hair and nose ring, was the antithesis of Giselle’s carefully curated public persona, yet they were kindred spirits, drawn together by their shared love of hip-hop.

“Killed it as always, G,” Hana yelled over the din, flashing a thumbs-up. “You’re on fire tonight!”

“Thanks,” Giselle shouted back, her voice hoarse but her smile genuine. “The crowd’s really feeling it tonight.”

“They always feel it when you spit fire like that,” Hana said, her eyes twinkling with admiration. “You know, you could really make something out of this, G. You’re good. Better than good. You’re special.”

Giselle’s smile faltered slightly. “It’s just a hobby, Hana. You know I can’t…”

She trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

“Don’t tell me you’re buying into that crap again,” Hana said, her voice firm. “Don’t let them dim your light, G. You’re meant to shine.”

Before Giselle could respond, a figure emerged from the throng of people, making his way towards them. It was a young man, dressed in a sharp suit that seemed strangely out of place in the club. He had a kind face, but his eyes held a sharp intelligence that belied his youthful appearance. 

“Excuse me,” he said, ... his voice a calm oasis amidst the club's thrumming energy. "Aeri Uchinaga?"

Giselle froze, the unfamiliar formality of her given name jarring in this space where she was known simply as "Giselle," the rapper. Hana, sensing her friend's unease, stepped forward protectively.

"Who's asking?" Hana's voice, usually laced with playful sarcasm, was sharp, wary.

The man offered a disarming smile, extending a hand. "My apologies for the intrusion. My name is Jinwoo, and I'm with SM Entertainment."

Giselle's breath hitched. SM Entertainment. One of the biggest names in K-Pop, known for producing some of the most popular idol groups in the world. What could they possibly want with her, here, in this underground club?

As if reading her mind, Jinwoo continued, his gaze steady, "I saw your performance. Your energy, your flow…it's impressive. We're looking for talented individuals for a new group we're putting together, and I think you'd be a perfect fit."

The words hung in the air, heavy with possibility, with a future Giselle had only dared to dream of. A future that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. Hana, her initial suspicion giving way to surprised excitement, squeezed Giselle's arm.

"G, this is..." Hana stammered, at a loss for words.

Giselle, still reeling from the unexpected proposition, struggled to find her voice. "A K-Pop group?" she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper. The thought seemed absurd, impossible. Her life was carefully orchestrated, her future meticulously planned, and it didn't involve singing and dancing on brightly lit stages. Or did it?

Jinwoo sensed her hesitation, his smile softening. "It's a unique concept," he explained, his voice taking on an air of confidentiality. "We're pushing boundaries, exploring new sounds, a new kind of performance. We need someone with your raw talent, your edge, your voice."

He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a sleek business card. "Think about it," he urged, pressing the card into her hand. "This could be your chance to show the world what you're capable of. What you're truly meant for."

With a final nod, he turned and disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Giselle and Hana standing in stunned silence, the air buzzing with the echo of his words and the weight of the opportunity he had presented. 

Giselle stared down at the card in her hand, the company logo, a sleek, futuristic design, seeming to pulse with a life of its own. It was a key, she realized, a key to a door she’d always dreamed of opening but never dared to believe existed.

The beat throbbed on around them, a persistent reminder of the passion that had brought her to this moment. But as Giselle looked at Hana, a new rhythm, the exhilarating beat of possibility, began to pulse in her veins. Could this be her chance? Could she really dare to dream this big? 

The answer, clear and strong, resonated within her, as undeniable as the rhythm of her own heart. 

The pre-dawn light painted the Tokyo streets in shades of gray and lavender as Giselle crept back into her house, her movements honed by years of sneaking back in after late-night study sessions. Except, tonight, textbooks hadn't occupied her time.

She slipped off her boots, the scent of sweat and beer clinging to them a stark contrast to the subtle floral fragrance that permeated her home. As she tiptoed up the grand staircase, each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of her secret. 

"Aeri?"

Her mother's voice, sharp and clear, sliced through the quiet like a shard of glass. Giselle froze, her heart plummeting to her stomach.

Busted.

She turned slowly, plastering on her most innocent smile, the one that had gotten her out of countless childhood scrapes. It faltered, however, under the intensity of her mother's gaze. Her mother, clad in a silk robe, her face devoid of its usual composure, stood in the hallway, her arms crossed, a storm brewing in her eyes. 

"Okaa-san," Giselle began, her voice trembling slightly, "What are you doing up?"

Her mother’s gaze swept over Giselle, taking in her daughter’s dishevelled appearance, the lingering scent of the club, and the barely concealed excitement that shimmered beneath her facade of nonchalance. 

“Don’t play coy with me, Aeri,” her mother said, her voice dangerously quiet. “Where have you been?”

Giselle considered feigning ignorance, concocting a story about a study session with friends. But she knew it would be futile. Her mother, despite her sheltered upbringing, was nobody's fool.

"I went out," Giselle admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. 

"Out?" her mother echoed, her voice rising in disbelief. "Out where? With whom? Aeri, it's four in the morning!"

Giselle looked away, unable to meet her mother's gaze. Shame, hot and uncomfortable, prickled at the back of her throat. She hated lying to her parents, hated the disappointment that clouded their faces whenever she deviated from the path they had so carefully laid out for her.

"It wasn't anything bad, Okaa-san, I promise," Giselle pleaded, her voice gaining a sliver of confidence. "I was with Hana, at a…at a poetry slam."

It wasn't a complete lie. There was poetry in the rhymes she spun, in the stories she told through her music. But she knew her mother would never understand, would never see the value in the gritty, underground world she found so intoxicating.

As expected, her mother's expression softened slightly, but the concern remained etched on her face. "A poetry slam?" she repeated, her tone skeptical. "Aeri, you know how I feel about these…distractions. You have responsibilities, expectations to live up to."

Giselle clenched her fists, her mother's words, though spoken with love, felt like a cage closing in around her. She longed to scream, to shout her truth, to tell her mother about the music that burned within her soul, about the opportunity that had presented itself, about the future she dared to dream of.

But the words remained trapped in her throat, silenced by the fear of disappointing her parents, of shattering their world.

So, instead, she offered a small, conciliatory nod. "I know, Okaa-san," she murmured, her voice laced with a weariness that belied her eighteen years. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Her mother studied her for a long moment, her gaze searching Giselle's face as if trying to decipher a secret code. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she nodded.

"See that it doesn't," she said, her voice laced with a weariness of her own. "Now, go to bed, Aeri. We have a lot to discuss in the morning."

Giselle retreated to her room. The business card, tucked away safely in her pocket, felt like a beacon of hope, a reminder that there was another world out there, a world where she could be free, a world she was determined to reach, no matter the cost.

----

The aroma of her mother’s breakfast usually brought Giselle a sense of comfort, a familiar rhythm to her day. But this morning, the scent of green tea and grilled fish did little to ease the knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach. 

She sat across from her parents at the table, a battlefield disguised as a breakfast nook. Her father, hidden behind his newspaper, sipped his tea, his brow furrowed in concentration. He wasn't usually one for lengthy silences at the breakfast table.

Her mother, however, didn’t bother with such pretenses. Her gaze, sharp and unwavering, followed Giselle’s every move, silently demanding an explanation, an apology, a promise to conform.

Giselle poked at her food, her appetite vanished. The business card, tucked safely in her pocket, felt heavy, a tangible representation of the choice she needed to make. The time for half-truths and white lies was over. She had to tell them. 

"There’s something I need to tell you," Giselle began, her voice barely a whisper, her throat constricting with nervous anticipation. 

Her father lowered his newspaper, his eyebrows raised, concern etched on his face. Her mother remained silent, but her gaze intensified.

"Last night, at the…poetry slam," Giselle continued, hating the way the lie felt on her tongue, "I met someone."

Her mother's lips tightened, a hint of disapproval flickering across her features. “And who was this someone?” she asked, her tone clipped. “Another one of these…artistic friends of yours?”

Giselle took a deep breath, steeling herself for the storm she knew was coming. “He was a scout,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush, “from SM Entertainment.”

The silence that descended upon the room was deafening. Her father’s teacup hovered in mid-air, forgotten. Her mother’s carefully controlled composure faltered, a flicker of genuine surprise momentarily replacing her mask of disapproval.

“SM Entertainment?” her father finally echoed. “The music agency? What would they want with you?”

Giselle straightened her back, drawing strength from the memory of the scout’s words, the weight of the opportunity he had presented. “They…they want me to audition,” she said, her voice gaining confidence. “For a new girl group they’re forming.”

Her mother’s facade finally crumbled. “A girl group?” she exclaimed, her voice laced with disbelief. “Aeri, this is absurd! You’re going to be a diplomat, like your father and I. This…this singing and dancing, it's frivolous. A phase.”

"It's not a phase, Okaa-san," Giselle countered. “This is what I want to do. It’s my dream.”

Her father, silent until now, finally set down his newspaper, his gaze steady as he met Giselle's eyes. "Aeri," he said, his voice surprisingly calm amidst the turmoil, "Your mother is right. This life…it's not easy. The competition, the scrutiny…it's a different world from the one we've raised you for."

"I know it won’t be easy, Otou-san," Giselle pleaded, her voice softening, "But I'm willing to work hard. I can do this. I need to do this."

She looked from her father to her mother, her heart pounding in her chest. The weight of their expectations, of their crafted plans for her future, felt suffocating. But beneath that weight, burning bright and strong, was the fire of her own ambition, her own yearning for something more. 

The breakfast table became a battleground of words and emotions. Giselle's parents, their initial shock giving way to a desperate need to protect their daughter from what they saw as a dangerous, unpredictable world, launched into a campaign of persuasion.

They spoke of the sacrifices she’d have to make, the grueling training schedule, the relentless pressure of the K-Pop industry. They painted a picture of a life lived under a microscope, where privacy was a luxury and individuality was often sacrificed at the altar of a constructed public persona. 

“Aeri, this life…it’s not for you,” her mother pleaded, her voice laced with a concern that bordered on desperation. “It’s a world of fleeting fame, of constant scrutiny. You’re not cut out for that kind of pressure.”

“Your mother is right,” her father said, his voice heavy with worry. “This industry…it chews people up and spits them out. You’re our daughter, Aeri. We can’t stand by and watch you throw your future away on a pipe dream.”

Their words, though well-intentioned, stung. Did they really have so little faith in her? Did they not see the fire that burned within her, the passion that fueled her every move when she stepped onto a stage, even the one in that club?

“It’s not a pipe dream, Otou-san,” Giselle countered, her voice trembling. “This is real. This is me.”

She reached into her pocket, retrieving the SM Entertainment business card, offering it to her parents as if it were a shield, a symbol of her defiance. “This is my chance,” she said, her voice gaining strength with each word. “My chance to prove myself, to show the world what I can do.”

Her parents exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them. Giselle held her breath, her heart pounding in her chest, a frantic prayer echoing in her ears. 

Finally, her mother sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly as if a great weight had settled upon them. She looked at Giselle, her gaze softening, a flicker of something akin to resignation, perhaps even begrudging admiration.

“Aeri,” her mother began, her voice softer now, “You’ve always been headstrong, determined to forge your own path, even as a child. We knew we couldn’t keep you in a gilded cage forever, no matter how hard we tried.”

Giselle’s heart soared. 

Her father reached across the table, taking her mother’s hand in his, his thumb gently stroking her knuckles. “We want you to be happy, Aeri,” he said, his voice resonating with a father’s love. “Even if that happiness lies on a path we don’t fully understand.”

Tears welled up in Giselle’s eyes, hot and bright, blurring her vision. She had their blessing, hesitant and conditional as it may be. It was more than she had hoped for, a testament to the power of her dream, of the fire that burned too brightly to be extinguished. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I won’t let you down.”

Giselle clutched the phone to her ear, her heart hammering in her chest, a frantic counterpoint to the ringing tone. The business card, slightly crumpled from where she’d clutched it for hours, lay on her desk, the company logo seeming to pulsate with a life of its own.

After the tense truce, she’d retreated to her room, the weight of her parents’ reluctant blessing both exhilarating and terrifying. Now, alone in the sanctuary of her room, surrounded by the trappings of the life she was about to leave behind, she was about to take the next step, a step into the unknown.

The ringing stopped. “SM Entertainment, how may I direct your call?”

“Um, yes,” Giselle stammered, her carefully rehearsed introduction flying out the window. “My name is Aeri Uchinaga. Jinwoo Han gave me this number. He said to call about…”

She trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. What if Jinwoo had forgotten about their encounter at the club? What if this whole thing had been a cruel tease, a fleeting glimpse of a future that was never meant to be?

As if sensing her doubt, the voice on the other end softened. “Ah, yes, Miss Uchinaga. Mr. Han has been expecting your call. Congratulations, you’ve been shortlisted for the next stage of auditions.”

Relief, sweet and heady, washed over Giselle, leaving her momentarily speechless. She’d done it. She’d taken the first hurdle, defied her parents’ doubts, and stepped onto a path that could lead her to her dreams. 

“The next stage will be held in Seoul,” the voice continued, bringing Giselle back to the present. “You’ll need to be here in three days. Can you make those arrangements?”

Three days?

Giselle’s mind raced. Three days to pack, to say goodbye to her friends, to prepare herself for…for whatever awaited her in Seoul. It felt both impossibly soon and a lifetime away.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. “Yes, I can be there.”

“Excellent,” the voice said, a hint of warmth seeping through the professional veneer. “We’ll send you the flight details and accommodation information via email. Please make sure your affairs are in order, Miss Uchinaga. Once you arrive in Seoul, your life will become our curriculum.”

The line went dead, leaving Giselle staring at the phone in her hand. Three days. Three days until her life would change forever. 

She thought of her parents, their faces etched with concern and reluctant acceptance. She thought of Hana, her eyes bright with encouragement and vicarious excitement. She thought of the stage, the microphone, the music that pulsed within her soul, urging her forward.

Three days. It wasn’t a lot of time, but it was enough. Enough to say her goodbyes, to gather her courage, to prepare herself for the most exhilarating, terrifying, and potentially life-changing journey of her life. The countdown had begun.

------

The air hung thick, the weight of imminent departure pressing down on the Uchinaga family as Giselle wheeled her suitcase down the grand staircase. It wasn't the largest suitcase she owned, not by far, but it felt heavier than any she'd carried before. 

Her mother, stood by the entrance, her face carefully neutral. Her father, seemed smaller somehow, his usual cheer dimmed by a quiet sadness. 

"Aeri," her mother began, her voice carefully measured, "Are you sure about this? This path…it's not too late to reconsider."

Giselle paused at the foot of the stairs, her hand tightening on the handle of her suitcase. "Okaa-san, we've talked about this. This isn't just some whim. It's what I want to do."

Her father cleared his throat, stepping forward. "Aeri, your mother is right. This life…it's not easy. The sacrifices…" His voice cracked, and he looked away, unable to finish the sentence. 

Giselle's heart ached. She knew her parents meant well, that their concerns stemmed from a place of love. They'd envisioned a different future for her, one filled with diplomacy dinners and international conferences, not flashing lights and screaming fans.

"I know it won't be easy," Giselle said, her voice softening. "But I'm willing to work hard. I want to show you, show everyone, that I can do this."

She met her mother's gaze, a silent plea for understanding. For a moment, a flicker of something akin to pride flashed in her mother's eyes, quickly masked by her usual stoicism.

"Just promise me you'll be careful," her mother said. "And promise me you won't forget who you are, Aeri."

Giselle smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Never, Okaa-san. I'll make you proud."

She stepped forward, embracing her mother in a hug. Her mother stiffened momentarily before returning the embrace.

Her father pulled her into a hug next, his grip tight. "You have your grandmother's spirit," he whispered into her hair. "She would have understood."

Giselle pulled back, her heart full. 

She turned towards the door, the pre-dawn light painting the world outside in warm hues. Taking a deep breath, Giselle stepped out, leaving behind the only life she had ever known. The path ahead was uncertain, a journey into the unknown, but with each step, she could feel the rhythm of her own beat guiding her forward.

Chapter Text

The Harbin Opera House, a shimmering titanium and glass behemoth, reflected the city lights like a disco ball dropped onto the frozen Songhua River. Inside, the air thrummed with a different kind of energy. It wasn't the anticipation of a performance, but the raw, nervous energy of a hundred dreams crammed into a single audition waiting room. Ningning, a slip of a girl with eyes that held the wisdom of a thousand folk songs, barely registered the chaos. Her focus was absolute, a laser beam aimed at the sheet music clutched in her hand.

"Ningning!"

Her name, barked by a stern-faced woman in a tracksuit, was her cue to enter the arena. The 'arena' in this case was a cramped practice room, smelling faintly of sweat and desperation. Three judges sat at a table, their expressions as neutral as the beige walls. Ningning bowed deeply, her heart a hummingbird trapped in her chest.

This was it. Another audition, another chance to prove herself. Another step closer to her dream, or another stumble into crushing disappointment.

The familiar melody of "Time to Love" by T-ara flowed from her lips, each note imbued with an emotional depth that belied her young age. Her voice, clear and powerful, filled the small room, silencing the whispers and coughs from the waiting area beyond the door. Even the judges, hardened veterans of countless auditions, seemed to lean in, captivated.

As the last note faded, a flicker of something akin to approval crossed the face of the woman in the middle. Before Ningning could dare to hope, a voice sliced through the silence.

"Next!"

It was Yuna, her rival, her shadow, the girl who always seemed to be one step ahead. Yuna, with her effortless grace and a voice that could melt glaciers, glided past Ningning, a smug smile playing on her lips.

The judges' reaction to Yuna was instantaneous. Their faces, previously impassive, lit up with genuine smiles. Ningning felt a familiar pang of envy, sharp and bitter, twist in her gut. It wasn't enough to be good. She had to be better. She had to be the best.

...Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, each one a grueling marathon of vocal exercises, dance practices, and relentless competition. The pressure was immense, a crushing weight on her young shoulders. But Ningning thrived on it. Every victory, no matter how small, fueled her fire. Every setback only strengthened her resolve.

One evening, after a particularly grueling practice session, Ningning trudged into her family's modest apartment, the aroma of her mother's famous dumplings barely registering. Her mother, a woman whose own dreams were woven into the fabric of her daughter's ambitions, looked up from her station by the stove, concern furrowing her brow.

"Ningning? You look exhausted. How did it go?"

Ningning slumped onto a stool, the weight of the day pressing down on her. "It was fine," she mumbled, picking at a loose thread on her worn practice pants.

Her mother, wise to her daughter's deflections, pressed gently. "Just fine? You don't sound very convinced."

A sigh escaped Ningning's lips. "Yuna was there."

Her mother's expression softened. Yuna was a constant presence in their household, a benchmark against which Ningning measured her every achievement and shortcoming. "And how did she do?"

"She was…perfect, as always." Ningning's voice was laced with a bitterness she rarely allowed herself to express. "The judges, they lit up when she sang. Like they'd just witnessed a miracle."

She recounted the audition, the stark contrast between the judges' reactions to her performance and Yuna's. With each detail, the knot of anxiety in her stomach tightened.

"It's not enough to be good, Mama," she confessed, her voice cracking. "I have to be better. Better than Yuna. Better than everyone. Otherwise..." she trailed off, unable to voice the fear that gnawed at her.

Her mother, her eyes reflecting the city lights filtering through the window, crossed the room and enveloped Ningning in a hug. The familiar scent of ginger and star anise, the comforting warmth of her embrace, offered a momentary reprieve from the storm inside her.

"Ningning," her mother said softly, her voice a soothing balm on Ningning's raw nerves. "You are talented, dedicated, and passionate. You have a gift, my little songbird. Never doubt that. But even more importantly, you have the heart of a fighter. Don't let the fear of not being enough extinguish your fire. Focus on your own journey, not on someone else's."

"But how?" Ningning choked back a sob, the frustration spilling over. "How can I focus on my own path when she's constantly stepping on it? When every room I walk into, every stage I sing on, she's there, a constant reminder of what I'm not?"

Her mother pulled away, her gaze steady and firm. "Then find a different path, Ningning," she said, her voice firm yet gentle. "Carve your own way. You are not defined by Yuna, by any competition, or by any judge's opinion. You are defined by the fire in your heart, the passion in your voice. Let that guide you, not your fear."

She pointed towards the window, where the Harbin skyline glittered with a thousand possibilities. "Look at this city, Ningning. It's full of talented people, each with their own dreams, their own struggles. But it's also a place where dreams can take flight, where even the most ordinary girl can become extraordinary. You have that potential within you. Don't let anyone, not even yourself, dim your light."

Ningning, her vision blurring with tears and the reflection of the city lights, felt a spark ignite within her. Her mother was right. Yuna was just one star in a sky full of them. She didn't need to outshine Yuna. She needed to find her own place in the constellation, to let her own unique brilliance illuminate the night.

One night, craving a break from the pressure cooker of auditions and rivalries, Ningning found herself crammed into a dimly lit karaoke bar with her friends. The air thrummed with off-key singing, laughter, and the sweet scent of cheap beer. For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to relax, to lose herself in the camaraderie and chaotic energy of the place.

But her respite was short-lived. Inevitably, her friends, well aware of her vocal prowess, began their usual chorus of encouragement, nudging her towards the karaoke stage.

"Come on, Ningning! You haven't sung for us in ages!"

"Show them how it's done!"

Ningning hesitated, her usual confidence momentarily shaken. Every performance, even in a dingy karaoke bar, felt like an audition these days. What if she choked? What if her voice cracked under the weight of expectations? What if she saw a flicker of judgment in her friends' eyes, a comparison to Yuna's effortless perfection?

As if reading her mind, her best friend, Mei, slung an arm around her shoulder. "Hey, remember what you said? Your own path, your own brilliance?"

Taking a deep breath, Ningning plastered on a smile and allowed herself to be led towards the stage.

The familiar weight of the microphone in her hand, the expectant gaze of the crowd, even the slightly sticky floor beneath her feet, all faded away as the opening chords of her chosen song filled the room. It wasn't a competition ballad, not a technically challenging piece designed to impress. It was a song that resonated deep within her soul, a song about heartbreak and resilience, about finding your voice amidst the noise.

As Ningning’s voice soared through the smoky air, raw and powerful, something shifted within her. It wasn't about perfection, it wasn't about competition, it was about pure, unadulterated expression. It was about the joy of music, the release of emotion, the simple act of sharing her gift with the world, even if that world was just a handful of friends in a crowded karaoke bar.

When the last note faded, the room erupted in cheers. Her friends, their faces flushed with excitement, showered her with compliments as she stepped off the stage. Ningning, still buzzing from the performance, laughed, her heart lighter than it had been in months. For that brief moment, the pressure, the competition, the looming shadow of Yuna, all faded into the background.

As they huddled around a sticky table, nursing beers, one of Ningning’s friends nudged her, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Hey, Ningning, looks like you have a secret admirer,” she teased, holding out a folded piece of cardstock.

Ningning frowned, taking the card. It was plain white, with no embellishments or designs, just a simple, elegant font that spelled out a single sentence:

> **Your voice deserves to be heard. Contact SM Entertainment. Let them show you how.**

A shiver, equal parts excitement and apprehension, shot down Ningning’s spine. SM Entertainment. The name was practically synonymous with K-Pop royalty. But who would leave her this cryptic message? And why?

Her friends, their eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and envy, bombarded her with questions. Ningning, however, could only offer shrugs and bewildered shakes of her head. She had no answers, only a growing sense that this unexpected encounter, this cryptic message delivered amidst the laughter and cheap beer of a karaoke bar, might be the key to unlocking a future more dazzling, more challenging, and ultimately, more fulfilling than she could have ever imagined.

The next day, the weight of the card and its cryptic message felt even heavier. Seeking guidance, Ningning went to see her vocal coach, Ms. Lin, a woman whose own dreams of stardom had been tempered by the harsh realities of the music industry. She showed her the card, recounting the events of the previous night with a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Ms. Lin, usually stoic and composed, gasped as she read the message. Her eyes, usually sharp and critical, softened with a mixture of surprise and cautious hope.

“Ningning,” she began, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, “tell me honestly, how did the audition go?”

Ningning’s shoulders slumped. “Yuna got it,” she mumbled, the familiar pang of disappointment returning. “They were practically clapping before she finished her last note.”

Ms. Lin’s expression softened further. She had witnessed countless young talents rise and fall, their dreams often crushed beneath the weight of expectation and competition. She knew the sting of rejection, the bitter taste of seeing someone else achieve what you yearned for most.

“Ningning, look at me,” she said, placing a hand on the young woman’s arm. When Ningning met her gaze, Ms. Lin continued, her voice firm yet kind, “Do you realize what this card means? Someone, and someone with connections, heard you sing. They heard something special, something beyond technical skill, something that resonated with them.”

Ningning’s brow furrowed. “But…but what if it was just a fluke? What if they were just being nice? I mean, it was just a karaoke bar…”

Ms. Lin shook her head, a rare smile gracing her lips. “Ningning, you have a gift. And sometimes, all it takes is for the right person to hear it, at the right time, in the most unexpected of places. This card, this message, it’s an opportunity. Don’t let your doubts, your fears, hold you back from seeing where it might lead.”

Ningning stared at the card, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Could this be it? Could this be her chance, the break she had been working towards, hoping for, dreaming of? Or was it just a cruel trick, a fleeting glimmer of hope in an otherwise unforgiving industry?

"But..." Ningning's voice was barely a whisper, her grip on the card tightening. "What if I just butcher it? What if I freeze up, forget the lyrics, my voice cracks? What if I'm just a one-trick pony, a good karaoke singer, but not... not SM Entertainment material?"

Ms. Lin met her gaze, her expression unwavering. "That's the question that's going to stay in your head, Ningning, if you don't take this chance. You'll always wonder, 'What if?' You'll always carry that doubt, that fear of failure, like a weight around your ankle."

She gently took the card from Ningning's trembling hand and placed it back in her palm, closing her fingers around it. "You're never going to know your true potential unless you step outside your comfort zone, Ningning. Unless you silence those doubts and sing your heart out, even if your knees are shaking and your palms are sweating."

"But Yuna..." Ningning started, the shadow of her rival looming large once again.

Ms. Lin cut her off, her voice firm. "Yuna's journey is not your journey. Her success does not diminish your talent. This," she tapped the card in Ningning's hand, "this is about you. Your voice. Your dream. Don't let fear rob you of the chance to see how far it can take you."

A newfound determination flickered in Ningning’s eyes. Ms. Lin was right. This wasn’t about Yuna, or anyone else. This was about her finally taking a chance on herself, on the raw talent she knew she possessed. This was about answering a call, not from a rival, but from deep within her soul, a call that urged her to step onto a bigger stage, to let her voice be heard, to embrace the unknown with a heart full of hope and a voice ready to soar.

Days turned into a agonizing week. Ningning found herself caught in a whirlwind of doubt and determination. The card, tucked away in the worn pages of her music notebook, felt both heavy and insignificant. Was she overthinking it? Was it just a cruel prank? Yet, the words "Your voice deserves to be heard" echoed in her mind, a persistent whisper she couldn't ignore.

One evening, unable to bear the weight of the secret any longer, Ningning sat down with her mother. She recounted the night at the karaoke bar, the unexpected card, and the conversation with Ms. Lin. Her voice, usually brimming with confidence when it came to her music, was hesitant, laced with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show.

"What if it's nothing, Mama?" she confessed, her voice cracking. "What if I get my hopes up, only to be disappointed again? Looks like I'm the only one who doesn't see anything special in myself."

Her mother listened patiently, her gaze filled with the unwavering love and support that had always been Ningning's anchor. When Ningning finished, her mother reached out, her hand engulfing her daughter's.

"Ningning," she said softly, her voice a calming presence in the storm of Ningning's doubt, "never underestimate the power of your own voice. You have a gift, a light that shines brightly, even when you don't see it yourself. This card, this opportunity, it's a reflection of that light."

She squeezed Ningning's hand, her eyes twinkling with unshed tears. "Don't let fear silence you before you've even had a chance to sing. Take this chance, Ningning. Let them hear your voice. Let them see your light. And no matter what happens, know that your voice, your talent, your spirit, they are precious, they are powerful, and they are more than enough."

Ningning opened her mouth to respond, a wave of fresh doubts forming on her tongue, but before she could utter a word, the shrill ring of the telephone sliced through the air.

Her mother, her gaze unwavering, gestured towards the phone. "Answer it, Ningning. Put it on speaker."

With trembling hands, Ningning picked up the receiver and pressed the speaker button. A wave of static was followed by a crisp, professional voice.

"Hello, is this Miss Ningning?"

Her breath caught in her throat. It was them. It was actually SM Entertainment.

"Y-yes, this is she," Ningning stammered, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest.

"Miss Ningning, this is Mr. Kim from SM Entertainment. We were wondering if you had made a decision regarding our offer?"

The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening with anticipation. Ningning’s mind raced, her mother's words echoing in her ears: *Don't let fear silence you.*

"Offer?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper. "But... I never..."

Mr. Kim chuckled, a warm, reassuring sound. "Miss Ningning, it has been a week since our representative witnessed your performance at the karaoke bar. He was quite impressed, as are we. Your talent is undeniable. We believe you have the potential to be something truly special."

He paused, then continued, his tone laced with a gentle urgency. "So, tell me, Miss Ningning, are you ready to join us? We believe it's time for the world to hear your voice."

The question hung in the air, heavy with possibility and consequence. Ningning's mind went blank. All the doubts, the fears, the what-ifs, they swirled around her, threatening to pull her under. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

Beside her, her mother gently squeezed her hand, her eyes shining with a mixture of pride and encouragement. It was a silent message, a vote of confidence that spoke volumes: *You've got this. Trust yourself.*

With a deep breath, Ningning found her voice, shaky but resolute. "Yes," she said, the word barely a whisper yet filled with the weight of her dreams. "Yes, I'll join you."

As the words left her lips, a strange mix of relief, excitement, and sheer terror washed over her. She had done it. She had taken the leap. But what had she gotten herself into?

Mr. Kim's voice, warm and welcoming, broke through her thoughts. "Excellent! We're thrilled to have you, Ningning. You won't regret this. We'll be in touch with further details, but be ready to leave for Seoul in three days. Congratulations!"

The line went dead. Ningning stared at the phone, her eyes wide with disbelief. Three days. Three days, and her life, as she knew it, would be over. A new chapter, more daunting and exhilarating than she could have ever imagined, was about to begin.

She looked at her mother, her heart pounding in her chest like a drum solo. "Mama," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "I think... I think I just changed my life."

Her mother smiled, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "This," she said, pulling Ningning into a hug, "is just the beginning, my songbird. Now go pack your bags. The world is waiting to hear you sing."

The next three days were a blur of packing, phone calls, and tearful goodbyes. Ningning said farewell to her friends, her voice cracking as she promised to call as soon as she landed in Seoul. She revisited her favorite haunts, the bustling night market, the quiet park by the river, the familiar streets that held a lifetime of memories, etching them into her heart.

Then came the morning of her departure. The air hung heavy with a mixture of anticipation and bittersweet sorrow. Ningning stood at the doorway of her childhood home, a single suitcase by her side, her heart a tangled mess of emotions.

Her mother, her face etched with a familiar blend of pride and worry, adjusted Ningning's scarf, her touch lingering. "Remember what I told you, Ningning," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Stay true to yourself. Work hard. And never, ever stop singing."

Ningning nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She threw her arms around her mother, holding on tight, as if trying to absorb her strength, her love, her unwavering belief.

"I will, Mama," she whispered, her voice muffled against her mother's shoulder. "I promise."

A black car, sleek and imposing, pulled up to the curb. Mr. Kim, his face etched with a professional smile, stepped out. "Miss Ningning? We should be on our way."

Ningning took one last, lingering look at her mother, her heart swelling with a mixture of gratitude and overwhelming love. This woman, her rock, her confidante, her biggest cheerleader, had given her wings. Now, it was time to fly.

"I love you, Mama," she said, her voice trembling.

"And I love you, my songbird," her mother replied, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Now go. Make us proud."

With a final, deep breath, Ningning turned and walked towards the waiting car, her suitcase bumping along behind her. As the car pulled away, she risked one last glance back at her mother, a solitary figure framed in the doorway, her hand raised in a final, silent farewell.

The city lights blurred as the car sped towards the airport, towards Seoul, towards the unknown. Ningning leaned back in her seat, her heart pounding with a mixture of trepidation and exhilarating anticipation. Her old life, familiar and safe, was fading into the distance. A new chapter, filled with challenges and opportunities, triumphs and setbacks, awaited.

Ningning closed her eyes, her mother's words echoing in her ears: *The world is waiting to hear you sing.* She took another deep breath, a surge of determination coursing through her veins. She was ready.

Chapter Text

The air in the practice room crackled with exertion and the faint scent of sweat. Karina's reflection stared back at her from the mirrored wall, a flawless phantom mimicking the precise angles of her every move. Even bathed in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights, her beauty was undeniable—porcelain skin, impossibly long limbs, and eyes that could shift from smoldering intensity to doe-eyed innocence in a heartbeat. It was the kind of beauty that launched a thousand ships, or in this case, a thousand dreams.

But right now, all Karina felt was the burn in her thighs and the tremor in her arms. She stumbled, the choreography feeling less like dance and more like a tangled mess of limbs. A sigh escaped her lips, barely audible above the pulsing beat of the music.

"Again!" The dance instructor's voice, sharp and unforgiving, cut through the room. "Karina, you're lagging. This isn't a beauty pageant. You need to move with power, with precision."

Karina's cheeks flushed, the heat spreading down her neck. She hated this part, the constant scrutiny, the pressure to be perfect, to be a weaponized combination of beauty and talent. The other trainees moved with a grace she envied, their bodies instruments honed by years of dedication. Her gaze lingered on Ningning, her movements fluid and sharp, her expression fierce.

Later, after practice, Karina found herself alone in the hallway, the echo of her own footsteps amplifying the silence. She leaned against the cool wall, the weight of the day pressing down on her.

"Rough day?"

Giselle's voice startled her. Her fellow trainee leaned against the opposite wall, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"It's just—" Karina hesitated, surprised by the sudden urge to confide. "Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in it all. The expectations, the pressure to be…perfect."

Giselle nodded, her gaze understanding. "The idol machine chews you up and spits you out if you let it. But you," she said, her voice softening, "you're different. You have something special. Don't let them dim your light."

"I'll keep that in mind," Karina murmured, a small smile gracing her lips. Giselle's words, though few, had a way of settling in her chest like a warm ember. "See you tomorrow."

She waved goodbye and stepped out of the sterile, brightly lit hallway, the cool night air of Seoul washing over her. The city thrummed with a life that felt miles away from the pressure cooker of SM Entertainment. Karina boarded the nearly empty train, finding solace in the anonymity it offered. As the neon cityscape whizzed by, Giselle's words echoed in her mind: "You have something special. Don't let them dim your light."

But what was her "something special"? Was it enough to be more than just a pretty face, a carefully crafted image designed for mass consumption? The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. She didn't want to be another cog in the idol machine, another flawlessly beautiful face lost in the crowd.

Karina's gaze drifted down to her hands, calloused and strong from years of relentless practice. Maybe her "something special" wasn't about inherent talent or effortless grace. Maybe it was about the fire that burned within her, the unwavering determination to prove herself, to earn her place on that stage. She wanted to be recognized for her dedication, her passion, the sheer force of her will.

The train rattled along the tracks, carrying her further away from the gleaming towers of SM Entertainment and closer to the modest apartment she shared with other trainees. Stepping off, the familiar quiet of their shared space greeted her. The lights were low, casting long shadows across the sparsely decorated living room. Winter, perched on the edge of the couch, her face illuminated by the cool glow of her phone, looked up as Karina closed the door behind her.

"Long day?" Karina asked, her voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to break the stillness.

Winter simply nodded, her gaze returning to her phone. A small, tired sigh escaped her lips.

"Everything alright?" Karina pressed gently, concern tinging her voice.

Winter finally looked up, a flicker of a sad smile crossing her features. "Yeah, just talking to my parents. Heading home for the weekend, actually."

"That's great, Winter," Karina said, genuinely happy for her. She knew how much Winter cherished those brief escapes back to her family. "Give them my best."

"Will do," Winter replied, a hint of longing in her voice. "Sometimes I wish they lived closer. Like your family."

Karina settled onto the couch, sinking into the worn cushions. "Seoul's not all it's cracked up to be," she said with a wry smile. "Besides, you'd be surprised how many are far from home. More trainees come from outside Seoul than you'd think."

Winter's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Really? It always feels like everyone here is SM royalty, born and raised two blocks from the company building."

Karina chuckled. "Trust me, the only royalty here are the ones who manage to debut."

A shadow flickered across Winter's features, and a familiar anxiety crept into her voice. "Do you ever… I don't know… worry we won't?"

Karina knew exactly what she meant. The ever-present fear of failure, of being deemed "not good enough," hung over every trainee like a shroud. "Debut?" she asked softly.

Winter nodded, her gaze fixed on a loose thread on the throw pillow beside her.

"How long has it been for you?" Karina asked, steering the conversation away from the abyss of doubt that threatened to swallow them both.

Winter's eyes met hers, a touch of bitterness lacing her words. "Three years. Three years of blood, sweat, and tears. Sometimes I feel like I've spent more time in practice rooms than in actual classrooms."

"I feel that," Karina said, offering a sympathetic smile. Three years felt like a lifetime in the cutthroat world of K-Pop, a relentless cycle of training, evaluations, and crushing disappointments. "But you're amazing, Winter. You have this raw talent, this presence…"

Winter's lips twitched in a hesitant smile. "Easy to say when you're practically SM's golden girl."

Karina's smile faltered. Even here, within the supposed safety of their apartment, the pressure of expectations followed her like a shadow. "Golden girl?" she echoed, the title feeling more like a cage than a compliment.

"Come on, Karina," Winter said, a playful nudge in her voice. "You've been here what, like five minutes, and they're practically building the debut stage around you?"

"Five minutes?" Karina laughed, the tension easing slightly. "It feels like a lifetime ago."

"So, how long has it been?" Winter pressed, her eyes twinkling with curiosity. "For you, I mean."

Karina took a deep breath, the question stirring up a mixture of pride and weariness. "Four years," she finally admitted, watching Winter's reaction closely.

Winter's eyebrows shot up, impressed. "Four years? Wow, Karina. That's…"

"A lifetime?" Karina offered, finishing the sentence for her with a self-deprecating laugh.

"No, I was going to say impressive," Winter corrected, her expression turning serious. "But I guess it doesn't seem that way when you're constantly surrounded by all these talented people, right?"

Karina nodded, a familiar ache settling in her chest. "People think it's all about looks, that a pretty face gets you a free pass to the top. Trust me, it doesn't."

"I can imagine," Winter said, her gaze thoughtful. "But you've gotta admit, Karina, you've got the looks and the talent. It's intimidating, to be honest."

Karina couldn't help but chuckle at Winter's blunt honesty. "Don't let them fool you, Winter," she said, her voice softening. "We're all fighting the same battles here. We're all just trying to find our place in this crazy machine."

"When you say it like that," Winter mused, a hint of unease creeping into her voice, "it seems less like we're all in this together and more like…well…"

"Like we're all trying to crawl on top of each other just to reach the surface?" Karina finished, a humorless laugh escaping her lips.

Winter winced. "Yeah, kinda like that."

"Guess it's not as nice as we pictured when we were kids, huh?" Karina said, a wistful note creeping into her voice. She remembered herself at ten, belting out pop songs into her hairbrush, dreaming of dazzling stages and adoring fans. Back then, it had all seemed so simple, so pure.

Winter snorted. "Yeah, no kidding. I thought we'd be too busy living the dream to even think about stuff like this."

"Maybe we still are," Karina countered, a spark of defiance igniting within her. "Maybe the dream is about fighting for it, pushing ourselves harder than we ever thought possible."

Winter looked at her, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. "And what if we push and push, and it's still not enough?"

Karina held her gaze, a steely glint in her eyes. "Then maybe," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her chest, "maybe we just weren't pushing hard enough."

Winter's eyebrows shot up, a mixture of surprise and admiration flitting across her face. Karina's unwavering determination, even in the face of such a daunting question, had a way of inspiring those around her. It was the same fire that had drawn SM Entertainment to her, the same fire that now burned brighter than ever.

"Easy for you to say," Winter countered, though a hint of a smile played on her lips. "You're practically guaranteed a spot."

Karina shook her head, her expression turning serious. "Nothing is guaranteed in this industry. Not even for the 'golden girl.'"

A thoughtful silence followed her words. Winter, for her part, seemed to digest this, her head tilting slightly as she processed. "I guess," she finally conceded, a hint of resignation in her voice.

Karina couldn't help but let out a small, humorless chuckle. "Paint me curious, but where does this whole 'golden girl' thing even come from?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at Winter.

Winter's lips twitched into a sly grin. "Oh, you know," she said, her voice adopting a conspiratorial whisper, "rumors spread like wildfire around here. Word on the street is that the higher-ups see you as the next big thing. The next…" she paused, drawing out the suspense, "Irene."

Karina let out a laugh, part amusement, part disbelief. "Irene? Get out." The very idea seemed ludicrous, almost disrespectful. Irene was a force of nature, an icon. To even be mentioned in the same breath as her felt surreal.

But Winter, to Karina's surprise, didn't back down. "I'm serious! People are saying you have that same aura, that captivating presence. They're calling you 'SM's Secret Weapon,' you know." She leaned back, clearly enjoying Karina's flustered reaction. "Don't tell me you haven't heard that one."

Karina shook her head, a wave of self-consciousness washing over her. She'd always been hyper-aware of the whispers and stares, the way people seemed to project their expectations onto her. But to hear it articulated so bluntly, to be labeled as the "next Irene," made it all feel terrifyingly real.

"It's just talk, Winter," she said, though her voice lacked its usual conviction. The whispers had a way of seeping into the cracks of her confidence, planting seeds of doubt that were hard to ignore.

"Maybe," Winter conceded, her expression turning serious. "But where there's smoke, there's usually fire."

Karina, despite the unease churning in her stomach, couldn't help but chuckle. "You've been reading poetry again?"

Winter rolled her eyes, though a playful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Could you take this seriously for once?" she said, her tone light but edged with a hint of frustration. "Not everyone gets called 'SM's Secret Weapon,' you know. Not everyone has the CEO practically drooling over their dance evaluations."

Karina winced. So much for keeping a low profile. It seemed the rumor mill had been working overtime.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Karina said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. "People are talking. But that doesn't mean it's true, right?" She tried to sound nonchalant, but even to her own ears, her voice rang hollow.

Winter studied her for a moment, her gaze unwavering. "Just be careful," she said, her voice softer now, laced with genuine concern. "All this hype, all these expectations...they can either lift you up or crush you. Don't let them turn you into something you're not."

"You say that as if you couldn't be in my position," Karina pointed out, a flicker of annoyance flashing through her. Why was everyone so quick to assume her journey was paved with glitter and gold?

Winter surprised her with a humorless laugh. "Karina, please," she said, her voice laced with a bitterness that Karina had never heard from her before. "I can only wish of being in your position."

"Hey!" Karina exclaimed, sitting up straighter, her annoyance giving way to genuine concern. "Don't sell yourself short like that. You're talented, seriously. You have this incredible stage presence, this aura…"

Winter waved her hand dismissively. "Aura? What good is an aura when you don't have the 'look', right?" The bitterness in her voice was sharper now, cutting through Karina's carefully constructed defenses.

Karina opened her mouth to protest, to offer words of comfort and reassurance, but Winter wasn't finished.

"Don't try to be humble just because you don't like to brag about yourself," Winter stated, her voice surprisingly sharp. "Be realistic. You've got the whole package: talent, looks, charisma. You're what SM Entertainment manufactures in their sleep."

Karina recoiled as if struck. She'd never heard Winter speak with such blunt honesty, such unveiled envy. It stung, hearing her own insecurities echoed back at her, amplified by Winter's frustration.

"It's not that simple," Karina began, her voice softer now, a plea for understanding. "It's not like they just hand you a debut contract because you look a certain way."

"Maybe not," Winter conceded, her tone softening slightly. "But it sure as hell doesn't hurt." She sighed, running a hand through her hair, her frustration seemingly dissolving into weary resignation. "Look, I'm happy for you, Karina. I really am. But sometimes, it feels like you're on this fast track to superstardom, and the rest of us are just…well… along for the ride."

"Why are you making this seem like you're all side-characters in my drama?" Karina blurted out, unable to contain the sharp retort any longer. The words hung in the air, harsher than she intended, but they carried the weight of her own simmering frustrations.

Winter's head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. Then, slowly, a wry smile spread across Winter's face, softening the sharp edges of her earlier bitterness.

"Because it kind of feels that way sometimes, doesn't it?" she said, her voice losing its earlier edge. "Life in the K-Pop factory. Always vying for the spotlight, for the chance to be the main character."

Karina, her anger already dissipating, couldn't help but smile back, a flicker of their usual camaraderie returning. Winter had a way of cutting through the bullshit, of voicing the uncomfortable truths they all tried to ignore.

"Well," Karina said, leaning back against the couch, "if this is my drama, then you're definitely not a side character, Winter. More like…the rebellious best friend who tells it like it is."

Winter burst out laughing, the sound echoing lightly in the apartment. "Rebellious best friend? I guess I could live with that."

"As far as I can tell," Karina continued, a playful smirk playing on her lips, "you're rebelling against everything you just don't agree with."

Winter's laughter subsided, replaced by a thoughtful frown. "Wouldn't that just make me stubborn?"

"Exactly," Karina said, her smirk widening. "The stubborn, talented, and incredibly beautiful best friend that every K-drama needs."

A beat of silence followed, then Winter burst into laughter again, this time joined by Karina.

"Alright," Karina said, wiping a tear from her eye as her laughter subsided. "Enough messing around. We have to be up in…"

"Four hours," Winter finished, her voice laced with a familiar dread.

"Right," Karina groaned, the thought of more vocal drills and choreography practice already making her muscles ache.

"Four hours," Karina echoed, the weight of the impending schedule settling on her like a lead blanket. She pushed herself up from the couch, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. "I'm gonna hit the hay."

"Yeah, me too," Winter agreed, her usual exuberance dimmed by fatigue.

Karina stumbled into her room, the familiar posters of K-Pop groups – their predecessors in the machine – blurring as her eyelids drooped. Sleep came quickly, dragging her down into a dizzying dreamscape. In her dream, she wasn't Karina, the trainee, the hopeful, the almost-idol. She was æ-Karina, her digital counterpart, a being of pure light and data, her movements flawlessly synchronized with a thousand other æ-Karinas, their voices blending in perfect, synthesized harmony. It was beautiful and terrifying, the echo of her own face, her own voice, multiplied into infinity.

The shrill ring of her alarm clock ripped through the dream, yanking her back to reality. Karina groaned, disoriented and already running late. She stumbled out of bed, her limbs heavy with sleep, and caught sight of Winter already out the door, her bag slung over her shoulder.

"Hey!" Karina shouted, her voice raspy with sleep. "Where do you think you're going?"

Winter turned, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "To SM, obviously," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You overslept. Again."

Karina's gaze darted to the alarm clock, flashing an angry red. Damn it. She had overslept. And judging by the sun already streaming through the window, she'd overslept by a lot.

"Shit!" Karina cried, adrenaline jolting her awake. She sprinted back into her room, a whirlwind of limbs and frantic apologies, the dream of æ-Karina already fading into the background. The real world, the world of grueling schedules and relentless competition, awaited.

Karina transformed into a whirlwind of motion. Clothes were thrown on, hair hastily pulled back into a ponytail, a quick swipe of lip tint the only concession to her appearance. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror – a blurry vision of sleep-mussed hair and wide, frantic eyes. Not exactly the image of SM Entertainment's "golden girl," but there was no time for self-criticism now. She had to get moving.

She snatched her bag, already overflowing with sheet music and well-worn dance shoes, and dashed out the door, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste. Winter, leaning against the doorframe with an air of amused exasperation, raised an eyebrow as Karina came to a stumbling halt beside her.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the æ-universe," Winter quipped, her lips twitching into a mischievous smile.

Karina shot her a withering glare, though she couldn't help but crack a small smile in return. "Don't even," she groaned, already mentally bracing herself for the wrath of their dance instructor. "Let's just get this over with."

Together, two figures united by their shared dream and their perpetually sleep-deprived state, they stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, ready to face another day in the K-Pop pressure cooker.

They fell into step beside each other, their pace less of a walk and more of a determined power-walk. Every second counted if they wanted to avoid the wrath of their instructors, a wrath that could manifest in extra drills or, even worse, a scathing critique that chipped away at their already fragile confidence.

"So," Karina huffed, trying to catch her breath as they navigated the bustling Seoul streets, "how much time did I lose myself this time?"

Winter, annoyingly chipper for someone who had probably witnessed the sunrise, glanced at her with a smirk. "Let's just say you owe me a big one for not leaving your sorry butt behind."

"Seriously?" Karina groaned, already dreading the inevitable teasing from the other trainees. "How late are we?"

"Late enough," Winter replied, her tone light but her eyes betraying a hint of worry. "But hey," she added, bumping Karina's shoulder playfully, "at least we're late together, right? Partners in crime."

Karina couldn't help but crack a smile. Despite the stress, the fatigue, the ever-present pressure cooker of their reality, she wouldn't trade this, this strange camaraderie forged in the trenches of their shared ambition, for anything.

"Partners in crime," she echoed, a surge of affection for the mischievous girl beside her warming her chest. "Just as long as we don't end up partners in getting our butts kicked by the dance instructor."

"So, you're my partner just in the good times?" Karina quipped, raising an eyebrow at Winter.

Winter's smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You could say so," she replied, her voice laced with playful mischief. "Gotta save myself for someone who can actually keep up with the schedule."

Karina let out an exasperated groan, playfully shoving Winter's shoulder. "Yah! You're enjoying this way too much."

They walked on, their footsteps echoing in sync against the pavement, two figures dwarfed by the gleaming skyscrapers of Seoul, yet radiating a fierce determination that belied their youth. Ahead of them, the imposing facade of the SM Entertainment building loomed, a symbol of both their wildest dreams and their greatest fears.

The familiar, sterile scent of disinfectant and nervous sweat hit them as soon as they slipped through the door to the practice room. The other trainees, already warmed up and stretching in various states of graceful contortion, shot them a mixture of pitying glances and barely concealed smirks. Karina, despite herself, felt her cheeks flush with a wave of shame. Being late was one thing, being late with the whispers of "golden girl" and "SM's Secret Weapon" following you was another level of humiliating.

Giselle and Ningning, their usual playful energy replaced by a tense stillness, offered them curt nods from their positions at the barre. The air crackled with a palpable tension, a clear indication that the session was about to begin, and they were already on thin ice. Even the air seemed to hold its breath as the dance instructor, a formidable woman with a gaze that could cut diamonds, surveyed the room.

Karina and Winter quickly joined the rest of the trainees, their arrival barely acknowledged beyond a few pointed glances from the instructor.

Karina and Winter quickly joined the rest of the trainees, their arrival barely acknowledged beyond a few pointed glances from the instructor.

“Karina,” the dance instructor’s voice, sharp as a whip crack, cut through the music, bringing the session to a screeching halt. All eyes, including Winter’s wide, sympathetic gaze, turned to Karina.

“What kept you?” the instructor asked, her tone clipped and devoid of warmth. She didn’t even bother acknowledging Winter, her focus solely on Karina.

Heat crept up Karina's neck, a blush of shame warming her cheeks. She hated this, hated the way her every misstep seemed magnified, dissected under a microscope of expectation. But she couldn't afford to crumble, not now. She had to be better than this, more professional.

"I apologize for the disruption, Ms. Jung," Karina said, forcing her voice into a tone of disciplined calm, the tone they were all drilled to perfect. "I overslept. It won't happen again."

Ms. Jung, her arms crossed over her chest, regarded Karina with an unimpressed stare. "Overslept?" she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. "So you thought you could have the privilege of sleeping a bit more than the others, is that it? That the rules don't apply to you?"

Each word felt like a slap, a public dismantling of Karina's carefully constructed composure. She wanted to shrink into herself, to disappear into the floorboards beneath her feet. But a flicker of defiance, a spark of the same fire that had brought her this far, ignited within her.

“It wasn’t like that, Ms. Jung,” Karina countered, her voice firm despite the tremor running through her. “I would never intentionally disrespect your time or the hard work of the other trainees.”

Ms. Jung’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of icy professionalism. “Then what *were* the intentions behind oversleeping, huh?” she pressed, her gaze unwavering. “Were you out celebrating your inevitable debut? Basking in the glow of your so-called 'golden girl' status?”

Karina flinched, the barb hitting its mark with painful accuracy. The whispers, the rumors, they followed her like shadows, even here, within the supposed sanctuary of the practice room. It was as if everyone had already decided her narrative, leaving her to stumble through the pre-written script, a puppet dancing to their tune.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Karina said, her voice quiet but steady. The denial felt hollow, even to her own ears, but she clung to it like a shield.

Ms. Jung scoffed, her lips twisting into a humorless smile. “Don’t play coy with me, Karina,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “You’re the only one in this room who doesn’t seem to know what’s going on with you.”

The air crackled with tension, the other trainees watching the exchange with a mixture of apprehension and morbid fascination. Karina felt a wave of claustrophobia wash over her, the mirrored walls of the practice room suddenly seeming to close in, reflecting back at her a thousand versions of doubt and fear.

She was trapped, caught in a web of expectations she hadn't woven, her every move scrutinized, analyzed, dissected. The weight of it all, the pressure to live up to an image she barely recognized as her own, threatened to crush her.

Ms. Jung gestured sharply towards the far wall, her movement drawing the attention of every trainee in the room. There, hanging beside the usual array of anatomical charts and inspirational posters, was a sheet of paper they all knew too well: the monthly evaluation rankings. Four names, circled in bright red ink, stood out at the top. And there, at the very top, was Karina’s name.

“Now do you know what I’m talking about?” Ms. Jung asked, her voice laced with a mixture of challenge and warning.

Karina stared at the leaderboard, her name a beacon of both pride and unease. It was a constant source of pressure, this expectation of excellence, this constant need to prove herself worthy of the top spot. She’d worked tirelessly, sacrificing sleep, relationships, and even a semblance of a normal teenage life, to earn her place. Yet, somehow, it never felt like enough.

Ms. Jung held Karina’s gaze, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken expectations and simmering resentment. Finally, Ms. Jung spoke, her voice low and laced with warning.

“Don’t think,” she said, each word a hammer blow, “that because you’ve gotten an inch above the rest of us, that you can take a mile, Karina.”

Karina’s jaw clenched, a surge of defiance rising within her. It wasn’t about taking liberties, about feeling entitled. It was about the crushing pressure to be perfect, the constant fear of disappointing the very people who claimed to champion her. But she knew better than to argue, not now, not with Ms. Jung’s gaze burning into her.

“Yes, Ms. Jung,” Karina replied, her voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within her.

A muscle twitched in Ms. Jung’s jaw, the only sign that she’d registered Karina’s simmering frustration. Then, with a curt nod, she turned back to the rest of the trainees, her earlier intensity replaced by a mask of cool professionalism.

“Alright, back to work, everyone,” she announced, her voice echoing sharply in the suddenly hushed room. “From the top. And this time,” she added, her gaze lingering on Karina for a beat too long, “let’s try to stay awake, shall we?”

The music started again, a familiar rhythm that offered both solace and a challenge. Karina fell back into line, her movements precise, controlled, flawless. But beneath the surface, a storm raged, fueled by a potent mix of ambition, resentment, and the dawning realization that the path to stardom was paved with more than just hard work and talent. It was paved with sacrifice, with compromise, and with the ever-present fear of becoming a prisoner of your own success.

And Karina, the girl who dreamed of dazzling stages and adoring fans, was beginning to wonder if the price of that dream was one she was willing to pay.

The hours stretched on, each count marked by the rhythmic thud of sneakers against the polished floor, the sharp intakes of breath, the occasional groan of exertion. The air, thick with the scent of sweat and determination, grew heavy as the session wore on, mirroring the exhaustion settling into their very bones. Karina pushed herself harder, fueled by a potent cocktail of Ms. Jung’s earlier admonishment and her own simmering frustration. Every precise movement, every perfectly held note, was a silent act of defiance, a refusal to be defined by anyone else’s expectations.

Finally, as the clock ticked past the usual end time, Ms. Jung called a halt to the session. The silence that descended was almost deafening, broken only by the gasps for air and the rustle of water bottles being retrieved from bags. Karina, her muscles screaming in protest, leaned against the barre, her chest heaving. She could feel Ms. Jung’s eyes on her, but she refused to meet her gaze. She’d proven her point. She wouldn’t be broken.

“What was that all about?” Winter asked, her voice laced with concern, as she came to stand beside Karina.

Karina met her friend’s gaze, a wry smile spreading across her lips. “You tell me,” she said, her voice hoarse from exertion. “You were there.”

Winter frowned, her brow furrowed in thought. “It felt…personal,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. “Like she was trying to make an example out of you.”

Karina snorted, a humorless sound. “Don’t you see? I *am* the example. The tale of what happens when the 'golden girl' steps out of line, even for a second.”

The weight of it all, the pressure, the scrutiny, threatened to crush her. But in Winter’s worried gaze, in the silent support of her friend, Karina found a flicker of strength. She wouldn’t let them break her. She would use their doubt, their expectations, as fuel. She would rise above it, not for them, but for herself.

As the rest of the trainees slowly trickled out of the practice room, their bodies bearing the satisfying ache of a hard-earned session, Karina found herself lingering by the water cooler, trying to catch her breath. She could feel Ms. Jung's gaze on her, but she avoided eye contact, focusing instead on the rhythmic swirls of water in the plastic cup. She didn't have the energy for another confrontation, not now.

Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. Karina glanced up, her heart skipping a beat as she saw Ms. Jung speaking with a woman she vaguely recognized as one of the company staff. The woman's sleek suit and perfectly coiffed hair screamed "executive," and a prickle of unease ran down Karina's spine. What could they possibly want?

Ms. Jung, her expression unreadable, turned and called out, "Karina? Someone from the office would like to see you. Now."

Karina's stomach lurched. The office? What did that even mean? Were they finally going to tell her she wasn't good enough, that she didn't fit the mold of their perfectly manufactured dream? A nervous laugh escaped her lips, a defense mechanism against the sudden surge of anxiety.

"Great," she muttered, her voice barely audible above the pounding of her heart. "Maybe I'll finally get that dismissal notice. I've heard they frame them really nicely these days."

Winter, her expression a mixture of concern and amusement, nudged Karina's arm gently. "Go on," she whispered, her eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and encouragement. "And try not to piss off anyone else with a fancy title today, okay?"

Karina shot her a weak smile, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and made her way towards Ms. Jung and the waiting executive, her heart pounding a relentless rhythm against her ribs.

Karina plastered a polite smile on her face, trying to project an air of confidence she didn't quite feel. "You wanted to see me?" she asked, directing her question to the executive.

The woman, whose name tag identified her as Ms. Lee, regarded Karina with an unreadable expression. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, seemed to take in everything: the sheen of sweat on Karina's forehead, the slight tremor in her hands, the carefully constructed mask of composure threatening to crack under the weight of scrutiny.

"Yes, Karina," Ms. Lee said, her voice smooth and devoid of inflection. "Walk with me, please."

Karina shot a quick, nervous glance back at Winter, who offered a reassuring nod. With a final, fortifying breath, Karina turned and followed Ms. Lee out of the practice room, her stomach twisting with each step.

As they walked down the sterile, brightly lit hallway, Karina risked a joke, hoping to break the oppressive silence. "So," she said, forcing a lightness she didn't feel into her voice, "is this where I get the official briefing? You know, the whole 'you're-about-to-be-a-K-Pop-star-but-don't-even-think-about-dating-or-eating-carbs' speech?"

Ms. Lee didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, she fixed Karina with a stare, her voice a low murmur that seemed to echo off the sleek walls. "No one can hear this, Karina," she said, her words a chilling blend of warning and promise.

Karina swallowed, her earlier bravado evaporating like mist.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, each step a journey further into the unknown. Karina’s mind raced, trying to decipher the meaning behind Ms. Lee’s cryptic words. What couldn't she hear? And what was so important that it warranted this level of secrecy, this air of hushed urgency?

The levity she’d tried to inject into the situation evaporated, leaving behind a residue of unease. Her earlier bravado felt childish now, a flimsy shield against the weight of Ms. Lee’s knowledge.

“Can’t I at least know what I’m getting myself into?” Karina asked, her voice barely a whisper. The plea hung in the air, a testament to her growing anxiety.

Ms. Lee stopped abruptly, turning to face Karina. Her expression, however, remained unchanged, a carefully composed mask that revealed nothing. “No, Karina,” she said, her voice firm yet devoid of malice. “Not yet.”

The finality in Ms. Lee’s tone extinguished any hope Karina had of gleaning even a sliver of information. She was being led, blindfolded and silent, down a path shrouded in mystery. A path that, for better or worse, seemed destined to lead her away from the familiar rhythms of trainee life and towards something altogether unknown.

Ms. Lee led her down a series of seemingly identical hallways, the only sound the click-clack of their shoes on the polished floor. The air thrummed with a nervous energy, a stark contrast to the usual buzz of activity that permeated the company building. It felt like they were walking through the heart of a machine, the gears of SM Entertainment whirring silently around them, guiding her towards a predetermined fate.

Finally, they stopped in front of an imposing set of double doors. The nameplate, a simple, elegant inscription reading “Lee Soo-man - Chairman,” sent a jolt of apprehension through Karina. Lee Soo-man. The architect of SM Entertainment, the man who’d launched countless careers, the mastermind behind the very system she was trying to navigate. What could he possibly want with her?

As if reading her thoughts, Ms. Lee turned to Karina, a rare flicker of something akin to sympathy softening her features. “Don’t be nervous, Karina,” she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “Just be yourself. That’s all he ever asks for.”

Before Karina could process those cryptic words, Ms. Lee had turned and knocked lightly on the door. A muffled “Enter” resonated from within. Ms. Lee opened the door, gesturing for Karina to proceed.

“He’ll see you now,” Ms. Lee said, her voice barely a whisper.

Karina took a deep breath, steeling herself for the unknown. With a final, grateful nod towards Ms. Lee, she stepped into the office, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft thud that seemed to echo the beat of her own anxious heart.

Karina stepped inside, her senses immediately overwhelmed. The air, unlike the sterile atmosphere of the hallways, was filled with the warm, comforting scent of sandalwood and citrus. The office itself was surprisingly understated, more a sanctuary than a testament to power. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow over the sprawling metropolis. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with an eclectic mix of titles ranging from business strategy to philosophy to art history. A single, striking piece of abstract art dominated the wall opposite the windows, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the otherwise muted tones of the room.

And then her gaze landed on him.

Lee Soo-man sat behind a large, uncluttered desk, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He was dressed simply, in a black turtleneck and slacks, his silver hair neatly combed back, his face etched with the wisdom and weariness of a man who’d navigated the turbulent waters of the entertainment industry for decades. But it was his eyes that held Karina captive. They were surprisingly youthful, sparkling with an intelligence and a hint of mischief that belied his age.

Karina, her earlier apprehension momentarily forgotten, found herself captivated. This wasn't the intimidating figure she'd imagined, the untouchable architect of dreams. This was a man, a person, who, despite his immense success, seemed to possess a quiet warmth, an aura of genuine curiosity that put her surprisingly at ease.

Remembering herself, Karina executed a deep, respectful bow. "Chairman Lee," she greeted, her voice a touch steadier than she anticipated.

Lee Soo-man smiled, a genuine expression that reached his eyes, and gestured towards a plush armchair positioned in front of his desk. "Please, Karina," he said, his voice warm and inviting, "call me Soo-man. And have a seat. Let's chat."

Karina, her heart still pounding a steady rhythm against her ribs, moved towards the chair, her movements a study in controlled grace. As she settled into the plush cushions, she couldn't help but feel a sense of surreal disbelief.

Her legs felt like jelly. The silence stretched, thick. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured.

"I figured you'd have known by now."

Karina swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "Known what?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed Soo-man’s face. "It seems that lately everyone knows what's happening except you," he said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully.

"What do you want to talk about?" Karina asked, her voice gaining a sliver of its usual strength. She wouldn't let him see her fear, not now, not when she was finally face-to-face with the man who held her future in his hands.

Soo-man’s lips curved into a knowing smile. "We're debuting a new girl group, Karina," he said, his words echoing in the silence of the office. "And you, my dear, are going to be the center."

Karina’s carefully constructed composure shattered. Her brow shot up, a flicker of disbelief momentarily erasing the fear that had been steadily building in her chest. "Pardon?" she blurted out, the word a startled breath escaping her lips.

Soo-man’s smile widened, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. He seemed to relish her surprise, her momentary lapse into unguarded emotion. It was as if he were witnessing the unveiling of a masterpiece, each brushstroke meticulously planned, each reaction anticipated.

“You heard me correctly, Karina,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “A new girl group. Aespa. It’s been in the works for quite some time now.”

The name, Aespa, hung in the air between them, unfamiliar yet strangely alluring. Karina had heard whispers, rumors circulating among the trainees, whispers of a new project, a group unlike any other SM had debuted before. But she’d dismissed them as wishful thinking, the idle chatter of girls desperate for a shot at the spotlight.

To think it was real, that she was not only going to be a part of it but the *center*… The very idea seemed both exhilarating and utterly terrifying. The weight of expectation, already a heavy burden, seemed to multiply tenfold, pressing down on her with the force of a physical blow.

She thought of Ms. Jung’s harsh words, the constant pressure to maintain her position at the top, the ever-present fear of failure. Was this what Ms. Jung had been hinting at? Had everyone known except her?

"But... Red Velvet," she stammered, her carefully constructed world tilting precariously on its axis. "They're... they're still..."

"Red Velvet is a success story," Soo-man interrupted, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "But their time, like all things, is finite. The industry doesn't wait, Karina. It craves the new, the fresh, the exciting. Aespa is the future."

His gaze, sharp and unwavering, held hers captive. It was a look that spoke of ambition, of calculated risk, of an unwavering belief in his own vision. Karina, for all her talent and carefully cultivated confidence, felt a tremor of unease run through her. She was a pawn in his game, a meticulously crafted piece on a board far larger and more complex than she could comprehend.

“Aespa will be unlike anything the world has ever seen,” Soo-man continued, his voice laced with a quiet intensity that sent chills down Karina’s spine. “A fusion of technology and talent, a bridge between the real and the virtual. And you, Karina, with your beauty, your charisma, your undeniable stage presence, you are the key to it all.”

The words washed over Karina, each syllable a hammer blow to her carefully constructed sense of reality. It was too much, too fast. Her mind, overwhelmed, struggled to grasp the enormity of what Soo-man was saying. Aespa. The future. A bridge between worlds. It sounded like something out of a science fiction film, not the carefully choreographed, meticulously managed world of K-Pop.

But Soo-man’s gaze, unwavering and intense, held her captive, demanding a response, an acknowledgement of the destiny he was laying out before her. And in that moment, faced with the sheer force of his conviction, a single, burning question rose above the cacophony of her thoughts.

“Who?” she choked out, the word a strangled gasp escaping her lips. “Who am I partnering with?”

A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed Soo-man’s face, a brief crack in his otherwise impenetrable facade. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers thoughtfully.

“Patience, Karina,” he said, his voice a low murmur that held a hint of steel. “All will be revealed in due time. Trust in the process.”

Frustration welled up inside Karina, hot and immediate. Trust the process? What did that even mean? She’d been trusting the process for years, pouring every ounce of her being into endless hours of practice, sacrificing sleep, friendships, even a semblance of a normal teenage life, all for the promise of this moment. And now, when she was finally on the cusp of achieving her dream, she was supposed to blindly accept whatever fate Soo-man had decided for her?

She wanted to scream, to rail against the unfairness of it all. But something in Soo-man’s gaze, a quiet strength that brooked no argument, kept her silent. He was the maestro, and she, for all her talent and ambition, was merely an instrument in his orchestra.

“Right,” Karina bit out, the word laced with an edge of defiance she couldn’t quite suppress. “Trust in the process.”

Soo-man regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the sharp angles of his face.

“That’s the spirit,” he said, his voice regaining its earlier warmth. “You’re a star, Karina. Never forget that. Now,” he continued, rising from his chair, effectively signaling the end of their meeting, “thank you for dropping by. I trust Ms. Lee will see you back to your training.”

Karina rose too, her movements stiff and automatic. She felt like a puppet, her strings expertly manipulated by the master puppeteer. As she turned to leave, Soo-man’s voice, laced with a hint of amusement, stopped her in her tracks.

“And Karina?”

She turned back, her expression carefully neutral.

“Try to cheer up a little, hmm?” Soo-man said, his eyes twinkling. “You’re the gloomiest debutant I’ve ever encountered.”

The audacity of his words, the casual dismissal of the emotional maelstrom raging within her, broke through the wall of Karina’s carefully constructed composure. For a split second, the mask slipped, revealing the raw vulnerability beneath.

“If you knew, Mister,” she shot back, her voice barely a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut through the silence of the spacious office. “If you knew.”

The words hung in the air between them, unspoken truths echoing in their wake. Then, just as quickly as it had surfaced, the vulnerability vanished, replaced by Karina’s usual mask of cool confidence. Without another word, she turned and walked towards the door, leaving Soo-man alone in his palace of glass and steel.

As she followed Ms. Lee back through the labyrinthine corridors of SM Entertainment, Karina couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been granted a glimpse behind the curtain, a glimpse into a world of power, ambition, and carefully orchestrated destinies. And she, the girl who had once dreamed of nothing more than standing on a stage, bathed in the adoration of a thousand screaming fans, was now at the center of it all.

But the closer she got to the spotlight, the more she began to wonder if the price of stardom was one she was truly willing to pay.

Chapter Text

The dorm smelled faintly of fresh paint and fabric softener, its pale walls bare except for a mirror hung crookedly beside the closet. The afternoon sun draped itself lazily across the floorboards, pooling near a suitcase that still sat unopened. Ningning stood in the middle of the room, her expression caught somewhere between excitement and apprehension. Her hands fidgeted with the straps of her backpack, her bright eyes darting around the space, taking in every detail. This was it. The beginning of everything.

The door creaked open behind her.

Ningning spun around, almost dropping her bag. A girl with dark hair stepped inside, dragging a suitcase behind her. She wore a hoodie several sizes too big, the sleeves nearly swallowing her hands. Her expression was weird at first—cool, distant—but then her eyes landed on Ningning, and her lips lifted into a polite, tentative smile.

“Hi,” the girl said, her voice soft but clear. She nudged the door shut with her foot and rolled the suitcase against the wall. “I’m Giselle.”

Ningning blinked, processing the unfamiliar syllables. Korean names were still a challenge for her, and it took her a moment to realize Giselle wasn’t Korean at all. She tilted her head slightly, her own smile faltering as she tried to think of how to respond.

“Uh, 안녕하세요?” Ningning said hesitantly, her Korean clumsy but earnest. She gave a slight bow for good measure, her cheeks already pink from the effort.

Giselle’s smile widened a bit, though her eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Oh, Korean,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a brief pause, she said, “안녕하세요,” her own Korean much smoother, though clearly accented. She set her backpack down on the bed closest to the window and began unzipping it.

Ningning hesitated, unsure of what to say next. Her vocabulary was limited, and she could already feel the words she did know slipping through her fingers like sand. She bit her lip, then tried again. “Uh… 이름은…?” she ventured, motioning awkwardly toward Giselle.

“Ah,” Giselle said, catching on quickly. “My name?” she asked, switching to English. Her tone was patient, as if testing the waters. “I’m Giselle.”

Ningning’s face lit up with recognition at the English, though her response came out in a jumble of heavily accented syllables. “Ah! Name! I Ningning. Nice… nice to meet you?”

Giselle chuckled softly, her shoulders relaxing. “Nice to meet you, too,” she said easily. She tilted her head, studying Ningning for a moment. “Wait… English?” she asked, more to herself than to Ningning. “Or… maybe not?”

Ningning tilted her head, confused, and Giselle took a breath, switching tactics. “Hablas español?” she asked, her accent crisp but cautious.

Ningning blinked, her brows knitting together. “Uh… what?”

“Okay, so not Spanish,” Giselle muttered. She tapped her chin thoughtfully, then tried again, this time in French. “Parlez-vous français?”

The blank look on Ningning’s face didn’t change. She laughed nervously, shaking her head. “No, no! I… uh…” She faltered, searching for the Korean word. “못해요. I can’t…”

“Oh, okay.” Giselle laughed lightly, waving a hand as if to say it was no big deal. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Korean, then?”

Ningning nodded enthusiastically, though her nervousness remained. “Korean… little,” she said, holding up two fingers pinched close together to emphasize just how little.

“Same,” Giselle admitted with a grin, holding up her own pinched fingers. “But we’ll figure it out.”

Ningning smiled, the tension in her chest easing slightly. Giselle’s easygoing attitude was comforting, even if they couldn’t quite understand each other yet. She gestured toward the empty bed. “This… me?” she asked, mixing Korean and English clumsily.

Giselle nodded. “Yeah, that’s yours. Roommates.” She pointed between them for emphasis. “Roommates.”

“Roommates,” Ningning repeated, testing the unfamiliar word on her tongue. Her smile grew wider. “Okay. Roommates.”

For a moment, the room fell into a comfortable silence, both girls busying themselves with unpacking.

Ningning wasn’t the type to let silence hang for too long. Even with the language barrier, her curiosity burned too brightly to stay quiet. She turned toward Giselle, who was busy pulling a sweatshirt out of her suitcase, and cleared her throat.

“Uh…” Ningning began, her voice tentative. She pointed at Giselle, then mimicked a walking motion with her fingers. “Where… you?” she asked, stumbling over the question. She frowned for a moment, then tried again. “You… from… where?”

Giselle paused, glancing over her shoulder with a small laugh. “Oh, where am I from?” she repeated, switching back to English. She made a gesture toward herself. “I’m from Japan.”

“Ja… pan…” Ningning echoed, her brows furrowing in concentration. She nodded slowly, filing away the word. “Oh! Japan. Nihon?” she tried, remembering the Japanese word she’d heard somewhere before.

Giselle’s eyes lit up in surprise. “Oh, yeah! Nihon.” She grinned, clearly impressed. “But…” she added, holding up a finger. “Korean, too. My family is Korean… kinda.”

Ningning tilted her head, her expression puzzled. “Korean?” she repeated, as if unsure she’d heard correctly. She pointed at Giselle again. “You… Korean?”

“Well, kinda,” Giselle replied, switching back to Korean this time, though slower, as if trying to make it easier to follow. “우리 집안은… 한국 사람이에요. 하지만, 나는 일본에서 태어났어요.” She paused, realizing the explanation might’ve been too much. She waved her hand dismissively. “Uh… Japanese, mostly.”

Ningning blinked, clearly lost but determined not to give up. “Ah… okay, okay. Japan…” She pointed at herself now, puffing out her chest a little like she was about to share something very important. “Me! I… China.”

“China?” Giselle repeated, nodding. “Ah, 중국. Cool.”

Ningning’s face lit up at the recognition, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes! China. Uh…” She struggled for the words, waving her hands as if they might help her find them in midair. “I… uh… from… Harbin.”

Giselle tilted her head. “Harbin?” she repeated, her Korean accent slipping slightly into her Japanese rhythm. “Oh… Beijing?” she guessed, throwing out the one Chinese city she could think of.

Ningning’s eyes widened, and she shook her head quickly. “No! No, no. Harbin,” she said again, this time more emphatically. “Not Beijing. Harbin.”

Giselle scratched the back of her head, laughing awkwardly. “Okay… I don’t know where that is,” she admitted, shrugging.

Ningning froze for a moment, then burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. “Ah! You…” She mimed a confused face, pointing at Giselle. “Don’t know Harbin?”

“Don’t know,” Giselle echoed, laughing along with her. “Sorry. I… geography? Bad.”

“Ah, same, same!” Ningning said, practically beaming now, as if they’d just discovered a secret shared flaw. She clapped her hands together and pointed at her own head. “I… geography, also bad.”

Giselle grinned, her shoulders relaxing further. “Okay, good. We’re even, then.”

The two of them laughed again, the sound filling the once-awkward room with warmth. Ningning, still giggling, sat cross-legged on her bed and leaned forward, clearly eager to keep the conversation going despite the challenges.

“You…” she began, pointing at Giselle thoughtfully. “Uh… speak… Japan?” She frowned, realizing how awkward that sounded. “Uh, Japanese?”

Giselle raised a brow, amused by the effort. “Yeah,” she replied, nodding. “I speak Japanese.”

Ningning nodded firmly, as if filing away another piece of important information. “Ah, okay. I… speak Chinese.” She paused, then added, as if it were a grand confession, “And bad Korean.”

“Same for me,” Giselle said, switching to Korean again. “I speak bad Korean, too.”

Ningning didn’t catch every word, but the gist was clear enough. She grinned and gave a thumbs-up. “You good! Better than me.”

“No, no,” Giselle said, waving her hands. “We both… bad.” She tried to match Ningning’s mix of English and Korean, and the result was so clunky they both cracked up again.

For the first time since stepping into the dorm, Ningning felt the knot in her chest begin to loosen. Sure, their conversation was like a puzzle with half the pieces missing, but Giselle was kind, funny, and patient. That was enough for now.

The room grew quieter as the initial whirlwind of introductions and nervous chatter faded. Both girls were busy unpacking, the sounds of zippers, rustling fabric, and the occasional thud of a misplaced shoe filling the air. Ningning knelt by her suitcase, carefully folding a bright red hoodie she’d brought from home. Across the room, Giselle was stuffing clothes into the narrow dresser drawers with less precision, humming softly to herself.  

Their progress was slow, not because there was too much to unpack, but because every so often, one of them would try to say something, and it would spiral into a long, broken conversation. Ningning, for example, had spent five full minutes trying to explain what a certain Chinese snack in her bag was, and Giselle had been equally determined to describe the significance of a keychain she’d brought from Japan. Neither fully understood the other, but it didn’t stop them from laughing at the absurdity of their attempts.  

Finally, Giselle shut her now-empty suitcase with a soft “thunk” and stretched, her hoodie riding up slightly as she raised her arms over her head. “Hungry?” she asked, glancing at Ningning.  

Ningning, sitting cross-legged on her bed surrounded by a small pile of trinkets, tilted her head. “Hungry?” she repeated, the word unfamiliar.  

“Uh…” Giselle mimed eating, pretending to hold chopsticks in one hand. “Food?”  

“Ah!” Ningning’s eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes. Hungry!”  

Giselle smiled, grabbing her phone and slipping it into her hoodie pocket. “Okay, let’s go find something to eat.”  

Ningning hopped off the bed, smoothing her shirt as she followed Giselle toward the door. She felt a small flutter of excitement—her first meal here with a new friend. As they stepped into the hallway, the sounds of other trainees talking and laughing echoed in the distance.  

And then they saw her.  

Karina.  

She was standing by the water cooler at the end of the hall, chatting casually with another trainee. Her long, dark hair was perfectly in place, her posture effortlessly poised. Even in the plain, unremarkable training clothes they all wore, Karina looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. There was an aura about her—calm, confident, untouchable. SM’s golden girl. The whispers about her had reached everyone, even Ningning, who had only arrived recently. Karina wasn’t just good—she was the best.  

Ningning froze mid-step, her eyes widening. She tugged lightly on Giselle’s sleeve, whispering, “Karina!”  

Giselle glanced at her, confused. “What?”  

“Karina,” Ningning repeated, pointing subtly. Her voice dropped to an almost reverent whisper. “It’s her.”  

Before Giselle could respond, Karina noticed them. She turned, her expression neutral but not unkind, and gave them a small, polite smile. “Hi,” she said simply, her voice smooth and steady.  

“Hey,” Giselle replied casually, giving her a quick nod as if she were just another trainee. “What’s up?”  

Ningning’s jaw almost dropped. Her gaze darted between Giselle and Karina, her mind racing. Did Giselle not know who this was? How could she be so casual? She tugged harder on Giselle’s sleeve, trying to communicate the gravity of the situation.  

Karina didn’t seem to mind Giselle’s tone. If anything, she seemed amused by it. “Not much,” she said, crossing her arms loosely. “You new?” she asked, looking at Giselle.  

“Yeah,” Giselle replied, shrugging. “Just moved in today. This is Ningning, my roommate.”  

Karina’s eyes flicked to Ningning, who immediately gave a nervous bow, her cheeks flushing. “안녕하세요,” Ningning said, her Korean stiff but respectful.  

Karina smiled faintly. “안녕,” she replied, her tone friendly but distant.  

Ningning, still panicking internally, leaned closer to Giselle and whispered in clumsy Korean, “She’s… top. Very top.” She gestured upward dramatically to emphasize her point. “Karina… best trainee.”  

Giselle raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Okay… and?” she whispered back, her voice casual.  

Ningning’s eyes widened further. “And!” she hissed, switching to broken English in her panic. “She… important! If… if bad… we…” She made a slicing motion across her neck for emphasis. “Trouble!”  

Karina, who had been quietly observing their whispered exchange, tilted her head and smirked faintly. “Okay… well, I’ll catch you guys later, I guess,” she said, her tone light, but with a hint of amusement. She gave them a small wave before turning and walking back down the hall.  

As soon as she was out of earshot, Ningning let out a long, dramatic breath, clutching her chest like she’d just survived a brush with death.  

“What was that all about?” Giselle asked, turning to Ningning with an amused smile.  

Ningning gave her a look of exasperation, waving her hands as she tried to explain. “Karina,” she said slowly, her accent thick but her tone urgent. “She… high. Very, very high.” She pointed upward again for emphasis. “If… we do bad… or people think bad… because we…” She paused, searching for the right word, then gestured between them. “Foreigners. You know?”  

Giselle blinked, her expression softening as she began to understand. “You mean… if we mess up, it’s worse for us because we’re not Korean?”  

“Yes! Yes!” Ningning said, nodding frantically. “So… Karina…” She pointed in the direction Karina had gone. “Must… respect. Careful.”  

Giselle frowned thoughtfully, leaning against the wall. “Huh. I mean, she didn’t seem like she cared that much. She seemed nice.”  

Ningning sighed heavily, shaking her head. “Still. Careful.”  

“Okay, okay,” Giselle said, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’ll be careful.” She grinned suddenly, her playful tone returning as she added, “But she’s still just a person, you know.”  

Ningning groaned, burying her face in her hands. “You don’t get it…”  

Giselle laughed, reaching out to pat Ningning’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go eat before you give yourself a heart attack.”  

Reluctantly, Ningning nodded, trailing after Giselle as they made their way down the hall. She couldn’t shake the lingering nerves, but at least Giselle seemed unfazed.

As they made their way toward the kitchen, Ningning couldn't help but glance over her shoulder every so often, half expecting Karina to suddenly reappear. She still felt the residual tension in her chest, the weight of expectations pressing heavily on her. For someone like Karina, perfection seemed effortless. But for Ningning, every misstep felt magnified, every mistake carrying a potential consequence.  

Giselle, on the other hand, was already chattering about something else entirely. “…and I swear, the vending machine back there didn’t even have water. Just soda. Like, what are we supposed to do when we’re dying in practice?”  

Ningning nodded absentmindedly, not fully processing Giselle’s words. Her thoughts were still preoccupied with the interaction they’d just had. She wondered if Karina had noticed her nerves, if she’d already made a bad impression.  

When they finally reached the kitchen, it was a flurry of activity. A few trainees were gathered around the counter, chatting and eating instant noodles, while another was rummaging through the fridge. The air smelled faintly of kimchi and soy sauce.  

“Do you want ramen?” Giselle asked, holding up two packets she’d grabbed from the counter.  

Ningning hesitated, her eyes scanning the room. She recognized a couple of the girls—faces she’d seen during orientation or in passing—but she didn’t know any of them well enough to feel comfortable.  

“Ramen… okay,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper.  

As Giselle busied herself with filling a pot of water, Ningning took a seat at the far end of the table, away from the others. She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, her gaze fixed on the surface of the table as snippets of conversation floated around her.  

“…heard the new girl from Japan is supposed to be really good…”  

“…yeah, but did you see her freestyle? A little sloppy…”  

“…Karina said she’s been practicing until midnight every night…”  

At the mention of Karina’s name, Ningning’s ears perked up. She couldn’t help but listen, even as she pretended to be disinterested.  

“Karina’s always been like that, though,” one of the girls said, her tone carrying a mix of admiration and exasperation. “She’s like a robot. Never makes a mistake.”  

“Yeah, but it’s kind of scary, right?” another chimed in. “Like, how do you even compete with that?”  

Ningning’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t just her. Everyone seemed to feel it—the unspoken pressure Karina’s presence brought.  

“Here,” Giselle’s voice cut through her thoughts as she set a steaming bowl of ramen in front of Ningning. “Eat up.”  

“Thank you,” Ningning murmured, picking up her chopsticks.  

Giselle sat down across from her, slurping a long strand of noodles with zero concern for table manners. “So, what’s the deal with Karina, anyway?” she asked between bites.  

Ningning froze, glancing around nervously to see if anyone had overheard. “Shh!” she hissed, leaning forward. “Not here!”  

Giselle raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t push the subject. Instead, she shrugged and went back to her ramen, content to let the conversation drop for now.  

Giselle leaned back in her chair, her chopsticks dangling between her fingers as she glanced around the kitchen. Most of the other trainees seemed caught up in their own conversations, too preoccupied to notice the quiet pair at the far end of the table. Spotting a girl sitting by herself near the corner, Giselle nudged Ningning with her elbow.

“Hey,” she said, nodding toward the lone figure. “Let’s make some friends.”

Ningning nearly choked on her noodles. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her wide eyes darting to the girl in question. “No, no, no—what you doing? We can’t just—”

“Yes, we can,” Giselle interrupted, setting her chopsticks down with a decisive clink. “Come on. You’re gonna have to stop being frightened of literally everyone at some point.”

“It’s not everyone,” Ningning muttered defensively, glancing at the girl again. She had short, ash-blonde hair and was eating quietly, her gaze focused on the bowl in front of her. Ningning didn’t recognize her at all. “Besides, we have respect hierarchy.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to be pushovers, either,” Giselle shot back. Her lips twisted into a playful smirk as she stood up. “As a matter of fact…” She motioned toward the girl, her confidence unwavering. “Let’s go.”

“Wait—what? No!” Ningning hissed, her panic rising as Giselle grabbed her arm and tugged her out of her seat. “Giselle!”

But Giselle was already walking toward the girl, leaving Ningning no choice but to stumble after her. As they approached the table, the girl looked up, her expression neutral but guarded. She didn’t say anything, just blinked at them expectantly.

“Hi!” Giselle said brightly, her tone friendly but not overly enthusiastic. “Mind if we join you?”

The girl hesitated for a moment before giving a small shrug. “Sure,” she said quietly, her voice soft but firm.

Ningning lingered awkwardly behind Giselle before finally sliding into the seat next to her, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Giselle, on the other hand, was completely at ease, her smile warm and inviting.

“I’m Giselle, by the way,” she said, gesturing to herself. “And this is Ningning.”

The girl nodded slowly, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Winter,” she said simply, her voice carrying a subtle accent that Ningning couldn’t quite place.

“Nice to meet you, Winter!” Giselle said, leaning forward slightly. “So, are you new here? I don’t think we’ve seen you before.”

Winter nodded again. “I just got here last week,” she said. “From Seoul.”

“Cool, cool,” Giselle said, nodding along. “How’s it been so far? Settling in okay?”

Winter hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her chopsticks. “It’s… okay,” she said after a moment, her tone careful. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Did you guys come to gossip about Karina?”

Both Giselle and Ningning froze, caught completely off guard by the question. Ningning’s eyes widened in alarm, while Giselle let out a startled laugh.

“What? No!” Giselle said quickly, holding up her hands as if to prove her innocence. “We’re not here to gossip about anyone. Promise.”

Winter’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze scrutinizing them for a moment before she finally nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Good,” she said simply, returning her attention to her food.

There was an awkward pause as Giselle and Ningning exchanged a quick, uncertain glance. Giselle cleared her throat, determined to keep the conversation going.

“So… uh, how do you know Karina?” Giselle asked, her tone casual.

Winter glanced up again, her expression still unreadable. “I don’t,” she said. “Not really.”

“Oh,” Giselle said, blinking in surprise. “Then why—”

“She’s the first name everyone talks about,” Winter interrupted, her tone flat. “I figured you were like the others.”

Ningning shifted uncomfortably, her cheeks flushing slightly. “We’re not…” she began, her voice trailing off when Winter’s sharp gaze landed on her. “I, we.. trying to… make friends.”

Winter tilted her head slightly, studying them for a moment before finally softening just a fraction. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She paused, searching for the right words. “It’s just… a lot of people here aren’t very nice.”

Giselle’s expression softened, and she nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I get that,” she said. “It’s a competitive place. But hey—” She smiled, her tone lightening. “We’re not like that. Promise.”

Winter’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, though it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared. “Okay,” she said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ningning offered a small, tentative smile of her own. “We’re… glad to meet you,” she said, her voice soft but sincere.

For the first time, Winter’s expression seemed to relax, the guarded look in her eyes fading ever so slightly. “Thanks,” she said quietly, her tone carrying a hint of warmth. “Me too.”

As the three girls continued talking, the tension in the air slowly began to dissipate. Though Winter remained quiet and reserved, Giselle’s easygoing nature helped draw her out bit by bit, and even Ningning found herself relaxing as the conversation unfolded.  

Winter stirred the broth in her bowl absentmindedly, her gaze fixed on the swirls of noodles as she spoke. “It’s always like this,” she muttered, her tone low but edged with frustration. “Every time someone comes up to me, it’s always about her. ‘Have you seen Karina?’ ‘What’s Karina like?’ ‘Did Karina really do this or that?’” She sighed, setting her chopsticks down with a soft clatter. “It’s exhausting.”

Giselle raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Huh… sounds like Karina’s a pretty big deal to you.”

Winter’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing slightly. “To me? No. She’s just—” She stopped herself, her lips pressing together as if she realized she’d said too much.

Giselle tilted her head, a mischievous grin creeping onto her face. “Wait a second.” She tapped her chin dramatically, as if connecting the dots. “If everyone’s always talking about Karina with you… then you must know Karina.” She pointed her chopsticks at Winter triumphantly. “You’re Karina’s friend.”

Winter stiffened, her posture suddenly rigid. “I didn’t say that,” she said quickly, her voice a little too defensive.

“Oh, come on,” Giselle said, her grin widening. “You totally slipped up just now. You do know her.”

Ningning, who had been quietly observing the exchange with wide eyes, gasped softly. “Oh my gosh, you do know her!” she exclaimed, her voice hushed but excited.

Winter sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “Fine,” she admitted, her tone resigned. “Yes, I know Karina. Happy now?”

“Very,” Giselle quipped, leaning back in her chair with a satisfied smile. “So, what’s the deal? How do you know her?”

Winter hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. She glanced around the room briefly, as if making sure no one else was listening, before finally speaking. “I’ve been here longer than a few weeks,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve been training here for a handful of years.”

Ningning’s jaw dropped. “Years?!” she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief. “But said—”

“I know what I said,” Winter cut in, her tone sharp but not unkind. “I don’t like… drawing attention to it. I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. Trainees who burned out, trainees who never debuted… It’s easier to just keep my head down and not get too close to anyone.”

Giselle frowned, her playful expression softening into something more thoughtful. “That sounds… lonely.”

Winter shrugged, avoiding their gazes. “It is what it is.” She paused for a moment, then added quietly, “It’s not like I was ever alone. I’ve known Karina since we were kids.”

That got their attention. Ningning’s mouth dropped open again, her chopsticks clattering to the table as she stared at Winter in disbelief. Even Giselle looked surprised, her brows shooting up.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Giselle said, holding up a hand like she needed to physically pause the conversation. “You’ve known Karina since you were kids? Like, childhood friends?”

“Something like that,” Winter muttered, her tone nonchalant but her cheeks faintly pink. “We practiced a lot together, went to the same dance academy. When she got scouted, I was already training here, so she joined me.”

Giselle’s grin returned in full force. “That’s so cute!” she gushed, clasping her hands together. “You’re like childhood besties who ended up chasing the same dream. That’s, like, straight out of a drama.”

Winter’s expression soured instantly, her lips pulling into a thin line. “It’s not as cute when she’s the star of the show and I get the side character treatment.”

That silenced both Giselle and Ningning for a moment. Ningning glanced at Giselle nervously, unsure how to respond, but Giselle didn’t hesitate.

“Side character?” she asked, her tone softer now, less teasing. “What you mean?”

Winter sighed again, her gaze dropping to her bowl. “She’s… Karina,” she said simply, as if that was all the explanation needed. “She’s perfect. Perfect face, perfect skills, perfect everything. Everyone loves her. Everyone wants to be her friend, to know her, to be close to her.” She gestured vaguely with her chopsticks. “And then there’s me. Average. People only notice me because I’m standing next to her.”

Ningning frowned deeply, her expression full of concern. “Not fair,” she said softly. “You not average.”

Winter let out a short, humorless laugh. “Tell that to the company,” she muttered. “Or the trainees. Or her fans.” Her voice was bitter, but there was a vulnerability underneath it that made both Giselle and Ningning’s hearts ache.

Giselle leaned forward, her tone gentle but firm. “Hey, listen. I don’t know you that well yet, but from what I can see, you’re anything but average. You’ve been training here for years, right? That already says a lot about how strong and talented you are. And honestly?” She smiled. “If Karina’s such a big deal, I bet she wouldn’t stick around someone who wasn’t just as amazing.”

Winter blinked. She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

“She right,” Ningning chimed in, her voice earnest. “I mean, Karina great and all, but if she close to you, probably because you just as good as she. If people don’t see it, it don't mean it not true.”

Winter stared at them for a long moment. Finally, she shook her head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You guys are weird,” she said quietly, but there was no malice in her tone—just a hint of gratitude.

“Thanks,” Giselle said with a cheeky grin. “We’ll take that as a compliment.”

Winter rolled her eyes, but the faint smile remained.

Giselle leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a playful smirk. “Tell you what,” she said, glancing between Winter and Ningning. “To not disturb the status quo—since, you know, we wouldn’t want anyone thinking we’re all buddy-buddy now—let’s pretend this conversation didn’t go as well as it did. Okay?”

Winter’s expression shifted subtly, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly as she quickly caught onto Giselle’s suggestion. It was a smart idea. The fewer people noticed her opening up, the fewer suspicions there would be—not just about her connection to Karina but also about Giselle and Ningning getting close to her. She gave a small nod, her lips quirking into a smile. “Deal,” she said simply.

“Great,” Giselle said brightly, clapping her hands together like they’d just sealed a business transaction. Then, after a beat, she leaned forward again, her grin turning mischievous. “Oh, and by the way, don’t tell Karina about us.” She gestured toward Ningning with her thumb. “This one here is terrified of her.”

Ningning’s jaw dropped as her face flushed a deep red. “Yah!” she exclaimed, swatting Giselle’s arm with enough force to make her yelp. “Not terrified! Just cautious!” She crossed her arms, glaring at Giselle, who was now rubbing her arm with an exaggerated pout.

“Cautious, frightened—same thing,” Giselle teased, ignoring the glare. “Anyway, Winter, you’re sworn to secrecy now. No spilling the beans to Karina about how we’re your new besties.”

Winter couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing, the sound soft but genuine. It was the first time Giselle and Ningning had heard her laugh, and it caught them both off guard. “Okay,” Winter said, still smiling as she shook her head. “Will do. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Giselle grinned triumphantly. “Knew we could count on you.”

Ningning, still flustered, muttered under her breath, “I don’t know why I put up with you…”

Winter’s quiet laughter lingered in the air, and for a moment, the tension that had hung over the conversation dissipated completely.  

Winter adjusted her grip on her chopsticks, glancing at them both with a softer look in her eyes. “You know,” she said, her voice quieter now, “you two aren’t what I expected.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Giselle asked with a cheeky grin.

Winter’s faint smile returned. “I’m not sure yet,” she said teasingly, before taking another bite of her food.

Ningning gave a small, relieved smile of her own, her nervousness finally easing. Giselle, of course, leaned in dramatically as if trying to get a better read on Winter’s expression.

“Well,” Giselle said, leaning back again with a satisfied look, “I’ll take it as a compliment. And, hey—if you ever feel like being the main character for once, you know where to find us.”

Winter raised an eyebrow at that, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “We’ll see,” she said cryptically, but there was something lighter in her tone now.

The three of them returned to their food, the air between them feeling less heavy than before. It wasn’t a groundbreaking moment, maybe, but it was a start. 

Chapter Text

The bus rumbled through the countryside, each bump a jarring reminder of the distance between Yangsan and Seoul. Winter hugged her knees to her chest, the scent of her grandmother’s plum blossom perfume clinging faintly to her jacket – a comforting echo of the weekend she’d just left behind. Karina’s goodbye message, still fresh in her mind, brought a small smile to her lips.

“Don’t miss me too much! Fighting!”

Winter’s smile widened. Karina, ever the picture of unwavering confidence. But Winter felt anything but confident. As the bus lurched around a bend, the Seoul skyline materialized in the distance, a glittering monument to ambition and dreams. Her dreams. Dreams that suddenly felt impossibly large, impossibly fragile.

Three years ago, those dreams had shimmered with the intoxicating allure of new beginnings. Joining SM Entertainment, the agency that had launched the careers of idols she’d idolized since childhood, had felt like stepping into a fairytale. The pristine practice rooms, the legendary instructors, the sheer talent buzzing in every hallway – it was exhilarating. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

And then the training began.

The initial thrill had quickly morphed into a relentless grind. Vocal lessons stretched late into the night, dance practices left her muscles screaming, and the pressure to perfect every move, every note, was suffocating. Winter, who’d always been praised for her natural talent back in Yangsan, found herself surrounded by dozens of other girls, each one just as talented, just as driven. The competition was fierce, a constant hum of energy that thrummed beneath the surface of every interaction.

Yangsan, with its rolling green hills and familiar faces, felt a million miles away. Life there moved at a slower pace, measured by the changing seasons and the comforting rituals of family. There, she was Kim Minjeong, the baker’s daughter with a bright smile and a knack for singing. Here, she was Winter, trainee at SM Entertainment, just another face vying for a shot at stardom.

The bus sputtered to a stop, jolting Winter back to the present. She grabbed her bag, the weight of her anxieties settling back onto her shoulders. As she stepped off the bus, the familiar sights and sounds of Yangsan washed over her like a balm. The air smelled different here – cleaner, tinged with the sweet scent of pine needles and damp earth. Even the sunlight seemed softer, filtering through the canopy of trees that lined the road.

Winter took a deep breath, letting the tranquility of the countryside seep into her bones. As she walked down the narrow street leading towards her grandmother’s house, memories of her childhood flickered to life. She pictured herself, a gangly kid with mismatched socks, chasing fireflies in the twilight with the other children from the village. Their laughter, echoing through the rice paddies, had felt as boundless as the star-dusted sky above.

She passed the small bakery her parents owned, the air thick with the aroma of freshly baked bread. A pang of longing shot through her. Her father, flour dusting his apron, would always greet her with a warm smile and a hug that smelled of yeast and sugar. Her mother, her hands never idle, would slip her a warm pastry, her eyes twinkling with pride.

Winter paused, gazing at the familiar scene. Had it only been two months since she’d last stood here? It felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, her biggest worry had been whether her parents would let her stay up late to watch the latest music award show. Now, she was living that dream, but the reality felt different, heavier, than she’d imagined.

Shaking off the melancholy, Winter continued down the road, her pace quickening as she neared her grandmother’s house. The sight of the small, traditional hanok nestled amidst a riot of wildflowers brought a wave of relief. Home. Here, at least, she could be Kim Minjeong again. Here, she could forget the pressure, the competition, the ever-present weight of expectation.

At least for a little while.

Winter reached the gate, its paint chipped and faded, and pushed it open with a soft creak. Her grandmother would scold her for not fixing it, her voice gruff but her eyes twinkling with affection. A wave of warmth washed over Winter. She missed that. Missed them all.

She climbed the worn stone steps leading to the porch and rapped her knuckles against the weathered wood of the front door.

“I don’t want no newspapers!” a voice called from inside, gruff with age.

Winter bit back a laugh. Her grandmother, ever wary of door-to-door salesmen. “Halmeoni,” she called out, using the Korean term for grandmother, “it’s me, Minjeong! I’m not selling any newspapers.”

A beat of silence, then the sound of shuffling footsteps. The door swung open, revealing her grandmother’s small, stooped figure framed in the doorway. Her silver hair, usually pulled back in a tight bun, had escaped its confines, framing her wrinkled face in a soft halo. Her eyes, though clouded with age, still held a spark of youthful mischief.

“Minjeong-ah,” her grandmother breathed, her weathered face breaking into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “What are you doing here, child? You weren’t supposed to be back until next week.”

Winter stepped inside, the familiar scent of ginseng tea and woodsmoke enveloping her like a warm hug. “I finished my schedule early,” she said, her voice tinged with a weariness she couldn’t quite conceal.

Her grandmother’s eyes, sharp as ever, didn’t miss the slight slump in her shoulders, the flicker of exhaustion in her usually bright eyes. “Ah,” she murmured, her voice softening. “The city life treating my granddaughter poorly?”

Winter offered a tired smile. “You could say so.”

Her grandmother snorted, a sound like a teakettle coming to a boil. “City folk,” she muttered, ushering Winter further into the house. “Always in a rush, always chasing something they can’t catch. Never stopping to appreciate the simple things. Can’t understand why you youngsters can’t see the beauty of a life lived close to the land, surrounded by family.”

Winter bit back a sigh. It was a familiar refrain, one her grandmother had been singing ever since Winter had first announced her dreams of becoming an idol. Back then, her grandmother’s words had fueled her ambition, fueled her desire to prove that she could make it, even coming from a small town like Yangsan. Now, her grandmother’s words held a different kind of weight, a silent wisdom that resonated deep within Winter’s weary soul.

“You know,” her grandmother continued, bustling around the small kitchen, her voice tinged with a familiar warmth, “when I was your age, we didn’t have all these fancy idols and their flashy music. Our entertainment was gathering in the village square, singing folk songs under the moonlight.”

Winter smiled, picturing her grandmother as a young woman, her voice ringing out clear and strong, her laughter echoing through the night. It was easy to imagine her grandmother as the life of the party, her spirit as vibrant as the wildflowers that bloomed on the hillsides each spring.

“Halmeoni, you were an idol?” Winter teased, her voice lighter than it had been in days.

Her grandmother let out a hearty laugh, the sound filling the kitchen with warmth. “Maybe not an idol,” she conceded, her eyes twinkling. “But I could certainly hold a tune.”

“And, truth be told,” her grandmother continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I knew how to captivate an audience!”

Winter’s smile widened, picturing her grandmother charming the socks off the entire village with her wit and her voice. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Even now, her grandmother had a way of commanding attention, her presence filling a room with a warmth that radiated far beyond her small stature.

“I’m pretty sure you did,” Winter agreed, her voice laced with genuine admiration.

Her grandmother let out a dramatic “pfft,” waving her hand dismissively. “All you youngsters, thinking the history of us old people are just ancient tales. We had our time, you know. We had our dreams, our passions.” She paused, her eyes meeting Winter’s, a knowing glint in their depths. “Don’t let yours slip away, Minjeong-ah.”

Winter’s smile faltered slightly, her grandmother’s words striking a chord within her. Don’t let yours slip away. Was that what she was doing? Letting the pressure, the competition, chip away at the joy she’d once found in music, in performing?

Her grandmother, ever perceptive, seemed to read the conflict swirling in Winter’s eyes. She patted Winter’s hand gently, her touch surprisingly strong despite her age. “Go on now,” she said, her voice softening. “Rest. Eat. Tell your old halmeoni all about the city life. You can tell me about those fancy idols you’re always talking about.”

Winter chuckled, the sound a balm to her soul. Right. Idols. Dreams. She wasn’t ready to let go of those, not yet. But for now, here in the comforting embrace of her grandmother’s kitchen, surrounded by the scent of ginseng tea and the echoes of a thousand shared memories, she could breathe. She could simply be Kim Minjeong, the baker’s daughter, home for a visit.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what she needed.

Winter settled onto the worn cushion beside her grandmother, the familiar scent of dried lavender and woodsmoke enveloping her like a warm hug. A steaming mug of ginseng tea materialized in her hands, its warmth spreading through her chilled fingers.

“Tell me everything,” her grandmother urged, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Who are these idols you’re always going on about? Are they as talented as my Minjeong?”

Winter laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks. “They’re talented, Halmeoni,” she admitted, taking a sip of the tea, its bitterness strangely comforting. “But sometimes… sometimes it feels like everyone’s so busy trying to be the next big thing that they forget about the music.”

Her grandmother hummed thoughtfully, her gaze distant. “It’s the same in every generation,” she mused, her voice surprisingly insightful. “The young ones chasing after the new, the old ones clinging to the familiar. Nobody wants to meet in the middle.”

Winter pondered her grandmother’s words, a slow smile spreading across her face. “To be honest, Halmeoni,” she said, her voice laced with newfound clarity, “I kind of feel like we’re both guilty of that. Grown-ups think everything new is just noise, and young people think everything old is boring.”

Her grandmother chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. “You think my generation didn’t have our share of noise?” she retorted, her eyes twinkling. “You should have heard your grandfather trying to woo me with his harmonica playing! Now that was noise.”

Winter burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the small house, chasing away the last vestiges of her weariness. Her grandmother, despite her age, had a way of cutting through the noise, reminding Winter of what truly mattered: family, connection, and the enduring power of music, no matter the generation.

A thought, unbidden, drifted into Winter’s mind. “Halmeoni,” she began, tilting her head in contemplation, “did you ever think about… leaving Yangsan? Going to the city?”

Her grandmother, who had been about to take a sip of her own tea, paused, her brow furrowing slightly. “Leaving?” she echoed, her voice soft. “Why would I ever leave? My family was here, my life was here. Everything I ever needed was right here in Yangsan.”

“But…” Winter hesitated, trying to articulate the question that had been nagging at her. “Weren’t you ever curious? About the world outside? About chasing bigger dreams?”

Her grandmother smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “Ah, Minjeong-ah,” she sighed, placing her hand over Winter’s. “Every generation has their own ambitions. Your dreams are different from mine, just like mine were different from your mother’s. You youngsters, you’re drawn to the bright lights, the excitement. You crave the world on a bigger stage.”

She paused, her gaze turning distant, as though peering back through the corridors of time. “We wanted simpler things,” she murmured, more to herself than to Winter. “A piece of land to call our own, a good harvest, the laughter of children filling our homes. That was our measure of success.”

Winter’s gaze softened, understanding dawning in her eyes. Her grandmother’s words, though spoken softly, resonated with a profound truth. Their dreams might be different, their paths divergent, but at their core, they both yearned for the same thing: fulfillment, purpose, a sense of belonging.

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t chase your dreams, Minjeong-ah,” her grandmother added, her voice firm, her gaze meeting Winter’s with unwavering clarity. “The world is a vast and wondrous place. Go out there and find your own measure of success. Just promise me you won’t forget where you came from.”

A warmth spread through Winter’s chest, a mixture of gratitude and determination.

“I could never forget Yangsan, Halmeoni,” Winter replied, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s in my blood, in my bones. I might be able to get out of Yangsan, but Yangsan will never get out of me.”

Her grandmother chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s my girl,” she said, her voice laced with pride. “You always had a way with words. Maybe you should have been a poet instead of a singer.”

“Or a farmer,” Winter teased, her lips twitching into a mischievous grin. “Or a nurse, like you always wanted.”

Her grandmother let out a dramatic gasp. “A farmer?” she exclaimed, her eyes widening in mock horror. “Can you imagine me chasing after chickens all day? My old bones would crumble!”

She shook her head, her expression softening. “You made the right choice, Minjeong-ah,” she said, her voice laced with sincerity. “Following your heart. Not many people have that kind of courage.”

Winter’s heart swelled with warmth. Her grandmother’s words, though simple, held a weight that resonated deep within her. Courage. It was a strange word to associate with singing, with dancing, with the seemingly frivolous world of K-pop.

“Halmeoni,” Winter began, a flicker of doubt clouding her eyes, “you might call it courage. Eomma… well, she might call it stubbornness.”

Her grandmother’s expression softened, her gaze turning knowing. “Ah, your mother,” she sighed, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Always the practical one. Always worried about you getting hurt.”

She reached out, her wrinkled hand gently cupping Winter’s cheek. “Listen to me, Minjeong-ah,” she said, her voice firm yet gentle. “You are not your mother. You are not your father. You are not bound by their expectations, their fears.”

Winter’s breath hitched, her grandmother’s words striking a chord deep within her. It was a truth she’d long tried to ignore, burying it beneath layers of ambition and a desperate need for approval. But her grandmother, with her simple wisdom and unwavering love, had a way of cutting through the noise, of exposing the raw, vulnerable truth that lay beneath.

“Your life,” her grandmother continued, her gaze holding Winter’s with unwavering intensity, “is yours to create. Your dreams are yours to chase. Don’t let anyone, not even your own family, dim your light.”

Winter’s eyes welled with tears, a mixture of gratitude and a strange sense of liberation. It was as if her grandmother had given her permission to want, to dream, to pursue something beyond the safe and familiar. To forge her own path, even if it meant stumbling along the way.

“Halmeoni,” Winter whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “thank you.”

Her grandmother smiled, a radiant, life-affirming smile that seemed to chase away the shadows that had lingered in Winter’s heart. “Go now,” she said, patting Winter’s hand gently. “Rest. Recharge. The city will still be there tomorrow. But for now, you are home.”

Winter nodded, a wave of exhaustion washing over her, but this time, it was a sweet exhaustion, the kind that followed a good cry and a heart-to-heart with someone who knew her better than she knew herself.

“Good girl,” her grandmother chirped, her mood shifting with an ease only grandmothers possessed. She rose, her joints popping softly, and bustled towards the doorway. “Now, off you go. Get some rest. And if you’re good, I might even tell you a bedtime story.”

Winter couldn’t help but chuckle, a genuine, lighthearted sound that bubbled up from within. “Halmeoni,” she protested playfully, “I’m eighteen! I’m a bit old for bedtime stories, don’t you think?"

Her grandmother paused at the doorway, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Minjeong-ah,” she said, placing a hand over her heart, “you’ll always be my little granddaughter, no matter how old you get. And besides,” she added with a wink, “you city folk could use a little magic in your lives.”

With that, she disappeared down the hallway, leaving Winter bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun and a heart overflowing with a newfound sense of peace. Maybe her grandmother was right. Maybe she did need a little magic in her life. And maybe, just maybe, she could find it in the most unexpected of places.

Winter changed into her old, familiar pajamas – a faded cotton shirt and a pair of sweatpants – each garment imbued with the comforting scent of home. As she settled into the cozy embrace of her bed, the weight of the day, the pressure of the city, seemed to melt away. She closed her eyes, her grandmother’s words echoing in her mind: “You are not bound.”

And for the first time in weeks, Winter felt truly free.

Her dreams carried her away on a tide of music and light. She was onstage, bathed in the warm glow of the spotlight, her heart pounding in rhythm with the pulsating beat. Beside her, Karina moved with effortless grace, her voice soaring, their harmonies intertwining like threads of spun gold. The crowd roared its approval, a wave of energy that washed over Winter, filling her with exhilaration.

But something was different. Two other figures shared the stage with them, their faces obscured by the swirling lights, their voices blending seamlessly with Winter and Karina’s. Who were they? Winter strained to see, to recognize…

Just as the music swelled, reaching a crescendo that promised revelation, a gentle hand on her shoulder brought Winter back to the land of the living. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the window. Her grandmother stood beside her, a knowing smile gracing her wrinkled face.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” her grandmother chirped. “The city can wait another day. Breakfast is ready.”

Winter sat up, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like morning mist. Two other figures… who could they be?

Shaking off the lingering drowsiness, Winter climbed out of bed, a new sense of purpose coursing through her. The city might be waiting, but so was something else. Something exciting. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on yet.

As Winter stretched, her limbs still heavy with sleep, she couldn't shake the feeling that her dream held some kind of significance. Two other figures... could it be? Was her subconscious hinting at the future? A future that held something more, something bigger, than she could have imagined?

Padding down the hallway, the aroma of sizzling garlic and sesame oil filled her senses, pulling her towards the kitchen. Her grandmother stood by the stove, a picture of domestic tranquility in her floral apron, expertly flipping what looked like savory pancakes.

"Morning, Halmeoni," Winter greeted, her voice still thick with sleep. "Something smells amazing."

Her grandmother glanced over her shoulder, her face crinkling into a warm smile. "Ah, good, you're awake. I was just about to send the chickens in to wake you up."

Winter chuckled, shaking her head at her grandmother's antics. "You know, Halmeoni," she teased, settling down at the small wooden table, "I'm starting to think you have something against us city folk."

Her grandmother let out a hearty laugh, the sound echoing through the cozy kitchen. "Don't be silly, child," she chided, her eyes twinkling. "It's just that you city dwellers are so accustomed to your fancy cafes and your instant noodles, you've forgotten the simple pleasures of a home-cooked meal."

Winter grinned, her heart warming at her grandmother's playful banter. She had missed this. Missed the easy camaraderie, the comforting routines, the sense of belonging that permeated every corner of her grandmother's home.

"I guess you might be right," Winter conceded, taking a bite of the savory pancake. Her taste buds sang with delight. Her grandmother's cooking always had that effect on her. It was like a warm hug for her soul. "But," she added with a mischievous grin, "I'm starting to miss those five-star chefs we had back in Seoul."

Her grandmother feigned a gasp, her hand flying to her chest in mock outrage. "Don't you dare say that in my kitchen again, Kim Minjeong!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with feigned horror. "These chefs you speak of, did they pour their heart and soul into every dish? Did they use recipes passed down through generations? Did they sing to their vegetables?"

Winter burst into laughter, shaking her head at her grandmother's theatrics. Only her grandmother could turn a simple breakfast into a dramatic performance. "Alright, alright, you win," Winter conceded, raising her hands in mock surrender. "No more comparing your cooking to five-star chefs. You are the queen of the kitchen, Halmeoni. Your word is law."

Her grandmother, her point made, broke into a wide, satisfied grin. "That's better," she said, her voice filled with playful authority. "Now, eat up. You city girls are all skin and bones these days. You need your strength, especially if you're going to be sharing the stage with those fancy idols."

Winter smiled, her heart full. Her grandmother might tease, but she understood. She understood the allure of the dream, the relentless pull of the stage. And most importantly, she supported Winter's journey, every step of the way.

As Winter savored the last bite of her breakfast, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was on the cusp of something big, something life-changing. The dream, with its tantalizing glimpses of the future, had planted a seed of anticipation in her heart. Two figures... two voices...

Her grandmother, ever vigilant, noticed the faraway look in Winter’s eyes, the telltale sign of her granddaughter drifting into her own world of thoughts. She cleared her throat, a sound like a gentle cough amplified by the quiet morning.

“So,” she began, her voice laced with a mischievous lilt, “have you met any nice young men in the city? Any handsome singers catching your eye?”

Winter, startled out of her reverie, choked slightly on her tea. “Halmeoni!” she sputtered, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink. “Where did that come from?”

Her grandmother chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Just curious, is all,” she said, her voice laced with feigned innocence. “A pretty thing like you, surrounded by all those talented boys… it’s only natural, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Winter mumbled, her gaze dropping to her lap.

“Not really?” her grandmother echoed, her voice laced with playful disapproval. “What did I tell you about keeping to yourself, Minjeong-ah? A young woman needs a companion, someone to share her hopes and dreams with.”

“It’s not because I don’t want one…” Winter began, her voice barely a whisper. She hesitated, then blurted out, “We’re not allowed to.”

Her grandmother’s eyebrows shot up, her expression a mixture of surprise and indignation. “Not allowed? What kind of nonsense is that?”

Winter took a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable lecture on personal freedom and the absurdity of modern rules. Her grandmother, despite her traditional upbringing, had a surprisingly modern view on matters of the heart.

“It’s complicated, Halmeoni,” Winter sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Being a trainee… it’s all-consuming. We don’t have time for anything else. Besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a whisper, “they say it’s bad for our image.”

Her grandmother, never one to mince words, let out a snort. "Image?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "What's so important about an image when you're young and in love?"

Winter braced herself for the inevitable lecture on the fleeting nature of fame and the enduring power of love. Her grandmother, despite – or perhaps because of – her lifetime spent in a quiet village, had a surprisingly pragmatic view on matters of the heart.

"Halmeoni," Winter began, a hint of warning in her voice, but her grandmother waved her hand dismissively.

"You know what will be bad for your image, Minjeong-ah?" she said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Not being able to experience how fun it is to share a bed with a..."

Winter’s eyes widened in horror, her cheeks turning a shade of crimson that would have put her grandmother’s prize-winning roses to shame. “Halmeoni!” she shrieked, effectively cutting off whatever scandalous advice her grandmother was about to impart.

Her grandmother, momentarily startled by Winter’s outburst, threw back her head and let out a booming laugh that shook the rafters.

“Oh, Minjeong-ah,” she wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’re so easy to tease!”

Winter, still blushing furiously, couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Leave it to her grandmother to turn a potentially mortifying conversation into a moment of levity.

“You’re terrible, Halmeoni,” she mumbled, hiding her face in her hands.

Her grandmother, her laughter subsiding, patted Winter’s hand gently. “Just trying to teach you the important lessons in life, child,” she said, her voice softening. “There’s more to life than singing and dancing, you know. Don’t forget to have a little fun along the way.”

Winter sighed, knowing she couldn’t win against her grandmother’s playful wisdom. “Yes, Halmeoni,” she conceded, a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Her grandmother, her attention shifting with the ease only grandmothers possessed, suddenly reached out and gently tugged on a stray strand of Winter’s hair.

“And speaking of keeping things in mind…” she began, her voice taking on a more serious tone. She peered at Winter’s reflection in the window, her brow furrowed in concern. “You’re keeping too many things in there, child.”

Winter instinctively reached up, touching her own hair, her fingers tracing the smooth strands. “What do you mean, Halmeoni?” she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Her grandmother gestured vaguely towards Winter’s head. “Up here,” she clarified, her voice soft. “All those worries, those doubts… they’re weighing you down.”

Winter’s hand dropped to her lap, her gaze falling to the worn floorboards. Her grandmother, with her uncanny ability to see straight through her, had hit the nail on the head. The city, with its relentless pace and cutthroat competition, had a way of worming its way into her thoughts, filling her with a constant hum of anxiety.

“I know you’re under a lot of pressure, Minjeong-ah,” her grandmother continued, her voice laced with empathy. “But you can’t let those city dreams steal your joy. You have to find a way to let go, to free your mind.”

Winter looked up, meeting her grandmother’s gaze. Her grandmother’s eyes, though crinkled with age, held a wisdom that transcended generations, a wisdom born from a life lived close to the earth, a life guided by the rhythms of nature, the simple truths that often eluded those caught in the whirlwind of ambition.

“How do I do that, Halmeoni?” Winter asked, her voice barely a whisper. “How do I let go?”

Her grandmother smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. “That, my dear,” she said, rising from her chair, “is what grandmothers are for.”

She extended a hand towards Winter. “Come,” she said, her voice filled with warmth. “Let’s take a walk. The fresh air will do you good.”

Winter hesitated for a moment, then took her grandmother’s hand, her fingers intertwining with her grandmother’s calloused skin. As she followed her grandmother out of the house, into the bright sunshine of the Yangsan morning, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of anticipation. Her grandmother, with her simple wisdom and her deep connection to the land, always had a way of making things better. Maybe, just maybe, she could teach Winter the art of letting go, of finding peace amidst the chaos.

As they walked down the narrow path, the morning air filled with the scent of pine needles and damp earth, her grandmother hummed a cheerful tune, her steps surprisingly sprightly for her age.

“You know what the best part of being old is?” she asked suddenly, her voice ringing with an almost childlike glee.

Winter, her brow furrowed in thought, glanced at her grandmother. “What’s that, Halmeoni?”

Her grandmother stopped abruptly, causing Winter to bump lightly against her. She placed a hand on Winter’s waist, steadying her, and leaned in close, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“That you just don’t care anymore!” she exclaimed, throwing her head back and letting out a hearty laugh.

Winter couldn’t help but chuckle at her grandmother’s antics. It was true; her grandmother possessed an enviable sense of freedom, an unburdened spirit that came with having lived a long life, full of joys and sorrows, triumphs and heartbreaks. She had weathered life’s storms and emerged on the other side, her spirit undimmed, her zest for life untarnished.

“You make it sound like a good thing,” Winter teased, falling into step beside her grandmother as they resumed their walk.

“Oh, it is, Minjeong-ah, it is!” her grandmother insisted, her voice filled with conviction. “When you’re young, you worry about everything. What people think, what the future holds, whether you’re wearing the right clothes…”

She waved her hand dismissively, as if brushing away a pesky insect. “But when you get to my age,” she continued, her voice softening, “you realize that none of that truly matters. What matters is family, good health, and a warm cup of tea on a sunny morning.”

Winter’s heart swelled with affection for her wise, eccentric grandmother. Her words, though simple, held a profound truth. Somewhere along the way, in the relentless pursuit of her dreams, Winter had forgotten the importance of savoring the present moment, of appreciating the simple joys that life had to offer.

“You’re right, Halmeoni,” Winter agreed, a soft smile gracing her lips. “You’re definitely onto something.”

As they continued their walk, the sun dappling through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the path ahead, Winter felt a sense of calm settling over her. Her grandmother, with her infectious laughter and her refreshingly uncomplicated view of the world, had a way of reminding her of what truly mattered.

“You know something, Minjeong-ah?” her grandmother said, her voice turning serious, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. “I think you youngsters think us old folk were born old.”

Winter, taken aback by her grandmother’s unexpected observation, paused, considering her words. It was true, she mused, that she rarely thought about her grandparents’ lives before she was born, about their own hopes and dreams, their own journeys of self-discovery.

“You were young once, too,” Winter said softly, her gaze meeting her grandmother’s.

A wistful smile touched her grandmother’s lips, softening her features. “Oh, I was younger than young,” she replied, her voice taking on a dreamy quality, as though she were recalling a cherished memory. “I chased butterflies through these very fields, climbed the tallest trees, dreamed of seeing the world beyond these hills.”

She paused, her gaze turning distant, lost in a time and place that Winter could only imagine. “We might not have had your fancy idols and your city lights,” she continued, her voice barely a whisper, “but we had our own kind of magic, our own kind of dreams.”

Winter reached out, taking her grandmother’s hand in her own. Her grandmother’s hand, though wrinkled with age, felt surprisingly strong, a testament to a life lived with purpose and passion.

“Tell me about it, Halmeoni,” Winter urged, her voice filled with genuine curiosity. “Tell me about your dreams.”

Her grandmother smiled, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. “Ah,” she said, squeezing Winter’s hand gently. “That, my dear, is a story for another day.”

And as they continued their walk, the sun warming their faces, the air filled with the sounds of birdsong and the gentle rustling of leaves, Winter couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of connection to the woman beside her, to the generations that had come before, to the shared thread of humanity that bound them together, young and old, dreamers all.

A comfortable silence fell between them, the only sound the gentle crunch of their footsteps on the path. Winter, her mind abuzz with thoughts of her grandmother’s youthful dreams, found herself reflecting on her own journey.

"Halmeoni," she began, her voice soft, almost hesitant, "now that you mention it... I'm glad to just... be me right now."

Her grandmother, her silver hair catching the sunlight, turned to look at her, her expression curious. "Why is that?" she asked, her voice gentle, encouraging.

Winter hesitated, unsure of how to articulate the complex mix of emotions swirling within her. "It's just..." she began, then stopped, searching for the right words. "In Seoul, it feels like everyone has these expectations, these ideas of who I should be, what I should sound like, how I should dance..."

She thought of Karina, the weight of expectation pressing down on her shoulders. Karina, with her dazzling smile and her unwavering determination, who often retreated behind a mask of confidence, hiding the vulnerability that flickered in her eyes.

"I see it with Karina, too," Winter confessed, her voice hushed. "Everyone's telling her she's the next big thing, the next this, the next that... And she's trying so hard to live up to it all, to be perfect..."

Winter sighed, a knot of worry tightening in her chest. "Sometimes, I worry," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper, "that we're all losing ourselves a little bit in all the noise, in all the pressure to be something we're not."

Her grandmother listened patiently, her gaze steady, her expression filled with empathy. When Winter finished speaking, her grandmother didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. She simply nodded, her silence speaking volumes. She understood.

The two continued their walk, the morning sun dappling through the trees, casting dancing shadows on the path ahead.

Time seemed to drift by at a different pace in Yangsan, measured not by the ticking of clocks or the relentless demands of schedules, but by the gentle rustling of leaves, the soft chirping of birds, the unhurried rhythm of nature. Winter, her anxieties soothed by the tranquility of her surroundings, felt a sense of peace she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

As they rounded a bend in the path, coming to a stop beside a babbling brook, her grandmother spoke, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement. “I’m glad you dropped by this weekend, Minjeong-ah,” she said, her gaze fixed on a family of ducks gliding effortlessly across the water. “Though I have to ask… does your mother know you’re here?”

Winter chuckled, a wave of affection washing over her. Leave it to her grandmother to cut straight to the heart of the matter. “She probably knows,” Winter admitted, a hint of sheepishness in her voice. “Or at least, she will soon. She has a way of finding out these things.”

Her grandmother raised an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and disapproval. “You haven’t told her?”

Winter shrugged, suddenly feeling like a child caught in a minor transgression. “We talk all the time, Halmeoni,” she said, her voice defensive. “On the phone. Every day. There’s just… not much to say in person, you know?”

Her grandmother sighed, a sound like the rustle of dry leaves. “Minjeong-ah,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, “distance has a way of creeping in, even between mothers and daughters. Don’t let the busyness of life, the pursuit of dreams, steal away the precious time you have with those who love you most.”

Winter’s gaze fell to her lap, her grandmother’s words striking a chord deep within her. She knew, on some level, that her grandmother was right. But the thought of bridging the distance, of having a real, heart-to-heart conversation with her mother, filled her with a strange mix of longing and trepidation.

“I’ll call her when I get back to Seoul,” Winter promised, her voice barely a whisper.

Her grandmother smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “That’s my girl,” she said, patting Winter’s hand gently. “Now, come along. I believe I have some plum blossom tea with your name on it.”

As they walked, the image of her mother’s face, etched with a mixture of pride and worry, flashed in Winter’s mind. A wave of guilt, unexpected and sharp, pierced through her. She rarely considered her mother’s perspective, the sacrifices, the anxieties that came with watching a child chase a dream that seemed both exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

A thought, unbidden, surfaced in Winter’s mind. “Halmeoni,” she began, her voice hesitant, “how did you… cope? With Eomma growing up, I mean. Did it scare you? Letting her go?”

Her grandmother paused, her gaze sweeping across the landscape as if searching for the right words among the swaying trees and the wildflowers that dotted the path.

“Of course it scared me,” she admitted, her voice soft, a tremor of remembered fear lacing her words. “Every mother fears for her child, worries about the world and its sharp edges, its capacity to wound and disappoint.”

She reached out, her hand resting on Winter’s arm, her touch light yet firm. “But I also knew,” she continued, her voice gaining strength, “that holding her back, clipping her wings, would cause her more pain than any storm she might face out in the world.”

Her grandmother’s words struck a chord deep within Winter, resonating with a truth she hadn't dared to acknowledge. Her mother’s anxieties, her cautious nature, weren't meant to stifle Winter's dreams. They were a testament to the depth of her love, a mother’s fierce desire to protect her child from the inevitable heartbreaks and disappointments that life threw her way.

“Did you ever… regret it?” Winter asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Letting her go?”

Her grandmother smiled, a sad, wistful curve of her lips. “Every now and then,” she admitted, her gaze turning distant as if seeing a thousand yesterdays. “But then I remember the look on her face when she achieved something she set her mind to, the fire in her eyes when she spoke about her dreams, and I knew I had made the right decision.”

She turned to Winter, her eyes shining with a fierce love that transcended generations. “You have that same fire, Minjeong-ah,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “Don’t let anyone extinguish it, not even your own fears.”

Winter’s heart ached with a mix of gratitude and a newfound understanding. Her mother’s anxieties, her cautious nature, weren’t meant to stifle Winter’s dreams. They were a testament to the depth of her love, a mother’s fierce desire to protect her child from the inevitable heartbreaks and disappointments that life threw her way.

As they continued their walk, the sun warm on their faces, the air filled with the scent of pine and the gentle murmur of the brook, Winter vowed to bridge the distance that had grown between her and her mother. She would call, she would listen, she would share her hopes and fears, knowing that her mother, despite her anxieties, would always be her biggest supporter, her most steadfast champion.

Their walk eventually led them back to the comforting familiarity of her grandmother’s house, the scent of plum blossom tea wafting through the open doorway like a warm embrace. As Winter stepped inside, the weight of the city, the anxieties she’d carried with her from Seoul, seemed to lift, replaced by a sense of peace she hadn’t realized she’d been craving.

“Thank you, Halmeoni,” Winter said, turning to face her grandmother, her heart overflowing with gratitude. “For everything. For the walk, for the tea, for… for reminding me who I am.”

Her grandmother smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her wrinkled hand reaching out to gently pat Winter’s cheek. “It was nothing, child,” she replied, her voice filled with a love that ran deeper than words. “Grandmothers are good for that, you know. For reminding you of what truly matters, even when you forget.”

Winter leaned into her grandmother’s touch, drawing strength and comfort from the warmth of her presence. The city, with its glittering promises and its relentless demands, seemed a million miles away, a distant dream fading against the vibrant reality of her grandmother’s love, the enduring strength of family, the comforting rhythm of life in Yangsan.

As the sun began its slow rise, Winter knew that her time in this peaceful haven was drawing to a close. Soon, she would have to board the bus back to Seoul, back to the world of rehearsals and recording studios, back to the pursuit of her dreams. But she carried with her a newfound sense of clarity, a renewed sense of purpose, a heart overflowing with gratitude for the woman who had reminded her that even amidst the whirlwind of ambition, there was always a place for her in the comforting embrace of home, in the unwavering love of family, in the quiet wisdom of a grandmother’s heart.

Chapter Text

The late autumn air clung to Winter’s skin as she stepped off the bus, the cool breeze carrying a hint of the countryside with it. Yangsan's rolling hills and quiet streets were still fresh in her mind, where time felt slower, the world softer. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, savoring the last bit of tranquility before the chaos of Seoul swallowed her whole again.

Winter pulled her coat tighter around her as she approached the entrance of the SM trainees' building. It stood there in all its weary glory, a bit rundown and unpolished, its faded exterior a sharp contrast to the sleek, glittering headquarters just a few blocks away. This wasn’t the glamorous side of SM Entertainment that people saw. This was where dreams were forged in the fire of endless practice and sleepless nights. The building might have been bare-bones, but it held the weight of so many hopes.

She tugged her suitcase up the few worn steps and pushed through the door, the scent of sweat and desperation hitting her immediately. The halls were quiet today, only a few trainees lingering around, catching their breath between sessions. It was a strange kind of calm, the kind that only came before something.

The short trip was like a reset button, a brief escape from the pressure. Her grandmother had a way of grounding her, reminding her of the simpler things—of who she was before all of this. Before the comparisons. Before the expectations. But now, reality was pulling her back in, and she knew she couldn’t stay in that peaceful bubble forever.

She heard footsteps approaching from down the corridor. A familiar figure emerged, tall and poised, her long black hair falling like silk over her shoulders. Karina.

"You're back," Karina said, her voice soft but steady, as always. She smiled, but Winter could see the strain behind it.

"Yeah, just got in," Winter replied, dropping her suitcase by the wall. "How’s everything here?"

Karina’s gaze flickered, a brief hesitation before she spoke. "Same as always. Push harder, be better. You know how it is."

Winter studied her for a moment. Karina’s shoulders, usually square and confident, seemed just a little more slumped than usual. There was a weariness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

"I’d say you could use a break, but I’m guessing that’s not on the schedule," Winter said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

Karina chuckled, though it was more out of habit than humor. "Yeah, breaks aren’t exactly part of the schedule."

They walked together down the narrow hallway, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the emptiness. For a moment, neither of them spoke, both lost in their own thoughts. Winter could feel the tension radiating off Karina, even though she tried to hide it behind her usual composed exterior.

"How was Yangsan?" Karina asked, her voice quieter now, as if she was trying to distract herself.

"It was nice," Winter said, a warmth creeping into her chest at the memory. "Quiet. Peaceful. My grandma sends her love, by the way."

Karina smiled, a real one this time, though fleeting. "I could use some of that peace right about now."

Winter glanced at her friend, noticing the way she was fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. "You don’t have to be perfect all the time, you know."

Karina’s steps faltered for a second, her eyes flicking toward Winter, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, it’s okay to just... be. You don’t have to live up to that image everyone’s put on you. Not with me, at least."

Karina let out a soft breath, her shoulders relaxing just a little. "Sometimes I forget how to do that," she admitted quietly. "When everyone’s always watching... it’s hard to remember who I am under all of it."

Winter nodded. She understood, more than Karina knew.

"You don’t have to carry it alone," Winter said, her voice gentle but firm.

Karina’s lips parted as if to respond, but she hesitated, her gaze slipping to the scuffed floor beneath their feet. The silence stretched between them, thick and fragile, like it might shatter if either of them spoke too quickly. Winter stayed quiet, giving her the space to find her words.

Finally, Karina exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “It sure seems that way. Anyone who tries to talk to me treats me like I’m... I don’t know, the Grim Reaper or something. Like I’ll ruin their chances just by existing.”

Winter tilted her head, studying her. “Not everyone is like that.”

Karina’s laugh was dry, humorless. She leaned lightly against the wall, crossing her arms. “Right. There’s this one girl—” She paused, her brow furrowing as she tried to recall. “I can’t remember her name now. But she seemed... different. Cool, even.”

Winter’s mind immediately went to Giselle. It wasn’t hard to picture her: always quick with a joke, carrying herself with a confidence that felt effortless. Winter filed the thought away.

“Maybe you should talk to her again,” Winter suggested, her tone light but pointed. “You could use someone who doesn’t see you as... well, whatever the Grim Reaper is supposed to be.”

Karina raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossing her face. “And what about you? You don’t see me like that?”

Winter grinned, nudging her shoulder gently. “Oh, no. To me, you’re a whole different kind of terrifying.”

Karina snorted, the sound breaking the tension like a crack in ice. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious,” Winter pressed, her grin softening into something more sincere. “You’re not as untouchable as you think you are. People just don’t know how to approach you, that’s all.”

Karina’s expression shifted, a flicker of vulnerability flashing across her face before she could mask it. “Maybe. But sometimes I feel like I’m not even sure who I’m supposed to be anymore. Like... am I supposed to be this perfect, untouchable girl? Or just someone who’s trying her best and hoping it’s enough?”

Winter slowed her steps, her hand brushing against Karina’s arm to get her to stop. Turning to face her fully, she met Karina’s gaze head-on. “Who says you have to choose? You can be both. Or neither. Or something else entirely. Whatever works for you.”

Karina blinked, as if the idea itself was foreign to her. For a moment, she didn’t respond, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, quietly, she said, “I think I’ve forgotten how to figure that out.”

Winter’s chest tightened at the admission. She’d seen Karina in so many lights—confident, driven, poised—but this, this was new. This was raw. “Then let me help you remember,” Winter said softly. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Karina looked at her, something shifting in her expression. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let the mask slip, if only a little. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Winter admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips. “But it’s easier when you’re not doing it alone.”

For a moment, Karina said nothing. Then, she straightened, her arms uncrossing as she let out a long, slow breath. “You’re annoyingly good at this, you know.”

Winter smirked. “At what? Talking sense into you?”

Karina rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she started walking again, her steps lighter this time. Winter followed, the tension between them easing.

“By the way,” Karina said after a beat, her tone casual but with a hint of mischief. “If I’m the Grim Reaper, what does that make you?”

Winter chuckled, her voice tinged with faux-seriousness. “The angel that keeps you from completely falling apart, obviously.”

Karina shot her a side-eye, but her lips curved into the faintest smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The hallway stretched out ahead of them, the hum of distant music filtering through the walls.

Karina ran a hand through her hair, her gaze distant. “You know something? I miss those days when I was just... another. Not Karina, you know?”

Winter glanced at her, the weight in her words pulling her back. Another. Not Karina. The name carried so much now—expectations, pressure, a polished image perfected under the blinding spotlight. But Winter didn’t just know Karina. She knew Yoo Jimin.

She stopped walking, her feet rooted as the memory hit her like a sudden gust of wind.

---

It was years ago—two kids sitting on a patch of sun-warmed grass. The summer air buzzed with cicadas, thick with the weight of a carefree afternoon. Jimin’s hair was tied in a lopsided ponytail, the elastic barely holding, and her face was scrunched in concentration as she poked at a dandelion with a stick.

“Do you think they’re alive?” Jimin asked, her voice curious, her stick tapping the flower as if it might fight back.

Winter—still Minjeong back then—snorted. “What, flowers? No. They don’t even have brains.”

Jimin gasped, scandalized. “But they move! See?” She blew on the dandelion, the tiny seeds scattering into the air. Her face lit up like she’d just proven some grand theory. “That’s alive. You don’t move if you’re dead.”

Minjeong rolled her eyes, flopping onto her back. “That’s just the wind, dummy.”

Jimin frowned, sticking the dandelion stem into the grass beside her. “Well, you’re no fun. Don’t you ever just... pretend?”

Minjeong tilted her head toward her, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “Pretend what?”

Jimin grinned, her stick now a sword, slashing at invisible enemies. “That we’re knights! Or explorers! Or—” She gasped, dropping the stick and pointing dramatically at the sky. “Witches! You could be my familiar. You’d be a cat.”

Minjeong scowled, sitting up. “Why do I have to be the cat?”

“Because cats are cool!” Jimin giggled, her laughter bright and unguarded, like she didn’t know how to be anything else. “And you’re small, so it works.”

"Small?!" Minjeong tackled her, sending both of them tumbling into the grass, their laughter ringing out into the summer air. No expectations, no pressure—just two kids in their own little world.

---

Winter blinked, pulled back to the present by the sound of Karina’s voice.

“Hey.” Karina waved a hand in front of her face. “You good? You just spaced out for a second.”

Winter shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Sorry, I just... I remembered something.”

Karina raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Winter hesitated, then grinned. “You used to call me a cat.”

Karina blinked, her confusion melting into recognition. “Oh my god. I did, didn’t I? Because you were so tiny.”

“Still rude,” Winter muttered, but her tone was light.

Karina chuckled, the sound soft, almost nostalgic. “Man, we were ridiculous back then.”

Winter crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You mean you were ridiculous. I was perfectly normal.”

“Normal? You tackled me into the dirt because I called you small.”

“And I’d do it again,” Winter shot back, grinning. “You deserved it.”

Karina laughed, a real laugh that made her shoulders shake. For a moment, the weight she carried seemed to ease, her composure cracking just enough to let the real Jimin shine through.

“I miss that,” Karina said quietly, her smile fading into something softer. “When everything was... simple. When I didn’t have to think about what Karina would do. When I could just... be me.”

Winter reached out, her hand brushing Karina’s arm lightly. “You’re still you. Even if it feels buried under all the noise, you’re still in there.”

Karina glanced at her, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Sometimes, I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is,” Winter said firmly. “You just need to stop trying so hard to be what everyone else wants and let yourself breathe.”

Karina stared at her for a beat, her gaze searching, like she was trying to decide whether to believe her. Finally, she exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Winter admitted, her voice softening. “But you’ve got me. And, you know, I’m pretty great at keeping you in check.”

Karina smirked, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” Winter said, her grin widening. “And if you ever forget who you are, just remember—you’re the girl who thought dandelions were alive and made me a cat.”

Karina groaned, her head falling back with a laugh. “God, stop bringing that up.”

“Never,” Winter teased, nudging her shoulder. “It’s my favorite memory of you.”

Karina shook her head, but there was a lightness in her eyes now, a spark of the Jimin Winter remembered. “You’re annoying.”

“And you love it,” Winter shot back, winking.

Karina didn’t answer, but the faint smile on her lips said enough.

Chapter Text

The room was small, barely big enough for two people to breathe without bumping into each other. Giselle sat cross-legged on the lower bunk, her phone in one hand, a chewed-up pen in the other. The faint hum of a song she was working on buzzed through her head, but Ningning's restless pacing drowned it out.

"Ning," Giselle sighed, tossing the pen onto the bed, "if you wear a hole in the floor, we’re going to have to pay for it. Sit down or something."

Ningning ignored her, her arms crossed tight over her chest as she muttered under her breath in a mix of Korean and Mandarin. Giselle only caught fragments—something about "pressure" and "unfair." She groaned, leaning back against the cold wall. "Okay, seriously, what is your deal?"

"My deal?" Ningning spun around, her eyes sharp but her voice unsteady. "You don’t... you don’t understand."

Giselle raised an eyebrow. "Try me."

Ningning hesitated, her fingers twitching like she was searching for words in the air. Finally, she blurted out, "You don’t know! We foreigners, remember?"

Giselle blinked. "Uh, yeah. Thanks for the reminder, Captain Obvious."

"No, no, not same." Ningning moved closer, jabbing a finger at Giselle’s shoulder. "You—Japan close! Korea close! You understand everything!" Her words were jagged, her Korean clunky but sharp enough to cut. "Me? China far. Different. I talk, they laugh."

Giselle tilted her head, her expression softening just a bit. "Ningning..."

"No! Is true," Ningning interrupted, her voice rising. "I say wrong word? They think funny. I try hard, but still... still, I feel like—" She paused, her hands circling as if the right phrase would fall into them. "Like… like I’m on stage, naked."

Giselle snorted, unable to help herself. "Well, that’s a mental image I didn’t need."

Ningning glared, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "Not funny."

"A little funny," Giselle said, holding up her fingers to demonstrate a sliver. She sighed, pushing herself off the bed and standing in front of Ningning. "Alright, look. I’ll give it to you—that vocal demonstration was insane. You’ve got the range of, like, a literal goddess or something. But you gotta stop acting like everyone’s going to pounce at you."

Ningning frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Easy for you to say."

"Not really," Giselle shot back, her voice sharper now. "You think I didn’t feel weird when I got here? Half the time I’m still convinced I’m being judged for breathing wrong." She reached out and tapped Ningning lightly on the forehead. "But you? You’re so busy worrying about what they think, you’re not even giving them a chance to see what you can do."

For a moment, Ningning said nothing, her gaze darting to the floor. Then, quietly, she muttered, "You really think... they see what I can do?"

"Not if you keep hiding it." Giselle smirked, stepping back and crossing her arms. "So, what’s it gonna be? Keep pacing like a lunatic, or actually show them why you’re here?"

Ningning’s lips quirked into a small, reluctant smile. "You’re bossy."

"And you’re dramatic." Giselle flopped back onto the bed, grabbing her phone again. "Now, sit down before you wear me out."

Ningning hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed, her shoulders a little less tense. "Okay. But... you still don’t understand everything."

"Probably not," Giselle said, not looking up. "But I’m here, aren’t I?"

Ningning glanced at her. She didn’t say anything, but for the first time in hours, she stopped fidgeting.

Ningning sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her oversized sweatshirt. The silence stretched for a beat too long before she finally blurted, "I don’t get it. How can you be so calm about everything?"

Giselle looked up from her phone, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Everything!" Ningning threw her hands up. "You don’t even care what others think about you. You... you just do whatever you want, like it doesn’t matter."

"That’s the trick." Giselle shrugged, her voice light. "I’m used to it. Kinda don’t mind it."

Ningning stared at her like she’d just declared the sky green. "That doesn’t make any sense."

Giselle laughed, setting her phone aside. "Sure it does. You’re so caught up in what everyone might think about you that you’re doing all their work for them. Me?" She pressed a hand to her chest with mock drama. "I save them the trouble."

"That’s ridiculous," Ningning said, shaking her head. "They do think things. You just don’t see it."

"Maybe." Giselle leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her smirk softening. "But honestly? Maybe if you stopped acting like we’re so out of place, we’d probably blend in better."

Ningning’s eyes narrowed. "It’s not that easy."

"I didn’t say it was easy," Giselle shot back, her tone quick but not unkind. "I’m just saying half the battle is in your head. You walk around like you’ve got a flashing neon sign over you that says, ‘Look at me, foreigner alert!’ Of course people are gonna notice."

Ningning leaned back, crossing her arms. "You make it sound so simple."

"It’s not," Giselle admitted, her expression softening. "But what’s the alternative? Freak out every time someone glances at you? Hide in this room forever?" She gestured around dramatically. "Because, no offense, but I’m not sharing a cave with you for the rest of my life."

A laugh slipped out of Ningning before she could stop it. She quickly masked it with a scowl. "You’re annoying."

"And you’re stubborn," Giselle retorted, grinning. "We’re a match made in trainee hell."

Ningning rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she let out a sigh, her shoulders sagging. "It’s just... I don’t know. You make it look easy. Like you don’t care."

"I care," Giselle said, her voice quieter now. "But I care about the right things. Like whether I’m improving, or if I’ve eaten enough to survive today’s practice, or if I can actually hit that high note without dying."

Ningning glanced at her, her expression softening just slightly. "It’s still not that easy for me."

"I know," Giselle said, leaning back against the wall. "But if you keep telling yourself it’s impossible, you’re just making it harder. You’re already here. That counts for something, doesn’t it?"

Ningning didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stared at the floor, her brows knitted together. Finally, she muttered, "Maybe."

"Maybe," Giselle repeated, smirking again. "Hey, that’s progress."

Ningning groaned, shoving her lightly. "Shut up."

"Never." Giselle grabbed her phone again and grinned. "Now, since I’m the wise one here, I’ll graciously let you buy me snacks tomorrow as thanks for my life-changing wisdom."

"You’re annoying," Ningning muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

"And you’re dramatic."

"Stop saying that!"

Giselle laughed, the sound light enough to break some of the tension in the room.

Giselle snapped her phone shut with a decisive flourish and stood up, stretching her arms above her head. "Tell you what. We’re gonna go out right now."

Ningning blinked, confused. "What?"

"You heard me," Giselle said, already grabbing a hoodie from the back of her chair. "Let’s go. Make some friends or something."

"Friends?" Ningning repeated, her voice jumping an octave. "Why?"

"Why not?" Giselle shot back, tugging the hoodie over her head and pulling her hair free from the collar. "Come on, let’s see who we find."

Ningning stared at her like she’d grown a second head. "You’re insane."

"Probably," Giselle said, throwing Ningning’s sneakers at her. "But you’re coming anyway. Suit up."

Reluctantly, Ningning shoved on her shoes, muttering under her breath. "This is a terrible idea."

"Most of my ideas are," Giselle said lightly, already halfway out the door. "But they’re fun. Now hurry up before I leave you behind."

---

The halls of the SM building were eerily quiet, save for the faint bassline of a distant practice track vibrating through the walls. Ningning trailed behind Giselle, her eyes darting nervously to every shadow, every sound.

"Why are we even doing this?" Ningning whispered, hugging herself. "Everyone’s probably busy or asleep."

"Or maybe they’re not," Giselle said, glancing back with a mischievous grin. "You’ll never know unless you look."

They passed a couple of empty practice rooms, the faint scent of sweat and stale air lingering in the corridors. Ningning’s steps slowed as they approached the large windows near the end of the hall. Outside, the streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement.

Giselle stopped abruptly, tilting her head. "Isn’t that...?"

Ningning followed her gaze and froze. A girl stood just outside the building, leaning casually against a metal railing. She was tall, her straight black hair falling flawlessly over her shoulders, even under the harsh glare of the streetlights. She had the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier, even from a distance.

Before Giselle could say another word, Ningning lunged, shoving her away from the window with both hands. "Don’t look!"

Giselle stumbled, catching herself on the wall. "What’s wrong with you!?" she hissed, rubbing her shoulder.

"That’s Karina," Ningning whispered, as if saying the name too loudly would summon her. Her eyes were wide, her voice tinged with panic. "Golden trainee."

Giselle stared at her for a moment, then glanced back toward the window. "So what?"

Ningning looked like she was about to explode. "What do you mean, so what? She’s Karina. Everyone talks about her. She’s, like, untouchable. Perfect. The best."

"And?" Giselle folded her arms, her voice calm but firm. "She’s made out of flesh and bones, just like you and me."

"You don’t know that," Ningning hissed, her face dead serious. "She’s probably... I don’t know, some kind of robot or something."

Giselle barked out a laugh. "A robot? Really?"

"I’m serious!" Ningning grabbed her arm. "We can’t just walk up to her. What if she thinks we’re weird? What if she tells someone? What if—"

"What if you stop overthinking for five seconds?" Giselle cut in, her tone sharp enough to make Ningning falter. "She’s out there, isn’t she? Same as us. Probably just trying to breathe for a minute without someone staring at her like she’s a mythical creature."

Ningning opened her mouth to argue, but no words came out. Her grip on Giselle’s arm loosened.

"Look," Giselle said, softening her tone. "You’re not gonna get anywhere if you keep putting people like her on a pedestal. She’s a trainee too. Just like us. She might be good, but she’s not untouchable."

Ningning glanced back at the window, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I still think this is a bad idea."

"Noted," Giselle said, smirking as she nudged Ningning toward the door. "Now come on. Let’s go say hi to your robot friend."

"I hate you," Ningning muttered, dragging her feet as Giselle pulled her along.

"You’ll thank me later," Giselle chirped, her grin widening. "Or not. Either way, this’ll be fun."

The elevator doors slid open with a faint ding, spilling Giselle and Ningning into the quiet lobby. The faint hum of the city outside seeped in through the glass doors, and there, just a few steps away, was Karina. She leaned against the railing, her phone in one hand, utterly at ease as if the world itself had paused to give her a moment of serenity.

Ningning halted mid-step, her hand shooting out to grab Giselle’s sleeve. "Let’s just go. We can’t bother her."

Giselle shrugged off Ningning’s grip, her grin sharp and playful. "Watch me."

Before Ningning could protest, Giselle strode out into the cool night air, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement. Ningning followed reluctantly, her steps slow and uncertain, like she was walking into an execution.

Giselle stopped a few feet away from Karina, clearing her throat as casually as she could manage. "Hey."

Karina glanced up from her phone, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "Hey."

"So, uh..." Giselle shifted her weight, hands jammed into her hoodie pockets. "Nice night, huh?"

Karina blinked, then let out a soft laugh, warm and melodic. It wasn’t cruel, but it was clear she found Giselle’s awkwardness amusing. "That’s your opener? Seriously?"

Giselle winced, scratching the back of her neck. "Yeah, okay, not my best work."

Karina’s laughter softened into a smile, and she straightened up, tucking her phone into her jacket pocket. Her eyes flicked to Giselle’s face, recognition dawning. "Hey, it’s you."

Giselle perked up, her confidence snapping back into place. "Yeah. Been a minute, hasn’t it?"

Ningning, standing a step behind Giselle, looked like she wanted to disappear into the sidewalk. Her wide-eyed gaze darted between the two of them, her lips pressed into a thin line. Karina’s attention shifted to her, and her smile didn’t falter.

"Nice to see you too," Karina said, her tone light but kind.

Ningning froze. Her mouth opened, then closed again, as if her brain had blue-screened. She managed a jerky nod, her face burning red.

"Don’t mind her," Giselle said quickly, throwing an arm around Ningning’s shoulders and pulling her forward. "She’s just starstruck, you know. Big fan."

Ningning gasped, whipping her head toward Giselle. "I am not—!"

Karina laughed again, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Relax. I’m just a trainee, same as you."

"Yeah, a golden trainee," Ningning muttered under her breath, too quiet for Karina to hear but loud enough that Giselle elbowed her in the ribs.

Karina tilted her head, studying Ningning with a curious smile. "I don’t think we’ve met yet. What’s your name?"

Ningning froze again, and Giselle sighed dramatically, patting her on the back. "She’s Ningning. You’ll have to excuse her, she’s still processing the fact that you’re not a hologram."

"I—" Ningning sputtered, her face somehow managing to turn an even deeper shade of red. "That’s not—!"

Karina held up a hand, her smile reassuring. "It’s nice to meet you, Ningning."

Ningning blinked, her shoulders relaxing just a little. "Nice to meet you too," she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

Giselle smirked, leaning closer to Ningning. "See? Flesh and bones, just like us."

Karina raised an eyebrow. "Should I be concerned about what you’ve been saying about me?"

"Not at all," Giselle said smoothly, grinning. "Just setting the record straight."

Karina chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re something else."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Giselle replied, her grin widening. "Anyway, we were just wandering around. You out here for some fresh air, or...?"

Karina hesitated for a moment, her smile faltering slightly as she glanced back toward the street. "Something like that."

Giselle caught the shift in her expression but didn’t push. Instead, she gave a light shrug. "Well, if you’re not busy, maybe you could show us around? You know, since you’re the golden one and all."

Ningning let out a faint squeak, and Giselle bit back a laugh.

Karina’s smile tightened, almost imperceptibly, but enough for Giselle to catch. She shifted her weight, her hands sliding into the pockets of her jacket. "I’d love to," she said lightly, her tone perfectly even. "But I can’t."

Giselle tilted her head, her grin faltering slightly. "Can’t, or don’t want to?"

Karina’s gaze flicked to Ningning, who was fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, and then back to Giselle. Her eyes were steady, but there was something guarded behind them. She shrugged, the motion slow and deliberate. "Both, maybe."

Giselle raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "That’s vague."

Karina chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She leaned back against the railing, her fingers drumming against the metal. "What can I say? I’m a vague kind of person."

"Uh-huh," Giselle said, crossing her arms. "Or maybe you’re just scared."

That drew a sharper reaction. Karina’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Scared?"

"Yeah." Giselle’s tone was casual, but there was a challenge in her eyes. "Scared someone might see you hanging out with us lowly mortals and decide you’re not so golden after all."

"Giselle," Ningning hissed, tugging on her sleeve, her voice panicked. "Stop."

But Giselle didn’t back down. She held Karina’s gaze, her expression steady. For a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension.

Karina’s lips parted, as if she was about to say something, but she stopped herself. Instead, she looked away, her jaw tightening. "You don’t get it," she said quietly.

Giselle’s brow furrowed. "Then explain it to me."

Karina didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the street, her fingers gripping the edge of the railing. The city lights reflected in her eyes, a kaleidoscope of colors that seemed to blur together. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost too soft to hear. "It’s not that simple."

"Why not?" Giselle pressed, her tone gentler now, but still insistent. "You’re just a trainee, same as us. What’s the big deal?"

Karina laughed, but it was a hollow sound, devoid of humor. She turned back to face them, her expression carefully neutral. "You think being ‘golden’ means I get to do whatever I want? That it’s all sunshine and rainbows?" She shook her head, her voice hardening. "It’s a cage, Giselle. A shiny, golden cage."

Ningning’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open slightly. Even Giselle seemed taken aback, her usual confidence wavering.

Karina exhaled, her breath visible in the cool night air. She straightened up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Look, I appreciate the offer. Really. But I can’t afford to..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. "...mess up. Not even a little."

Giselle stared at her, her expression unreadable. Then, she smiled, but it was softer this time, less teasing. "You know, for someone trapped in a cage, you’re pretty good at pretending you’re free."

Karina blinked, her composure slipping for just a moment. She opened her mouth to respond, but Ningning spoke up first, her voice tentative but earnest. "We’re not trying to mess things up for you. We just... thought you might want a break. That’s all."

Karina looked at her, and for a moment, something in her expression softened. She hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Thanks," she said quietly. "But I’m good. Really."

Ningning nodded back, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Okay."

Giselle let out a dramatic sigh, throwing her hands up in mock defeat. "Fine, fine. We’ll leave you to your golden solitude. But don’t come crying to me when you realize you missed out on a night of pure chaos."

Karina’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "I’ll try to survive."

"Good luck with that," Giselle said, her grin returning as she turned to nudge Ningning toward the elevator. "Come on, Ning. Let’s go wreak havoc somewhere else."

Ningning glanced back at Karina, her expression still a mix of awe and nervousness. "Bye," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Bye," Karina replied, her smile lingering as she watched them go.

As the elevator doors slid shut behind them, Giselle leaned against the wall, her arms crossed. "Well, that was... interesting."

Ningning sighed, her face still flushed. "She’s so cool."

"Yeah," Giselle said, her tone thoughtful. "But she’s also lonely. Whether she admits it or not."

Ningning looked at her, surprised. "You think so?"

Giselle shrugged, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. "Trust me. I’ve been around enough ‘golden’ people to know when someone’s putting up walls." She glanced at Ningning, her grin turning mischievous. "But hey, at least you didn’t faint."

"I hate you," Ningning muttered, burying her face in her hands.

"You’re welcome," Giselle said with a laugh as the elevator dinged and the doors opened.

Chapter Text

The SM building loomed like a glass coffin in the dawn light. Karina adjusted her mask for the tenth time, the fabric itching where it dug into her cheekbones. Winter strode beside her, slurping an iced coffee loud enough to drown out the distant whir.

“You know,” Winter said, squinting at their warped reflections in the building’s doors, “maybe I should ditch you here. Let the ‘golden trainee’ shine solo.” She jabbed an elbow at Karina’s ribs, grinning when she flinched. “Bet they’d promote you to CEO by lunch.”

Karina side-stepped, nearly tripping over a crack in the pavement. “Shut up. That’s not—”

“—True?” Winter spun to walk backward, coffee cup raised like a toast. “Please. You’re the one they made re-shoot the choreography video seven times yesterday. ‘Karina, tilt your chin 0.5 degrees left.’ ‘Karina, blink slower, it’s art.’” Her impression of their director’s nasal drawl was viciously accurate.

“They’re just strict.” Karina tugged her sleeves over her knuckles, a habit she’d sworn to break.

“They’re terrified.” Winter snorted, nodding at a cluster of wide-eyed trainees scuttling past. “You think they’d get seven takes?” She flicked her straw at a girl staring openly at Karina. “Move along, kid. Golden aura’s not contagious.”

The girl blanched and scurried off. Karina winced. “You don’t have to be—”

“—Me? Yeah, I do.” Winter crushed her empty cup, the plastic crackling like bones. “Someone’s gotta remind you that pedestals are shitty places to live.” She hip-checked the building’s door open, icy AC blasting their faces. “Coming, superstar? Or should I start drafting your resignation speech?”

Karina hesitated, her shadow fractured by the automatic doors’ shudder. Beyond the lobby, a dance monitor played their latest choreography—her own face flickered on-screen, flawless and foreign.

Winter followed her gaze. “Jimin would’ve tripped on the third step,” she said, softer.

Karina’s throat closed. Jimin. The name still fit like a bruise.

“But Karina,” Winter continued, stepping into the elevator, “nailed it on take two.” She held the door, eyebrow arched. “So. Who’s walking in?”

The screen flickered again—Karina’s pixelated self spun, sharp and precise. No room for stumbles. No room for her.

Winter sighed. “Ugh, fine. We’ll resign. Start a fried chicken truck. You can wear the mascot suit.”

Karina huffed a laugh despite herself, stepping into the elevator. “You’d hate grease stains.”

“And you’d hate hiding in a feather costume.” Winter punched the basement button. “Win-win.”

The doors slid shut, sealing them in silence. Karina watched their reflections—Winter, slouched and smirking; herself, spine rigid as a metronome.

“Hey.” Winter bumped her shoulder. “If you puke from nerves again, aim at the trainer's shoes this time. I’ll say it was me.”

“That’s your pep talk?”

“That’s my love language.” The elevator dinged. Winter strode out, tossing over her shoulder, “Keep up, Golden Girl. Your cage awaits.”

Karina lingered, breath fogging the mirror. For a heartbeat, her reflection blurred—chin tilted wrong, smile too wide.

Then she stepped forward, and the doors snapped shut behind her.

The basement hallway buzzed with pre-dawn chaos—trainees stretching against mirrored walls, hissing vocal warmups into water bottles, eyes darting to assess competition. Winter shouldered past a cluster of rookies clutching laminated choreo sheets, their whispers dying as Karina followed.

"Betting pool's at twelve," Winter muttered, nodding toward a lanky boy practically tripping over his own feet to avoid Karina’s path. "That one counts as half. He’s got a knee brace."

Karina gripped her gym bag tighter, the strap groaning. "They’re just nervous."

"About you?" Winter snorted, snatching a protein bar from a passing cart. "Nah. You’re the benchmark they’ll never hit." She tore the wrapper with her teeth, speaking around a mouthful of oats. "Makes you either their god or their villain. Today’s vibe?” She gestured at a girl hastily erasing Karina’s name from a practice room sign-up sheet. “Definitely villain.”

A dance captain stalked by, headphones blaring bass-heavy EDM. He flicked a dismissive glance at Karina but nodded at Winter. “Your crew’s in Studio 3.”

Winter saluted with her stolen snack. “Love it when they segregate the threats.”

Karina froze mid-step. The mirrors showed it all—the way trainees leaned away as she passed, as if her proximity might taint their rankings. Jimin would’ve joked about the absurdity. Karina just straightened her posture, chin lifted exactly 0.5 degrees.

Winter hip-checked her into Studio 3. “Relax. They’re not scared of you.” She kicked the door shut, muffling the hallway’s din. “They’re scared of becoming you. All bite and no bark. A pretty statue they’ll melt down when the next shiny thing comes along.”

Karina’s laugh came out brittle. “You’re such a motivational speaker.”

“I’m realistic.” Winter tossed her jacket onto a speaker, revealing toned arms littered with neon kinesio tape. “You think the company picked you for your smile? Your talent?” She spun, sharp as a blade, to face Karina. “They picked you because you’re hollow enough to fill. Jimin’s dead. Karina’s a product. And products—”

“—Get replaced.” Karina finished flatly, the words tasting like reheated noodles.

Winter grinned, all teeth. “There’s that famous self-awareness.” She tossed Karina a water bottle. “Now drink. If you pass out during choreo again, I’m not dragging your ass to the nurse.”

The door burst open. Three trainees stumbled in, laughter dying as they spotted Karina. The tallest bowed shallowly, eyes glued to the floor. “S-sorry. We’ll find another room—”

“Nope.” Winter flopped onto the floor, stretching her legs into a split. “You’re staying. Watch how a real trainee survives on two hours of sleep and existential dread.”

Karina caught the girl’s panicked glance at her face—searching for Jimin, maybe, or just calculating how much Karina’s presence might deduct from their evaluation scores.

“We’re all just lab rats,” Karina said suddenly, Winter’s words from last night clawing up her throat. “Might as well chew the maze together.”

The trainees blinked. Winter choked on her water.

“Wow,” Winter wheezed, thumping her chest. “Was that… team spirit? Should I alert management?”

Karina ignored her, stepping toward the mirrors. For once, she didn’t adjust her stance. Didn’t smooth her flyaways. Just stared at the girl reflected—smudged eyeliner, jaw clenched, alive.

“Well?” She turned to the gawking trainees, voice steady. “You here to practice or pray?”

They scrambled to their positions. Winter caught Karina’s eye in the mirror, smirk curling.

“Careful,” she mouthed. “They’ll think you’re human.”

Karina hit play on the track. The opening beats shook the room.

Let them.

The studio door creaked open mid-chorus. Two figures hovered in the doorway—Giselle clutching a dented tumbler, Ningning adjusting skewed headphones—their synchronized breathlessness suggesting they’d sprinted through the building.

“Sorry!” Ningning blurted, bowing so fast her bangs swept the floor. “Trainer-nim kept us late fixing the—”

“—Pronunciation drills,” Giselle finished, less penitent. Her gaze flicked to Karina, then away. “Again.”

Winter paused mid-spin, sweat-darkened hair sticking to her neck. “Wow. You’re apologizing to her?” She jerked a thumb at Karina. “Miss Perfect doesn’t care. Right, Miss Perfect?”

Karina ignored the jab, recalling last night’s encounter.

“We’re all late,” Karina said, surprising herself. The other trainees froze, mid-plié. “To evaluations. Always.”

Ningning blinked. Giselle’s mouth twitched.

Winter groaned, collapsing into a straddle stretch. “Great. Now we’re doing pep talks. Someone get me a vomit bag.”

Karina stepped toward the newcomers, the mirrored walls multiplying her movement into a swarm of identical ponytails and practice gear. “You know the choreo?”

Giselle lifted her chin. “Better than some third-years.”

“Prove it.” Karina hit rewind on the track. The speakers screeched feedback.

Ningning winced. “Shouldn’t we stretch first—”

“We’re stretched.” Winter sprang up, cracking her neck. “By spite. And coffee.”

The original trio of trainees exchanged panicked looks. One edged toward the door.

“Stay,” Karina said without turning. “Learn something useful.”

Giselle snorted. “Like how to get tendonitis by eighteen?”

“Like how to survive.” Karina met Winter’s smirk in the mirror. The girl who’d shared her ramen stash last week, who’d covered for her when she’d skipped curfew.

The music exploded. They moved—Karina’s precision honed from years gone to waste, Winter’s reckless energy masking shaky footing, Giselle attacking each beat like it had personally delayed her trainee contract. Ningning stumbled, then locked in, her fluidity a stark contrast to their jagged edges.

“Left formation!” Winter barked during the bridge, shoving a wide-eyed rookie into place. “Unless you wanna be cut next month!”

Karina caught Giselle’s arm mid-miscount, steering her into the right pivot. “You’re early.”

“You’re paranoid,” Giselle shot back, but didn’t pull away.

By the final chorus, even the rookies synced up. The mirrors trembled. The air reeked of effort and drugstore deodorant.

As the track ended, Ningning bent double, gasping. “This… is… illegal…”

Winter tossed her a water bottle. “Nah. Illegal’s what Trainer Park does to our lunch breaks.”

Giselle wiped her brow. “Remember when he made us rehearse during the typhoon?”

“The floor was leaking,” Ningning moaned.

Karina dabbed her neck with a towel, hiding a smile. The studio door swung open—a harried staffer with a clipboard. “All of you. Studio B. Now. They’re testing new groupings.”

The room stilled. Winter’s jaw tightened.

“New groupings?” Ningning whispered. “But evaluations are—”

“—Next week. Yes.” The staffer didn’t look up. “Move.”

Giselle muttered something in Japanese. Ningning gripped her headphones like a lifeline.

Karina glanced at Winter, who was suddenly very busy tying her shoelaces. “Go,” Winter said, too casually. “We’ll be here. Pretending any of this matters.”

The rookies scattered. Karina hesitated, then slung her bag over her shoulder. At the door, she turned.

“If they pair you with Lee Minjae,” she told Giselle, “switch. He steals center position.”

A beat. Then Giselle’s grin dawned, slow and dangerous. “Noted.”

Winter cranked the volume. The bass thumped like a war drum as Karina left—Ningning’s whisper trailing her:

“She didn’t even ask for the hair tie back…”

“Focus,” Winter growled.

The bassline swallowed Ningning’s question—almost. Winter’s shoulders stiffened mid-choreo. Giselle missed a step, sneaker squeaking against polished wood.

“What?” Winter snapped, whirling to face Ningning. The rookie trio froze by the mirrors, clutching their water bottles like grenades.

Ningning bit her lip, fingers twisting her headphone cord. “I just… wondered. What it’s like. Being her… you know.” Her voice shrank under Winter’s glare. “Friend.”

Giselle barked a laugh. “Friend? They share a dorm, not a diary.”

Winter stalked toward Ningning, her shadow slicing the girl in half. “You think she’s got time for friends? For jokes? For anything that isn’t nailing every eval?” She jabbed a finger at the ceiling, where Studio B’s thumping bass vibrated the lights. “That’s not a person up there. That’s a warning.”

Ningning blinked. “A warning?”

“Of what happens when you’re good.” Winter’s smile turned jagged. “They polish you ‘til there’s nothing left to cut.”

Giselle spun a pen between her fingers—stolen from Trainer Park’s desk last week. “Relax. Winter’s just bitter. They paired her with a mirror during last month’s duet eval.”

“Shut up,” Winter hissed, but a trainee snorted. Another muffled a giggle.

Ningning inched closer. “But you two… you seem…”

“What? Like we’ve shared a toothbrush?” Winter scoffed, yanking her hair into a brutal ponytail. “We survive. Same shitty schedule. Same moldy bathroom. Same three a.m. panic attacks when the rankings drop.” She tossed her phone onto the floor, screen flashing the latest trainee leaderboard—Karina’s name wedged ruthlessly at #2. “That’s your golden girl. One slip from freefall.”

The rookies leaned in, eyes wide. Giselle rolled hers.

“So no,” Winter said, quieter now, “we’re not friends. We’re—”

The door slammed open. A staffer loomed, stopwatch ticking. “Ningning. Giselle. Studio C. Now. New formation test.”

Giselle groaned. “We just got here!”

“Bring your kneepads,” the staffer said, smirking. “Choreographer’s feeling… creative.”

As they shuffled out, Ningning lingered. “Winter-ssi?”

“What.”

“If you’re not friends…” She gestured to Winter’s phone, still glowing with Karina’s ranking. “…what are you?”

Winter stared at the screen. At Karina’s company-mandated smile in her profile photo—lips curved exactly 34 degrees, eyes bright and empty.

“Loud neighbors,” she said finally, killing the screen. “Now scram. Before I volunteer you for vocal drills.”

Ningning fled.

Alone, Winter slumped against the mirror, fingertips brushing the glass where Karina’s reflection usually burned brightest. Somewhere above, a studio door slammed. A familiar laugh echoed down the vents—sharp, rehearsed, alone.

She pulled out her phone. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Winter slumped against the studio’s fogged mirrors, the phone slipping from her grip. “I’ve scared them off,” she muttered to the empty room, toeing her abandoned water bottle. “Good.”

The lie tasted stale.

Her reflection glared back—smudged eyeliner, sweat-damp bangs plastered to her forehead, pathetic. She kicked the stereo, sending the track sputtering into silence. “Good,” she repeated, louder.

The door creaked.

“Who’re you yelling at?” Karina stood in the threshold, hairline damp, practice shirt streaked with what looked like green tea. “The ghosts of the past?”

Winter didn’t turn. “The future ones. Giving them a preview of the mental breakdowns.”

Karina’s sneakers squeaked closer. “Ningning looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

“Told her you sleep in a coffin. Helps with the undead vibe.”

A beat. Then fabric rustled as Karina slid down the mirror beside her. “You’re terrible at this.”

“At what? Human interaction?”

“At pretending you don’t care.” Karina nudged her knee with a cold water bottle—the water bottle, Winter realized, with Lee Minjae’s dumb sticker half-scratched off.

Winter snatched it. “Who says I’m pretending?”

Karina’s laugh came out quiet, real. “The fact you texted me about Minjae. And the…” She mimed typing, her thumb jerking in a terrible impression of Winter’s aggressive keyboard stabs.

“Shut up.” Winter gulped the water, too fast, droplets sliding down her chin. “I was bored.”

“And the ‘don’t forget your inhaler’ message last week?”

“Coincidence.”

“And the—"

Winter elbowed her. “I’ll tell Trainer Park you’ve been skipping protein shakes.”

Karina’s smirk faded. She picked at her sleeve, voice lowering. “They paired me with Minjae.”

Winter choked. “What? But I—" She caught herself, jaw snapping shut.

Karina arched a brow. “You…?”

“Nothing.” Winter leapt up, slapping dust off her leggings. “Just figured they’d stick him with someone he can’t emotionally destroy. Like a potted plant.”

Karina rose, slower. “He tried to steal my spot during formations.”

“And?”

“I… moved.” A flicker of something feral in her eyes. “He tripped.”

Winter’s laugh burst out sharp, startled. “Holy shit. Any witnesses?”

“Just the choreographer.” Karina adjusted her ponytail, too casual. “He said… it showed ‘initiative.’”

“Of course he did.” Winter rolled her eyes, but her chest loosened. “Golden girl gets away with murder.”

“Not golden,” Karina said quietly. “Just… surviving.”

The overhead lights buzzed. Somewhere down the hall, a trainee yelped, followed by the clatter of fallen speakers.

Winter grabbed her bag, slinging it over one shoulder. “Come on. Before they stick us with the rookies again.”

Karina hesitated. “You don’t have to—"

“—Ugh. Yes, I do.” Winter hip-checked the door open, glare softening. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t 'initiate' Minjae into an ambulance.”

Karina’s lips twitched. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“Liar.”

They walked. Past the practice rooms where trainees eyed Karina like a rival and Winter like a feral cat. Past the ranking board where Karina’s name hovered at #2 this week, Winter’s buried on page two.

At the stairwell, Winter paused. “Hey.”

Karina turned.

“If you cry about evaluations later…” Winter lobbed a crumpled protein bar at her chest. “…at least hydrate first.”

Karina caught it, the wrapper crackling. For a heartbeat, her mask slipped—exhaustion, gratitude, Jimin—before she tucked it away. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re welcome.” Winter vaulted up the stairs two at a time. “Now move. I want front row seats to Minjae’s humiliation.”

Karina followed, the protein bar warming in her palm.

Above them, the evaluation room doors loomed.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria’s flickering fluorescents hummed like a dying beehive. Giselle slouched over a tray of congealed tteokbokki, squinting at Ningning’s scribbled notes. “‘Sa… saeng… gak’?” She mangled the Korean syllables, grinning when Ningning winced. “Relax, newbie. You’re not auditioning for King Lear.”

Ningning snatched her notebook back. “It’s saenggang. Ginger. For the nutrition quiz.” Her accent clung to the edges of the word, softer than last week.

“Wow. Full sentences now.” Giselle leaned back, chair teetering. “Next you’ll be cracking puns. Should I alert the media? Chinese Trainee Discovers Vowels.”

A rice cake slipped off Ningning’s chopsticks. “You’ve been here six months longer. Your Japanese accent still sounds like a—”

“—A sexy anime villain?” Giselle batted her lashes. “Thank you. I try.”

Ningning’s laugh burst out, high and startled, before she clamped a hand over her mouth. Across the room, third-years glanced over, their whispers sharpening.

“Careful,” Giselle muttered, kicking Ningning’s shin under the table. “They’ll realize you’re human.”

“They think I’m a robot,” Ningning whispered, ducking her head. “The staff told me to ‘emote more’ during yesterday’s interview practice. Like this—” She flashed a grotesque smile, all teeth and dead eyes.

Giselle snorted so loud a passing kitchen worker dropped their mop. “That’s your emote? Looks like you’re choking on a persimmon.”

“Says the girl who flipped off Trainer Park’s camera during her profile shoot.”

“He told me to ‘show personality.’” Giselle shrugged, stealing a limp cucumber from Ningning’s plate. “I delivered.”

The cafeteria doors slammed open. A pack of rookies stampeded toward the snack cart, jostling their table. Ningning’s water bottle tipped, but Giselle caught it mid-spill, her reflexes honed from three years of dodging Osaka’s bike gangs.

“Thanks,” Ningning murmured.

“Don’t.” Giselle flicked water at her. “Now everyone’ll think we’re friends.”

Ningning wiped her cheek, hesitating. “Are we… not?”

Giselle froze, seaweed snack halfway to her mouth. Across the room, the ranking board flickered—Karina’s name holding steady at #2, Winter’s nowhere in the top twenty.

“We’re…” Giselle spun the snack pack, her smirk fading. “…temporary allies. Until one of us gets cut.”

Ningning’s gaze dropped to her quiz notes, the ginger root diagram smudged by condensation. “What if we don’t?”

“Then we graduate to rivals.” Giselle crumpled the empty pack, aiming for the trash can. “Way more fun.”

The wrapper bounced off the rim. Ningning stood, retrieved it, and dropped it neatly inside.

Giselle groaned. “Ugh. You’re such a goody-two-sneakers.”

“Sneakers?” Ningning blinked.

“It’s—never mind.” Giselle shoved her chair back. “Come on. Studio C’s probably done murdering Minjae.”

Ningning followed, pausing to bow at a passing vocal coach. “You think Karina and Winter are really not friends?”

Giselle snorted. “They share a bathroom. If they haven’t killed each other yet?” She shouldered open the stairwell door, afternoon light slicing through dusty air. “That’s love.”

Ningning tripped on the top step. “Love?”

“The toxic kind. The kind that survives 5 a.m. dance drills and sharing hairbrushes.” Giselle leapt onto the landing, spinning to face her. “Why? You looking for a trainee romance?”

“No! I just—”

“—Want someone to steal protein bars with?” Giselle tossed her a wink. “Relax. Your Korean’s not that good yet.”

Ningning flushed, but her retort died as screams erupted from Studio C—Winter’s voice loudest of all, crowing: “Told you he’d eat the floor!”

Giselle grinned, shark-like. “Race you to the drama?”

They ran.

They skidded into Studio C just as Trainer Park hauled Lee Minjae off the floor, his ankle already purpling. Winter leaned against the mirrors, arms crossed, smirk nuclear. “Told you backward spins were cursed,” she stage-whispered to Karina, who stood rigid by the stereo, lips pressed white.

Giselle whistled low. “Damn. He’s gonna need a wheelchair and a therapist.”

Ningning hovered in the doorway, clutching her notebook. “Giselle…”

“What?”

“If they’re… you know.” Ningning nodded at Karina subtly edging closer to Winter, their shoulders almost brushing. “Doesn’t that make things… dangerous?”

Giselle snorted. “Dangerous how? They’re not dating.”

“No! I mean—” Ningning lowered her voice as trainees began dispersing, shooting Karina wary glances. “If they’re close, and the company finds out… won’t they punish them? For having favorites?”

“Favorites?” Giselle grabbed Ningning’s elbow, steering her behind a foam roller cart. “They’re barely civil. Watch.”

Across the room, Winter flicked Karina’s earlobe. “Stop doing that thing with your face.”

“What thing?”

“The ‘I’m morally conflicted’ scrunch. You look constipated.”

Karina swatted her hand away. “I didn’t mean to trip him.”

“Liar.” Winter’s grin faltered as Trainer Park stormed toward them.

“You.” He jabbed a finger at Karina. “My office. Now.”

Winter stepped forward. “She was just—”

“—You.” Trainer Park didn’t look away from Karina. “Can explain why our top prospect is assaulting peers.”

Karina’s mask snapped into place—chin lifted, gaze vacant. “Yes, sir.”

As she left, Winter kicked a yoga block. It smacked the wall, startling a group of rookies.

Giselle raised an eyebrow at Ningning. “See? Toxic.”

Ningning chewed her lip. “But… when the block flew, Winter checked if Karina was out of range first.”

“Coincidence.”

“And last week. When Karina forgot her lyrics…”

“Winter laughed.”

“Then passed her a water bottle mid-song!”

Giselle paused. On the other side of the studio, Winter was now berating a sound tech, her gestures wild, eyes darting toward the hallway where Karina had vanished.

“…So?”

Ningning hugged her notebook tighter. “They’re careful. But not perfect.”

Giselle studied her. “Why do you care?”

The overhead lights flickered. Somewhere, a speaker shorted out with a pop.

“Because,” Ningning whispered, “if they can hide it… maybe we can too.”

Giselle went very still. “Hide what?”

Ningning’s ears turned pink. “N-nothing! Just… Never mind.”

Giselle snorted, steering them past a cluster of gawking trainees. “You’re looking way too much into it.” She swiped a protein bar from Minjae’s abandoned bag, tossing it to Ningning. “Survival tip one: stop caring about anyone’s drama but your own.”

Ningning fumbled the catch. “But what if—”

“—We get cut next month? Focus on that.” Giselle jabbed a thumb at the ranking board flickering above the water cooler—her own name clinging to #27, Ningning’s unranked and invisible. “Nobody’s gonna save us because we noticed two seniors almost being decent humans.”

A crash echoed from Trainer Park’s office down the hall—Karina’s voice, sharp and controlled, slicing through the door’s thin crack. “—didn’t intend to disrupt—”

Winter materialized beside the vending machine, slamming coins into the slot. “Move,” she barked at a rookie blocking her path.

Ningning hesitated. “Should we—”

“—No.” Giselle yanked her into a supply closet, shelves rattling. “You wanna get benched for ‘unnecessary socializing’? Again?”

The cramped space reeked of bleach and desperation. Ningning wrinkled her nose. “Why are we hiding?”

“Practice.” Giselle rummaged through a box of spare mic packs. “Next time they lock us in here for talking back, you’ll thank me.”

Ningning peered through the door’s slats. Winter now leaned against the wall outside Trainer Park’s office, demolishing a bag of shrimp chips. “They’re not decent,” she murmured. “They’re… something else.”

Giselle paused, holding up a broken headset. “Yeah. Something else broke this. Wonder who.”

“Giselle—”

“Look.” Giselle turned, her smirk dimming. “You think you’re the first to notice? Trainer Park’s had Winter on vocal rest twice for ‘attitude.’ Karina’s skipped three meals this week. They’re not subtle.” She tossed the headset aside. “But snitching gets you nothing here. Except maybe a longer practice shift.”

Ningning stiffened. “I wouldn’t—”

“—Good.” Giselle shouldered the door open, flooding the closet with harsh light. “Then keep your epiphanies to yourself. And your protein bars.”

They slipped back into the hall just as Karina exited Trainer Park’s office, posture flawless, eyes hollow. Winter crunched a chip louder than necessary.

“Well?” Winter drawled.

Karina didn’t slow. “Five extra hours of solo practice. Starting now.”

“Tch. Should’ve broken his other ankle.”

A flicker—Karina’s lips twitched. Winter fell into step beside her, tossing a chip into Karina’s path.

Ningning watched them go, the protein bar heavy in her grip.

Giselle flicked her ear. “Eyes forward.”

“But—”

“They’ll survive. Or not.” Giselle shrugged, heading toward the dorms. “Either way, we need to get out of here.”

Ningning lingered, staring at the ranking board. At #2, gleaming and precarious.

Then she pocketed the protein bar and followed.

—

The dorm hallway reeked of instant ramen and ambition. Giselle shouldered open the stairwell door, scanning for staff. “Now. Time to focus on us.”

Ningning tripped over the threshold. “But I thought you wanted to…” She gestured vaguely toward Studio C’s distant chaos.

“I know, I know.” Giselle crouched behind a laundry cart overflowing with practice gear. “We can still hang out with them. Just…” She yanked a loose floorboard free, revealing a stash of honey butter chips and expired energy drinks. “…maybe not now.”

Ningning gaped at the hoard. “How did you—?”

“Trainee Rule #3.” Giselle tossed her a chip bag dusted with lint. “Always have an exit strategy. And snacks.”

Shouts echoed upstairs—a vocal coach hunting curfew breakers. Giselle shoved the floorboard back, plunging them into darkness save for the crack under the door.

Ningning’s whisper trembled. “What’s Rule #4?”

“Don’t get caught.”

They froze as footsteps thudded overhead. Giselle’s knee pressed against Ningning’s—warm, steadying.

When silence returned, Ningning peeled open her chips. “You’re… different. When it’s just us.”

Giselle choked on her energy drink. “Wow. We’re doing feelings now? Should’ve grabbed tissues.”

“I’m serious! You’re less…”

“—Murderous?”

“Sharp.”

The admission hung between them, fragile as a high note. Giselle crunched a chip louder than necessary. “Survival’s softer here. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Ningning studied her in the slivered light. “Doesn’t it?”

A door slammed. Giselle lurched up, hauling Ningning with her. “Move. Hyunjin’s shift starts in five.”

They darted past curfew checkpoints, Giselle mapping patrol patterns with military precision. Ningning marveled at her stolen rhythm—when to sprint, when to feign tying a shoe, when to duck into shadowed alcoves smelling of sweat and stolen moments.

At their dorm door, Giselle paused. “Rule #5.”

Ningning braced. “Yes?”

“Never mention the chip stash.” A ghost of a smile. “Or I’ll feed you to Trainer Park.”

Inside, two narrow bunks faced a window smudged with city lights. Ningning’s bed sat obsessively neat—faded plush rabbit positioned just so. Giselle’s resembled a hurricane aftermath.

“Hey.” Giselle lobbed a chip bag at Ningning’s rabbit. “Tomorrow, we’re tackling your face.”

“My… face?”

“Your ‘I’m a harmless lamb’ vibe?” Giselle flopped onto her mattress, boots still on. “Gotta fix it before evaluations. Or they’ll eat you alive.”

Ningning clutched her rabbit. “How?”

“Lesson one.” Giselle flicked off the light, plunging them into neon-smeared dark. “Stop smiling at people who want you gone.”

Silence. Then—

“Giselle?”

“What?”

“…Thanks.”

A beat. A rustle as Giselle yanked her blanket over her head. “Whatever. Don’t snore.”

Ningning hid her grin in the rabbit’s fur. Outside, Seoul pulsed—indifferent, electric, alive.

Closer, Giselle’s breathing evened. Not soft. Not yet.

But there.

Chapter Text

The practice room lights buzzed like angry hornets. Winter slouched against the mirrored wall, glaring at the clipboard in Trainer Park’s hands. “Since when do we do evaluations at 2 a.m.?”

“Since management found trainees sneaking out for fried chicken,” Trainer Park said, not looking up. “Group D: Winter, Karina, Giselle, Ningning. Ten minutes to prep. Song’s ‘Black Mamba.’”

Karina’s head snapped up. “That’s not even released yet—”

“—And you’ll learn it wrong like everyone else.” Trainer Park smirked, tossing a USB at her feet. “Clock’s ticking.”

Giselle kicked the door shut behind them. “Well. This’ll be a massacre.”

Ningning hovered near the speakers, eyes wide. “I don’t know the choreo—”

“Nobody does.” Winter stomped to the stereo. “That’s the point.”

Karina already had the track queued up, fingers flying over her phone to transcribe lyrics. “Winter, take chorus one. Giselle, verse two’s rap-heavy—”

“—Who died and made you leader?” Giselle snatched the phone.

“The company,” Karina said flatly. “When they put me in the top five.”

Winter barked a laugh. “Ouch. Someone’s bitter.”

Ningning edged toward the door. “Maybe I should—”

“—*Sit*,” all three snapped in unison.

They froze. Trainer Park’s laughter echoed through the intercom. “Cute. Four minutes.”

—

The track blared—sinister bass, serpentine synths. Karina anchored the center, movements precise as a guillotine. Winter flanked her left, all jagged edges and smirks. Giselle prowled the right, her rap verse dripping sarcasm. Ningning…

“Yah, your high note!” Winter hissed during the bridge.

Ningning froze, then lunged for the mic stand. Her voice cracked—then soared, raw and unpolished, hitting a note that rattled the ceiling lights.

Giselle stumbled mid-spin, caught off guard. Karina’s mask slipped—shock, then pride—before she snapped into the final formation, fingers splayed like claws.

They finished in heaving silence.

Behind the observation glass, two shadows leaned closer.

“The Chinese one’s pitchy,” said Exec A, scribbling notes.

Exec B tapped the glass where Winter was mock-strangling Giselle for botching the rap. “But look at the friction. The hunger.”

Karina hovered near Ningning, subtly adjusting her stance. “Breathe from here,” she muttered, pressing a hand below Ningning’s ribs.

Winter yanked Giselle into a headlock. “That’s how you hit the beat, you tone-deaf—”

“—At least I don’t dance like a electrocuted squid!”

Exec A sighed. “They’ll kill each other.”

Exec B smiled. “Or make us billions.”

—

“Well?” Trainer Park crossed his arms as the girls collapsed, sweat pooling on the floor.

Winter nodded him off. Giselle wheezed into a water bottle. Ningning trembled, still riding the adrenaline high.

Only Karina stood straight, voice steady. “When’s the next eval?”

Behind the glass, a phone snapped shut.

“Pack your things,” Exec B said into the intercom. “You’re moving dorms. Together.”

The room stilled.

Giselle spat out her water. “What?”

Winter lunged for the intercom. “Hell no! I’m not rooming with Miss Perfect and—”

“—Effective immediately,” Exec B continued. “Management believes… synergy requires proximity.”

Karina stared at her reflection—flushed, messy, alive—as Ningning’s shy laugh bubbled up beside her.

“Well,” Giselle muttered, flopping back onto the floor. “This’ll be a disaster.”

Winter caught Karina’s eye. For once, neither looked away.

The intercom crackled dead. Ningning’s shaky exhale sliced through the silence.

“We made it..?” Karina mouthed, fingers curled white around her water bottle.

Winter’s shrug was all sharp angles. “I dunno.”

Giselle lobbed a sweaty towel at the observation glass. “Cool. So we’re lab rats in a nicer cage. When do the shock collars arrive?”

Trainer Park yanked the door open, a stack of dorm keys jangling in his fist. “Move. Now. Before I revoke shower privileges.”

—

The new dorm smelled like lemon disinfectant and false promises. Winter kicked a stray moving box. “Bunk beds? We’re idols, not kindergartners.”

“Speak for yourself,” Giselle said, claiming the top bunk with a backflip that smacked her head on the ceiling. “Agh— Worth it.”

Ningning hovered in the doorway, clutching her rabbit. “Where…?”

Karina nudged the bottom bunk with her toe. “You’re here. With me.”

Winter froze mid-sneer. “What?”

“Top bunks destabilize the spine.” Karina unzipped her duffel, avoiding Winter’s glare. “Vocal impact.”

“Since when do you care about my vocals?”

“Since management paired us.” Karina folded a shirt with military precision. “Your rasp is the only thing covering my high notes.”

Giselle dangled upside down from her bunk, hair brushing Ningning’s face. “Aw. She likes you.”

Winter chucked a sneaker at her. “Shut up.”

Ningning tentatively placed her rabbit on Karina’s pillow. “Is this… okay?”

Karina stared at the plush, its threadbare smile jarring against her monochrome sheets. “…Fine.”

—

Exec A’s voice crackled through a hidden wall speaker: “Sleep. Evaluation at dawn.”

Giselle saluted the ceiling. “Welcome to hell, kids.”

Winter collapsed onto her bunk, boots still on. “If anyone snores, I’m committing treason.”

Karina stood rigid by the window, Seoul’s skyline fracturing her reflection.

“Hey.” Winter’s voice cut through the dark. “You gonna stare at buildings all night?”

“Planning.”

“For what?”

Karina’s silhouette didn’t move. “The moment this stops being a punishment.”

Giselle’s snort came muffled by her pillow. “Optimism. Cute.”

Ningning’s whisper floated up: “What if… it’s not a punishment?”

The room stilled.

Winter’s laugh was all edges. “You think this is a gift?”

“No. But…” Ningning traced her rabbit’s ears. “They’re watching. Closer now.”

Winter opened her mouth, a ‘no shit’ poised on her tongue—

“She’s right.” Karina cut in, still facing the window. Her reflection blurred in the glass, haloed by neon. “Even if we’re not there yet. We’re a notch above the rest now.”

Giselle rolled off her bunk, landing with a thud. “Way I see it, we’re half and half.” She yanked open the mini-fridge, scowling at its vitamin water and boiled eggs. “Two bottom-feeders paired with two top-of-the-food-chain freaks.”

“Freaks?” Winter kicked her bed frame, rattling Giselle’s bunk. “Says the girl who failed three rhythm evals.”

“Says the girl who aced them but still got stuck with us.” Giselle lobbed an egg at her. “Face it. You’re only ‘top’ until they find a shinier toy.”

The egg smacked Winter’s pillow. Ningning flinched.

Karina turned, her silhouette sharp against the city glare. “They won’t. Not if we’re…” She hesitated, the unspoken *together* curdling in the air.

Winter peeled eggshell off her sheets. “Not if we’re what? A team?” She spat the word like a curse. “Please. You’d stab me in the back for a solo shot.”

“Would I?” Karina’s voice stayed calm, deadly. “You’ve had six chances to report me for breaking curfew. Didn’t.”

“Tch. Blackmail.”

Ningning’s whisper sliced through. “They’re listening. Right now.”

A beat. Four pairs of eyes flicked to the air vent—where a red camera light blinked, half-hidden.

Giselle flipped it off. “Enjoy the show.”

Karina moved first, snapping the room’s sole lamp off. Darkness swallowed them, broken only by the camera’s persistent glow.

“New rule,” Winter muttered, voice drifting from her bunk. “We riot at dawn.”

“Seconded,” Giselle said.

Ningning’s mattress creaked as she curled tighter around her rabbit. “…Thirded.”

Karina said nothing. But when the vent’s hum sharpened—a microphone adjusting—she reached over and yanked Winter’s blanket up, covering both their heads.

“*Hey—*”

“Your breathing’s uneven,” Karina lied, too quiet for the mics. “They’ll dock stamina points.”

Winter’s scoff warmed the cramped space between them. “Since when do you cheat?”

“Since they did first.”

Giselle’s phone lit up, casting jagged shadows. A notification: GROUP CHAT CREATED: ‘Lab Rats’

Ningning stifled a giggle. Winter’s shoulders shook—silent, treacherous laughter. Karina’s hand brushed hers, just once, as the camera light pulsed.

Beneath the shared blanket, Winter’s phone screen glared. The group chat blinked:

Giselle: I’ll give it to you, cutie face. This is a smart move.

Winter: Shut up.

Ningning’s mattress squeaked as she typed, her rabbit squished between her chin and knees.

Ningning: (´･ω･`)…but Lab Rats is a good name?

Giselle: Duh. We’re the ones they’re frankensteining into a girl group. A pause. Also: whoever stocked this fridge deserves prison. Who TF puts kimchi next to protein powder?*

Winter’s thumbs hovered, her smirk sharpening. Winter: You’re bottom bunk. Suffer.

Across the room, Giselle’s phone illuminated her eye-roll. She hurled a protein bar at Winter’s bed. It thudded against the wall, unnoticed by the camera’s unblinking eye.

Karina remained motionless, her face half-lit by Seoul’s neon bleed. But her phone glowed beneath the blanket, typing with clinical precision:

Karina: Evaluation criteria: cohesion, stamina, adaptability. Assume hidden mics in the vents.

Winter: Wow. You’re like a creepy Wikipedia.

Karina: And you’re a liability if you keep sitting like that. Your diaphragm’s compressed.

Winter started to retort, but Ningning’s sudden gasp froze them all.

“The rabbit,” Ningning whispered aloud, voice quivering with performative fear. She held up the plush, its ear dangling by a thread. “It’s… broken.”

Giselle caught on first. “Tragedy,” she deadpanned, leaping up to fake-comfort Ningning while shielding her hands. Ningning’s fingers flew across her phone under the guise of clutching her rabbit:

Ningning: I found a microphone in the shower vent too!!! (＠_＠;)

Giselle: Classic. Wanna blast K-pop to drown out their snooping?

Karina: No. We use it.

Winter snorted, loud enough for the mics. “This place is a dump.” Then, quieter in the chat:

Winter: Use it HOW

Karina’s silhouette finally moved, striding to the bathroom. The faucet screeched on. Under its cover, her message flashed:

Karina: They want drama. Give them nothing. Talk here. Plan here. Let them watch us… sleep.

Giselle: Boringggg. I vote we streak through the halls.

Winter: Seconded.

Karina: Winter.

Winter: What? You’re not my mom.

Ningning: (´；д；`)…pls don’t fight…

The camera light flickered faster.

Giselle grinned, tossing a pillow at the vent. “Hey Exec-ssi! Since you’re listening—can we get real food? Or is malnutrition part of the training?”

Silence. Then, a tinny voice crackled: “Sleep. Now.”

Winter fake-snored, obnoxiously loud. Ningning giggled into her rabbit. Karina killed the faucet, returning with her sleeves rolled up—revealing ink-stained forearms.

Giselle: …Since when do you have tats??

Karina: Temp transfers. Choreo notes.

She tossed a marker at Winter. “Fix the rabbit.”

Winter caught it, hesitating. Slowly, under the blanket’s shield, she sketched on Ningning’s plush—a tiny crown atop its head, a scar across one eye.

Ningning beamed. “Now… he’s brave,” she said aloud, for the mics.

Giselle peered over. “Needs a sword.”

“And a middle finger,” Winter muttered, drawing a minuscule bird flipped at the camera.

Karina watched, the ghost of a smile haunting her lips. Her phone lit once more:

Karina: Meet at 5 AM. Stretching. Vocal warm-ups. Together.

Winter’s groan was theatrical. “Ugh, fine.” But her fingers flicked:

Winter: Only ‘cause I want breakfast.

The room settled into counterfeit sleep. Phones dimmed. Shadows deepened.

But in the chat, last messages lingered:

Giselle: Sweet dreams, lab partners.

Ningning: (～￣▽￣)～ *We’ll be ok, right?*

No one replied.

Chapter Text

5:03 AM

The dorm’s digital clock bled neon cyan over Karina’s face as she slipped from her bunk, the air still thick with the static hum of sleeping bodies. Seoul’s pre-dawn glow fractured through the blinds, striping Giselle’s sock dangling from a ceiling pipe and Ningning’s rabbit, now battle-scarred with inked armor, slumped near the mini-fridge.

Karina moved like a shadow between surveillance blind spots—hips angled to block the camera’s view of her hands as she cracked six eggs into a dented pan. The fridge had coughed up wilted spinach and a half-empty tub of gochujang; she mixed both into the eggs, her movements precise, almost violent. Coffee steeped in mismatched mugs, the instant granules dissolving into something barely drinkable.

A creak. Winter’s boots hit the floor.

“Slept well?” Winter croaked, voice sandpapered from sleep. She leaned against the kitchenette, hair mussed into a storm cloud, tracking Karina’s every motion.

Karina didn’t turn. “Not at all. None of what happened last night made any sense.”

“Fair enough.” Winter swiped a mug, sniffed it, and grimaced. “Though, we have our first evaluation as the lab rats today. You think they’ll call us that?”

The pan hissed as Karina flipped the eggs. “Unless they want to go bankrupt, hell no.”

Winter smirked, finger tracing the rim of her mug. “Dramatic. But hey—” She nodded at the spread: eggs divided into four equal portions, spinach artfully scattered (a meager garnish for a meager pantry). “You mother-henning us now?”

“Optimizing.” Karina’s gaze flicked to the air vent, where the camera’s red eye throbbed. “Low blood sugar ruins pitch stability.”

“Right. Totally not because you’re soft.”

A beat. Karina slid a plate toward her. “Eat. Your low notes sound like a drowning raccoon on an empty stomach.”

Winter’s laugh was short, startled. She forked a bite, chewing slowly. “…Not terrible.”

“High praise.”

Outside, the city began to stir—taxis bleeding yellow into the gray, distant wail of a garbage truck. Karina stared at the skyline, her reflection superimposed over crawling headlights.

Winter followed her gaze. “Regretting the whole… team thing yet?”

Karina lowered her coffee. “Not really.” A beat. Then, quieter, a blade wrapped in silk: “Though I do regret teaching you how to do aegyo in that pink tracksuit. What was it you said? ‘Unnie, I’ll debut even if I have to die twice’?”

Winter’s fork screeched against her plate. The air sharpened.

Giselle’s snores cut off mid-snort.

“The hell,” Winter hissed, knuckles whitening around her mug, “made you think that was a fun memory to dig up?”

Karina shrugged, stirring sugar into her coffee with glacial calm. “You hummed TVXQ into a hairbrush for three hours straight after. It’s objectively funny.”

“It’s objectively why I changed my name. And my face.”

“Your cheekbones were always that sharp. You just stopped slouching.”

Ningning sat up slowly, her frame coming from the hallway, rabbit clutched to her chest. “…Pink tracksuit?”

“No,” Winter snapped.

“Yes,” Giselle yawned, rolling off her bunk with a thud. “Wait—you two knew each other as trainees? Explains the divorced-parents energy.”

Karina sipped her coffee. “We were room neighbors. Winter’s mom made me teach her how to—”

“Finish that sentence,” Winter growled, “and I’ll rewrite your choreo notes in glitter.”

The room tensed—then dissolved as Exec A’s voice buzzed through the vent: “Evaluation in fifteen. Ground floor. Costumes provided.”

Giselle saluted the camera. “Ah, yes. The costumes. Can’t wait to see what fresh hell that entails.”

Karina stood, stacking plates with military precision. Her shoulder brushed Winter’s as she passed. “Relax. Fun memory.”

Winter caught her wrist. “Why bring it up?”

For a heartbeat, Karina’s mask slipped—not kindness, but something closer to kinship. “Because you’re still that kid. Just better at hiding it.”

She pulled free, leaving Winter staring at the smudge of gochujang on her plate.

—

The company van smelled of sterilized leather and desperation. Winter slumped against the window, Seoul’s blurry skyline etching itself into her scowl. Giselle kicked her shin under the seats.

“So,” she drawled, phone angled to catch Winter’s profile, “hypothetically—if we hypothetically recreated that pink tracksuit moment for our debut concept—”

“If you hypothetically keep talking,” Winter muttered, “I’ll hypothetically break your nose.”

Ningning, wedged between them with her rabbit now dressed in a tiny Lab Rats sweater piped up: “At least she didn’t practice aegyo on the CEO’s lap, unnie.”

Giselle’s smirk died. “That was one time. And he said I was ‘charmingly proactive’!”

“He filed a harassment complaint,” Karina said without looking up from her notes, scribbling vocal runs in the margins.

“Allegedly!”

Winter snorted. “Allegedly my ass. You’ve got ‘career criminal’ energy.”

“And you’ve got ‘I’ll-kill-my-members-for-a-solo-contract’ eyes.”

The van hit a pothole. Ningning’s rabbit smacked Giselle’s forehead.

“He’s brave now!” Ningning chirped, adjusting its mini sword. “Like a… a warrior!”

“A warrior who headbutts people, apparently.” Giselle rubbed her temple.

Karina’s pen paused. “The tracksuit wasn’t the worst part. It was the perm.”

Winter lunged across Ningning to clamp a hand over Karina’s mouth. “You swore you’d burn those photos!”

“And you swore you’d stop sneaking my lip balm.” Karina peeled her off, unruffled. “Yet here we are.”

The van’s built-in camera whirred, zooming in on their tangle of limbs. Giselle flipped it off with one hand while wrestling Winter back with the other. “Relax, Permzilla. Your scalp’s safe.”

“You’re both worse than the saesangs,” Winter hissed, collapsing into her seat.

Ningning’s whisper sliced through the chaos: “Unnie… you do have a perm in your file photo. In the trainee database.”

Winter froze. “What.”

“I—I was looking through the fliers to find the coffee budget!” Ningning shrunk, rabbit raised like a shield. “It was an accident!”

Giselle cackled. Karina hid a smile behind her notes. The van slowed, SM’s glass tower swallowing the horizon.

“Lab Rats,” Winter muttered, yanking her hoodie up. “More like Dead Girls Walking.”

The doors slid open. A dozen stylists waited, scissors gleaming.

—

The styling room reeked of acetone and ambition. Twelve stylists descended like vultures armed with flatirons, their smocks crisp and nametags gleaming— Senior Stylist. Lead Colorist. Creative Director. Winter counted them under her breath. “Eighteen hands,” she muttered. “That’s three per victim.”

Giselle whistled low, eyeing the racks of custom-tailored outfits—sequined bomber jackets, pleated skirts slashed with leather, boots that cost more than their trainee dorm. “They really want to invest that much on us, huh.”

A stylist thrust a hanger at her. “Put this on.”

“What is it, my funeral shroud?”

“Avant-garde funeral shroud,” the stylist corrected, already yanking Giselle’s hoodie off.

Ningning stood frozen as two stylists circled her, measuring tape snapping. “Too… baby,” one hissed. “We need edge.”

“Edge?” Ningning squeaked, clutching her rabbit. “Like—like knives?”

“Like this.” The stylist ripped the rabbit from her hands and lobbed it at a rack.

“No!” Ningning lunged, but Karina intercepted, plucking the rabbit midair.

“She keeps it,” Karina said, soft as a guillotine blade.

The stylist blinked. “Management said—”

“Management isn’t paying your dry-cleaning bill when she cries on the leather.” Karina tucked the rabbit into her own back pocket, a silent try me.

Winter, meanwhile, was being held hostage by a curling iron. “If you burn my forehead,” she warned the stylist, “I’ll burn your career.”

Giselle emerged from a cloud of hairspray, now clad in a harness-style top that defied physics. “Check the tags,” she whispered, flipping her collar to reveal a barcode. “They’ve literally branded us.”

Karina’s outfit—a liquid-metal trench coat—came with a choker that beeped. “Heartrate monitor,” she noted dryly. “Cute.”

“Cute?!” Winter gestured at her own crop top, which read SPITFIRE in bedazzled letters. “They’re turning us into merch!”

Ningning, now stuffed into a plaid skirt with chains, raised a timid hand. “Um… why does my shirt say CINNAMOROLL?”

“Because you’re the ‘pure’ one,” a stylist said, slapping blush on her cheeks. “Lean into it.”

“Pure?” Giselle snorted. “This kid hacked the—”

Karina stepped on her foot.

The lead stylist clapped. “Five minutes! Executives want cohesion with individual flair.”

“So… contradictions,” Winter muttered. “Got it.”

As the stylists swarmed, Karina caught Winter’s eye in the mirror. “Stop slouching. They’ll dock your attitude points.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“No,” Karina said, adjusting her choker until the monitor flatlined. “But I’m the reason your perm stayed buried.”

The room stilled.

Then Giselle barked a laugh. “Lab Rats, upgraded to Show Ponies. Let’s trot.”

They were herded into the hall—stitched, starched, and sterilized.

Winter flicked a sequin off her sleeve. “If we flop, d’you think they’ll resell these outfits?”

“Nah,” Giselle said. “They’ll just reboot us. New faces, same barcodes.”

Karina said nothing. But as the elevator doors closed, she slipped Ningning’s rabbit back into her hands.

Cohesion, the executives wanted.

"Chaos." thought Karina, was more their color.

—

The evaluation room was a glacier—white floors, white walls, white-hot lights bleaching the air of warmth. A mirrored ceiling reflected the girls’ warped silhouettes as they shuffled in, sequins clattering like nervous laughter.

The dance trainer, a wiry man with a smirk sharper than his pomade, clapped his hands. “Ah, *Cinnamoroll* and friends! Let’s see if you’ve got more than just… adorable stamina.” He winked at Ningning, whose CINNAMOROLL shirt glowed neon under the lights.

Giselle fake-gagged. “Cute concept? Hard pass. I’ll stick to my ‘delinquent who owes child support’ vibe, thanks.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” the trainer said, tapping his clipboard. “The stylists are still digging for your image. Turns out, rebellion’s not marketable without dimples.” He nodded at Winter’s bedazzled SPITFIRE crop top. “Case in point.”

Winter crossed her arms, rhinestones spelling out her disdain. “This isn’t an image. It’s a hate crime.”

Giselle snorted. “Face it, Permzilla. The cute thing works for you. All that,” she gestured vaguely at Winter’s face, “bite-sized rage.”

“I’d rather gargle bleach.”

“Noted.” The trainer scribbled something. “We’ll workshop ‘sparkly nihilism’ later. For now—” He cranked the stereo. A saccharine synth beat oozed out.

Ningning swayed instinctively, her chains jingling. “It’s… upbeat?”

“It’s a death march,” Winter muttered.

Karina stepped forward, trench coat glinting. “Choreography?”

“Improvisation. Show us how Lab Rats,” the trainer paused, savoring the name like a threat, “handle… creative freedom.”

Giselle mouthed creative freedom with air quotes.

The music swelled—pure bubblegum pop. Winter froze, but Karina was already moving, slicing through the beat with a pirouette so sharp it could’ve drawn blood. Giselle followed, flipping her harness straps into a mock tutu. Ningning, after a panicked glance at her rabbit (now confiscated by a stylist), defaulted to a stiff fan chant.

Winter stood statue-still, SPITFIRE glinting.

The trainer raised a brow. “Problem?”

“I don’t do cute,” Winter said.

“You do now.”

Giselle hip-checked her into motion. “Think of it as… weaponized aegyo. Seduce then destroy.”

“Seduce who? The undertaker?”

But the beat was merciless. Winter’s body betrayed her—decades of muscle memory yanking her into precise, reluctant pops. Her scowls synced with the rhythm, somehow making the cuteness *dangerous*.

The trainer grinned. “There! The tsundere angle. Brilliant.”

“It’s not an angle,” Winter spat mid-spin. “It’s felony.”

In the mirrors, Karina watched the evaluators scribble notes. Lab Rats, they labeled the girls’ files. But in the glass, she saw it—the flicker of something unbreakable, forged in glitter and spite.

The camera lights blinked. The music didn’t stop.

Chapter Text

The door slammed open.

“I refuse to be complicit in this,” Winter declared, stomping inside. “This is psychological warfare.”

Giselle kicked off her sneakers, barely aiming for the shoe rack. “Oh, please. You survived.”

“Barely.” Winter threw herself onto the sofa, arms flung like a martyr. “Do you understand what they made me do? I waved. I winked. I did that—” she shuddered, “—cheek heart thing.”

Giselle snorted, plopping down beside her. “And the world didn’t end. Shocking.”

Winter pointed an accusatory finger. “You laughed.”

“You twinkled, dude. Like a human Swarovski.”

Ningning hovered by the kitchen, scrolling her phone with a frown. “Maybe it won’t stick?”

Winter groaned into a cushion. “They called it my ‘signature contrast.’ That’s just PR for ‘sellout with Stockholm Syndrome.’”

Karina, still by the door, peeled off her trench coat with all the urgency of a retiree sorting mail. “You’re overreacting.”

Winter shot up. “This from you? Miss ‘I Wear a Trench Coat Indoors Because Branding’?”

Karina shrugged. “At least I have one.”

Giselle grinned. “She’s got you there.”

Winter flopped back down, defeated. “I need a shower. Maybe an exorcism.”

Giselle leaned in, smirking. “You mean a bubble bath? With, like, rubber duckies?”

Winter grabbed a throw pillow and swung. Giselle dodged, cackling.

Ningning sighed, still distracted. “Guys—”

Giselle held up a hand. “One sec, our resident tsundere is processing her feelings.”

“Hey!” Ningning’s head snapped up. “I’m not a tsundere.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to her. Silence. Then—

Winter squinted. “No one was talking about you.”

Ningning blinked. “Oh.” She recovered fast, tossing her phone onto the counter. “Well, I’m still not one.”

Giselle smirked. “Sure. And Winter loves cuteness.”

Winter scowled. “I will strangle you with a pastel ribbon.”

“See? That is peak tsundere.” Giselle gestured at Winter like she was a museum exhibit. “Denial, threats, but deep down? She cares.”

Winter grabbed a throw pillow again. Giselle ducked.

Ningning crossed her arms. “Okay, but if I were a tsundere—which I’m not—I’d be a better one than Winter.”

Winter scoffed. “Oh, please. You crack the second someone calls you pretty.”

Ningning faltered. “That’s—That’s not true.”

Giselle grinned. “It totally is. One compliment and you turn into a giggly mess.”

Karina, still rummaging in the fridge, finally chimed in. “You do have a habit of twirling your hair when you get praised.”

Ningning gasped. “Et tu, Brutus?”

Karina shrugged, retrieving a yogurt. “Just facts.”

Ningning huffed, flopping dramatically onto the counter. “I can’t believe this. Betrayed by my own team.”

Winter rolled her eyes. “At least you have a team. I’ve got a fan club of sadists forcing me into kawaii hell.”

Giselle patted her knee. “You’ll be fine, Sparkles.”

Winter glared. “Call me that again and I’ll—”

“Strangle me with a pastel ribbon?” Giselle grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

Ningning groaned. “I knew it. You’re the real tsundere.”

Winter threw the pillow. This time, it hit.

“Ow!” Ningning clutched her head like she’d been mortally wounded. “Unprovoked violence! Abuse of power! I’m calling the authorities.”

Winter snorted, already curling deeper into the couch. “Go ahead. Tell them you got sniped by polyester.”

Ningning groaned, dramatic as ever, and let herself slide off the counter onto the floor. “This is it. My tragic backstory. Taken out by my own member.”

Karina, still eating her yogurt, stepped over her without looking down. “You’ll live.”

Giselle cackled. “Damn, Ice Queen 2.0, show some emotion.” She leaned over the couch, poking Karina’s arm. “Hey, robot-nim, have some fun, would ya?”

Karina finally glanced up, deadpan. “This is me having fun.”

Giselle scoffed. “Your fun levels are in the negatives.”

Karina took another spoonful of yogurt. “And yet, here I am. Thriving.”

Winter raised a hand weakly. “If she’s thriving, what am I? A ghost?”

“More like a begrudging magical girl,” Giselle said. “Cursed to sparkle against her will.”

Winter groaned into a cushion. Ningning, still sprawled on the floor, threw the pillow back—weakly, pathetically. It didn’t even reach the couch.

Giselle clapped. “Wow. Incredible. Such strength.”

Ningning sat up with a pout. “I’m saving my energy. Unlike some people, I still have dignity.”

Winter peeked out. “You just fake-died over a pillow.”

“Yeah, for dramatic effect,” Ningning shot back. “That’s called flair.”

Karina, unfazed as ever, tossed the empty yogurt cup into the trash with perfect aim. “Can you all stop being weird for five minutes?”

Giselle gasped. “Never.”

Winter sighed. “I wish I had your emotional range.”

Karina grabbed a water bottle and headed toward her room. “No, you don’t.”

She disappeared inside, door clicking shut. A beat of silence.

Then—

Ningning turned to the others, whispering, “That was so tsundere.”

Giselle stretched out on the couch, arms behind her head. “What’s her deal?”

Winter didn’t even look up. “Doesn’t take a wild guess, does it?”

Giselle shot her a look. “Right. I forgot you were laser-focused on being like her.”

Winter scoffed. “I’m not—” She stopped herself, exhaling sharply. “Never mind.”

Ningning raised a brow. “Wait, wait, are you?”

Winter pulled the throw blanket over her face. “I’m going to sleep.”

Giselle grinned. “That’s a yes.”

Ningning nodded sagely. “Big yes.”

Winter’s voice was muffled. “I will actually kill both of you.”

Giselle smirked, nudging Ningning. “See? Tsundere.”

Ningning gasped. “Oh my God. She is the real tsundere.”

Winter groaned louder, curling into the couch like she could physically escape the conversation.

Giselle patted her blanket-covered head. “Don’t worry, Sparkles. You’ll figure out your feelings someday.”

Winter yanked the blanket down just enough to glare. “I do have feelings. Mostly rage.”

“Uh-huh.” Giselle stood, stretching. “And a deep, unspoken admiration for our fearless leader.”

Winter threw the pillow again. This time, Giselle caught it effortlessly, laughing.

“Goodnight, Winterina,” she teased, heading toward her room.

Winter sat up, scandalized. “What did you just call me?”

Giselle winked. “Sweet dreams, Sparkles.”

She disappeared before Winter could launch another attack.

Ningning, still seated on the floor, looked up at Winter with an innocent smile. “Soooo… you do wanna be like Karina?”

Winter gave her the deadliest stare she could muster.

Ningning beamed. “Noted.”

And with that, she skipped off to her room, humming.

—

Karina pressed the phone to her ear, pacing the small balcony outside their apartment. The morning air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of traffic.

“Everything’s going alright,” she said, voice measured.

On the other end, her mother hummed. “That doesn’t sound like alright.”

Karina exhaled, leaning against the railing. “It’s just… a mess.”

“How so?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “It feels like I’m the only one taking this seriously. The others—” She rubbed her temple. “They joke around. They waste time bickering over dumb things. I don’t know if they get how much is at stake.”

Her mother chuckled softly. “They’re young, Rina. That’s how most people are.”

Karina frowned. “I’m the same age as them.”

“Maybe in numbers,” her mother said, “but you were always different.”

Karina stayed quiet.

“You always wanted to be part of the crowd, didn’t you?” her mother continued.

She stiffened. “That’s not—” But she didn’t finish, because they both knew it was true.

Her mother’s voice was gentle. “You’ve spent so long leading that you don’t know how to just be with people, do you?”

Karina swallowed. The apartment door slid open behind her, and she turned to see Ningning, bleary-eyed, stretching in an oversized hoodie. She yawned, waved lazily, then shuffled back inside.

Karina sighed. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

Her mother just hummed again. “Maybe it’s time to learn.”

Karina watched as Ningning disappeared back inside, the faint sound of her shuffling footsteps fading into the apartment. She lingered on the empty doorway for a second before turning her gaze back to the city. The skyline stretched endlessly, glass and steel catching the early morning light.

She tightened her grip on the railing. “Learn what?” Her voice was quieter now, edged with something unreadable. “People could care less about what I am outside of dancing and singing.”

Her mother sighed, but it wasn’t in disagreement. “Maybe some do. The industry, the public—they see what they want to see. But that’s not what I meant.”

Karina stayed silent, jaw tense.

“You think being good at what you do is enough,” her mother continued. “That if you work hard enough, stay disciplined enough, people will follow. But people don’t just follow talent, Rina. They follow people.”

Karina exhaled sharply through her nose. “I don’t have time to babysit.”

“No, but you do have time to understand them.”

She let her head drop back against the railing, staring up at the pale morning sky. “And what if I don’t want to?”

Her mother chuckled. “Then you’ll just keep standing outside the crowd, watching.”

Karina’s grip on the railing loosened. The city below buzzed with life—people moving, talking, being—and yet, she stood here, separate. Always separate.

From inside, she could hear muffled voices—Ningning whining about breakfast, Winter grumbling lowly, Giselle laughing at something.

Her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You don’t have to change who you are. But you do have to let them see it.”

Karina closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the city still stretched before her, endless as ever.

“…I’ll think about it,” she murmured.

Her mother hummed, satisfied. “That’s a start.”

—

The four of them walked down the hallway toward the practice room, the overhead lights buzzing faintly.

“I’m just saying,” Giselle argued, gesturing wildly, “if you’re gonna commit to the bit, at least own it.”

Winter shot her a glare. “It’s not a bit. I genuinely hate it.”

Giselle smirked. “Sure, Sparkles.”

Winter groaned. “I swear to God—”

They kept up their bickering, voices bouncing off the walls, completely absorbed in their own world.

Karina and Ningning trailed a few steps behind. Karina watched them for a moment, then tilted her head toward Ningning.

“You get them?” she asked.

Ningning blinked. “What do you mean?”

Karina hesitated, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

Ningning frowned slightly but didn’t press. Instead, she glanced ahead at Winter, who was now lightly shoving Giselle, and Giselle, who was laughing like she’d won something.

“You don’t have to get them,” Ningning said suddenly. “You just… let them be.”

Karina looked at her, but Ningning was already skipping forward, sliding into the chaos just as Winter threatened Giselle with a water bottle.

Karina exhaled, running a hand through her hair.

Let them be, huh?

She wasn’t sure she knew how.

Chapter Text

Karina lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of her dimly lit bedroom. The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the quiet, punctuated only by the muffled laughter from the living room. Giselle’s voice—teasing, dramatic. Winter’s—deadpan, edged with exasperation. Ningning’s—high and amused, always ready to egg them on.  

Karina closed her eyes.  

You don’t have to get them. You just… let them be.  

She turned the words over in her mind, trying to make sense of them. Let them be? What did that even mean? She’d spent years perfecting control—over her skills, her discipline, her image. Letting go, even just a little, felt like walking blindfolded into a storm.  

But wasn’t that what her mother had been trying to tell her? That people didn’t just follow talent—they followed people?  

She exhaled, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead.  

Giselle, Winter, Ningning. They were loud and chaotic and reckless in ways she wasn’t. They didn’t overthink every move, didn’t hesitate before laughing, didn’t carry the weight of everything the way she did. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe she resented them for it—how easily they fit together, how effortlessly they were.  

How was she supposed to understand them when she’d never been like them?  

A vibration against her nightstand made her flinch. She reached for her phone, squinting against the screen’s light.  

Group Chat: “4Lifers”  

Giselle: yo why is there a whole existential crisis happening in ur room rn  

Winter: we can hear you sighing it’s scary  

Ningning: come eat we ordered chicken  

Karina stared at the messages. Then, slowly, she sat up.   

Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could just go out there. Sit with them. Try.  

But something about that felt… too much. Like stepping into a space that wasn’t fully hers.  

Instead, she typed:  

Karina: I gotta go buy something.  

A response came almost instantly.  

Giselle: It’s 7:30 P.M., dude. What could you possibly need right now?  

Karina stood, grabbing a hoodie off the back of her chair. An excuse, she thought.  

Karina: I’ll be back quick.  

She didn’t wait for a reply. She pulled the hoodie on, shoved her phone into her pocket, and slipped out the door.  

---  

The night air hit her as she stepped outside, cool and thick with city sounds—distant horns, the low murmur of people, the occasional burst of laughter from somewhere nearby. She exhaled, adjusting her hood.  

SM wasn’t far. Just a few blocks, an easy walk. She kept her pace steady, hands tucked into her pockets, mind already running ahead.  

She wasn’t here to shop.  

She was here to try something.

Karina kept her head down as she walked, her mind piecing together the plan.  

It wasn’t fully a plan—more like a rough outline, stitched together from instinct and impulse. But the idea had been sitting in the back of her head for a while now, ever since her mother’s words started gnawing at her.  

People don’t just follow talent. They follow people.  

Her grip tightened in her hoodie’s pocket. She’d spent years leading by example—perfecting routines, setting the standard, making sure things got done. But maybe leadership wasn’t just about being the best. Maybe it was about something else. Something she clearly didn’t have.  

Which was why she was heading to SM.  

Red Velvet was still there tonight. She’d overheard it in passing—something about Irene running late, the team staying back to finish blocking a routine.  

Irene.  

If there was anyone who knew how to lead, how to command a group while still belonging to it, it was her. She wasn’t just respected—she was followed. Without question. Without hesitation.  

Karina wanted to see why.  

How did she do it? What did she say? How did she hold herself?  

She needed to know.  

Her pace quickened as she neared a convenience store, the bright white lights spilling onto the sidewalk. She paused.  

A cap.  

Her face was too well-known now—staff, trainees, even some paps lingering near the building. If she was going to blend in, she needed to keep a low profile.  

She slipped inside, heading straight for the clothing section. A black cap sat on the rack, plain and unmarked. Perfect. She grabbed it, paid in cash, and pulled it over her head as she stepped back outside.  

The SM building loomed just a few blocks ahead, its sleek glass exterior reflecting the city lights.  

Karina took a breath.  

Time to see what real leadership looked like.

Karina approached the SM building’s entrance, shoulders squared, steps measured. The lobby was mostly empty at this hour, save for the receptionist at the front desk—a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper memory. The kind who noticed everything.  

Karina exhaled. Alright. Think.  

She couldn’t just waltz in. If the receptionist recognized her, she’d ask questions. If she spoke, she’d be recognized instantly.  

Her mind worked fast. Then—an idea.  

She cleared her throat dramatically as she walked up to the desk, pressing a hand to her neck like she was struggling to speak. The receptionist glanced up, already eyeing her suspiciously.  

“Good evening,” the woman said, waiting.  

Karina shook her head and gestured toward her throat, faking a pained expression. Then, she pulled out her phone, opened the Notes app, and quickly typed:  

Lost my voice. Here to drop something off for a staff member.  

The receptionist raised a brow. “Who?”  

Karina didn’t hesitate. She opened her messages, scrolled to a conversation with a random staff member from weeks ago, and turned her screen just enough for the woman to see the name—Manager Kim—before tucking it away.  

The receptionist still looked unconvinced. “You should’ve texted them to meet you outside.”  

Karina gave a small, sheepish shrug and started typing again. But this time, she switched tactics. Instead of showing her screen, she hit the Text-to-Speech function.  

A monotone, robotic voice filled the quiet lobby:  

"He’s busy. I just need to run up real quick. Won’t take long."  

The receptionist frowned at the synthetic voice, clearly thrown off. Karina kept her expression neutral, as if this was completely normal.  

The woman exhaled, rubbing her temple. “Fine. Just don’t take too long.”  

Karina nodded quickly, bowing her head in gratitude before making her way toward the elevators, keeping her steps even, controlled.  

The moment she stepped inside and the doors slid shut, she let out a slow breath.  

Obstacle one: cleared.  

Now, onto the real challenge.

As the elevator hummed upward, Karina pressed herself into the corner, tugging the brim of her cap lower.  

How am I going to blend in without sticking out?  

She hadn't thought that far ahead. Sneaking in was one thing—staying in without drawing attention was another. She needed to look like she belonged there. Like an assistant? A backup dancer? Maybe she could—  

Ding.  

The elevator doors slid open.  

Karina barely had time to finish her thought before the sound of music spilled into the hallway—sharp, rhythmic, laced with the unmistakable presence of professionals at work.  

She stepped out cautiously. The hallway lights were dimmer here, the space quieter except for the distant echoes of movement, voices, the occasional start-and-stop of music.   

Karina pulled her hoodie tighter around herself and started walking.  

The hallway stretched ahead, empty. No staff, no security—just the steady pulse of bass bleeding through the walls, marking the rhythm of Red Velvet’s practice.  

Lucky.  

The door to the practice room was slightly ajar. Karina took a breath, slipped inside.  

The room was massive, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the five figures in motion. Irene stood at the center, sharp and controlled, every movement precise. Seulgi moved beside her, effortless, the kind of dancer who didn’t just hit beats but lived in them. Wendy, Joy, and Yeri followed, synchronizing as the routine built in intensity.  

Karina kept her steps light, slipping toward the side of the room where a few bags and water bottles were scattered. She lowered herself onto the bench against the wall, pulling her cap lower.  

For a moment, it seemed like no one had noticed her.  

Then—Seulgi.  

Mid-turn, her gaze flicked to the side, locking onto Karina’s reflection in the mirror.  

Karina froze.  

It was just a second, maybe less. Seulgi didn’t stop dancing, didn’t hesitate. But there was a shift—subtle, almost imperceptible—like a note played off-key.  

Did she recognize her?  

Karina kept still, eyes fixed forward, hoping—praying—that if she didn’t react, Seulgi would let it go.

The music cut out. The last echoes of the beat faded, leaving only the sound of heavy breathing and shuffling feet.

Seulgi turned immediately, eyes locking onto Karina like she’d been waiting for the chance.

“You—” She tilted her head, wiping sweat off her forehead. “You’re with staff, right?”

Karina nodded quickly, keeping her head down.

Seulgi frowned slightly, taking a step closer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Karina lifted a hand to her throat, tapping it lightly, then gave a small shake of her head—No voice.

Seulgi’s lips parted slightly in understanding. “Ah… sore throat?”

Karina nodded again.

The others were too distracted to notice the exchange—Irene was fixing her ponytail, Wendy was stretching out a shoulder, Joy and Yeri were muttering about dinner plans—but Seulgi wasn’t letting up.

She stepped closer.

Karina stiffened, subtly ducking her chin further under the cap’s brim.

Seulgi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What department are you with?”

Karina gestured vaguely to the side, as if that explained everything.

Seulgi didn’t look convinced.

She shifted, angling her head, trying to catch a better look beneath the cap.

Karina turned slightly away, pretending to adjust the sleeve of her hoodie.

Seulgi exhaled sharply through her nose, amused now. “You’re acting sketchy, you know that?”

Karina just shrugged.

Seulgi crossed her arms, weight shifting onto one foot as she studied Karina more closely. The amusement in her voice didn’t quite reach her eyes anymore.

“You’re acting sketchy, you know that?”

Karina just shrugged, keeping her posture relaxed, unfazed.

Seulgi didn’t buy it.

She tilted her head, giving Karina a slow once-over. “You’re not a trainee.” She said it like a fact, not a question. “Too quiet. Too careful.”

Karina kept her expression neutral.

“Not staff, either.” Seulgi’s voice was thoughtful now, like she was working through a puzzle. “You’re not moving like someone who belongs here. You’re moving like someone who thinks they do.”

Karina forced herself to stay still, to not react.

Seulgi’s gaze flicked to the cap, then to the way Karina was keeping her head down, her body angled just slightly away. Her eyes narrowed.

“…You’re hiding something.”

Behind them, Irene called out, “Seulgi, from the top?”

“Give me a sec,” Seulgi answered without looking away.

Karina could feel the weight of her attention now, sharp and unrelenting. If she didn’t do something soon, Seulgi was going to figure it out.

Think.

Before Seulgi could press further, Karina pulled out her phone again, quickly typing. She turned the screen just enough for Seulgi to read:

"Manager Kim asked me to check on something. Not supposed to bother you all. Just watching."

Seulgi’s brow lifted slightly, but her skepticism didn’t ease. “That so?”

Karina nodded.

Seulgi exhaled, tapping her fingers against her arm. “Weird that he didn’t mention it.”

Karina just shrugged again like it wasn’t her problem.

A pause.

Seulgi studied her for another long second, then—surprisingly—she let it go.

“Alright,” she said finally, stepping back. “Just don’t be weird about it.”

Karina nodded, forcing herself to stay loose, casual.

Seulgi gave her one last look, then turned back toward the others.

“Alright, from the top,” Irene called out again, clapping her hands together.

The music started up.

Karina exhaled slowly, willing her shoulders to relax.

That was close. Too close.

But she was still here.

And now—now she could watch.

She turned her attention back to the practice, eyes locking onto Irene.

The music kicked in, sharp and steady, filling the practice room once more.

Karina kept her head down, gaze flicking between the moving figures in the mirror. Red Velvet fell into formation effortlessly, their bodies aligning with the beat like clockwork. Every motion was fluid yet precise, a synchronization forged through years of working together.

But something was off.

It wasn’t anything obvious. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like a perfectly fine run-through. But Karina had spent years analyzing movement, learning how to catch the smallest mistakes, the briefest hesitations.

And right now, Seulgi was just a little bit off.

Barely noticeable—half a second late on a transition, a turn that wasn’t as clean as usual. Not enough to ruin the routine, but enough for someone as sharp as Irene to notice.

And she did.

Irene’s gaze flicked toward Seulgi in the mirror, her sharp eyes catching the slight delays, the subtle distractions.

“Seulgi,” she called, voice cutting through the music.

The movement stopped.

Seulgi blinked, snapping back into focus. “Yeah?”

Irene gave her a look—not scolding, just assessing. “You okay?”

Seulgi exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, just—” Her eyes flicked, just for a second, toward the spot where Karina sat.

Karina stayed completely still.

Irene followed Seulgi’s gaze.

Karina kept her head down, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, but she felt the weight of Irene’s attention pass over her like a cold breeze.

Seulgi shook her head quickly, waving it off. “Never mind. Let’s go again.”

Irene didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. “Alright. One more time, then we’ll wrap.”

The music started again.

Karina exhaled slowly, her mind racing.

Seulgi was thinking about her.

She was distracted by her.

That wasn’t a good thing.

Karina had come here to observe, to learn. She hadn’t planned on being noticed.

She needed to be more careful.

She adjusted her cap, shrinking further into the bench, watching as the routine played out once more.

This time, Seulgi seemed to shake it off, her movements regaining their usual precision.

Irene led, commanding the space with a presence that wasn’t loud, wasn’t forceful—but undeniable.

Karina focused on her now, watching the way she carried herself, the way she spoke, the way the others instinctively followed.

This was what she had come to see.

The music pounded through the speakers, filling the practice room with a steady, driving rhythm. Red Velvet moved in sync, their bodies cutting through the air with practiced ease.

But Seulgi was still off.

It wasn’t much—just the slightest hesitation, a fraction of a beat late on a transition—but it was enough for Irene to notice. Again.

Irene’s gaze flicked toward Seulgi in the mirror, sharp and assessing.

What is going on with her tonight?

The music faded as Irene lifted a hand, signaling for a stop.

“Seulgi.” Her tone was firm but not harsh. “What’s going on?”

Seulgi exhaled, shaking her head. “It’s nothing, just—” She hesitated, glancing toward Karina’s direction again.

Karina kept her head ducked low, eyes glued to her phone in a calculated attempt to look uninterested.

Before Seulgi could answer, Wendy let out a short breath and stretched her arms above her head. “I don’t know, maybe it’s just the vibe tonight. Feels weird.”

Irene turned to her, brows furrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

Wendy shot Seulgi a knowing look before sighing. “I mean, I guess it’s just been on my mind lately. The whole ‘new girl group’ thing.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Karina stilled.

She knew what they were talking about.

Us.

Aespa.

Her, Winter, Giselle, and Ningning.

Irene crossed her arms, expression unreadable. “What about it?”

Wendy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just…” She glanced at Seulgi again before looking back at Irene. “It feels like SM is already looking past us, you know? Like we’re… yesterday’s news.”

Irene’s brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t say anything right away.

Wendy continued, voice quieter now. “They’re putting everything into the rookies. The teasers, the budget, the marketing push—it’s obvious. And where does that leave us?”

Seulgi finally spoke, voice lower than usual. “Second fiddle.”

Irene’s jaw tightened slightly.

Joy, who had been quiet until now, scoffed. “They’re not replacing us.”

“Not replacing,” Wendy agreed. “Just… prioritizing.”

Karina felt like she was intruding on something she wasn’t supposed to hear.

She had known, of course, that there was tension. A new group debuting always stirred up unease among seniors, and Red Velvet had been SM’s top girl group for years. But hearing it like this—raw, unfiltered, real—was different.

This wasn’t just gossip or speculation.

This was how they felt.

And it wasn’t just annoyance. It was something heavier.

Doubt.

Frustration.

Maybe even fear.

Red Velvet wasn’t just any group. They were legends. Icons. The standard that Karina and the others had looked up to for years.

And yet, even they felt uncertain about their place in all of this.

Irene finally spoke, her voice steady but firm. “We’re not done.”

Wendy sighed. “I know, but—”

“No.” Irene’s eyes flicked around the room, landing on each of them. “We’re not done.”

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t have to be.

Her voice held weight. Authority.

Even Wendy, who had been the most vocal, fell silent.

Karina watched, something clicking into place in her mind.

This was what she had come to see.

Not just skill. Not just presence.

But conviction.

Irene didn’t just lead with words—she led with certainty.

Even when there were doubts, even when the future was uncertain, she didn’t let herself crumble beneath it.

And because of that, neither did anyone else.

Karina swallowed, absorbing every second of the moment.

Then—

Seulgi shifted, her gaze flicking toward the mirror again.

Right at Karina’s reflection.

Karina’s breath caught.

Seulgi’s eyes narrowed slightly.

And this time, she didn’t look away.

Karina’s grip tightened around her phone as Seulgi took a step forward.

Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to stay still, to keep up the facade of nonchalance. Maybe if she stayed quiet, let the moment pass—

“You’re not a staff member, are you?” Seulgi’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

Karina’s breath hitched.

Irene frowned, stepping forward immediately. “Seulgi, what are you—”

But Seulgi wasn’t listening. Her focus was locked on Karina, sharp and unwavering.

Karina could feel the weight of the other members' gazes now, the way their attention had shifted, the way the air in the room had sharpened with curiosity.

She had to get out.

Before she could move, Seulgi closed the gap between them in a few purposeful strides.

“Wait,” Karina started, trying to pull back, but Seulgi was faster.

In one swift motion, Seulgi reached up and plucked the cap from Karina’s head.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“Oh, shit.” Joy’s voice broke the quiet, startled and impressed all at once.

Karina swallowed hard, her cover blown in an instant.

Wendy blinked, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Well. That explains a lot.”

Irene’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing again.

Karina glanced around, her mind racing for an escape, an excuse—anything.

Seulgi, still holding the cap in one hand, studied her closely. “I knew it.”

Karina exhaled sharply, her pulse hammering in her throat.

There was no point in denying it now.

“…Yeah,” she admitted, straightening her posture, letting the weight of her own name settle in the air. “I’m Karina.”

Another pause.

Then, to her surprise—

Seulgi smiled.

Not mocking. Not unfriendly.

Just… knowing.

“Well,” Seulgi mused, tilting her head. “Did you get what you came for?”

Karina blinked, schooling her expression into something neutral. “What do you mean?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Seulgi’s lips quirked slightly, unimpressed. “You’ve sneaked in for a reason.” She crossed her arms, her stance relaxed but her eyes sharp. “You weren’t just watching for fun.”

Karina hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but Seulgi caught it.

Before she could respond, Irene finally stepped in, her tone firm. “What’s going on here?”

Her gaze flicked between the two of them, assessing, calculating.

Wendy, Joy, and Yeri were watching closely now too, curiosity thick in the air.

Karina exhaled, realizing she was cornered. Lying outright wouldn’t work—not when Seulgi was already onto her.

So instead, she chose her words carefully.

“I just wanted to see you all practice,” Karina admitted, keeping her voice even. “To learn from you.”

Irene’s brow arched slightly. “By sneaking in?”

Karina glanced away, knowing how bad it sounded. “I didn’t think I’d be noticed.”

“Well, you were,” Seulgi said, still studying her. “And you’ve been watching for a while.”

Karina pressed her lips together, debating whether to answer.

But before she could, Joy let out a low whistle. “Damn. The leader of Aespa sneaking in to watch us? Should we be flattered?”

Yeri grinned. “Sounds like we’re still the standard.”

Wendy shook her head, but there was no real annoyance on her face—just curiosity. “So that’s what this was about.”

Irene, however, wasn’t as quick to brush it off.

She watched Karina carefully, then asked, “And? Did you learn what you wanted?”

Karina met her gaze, remembering the conviction in Irene’s voice from earlier.

She nodded. “…Yeah.”

Something flickered in Irene’s eyes—understanding, maybe, or something close to it.

A moment passed.

Then, Seulgi smirked. “Next time, just ask.”

Karina blinked. “What?”

“If you want to learn,” Seulgi said, tossing Karina’s cap back to her, “you don’t have to hide in the corner.”

Karina caught the cap instinctively, staring at her.

Seulgi tilted her head. “Come back when you’re ready.”

Wendy grinned. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll even give you some pointers.”

Karina hesitated, then slowly nodded, something settling in her chest.

“…Alright.”

Karina walked out of the practice room, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet hallway.

Her mind raced, the weight of what had just happened settling in.

This was bad.

She had been caught—by Red Velvet, no less.

The trainees would talk. They always did. By tomorrow, the whispers would spread through the company like wildfire: Karina of Aespa snuck into Red Velvet’s practice.

Some would find it amusing. Others would find it bold.

But the executives?

They wouldn’t take it kindly.

Karina clenched her jaw, already bracing for the inevitable meeting, the disapproving looks from higher-ups, the quiet but firm reminder that she had to be more careful.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

This wasn’t what she had planned.

She had only wanted to observe, to understand what made Irene who she was.

But now—

“Karina.”

She froze.

The voice was unmistakable.

She turned just in time to see Irene striding toward her.

Before Karina could say anything, Irene spoke.

“Wait for me outside,” she said, her voice steady but firm. “I’d like to have a word with you.”

Karina stared at her for a moment, searching for any signs of anger, disappointment—anything.

But Irene’s face gave nothing away.

A beat of silence.

Then, Karina nodded. “…Alright.”

Without another word, she turned and made her way toward the exit.

Her heart was still racing.

And she wasn’t sure if it was from the nerves—

Or the anticipation.

—

Karina leaned against the cool exterior wall of the building, exhaling slowly as she pulled out her phone.

The screen lit up with a flurry of notifications.

Winter [9:30 PM]

Yo, where are you?

Giselle [9:32 PM]

Did you get lost or something?

Ningning [9:35 AM]

Unnie, did you run away? Be honest.

Karina sighed, scrolling further.

More messages.

She blinked, suddenly remembering what she had told them before she left.

"I have to go buy something."

She glanced at the time.

9:55 PM.

Two hours had passed.

No wonder they were worried.

She quickly typed a response.

Karina [9:55 PM]

I’m fine. I’ll explain later.

She hesitated, then added—

Don’t wait up.

As she was about to send it, a voice called out to her.

“Karina.”

She looked up.

Irene was standing at the entrance now, no longer in her practice clothes. She had changed into a sleek black coat, her damp hair pulled back into a loose ponytail.

“Sorry for taking so long,” Irene said, walking toward her. “I needed to cool down.”

Karina pocketed her phone, straightening.

“…It’s fine.”

Irene stopped a few steps away, studying her.

For the first time, without the weight of the practice room or the watchful eyes of the other members, Karina felt the full intensity of Irene’s presence.

Not just as an idol.

Not just as a leader.

But as someone who had seen and endured more than most.

Karina swallowed, waiting.

Irene exhaled, crossing her arms.

“Let’s talk.”

Karina blinked.  

"Huh? Talk?"  

Irene arched a brow, unimpressed. "Yes. Talk about why you took all the effort to sneak into our practice."  

Karina shifted her weight, gripping her phone a little tighter. She hadn't expected this—not a confrontation, not at this hour, and definitely not from Irene alone.  

"I already told you," Karina said carefully. "I just wanted to observe."  

Irene hummed, clearly unconvinced. "And you thought sneaking in was the best way to do that?"  

Karina looked away, knowing there was no good excuse. "I didn't think it would be a big deal."  

Irene let out a quiet laugh—dry, knowing. "Oh, it’s a big deal, alright."  

Karina braced herself for a scolding, for Irene to reprimand her about professionalism, about setting an example. But instead, Irene just tilted her head, eyes sharp.  

"You’re ambitious," Irene noted. "But reckless."  

Karina frowned slightly. "I—"  

"You could’ve just asked," Irene continued, cutting her off. "Did you think we’d turn you away?"  

Karina hesitated.  

Yes.  

She had thought exactly that.  

Red Velvet wasn’t just another senior group. They were the standard, the ones people whispered about in training rooms, the ones whose performances were studied frame by frame.  

Karina had spent years watching them from a distance, memorizing their footwork, their stage presence, the way they commanded an audience.  

And now, standing in front of Irene—Bae Joo-hyun herself—she felt like a rookie all over again.  

"I didn’t want to bother you," Karina said finally, voice quieter.  

Irene sighed, folding her arms. "That’s not the real reason."  

Karina’s jaw tightened.  

Of course Irene saw through her.  

"You didn’t want to be caught watching," Irene murmured, her tone softer now, almost thoughtful. "Because that would mean admitting that you still have something to learn."  

Karina stiffened.  

The words hit deeper than she expected.  

Irene studied her reaction, then nodded slightly—like she had confirmed something for herself.  

"You’re the leader of Aespa," Irene said. "People already call you the next generation. You have expectations to meet."  

Karina swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.  

"But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone."  

Karina blinked.  

Irene let the words settle before continuing.  

"You admire us." It wasn’t a question. "I can see it in the way you watched tonight. You weren’t just looking at the choreo—you were studying us."  

Karina exhaled slowly, her grip on her phone loosening. There was no point in denying it.  

"Yeah," she admitted. "I was."  

Irene’s lips quirked slightly, not quite a smile, but something close.  

"Good," she said simply.  

Karina frowned. "Good?"  

Irene nodded. "Wanting to learn is never a weakness." She tilted her head. "But sneaking around like a trainee caught past curfew? That’s beneath you."  

Karina flushed slightly but said nothing.  

A beat of silence.  

Then, Irene stepped closer, lowering her voice just slightly.  

"If you’re serious about learning," she said, "come back tomorrow."  

Karina’s eyes widened. "What?"  

Irene’s expression remained unreadable. "If you want to learn, do it properly. No more hiding."  

Karina stared at her, searching for any hint of mockery, any sign that this was some kind of test.  

But Irene was serious.  

"Think about it," Irene said, turning to leave. "I won’t ask twice."  

Karina watched as Irene walked away, disappearing into the night like she had never been there at all.  

The cool air pressed against her skin, but Karina barely felt it.  

Her heart was still racing.  

And this time, it wasn’t from fear.  

It was from something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Karina pressed her forehead to her knee, counting silently as she held the stretch. The practice room was quiet this early—just the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional squeak of shoes against the polished floor. Morning light filtered through the blinds, casting long stripes across the room.

She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing. In, out. In, out. The familiar pull in her hamstrings was almost comforting, a reminder that some things were still in her control.

"You're here early."

Karina looked up to see Winter dropping her bag by the mirror, her blonde hair tied back in a messy bun. Despite the early hour, Winter looked annoyingly fresh-faced, like she'd gotten a full night's sleep.

"Couldn't sleep," Karina replied, switching to stretch her other leg.

Winter settled on the floor beside her, beginning her own warm-up routine. For a few minutes, they stretched in companionable silence.

"So," Winter said finally, her voice casual in a way that immediately put Karina on alert. "Where did you actually go last night?"

Karina's hands stilled for just a moment before she resumed her stretch. "What do you mean?"

Winter gave her a look. "You said you were going to the grocery store. You were gone for two hours."

"There were a lot of people," Karina said, the lie coming easily. "Had to wait in line forever."

Winter's eyebrows rose. "At the convenience store three blocks away? At 8 PM on a Tuesday?"

"I went to the big one," Karina countered, switching positions to stretch her arms. "The one near the station."

"Uh-huh." Winter's tone made it clear she wasn't buying it. "And what did you buy that was so important?"

Karina hesitated. She hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Shampoo," she said finally. "And... some snacks."

"Weird," Winter said, leaning forward into her own stretch. "Because I checked the bathroom this morning, and we still have the same half-empty bottle of shampoo. And there are definitely no new snacks in our dorm."

Karina felt heat rising to her cheeks. "I forgot my wallet," she improvised. "By the time I realized, I was already there, so I just... walked around for a while."

Winter stared at her for a long moment. Then she sighed, shaking her head.

"You know, for someone who's usually so put together, you're a terrible liar."

Karina looked away, focusing intently on the stretch she was holding. "I'm not lying."

"Fine," Winter said, her voice softening slightly. "But whatever you're doing... just be careful. We're too close to debut for any mistakes."

The word "debut" hung in the air between them—that magical, elusive promise they'd been chasing for years. So close now they could almost touch it.

Karina swallowed, guilt settling heavy in her stomach. She hadn't meant to worry Winter. She hadn't meant to worry any of them. But how could she explain what she'd been doing? That she'd snuck into Red Velvet's practice room, that she'd been caught, that Irene herself had invited her back?

It sounded impossible even to her own ears.

"I'm always careful," Karina said finally, meeting Winter's gaze with what she hoped was reassuring confidence.

Winter held her eyes for a moment longer, then nodded, seemingly satisfied—or at least willing to drop it for now.

"The others will be here soon," Winter said, changing the subject as she reached for her water bottle. "Ningning texted that she's bringing coffee."

Karina nodded, grateful for the reprieve. As Winter turned away to continue her stretches, Karina let out a quiet breath.

She would have to be more careful tonight. No more disappearing acts, no more flimsy excuses.

If she was going to take Irene up on her offer—and she knew, deep down, that she was—she would need a better plan.

The practice room door swung open as Ningning and Giselle arrived, carrying a tray of coffee cups and chatting animatedly. The energy in the room immediately shifted, filling with their voices and laughter.

"Morning, unnies!" Ningning called out, handing Karina a cup. "You're both here early."

"Some of us never left," Winter said with a pointed look at Karina, who pretended not to notice.

Their dance trainer, Miyeon, arrived a few minutes later, clapping her hands to get their attention. "Alright, ladies, let's get started. We need to polish the second verse transition before—"

A sharp knock interrupted her. The door opened, and one of the company staff—Jiyoo from artist relations—poked her head in.

"Sorry to interrupt," Jiyoo said, scanning the room until her eyes landed on Karina. "Karina-ssi, Irene sunbaenim is asking for you."

The room went silent.

Miyeon blinked, her clipboard lowering slightly. "Irene? As in... Red Velvet's Irene?"

Jiyoo nodded. "Yes. She said it's important."

Karina felt her stomach drop as all eyes turned to her. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She'd planned to slip away after practice, to meet Irene quietly, without drawing attention. Not like this—not with her members and trainer staring at her like she'd grown a second head.

"Irene sunbaenim?" Giselle repeated, her eyes wide. "Why would she be asking for you?"

Winter's gaze was the most piercing of all. Her earlier suspicion had transformed into full-blown confusion, her eyes narrowing as she connected invisible dots.

"I... don't know," Karina lied, forcing her expression to remain neutral. "Maybe it's about the trainee showcase last month?"

It was a weak excuse. The showcase had been weeks ago, and Irene hadn't even been there.

Miyeon looked skeptical. "This is... unusual. Trainees don't typically get called by senior artists unless..." She trailed off, clearly trying to make sense of the situation.

"Unless what?" Ningning asked, practically bouncing with curiosity.

"Unless there's a special project," Miyeon finished, though her tone suggested she wasn't entirely convinced of her own explanation.

"Should I tell her you're coming?" Jiyoo asked, still waiting at the door.

Karina nodded stiffly. "Yes, thank you. I'll be right there."

As Jiyoo left, Karina could feel Winter's eyes boring into her. When she finally met her gaze, Winter mouthed, "Grocery store, huh?"

"Well," Miyeon said, checking her watch, "I suppose we can start with the others and you can catch up when you return. Don't keep Irene-ssi waiting."

Karina nodded, gathering her composure as she headed for the door. Behind her, she could already hear the whispers starting.

"Why would Irene want to talk to her?"
"Do you think she's in trouble?"
"Maybe they're doing a special stage together!"

"Shit," Karina muttered under her breath as she stepped into the hallway. This was exactly what she'd wanted to avoid—attention, questions, speculation. Now everyone would be watching her, wondering what was happening between her and one of the company's biggest stars.

As she walked toward the senior artists' practice rooms, Karina tried to calm her racing thoughts. She needed to talk to Irene, to explain that this approach wasn't going to work. If she was going to learn from Red Velvet, it needed to be discreet. No announcements, no staff members fetching her in front of everyone.

She rounded the corner and nearly collided with Irene herself, who was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, waiting.

"There you are," Irene said, her expression unreadable. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

Karina took a deep breath, steeling herself. "You didn't have to send someone to get me in front of my entire team."

A flicker of surprise crossed Irene's face, followed by something that might have been amusement.

"Is that a problem?" she asked, her voice cool and measured.

Karina hesitated, suddenly aware that she was speaking rather boldly to someone who was not only her senior but also one of the most respected idols in the industry.

"I just... I thought this would be more private," she said finally, her voice lower.

Irene studied her for a moment, then nodded slightly. "I see. You wanted to keep our arrangement a secret."

The way she said it made Karina feel childish, like she was trying to hide something shameful rather than protect her pride.

"Not a secret," Karina clarified. "Just... not so public."

Irene's lips curved into a small smile. "Well, it's too late for that now, isn't it? Come on." She turned and began walking down the hallway. "The others are waiting."

"The others?" Karina echoed, hurrying to catch up. "I thought—"

"You thought it would just be me?" Irene glanced back at her. "If you want to learn from Red Velvet, you learn from all of us."

Karina swallowed hard. One-on-one with Irene had been intimidating enough. Facing the entire group? That was something else entirely.

As they approached the practice room door, Karina could hear laughter and music from inside. Irene paused, her hand on the handle, and looked at Karina with an expression that was suddenly serious.

"One more thing," she said quietly. "If you're embarrassed to be seen learning from us, this won't work. Pride has no place in growth."

Before Karina could respond, Irene pushed open the door, revealing the rest of Red Velvet mid-conversation, their practice temporarily paused.

"Look who I found," Irene announced, and all eyes turned to Karina.

"Are we getting a sixth member?" Wendy quipped immediately, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Management should really tell us these things first."

The others laughed, and Karina felt her cheeks warm. She stood awkwardly in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of her training clothes, her messy ponytail, everything that marked her as exactly what she was—a trainee, not their peer.

"You look better when you're not trying to sneak in as a staff member," Seulgi remarked, a playful smile on her face as she toweled off her neck. "The baseball cap was a bit much."

Karina winced, remembering how Seulgi had caught her the night before, hovering near the back of the practice room in her pathetic disguise. She'd thought she was being so clever.

"I wasn't—" Karina started, then stopped herself. There was no point denying it. "I'm sorry about that."

Joy, who had been scrolling through her phone on one of the benches, looked up with interest. "Wait, she did what now?"

"Our little spy here snuck into our practice last night," Seulgi explained, gesturing toward Karina. "Pretended to be part of the management staff or something."

"I didn't pretend to be management staff," Karina clarified quickly. "I just... didn't want to draw attention."

"By wearing a disguise?" Yeri asked, eyebrows raised. "That's literally the most suspicious thing you could do."

Karina wanted to sink through the floor. Put like that, her plan did sound ridiculous.

"Well, it worked until Seulgi-sunbaenim noticed me," she said, trying to salvage some dignity.

"I noticed you the moment you walked in," Seulgi corrected her gently. "I was just curious how long you'd stay."

"We all noticed," Irene added, closing the door behind them. "It's our job to be aware of who's watching us."

Karina blinked, surprised. She'd thought she'd been so careful, so inconspicuous. The realization that they'd all been aware of her presence the entire time was mortifying.

"So," Joy said, setting her phone down and leaning forward with interest, "you're the one everyone's talking about. The next big thing."

Karina shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just a trainee."

"For now," Wendy said with a knowing smile. "But not for much longer, from what we hear."

There was something surreal about standing in Red Velvet's practice room, having them discuss her future like it was a foregone conclusion. Like they knew something she didn't.

"Anyway," Irene cut in, her tone businesslike, "Karina is here to observe properly this time. No hiding, no pretending."

"And learn," Karina added quickly, finding her voice. "If that's okay."

The members exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

"Of course it's okay," Seulgi said finally, her smile warm and genuine. "That's why we're all here, isn't it? To keep learning."

"Even us," Wendy agreed. "Especially us."

Yeri nodded toward an empty spot near the mirror. "You can put your stuff there. We're working on the bridge section today—it's giving Seulgi unnie trouble."

"It is not giving me trouble," Seulgi protested. "I'm just... perfecting it."

"For the twentieth time," Joy teased.

Karina hesitated, still standing awkwardly by the door. Part of her couldn't believe this was happening—that she was being invited into Red Velvet's inner sanctum, their private practice space, to watch them work. Not as a fan, not as a spy, but as... what? A colleague? A student?

"Are you just going to stand there?" Irene asked, her tone making it clear it wasn't really a question.

Karina quickly moved to the spot Yeri had indicated, setting down her water bottle and phone.

"Thank you," she said, trying to infuse the simple words with the depth of her gratitude. "For letting me be here."

"Don't thank us yet," Joy warned with a mischievous smile. "You haven't seen Irene unnie when she's really in practice mode."

"Terrifying," Wendy stage-whispered.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Ignore them. We're professionals."

"Most of the time," Seulgi added with a wink.

As they moved into position, Karina found herself relaxing slightly. They weren't what she expected—not the untouchable idols she'd built up in her mind, but real people. Talented, yes. Intimidating, certainly. But also funny, teasing, normal in ways she hadn't anticipated.

"Watch carefully," Irene said to her as the others took their positions. "And don't be afraid to ask questions."

Karina nodded, settling against the wall. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—probably Winter or one of the others wondering what was happening—but she ignored it.

For now, nothing existed outside this room. Not her team's questions, not the pressure of debut, not the constant fear of not being good enough.

Just this moment. Just this chance to learn.

As the music started and Red Velvet began to move, Karina leaned forward, eyes wide, taking in every detail. This time, she didn't have to hide in the shadows or pretend to be someone else.

This time, she could simply watch and learn.

As the music started and Red Velvet began to move, Karina leaned forward, eyes wide, taking in every detail. She'd watched countless videos of their practices, studied their performances frame by frame, but seeing them work in person was entirely different. There was an energy in the room that no camera could capture—a focus, a synergy.

Karina found her attention drawn repeatedly to Irene. Not just because of her flawless technique or commanding presence, but because of what Karina had come here to understand: leadership. How did Irene do it? How did she guide one of the industry's most respected groups without seeming to exert obvious control?

The music paused as they reached the bridge section that Yeri had mentioned. Seulgi stepped out of formation, replaying the move that was giving her trouble.

"I'm not hitting the timing right," she said, demonstrating the sequence again. "It feels rushed."

Karina waited for Irene to step in, to correct, to direct. That's what Karina would have done with her own team—identified the problem, offered a solution, made sure it was implemented correctly.

But Irene simply watched, her head tilted slightly.

"What do you think, Wendy?" Irene asked instead.

Wendy stepped forward, studying Seulgi's movement. "I think you're anticipating the beat. Try waiting a half-count longer before the turn."

Seulgi nodded, trying it again with Wendy's suggestion. The difference was subtle but immediate—the move flowed more naturally, matching the music's rhythm.

"Better," Joy confirmed. "Much more clean."

"Let's try it together," Irene suggested, and they moved back into formation.

As they worked through the section again, Karina noticed something she hadn't expected. Irene wasn't micromanaging. She wasn't dictating every detail or insisting on being the one to solve every problem. Instead, she was creating space—space for Seulgi to identify her own struggle, space for Wendy to offer her expertise, space for the group to find their collective solution.

The pattern continued as practice progressed. When Joy had a suggestion about the formation, Irene listened. When Yeri wanted to try a different interpretation of a move, Irene stepped back to see it. When Wendy noticed that their timing was slightly off in the chorus, Irene asked questions rather than imposing answers.

It wasn't that Irene wasn't leading—she clearly was. But her leadership wasn't about control. It was about trust.

During a water break, Karina found herself still watching Irene, trying to reconcile this approach with her own understanding of leadership. As a trainee preparing to debut as the leader of her own group, Karina had always assumed that leadership meant having all the answers, being the strongest, never showing weakness.

Irene caught her staring and raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind?"

Karina hesitated, then decided honesty was better than pretense. "I'm just... observing how you lead."

Irene took a sip of water. "And?"

"It's different than I expected," Karina admitted.

"Different how?"

Karina chose her words carefully. "You don't... control everything. You let them speak. You let them decide things."

A flicker of amusement crossed Irene's face. "That surprises you?"

"A little," Karina confessed. "I always thought being a leader meant making all the decisions, keeping everyone in line."

Irene considered this, her gaze thoughtful. "That's one approach," she said finally. "But it's exhausting. And ultimately, it doesn't work—not for long."

From across the room, Seulgi called out, "Is she giving you the leadership lecture? Don't let her fool you—she used to be much scarier."

Irene rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in the gesture. "I've learned a few things over the years."

"Like what?" Karina asked, genuinely curious.

Irene glanced at her members, who were chatting and laughing together as they stretched. "That my job isn't to be perfect. It's to create an environment where everyone can contribute their best."

Karina frowned slightly. "But don't you need to maintain control? To make sure everything is right?"

"Control is an illusion," Irene said simply. "The moment you think you have it is the moment you've lost it."

Before Karina could ask what she meant, Irene continued, her voice lower, meant only for Karina. "Look at them. Really look. What do you see?"

Karina turned her attention to the other members. Wendy was demonstrating something to Joy, who was nodding intently. Seulgi and Yeri were working through a sequence together, stopping and starting, discussing the details.

"They're... working together," Karina said slowly.

"Without me telling them what to do," Irene pointed out. "Because they know what they're doing. They're professionals. My job isn't to control them—it's to trust them."

Karina absorbed this, turning the concept over in her mind. It ran counter to everything she'd been preparing herself for—the weight of responsibility, the burden of always being right, always being in charge.

"But what if something goes wrong?" she asked. "What if someone makes a mistake?"

"Then we fix it," Irene said simply. "Together."

She set down her water bottle and looked directly at Karina. "The strongest leaders aren't the ones who never fail. They're the ones who create teams that can succeed even when they do."

The words settled over Karina like a revelation. She thought about her own team—Winter's sharp attention to detail, Giselle's natural diplomacy, Ningning's boundless creativity. How often had she felt the need to overshadow those qualities rather than elevate them? How often had she equated leadership with control?

"Break's over," Irene announced to the room, her voice shifting back to its professional tone. "Let's run through the whole sequence once more."

As they moved back into position, Karina noticed something else—how seamlessly they transitioned from casual conversation to focused work, without Irene having to demand their attention or assert her authority. They respected her not because she insisted on it, but because she had earned it.

It was a different kind of power than Karina had imagined for herself. A quieter kind. But watching them move in perfect harmony, each member bringing their unique strengths to create something greater than the sum of its parts, she couldn't deny its effectiveness.

Maybe leadership wasn't about having all the answers after all. Maybe it was about asking the right questions.

This time, she could simply watch and learn.

The practice continued for another hour, and Karina remained transfixed. She watched how they worked through problems together, how they celebrated small victories, how they pushed each other without breaking each other. Most of all, she watched Irene—not just her dancing, which was flawless as expected, but her presence, the subtle ways she guided without commanding.

When they finally finished, the members dispersed to cool down in their own ways. Joy and Yeri immediately checked their phones, Wendy stretched against the wall, and Seulgi collapsed dramatically onto the floor, arms spread wide.

"I'm dead," Seulgi announced to the ceiling. "Tell my family I loved them."

"You say that every practice," Wendy pointed out, not looking up from her stretch.

"And I mean it every time," Seulgi replied solemnly.

Karina smiled despite herself. There was something comforting about seeing these polished professionals be so... normal.

Irene approached her, towel around her neck, face glistening with sweat but somehow still looking composed. "What did you think?"

"It was..." Karina searched for the right word. "Illuminating."

Irene raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "That's a diplomatic answer."

"I mean it," Karina insisted. "The way you work together, the way you lead them without... without..."

"Without being a dictator?" Irene supplied, her eyes twinkling.

Karina laughed softly. "Something like that."

Irene gestured toward the door. "Walk with me? I need to cool down."

Karina nodded, following Irene out into the hallway. They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the practice room fading behind them. The building was quieter now, most of the day's sessions winding down.

"You know," Irene said finally, her voice casual, "I used to do what you did."

Karina glanced at her, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Sneaking into practices," Irene clarified. "Trying to learn without being noticed."

Karina stopped walking. "You did?"

Irene nodded, a nostalgic smile crossing her face. "Girls' Generation. I used to find ways to be near their practice room. I'd volunteer to deliver messages, offer to help with equipment—anything to get a glimpse."

Karina tried to imagine it—Irene, the Irene, sneaking around like a starstruck trainee. It seemed impossible.

"I wanted to learn from Taeyeon, specifically," Irene continued. "Not just her singing, which was obviously incredible, but how she led. How she managed to be both their center and their support."

"Did you ever get caught?" Karina asked.

Irene's smile widened. "Once. Hyoyeon found me lingering outside their practice room. I thought she was going to report me to management."

"What did she do?"

"She invited me in," Irene said simply. "Said if I was going to spy, I might as well do it properly."

Karina couldn't help but laugh at the parallel. "So this is you paying it forward?"

"Something like that," Irene admitted. "Though I hope you've learned your lesson about the sneaking part."

"Definitely," Karina assured her. "No more disguises."

They resumed walking, turning down a corridor that led to a small outdoor area where staff often took breaks. The evening air was cool and refreshing after the stuffiness of the practice room.

"The thing about Taeyeon," Irene said after a moment, "was that she never tried to be perfect. She just tried to be present. For her members, for the music, for the moment. That's what made her such a strong leader—not that she never made mistakes, but that she was fully there, even when she did."

Karina absorbed this, thinking about her own approach. How often had she been so focused on getting everything right that she wasn't truly present with her members?

"It's scary," Karina admitted quietly. "The thought of debuting, of being responsible for a team. Everyone keeps saying we're the future, that we're going to be something special. What if I'm not ready?"

Irene looked at her, her gaze steady and clear. "You're not."

Karina blinked, taken aback by the blunt response.

"No one is ever ready," Irene continued. "Not really. I certainly wasn't. Leadership isn't something you master before you begin—it's something you learn by doing, by failing, by trying again."

She paused, considering her next words carefully. "The question isn't whether you're ready. It's whether you're willing to keep learning, even after you debut. Even after you succeed. Even after you fail."

Karina thought about this, about the humility it required, the openness to growth. "Is that why you let me stay today? To learn?"

"Partly," Irene acknowledged. "But also because I see something in you that reminds me of myself at your age. The determination. The perfectionism." She smiled slightly. "The tendency to overthink everything."

Karina laughed softly. "Is it that obvious?"

"To me? Yes." Irene's expression grew more serious. "But I also see your potential. Not just as a performer, but as a leader. You care deeply about doing things right. That's valuable. Just don't let it stop you from doing things at all."

They reached a small bench and sat down, the company building looming behind them, its windows glowing in the dusk.

"Thank you," Karina said after a moment. "For today. For the advice. For not reporting me to security last night."

Irene laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Well, the security option is still on the table if you try anything like that again."

"I won't," Karina promised. "Next time I'll just ask."

"Good." Irene nodded approvingly. "And there will be a next time, if you want. Not just with me, but with all of us. Different perspectives, different strengths."

Karina felt a surge of gratitude so strong it almost overwhelmed her. "I'd like that."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—another message from her members, no doubt wondering where she was, what was happening. This time, she pulled it out to check.

Winter [6:45 PM]
Are you alive? Did Irene sunbaenim kidnap you? The rumors are WILD right now.

Karina smiled, shaking her head slightly.

"Your team?" Irene guessed.

"Yeah," Karina confirmed. "They're... curious."

"I bet they are." Irene stood, stretching her arms above her head. "You should go back to them. They're your priority now."

Karina nodded, rising as well. "What should I tell them? About today?"

Irene considered this. "The truth, I think. That you're learning. That you're preparing. That leadership is a journey, not a destination."

She paused, then added with a small smile, "Maybe leave out the part about sneaking in, though. We don't need to give the other trainees ideas."

Karina laughed. "Agreed."

As they walked back toward the building, Karina felt lighter somehow, as if a weight she hadn't fully recognized had been lifted. The pressure was still there—the expectations, the responsibility, the uncertainty of what lay ahead. But now it felt less like a burden she had to carry alone and more like a challenge she was equipped to face.

With her team. With their strengths. With the wisdom of those who had walked this path before her.

"Irene sunbaenim," she said as they reached the door.

Irene turned, eyebrow raised in question.

"Thank you," Karina said simply. "For everything."

Irene smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "Call me unnie," she said. "And you're welcome."

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet when Karina returned, save for the muffled sound of Ningning practicing vocals in her room. She slipped off her shoes at the entrance, muscles aching pleasantly from the day's unexpected practice session. The familiar scent of someone's jasmine tea lingered in the air.

She had barely made it three steps into the living room when Winter materialized from the kitchen, a steaming mug in hand and curiosity written all over her face.

"You're back," Winter said, following Karina to the couch. She settled beside her, tucking one leg underneath herself. "Finally."

Karina sank into the cushions with a sigh. "Sorry about that. Time got away from me."

Winter studied her face with narrowed eyes, blowing gently on her tea. "What did Irene-seonbaenim want with you?"

Karina opened her mouth, the words "Irene-un—" nearly slipping out before she caught herself. "Irene-seonbaenim," she corrected smoothly, "just wanted to go over some choreography details. Nothing major."

Winter's eyebrow arched skeptically. "For three hours?"

"We got caught talking about other things," Karina shrugged, avoiding Winter's gaze by reaching for the remote control. "Performance techniques, stage presence. You know how it is."

"Hmm," Winter hummed, clearly unconvinced. She took a sip of her tea, watching Karina over the rim of her mug. "That's funny, because Giselle heard from one of the staff that you two were seen practicing in the senior artists' studio. Together."

Karina kept her expression neutral, though her heart skipped a beat. "Like I said, choreography details."

Winter set her mug down on the coffee table with deliberate care. "Since when does Red Velvet's leader personally coach SM rookies on 'choreography details'?"

"What are you making over there?" Karina nodded toward the kitchen, the abrupt change of subject about as subtle as their neon stage outfits. "Smells good."

Winter didn't even glance toward the kitchen. "Just tea," she said flatly, her eyes never leaving Karina's face. "And nice try, but you're not changing the subject that easily."

Karina sighed, sinking deeper into the couch cushions.

"You know," Winter continued, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "Ningning has a theory that you're being scouted for a special project. Giselle thinks you're in trouble for something and Irene-seonbaenim was giving you a lecture." She paused, tilting her head. "But I don't think it's either of those things."

"Oh?" Karina reached for Winter's mug and took a sip of tea to buy herself time. "What's your theory then?"

Winter plucked the mug from Karina's hands and set it back down. "My theory is that there's something you're not telling us. And whatever it is, it's important enough that you're lying about it."

The word "lying" hung in the air between them. Winter wasn't accusatory—her tone remained measured, curious—but the directness of her observation left no room for further deflection.

Karina looked at her groupmate, at the genuine concern beneath the suspicion, and felt a twinge of guilt. These were the people she was supposed to lead, to trust, to be honest with.

"I wasn't—" Karina started, then stopped herself. "Okay, it wasn't just choreography."

Winter waited, patient but expectant.

Karina took a deep breath. "The truth is, I went to her for advice. About... about leading. The group." She gestured vaguely between them. "About being a good leader for all of you."

Winter's eyes widened, genuine surprise replacing her suspicion. "You what?"

"I know it sounds silly," Karina continued, her words coming faster now. "But debut is getting closer, and the pressure is building, and I just thought—who better to learn from than someone who's done it successfully for years? Someone who's led one of the company's most successful groups?"

Winter stared at her for a long moment before a smile slowly spread across her face, followed by a burst of laughter that she tried and failed to contain behind her hand.

"I'm sorry," Winter said, still laughing. "But that's—that's ridiculous."

Karina felt her cheeks warm. "Is it?"

"Yes!" Winter exclaimed, shifting to face Karina more directly. "You seriously think you need leadership lessons? You, Yoo Jimin? The same person who organized our entire training schedule when the company system glitched last month? Who mediates every disagreement between Ningning and Giselle before they even realize they're arguing?"

Karina shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "That's different. That's just... being organized."

"No, it's not," Winter insisted. "It's leadership. Natural leadership." She shook her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you snuck around to get advice on something you already do better than most people."

Karina forced a laugh, playing along. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound a bit silly."

"More than a bit," Winter said, her laughter subsiding into a warm smile. "But it's also very you. Always trying to be better, even at things you're already good at."

"Right," Karina nodded, relieved that Winter seemed to be accepting her explanation, even if she was dismissing the concern behind it. "Just trying to be prepared."

"So what profound wisdom did the great Irene-seonbaenim share with you?" Winter asked, settling back against the couch with renewed interest. "Any secrets to success we should know about?"

Karina thought about everything Irene had actually told her—about presence over perfection, about learning through failure, about the journey rather than the destination. About overthinking.

"Nothing revolutionary," she said lightly. "Just to trust myself more. And to trust you guys."

Winter nodded sagely. "Groundbreaking advice. Definitely worth all the secrecy."

"I wasn't being secretive," Karina protested, though she knew it wasn't entirely true. "I was just... embarrassed, I guess. About feeling insecure."

"Well, don't be," Winter said, her teasing tone giving way to something more sincere. "But also maybe don't lie to us about where you're disappearing to? We were worried."

Karina felt another pang of guilt. "I'm sorry. You're right."

"I usually am," Winter replied with a smirk, picking up her mug again. After a sip, she added more seriously, "For what it's worth, I think you're going to be an amazing leader. You already are."

Karina smiled, grateful for Winter's confidence even as she wondered if it was entirely deserved. "Thanks."

"But next time you want leadership advice," Winter continued, "maybe just ask us? Your actual team? The people you're, you know, leading?"

"Fair point," Karina conceded with a laugh that felt more genuine this time.

Winter opened her mouth to say something else when movement in the hallway caught Karina's eye. She glanced up to see Giselle and Ningning peering around the corner, not even trying to hide their eavesdropping.

"You guys done with your heart to heart?" Giselle asked, a playful smile on her face as she leaned against the wall.

Winter spun around, her expression shifting to exaggerated annoyance. "Seriously? How long have you two been lurking there?"

"Long enough," Ningning chirped, sliding past Giselle into the living room. "My special project theory was way more interesting, by the way."

"No one asked you," Winter shot back, though there was no real heat in her words.

Giselle pushed off from the wall and sauntered over to perch on the arm of the couch. "I still think my 'in trouble' theory had merit. The way you disappeared after practice was very suspicious."

"You were listening all along?" Karina asked, looking between her two groupmates with disbelief.

Giselle shrugged, completely unapologetic. "When you've gotta move to a country whose language you don't really know, you learn to listen, very attentively." She tapped her ear. "It's a survival skill."

"That doesn't explain why Ningning was eavesdropping," Winter pointed out.

"I'm just naturally curious," Ningning replied, dropping onto the floor in front of them. "And you two were being so secretive, whispering over here."

"We weren't whispering," Karina protested.

"Details," Ningning waved dismissively. "The point is, our fearless leader has been getting leadership coaching from THE Bae Joohyun, and I think that's both hilarious and kind of sweet."

Karina felt her face warm again. "It wasn't coaching, exactly..."

"It was totally coaching," Giselle grinned. "Leadership bootcamp with Irene-seonbaenim. I bet she made you do push-ups every time you said 'sorry.'"

"That would actually be effective," Winter mused. "You'd be ripped by now."

"I do not say sorry that much," Karina protested, then immediately grimaced as all three of her members fixed her with identical skeptical stares.

"Sure," Giselle drawled. "And I don't spend half my paycheck on coffee."

"Or I don't steal Ningning's snacks," Winter added.

"Hey!" Ningning exclaimed. "I knew that was you!"

Karina softly laughed, shaking her head at their teasing. "Your point being?"

"Ouch," Giselle clutched her chest in mock offense. "And here I thought we were having a bonding moment."

"We were," Karina assured her, "until you admitted to be spying on me."

"Not just spying," Giselle said, sliding down from the arm of the couch to squeeze in beside Karina. "Gathering intelligence. And we weren't the only ones coming up with theories, by the way."

Karina's smile faltered. "What do you mean?"

"The staff, the trainers, some of the other trainees," Giselle counted off on her fingers. "Pretty much everyone in the building was speculating about why Irene-seonbaenim personally requested time with you."

"Jimin-unnie from the dance team thought you were being scouted for a subunit," Ningning added. "And one of the vocal coaches was convinced you were getting special mentoring for a solo debut."

"Manager-oppa wouldn't tell us anything," Winter said. "Which only made everyone more suspicious."

"Damn," Karina breathed, genuinely surprised by the scope of the speculation. "All that just because I spent a few hours with her?"

"A few hours with one of the company's most senior idols, in a private practice room, after you were caught sneaking around the senior artists' floor the night before?" Giselle raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, people noticed."

Karina blinked. "Wait, how did you know about—"

"Security guard told his friend who told this other friend who had another friend who told Chaehyun who told Sua who messaged Ningning," Winter recited without missing a beat.

"The trainee gossip network is very efficient," Ningning nodded solemnly.

"Terrifyingly efficient," Giselle agreed.

Karina groaned, covering her face with her hands. "So everyone knows I was sneaking around like some kind of stalker fan?"

"Not everyone," Winter patted her knee consolingly. "Just... a significant percentage of the company."

"Great," Karina mumbled through her fingers. "That's just great."

"Look on the bright side," Giselle offered. "At least now we know you weren't being secretly recruited for some elite project that would take you away from us."

"Or getting kicked out for breaking company rules," Ningning added.

"Or having a secret romance with a senior artist," Winter said, then paused at the others' stares. "What? That was definitely one of the theories floating around."

"Whose theory was that?" Karina demanded, dropping her hands to glare at Winter.

Winter shrugged innocently. "I don't remember. Probably one of the stylists. They're always the most dramatic."

Karina let her head fall back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "I wonder if Lee Soo-Man PD got a word of this."

The others fell silent for a moment, considering the possibility of the company's founder and chief producer being aware of Karina's escapade.

"Very likely," Giselle finally said with a nod. "He's probably making time on his schedule for you."

Karina's head snapped up. "What? Why would you say that?"

"Because that's how these things escalate," Giselle explained, gesturing broadly. "First it's Irene-seonbaenim giving you leadership advice, next thing you know, you're getting summoned to Lee Soo-Man PD's office for a personal evaluation of your leadership potential."

"Stop," Karina groaned. "You're making it worse."

"I'm just saying," Giselle continued, clearly enjoying Karina's distress, "be prepared for an email. 'Dear Yoo Jimin, your clandestine leadership training has come to my attention. Please report to my office for further assessment.'"

"That's not funny," Karina said, though a nervous laugh escaped her.

"It's a little funny," Ningning countered, grinning.

"What would you even say to him?" Winter mused. "'Sorry, PD-nim, I was just trying to become a better leader by stalking your most successful girl group'?"

"I wasn't stalking them!" Karina protested.

"Lurking suspiciously outside their practice room?" Giselle suggested.

"Conducting unauthorized reconnaissance?" Ningning offered.

"Engaging in covert observation for professional development purposes?" Winter added with a straight face.

Karina looked between her three groupmates, all watching her with varying degrees of amusement, and finally surrendered to the absurdity of the situation. She laughed, genuine and unrestrained.

"Fine," she conceded. "It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that. But my intentions were good!"

"The best leaders always have good intentions," Giselle said, patting Karina's shoulder. "Even when they're being completely weird about it."

"But Ningning once got caught sneaking, too," Karina pointed out, eager to shift some of the teasing away from herself. "Remember when security found her in the recording studio after hours?"

Ningning straightened up, her expression indignant. "That was completely different! I didn't know how to read or speak Korean when that happened."

"So?" Karina challenged.

"So," Ningning explained with exaggerated patience, "I legitimately got lost. The signs meant nothing to me. I was trying to find the bathroom and ended up in a restricted area by accident." She crossed her arms. "You, on the other hand, deliberately disguised yourself and snuck onto a floor you knew was off-limits."

"She's got you there," Winter nodded.

"Whose side are you on?" Karina asked, nudging Winter with her elbow.

"The side of truth and justice," Winter replied solemnly, before breaking into a smile. "And the side that gets to tease our leader about her secret mentor-mentee relationship with Bae Joohyun."

"It wasn't—" Karina began, then stopped herself with a sigh. "You know what? Fine. Think what you want."

"We will," Giselle assured her cheerfully.

"But seriously," Ningning said, her tone shifting to something more genuine, "was it helpful? The talk with Irene-seonbaenim?"

Karina considered the question, thinking back to the conversation in the practice room, to Irene's candid advice about leadership and presence. Despite all the teasing, despite the apparent gossip circulating through the company, she couldn't bring herself to regret the experience.

"Yeah," she admitted softly. "It really was."

The others exchanged glances, a moment of understanding passing between them.

"Good," Ningning said simply.

"Though next time," Giselle added, "maybe just ask for a meeting through proper channels? Instead of, you know, the whole secret agent routine?"

"And maybe tell us where you're going?" Winter suggested. "So we don't have to hear about it from the trainee rumor mill?"

Karina looked at her members—her team—and felt a rush of affection for them. For their concern beneath the teasing, for the way they could laugh at her while still supporting her, for how they'd waited up for her return.

"Deal," she agreed. "No more sneaking around. No more secrets."

"Unless it's for a surprise party," Ningning amended quickly. "Those kinds of secrets are still allowed."

The conversation drifted to other topics as the evening wore on. Ningning disappeared into her room to finish her vocal practice, Giselle pulled out her phone to catch up on messages, and Winter turned on the television, flipping through channels until she found a rerun of a variety show they all liked.

Karina sat back, content to simply be present with her members.

---

"Dinner's ready!"

Giselle's call from the kitchen pulled Karina from her thoughts. The scent of kimchi jjigae filled the apartment, warm and inviting. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until now.

The four of them gathered around their small dining table, steam rising from the bubbling pot in the center. Ningning distributed bowls while Winter handled the rice, their movements synchronized after months of shared meals.

"This looks amazing," Karina said as Giselle ladled the stew into her bowl.

"Don't sound so surprised," Giselle replied with a smirk. "I do occasionally cook things that don't come out of a microwave."

"Very occasionally," Winter murmured, earning a light smack on the arm from Giselle.

They settled into their meal, the conversation flowing easily between bites. The day's events—Karina's adventure with Irene notwithstanding—were dissected and discussed, from Ningning's breakthrough with a difficult vocal run to the new choreography they'd been learning.

"Speaking of choreography," Ningning said, reaching for more rice, "I heard we're finalizing the chorus section tomorrow."

Winter nodded, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "That's what Teacher Kim said. Full run-through in the morning, then detail work on the bridge and outro."

"I still think the transition from the second verse is too abrupt," Karina mused, stirring her stew thoughtfully. "Maybe we should suggest softening it a bit."

"Or making it even sharper," Giselle countered. "Really emphasize the beat drop."

"We can try both," Karina suggested. "See which fits the concept better."

"Ah yes, the concept," Giselle's eyes sparkled mischievously as she turned to Winter. "The cute, innocent, fresh-faced concept that was practically designed for our Winter-ie."

Winter rolled her eyes, though a faint blush colored her cheeks. "It's not just cute. It's sophisticated cute."

"Sure it is," Giselle teased. "Which is why they have you doing that adorable finger heart move in the pre-chorus."

"You do it too!" Winter protested.

"Yes, but on me it looks like I'm trying," Giselle laughed. "On you, it looks natural. Like you were born doing finger hearts and aegyo."

"She's not wrong," Ningning chimed in. "Remember how the director kept using Winter as the example for the 'bright smile' parts?"

Winter groaned, covering her face. "Can we talk about something else? Like how Karina has to do that intense stare during her rap section?"

"Nice try," Giselle said, clearly enjoying Winter's discomfort. "But we all know you're the face of this cute concept. The rest of us are just trying to keep up."

"I think we all bring something different to it," Karina interjected diplomatically. "That's what makes the group work. Winter has the natural cuteness, Ningning has the playful energy, Giselle has the charming expressions—"

"And you have the elegant movements that tie it all together," Winter finished, shooting Karina a grateful look for the rescue attempt.

"Exactly," Karina nodded. "We each have our strengths."

"Our leader, always finding the diplomatic solution," Giselle said, but her tone was warm rather than teasing. "Maybe you didn't need Irene-seonbaenim's advice after all."

"I'll take all the advice I can get," Karina replied with a smile. "But I'm pretty lucky with the team I have to lead."

"Aww," Ningning cooed. "Now who's being cute?"

They laughed, the conversation flowing into plans for tomorrow's practice, discussions about costume fittings, and debates about which sections of the choreography needed the most work. As Karina listened to her members' animated chatter, she felt a quiet confidence settling within her—not because she had all the answers, but because she knew they would figure them out together.

Chapter Text

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing the polished hallway of SM Entertainment's practice floor. Karina stepped out first, her members falling into step behind her as they made their way toward their assigned studio. The morning light streamed through the windows lining one side of the corridor, casting long rectangles of brightness across the floor.

Something felt different today. Karina noticed it immediately—the way conversations seemed to pause as they passed, the quick glances that darted their way before returning to phones or practice notes. A group of trainees huddled near the water dispenser suddenly found their paper cups fascinating when Karina's eyes met theirs.

Giselle sidled up beside her, bumping her shoulder lightly against Karina's.

"Don't look now," she whispered, her lips barely moving, "but I'm pretty sure everyone and their backup dancer already knows about your secret rendezvous with Irene-sunbaenim."

Karina kept her expression neutral, though her stomach tightened. "That's impossible. It was just the other day."

"News travels faster than dismissal notices around here," Winter murmured from Karina's other side, offering a polite smile to a passing staff member who was definitely staring a beat too long.

Ningning adjusted her practice bag on her shoulder, keeping her voice low. "The junior vocal trainer asked me this morning if it was true that Red Velvet was personally mentoring us now."

"Great," Karina sighed, noticing how a pair of senior trainees whispered behind their hands as aespa walked by. One of them—Karina recognized her from monthly evaluations—offered a small, almost reverent bow.

"Look on the bright side," Giselle said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You're officially the most interesting gossip in the building. That's practically an achievement around here."

"Not helping," Karina replied, though she couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

As they approached their practice room, Karina spotted their choreographer chatting with one of the production assistants. Both of them glanced her way, their conversation pausing momentarily before resuming with renewed intensity.

"I told you no more secrets," Karina muttered to her members as she pushed open the studio door. "I didn't realize the whole company would be in on it by breakfast."

"Congratulations on being the hot topic, I guess?" Giselle said with a playful smirk as they entered the practice room. She dropped her bag near the wall and started unlacing her sneakers. "Your fifteen minutes of fame. Should we make t-shirts?"

Karina rolled her eyes, setting down her own bag with more force than necessary. "Very funny."

Winter began stretching her arms over her head, watching Karina's reflection in the wall-length mirror. "You know, it might not be as bad as it seems. People are probably just curious."

"Or impressed," Ningning added, pulling her hair into a tight ponytail. "Not everyone gets personal mentoring from Red Velvet's leader."

Karina unzipped her jacket, trying to ignore the flutter of anxiety in her chest. "It wasn't mentoring. It was just a conversation."

"A conversation important enough that you snuck out to have it," Giselle pointed out, dropping to the floor to stretch her legs. "Can you blame people for being interested?"

Before Karina could respond, the door opened again. Their choreographer, Teacher Kim, entered with a tablet tucked under his arm and a knowing smile on his face.

"Good morning, ladies," he said, his eyes lingering on Karina just a moment longer than usual. "I hope everyone's well-rested and ready to work. We have a full schedule today."

Karina felt her cheeks warm as she nodded. "We're ready."

"Good." Teacher Kim connected his tablet to the sound system. "Let's start with a full run-through, then we'll break down the chorus transitions."

As they took their positions, Karina caught sight of several staff members peering through the small window in the door. They quickly dispersed when they realized they'd been spotted, but the damage was done.

"Focus," Karina murmured to herself, meeting her own eyes in the mirror. "Just focus."

The music started, and Karina let her body move through the choreography, trying to lose herself in the rhythm. But even as she hit each move with precision, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, evaluated not just for her performance but for whatever rumors were now circulating about her meeting with Irene.

During a water break twenty minutes later, Karina's phone buzzed with a notification. She hesitated before checking it, half-expecting some company-wide gossip blast. Instead, it was a simple message from an unexpected source.

From Irene: Heard you're causing quite a stir this morning. Welcome to leadership. Remember what we talked about—let them talk. You know what matters.

Karina stared at the message, a small smile forming despite herself.

"Good news?" Winter asked, appearing at her side with an offered towel.

"Just a reminder," Karina replied, pocketing her phone. "That maybe being the hot topic isn't the worst thing after all."

"Wait. Irene texted you!?" Winter's eyes widened to perfect circles. "You have her number!?"

"Be quiet!" Karina hissed, glancing frantically around the practice room. Teacher Kim was absorbed in his tablet on the other side of the studio, but several staff members lingered near the doorway, pretending to review notes while clearly straining to overhear. "Could you say it a little louder? I don't think they heard you in the JYP building."

Winter clamped a hand over her mouth, but her eyes remained huge above her fingers. Giselle and Ningning abandoned their stretching and hurried over, forming a tight circle around Karina.

"You have Bae Joohyun's personal number?" Giselle whispered, her voice pitched low but vibrating with intensity. "Like, her actual phone number? Not her manager's or some company line?"

Karina pressed her lips together, debating whether denial was still an option. The eager faces of her members told her it wasn't.

"It's not a big deal," she finally muttered, taking a long sip from her water bottle.

"Not a big deal?" Ningning echoed, incredulous. "That's like saying debuting isn’t a big deal. Or our first win."

"She just gave it to me the other day," Karina explained, keeping her voice barely audible. "For... leader stuff. In case I had questions."

Winter's hand dropped from her mouth, revealing an expression halfway between awe and betrayal. "And you weren't going to tell us?"

"I was," Karina protested weakly. "Eventually. When it wouldn't be such a... thing."

"Well, it's definitely a thing now," Giselle said, glancing toward the door where two more curious faces had appeared. "What did she text you?"

Karina sighed, knowing resistance was futile. "Just that she heard about the gossip and reminded me of what we talked about the other day. That I shouldn't worry about what people are saying."

"Solid advice," Giselle nodded sagely. "Which I've also been telling you for free, by the way."

"Does this mean you're, like, friends now?" Ningning asked, her eyes sparkling. "Do you think she'll invite you to hang out with Red Velvet? Do you think she'll invite us to hang out with Red Velvet?"

"No one's hanging out with anyone," Karina said firmly, though her tone lacked conviction. "It was one conversation and one text. That's it."

"For now," Winter added with a knowing smile.

Teacher Kim clapped his hands, saving Karina from having to respond. "Break's over, ladies! Places for the chorus section."

As they moved back to their positions, Giselle leaned close to Karina's ear. "So... can I have her number too?"

"Absolutely not," Karina replied, but couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her. The anxiety that had been building in her chest all morning began to ease slightly. If she was going to be the subject of company gossip anyway, at least she had her members to make light of it.

The music started again, and as Karina counted herself in, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror—shoulders back, chin lifted, a new confidence in her stance that hadn't been there before. Maybe Irene was right. Let them talk. She knew what mattered.

The music pulsed through the studio as they worked through the chorus for the fifth time. Karina felt herself hitting each movement with more precision than before, her transitions smoother, her expressions more defined. The conversation with Irene had shifted something in her approach—a subtle but meaningful change in how she carried herself through the choreography.

As the final notes faded, Teacher Kim nodded slowly, his usual stoic expression giving way to a hint of impressed surprise.

"Much better," he said, eyes fixed on Karina. "Especially that transition we've been struggling with." He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Looks like the mentoring helped."

Karina's head snapped up, fixing him with a stare that could have frozen the Han River. "Not you too."

Teacher Kim had the grace to look momentarily abashed, though amusement still danced in his eyes. "What? It's a professional observation."

"Right," Karina replied flatly. "Purely professional."

Giselle coughed into her hand, not quite disguising her laugh. Winter and Ningning exchanged glances, their lips pressed tightly together to suppress their own giggles.

Teacher Kim cleared his throat. "Well, whatever the reason, the improvement is noticeable." He gestured toward the center of the room. "Let's see if the rest of you can match your leader's newfound... inspiration."

Karina groaned quietly as she took her position again, feeling her members' amused gazes on her back.

"Don't worry," Ningning whispered as she passed. "I'm sure your 'purely professional relationship' with Irene-sunbaenim will be old news by next week."

"Or next month," Winter added under her breath.

"Or next year," Giselle finished with a grin.

The music started again, and Karina channeled her exasperation into her performance, hitting each move with even more precision and power. If everyone was going to talk, she might as well give them something worth talking about.

An hour later, even Teacher Kim seemed impressed into silence. He reviewed the recording on his tablet, nodding with genuine approval.

"Whatever happened yesterday," he said, addressing the whole group but his eyes lingering on Karina, "keep it up. This is the energy we've been looking for."

As they took a moment to catch their breath, Karina felt her phone buzz again in her pocket. She hesitated, then decided against checking it with so many curious eyes in the room. Some messages were better read in private, especially if they were from a certain senior idol who seemed to have impeccable timing.

"Water break," Teacher Kim announced. "Five minutes, then we tackle the bridge section."

As the others moved toward their bags, Karina caught her reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and a confident set to her shoulders that felt new but somehow right. Maybe being the subject of gossip had its advantages after all. At the very least, it was pushing her to prove herself in ways she hadn't anticipated.

And if that meant enduring a few knowing looks and teasing comments, well... she supposed she could live with that.

"Your phone is buzzing like crazy," Giselle remarked, glancing toward Karina's bag in the corner. "Want me to check who it is?" There was a mischievous glint in her eye that suggested she knew exactly who might be calling.

Karina's head snapped up, water bottle frozen halfway to her lips. "No!" she blurted, louder than intended. Several staff members turned to look, including Teacher Kim, who raised an eyebrow.

"I mean—" Karina lowered her voice, setting down her water bottle with deliberate calm. "No, thank you. I've got it."

She hurried across the practice room, painfully aware of how obvious her urgency appeared. Giselle trailed behind her, not even trying to hide her amusement.

"Could it be your new mentor checking in again?" Giselle whispered, wiggling her eyebrows. "Maybe with an invitation to a secret Red Velvet sleepover?"

"Would you stop?" Karina hissed, reaching her bag and fumbling for her phone. "It's probably just my mom."

But as she pulled out her still-buzzing phone, the screen illuminated with a name that made her heart skip: "Bae Joohyun." Not "Irene" or "Irene-sunbaenim," but her actual given name—exactly as Irene had programmed it herself.

Giselle's eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of the screen. "That is definitely not your mom."

Karina quickly angled the phone away, but the damage was done. Giselle's expression was like a child who'd just discovered where the Christmas presents were hidden.

"She's calling you?" Giselle whispered, voice rising in pitch with each word. "Not texting, but actually calling?"

"I need to take this," Karina said, already backing toward the door. She caught Teacher Kim's eye and gestured apologetically. "Important call. One minute?"

He nodded, though his expression suggested he knew exactly who was on the other end of that important call.

Karina slipped into the hallway, finding a quiet corner near the emergency exit before finally answering. "Hello?"

"Karina-ssi," Irene's voice came through, warm but slightly concerned. "I hope I'm not interrupting your practice."

"No—well, yes, but it's fine," Karina stammered, glancing back to make sure none of her members had followed. "We're on a break."

"Good. I just wanted to check in. My members told me the company grapevine is working overtime about our meeting."

Karina leaned against the wall, sighing. "You could say that. Even our choreographer is making comments."

Irene's soft laugh came through the phone. "I thought that might happen. That's why I called. I wanted to invite you to coffee after your practice today."

"Coffee?" Karina repeated, certain she'd misheard.

"Yes. If people are going to talk anyway, we might as well give them something real to talk about. Besides," Irene's voice softened slightly, "I think there's more we could discuss that might be helpful for you."

Before Karina could respond, the practice room door opened. Ningning poked her head out, spotted Karina, and waved urgently.

"Break's over!" she called. "Teacher Kim's looking for you!"

Karina nodded, holding up one finger. "I have to go," she told Irene. "But yes—coffee sounds good."

"Perfect. I'll text you the details. It's a little place off-site where we won't be bothered too much."

As Karina ended the call and hurried back toward the practice room, she could feel a strange mix of panic and excitement bubbling in her chest. Coffee with Irene—not a hurried, secret meeting in a practice room, but an actual, planned get-together.

The moment she stepped back into the studio, three pairs of eyes locked onto her with laser-like intensity. Teacher Kim merely pointed to her position, but her members' expressions demanded answers she wasn't ready to give.

"Later," she mouthed to them as the music started again.

But the smiles that spread across their faces told her that "later" would involve a very thorough interrogation.

The music swelled through the practice room as they launched into another run-through of the choreography. From the first beat, something was different about Karina's performance. Her movements, already precise from the morning's practice, now carried an electric quality—sharper, more confident, infused with an energy that seemed to radiate from within.

The complex sequence that had given them trouble for weeks suddenly flowed through her body as if it had always belonged there. Her facial expressions shifted with perfect timing, her gestures extending to exactly the right degree, her transitions between segments so smooth they appeared effortless.

Teacher Kim's eyes narrowed as he watched, his usual impassive expression giving way to undisguised interest. Even the staff members who had been pretending not to pay special attention were now openly staring, clipboards and tablets forgotten in their hands.

Winter, executing a turn that brought her alongside Karina, whispered between counts: "Show-off."

But there was admiration in her voice, not criticism, and when they moved into the formation change, she matched Karina's energy with renewed vigor of her own. Giselle and Ningning followed suit, the entire group elevating as if pulled upward by their leader's sudden inspiration.

When the final pose hit—Karina center, arm extended dramatically with her members arrayed around her—the room fell silent for a beat before Teacher Kim cleared his throat.

"Well," he said, sounding almost reluctant to admit it, "that was... exceptional."

Karina straightened, trying to control her breathing and the smile threatening to break across her face.

"The difference from this morning to now is remarkable," Teacher Kim continued, setting down his tablet. "Whatever was in that phone call, I'd like to bottle it and distribute it to all our trainees."

Giselle snorted softly behind her hand while Ningning failed entirely to suppress her giggle.

"It wasn't the call," Karina insisted, though the flush creeping up her neck suggested otherwise. "I just found the right feeling for the concept."

"Mm-hmm," Teacher Kim replied, clearly unconvinced. "Well, whatever—or whoever—inspired this breakthrough, I hope it continues." He glanced at his watch. "Let's take fifteen minutes, then run through the bridge section one more time before we wrap for lunch."

As the members moved toward their water bottles, Giselle sidled up to Karina, nudging her with an elbow.

"So," she drawled, "found the right feeling for the concept, huh? And it had nothing to do with a certain phone call from a certain senior artist?"

"Nothing at all," Karina replied primly, reaching for her towel.

"Right," Winter joined in, dabbing at her forehead. "And I suppose that extra sparkle in your eyes is just... good lighting?"

"The practice room lights are the same as always," Karina pointed out, though she couldn't quite meet their gazes.

Ningning appeared on her other side, completing the circle around their leader. "You know what I think?" she said, her voice lilting with mischief. "I think our Karina-unnie has a crush on her new mentor."

"I do not!" Karina protested, perhaps too quickly and too loudly. Across the room, Teacher Kim glanced up from his conversation with a staff member.

"A professional admiration," Karina amended, lowering her voice. "That's all."

"Professional admiration doesn't make you dance like you just did," Giselle observed, unscrewing her water bottle. "That was... something else."

Karina took a long drink from her own bottle, using the moment to compose herself. "Look," she finally said, "Irene-sunbaenim is just being kind enough to offer some guidance. As a senior to a junior. That's it."

"And the phone call?" Winter pressed, her eyes twinkling.

Karina hesitated, knowing whatever she said would be dissected for hidden meanings. "She invited me for coffee after practice," she finally admitted. "To continue our discussion about leadership."

The three members exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them in the span of seconds.

"Well," Giselle said finally, her voice suspiciously neutral, "that sounds very... professional."

"It is," Karina insisted.

"Of course," Winter agreed, nodding solemnly.

"Absolutely," Ningning chimed in. "Just two leaders discussing... leadership things."

Karina looked between them, sensing the trap but unable to see exactly where it was. "Yes. Exactly."

"And that's why you're practically glowing right now," Giselle concluded, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Because of all the exciting leadership topics you'll be discussing."

Karina opened her mouth to retort, but Teacher Kim's voice cut across the room. "Positions for the bridge, please!"

Saved by the choreographer, Karina thought with relief, moving quickly to her mark. But as the music started again and she caught her reflection in the mirror—eyes bright, posture confident, a subtle smile she couldn't quite suppress—she had to admit, if only to herself, that perhaps her members weren't entirely wrong.

There was something about Irene's guidance, her attention, her willingness to reach out that made Karina feel... different. Inspired. Motivated.

And if that showed in her dancing, well, was that really such a bad thing?

The bridge section had always been the most technically challenging part of the choreography—a complex sequence of isolations flowing into a formation change that required perfect synchronization. But today, as they moved through it for the third time, Karina executed each movement with a fluid precision that made the difficult look deceptively simple.

Her body found the exact pocket of each beat, neither rushing nor lagging, her gestures sharp where needed and flowing where required. The subtle head tilt, the precise angle of her wrist, the controlled power in her footwork—everything aligned with a natural authority that commanded attention.

As they hit the formation change, shifting seamlessly into their new positions, Giselle ended up beside Karina for four counts. Without missing a step, she leaned slightly closer during a synchronized arm movement.

"You're giving that Irene aura," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music but clear enough for Karina to catch.

Karina nearly missed her next step, recovering just in time to maintain the flow. She shot Giselle a quick glance—half warning, half surprised—but couldn't respond as they moved into the next sequence that separated them across the formation.

The comparison lingered in her mind as they completed the run-through. That "Irene aura"—she knew exactly what Giselle meant. That quality that made it impossible to look away when Irene performed, the assured presence that didn't demand attention but simply assumed it as natural. The way she could execute the most intricate choreography with a calm confidence that made it look effortless.

When Teacher Kim called for them to stop, his nod of approval was more emphatic than usual.

"Much better," he said, rewinding the playback on his tablet to review their performance. "Especially the transition at the fifty-second mark. Karina, whatever you changed in your approach there, keep it."

Karina nodded, accepting the water bottle Winter passed her. "Thank you. It felt more natural this time."

"Natural is the right word," Teacher Kim agreed, looking up from the tablet. "Less forced, more... intuitive." He paused, studying her with an expression that seemed almost curious. "It reminds me of how senior artists perform—when the choreography becomes second nature and they can focus entirely on presence."

Karina felt her members' eyes on her, particularly Giselle's gaze. She took a long sip of water to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

"I'll take that as a compliment," she finally said.

"As you should," Teacher Kim replied. He checked his watch. "That's enough for today. Good work, all of you. We'll pick up with the outro tomorrow morning."

As they gathered their things, Winter appeared at Karina's side, helping her collect her scattered practice notes.

"So," Winter said casually, "Giselle mentioned something about an 'Irene aura'?"

Karina shot a look at Giselle, who merely shrugged, unrepentant. "I was just making an observation."

"A very specific observation," Ningning added, zipping up her bag. "And an accurate one."

"It's not—" Karina began, then stopped, unsure how to deny something that, if she was honest with herself, felt somewhat true. There had been a moment during the bridge when she'd found herself thinking: how would Irene approach this movement? The answer had come naturally, and her body had followed.

"It's fine if you're channeling her," Winter said, her tone gentler. "We all have our inspirations."

"It's more than fine," Giselle added. "It's working. Teacher Kim practically gave you a standing ovation, and he never praises anyone."

Karina shouldered her bag, a small smile finally breaking through her embarrassment. "I just want us to do well."

"And we will," Ningning said confidently, "especially if our leader keeps bringing that energy to practice."

As they left the studio, Karina felt her phone buzz with an incoming message. She pulled it out to see a text from Irene with the address of a café and a time—just an hour from now.

"Your mentor?" Giselle asked, peering over her shoulder.

Karina quickly locked her screen, but not before her members caught sight of the name.

"Coffee date still on?" Winter asked, her expression innocent but her eyes twinkling.

"It's not a date," Karina insisted, tucking her phone away. "It's a mentoring session."

"Of course," Giselle agreed, nodding solemnly. "And will this 'mentoring session' include tips on how to perfect that Irene aura you were channeling today?"

Karina quickened her pace toward the elevator, but couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. "Maybe it will."

"Well then," Ningning said, catching up and linking her arm through Karina's, "make sure you take good notes. For the group."

"For the group," Winter and Giselle echoed in unison, their faces a picture of exaggerated seriousness.

As the elevator doors closed on their laughing faces, Karina shook her head, but the warmth in her chest wasn't just embarrassment anymore. There was something else there too—a growing confidence, a sense of stepping into something new and exciting.

And if her members wanted to tease her about it, well... that was just part of the journey.

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.

Chapter Text

Karina angled her body forward, palms flat against the practice room floor, feeling the familiar burn along her hamstrings. The studio was quiet this early, just the way she liked it—no eyes to watch her, no expectations to meet. Just her reflection in the wall-to-wall mirrors, executing each stretch with textbook precision.

Her phone timer chimed. Thirty seconds per position, exactly as recommended. She shifted smoothly into the next stretch, one leg extended, the other folded beneath her. Her movements were fluid, automatic—the product of years of discipline.

"Good morning," came a voice from the doorway. Winter, arriving earlier than usual, her dance bag slung over one shoulder.

"Morning," Karina replied with the right amount of warmth, the perfect balance of leader and friend. She continued her stretching routine without breaking rhythm, her smile neither too bright nor too reserved.

Winter dropped her bag and joined her on the floor, mirroring her position. "You're here early."

"Wanted to run through the second verse transition a few more times," Karina explained, the answer ready and reasonable. She didn't mention waking at 4 AM, staring at her ceiling, Irene's words echoing in her mind.

As Winter began her own warm-up, Karina caught her reflection in the mirror—poised, focused, exactly what everyone needed her to be. Somewhere beneath that perfect exterior, Yoo Jimin watched herself perform Karina, as if observing a character in a drama.

The hollow feeling from yesterday had crystallized overnight into something harder, more defined—a space inside her that Karina-the-trainee, Karina-the-leader, Karina-the-center couldn't fill. A space that belonged to Jimin alone, if only she could remember how to reach it.

"Did you sleep okay?" Winter asked, easing into a side stretch, her eyes meeting Karina's in the mirror.

"Well enough," Karina replied with a small nod, her tone pleasant but conclusive.

Winter switched sides, her movements as precise as Karina's. "I was thinking about that harmony in the bridge. Maybe we could try the alternative phrasing Teacher Kim mentioned?"

"We can bring it up during group practice," Karina said, her voice carrying just the right amount of consideration. She moved into a deeper stretch, focusing on her form.

A comfortable silence settled between them, though Winter's glances suggested she wanted more conversation. After a few minutes, she tried again.

"How was your meeting with Irene-sunbaenim? You didn't say much when you got back yesterday."

Karina's rhythm faltered for just a fraction of a second before she recovered, transitioning smoothly to her next position. "It was informative. She had good insights about debut preparations."

Winter waited for more, but Karina had already turned to face the mirror, checking her alignment as she stretched her arms overhead. The professional mask remained firmly in place—Karina the trainee, absorbing feedback, implementing corrections, nothing more to report.

"That's... good," Winter said finally, her voice trailing off as she recognized the familiar pattern. She'd known Karina long enough to recognize when the door was closed, when the person behind the perfect trainee was unreachable.

Karina caught Winter's slight frown in the mirror and immediately adjusted her expression, softening it with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "She sends her regards to all of you. Said she's looking forward to our debut."

The practiced response landed exactly as intended—enough information to satisfy curiosity without revealing anything real. Winter nodded, seemingly accepting the exchange for what it was, and Karina felt a twinge of something—guilt, perhaps—as Jimin watched Karina once again succeed at keeping everyone at the perfect distance.

"Where are Ningning and Giselle?" Karina asked, smoothly redirecting the conversation as she rose to her feet. "They're usually here by now."

Winter checked her phone. "Giselle texted that they stopped for coffee. Ningning wanted to try that new place near the station." She paused, looking up at Karina. "They asked if we wanted anything, but I didn't know if you'd want your usual or..."

"My usual is fine," Karina said, walking over to the sound system. Her fingers moved deftly across the tablet screen, pulling up their practice playlist. The familiar routine of preparation—checking the sound levels, marking the starting positions on the floor with small pieces of tape—provided a welcome structure, something concrete to focus on.

Winter watched her for a moment, then began her own preparations, laying out her water bottle and towel in their designated spot. The methodical way they arranged their practice space spoke to years of shared routines, of knowing exactly how the other moved through these familiar rituals.

"They said they'd be here in ten," Winter offered, breaking the silence again. "Ningning was excited about some new vocal technique she learned from her private coach."

"That's good," Karina nodded, her tone encouraging but measured—the perfect balance of supportive leader without overstepping. "She's been working hard on her high notes."

She caught herself analyzing her own response, mentally checking it against the ideal reaction—interested but not intrusive, acknowledging progress without creating pressure. Even these simple interactions had become performances, each word carefully calibrated.

As she moved to the center of the room to begin her solo warm-up, Karina felt the weight of Winter's gaze. There was concern there, perhaps even hurt at the invisible barrier Karina had erected. For a brief moment, Jimin felt a pang of longing to simply talk to her friend, to let the careful construction of Karina fall away.

Instead, she straightened her posture, met her own eyes in the mirror, and began the first sequence of movements—precise, controlled, flawless.

Winter set down her water bottle with deliberate slowness, then turned to face Karina directly instead of through the mirror's reflection. The change in positioning—from parallel to confrontational—was subtle but unmistakable.

"Why are you being like this?" Winter asked, her voice quiet but firm.

Karina paused mid-movement, her expression shifting into polite confusion. "Like what?"

"Like... this." Winter gestured vaguely at Karina's entire form. "All perfect and doll-like. More than usual. It's like talking to a very polite robot version of you."

Karina's practiced smile flickered, then reasserted itself. "I'm just focused on practice. We have evaluations coming up—"

"No," Winter interrupted, something she rarely did. "This isn't about evaluations. You've been like this since you got back from meeting Irene-seonbaenim yesterday." She took a step closer, lowering her voice even though they were alone. "Did she say something to you? Something that upset you?"

The question hung in the air between them. Karina stood perfectly still, caught between the instinct to deflect and the unexpected directness of Winter's concern. For a moment, Jimin surfaced, wanting to confess the hollow feeling, the fear that had been articulated in that café.

"She didn't upset me," Karina said finally, her voice measured. "She was very helpful."

Winter crossed her arms. "Then why won't you look at me? The real you, not this..." she searched for the right word, "...this performance."

The accusation struck with unexpected force. Karina felt her carefully constructed expression waver, a crack forming in the perfect surface. She turned away, ostensibly to adjust the music tablet, but really to hide the sudden sting of tears threatening to form.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, but the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. "I'm just being professional."

"Jimin." Winter rarely used her real name during practice hours—it was an unspoken rule among them, a way to stay in the mindset of their idol personas. The sound of it now, spoken with such gentle insistence, made Karina's shoulders tense. "You don't have to be Karina with me. Not when it's just us."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with all the things Jimin couldn't bring herself to say. How could she explain that she wasn't sure where Karina ended and Jimin began anymore? That Irene had seen through her in a way that terrified her? That the emptiness she'd confessed to yesterday wasn't just a momentary doubt but a growing void she couldn't seem to fill?

"I'm being the same as I've always been," Karina said, her voice taking on a defensive edge despite her efforts to maintain composure. She turned back to face Winter, arms crossed protectively over her chest. "This is who I am now. This is what's expected."

Winter shook her head slowly, her expression softening not with pity but with recognition.

"No, that's not true," she said quietly. "And I'm not Winter right now either. I'm Minjeong." She emphasized her own birth name, creating a deliberate space outside their trainee personas. "And you're not just Karina to me. You're Jimin. My friend who used to laugh until she snorted when we watched those stupid comedy videos at three in the morning."

The unexpected mention of that memory—something so small, so ordinary, yet so distinctly Jimin—caught Karina off guard. For a split second, her carefully composed expression faltered, revealing a flicker of the person beneath.

"That was before," Karina said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Before we knew we'd debut soon. Before all the expectations. Things change, Minj—" She caught herself, the name feeling suddenly too intimate, too real. "Winter."

Minjeong stepped closer, undeterred. "Things change, yes. But you don't have to disappear completely. Yesterday, after you came back from meeting Irene-sunbaenim, you were... different. More distant than I've ever seen you." Her eyes searched Karina's face. "And today it's even worse. It's like you've locked yourself away somewhere I can't reach you."

Karina felt the walls she'd so carefully constructed begin to tremble. The genuine concern in Minjeong's voice was harder to deflect than she'd anticipated. It would be easier if Minjeong were angry or demanding—emotions she could manage with practiced responses. This gentle persistence was more dangerous.

"I'm fine," Karina insisted, the words automatic, rehearsed. "I just need to focus. We all do. Debut isn't just about talent; it's about consistency, about being what they need us to be." She turned back toward the mirror, attempting to end the conversation by resuming her practice position.

"Jimin," Minjeong said again, the name landing like a stone in still water. "Please talk to me. What did Irene-sunbaenim say to you?"

Karina paused, then turned back to face Minjeong. Something in her friend's persistence had worn down her defenses just enough. She would share the truth, but on her terms—framed in a way that wouldn't reveal too much vulnerability.

"We talked about leadership," Karina began, her voice taking on a thoughtful, professional tone. "About the transition from trainee to idol. How to balance being the center with supporting the group." She moved to sit on the practice room floor, gesturing for Minjeong to join her.

As Minjeong sat cross-legged beside her, Karina continued, carefully selecting her words. "Irene-sunbaenim shared her experiences, how she had to evolve beyond who she was before debut. She explained that becoming an idol means growing into something larger than yourself."

Minjeong watched Karina's face intently, her eyes narrowing slightly as she listened.

"I told her about my concerns," Karina admitted, allowing a measured vulnerability. "About whether I could be everything the company and fans will expect. And she helped me understand that this is a natural progression." Her voice grew more confident as she reframed yesterday's raw confession. "Jimin was just the foundation for Karina. The trainee version of me had to evolve into the idol I'm becoming."

She smiled, the expression practiced but convincing. "It was actually quite reassuring. She helped me see that any... disconnection I might feel is just part of the process. Growing pains, basically."

Minjeong's expression darkened. "That's not true," she said quietly.

Karina's smile faltered. "What?"

"What you're saying. It's not true." Minjeong leaned forward, her eyes searching Karina's. "You're doing that thing where you turn everything into a perfect PR statement. Even to me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Karina said, her voice cooling. "I'm just sharing what we discussed—"

"No, you're not." Minjeong's voice remained soft but had taken on an edge of urgency. "You came back yesterday looking like you'd seen a ghost. You barely spoke all evening. And now you're sitting here telling me some story about 'natural progression' and 'growing pains'?" She shook her head. "I know you. The real you."

Karina stiffened. "This is the real me now. This is who I need to be."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Minjeong said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm afraid Karina is eating Jimin alive. Not growing from her—replacing her."

The words struck with unexpected precision, hitting too close to the fear Karina had confessed to Irene. She stood abruptly, needing physical distance from the conversation.

"You don't understand," she said, her voice taking on the firm, slightly distant tone she used when ending difficult discussions with staff. "This isn't about losing anything. It's about becoming who I need to be for the group."

Minjeong remained seated, looking up at her with an expression that mixed concern with determination. "Is that what Irene-sunbaenim told you? To let Karina consume Jimin? Because I don't believe that for a second."

Karina turned away, unable to maintain eye contact. The truth of Irene's actual advice—to find small moments of authenticity, to preserve something just for herself—felt too raw to acknowledge.

"You weren't there," she said instead. "You don't know what we discussed."

"No, I wasn't," Minjeong agreed, finally standing. "But I was here last night when you couldn't even look at yourself in the mirror while brushing your teeth. When you flinched every time someone called you Karina." She moved around to face her friend directly. "Something happened in that meeting, and whatever it was, it scared you. And now you're hiding behind this... this perfect idol shell even more than before."

Karina felt trapped, cornered by Minjeong's unexpected perception. The carefully constructed explanation she'd prepared was crumbling, revealing the fear beneath.

Karina opened her mouth to respond, the words caught somewhere between defense and confession, when the practice room door swung open with a burst of energy.

"We come bearing gifts!" Giselle announced, entering with a cardboard tray of coffee cups. Behind her, Ningning followed with a small paper bag, her face bright with morning enthusiasm.

"Sorry we're late," Ningning added, setting the bag down on the side bench. "The line was crazy, but we got those pastries you like, Winter!"

The sudden intrusion shattered the tension between Karina and Minjeong. Karina felt a rush of relief wash over her, followed immediately by guilt at that relief. She stepped back, creating distance between herself and the conversation that had veered too close to truths she wasn't ready to face.

"Perfect timing," Karina said, her voice shifting effortlessly into the warm, slightly authoritative tone of group leader. "We were just about to start warming up."

Minjeong shot her a look that clearly said this conversation wasn't over, but she turned to greet the others with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks for the coffee. Did you remember Karina's order?"

"One iced Americano with an extra shot," Giselle confirmed, handing the cup to Karina with a flourish. "Though I still don't understand how you drink it without sugar."

Karina accepted the coffee with practiced grace. "It keeps me sharp," she replied, the explanation one she'd given countless times before. The familiar script of morning practice banter provided a welcome refuge from Minjeong's probing questions.

As Ningning excitedly described the new vocal technique she'd learned, Karina felt herself sliding back into the safety of her Karina persona—nodding at appropriate moments, offering encouraging comments, maintaining the perfect balance of authority and approachability that her position required.

She caught Minjeong watching her, concern still evident in her eyes despite her participation in the group conversation. Karina deliberately turned away, moving toward the sound system.

"We should get started," she announced, her tone brisk but pleasant. "Teacher Kim will be here in an hour to review our progress, and I want to run through the first half at least twice before then."

The others nodded, quickly finishing their coffee and moving to their starting positions. The familiar routine of practice—counting in, hitting marks, synchronizing movements—provided the structure Karina desperately needed. Here, in the realm of perfect execution, she knew exactly who she was supposed to be.

As they moved through the choreography, Karina caught glimpses of Minjeong in the mirror, their eyes occasionally meeting in reflection. Each time, she saw the same question there, the same worry. Each time, she looked away first, focusing instead on the precision of her movements, on being exactly what everyone needed her to be.

For now, at least, she had escaped the conversation. But as they transitioned into the bridge section, Karina couldn't shake the echo of Minjeong's words: "I'm afraid Karina is eating Jimin alive."

The thought followed her through each perfect step, each flawless turn, as persistent as her own reflection.

Twenty minutes into practice, they paused for a quick water break. Karina had been leading with meticulous attention to detail, her guidance even more precise than usual. She'd corrected Ningning's arm position with gentle hands, demonstrated a difficult transition for Giselle three times without a hint of impatience, and praised each small improvement with careful enthusiasm.

As they gathered around their water bottles, breathing heavily from the exertion, Giselle tilted her head and looked at Karina with curious eyes.

"Gotta say, you're being nicer than usual," she remarked, taking a sip of water. The observation was casual, without judgment—just Giselle's characteristic directness.

Karina froze momentarily, the plastic bottle halfway to her lips. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Giselle shrugged, wiping her forehead with a small towel. "You're always supportive, but today you're like... extra patient? Usually by now you'd have told me to focus at least twice." She grinned, clearly meaning it as a compliment. "Not that I'm complaining. It's nice."

Karina felt three pairs of eyes on her, especially Minjeong's gaze. The comment had inadvertently highlighted exactly what Minjeong had been trying to point out—that she was performing "Karina" with even more precision than usual, calibrating every interaction to perfection.

"Just trying different approaches," Karina replied smoothly, taking a deliberate sip of water. "Teacher Lee mentioned that positive reinforcement can be more effective than correction sometimes."

Ningning nodded enthusiastically. "I like it! Makes the practice room feel less pressured."

"Well, don't get too used to it," Karina added with a small, practiced laugh. "We still have evaluations coming up."

She caught Minjeong's expression darkening slightly at this further evidence of her performance. The distance between them—physical and emotional—felt suddenly vast despite standing just a few feet apart. Minjeong turned away, adjusting her hair in the mirror with unusual focus.

"Should we run it from the top again?" Karina suggested, eager to return to the safety of choreography. "I think we're getting closer on that transition at the one-minute mark."

As they moved back to their starting positions, the words pressed against her conciousness. Was she really being "nicer than usual"? Was she overcompensating, performing "supportive leader" with such precision that even Giselle had noticed the difference?

The thought was unsettling, but there was comfort in the familiar counts, in the synchronized movements that required no emotional vulnerability. One-and-two-and-three-and-four—the rhythm provided structure, certainty, a clear role to fulfill.

In the mirror, four young women moved in perfect harmony, their faces set in expressions of concentration. Karina watched her reflection execute each movement flawlessly, wondering if anyone else could see what Minjeong had—the growing gap between the person in the mirror and the one being slowly erased beneath.

They ran through the choreography again and again, each repetition bringing them closer to the seamless unity their debut would demand. Karina counted aloud, her voice steady and encouraging, correcting with precision when needed but always with that careful patience Giselle had noticed—as if she were following an internal script for the perfect leader.

Ningning struggled with a particularly challenging sequence, frustration building in her expression after several attempts. Before anyone could speak, Karina was beside her, demonstrating the movement with slow, deliberate steps.

"Try thinking of it as three connected moments rather than one continuous flow," she suggested, her voice measured and supportive. "Like this—see how each position anchors the next?"

Ningning nodded, attempting the sequence again with visible improvement. "That helps a lot," she said gratefully.

"Good," Karina smiled, the expression warming her features without quite reaching her eyes. "Let's try it together once more."

The practice room door opened at precisely eleven o'clock. Teacher Kim entered, clipboard in hand, her sharp gaze immediately assessing the four trainees as they straightened their posture in automatic response.

"Show me what you've accomplished," she said without preamble, moving to the chair positioned at the front of the room.

The four moved into formation, Karina giving a subtle nod to Giselle, who started the music. As the first notes filled the room, they transformed—no longer just practicing but performing, every movement crisp and intentional despite the sweat dampening their practice clothes.

Teacher Kim watched with clinical attention, her expression revealing nothing as they executed the complex choreography. When the music ended, the four held their final pose for a precise three counts before relaxing.

"Better," Teacher Kim said after a moment of consideration. "The synchronization in the chorus is much improved." Her eyes moved to Karina. "Your leadership is showing results."

Karina bowed slightly, accepting the praise with appropriate humility. "We've all been working hard."

"It shows," Teacher Kim agreed, making notes on her clipboard. "Karina, your execution is particularly clean today. The control in your isolations during the bridge—that's the level I want to see from all of you."

The others nodded, accepting the implied critique without complaint.

"Ningning, you've improved on the transition we discussed yesterday," Teacher Kim continued. "Winter, watch your arm placement in the second verse—you're dropping your left elbow slightly. Giselle, good energy, but be mindful of your facial expressions during the intense sections."

Each trainee absorbed the feedback with practiced attention. Karina stood slightly apart, her posture perfect even in rest, embodying the standard they were all expected to meet.

"Run it once more," Teacher Kim instructed, "then we'll discuss the adjustments for the final section."

As they moved back to their starting positions, Karina caught Minjeong—Winter now, in the presence of their teacher—watching her with an expression that mixed concern with something like resignation. The look lasted only a moment before Winter's professional mask slipped back into place, but it carried the weight of their interrupted conversation.

The music began again, and Karina surrendered to the choreography, to the comfort of knowing exactly what was expected of her in each count, each beat. This was safety—the precision of performance, the clarity of execution. Here, there was no confusion about who she was supposed to be.

Teacher Kim's approval at the end of the session was measured but clear. "Good progress. Karina, stay behind for a moment to discuss the formation changes. The rest of you, take fifteen minutes, then return for vocal practice."

As the others gathered their things, Karina stood attentively before their teacher, her posture straight, expression attentive. From the corner of her eye, she saw Winter lingering by the door, the last to leave.

Winter's gaze met hers in the mirror—not accusatory, not angry, but weary. As if she were watching something precious slowly disappear and didn't know how to stop it. The look held for a beat too long to be casual, carrying the weight of their unfinished conversation, of Minjeong's fear that Karina was consuming Jimin.

Then Winter was gone, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving Karina to focus on Teacher Kim's instructions about formation changes and timing adjustments—concrete problems with clear solutions, unlike the nebulous fear that had taken root inside her.

In the wall of mirrors, Karina nodded at appropriate moments, her reflection performing perfect attention while somewhere deep inside, Jimin wondered how long she could maintain this flawless exterior before the hollowness at her center gave way entirely.

Chapter Text

As the afternoon light slanted through the blinds, Winter found herself alone in the dorm, the unusual quiet both welcome and unsettling. Karina had left for an evaluation with Teacher Lee—something about leadership potential that had made her even more focused than usual at breakfast. The others were scattered to their own activities: Ningning at a vocal lesson, Giselle at the language center for her intensive Korean class.

Winter wandered from the kitchen to the living room, restless energy making it impossible to settle. She'd already scrolled through her phone, made tea she didn't really want, and reviewed choreography until her head hurt. The silence of the dorm pressed against her ears.

As she passed Karina's room, she noticed something unusual—the door slightly ajar. Karina was meticulous about privacy, her door always firmly closed whether she was inside or not. Winter paused, then gently pushed it open wider.

"Unnie?" she called softly, though she knew no one would answer.

The room was immaculate, as expected. Bed made with hospital corners, makeup organized by type and frequency of use, practice clothes folded in neat stacks. Winter hesitated at the threshold, feeling like an intruder despite having shared countless conversations in this room—always invited, always with Karina present.

Something compelled her forward. Perhaps the same instinct that had made her watch Karina so carefully, tracking the subtle shifts in her behavior, the increasing perfection that seemed to come at some invisible cost.

Winter's eyes swept across the space, noting the dance notes on the desk, the practice schedule pinned neatly to the corkboard, the motivational quotes taped beside the mirror. Everything in its proper place, revealing nothing.

She was about to leave when her gaze caught on something out of place—a small wooden box on Karina's desk, its lid slightly askew. Winter recognized it as the keepsake box Karina's mother had given her years ago, something she rarely opened.

Before she could think better of it, Winter crossed to the desk and lifted the lid completely. Inside lay a collection of mementos: ticket stubs from their first concert as audience members, a trainee ID card from her first year, handwritten encouragement notes from senior trainees who had since debuted.

And there, tucked against one side, a photograph Winter hadn't seen in years.

Two girls, eleven and twelve, sitting on practice room floors, leaning against the mirror wall. Both in oversized t-shirts and track pants, hair pulled back in practical ponytails. The younger Winter—then still Minjeong—had her head thrown back in laughter, eyes nearly disappeared into crescents. Beside her, Jimin—not yet Karina—was mid-sentence, hands animated, face alight with the joy of making her friend laugh.

Winter carefully lifted the photo, something catching in her throat. She remembered that day with sudden, vivid clarity—the way the practice room had smelled of floor cleaner and sweat, the ache in her muscles after six hours of training, the way Jimin had pulled her down to sit when she'd been ready to push through another hour despite exhaustion.

"Rest is part of practice too," Jimin had insisted, tugging her down. "You can't improve if you break yourself."

They'd shared a bottle of water and Jimin had started telling a ridiculous story about her first audition, how she'd been so nervous she'd introduced herself with the wrong name, complete with impersonations that had Minjeong laughing until her sides hurt. One of the senior trainees had snapped the photo without them noticing.

Looking at it now, Winter was struck by how unguarded they both appeared. Jimin's face was open, expressive, her gestures natural and unplanned. There was no careful arrangement of features, no precisely measured smile. Just Jimin, making her friend laugh because she thought Minjeong was pushing herself too hard.

Winter sank onto the edge of Karina's perfectly made bed, the photograph light in her hands but heavy in her heart. When had that changed? When had Jimin started disappearing behind Karina's flawless exterior? It had been so gradual that Winter couldn't pinpoint the moment—only that somewhere between this laughing girl and the poised trainee who had left the dorm earlier today, something essential had begun to slip away.

Winter traced her finger along the edge of the photograph, and suddenly she wasn't in Karina's meticulously organized room anymore, but back in time, eight years earlier, when the world was simpler and their dreams were still taking shape.

---

The late summer air hung humid as ten-year-old Minjeong kicked at the gravel path winding around the edge of the small park near SM Entertainment. She'd just finished her Saturday dance class, and her mother had texted that she'd be fifteen minutes late for pickup. Rather than wait in the stuffy lobby, Minjeong had wandered outside, drawn to the patch of green space where trainees and hopefuls sometimes gathered.

She was humming to herself, practicing the counts for the routine they'd learned that day, when she noticed another girl sitting alone on a bench beneath a ginkgo tree. The girl looked slightly older, with long dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her posture perfect even in rest. She was staring intently at her phone, lips moving silently as if memorizing something.

Minjeong recognized her from the hallways—one of the newer trainees who had started a few months back. They'd never spoken, but Minjeong had noticed her dancing once, glimpsed through a practice room door left ajar. Even then, something about her precision had caught Minjeong's attention.

As if sensing she was being watched, the girl looked up. For a moment, they just stared at each other across the distance. Then, to Minjeong's surprise, the girl smiled and waved her over.

"You're in the Saturday intermediate class, right?" the girl asked as Minjeong approached. "I've seen you. You're really good."

Minjeong felt her cheeks warm at the compliment. "Thanks. I'm Kim Minjeong."

"Yoo Jimin," the older girl replied, scooting over to make room on the bench. "I'm waiting for my mom. She's always late on Saturdays because of traffic."

"Mine too," Minjeong said, sitting down. "What were you watching?"

Jimin turned her phone screen toward her. "BoA sunbaenim's 'No. 1' performance from 2002. I'm trying to learn it exactly." She bit her lip, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face. "Teacher Park said my expressions aren't natural enough."

"Can I see?" Minjeong asked.

Without hesitation, Jimin stood and moved to a clear patch of ground. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and then began to dance. Even without music, the precision of her movements was impressive, each step executed with careful attention. But Minjeong could see what Teacher Park meant—there was a stiffness to her face, a concentration that looked more like tension than performance.

When Jimin finished, she looked at Minjeong expectantly. "Well? Be honest."

Minjeong hesitated, then said, "You dance really well. Better than me. But maybe..." She trailed off, unsure if she should continue.

"Maybe what?" Jimin prompted.

"Maybe you're thinking too hard about being perfect," Minjeong suggested. "My teacher says dancing should feel like playing."

Jimin's forehead creased. "Playing? But it's serious. I have to get it right."

"I know, but..." Minjeong stood up, suddenly inspired. "Let's try something. Let's pretend we're BoA, but at a playground, not on stage."

"What does that even mean?" Jimin laughed, but there was curiosity in her eyes.

Minjeong grinned and jumped onto the bench, striking a dramatic pose. "It means we're still awesome dancers, but we're having fun!" She started dancing, deliberately exaggerating the moves, adding playful flourishes that weren't part of any choreography.

Jimin watched, eyes wide, then burst into laughter. "That's not the routine at all!"

"Who cares?" Minjeong jumped down. "Your turn. Dance like nobody's watching."

"But you're watching," Jimin pointed out.

"Pretend I'm not," Minjeong insisted, covering her eyes but peeking through her fingers.

After a moment's hesitation, Jimin began to dance again. This time, she started with the same precision, but as she continued, something shifted. Her movements became more fluid, less calculated. And her face—her face transformed, a genuine smile breaking through as she added her own improvisations, twirling with unexpected playfulness.

When she finished, both girls were laughing.

"See?" Minjeong said. "You looked happy that time. That's what Teacher Park probably means by natural."

Jimin nodded thoughtfully. "It felt different. Like I wasn't counting in my head the whole time." She sat back down on the bench. "No one's ever told me to just play before."

"Well, we're still kids," Minjeong said with the simple wisdom of a ten-year-old. "Even if we're training to be idols."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Jimin spoke again. "Want to make up our own routine? Just for fun?"

For the next ten minutes, they created an absurd choreography that incorporated elements of what they'd learned in class mixed with silly moves they invented on the spot. They named their imaginary group "Sparkle Monsters" and decided their concept was "cute but also aliens."

When Minjeong's mother finally arrived, she found her daughter and a new friend collapsed on the grass, breathless with laughter, hair disheveled, all decorum forgotten.

"Minjeong-ah, time to go," her mother called.

As Minjeong gathered her things, Jimin caught her arm. "Will you be here next Saturday?"

"Yes," Minjeong nodded. "Same time."

"Me too," Jimin said, her smile open and unguarded. "Maybe we can practice together. For real, I mean. But also maybe play a little."

"I'd like that," Minjeong replied, feeling as though she'd found something important.

As she walked away, she turned to wave at Jimin, who was still sitting on the bench, now practicing the silly alien dance move they'd created, laughing to herself.

---

Winter blinked, the memory fading as she returned to the present, to Karina's immaculate room with its perfect corners and organized spaces. She looked down at the photograph in her hands again—a moment captured years after that first meeting in 2011, but still before everything had changed.

"What happened to us, unnie?" she whispered to the empty room. "When did you stop playing?"

She carefully returned the photograph to the box, but hesitated before closing the lid. After a moment's thought, she took out her phone and quickly snapped a picture of the old photograph. Then she arranged everything exactly as she had found it and quietly left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

In the living room, Winter sat on the couch, studying the image she'd just captured. The evidence of who they had been. Who Jimin had been before Karina began to consume her.

Winter leaned back against the couch, letting her head rest against the cushions as she stared at the ceiling. The photograph on her phone screen blurred as her eyes unfocused, and another memory washed over her, so vivid she could almost believe it was happening right now.

---

"This is going to be our apartment when we debut," eleven-year-old Jimin declared, gesturing grandly around her family's modest living room. "You'll have that room, and I'll have the one next to it."

Ten-year-old Minjeong giggled, playing along. "Will we have a practice room too?"

"Of course!" Jimin said, pointing to an empty corner. "Right there. With mirrors all the way around and special floors like at the company."

It was a Saturday afternoon, three months after they'd first met. They'd fallen into a routine—dance class, then playtime at whichever home was available. Today, Jimin's parents had gone shopping, leaving the girls with Jimin's older sister, who was currently locked in her room talking on the phone.

"And what about a stage?" Minjeong asked, climbing onto the coffee table. "We need somewhere to perform."

"The whole world will be our stage," Jimin said with absolute certainty, climbing up beside her. "But for practice, this works."

They'd spent the morning watching music show performances, studying the choreography of their favorite groups with the serious attention of aspiring professionals. But now, with no one watching, they'd transitioned to their favorite game—Future Idol Life.

"When we're famous," Minjeong said, striking a pose on the makeshift stage, "what kind of songs will we sing?"

Jimin considered this seriously. "I want songs that tell stories. Not just about love, but about growing up and finding your way." She demonstrated with a dramatic gesture. "Songs that make people feel something important."

"I want songs we can really dance to," Minjeong added. "With parts that are so cool everyone will try to copy them."

"We'll have both," Jimin decided. "And we'll help write them ourselves."

Minjeong nodded enthusiastically. "Teacher Lee says the best idols are the ones who put themselves into their performances."

"That's what I'm going to do," Jimin said, suddenly solemn. "I'm going to be the best. I'll work harder than anyone."

"Me too," Minjeong agreed. "We'll be the best together."

Jimin smiled, but there was something in her expression—a flicker of intensity that seemed beyond her years. "I think about it all the time," she admitted. "About being perfect. Sometimes I dream I'm on stage and everyone is watching me, and I can't make any mistakes because they'll all see."

Minjeong reached for her friend's hand. "That sounds scary."

"It is, a little," Jimin agreed. "But exciting too. I just don't want to let anyone down."

"You won't," Minjeong said with absolute faith. "And anyway, if you make a mistake, I'll just make one too so no one notices yours."

Jimin laughed, the intensity breaking. "That's not how it works!"

"Sure it is," Minjeong insisted. "That's what friends do. They help each other."

"Promise?" Jimin asked, suddenly serious again.

"Promise," Minjeong nodded. "When we're famous, we'll still help each other. No matter what."

Jimin held out her pinky. "Even if I become too focused on being perfect?"

Minjeong linked her pinky with Jimin's without hesitation. "Especially then. I'll remind you how to play."

They sealed the promise with solemn faces before Jimin broke into a grin. "Now, let's practice our debut stage. I'll be the leader."

"You're always the leader," Minjeong complained good-naturedly.

"Because I'm older," Jimin said with the unassailable logic of childhood. "But you can be the one who gets all the high notes."

"Deal," Minjeong agreed. "What's our group called today?"

Jimin thought for a moment. "Stardust."

"I like it," Minjeong nodded. "Stardust, ready to shine!"

They jumped off the coffee table together, landing in perfect synchronization before launching into an improvised choreography, singing made-up lyrics at the top of their lungs. In that moment, in the safety of Jimin's living room, they were already stars in their own universe—bright, fearless, and completely themselves.

---

Winter opened her eyes, returning to the present—to the dorm where they now lived, so different from the apartment they'd imagined as children. She looked around at the furniture, the bare walls they weren't allowed to personalize too much before debut. No special practice floors, no mirrors lining the walls. Just a temporary space, designed for function rather than comfort.

She glanced down at the photograph on her phone again. That pinky promise from years ago echoed in her mind: "I'll remind you how to play."

She'd made that promise so easily then, with the simple conviction of a child. But somewhere along the way, as training intensified and debut preparations consumed them, she'd stopped reminding Jimin how to play. Instead, she'd followed her lead, striving for the same perfection, the same flawless execution. She'd watched as Jimin transformed herself into Karina, piece by careful piece, and said nothing.

Until yesterday, when the words had finally escaped: "I'm afraid Karina is eating Jimin alive."

Winter sat up straight, a sudden determination filling her. She still didn't know how to save her friend from the perfection that was consuming her, but she knew she had to try. She'd made a promise, after all—pinky swears were sacred, especially between future stars.

She looked at the time on her phone. Karina would be back from her evaluation soon. Winter had to decide: would she pretend she'd never entered that room, never seen that photograph? Or would she finally, truly keep the promise she'd made eight years ago?

Winter slipped on her jacket and shoes, needing air and movement to clear her thoughts. She left a brief note on the kitchen counter—"Gone for a walk, back soon"—and headed out into the late afternoon.

The training center was only a fifteen-minute walk from their dorm, and Winter found herself drawn in that direction without consciously deciding. The route had been walked countless times over the years, sometimes together with Jimin, sometimes alone. Today, each step seemed to unearth another memory.

She passed the convenience store where they'd often stopped for ice cream after particularly grueling practice sessions. At thirteen and fourteen, they'd sit on the curb outside, carefully counting calories but allowing themselves this small indulgence as reward for their hard work.

"One day we won't have to worry so much about what we eat," Minjeong had said, licking her popsicle.

"Yes, we will," Jimin had replied, matter-of-factly. "It'll be even more important then. The camera adds weight, and people will be watching everything."

Winter paused outside the store now, remembering how she'd shrugged off the comment at the time. Jimin had always been more serious, more aware of the demands ahead. Winter had admired that focus, never recognizing it as a warning sign.

She continued walking, turning down the street that led past their old middle school. They'd attended different schools but had met here often, halfway between their homes, to travel to the company building together. Outside the school gates, Winter slowed, recalling a conversation from when she was twelve.

"My mom says I should focus more on studying," Minjeong had confided. "She worries that training is taking too much time."

"My parents say that too," Jimin had nodded. "But they don't understand. This isn't just a hobby or something fun. It's my future."

"Our future," Minjeong had corrected with a smile.

"Right," Jimin had agreed, but there'd been something in her expression—a private intensity that Minjeong couldn't quite reach. "But we have to be realistic. Not everyone makes it."

"We will," Minjeong had insisted. "We promised, remember?"

Jimin had smiled then, reaching out to adjust Minjeong's slightly crooked collar. "Then we need to be perfect. Especially me. I'm older, so I need to set the example."

Winter touched the school gate now, cool metal under her fingertips. How many times had Jimin said something similar? How many times had she declared her intention to be flawless, to leave nothing to chance? And how many times had Winter nodded along, thinking it was just ambition rather than a blueprint for self-erasure?

She walked on, past the small park where they'd first met. It looked smaller now, the bench under the ginkgo tree occupied by a young mother watching her toddler play. Winter slowed her pace, remembering another day here, when they were fourteen and fifteen.

They'd come to the park after receiving feedback from monthly evaluations. Minjeong had done well, but Jimin had been criticized for "lacking emotional connection" in her performance.

"I don't understand," Jimin had said, frustration evident in her rigid posture as they sat on their bench. "I executed everything perfectly. My technique was better than last month."

"Maybe that's the problem," Minjeong had suggested gently. "Maybe you're so focused on being technically perfect that you forget to feel the music."

"That doesn't make sense," Jimin had frowned. "Perfect is perfect."

"Not for performing," Minjeong had tried to explain. "Remember when we were little and we used to make up those silly dances? You were so free then. Maybe that's what they want to see."

Jimin had shaken her head. "That was playing. This is different. This is my career, my future. I can't just... play around."

"I don't think that's what I meant," Minjeong had started, but Jimin had already stood up.

"I know what I need to do," she'd said with determination. "I need to study the successful trainees more carefully. Figure out exactly what expressions work, what gestures connect with the evaluators. I can perfect that too."

Winter stood now where that conversation had happened, understanding with painful clarity what she'd missed then. Jimin hadn't been talking about improving her performance—she'd been talking about constructing it, piece by calculated piece. Building Karina methodically, like assembling a complex machine designed to please everyone watching.

And Winter had nodded along, had even admired her determination. Had never said: This isn't what they want. This isn't what you need. This will cost you too much.

She continued walking, feet carrying her automatically toward the SM building. As she approached, she slowed, looking up at the windows where practice rooms glowed with light even in late afternoon. How many hours had they spent in those rooms? How many times had she watched Jimin practice the same move until her body performed it without thought, until her smile appeared at exactly the right count, until her eyes sparkled on cue?

There was a coffee shop across the street where trainees often gathered. Winter and Jimin had sat there just last year, shortly after learning they would debut together.

"I can't believe it's finally happening," Minjeong had said, excitement bubbling through her voice. "After all these years, we're going to debut together, just like we promised."

Jimin had smiled, but there had been something measured in the expression. "We've worked hard for this. Now the real work begins."

"What do you mean?"

"Debut isn't the finish line," Jimin had explained. "It's the starting point. Now we have to be perfect every day, in every way. No mistakes, no bad angles, no wrong answers in interviews. Everything has to be calculated."

"That sounds exhausting," Minjeong had laughed, but Jimin hadn't joined in.

"It's the job," she'd said simply. "I've been preparing for it. I've studied all the successful groups, analyzed what works and what doesn't. I know exactly who I need to be."

"You mean what concepts might work for us?" Minjeong had asked.

"No," Jimin had said, her gaze direct and serious. "I mean who I need to be. Karina needs to be poised, confident, a little mysterious but still approachable. Never too emotional, never unpredictable. Always camera-ready, always in control."

"That's... very specific," Minjeong had said, unsettled but trying not to show it.

"It has to be," Jimin had replied. "Vague goals get vague results. I've left nothing to chance."

Winter stood outside the coffee shop now, looking through the window at the table where they'd had that conversation. She hadn't understood then what Jimin was really saying—that she'd already begun to erase herself, to replace spontaneous reactions with calculated responses, to transform Jimin into Karina through sheer force of will.

And Winter, who had once promised to remind her how to play, had said nothing. Had watched it happen day by day, had even begun to follow the same path, constructing "Winter" with similar precision, though never quite as thoroughly as Jimin had crafted Karina.

She turned away from the coffee shop, suddenly needing to move, to walk faster. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the streets. Winter headed toward the Han River, where they'd sometimes gone on rare free days, seeking space and air away from the practice rooms.

They'd sat by the river just three months ago, watching boats pass and people stroll along the walkways. It had been one of their last moments of real freedom before the intense final preparations for debut began.

"Are you nervous?" Winter had asked.

"No," Karina had answered—and it had been Karina who answered, Winter realized now, not Jimin. "I'm ready. I've been preparing for this my whole life."

"I meant about the pressure," Winter had clarified. "About having to be perfect all the time."

Karina had looked at her then, expression carefully composed even in this private moment. "I don't see it as pressure. I see it as opportunity. People will be watching us, supporting us. We owe them our best."

"But what about when we're not performing?" Winter had pressed. "When it's just us, in the dorm or wherever. Do you think we'll still be able to just... be ourselves?"

Something had flickered across Karina's face then—a moment of uncertainty, quickly controlled. "I'm not sure there's a difference anymore," she'd said quietly. "This is who I am now."

Winter reached the riverside walkway, finding a bench where she could sit and watch the water. The memory of that conversation settled heavily in her chest. "This is who I am now," Karina had said, and Winter had let it slide, had changed the subject, had once again failed to reach through the perfect facade to the friend beneath.

The river flowed steadily before her, indifferent to her thoughts. Winter pulled her knees up to her chest, making herself small on the bench as the evening air grew cooler. A family walked past, parents swinging a laughing child between them. The simple joy of the moment struck Winter with unexpected force.

When was the last time she'd seen Jimin laugh like that? Not the measured, camera-ready smile of Karina, but the unguarded laughter of the girl she'd met in the park eight years ago? The girl who had invented alien choreography and named their imaginary group "Sparkle Monsters"?

Winter couldn't remember. The realization hit her like a physical blow.

And worse—when was the last time she herself had laughed that freely? The question opened a door in her mind that she'd kept carefully closed, and thoughts began to spiral, one connecting to another in a dizzying cascade.

She'd been so focused on what was happening to Jimin that she'd failed to notice the same process beginning in herself. The careful monitoring of her expressions, the practiced responses in interviews, the calculated public persona. She'd been constructing "Winter" piece by piece, following the blueprint Jimin had created for Karina.

"I'm becoming just like her," Winter whispered to the river, the truth of it settling into her bones.

She thought of how she'd caught herself earlier that week, practicing different smiles in the mirror—not to express joy, but to determine which one photographed best. She thought of the notebook where she'd written acceptable responses to common interview questions, memorizing them like lines in a play. She thought of how she'd stopped expressing certain opinions, certain emotions, because they didn't fit the image she was cultivating.

And worst of all, she thought of the promise she'd made to an eleven-year-old Jimin: "I'll remind you how to play."

A promise broken not just to Jimin, but to herself.

The first tear fell before Winter realized it was coming, a hot trail down her cheek that surprised her with its suddenness. Then another, and another, until she was crying in earnest, silent sobs that shook her shoulders as she pressed her face against her knees.

She cried for Jimin, disappearing piece by piece behind Karina's perfect facade. She cried for herself, following the same destructive path. She cried for the children they'd been, full of dreams and unaware of the cost those dreams would demand. She cried for the pinky promise broken and the play abandoned.

"Winter-unnie?"

The voice cut through her thoughts, familiar and concerned. Winter's head snapped up to see Ningning standing a few feet away, workout clothes suggesting she'd been jogging along the river path.

Instinctively, before she could even think about it, Winter straightened her posture and wiped at her tears, forcing her expression into something more composed, more acceptable. The movement was so practiced, so immediate, that it took her a moment to recognize what she was doing.

What Karina would do.

The realization made her want to cry harder, but she contained it, limited it to a slight tremor in her hands as she offered Ningning a small, controlled smile.

"Hey," she said, her voice only slightly unsteady. "Just getting some air."

Ningning approached cautiously, concern evident in her eyes. "Are you okay? You look like you've been crying."

"I'm fine," Winter said automatically, the denial smooth and practiced. "Just thinking about debut. It's emotional sometimes, you know? All these years of work finally coming together."

The lie came so easily that it frightened her. This was exactly what she feared in Karina—the automatic mask, the reflexive hiding of genuine emotion behind acceptable explanations.

Ningning sat beside her on the bench. "You don't have to do that, you know."

"Do what?" Winter asked, though she knew.

"Pretend," Ningning said simply. "It's just me. You don't have to be Winter right now if you don't want to be."

The kindness in the younger girl's voice nearly broke Winter's carefully reconstructed composure. She looked out at the river, unable to meet Ningning's eyes.

"I don't know if I know how to stop anymore," she admitted, the words barely audible over the sound of the water. "I think I've been doing it for so long that it's become automatic."

"Like Karina-unnie," Ningning observed quietly.

Winter's gaze snapped to her in surprise. "You've noticed too?"

Ningning nodded. "It's hard not to. She never... slips. Even when we're alone in the dorm. It's like she's always performing, always on stage." She hesitated, then added, "I thought maybe that's just how she is. But you've known her longer."

"No," Winter said, fresh tears threatening. "That's not how she is. Or at least, that's not how she was." She wiped at her eyes, no longer bothering to hide the tears from Ningning. "And now I'm doing the same thing. Becoming someone else, piece by piece. And I didn't even realize until today."

"What changed today?" Ningning asked.

Winter thought of the photograph, of the memories it had triggered, of all the signs she'd missed over the years. "I remembered who we used to be. Before all of this. When we still knew how to play."

Ningning was quiet for a moment, considering. "It's not too late, you know. For either of you."

"I don't know," Winter said, doubt heavy in her voice. "I think maybe for Karina it might be. She's been building this persona for so long. I'm not sure Jimin exists anymore beneath it."

"But you're still here," Ningning pointed out. "I can see Minjeong right now, even if she's crying."

The simple observation hit Winter with unexpected force. She was right—despite the automatic mask, despite the practiced responses, she was still here. Still feeling, still remembering, still mourning what was lost.

Still capable of change.

"I don't want to disappear," Winter whispered, the admission both frightening and freeing. "I don't want to become just a perfect image with nothing real underneath."

"Then don't," Ningning said, as if it were that simple. And maybe, Winter thought, it could be. Maybe recognizing the process was the first step to stopping it.

"I promised her once that I'd remind her how to play," Winter said, wiping the last of her tears away. "And instead, I forgot how myself."

"So remember," Ningning said, standing and offering Winter her hand. "And then maybe you can help her remember too."

Winter looked at the outstretched hand, then up at Ningning's face—open, genuine, not yet polished into a perfect idol mask. She took the offered hand and stood, feeling something shift inside her, a small but significant realignment.

"Thank you," she said, meaning it completely.

"For what?" Ningning asked as they began walking back toward the dorm together.

"For seeing me," Winter answered. "The real me, not just the one I've been constructing."

As they walked away from the river, Winter felt the weight of the day's realizations settling into a new determination. She couldn't save Jimin if she was losing herself in the same way. First, she needed to remember who Minjeong was—the girl who knew how to play, who made pinky promises and kept them.

Then, maybe, she could reach Jimin again. Before Karina consumed her completely.

"It's funny," Winter said as they walked along the riverside path, streetlights beginning to illuminate their way as dusk deepened around them. "I said almost exactly the same thing to Karina yesterday."

Ningning glanced at her curiously. "What do you mean?"

"'You don't have to do that, you know,'" Winter quoted, shaking her head with a sad smile. "Those exact words. After practice, when she was being so... perfect. So measured in every response, every movement. I finally said something about it."

"What did she say?" Ningning asked.

Winter sighed, remembering the brief flash of vulnerability in Karina's eyes before the mask had slipped back into place. "Not much. She deflected, changed the subject. But for a second, I thought I saw... something. Recognition, maybe. Fear." She kicked at a pebble on the path. "And now here I am, being told the same thing. The irony isn't lost on me."

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of the city creating a backdrop to their thoughts.

"It's like I've been watching her disappear for years," Winter continued, the words coming easier now that she'd begun. "Watching Jimin fade away as Karina took over. And all this time, I've been so focused on her that I didn't notice the same thing happening to me."

"It makes sense though, doesn't it?" Ningning observed thoughtfully. "You two have been training together since you were children. You've always followed each other's lead."

Winter nodded, the insight striking her. "That's true. When we were younger, I followed her because she was older, more focused. She knew what she wanted and how to get it, and I admired that. I never questioned where it might lead."

They turned away from the river, heading toward the streets that would take them back to the dorm.

"I think..." Winter hesitated, organizing her thoughts. "I think part of me believed that if I became perfect too, if I constructed 'Winter' as carefully as she constructed 'Karina,' then maybe we'd still be connected. That we'd still understand each other, even as we both changed."

"And do you?" Ningning asked. "Understand each other?"

Winter considered the question seriously. "Less and less," she admitted. "There are moments when I catch glimpses of Jimin—usually when we're alone, late at night, or when something unexpected happens that she hasn't prepared for. But those moments are rare now, and getting rarer."

They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. In the harsh glow of the traffic signal, Winter saw her reflection in a shop window—her posture perfect even in casual clothes, her expression composed despite the emotional conversation. The sight unsettled her.

"The worst part," she continued as they crossed the street, "is that I understand why she's doing it. The pressure to be perfect, to never make a mistake, to always be what everyone needs you to be—it's overwhelming. Creating Karina was her way of controlling that, of making sure she never disappoints anyone."

"Including herself," Ningning added perceptively.

"Especially herself," Winter agreed. "Jimin always had the highest standards. For everything, but most of all for herself."

They walked in companionable silence for a block, each lost in her own thoughts. As they approached the convenience store near their dorm, Winter paused.

"Want some ice cream?" she asked suddenly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "For old times' sake."

Ningning looked surprised but pleased. "Sure. But isn't it a bit cold for ice cream?"

Winter shrugged, a deliberately casual gesture that felt foreign and familiar at the same time. "Who cares? Sometimes you just want ice cream."

The spontaneity of the decision, small as it was, felt significant. Winter couldn't remember the last time she'd suggested something simply because she wanted it, without calculating how it would be perceived.

They entered the store, the bright fluorescent lights a stark contrast to the deepening evening outside. Winter selected a popsicle similar to the ones she and Jimin used to share years ago, while Ningning chose a small ice cream cup.

After paying, they continued their walk toward the dorm, enjoying their treats despite the cool evening air.

"You know what's strange?" Winter said after a moment. "When I told Karina she didn't have to pretend, I meant it as help. As a way to reach her. But when you said it to me, my first instinct was to deny it—to pretend even harder that everything was fine."

"That's not strange," Ningning replied. "It's always easier to see problems in others than in ourselves."

Winter nodded, impressed by the younger girl's insight. "When did you get so wise?"

Ningning laughed, the sound light and unguarded. "I'm just observant. When you're the youngest, you spend a lot of time watching and learning."

"And what have you learned from watching us?" Winter asked, genuinely curious.

Ningning considered the question seriously. "That becoming an idol costs more than just hard work and time. That there's a difference between performing on stage and performing every moment of your life." She glanced at Winter. "And that it's really easy to lose yourself if you're not careful."

"Are you afraid of that happening to you?" Winter asked softly.

"Sometimes," Ningning admitted. "I see how hard you both work to be perfect, and part of me wants to do the same. To be as polished, as prepared." She shrugged. "But another part of me is terrified of ending up... empty. Of becoming so good at being 'Ningning' that I forget who I actually am."

They reached their dorm building, pausing outside before entering. Winter finished the last of her popsicle, considering Ningning's words.

"Don't," she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. "Don't do what we've done. Learn from our mistakes."

Ningning looked at her, expression serious in the dim light of the entryway. "What about you? Are you going to keep pretending?"

Winter took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the question. "I don't know if I can stop completely. It's become so automatic. But I'm going to try to be more aware of it. To catch myself when I'm performing rather than just... being."

"And Karina?" Ningning asked.

Winter looked up at the windows of their dorm, wondering if Karina had returned from her evaluation yet. "I don't know," she admitted. "I want to help her find Jimin again, but I'm not sure she wants to be found. I'm not sure she even remembers who she was before."

"Maybe you can remind her," Ningning suggested. "You've known her the longest."

Winter thought of the photograph hidden in her phone, the evidence of who they had once been. "Maybe," she said. "But it's not that simple. She's spent years constructing Karina, perfecting her. She might see it as a threat, not a help."

"Or maybe," Ningning said gently, "she's just waiting for permission to be Jimin again. For someone to tell her it's safe."

Winter considered this possibility, hope flickering faintly. "Maybe," she conceded. "But first, I need to find Minjeong again. I can't help her if I'm lost too."

They entered the building and took the elevator to their floor. As they approached their dorm door, Winter felt a curious mixture of dread and determination. She didn't know if Karina would be home, didn't know if she was ready for that confrontation yet.

But she did know that something had shifted inside her today—a recognition that couldn't be undone. She'd seen the path she was on and where it led. Now she had a choice about whether to continue following it.

"Thank you," Winter said to Ningning as they reached their door. "For seeing me. For saying something."

Ningning smiled, genuine and warm. "That's what teammates are for, right? To see each other clearly, even when we can't see ourselves."

Winter nodded, returning the smile with one that felt rusty but real. As she reached for the door handle, she made a silent promise to herself—not a pinky swear this time, but something more mature, more binding.

She would find Minjeong again, beneath the layers of Winter's perfect facade. And then, perhaps, she could help Karina remember Jimin too.

It wouldn't be easy. Years of careful construction couldn't be dismantled overnight. But as she opened the door to their home, Winter felt something she hadn't experienced in a long time—not the calculated optimism of a trainee interview, but genuine hope.

Hope that it wasn't too late for either of them.

Chapter Text

The digital clock on the microwave blinked 7:42 PM as Ningning's phone lit up with Giselle's call. She answered quickly, moving away from the kitchen counter where Winter was methodically organizing snacks into perfect rows.

"Unnie, hi," Ningning said, slipping into her bedroom and closing the door softly behind her.

"Hey, I'm just leaving Korean class now," Giselle's voice came through, slightly breathless. "Should be back in about twenty minutes. Are you at the dorm?"

"Yeah, I'm here with Winter-unnie," Ningning replied, keeping her voice even. She sat on the edge of her bed, eyes drifting to the framed group photo on her nightstand—all four of them laughing during one of their first practice sessions together. "We just got back a little while ago."

"Everything okay? You sound a bit off."

Ningning hesitated. She'd maintained her composure with Winter, offering support and clarity while they walked home together. But now, alone in her room, the weight of what she'd witnessed pressed down on her.

"I'm not sure," she admitted quietly. "It's... complicated."

There was a brief pause before Giselle spoke again, traffic sounds filling the background. "What's on your mind? Did something happen with Winter?"

Ningning drew her knees up to her chest, suddenly feeling much younger than her eighteen years.

"It's about Winter-unnie and Karina-unnie," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think... I think they're both disappearing, unnie. And I don't know how to help them."

"Disappearing? They're fading out or something?" Giselle asked, a nervous laugh punctuating her words. "Are we talking ghosts or just really good diets?"

Ningning twisted a loose thread on her sleeve, not matching Giselle's attempt at humor. "It's their personalities. They're... becoming their stage personas. All the time."

"Ah." The background noise on Giselle's end shifted—she'd ducked into a quieter side street. "Karina's been extra Karina-ish lately, huh?"

"Winter too," Ningning murmured. "Today she broke down by the river. Said she's turning into someone else, piece by piece."

Giselle whistled low. "Winter actually admitted that? To you?"

Ningning nodded before remembering Giselle couldn't see her. "She was crying. Real crying, not the perfect single-tear-down-the-cheek thing she practices."

"Damn." Giselle's footsteps quickened on the other end. "And what about Karina?"

"That's the thing—Winter's worried Karina's already gone. That Jimin doesn't exist anymore."

A bus roared past on Giselle's end. "That's dramatic. I mean, yes, Karina's intense, but—"

"When was the last time you saw her laugh? Really laugh, not just the camera-ready one with the perfect teeth?"

Giselle fell silent. Ningning counted five heartbeats before she spoke again.

"Shit," Giselle muttered. "I can't remember."

Ningning slumped against her headboard. "Exactly."

"So what happened with Winter today? The full version."

Ningning recounted their conversation by the river, Winter's tears, the walk home, the impulsive ice cream stop. As she spoke, she paced her small room, energy bubbling up that she couldn't contain.

"And now she's in the kitchen arranging snacks like they're going to be photographed for a magazine," she finished. "Back to perfect Winter again."

"Old habits," Giselle said. "Look, I'm almost home. Ten minutes tops. Don't worry, okay? We'll figure this out."

"But what if—"

"Hey," Giselle cut in, her voice firm. "We're not losing anyone. Not on my watch."

Ningning released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "You have a plan?"

"Working on it," Giselle replied. "Step one is definitely not freaking out. Step two might involve blanket forts."

Despite everything, Ningning smiled. "Blanket forts?"

"Hard to maintain perfect idol posture in a blanket fort. Trust me on this."

"If you say so."

"I do say so." A door chimed as Giselle entered a shop. "I'm grabbing ice cream. The good stuff, not the sad diet kind."

Ningning glanced toward her closed door, lowering her voice. "What if they don't want our help?"

Giselle snorted. "Since when do I wait for permission to meddle?"

"Fair point."

"Look, we're pre-debut. This is when we get to decide who we'll be, not just on stage but off it too." Giselle's voice softened. "If they're losing themselves, we'll just have to help them remember."

Ningning straightened her shoulders, Giselle's confidence contagious. "Okay. What's step three?"

"Hmm. Probably karaoke. The embarrassing kind with dramatic floor slides."

"Karina will never—"

"Jimin might," Giselle countered. "If Winter—I mean Minjeong—goes first."

Ningning considered this, remembering the flash of the real Winter she'd seen earlier. "Maybe."

"Trust me," Giselle said, the rustle of shopping bags accompanying her words. "I've got this. Operation Resurrection starts tonight."

"That name is terrifying."

"Operation Find Our Unnies?"

"Better."

"I'm almost home. Just—" Giselle paused. "Don't look so worried when I get there, okay? Act normal."

"I am normal."

"Your normal, not idol-trainee normal. Be messy Ningning."

Ningning glanced at herself in the mirror, noticing how she'd unconsciously straightened her posture, fixed her expression. She deliberately slouched. "Got it."

"See you in five," Giselle said. "And Ning?"

"Yeah?"

"You did good today. With Winter." The sincerity in Giselle's voice warmed Ningning's chest.

"Thanks, unnie."

She hung up and tossed her phone onto her unmade bed, deliberately messing up her hair before heading back to the kitchen. Winter was still there, now wiping down already-clean counters with methodical precision.

Ningning watched her for a moment, seeing both versions now—the perfect Winter and the glimpses of Minjeong underneath. Giselle was right. They weren't lost yet.

And if anyone could lead a rescue mission, it was Giselle—the one member who still laughed with her whole body, who still made mistakes without calculating their cost, who still remained stubbornly, unapologetically herself.

Ningning grabbed a snack from Winter's perfect arrangement, deliberately disrupting the pattern. Winter's eyes widened slightly, but then—miracle of miracles—her lips quirked in a small, genuine smile.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Giselle juggled her shopping bags while scrolling to Karina's contact. The convenience store's automatic doors whooshed shut behind her as she stepped into the cool evening air. She hit call and wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder.

One ring. Two. Three.

"Hello?" Karina's voice answered, perfectly modulated even through the phone.

"Hey! Where are you?" Giselle asked, picking up her pace.

"At the company. Reviewing today's evaluations."

Of course she was. Giselle rolled her eyes. "Still? It's almost eight."

"I need to analyze my feedback before tomorrow's session."

"Well, un-analyze it. We're having an emergency team meeting."

A pause. "What kind of emergency?"

Giselle dodged a cyclist, nearly dropping her ice cream. "The kind that requires karaoke."

"Karaoke?" Karina's tone shifted from professional to suspicious. "Giselle, we have evaluations all week."

"Exactly!" Giselle pounced on the opening. "And our harmony was off the other day. The evaluators mentioned it."

"They did?" Uncertainty crept into Karina's voice.

Giselle bit her lip, guilt flashing briefly before determination took over. "Yep. Said our voices aren't blending naturally enough. We need to practice in a different environment."

"We could just use the practice rooms."

"Boring! Those rooms are killing our creativity." Giselle turned the corner onto their street, the dorm building now in sight. "Karaoke has different acoustics. Plus, we can record ourselves and analyze it after."

"I don't think—"

"Winter and Ningning are already on board," Giselle cut in, picking up speed. "They're waiting at the dorm."

Another pause, longer this time. Giselle could practically hear Karina's internal debate.

"SM won't like us going out right before debut evaluations," Karina finally said, her tone measured but weakening.

"Details, details," Giselle waved her free hand dismissively, nearly smacking a streetlight. "We'll be back by eleven. No one will know."

"Giselle—"

"Look, if you're worried about your evaluation, fine. But the rest of us need this practice, and we need our leader." Giselle winced at her own manipulation but pressed on. "Unless you think your solo performance is more important than our group harmony?"

A sharp intake of breath on the other end. Direct hit.

"That's not what I said."

"Great! Then I'll see you at the dorm in twenty minutes. Wear something comfortable. Not 'Karina comfortable'—actual comfortable."

"What does that even—"

"Gotta go, these ice cream bars are melting!" Giselle hung up before Karina could respond, shoving her phone into her pocket with a triumphant grin.

She bounded up the steps to their building, mentally calculating her next moves. Get Winter and Ningning on board. Find the most ridiculous songs possible. Create an environment where perfect posture and calculated expressions were impossible to maintain.

Break through the Karina facade to find Jimin underneath.

Giselle paused outside their door, taking a deep breath. This might backfire spectacularly. Karina might shut down completely. Winter might retreat further into her perfect shell.

But doing nothing wasn't an option. Not when her friends were disappearing right in front of her.

She squared her shoulders and pushed open the door.

"Honey, I'm home!" she announced, kicking off her shoes haphazardly. "And I come bearing sugar and a plan!"

Winter looked up from the kitchen, eyebrows raised at Giselle's dramatic entrance. Ningning poked her head out from her bedroom, relief washing over her face.

Giselle dropped her bags on the counter and fixed them both with a determined stare.

"Alright, ladies. We have exactly—" she checked her watch, "—eighteen minutes until Karina gets here. And we need to talk strategy."

"Strategy for what?" Winter asked, already moving to organize the items Giselle had dumped on the counter.

Giselle gently caught Winter's wrist, stopping the automatic tidying. "Operation Find Our Friends," she said, her voice softer but no less intense. "Starting with you two."

Winter's eyes widened. She glanced at Ningning, who gave a small, guilty shrug.

"You told her?" Winter whispered.

"She had to," Giselle answered before Ningning could. "We're a team, remember? All four of us. Not just our stage personas."

Winter's hand trembled slightly under Giselle's grip. "I don't think Karina will—"

"Let me worry about Karina," Giselle interrupted, releasing Winter's wrist to pull ice cream from a bag. "Right now, I need to know if you're in, Minjeong. Not Winter—Minjeong."

The name hung in the air between them. Winter—Minjeong—swallowed hard, her perfect posture faltering for just a second.

"What exactly are you planning?" she asked, voice barely audible.

Giselle grinned, tossing a pint of ice cream to Ningning, who caught it with a startled laugh.

"We're going to karaoke. We're going to be terrible. We're going to laugh until we cry." She locked eyes with Winter. "And we're going to remember who we are when no one's watching."

Winter bit her lip, conflict clear on her face. But then—a tiny spark in her eyes. Something real, something unscripted.

"Karina will never agree to this."

"She already has," Giselle said, triumphant. "Though she thinks it's for harmony practice."

Ningning snorted. "You lied to her?"

"I creatively reframed the truth," Giselle corrected, unwrapping an ice cream bar and taking a large bite. "Now, who's with me?"

Ningning raised her hand immediately. Winter hesitated, then slowly, deliberately raised hers too.

"Good," Giselle said through a mouthful of ice cream. "Because Jimin is still in there somewhere. And tonight, we're breaking her out."

"This is going to be fun," Ningning declared, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Like, actually fun. When was the last time we did something just for fun?"

Winter sank onto a kitchen stool, shoulders dropping. "I want to help, but I'm just..." She gestured vaguely at herself. "Empty. Today was a lot."

Giselle studied Winter's face—the faint remnants of tears, the exhaustion pulling at her features. She softened her approach, sliding an ice cream across the counter.

"You don't have to perform tonight," Giselle said. "That's the whole point. Just exist. Eat ice cream. Laugh if something's funny. Or don't, if it's not."

Winter picked up the spoon, turning it over in her hands. "It sounds so simple when you say it."

"Because it is simple." Giselle hopped onto the counter, legs swinging. "We've just forgotten how to do it."

Ningning opened her ice cream, digging in eagerly. "So what's the actual plan for Karina?"

Giselle's eyes gleamed. She jumped down and began pacing, gesturing with her ice cream bar like a conductor's baton.

"First, we need to disrupt her patterns. Karina enters a room, assesses everyone's position, and adjusts her behavior accordingly. So—" she pointed at Ningning, "—you'll be in constant motion. Don't sit still, don't be predictable."

Ningning nodded, already shifting her weight from foot to foot.

"Winter, you'll be her anchor point." Giselle turned to the older girl. "She's used to mirroring your composure. If you slouch, fidget, let yourself be messy—it'll throw her off."

Winter straightened automatically at being addressed, then deliberately slumped. "Like this?"

"Perfect." Giselle grinned. "I'll handle the conversation. Keep pushing past Karina's deflections until Jimin has to respond."

"And if she doesn't?" Winter asked quietly.

Giselle's expression turned serious. "She will. We just need to find the right trigger."

She rummaged through another shopping bag, pulling out a small photo album.

"I grabbed this from my room at the last minute," she explained, flipping it open. "Pictures from our first month as trainees together."

Winter leaned forward, something flickering in her eyes. "I haven't seen these in ages."

"Exactly." Giselle tapped a photo of Karina—no, Jimin—with chocolate ice cream smeared across her chin, laughing with her whole face. "Jimin's still in there. We just need to remind Karina who she really is."

Ningning peered at the photos. "She looks so different."

"She was different," Winter murmured, tracing the edge of the photo. "We all were."

Giselle snapped the album shut. "And we can be again. Not the same, obviously—we've grown up. But real. Authentic."

She glanced at her watch and cursed. "Twelve minutes. Okay, quick rundown: At karaoke, we pick songs from pre-debut—stuff we used to practice when we first met. Songs with memories attached."

"Like SHINee's 'View'," Winter suggested, a ghost of a smile appearing. "Jimin used to dance to that every morning."

"Perfect!" Giselle pointed her now-empty ice cream stick at Winter. "See? You remember. And somewhere, she does too."

Ningning raised her hand like a student. "What if she just goes full Karina and turns it into another practice session?"

"Then we deliberately mess up," Giselle declared. "We make it impossible to be perfect."

Winter's eyes widened. "She'll hate that."

"Karina will. Jimin might find it funny." Giselle tossed her stick into the trash with perfect aim. "The key is creating moments where her practiced responses don't apply."

She grabbed a notebook from the counter and scribbled rapidly. "Winter, what else did Jimin love? Before debut prep took over everything?"

Winter closed her eyes, thinking. "Spicy ramen challenges. Dance battles to random songs. Those weird ASMR videos that made her laugh until she cried."

Giselle wrote everything down, nodding. "Good, good. Ningning?"

"She taught me that silly hand-clapping game when I first arrived," Ningning offered. "Said her cousins showed her."

"Perfect." Giselle added it to the list. "I've got the noraebang booked for nine. We'll start with 'normal' practice, then gradually shift to these memory triggers."

Winter fidgeted with her spoon. "What if this makes things worse? What if she feels ambushed?"

Giselle paused, considering. "Then we back off. This isn't an intervention—it's an invitation. We're just creating space for Jimin to exist again, if she wants to."

The front door buzzer rang, making them all jump.

"That's too early to be Karina," Ningning said, checking the time.

Giselle peeked through the peephole and swore under her breath. "It's her. Of course she's early."

She turned to the others, speaking quickly. "Remember—don't try too hard. Just be real. Whatever that means for you right now."

Winter took a deep breath, deliberately mussing her hair and slouching further on her stool. Ningning grabbed another ice cream and plopped cross-legged on the floor, an unnatural position for their usually poised maknae.

Giselle nodded approvingly and flung open the door.

Karina stood in the hallway, perfect posture, perfect makeup, perfect expression of polite interest. Not a hair out of place despite the long day of evaluations.

"You're early," Giselle said, deliberately casual.

Karina tilted her head slightly. "The company car was already leaving. I thought punctuality would be appreciated for this... emergency practice."

Her eyes scanned the room, taking in Winter's slouched position, Ningning on the floor, the scattered ice cream containers. A brief flicker of confusion crossed her features before her expression smoothed again.

Giselle stepped aside, gesturing grandly. "Welcome to Operation Find Jimin. Though you think it's karaoke practice, so let's go with that for now."

Karina froze mid-step. "What did you just say?"

Giselle met her gaze directly, challenge in her eyes. "You heard me."

For one unguarded moment, something flashed across Karina's face—panic, recognition, longing—before the perfect mask slipped back into place.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, voice controlled. "Are we practicing or not?"

Giselle grinned, undeterred. "Oh, we're definitely practicing. Just not what you think."

She grabbed the photo album from the counter and dangled it in front of Karina.

"First exercise: remembering how to be human."

Karina raised a brow at Giselle. "You're kidding, aren't you?"

"Nope." Giselle popped the 'p' sound, refusing to break eye contact.

"This is ridiculous." Karina's voice remained steady, but her fingers twitched at her sides. "We have evaluations tomorrow."

"Which we'll ace," Giselle countered, "after we remember how to connect with each other."

Karina's gaze flicked to Winter, seeking her usual ally in professionalism. Finding her deliberately disheveled and avoiding eye contact, Karina's composure slipped—just for a second.

"What's going on here?" she demanded, an edge creeping into her voice. "Is this some kind of intervention?"

"I told you," Giselle said, waving the photo album. "Operation Find Jimin."

"Stop calling me that." Karina's response was immediate, sharp.

"Why?" Giselle stepped closer. "It's your name."

"It's my birth name. Karina is my professional name."

"And which one are you right now?" Giselle pressed. "In our dorm, with just us?"

Karina's jaw tightened. She glanced at Ningning, still cross-legged on the floor, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

"This is inappropriate," Karina said, switching tactics. "Ningning doesn't need to see this."

"Ningning was the one who noticed first," Winter spoke up quietly from her stool. "That you never slip. That you're always performing."

Karina stared at Winter, genuine shock breaking through her facade. "You discussed me behind my back?"

"We discussed our friend," Winter replied, meeting her gaze directly. "Who we miss."

The air in the room grew thick with tension. Karina stood perfectly still, her breathing measured despite the emotional ambush.

"This is absurd," she finally said, turning toward the door. "I'm going back to practice."

Giselle darted in front of her, blocking the exit. "No, you're not."

"Move, Giselle."

"Make me, Jimin."

Karina's eyes flashed. For a heartbeat, something wild and unscripted surfaced—then vanished just as quickly.

"Fine." She stepped back, recalibrating. "What exactly do you want from me?"

Giselle relaxed slightly, sensing a small victory in the fact that Karina hadn't physically moved her aside.

"We want you to come to karaoke," she said, softening her approach. "Not as practice. Just for fun."

"Fun," Karina repeated the word like it was in a foreign language.

"Yeah, remember that?" Giselle flipped open the photo album to a random page. "Like this?"

The photo showed all four of them sprawled on the practice room floor, exhausted but grinning after their first successful run-through of a full choreography.

Karina's eyes lingered on the image. Something shifted in her expression—so subtle that only those who knew her best would notice.

"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't about to debut then."

"And that means we can't laugh anymore?" Ningning piped up from the floor.

Karina looked at her, startled by the direct challenge from their youngest.

"It means we have responsibilities now," she replied, her tone gentler with Ningning. "Standards to maintain."

"On stage, sure," Giselle agreed. "But here? Now? With just us?"

Winter stood suddenly, approaching Karina with careful steps. "Do you remember when we promised each other we wouldn't change? That first night in the dorms?"

Karina's perfect posture faltered—just a millimeter, a slight curve of the spine that wouldn't be visible to anyone but them.

"That was childish," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"No," Winter countered, stopping directly in front of her. "It was honest."

They stood facing each other—Winter deliberately messy, Karina flawlessly put together—mirrors of who they'd become.

"I remembered today," Winter continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Who I used to be. Who we used to be."

Karina swallowed, the movement visible in her throat. "We grew up. That's all."

"We disappeared," Winter corrected. "Piece by piece. And I don't want to anymore."

The room held its breath. Giselle and Ningning exchanged glances, sensing the pivotal moment unfolding.

Karina's eyes darted between the three of them—Winter directly before her, Giselle still blocking the door, Ningning watching from the floor. For once, she couldn't calculate the perfect response.

"One hour," she finally said, the words clipped. "We go to karaoke for one hour. Then we come back and prepare for tomorrow's evaluation."

Giselle pumped her fist in triumph. "Deal!"

"This doesn't mean—" Karina started.

"It doesn't mean anything," Winter interrupted gently. "Except that you're coming with us."

Karina nodded stiffly, then gestured to her outfit—a perfectly coordinated blazer and slacks. "I should change first."

"Yes!" Giselle exclaimed. "Into actual comfortable clothes. Not 'camera-ready casual'."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Karina's face—the most genuine emotion she'd shown since arriving. "I know how to dress myself."

"Do you though?" Giselle challenged, grinning.

For a split second, Karina's hand twitched like she might playfully swat at Giselle—an old habit from their early trainee days. She caught herself, the motion aborted before it fully formed.

But Giselle had seen it. And from Winter's subtle intake of breath, she had too.

A crack in the facade. A glimpse of Jimin.

"Ten minutes," Karina said, retreating toward her room. "Then we go."

As soon as her door closed, Giselle turned to the others with a suppressed squeal. "Did you see that? The almost-slap? That was pure Jimin!"

Winter nodded, hope lighting her tired eyes. "For a second, yes."

"Phase one complete," Giselle declared. "She's coming with us."

"She's still mostly Karina though," Ningning pointed out, climbing to her feet.

"For now," Giselle agreed. "But we've got one hour of karaoke to change that."

She grabbed her coat and the photo album, energy radiating from her every movement.

"Get ready, ladies. Operation Find Jimin is officially underway."

Ningning sidled up to Giselle as Winter went to change. "Can I ask you something?" she whispered, glancing toward Karina's closed door.

"Shoot," Giselle replied, stuffing the photo album into her bag.

"Why'd you tackle it so directly?" Ningning asked, fidgeting with her sleeve. "Telling her outright about 'Operation Find Jimin'? Wouldn't it have been better to just lead her into having fun without the underlying motives?"

Giselle snorted. "Have you met Karina? She'd see through that in seconds."

"You think?"

"I know." Giselle zipped her bag decisively. "She's too smart for subtle manipulation. Plus, she's spent years analyzing every social interaction for the perfect response. If we pretended this was just casual fun, she'd sense the trap and double down on being Karina."

Ningning considered this. "So being direct was..."

"Tactical," Giselle finished. "She can't prepare for something when she knows we're watching for the cracks." She lowered her voice further. "Besides, I caught her off guard. Did you see her face when I said 'Operation Find Jimin'?"

Ningning nodded. "She looked scared."

"Exactly." Giselle's expression softened. "Because Jimin heard us calling for her."

Winter emerged from her room in oversized sweats, her hair pulled into a messy bun. Giselle gave her an approving thumbs up.

"Perfect. Maximum Minjeong energy."

Winter rolled her eyes but smiled—a small, genuine expression. "Is this really going to work?"

"No idea," Giselle admitted cheerfully. "But at least we're trying."

Karina's door opened, and they all turned expectantly.

She'd changed, but not into what any of them hoped for. She wore neat jeans and a simple blouse—casual by her standards, but still camera-ready, still controlled.

Giselle groaned dramatically. "That's not comfortable! That's 'idol spotted on her day off' wear."

Karina adjusted her sleeve. "This is perfectly comfortable."

"Can you do this in that outfit?" Giselle challenged, dropping suddenly into a dramatic split.

Winter stifled a laugh as Giselle wobbled in the position, clearly regretting her impulsive demonstration.

Karina crossed her arms. "I don't plan on doing splits at karaoke."

"That's exactly the problem!" Giselle declared, struggling to stand back up. "You're planning everything!"

A flash of irritation crossed Karina's face—real, unfiltered. "Some of us prefer to think before we act."

"And some of us—" Giselle grabbed Karina's hand, pulling her toward the door, "—think too much and never actually live."

Karina stiffened but didn't pull away. "That's not fair."

"No?" Giselle paused, turning to face her directly. "When was the last time you did something unplanned? Something just because you wanted to, not because it fit your image or furthered your career?"

The question hung in the air. Karina opened her mouth, then closed it again, no perfect answer at the ready.

"I thought so," Giselle said, her voice gentler now. "Look, you don't have to change clothes if you don't want to. But tonight, try—just try—to let go a little. No one's watching except us. No one's judging except you."

Something complicated moved behind Karina's eyes. For a moment, the practiced confidence wavered, revealing uncertainty underneath.

"I don't know if I remember how," she admitted, so quietly they almost missed it.

Winter stepped forward, joining them at the door. "That's why we're here," she said simply. "To help you remember."

Karina looked between them—Giselle's determined grin, Winter's quiet understanding, Ningning's hopeful expression. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

"One hour," she repeated, but the words lacked their earlier firmness.

"One hour," Giselle agreed, swinging the door open. "Operation Find Jimin is a go!"

As they filed into the hallway, Ningning fell into step beside Giselle.

"You really think being direct was the right call?" she whispered.

Giselle glanced ahead at Karina's back, at the way she walked with Winter—close but not touching, a careful distance maintained.

"I don't know," she admitted. "But pretending would've been worse. She deserves to know we see what's happening."

Ningning nodded slowly. "I guess I'm just scared we'll push her further away."

Giselle squeezed Ningning's shoulder. "That's the risk. But doing nothing..." She shook her head. "I'd rather try and fail than watch her disappear completely."

Ahead of them, Winter said something too quiet to hear. Karina's response was equally soft, but as they turned the corner, Giselle caught a glimpse of their faces—Winter's open vulnerability, Karina's careful mask slipping just enough to reveal something raw underneath.

"Look," Giselle whispered to Ningning. "It's already working."

Ningning followed her gaze and smiled. "Maybe."

"Definitely," Giselle declared, picking up her pace to catch up with the others. "Now let's go make some terrible karaoke choices and see what happens."

The evening air carried a hint of spring as they made their way down the quiet side streets. Giselle deliberately hung back with Ningning, creating space for Winter and Karina to walk ahead. She strained to catch fragments of their conversation, tilting her head slightly to hear better.

"...not just about today," Winter was saying, her voice low. "It's been building for a while."

Karina's response was too quiet to make out, but her posture remained rigid, hands clasped behind her back in that practiced idol stance.

Giselle nudged Ningning. "What are they saying?" she whispered.

Ningning shrugged. "Can't hear."

A group of teenagers passed by, one girl doing a double-take at them. Instantly, Karina's demeanor shifted—chin lifting slightly, expression warming into her camera-ready smile. The transformation was so seamless it would have been impressive if it weren't so alarming.

Giselle frowned, quickening her pace to catch up. "Hey, no one recognized us," she said pointedly as she fell into step beside Karina. "You can drop the fan smile."

Karina blinked, the professional warmth fading from her expression. "Force of habit," she said stiffly.

"That's the problem," Giselle muttered, just loud enough for Karina to hear.

They turned down a narrow street lined with restaurants and small businesses. The karaoke place was nestled between a convenience store and a bubble tea shop, its neon sign flickering in the growing darkness.

"Here we are!" Giselle announced, gesturing dramatically. "Our sanctuary of terrible singing and zero judgment."

Karina eyed the entrance skeptically. "This place looks..."

"Perfect," Giselle finished for her. "Small, cheap, and not where idols usually go."

"That's one way to put it," Karina murmured.

As they approached the door, Giselle caught Winter shooting Karina a look—something searching, almost pleading. Karina met her gaze briefly before looking away, but not before Giselle spotted a flicker of uncertainty in her expression.

Good, Giselle thought. Uncertainty meant cracks in the armor.

Inside, the place was dimly lit and slightly shabby, with worn carpeting and faded posters of singers from the previous decade. The middle-aged woman at the counter barely glanced up as they entered.

"Room for four," Giselle said, sliding over the cash she'd prepared earlier. "Two hours."

"I thought you said one hour," Karina interjected immediately.

Giselle winked at her. "I lied. Sue me."

For a split second, Karina's composure slipped—her eyebrows drawing together in genuine annoyance rather than the carefully modulated displeasure she usually displayed. Giselle counted it as a win.

The woman handed over a key with a plastic number tag. "Room 7, down the hall on the right. Drink minimum is one per person."

As they made their way down the narrow corridor, Giselle deliberately bumped shoulders with Karina. "Loosen up. Your face is doing that thing again."

"What thing?" Karina asked, tension evident in her voice.

"That 'I'm mentally calculating how this will affect my image' thing." Giselle mimicked an exaggerated version of Karina's expression, drawing a surprised laugh from Ningning.

Karina pressed her lips together, not responding. But Giselle noticed her consciously relaxing her features as they entered the small karaoke room.

The space was intimate—just a worn couch facing a TV screen, a small table with a song catalog, and the requisite disco ball spinning lazily overhead. Colorful lights pulsed across the walls in slow, hypnotic patterns.

"Perfect," Giselle declared, dropping onto the couch and spreading her arms wide. "Ningning, grab the drinks menu. Winter, you're on song selection duty. Karina—" she pointed dramatically, "—you're banned from picking any songs we've practiced officially."

Karina crossed her arms. "I thought this was supposed to be harmony practice."

"I lied about that too," Giselle admitted cheerfully. "Keep up."

Winter settled beside Giselle, flipping through the song catalog. "They have 'View'," she said quietly, glancing up at Karina.

Something flickered across Karina's face—recognition, nostalgia, resistance. She remained standing, hovering awkwardly by the door.

"Sit down," Giselle patted the space beside her. "The perfect posture is stressing me out."

After a moment's hesitation, Karina perched on the edge of the couch, maintaining a careful distance from the others.

Ningning returned with four sodas, distributing them before squeezing in beside Winter. "What are we singing first?"

"'View'," Giselle declared, watching Karina closely. "For old times' sake."

Karina's fingers tightened around her soda can. "That's not—"

"That's not what?" Giselle challenged. "Not productive? Not professional? Not perfectly aligned with our concept?"

"I was going to say 'not fair'," Karina replied quietly.

The simple admission hung in the air. Winter looked up from the catalog, surprise evident in her expression.

"Why not fair?" Giselle pressed, gentler now.

Karina stared at the unopened soda in her hands. "You know why."

Giselle exchanged glances with Winter, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Because it reminds you of before," Winter said softly. "Of when we first met."

Karina didn't respond, but her knuckles whitened around the can.

"That's the whole point," Giselle said, leaning forward. "Remembering who we were. Who we still are, underneath everything else."

The disco ball cast shifting patterns of light across Karina's face, momentarily disguising her expression. When the light settled, her mask was firmly back in place.

"Fine," she said, her voice controlled again. "One song. Then we practice something useful."

Giselle bit back a frustrated sigh. This was going to be harder than she thought. She grabbed the remote and punched in the code for "View," watching Karina from the corner of her eye.

As the familiar intro began to play, Karina's posture remained perfect, her expression neutral. But Giselle didn't miss the way her foot tapped once, automatically, before she caught herself and stopped the movement.

Jimin was still in there somewhere. They just needed to dig deeper.

The opening notes of "View" filled the small room. Giselle grabbed a microphone and jumped to her feet, deliberately ignoring the lyrics on screen as she launched into the first verse. She moved with loose-limbed freedom, hitting the notes with surprising precision while adding her own flourishes to the melody.

Winter's eyes widened. Ningning bobbed her head appreciatively. But it was Karina's reaction Giselle was tracking—the slight parting of her lips, the focused attention that wasn't just professional assessment.

As the chorus hit, Giselle spun dramatically, adding the key dance moves but making them messier, more playful. She extended the microphone toward the others, grinning when Ningning immediately jumped up to join her.

Winter followed a moment later, her movements hesitant at first but gradually loosening as Giselle's infectious energy pulled her in. Only Karina remained seated, watching them with an expression caught between confusion and something that looked almost like longing.

Giselle belted the high note near the end, nailing it with an intensity that made even Karina's eyebrows raise in surprise. As the song finished, she collapsed dramatically onto the couch, breathing hard but grinning.

"That was..." Karina started, then paused, recalibrating. "Your vocal control was impressive. I haven't heard you hit those notes that cleanly in practice."

Giselle laughed, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Thanks, I think?"

"I mean it," Karina insisted, leaning forward slightly. "How did you do that? Without warming up properly?"

"Having fun," Giselle replied simply. "That's how."

Karina's brow furrowed. "Fun doesn't improve vocal technique."

"Doesn't it though?" Giselle countered, still catching her breath. "When you're not overthinking every note, when you're just feeling the music—" she tapped her chest, "—it comes from somewhere more genuine."

"That's not how vocal training works," Karina said, but her tone lacked conviction.

Winter settled beside Karina, closer than before. "Remember when we first learned this song? In that tiny practice room with the broken air conditioning?"

A flicker of something—memory, perhaps—crossed Karina's face. "It was summer," she said quietly. "We were drenched in sweat."

"But we kept going," Winter continued, "because we loved it so much. We weren't worried about being perfect then."

"And we sounded better for it," Giselle added, seizing the opening. "Admit it, Karina. When was the last time you sang just because you loved the song? Not to practice, not to impress, just because it made you happy?"

Karina opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her fingers fidgeted with the still-unopened soda can—a small, unconscious movement that betrayed her inner conflict.

"Your turn," Giselle declared, offering the microphone to Karina. "Same song. But this time, don't sing it like Karina, SM's next top idol. Sing it like you did that summer."

"That's ridiculous," Karina protested, not taking the microphone. "I can't just—"

"Can't or won't?" Giselle challenged.

Karina's eyes flashed—genuine irritation breaking through her composed exterior. "Fine," she snapped, snatching the microphone. "If it'll get you to drop this."

Giselle grinned triumphantly, hitting replay on the remote. As the music started again, Karina stood, automatically assuming her performance stance—shoulders back, expression controlled, movements precise.

"No, no, no," Giselle interrupted, pausing the track. "That's Karina performing at Inkigayo. I want Jimin in that sweaty practice room."

"I don't know what you want from me," Karina said, frustration edging into her voice—real emotion, unfiltered.

"Yes, you do," Winter said softly. "You're just afraid to give it to us."

The simple observation landed like a physical blow. Karina stared at Winter, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes.

"Try again," Giselle said, gentler now. "Close your eyes if it helps. Pretend we're not here."

She restarted the song. Karina hesitated, then closed her eyes as the intro played. For a moment, she stood perfectly still, the battle visible on her face—Karina fighting to maintain control, Jimin struggling to emerge.

Then, as the first verse began, something shifted. Her stance softened. Her grip on the microphone relaxed. And when she began to sing, the difference was subtle but unmistakable—a warmth in her tone, a slight imperfection in her breathing that made the performance more human, more real.

By the chorus, her body was moving more naturally, less choreographed. Her eyes remained closed, shutting out their reactions, allowing her to sink deeper into the memory of that summer, that practice room, that time before perfection became her prison.

Giselle exchanged glances with Winter, both of them barely breathing as they watched the transformation unfold. Ningning sat forward, eyes wide with wonder.

As the song ended, Karina opened her eyes, looking momentarily disoriented—as if she'd forgotten where she was, who she was supposed to be.

"That," Giselle said quietly, "was Jimin."

Karina's hand trembled slightly as she lowered the microphone. "I—" she started, then stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You sounded beautiful," Winter said, her voice thick with emotion. "Like you used to."

Karina swallowed hard, visibly struggling to regain her composure. "It wasn't technically perfect."

"It was better than perfect," Giselle insisted. "It was real."

For a moment, Karina stood frozen, caught between worlds—the carefully constructed Karina and the Jimin they'd glimpsed breaking through. Then, slowly, she sank onto the couch, still clutching the microphone like a lifeline.

"I don't know if I can do this," she whispered, the admission clearly costing her.

"Do what?" Ningning asked gently.

"Be her again," Karina replied, so quietly they almost didn't hear. "Be Jimin. I've been Karina for so long now."

"You don't have to choose," Winter said, hesitantly placing her hand over Karina's. "You can be both. Just... not all the time."

Karina looked down at their hands, not pulling away but not responding either. The colored lights continued to wash over them in slow waves, casting them all in momentary shadows, then light, then shadows again.

"Next song," Giselle declared, breaking the heavy silence. "Something we've never practiced. Something ridiculous."

She flipped through the catalog, landing on a page with a grin. "Perfect. 'Gee' by Girls' Generation. The song we used to dance to in our pajamas, remember?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Karina's mouth—so brief they might have imagined it, but Giselle caught it.

"One more song," Karina conceded, her voice steadier now but lacking its usual polish. "Then we talk about tomorrow's evaluation."

"Deal," Giselle agreed, already punching in the code. She tossed another microphone to Winter, who caught it with a surprised laugh.

As the iconic intro began to play, Giselle watched Karina from the corner of her eye—the way she sat straighter, then consciously made herself relax, the way her fingers tapped against her thigh in the familiar rhythm.

Small steps, Giselle thought. But they were steps in the right direction.

Jimin was waking up.

Chapter Text

Karina woke to sunlight slicing through a gap in the curtains, the beam landing directly across her eyes like some cosmic punishment. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, and her mouth felt like she'd spent the night gargling sand. She groaned, rolling away from the light and pulling the blanket over her head.

The events of last night came back in fragments—the karaoke room, the worn couch, the spinning disco ball. Giselle's challenge. The way "View" had pulled something from deep inside her, something she'd carefully buried beneath layers of perfection and control.

"Jimin," she whispered to herself, testing the name like a forgotten language. It felt strange on her tongue now, almost foreign. When had that happened? When had her own name become something that belonged to someone else?

She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing the headache to subside. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a hangover. Karina didn't get hungover. Karina maintained perfect control, perfect discipline. Karina watched her alcohol intake and never lost herself in the moment.

But Jimin... Jimin used to laugh too loud and stay up too late. Jimin used to dance with abandon in practice rooms after hours, not caring if her hair stuck to her sweaty forehead or if her technique wasn't flawless. Jimin had dreams without five-year plans attached to them.

The memory of singing last night—eyes closed, guard down—made her stomach clench with something between fear and longing. For those few minutes, she'd stepped out of the armor she'd built so carefully, piece by piece. The armor that had gotten her this far, that had impressed the right people, secured her position.

Karina was the one they wanted to debut. Karina was the one with the perfect proportions, the flawless technique, the ideal idol image. Karina never faltered, never showed weakness.

But it was Jimin who'd made Winter's eyes light up last night. Jimin who'd finally broken through Giselle's persistent antagonism. Jimin who'd felt the music instead of performing it.

She sat up slowly, wincing as her head protested the movement. On her nightstand sat a glass of water and two pain relievers that she didn't remember placing there. Beside them was a folded note in Winter's neat handwriting: "For when you wake up. You were amazing last night. Both of you."

Both of you.

Karina swallowed the pills with a gulp of water, letting Winter's words sink in. Maybe there was room for both after all—Karina's discipline with Jimin's heart. Maybe she didn't have to choose.

Or maybe that was just the hangover talking.

Karina swung her legs over the edge of the bed, pausing as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She gripped the edge of the mattress, waiting for the room to stop tilting. This was precisely why Karina didn't drink—the loss of control, the physical weakness afterward. It was inefficient. Unprofessional.

Yet she couldn't deny there had been something liberating about it.

She glanced down at herself, realizing she was still wearing last night's clothes, minus her shoes. Her typically immaculate appearance was in shambles—shirt wrinkled, makeup smudged. She couldn't remember the last time she'd fallen asleep without completing her skincare routine.

What else had happened after "Gee"? The memory came hazily—Ningning laughing so hard she'd spilled her drink, Winter's surprisingly powerful vocals, Giselle ordering another round despite Karina's weak protests. They'd sung song after song, each one peeling back another layer of her carefully constructed persona.

There had been a moment—Karina closed her eyes, trying to retrieve it through the fog—when she'd actually grabbed Giselle's hand during a high note, the two of them belting the lyrics face-to-face. Not as rivals or teammates, but as friends. When was the last time she'd allowed herself that kind of connection?

And then, after the karaoke place had kicked them out, they'd wandered the streets, arms linked, talking about everything and nothing. She remembered Winter's quiet confession about her own fears of not being good enough, Ningning's stories about her hometown, Giselle's surprising vulnerability when discussing her struggle with the language.

Karina had shared too—things she'd never intended to reveal. About the pressure she put on herself. About how sometimes she couldn't remember what she actually liked versus what would make her a better idol. About how lonely it was, being perfect all the time.

"Oh god," she muttered, pressing her palms against her temples. Had she really admitted all that? To the same members she was supposed to lead, to set an example for?

She forced herself to stand, steadying herself against the wall as she made her way to the bathroom. The face that greeted her in the mirror was a stranger—hair disheveled, remnants of eyeliner smudged beneath her eyes, lips still faintly stained with the color she'd applied so carefully yesterday.

This wasn't Karina's face. This was Jimin's—human, flawed, real.

There had been something else, something important that happened at the end of the night. She turned on the tap, splashing cold water on her face as she tried to remember. They'd been walking back to the dorms, the four of them huddled together against the night chill. Giselle had said something... something about their debut concept.

"They want us to be perfect," Giselle had said, her words slightly slurred. "But perfect is boring. Perfect doesn't connect with people."

"Perfect is safe," Karina had replied, surprised by her own honesty.

"Safe doesn't change the world," Giselle had countered, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to face her. "Safe doesn't make history."

The others had watched this exchange, Winter with that knowing look in her eyes, Ningning nodding enthusiastically.

"What if—" Winter had started, then hesitated.

"What if what?" Karina had prompted, genuinely curious.

"What if we brought some of this—" Winter gestured between them, "—into our debut? Not just the polished parts. The real parts too."

Karina remembered how the suggestion had simultaneously terrified and thrilled her. How for a brief moment, she'd allowed herself to imagine it—performing with the precision of Karina but the heart of Jimin.

And she remembered her response, the words she'd never thought she'd say: "Maybe we could try."

The memory made her grip the edge of the sink, equal parts mortified and exhilarated. Had she meant it? Could she actually do it? Or had it just been the soju talking?

A soft knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.

"Karina?" Winter's voice, gentle but insistent. "Are you awake? The others are making breakfast."

Karina stared at her reflection one more moment. Jimin stared back, waiting for her decision.

"Coming," she called, her voice raspy from last night's singing and this morning's dehydration. "Just give me a minute."

She reached for her face wash, hesitating with her hand hovering over her extensive collection of products. The Karina routine would take thirty minutes minimum. But maybe, just this once, a splash of water and a minimal touch-up would do.

Just this once, she could let them see Jimin at breakfast.

Karina ran a brush through her hair, wincing at the tangles, and pulled on a clean oversized t-shirt and sweatpants—comfort clothes she rarely wore outside her room. No makeup, no carefully styled hair, no idol-ready outfit. Just her.

She took a deep breath before opening her door, the smell of coffee and something sweet drawing her toward the kitchen. The dorm was quiet except for muffled voices and the clatter of dishes. Her bare feet padded silently down the hallway as she steeled herself for whatever awaited her.

As she rounded the corner into the living room, the conversation abruptly halted. Three pairs of eyes turned to her—Winter with a gentle smile, Ningning with barely contained excitement, and Giselle with that characteristic gleam of mischief.

"There she is," Giselle drawled, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug in hand. "The return of Karimin."

Karina stopped in her tracks, blinking at the strange hybrid name. "What did you call me?"

"Karimin," Giselle repeated, looking pleased with herself. "Half Karina, half Jimin. The perfect combination." She raised her mug in a mock toast. "I was betting you'd emerge fully armored this morning, but looks like Jimin's still in the building."

Heat crept up Karina's neck as she became acutely aware of her appearance—the lack of makeup, the casual clothes, the vulnerability she was displaying. Her first instinct was to retreat, to excuse herself and return as the polished version they were accustomed to.

But Winter was already crossing the room, a steaming mug in hand. "Coffee," she offered quietly. "Two sugars, just how you like it."

"I don't take sugar in my coffee," Karina said automatically.

Winter's smile deepened. "Karina doesn't. But Jimin does. At least, she used to."

The simple observation hit her with unexpected force. Winter was right—she had changed even that small preference, molding herself into the disciplined trainee who avoided unnecessary calories.

"Thanks," Karina murmured, accepting the mug and taking a sip. The sweetness was familiar and foreign all at once, like a childhood memory suddenly brought to life.

"We made hangover food," Ningning announced proudly, gesturing toward the table where a spread of soup, rice, and side dishes waited. "Well, Winter made it. I mostly watched and tasted."

"I'm not hungover," Karina protested weakly, even as her throbbing head contradicted her.

Giselle snorted. "Sure, and I'm not devastatingly charming. Come sit down, Karimin, before you fall down."

There it was again—that name. Karina should have hated it, this casual dismantling of the image she'd worked so hard to build. Instead, she found herself fighting a smile as she took a seat at the table.

"Stop calling me that," she said, but there was no real conviction behind it.

"Nope, it's sticking," Giselle declared, dropping into the chair opposite her. "At least within these walls. Out there—" she waved vaguely toward the window, "—you can be whoever you need to be. But in here, with us, you get to be both."

Karina looked around at their faces—expectant, hopeful, accepting—and felt something shift inside her, like a weight being redistributed rather than removed.

"I don't know if I remember how," she admitted softly, stirring her coffee.

"That's okay," Winter said, sliding into the seat beside her. "We'll help you remember."

"Last night was a good start," Ningning added, her youthful face serious for once. "You were different. More... I don't know. Real?"

"Real is scary," Karina said, surprising herself with the honesty.

Giselle leaned forward, her usual teasing expression replaced with something more genuine. "Of course it is. Real means you can fail. Real means you can get hurt." She shrugged. "But real is also the only way to connect. With us, with fans eventually, with yourself."

"When did you get so wise?" Karina asked, a hint of her old sharpness returning.

Giselle grinned, the serious moment passing. "I've always been wise. You were just too busy being perfect to notice."

Winter nudged a bowl of soup toward Karina. "Eat before it gets cold. We can philosophize after you're feeling better."

Karina picked up her spoon, the familiar routine of a shared meal grounding her amid the strangeness of this new dynamic. As she took her first sip, she caught Giselle watching her with an expression that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't quite serious either.

"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," Giselle replied, though her tone suggested otherwise. "Just thinking that Karimin suits you. The best of both worlds."

Despite herself, Karina felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Don't push it."

But as breakfast continued, filled with stories from last night that made her alternately cringe and laugh, she found herself relaxing into this new space—not fully Karina, not quite Jimin, but something in between. Something that felt, for the first time in years, like it might actually be her.

The conversation flowed easily as they ate, recounting moments from the previous night that Karina had either forgotten or wished she could forget. Ningning's dramatic reenactment of Winter's attempt at girl group choreography had them all laughing, even Karina, who found herself more relaxed than she'd been in months.

Then, during a lull in the conversation, Giselle set down her chopsticks and fixed Karina with a more serious look.

"So," she said casually—too casually, "about what you said last night. About not being good enough."

The comfortable warmth that had enveloped Karina instantly evaporated. She froze, spoon halfway to her mouth, as the memory surfaced: sitting on the curb outside the karaoke place, her defenses lowered by exhaustion and alcohol, confessing her deepest fear to the very people she was supposed to impress.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said automatically, setting her spoon down with careful precision.

Giselle raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because you were pretty clear about it around 2 AM. Something about how no matter how hard you work, you're afraid someone will finally see through it all and realize you don't deserve to be here."

Heat crawled up Karina's neck and into her cheeks. She stared down at her bowl, unable to meet anyone's eyes. The vulnerability she'd been cautiously embracing suddenly felt like a trap.

"I was drunk," she said quietly, her tone making it clear she wanted the subject dropped.

"We all were," Winter interjected gently. "But that doesn't make it less true."

Karina glanced up briefly, only to find three pairs of eyes watching her with an intensity that made her want to disappear. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of—showing weakness, letting them see the cracks in her foundation.

"I don't want to talk about this," she said, her voice taking on the crisp, professional edge that signaled Karina reasserting control.

Ningning reached across the table, her hand hovering uncertainly before retreating. "It's okay, you know. We all feel that way sometimes."

"No, it's not okay," Karina replied, sharper than she intended. She took a breath, moderating her tone. "Look, what I may have said last night was... inappropriate. I'm supposed to be leading by example, not dumping my insecurities on you all."

Giselle leaned forward, undeterred. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. This idea that you have to be infallible. That showing anything human is somehow failing at your job."

Karina's fingers curled around her coffee mug, seeking its warmth as a distraction from the conversation. "Can we please talk about something else? The evaluation is tomorrow, and we should be focused on—"

"On being perfect?" Giselle interrupted, her tone challenging but not unkind. "On making sure no one sees anything real?"

"On doing our jobs," Karina corrected, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. She pushed her chair back slightly, creating physical distance from the conversation.

Winter placed a gentle hand on Karina's arm. "What you told us last night... it helped me. Knowing that even you—" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully, "—even someone as accomplished as you still struggles sometimes. It made me feel less alone in my own doubts."

The simple admission caught Karina off guard. She looked at Winter's face, finding nothing but sincerity there. Then at Ningning, who nodded eagerly in agreement. Finally, reluctantly, at Giselle, whose usual teasing expression had given way to something more genuine.

"I just..." Karina started, then faltered. The words stuck in her throat, held back by years of careful self-editing. "I can't afford to be less than perfect," she finally whispered, her gaze dropping to the table. "There are too many people waiting for me to fail."

The admission hung in the air, small but significant. Karina felt exposed, like she'd peeled back her skin to reveal something raw and unformed beneath. Her instinct was to retract, to laugh it off, to rebuild her walls.

Instead, she reached for her coffee, taking a deliberate sip to hide the trembling of her hands. "Anyway," she said with forced lightness, "the soup is getting cold."

Giselle opened her mouth as if to press further, but Winter caught her eye and gave a subtle shake of her head. Understanding passed between them—a silent agreement to let it rest, for now.

"Fine," Giselle conceded, leaning back in her chair. "But this conversation isn't over, Karimin. It's just on pause."

Karina managed a small, tight smile. "The nickname isn't sticking either."

"We'll see about that," Giselle replied, the familiar teasing tone returning as she reached for the water pitcher. "Now, who wants to hear about the time Winter tried to order in Japanese at the Korean restaurant and accidentally asked for the waiter's phone number?"

As Winter protested and Ningning dissolved into giggles, Karina felt the tension slowly release from her shoulders. She was grateful for the reprieve, even as part of her wondered what might have happened if she'd allowed the conversation to continue—if she'd let them see even more of what lay beneath Karina's polished surface.

But that was a risk for another day. Today, she would allow herself this much—breakfast without makeup, laughter without restraint, coffee with sugar. Small steps toward whatever balance she might eventually find between who she was and who she needed to be.

Three hours later, the fluorescent lights of SM's practice room cast harsh shadows as they moved through the choreography for the fifth time that afternoon. The comfortable atmosphere of breakfast had evaporated, replaced by the familiar pressure of an upcoming evaluation. Sweat dampened Karina's practice clothes, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, not a strand out of place despite the intensity of their rehearsal.

"Again," she said, catching her breath as she studied their reflection in the mirror. "The transition at the bridge is still off."

Ningning groaned, bending over with her hands on her knees. "Can we take five minutes? My lungs are about to collapse."

Karina checked the time, calculating how many more run-throughs they could fit in before the studio time ended. "Two minutes," she conceded, reaching for her water bottle.

As the others collapsed onto the floor, Karina remained standing, mentally reviewing the choreography, marking the movements with small gestures. Her hangover had faded to a dull throb behind her eyes, manageable enough to ignore through sheer discipline.

"You know," Giselle said, sprawled on her back and staring at the ceiling, "we could try that variation we talked about last night."

Karina stiffened, her water bottle halfway to her lips. "What variation?"

"The one where we make the chorus more dynamic—let each of us bring our own style to it while keeping the key points synchronized." Giselle propped herself up on her elbows. "You said you liked the idea."

Had she? Karina searched her memory, recalling a late-night conversation as they'd walked home. "That was just talk," she said dismissively. "The evaluation is tomorrow. We stick to what we know."

Winter, who had been quietly stretching against the wall, looked up. "I've been thinking about it, though. It might actually work better. The current version feels a bit... mechanical."

"Mechanical is precise," Karina countered, setting her water down with more force than necessary. "Mechanical is what they expect."

"Is it what they want, though?" Giselle challenged, sitting up fully now. "They've seen mechanical from a hundred other trainees. What if we showed them something they haven't seen?"

Karina felt a flicker of the morning's vulnerability returning, threatening her focus. "This isn't the time to experiment. We need to be perfect tomorrow."

"Perfect like robots, or perfect like artists?" Giselle pressed, getting to her feet with renewed energy. "Because I'm pretty sure they're debuting us as the second, not the first."

The words struck uncomfortably close to the conversation Karina had been avoiding all day. She turned away, adjusting her ponytail in the mirror to hide her expression.

"Thirty seconds left in the break," she said, her tone making it clear the discussion was over.

But Ningning had perked up, fatigue forgotten. "I actually really like Giselle's idea. It would showcase our individual strengths while still being cohesive."

"And it would be more memorable," Winter added softly. "They see so many evaluations every day."

Karina looked at their reflections in the mirror—Giselle's determined expression, Ningning's excited one, Winter's quiet hopefulness. Then at herself, at the rigid line of her shoulders, the controlled neutrality of her face. Karina, not Jimin. Leader, not friend.

For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine it—the freedom of bringing something personal to the performance, the risk of stepping outside the meticulously practiced routine, the potential reward of standing out for the right reasons.

The image was both terrifying and exhilarating.

"We don't have time to rework the choreography," she said finally, turning to face them. "The evaluation is in less than twenty-four hours."

"We're not talking about reworking it," Giselle clarified, stepping closer. "Just... breathing life into it. Being ourselves within the framework."

"Being Karimin, not just Karina," Winter added, a small smile playing at her lips.

The nickname hit differently here, in this professional space, than it had across the breakfast table. Here, it felt like a challenge to everything Karina had built herself to be.

She glanced at the clock on the wall, at the precious minutes ticking away. The responsible choice was clear: stick to the plan, perfect what they knew, take no risks.

But something from last night—from this morning—lingered in her mind. The feeling of connection when she'd let her guard down. The relief of being seen, really seen, and not found wanting.

"Show me what you mean," she said finally, stepping back to create space in front of the mirror. "One run-through, your way. Then we decide."

Giselle's face broke into a genuine smile—not her usual smirk, but something warmer. "You won't regret it, Karimin."

"Stop calling me that here," Karina muttered, but there was less edge to it than before.

As Ningning rushed to restart the music and Winter moved into position, Karina caught Giselle's eye in the mirror. A silent understanding passed between them—this was more than just a choreography decision. This was Karina opening a door that Jimin might walk through.

The familiar intro began to play, and Karina took a deep breath, releasing some of the tension she habitually held in her frame. Just this once, she would try it their way. Just this once, she would let a little of Jimin into the practice room.

After all, it was only one run-through. What was the worst that could happen?

The music filled the practice room, and Karina moved into the opening formation with the others. The first verse proceeded as rehearsed—precise movements, clean lines, perfect synchronization. But as they approached the chorus, she noticed subtle shifts in the others' energy.

Ningning added a playful emphasis to a hip movement that wasn't in the original choreography. Winter's typically reserved expressions opened up, her eyes connecting with the imaginary audience rather than focusing on technical perfection. And Giselle—Giselle moved with a confident freedom that somehow enhanced rather than detracted from the choreography's impact.

Karina stuck to the practiced routine, watching them through the mirror as they transitioned into the second verse. The contrast was immediately apparent—they looked alive, engaged, magnetic. She looked... technically flawless and utterly forgettable.

The realization hit her with unexpected force. They were right. The choreography they'd been drilling for weeks was clean but soulless. What these three were doing now—bringing themselves into the movement while maintaining the core elements—elevated the entire performance.

As the bridge approached, Karina found herself at a crossroads. Continue as planned, or...

Before she could overthink it, she let her body respond naturally to the music's build. She softened a sharp movement into something more fluid, added a subtle but distinctive head tilt to the turn sequence, let her facial expression reflect the emotion of the lyrics rather than the blank canvas she typically maintained during practice.

It felt terrifying. It felt right.

As they hit the final chorus, all four of them now interpreting the choreography with personal touches, something electric happened in the room. Their energy synchronized in a way that transcended mere technical precision. They weren't just dancing in unison—they were connecting, complementing each other's strengths, creating something greater than the sum of its parts.

When the music ended, they held the final pose for a beat longer than necessary, all slightly breathless, all aware that something significant had just occurred.

Ningning broke the silence first, clapping her hands together. "That was amazing! Did you feel it? It was so much better!"

Winter nodded, a rare broad smile lighting up her face. "It felt... alive."

Giselle didn't say anything, just watched Karina's reflection in the mirror, waiting.

Karina stood motionless, processing what had just happened. They were right. Undeniably, objectively right. The performance had been stronger, more memorable, more authentic with their individual interpretations than with the robotically perfect version they'd been practicing.

The admission formed clearly in her mind, but speaking it aloud meant acknowledging that her approach—the approach that had gotten her this far—might not always be the best one. It meant conceding that Giselle's challenge had merit. It meant letting Jimin's instincts override Karina's careful planning.

"Well?" Giselle finally prompted, crossing her arms. "What's the verdict?"

Karina met her gaze in the mirror, seeing the challenge there, but also something else—respect, maybe. An acknowledgment that this wasn't easy for her.

"It was..." Karina began, choosing her words carefully. She turned to face them directly rather than through the reflection. "It was better."

The simple admission hung in the air between them. Ningning's eyes widened slightly, and Winter's smile softened into something more understanding.

"But," Karina continued, unable to completely surrender her caution, "it's also risky. If we each interpret things differently tomorrow than we did just now, it could look messy instead of intentional."

Giselle stepped forward. "So we practice it this way for the rest of today. We find the balance between structure and freedom. We make sure our individual choices complement each other instead of competing."

"That's still only a few hours of practice with a new approach," Karina pointed out, though her objection lacked conviction.

"Better a few hours of something real than another day of something forgettable," Giselle countered.

Karina looked at each of them in turn—at their hopeful, expectant faces. At the energy still radiating from the run-through they'd just completed. She thought about the evaluators who would be watching tomorrow, who had seen countless performances just like the one they'd been rehearsing.

And she thought about Jimin, about the trainee who had once danced for the pure joy of it, before every movement became calculated for maximum impact.

"Okay," she said finally, the word feeling like both a surrender and a victory. "We'll try it your way."

The relief and excitement on their faces made something warm unfurl in Karina's chest. She held up a hand before they could celebrate too much.

"But we need to be methodical about it. Let's break down each section, discuss our individual interpretations, make sure they work together. And we run it until it feels natural, not forced."

"Yes, ma'am," Giselle said with a mock salute, but her smile was genuine. "See? This is why you're the leader—you can take our chaos and make it work."

The compliment caught Karina off guard. It acknowledged her leadership without dismissing this new direction, recognizing that her skills were still valuable even as they shifted their approach.

"Don't call me 'ma'am' either," she said, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "Let's get to work. We've got a lot to do before tomorrow."

As they gathered to discuss the first section, Karina felt a strange mix of anxiety and excitement. This wasn't how she'd planned to approach the evaluation. This wasn't the safe path. But as she watched the others enthusiastically sharing ideas, she realized something important: for the first time in months, she was looking forward to performing, not just executing.

Maybe there was room for Jimin in this practice room after all. Maybe Karimin wasn't such a ridiculous concept.

Not that she'd ever admit that to Giselle.

Chapter Text

The practice room had been transformed overnight into an evaluation space. The familiar mirrors were now obscured by a row of folding tables where company executives would sit, their clipboards and water bottles arranged with military precision. Portable lights had been set up to illuminate the performance area, casting the rest of the room in shadow. The air smelled of floor cleaner and anticipation.

Karina sat on the floor, one leg extended, the other folded in as she leaned forward in a stretch that pulled at her hamstrings. Her hair was styled in a high ponytail, makeup perfect but understated—professional, not flashy. She'd been awake since 5 AM, running through mental rehearsals while applying concealer to hide the shadows under her eyes.

Across from her, Winter moved through her own stretching routine with characteristic precision, eyes closed, breathing measured. Her face betrayed nothing, but the slight tremor in her hands when she reached for her water bottle told a different story.

"Three minutes," called a staff member from the doorway before disappearing again.

Ningning bounced lightly on her toes near the back wall, humming fragments of their song under her breath, occasionally marking a movement with her hands. Unlike the others, her nervous energy manifested as perpetual motion—stretching, pacing, adjusting her outfit.

"Stop fidgeting," Karina whispered, though there was less bite in her tone than there might have been yesterday. "You'll wear yourself out before we even start."

Giselle, sitting with her back against the wall, caught Karina's eye and gave her a small, knowing smile. Of all of them, she appeared the most relaxed, legs crossed casually as she rolled her shoulders. But Karina noticed how she kept glancing at the door, how her fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against her knee.

Ready to show them what we worked on?" Giselle asked, voice low enough that only the four of them could hear.

"You don't sound that ready," Karina replied, studying Giselle's face. Despite her casual posture, there was a tightness around her eyes that betrayed her nerves.

Giselle's smile faltered for just a moment before returning, more determined than before. "I'm not scared, if that's what you're implying."

"I didn't say scared," Karina said, switching to stretch her other leg. "I said not ready."

Winter glanced between them, her movements stilling. "We're all nervous. It's normal."

"I'm not nervous," Ningning protested, though she finally stopped bouncing and dropped into a stretch beside Karina. "I'm excited. There's a difference."

Karina felt a flutter of doubt in her chest. Yesterday's practice had felt revolutionary—freeing in a way she hadn't experienced in months. But now, with evaluation minutes away, the pragmatic voice in her head was growing louder. What if the evaluators saw their personalized interpretations as mistakes? What if they came across as undisciplined rather than artistic?

"We should stick to the plan," she said quietly, almost to herself.

Giselle's head snapped up. "The new plan, right? The one we worked on yesterday?"

Before Karina could respond, the door opened again. This time, a senior manager entered, followed by three evaluators in business attire. The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted, tension crystallizing into something almost tangible.

"Aespa, you're up next," the manager announced, gesturing for them to take their positions.

As they rose to their feet, Giselle caught Karina's wrist, holding her back for just a second while the others moved forward.

"Trust yourself," she whispered fiercely. "Trust us."

Karina met her gaze, seeing the challenge there, but also unwavering confidence—not just in herself, but in all of them. In what they'd created together.

The doubt didn't disappear, but something else rose alongside it—a determination that had nothing to do with technical perfection and everything to do with the connection they'd found yesterday. With letting Jimin have a voice.

Karina's heart hammered against her ribs as she took her position. Years of training had taught her to channel nervousness into focus, but this was different. This wasn't just about executing movements perfectly—it was about vulnerability. About letting go of the rigid control she'd clung to since becoming Karina.

What if she couldn't find that balance they'd discovered yesterday? What if, under pressure, she reverted to the safe, mechanical precision she knew so well? Or worse, what if she tried to be Jimin and failed at being either version of herself?

She glanced at the others taking their positions. Winter, composed but with a new openness in her posture. Ningning, practically vibrating with energy but channeling it into purpose rather than anxiety. Giselle, meeting her eyes one last time with a slight nod.

They were ready. They believed in this approach—in her. Not just as their leader who enforced perfection, but as someone who could guide them toward something authentic.

"Places," called one of the evaluators, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes that seemed to catalog every detail of their appearance even before they began.

Karina straightened her shoulders, centering herself as the other evaluators settled into their seats. The moment stretched, silence filling the room except for the soft scratch of a pen against paper and someone clearing their throat.

Then the music began, and there was no more time for doubt.

The first notes filled the room, and Karina surrendered to the moment. The choreography flowed through her body, familiar yet different—each movement infused with intention rather than just precision. She caught glimpses of the others as they performed—Winter's eyes alive with emotion, Ningning's energy perfectly channeled, Giselle's confidence radiating through every gesture.

As they moved into the chorus, Karina felt it again—that electric connection that had sparked in yesterday's practice. They weren't just dancing in unison; they were responding to each other, complementing each other's energy while maintaining the core choreography. Where the original routine had been technically impressive, this had life, had soul.

She allowed herself the subtle variations they'd practiced—the softer transition, the expressive turn, the moment where her face reflected genuine emotion rather than practiced charm. It felt like speaking in her own voice after months of reciting someone else's words.

The bridge came, the moment where their individual interpretations were most evident. Karina caught a flicker of surprise on one evaluator's face, a raised eyebrow from another. But she didn't falter, committing fully to their vision as they built toward the final chorus.

The ending came almost too quickly—the four of them striking the final pose with perfect synchronization, breathing hard, the last note hanging in the air. For a moment, silence filled the room. Karina could feel sweat cooling on her skin, could hear the controlled breathing of her members beside her.

Then one of the evaluators leaned over to whisper something to another. A third made a note on their clipboard. Their trainer, who had been standing against the back wall, stepped forward with an unreadable expression.

"That wasn't what we practiced," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Karina felt her stomach drop. She opened her mouth to take responsibility, to explain their decision, but Giselle spoke first.

"No, it wasn't," she agreed, stepping forward slightly. "We made some interpretive choices that we believe elevated the performance."

The trainer's eyes narrowed. "Elevated?"

"Yes," Giselle continued, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. "The technical elements remained intact, but we brought individuality to certain sections. It creates a more dynamic, memorable performance while still showcasing our synchronization where it matters most."

One of the evaluators, a woman with short hair and sharp eyes, looked up from her notes. "Whose idea was this change?"

Karina felt the weight of leadership pressing on her shoulders. She should speak up, take responsibility—

"It was collaborative," Giselle said before Karina could respond. "We all contributed to the new interpretation."

The trainer crossed his arms. "I don't deny it looked better," he said after a pause that felt endless. "But that's not the point. You were given a specific routine to master. Changing it without consultation shows a lack of discipline, not creativity."

"With respect," Winter said quietly, surprising everyone, "we didn't change the routine. We enhanced it."

Ningning nodded vigorously. "The key points and synchronization are all there. We just—"

"Made it your own?" the trainer finished, his tone making it clear this wasn't necessarily a compliment. "That's not always what's asked of you in this industry. Sometimes you need to execute exactly what's given to you, regardless of whether you think you have a better idea."

Karina finally found her voice. "The responsibility is mine," she said, stepping forward to stand beside Giselle. "As leader, I approved the interpretive choices. If there's an issue, it should fall on me."

The evaluators exchanged glances. The woman with the sharp eyes made another note, her expression giving nothing away.

"We'll take it into consideration," she said finally, looking up at them. "You're dismissed for now. We'll continue with the next group."

As they bowed and turned to leave, Karina caught the trainer's eye. There was something there she couldn't quite read—disappointment, certainly, but also a flicker of something else. Respect, perhaps? Or simply resignation?

They filed out of the room in silence, the door closing behind them with a soft click that somehow felt louder than it should have.

The hallway outside the evaluation room was empty except for a row of plastic chairs against the wall. They collapsed into them without speaking, the adrenaline of performance giving way to the weight of uncertainty. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright and somehow too dim at the same time.

"Well," Ningning said finally, breaking the silence, "that was intense."

Winter tucked her legs underneath her chair, shoulders curved inward. "Do you think they'll penalize us for it?"

Karina stared at the closed door across the hall, replaying the evaluators' expressions in her mind. The surprise had been evident, but what came after? Appreciation? Disapproval? Their faces had been so carefully controlled, giving nothing away.

"The woman with the short hair seemed interested," Giselle offered, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "She was writing a lot after we finished."

"Writing could be good or bad," Karina pointed out, her voice low. "They could be noting our initiative or listing all the ways we deviated from instructions."

Ningning sighed, letting her head fall back against the wall. "At least it was memorable. No way they're confusing us with any other group today."

A small smile tugged at Winter's lips. "That's true. For better or worse."

"I still think it was the right call," Giselle said firmly, looking at each of them in turn. "You felt it too, right? The energy was different. Better."

Karina nodded slowly. Despite the trainer's words, despite the risk they'd taken, she couldn't bring herself to regret their choice. The performance had felt real in a way that months of practice sessions hadn't. Whatever happened next, they had shown who they really were—not just technically proficient trainees, but artists with something to say.

"Even if they're angry," she said quietly, "I'd rather fail being authentic than succeed being forgettable."

The words surprised her as much as they seemed to surprise the others. Giselle's eyebrows rose slightly, and Winter turned to look at her with new interest.

"Who are you and what have you done with Karina?" Ningning teased, but there was genuine warmth in her voice.

Before Karina could respond, the evaluation room door opened. Their trainer emerged, his expression as unreadable as it had been inside.

"Karina," he said, gesturing toward a small conference room further down the hall. "A word, please."

The others fell silent, exchanging worried glances. Giselle reached out, squeezing Karina's hand briefly before letting go.

"We're with you," she whispered, the echo of her earlier words carrying new weight now.

Karina stood, smoothing her practice clothes with hands that weren't quite steady. The familiar mask of professional composure settled over her features—Jimin retreating, Karina stepping forward to handle whatever was coming.

"I'll be right back," she told the others, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

As she followed the trainer down the hall, she could feel their eyes on her back—three pairs watching with varying degrees of concern and solidarity. Whatever happened in that conference room, she realized, she wouldn't be facing it alone. Not anymore.

The thought steadied her as the trainer opened the door, gesturing for her to enter first.

The conference room was small and stark—just a rectangular table surrounded by chairs, a whiteboard on one wall, and a single window with blinds drawn against the afternoon sun. Karina took a seat, back straight, hands folded in her lap as the trainer closed the door behind them.

Her mind raced through possibilities. Was this about the choreography changes specifically? About her leadership? Maybe they were reconsidering her position in the group entirely. Or perhaps—and this thought sent a chill through her—they were reconsidering the entire group configuration. One risky decision, and years of work could be undone.

The trainer remained standing, leaning against the wall rather than taking a seat across from her. The power dynamic wasn't lost on Karina—her sitting, him standing, the silence stretching between them as she waited for him to speak first.

"I've been working with you for two years now," he finally said, his tone measured. "Two years of watching you push yourself harder than anyone else. Two years of perfect attendance, perfect focus, perfect execution."

Karina nodded slightly, unsure where this was heading.

"So imagine my surprise," he continued, "when not only does your group perform a version of the choreography I've never seen before, but when questioned about it, you let Giselle do all the talking."

The observation caught her off guard. Of all the issues she'd anticipated, her silence hadn't been one of them.

"I—" she began, but he held up a hand.

"Let me finish. You finally spoke up to take responsibility, which is what I would expect from you. But before that? Nothing. No explanation of the artistic choice. No defense of the changes. No leadership."

His words stung with their accuracy. She had hesitated, had let Giselle step forward first. Had been caught between Karina's responsibility and Jimin's uncertainty.

"The changes were a group decision," she said carefully.

"That's not my point," he replied, pushing off from the wall to sit across from her. "My point is that as leader, you should have been the one to articulate that decision. To own it completely, not just the responsibility for it."

Karina felt heat rising in her cheeks. He was right. She had taken responsibility without actually defending their choice—a hollow gesture that protected her members without standing by the artistic decision they'd made together.

"The evaluators noticed," he added, his voice softening slightly. "They commented on it after you left. They wondered why the person who's supposed to be the group's center and leader seemed reluctant to explain a creative decision."

The implication was clear: her hesitation had been interpreted as lack of conviction, perhaps even disagreement with the very changes she'd approved.

"I wasn't reluctant," she said, finding her voice. "I believe in what we did. The interpretation we brought to the choreography made it stronger, more distinctive. We maintained the technical elements while adding depth."

"Then why didn't you say so when it mattered?" he challenged. "Why did you wait for Giselle to defend it first?"

The question hit at something deeper than just this one evaluation. It touched on the divide she'd created between Karina and Jimin, between the perfect trainee and the person beneath. On her fear that showing too much of herself—her thoughts, her creative instincts—would somehow make her less suitable for the role she'd worked so hard to secure.

"I'm not used to defending creative choices," she admitted, the words difficult to say aloud. "I'm used to executing directions perfectly."

The trainer's expression hardened, his earlier sympathetic tone vanishing. "That is exactly the problem, Karina. But not in the way you seem to think."

He leaned forward, hands flat on the table between them. "Your job is to follow instructions, not to make 'creative choices.' Do you understand? You're a trainee. Your opinion on choreography wasn't requested."

Karina felt a cold sensation spreading through her chest. "But you just said I should have spoken up more—"

"To take responsibility for deviating from what you were told to do," he cut in sharply. "Not to defend it as if it were somehow justified."

She blinked, trying to reconcile his contradictory messages. "I don't understand. You said the evaluators noticed I didn't explain our creative decision—"

"They noticed you didn't properly apologize for changing what you were explicitly instructed to perform," he corrected, his voice low but intense. "They noticed that instead of acknowledging the error, your group tried to frame insubordination as creativity."

Karina's mind raced, replaying the evaluation in her head. "But you said yourself it looked better—"

"That's irrelevant," he snapped. "Do you think this industry runs on what looks better to you? It runs on following directions. On executing the vision of people with far more experience than a group of trainees who've never even debuted."

The certainty she'd felt moments ago began to crumble. Had she completely misread the situation? Had their "creative interpretation" been nothing more than arrogant disobedience in the eyes of the evaluators?

"I thought..." she began, then faltered.

"You thought wrong," the trainer said, his tone softening just enough to sound concerned rather than angry. "Look, Karina. You've always been one of our most promising trainees precisely because you understood what was expected of you. You didn't question. You executed. That's what made you leader material."

He sat back, regarding her with what looked like disappointment. "But lately, I'm seeing something concerning. This idea that you know better. That your group's 'interpretation' somehow improves on what professionals designed for you."

"That wasn't our intention," Karina said, her voice smaller than she'd intended.

"Intentions don't matter in this business. Results do." He sighed, as if genuinely troubled by her failure to understand. "The result today was that you presented something different than what you were instructed to perform. Something that, yes, had energy—but also lacked the discipline that separates professionals from amateurs."

Karina felt disoriented, as if the ground beneath her had shifted. Everything she'd felt during their performance—the connection, the authenticity, the artistic satisfaction—was being reframed as unprofessional self-indulgence.

"The evaluators are giving you another chance," he continued. "Tomorrow morning. Same routine, exactly as it was taught to you. No 'interpretations.' No 'enhancements.' Just clean, precise execution of the choreography you were given."

Relief and disappointment warred within her. A second chance was more than they might have received, but the terms felt like a step backward.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Karina?" he pressed. "This isn't about stifling your creativity. It's about learning when that creativity is appropriate and when it isn't. Right now, as trainees about to debut, your job is to show that you can follow direction. That you can be trusted to deliver exactly what's asked of you."

She nodded slowly, the conflict inside her growing. Everything he said made logical sense. It aligned with everything she'd believed about being a professional. About being Karina rather than Jimin.

And yet...

"The others will be disappointed," she said quietly. "They felt so good about what we did today."

"That's why you're the leader," he replied. "Sometimes leadership means bringing people back to reality, not indulging their fantasies. They'll follow your example. They always have."

He stood, signaling that the conversation was over. "I'm counting on you to get them back on track. The original choreography, performed perfectly. That's what the evaluators want to see tomorrow. That's what will secure your debut."

As Karina rose to leave, he added, "Don't let a moment of misguided rebellion undo years of hard work. Not when you're so close to everything you've worked for."

The words followed her to the door, settling like weights on her shoulders. By the time she stepped into the hallway, Karina had already begun reconstructing the walls between herself and Jimin, between leader and friend, between discipline and desire.

The walk back to where the others waited felt longer than it should have, each step heavy with the burden of what she needed to tell them. In that brief corridor, a conversation unfolded in her mind—not just thoughts, but a dialogue between the parts of herself she'd kept separate for so long.

You know what you have to do, Karina's voice was clear, practical. Tell them we made a mistake. We go back to the original choreography. We secure our debut.

But it wasn't a mistake, Jimin countered, her voice softer but surprisingly firm. You felt it too. What we did in there was better. It was real.

Real doesn't matter if it costs us everything we've worked for, Karina argued. The trainer made it clear. Follow directions. Execute perfectly. That's the path to debut.

Is that all we want, though? Just to debut? Or to debut as ourselves?

The question lingered as Karina approached the others. Giselle straightened in her chair, alert to Karina's expression. Winter's hands stilled in her lap. Ningning stopped mid-sentence in whatever she'd been saying.

They're looking to you for leadership, Karina's voice insisted. Be strong. Be clear. Tell them what needs to happen.

They're looking to you for truth, Jimin whispered. They trusted you yesterday when you took a risk with them. Will you abandon that trust today?

Karina paused, still several steps away, suddenly uncertain. Who should she be in this moment? The perfect trainee who had earned the leadership position through discipline and conformity? Or the artist who had, for a brief, exhilarating performance, allowed herself to exist beyond those constraints?

You can't be both, Karina's voice was adamant. Choose the safe path. Choose what's gotten you this far.

But what if that path leads somewhere you don't actually want to go? Jimin challenged. What if all this time, you've been working toward a version of success that requires leaving the best parts of yourself behind?

The conflict must have shown on her face, because Giselle stood up, concern replacing expectation in her eyes.

They'll be disappointed, Karina thought.

Yes, Jimin agreed. But in which version of you?

That was the real question, wasn't it? Not just what she should tell them, but who she should be when she did. The leader who prioritized their debut at any cost? Or the friend who had discovered, just yesterday, that there might be another way to approach their art—one that honored both discipline and authenticity?

You know the right answer, Karina's voice insisted. You've always known it. Excellence requires sacrifice. Personal expression comes after debut, not before.

But what if excellence isn't just technical perfection? Jimin countered. What if it's also about bringing something only you can bring? Something real?

As Ningning called her name, pulling her from her thoughts, Karina realized she was standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, the internal dialogue having momentarily overwhelmed her ability to move forward.

Who, or what, should she be? The question resonated deeper than just this moment, this decision. It reached back to the day she'd first chosen to become Karina, to set aside the doubts and vulnerabilities of Jimin in pursuit of her dream. It reached forward to the idol she would become—either a perfect reflection of what others wanted, or something more complex, more authentic, and perhaps more valuable.

You can't risk everything now, Karina warned. Not when you're so close.

But what exactly are you risking? Jimin asked quietly. And what are you saving?

Giselle had started walking toward her, concern etched across her features. In a moment, Karina would have to speak, would have to decide which voice to give power to.

The trainer's words echoed in her mind: Sometimes leadership means bringing people back to reality, not indulging their fantasies.

But another voice, one that sounded surprisingly like Giselle's, countered: Sometimes leadership means having the courage to imagine a different reality altogether.

As Giselle reached her, hand outstretched in silent question, Karina made her choice—not just about what to say, but about who to be in this pivotal moment.

"What happened?" Giselle's voice cut through the storm of Karina's thoughts, anchoring her back to the present moment. Her hand was warm on Karina's arm, her eyes searching Karina's face with undisguised concern.

Karina blinked, the internal dialogue fading as reality reasserted itself—the bright hallway, Winter and Ningning now standing as well, the distant sounds of another group practicing somewhere down the corridor.

"Karina?" Giselle pressed, her voice lower now, meant only for the two of them. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Maybe she had—the ghost of the person she'd been before ambition had reshaped her, before Jimin had been carefully packed away to make room for Karina's precision and discipline.

"They want us to perform again tomorrow," she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. "The original choreography. Exactly as we were taught it."

Ningning's face fell. "So they didn't like our version."

"He didn't say that," Karina replied carefully, the words forming as she spoke them, neither fully Karina's calculated response nor Jimin's emotional truth, but something in between. "He said they were impressed by our technical skill. But they want to see that we can follow direction exactly."

"That's corporate-speak for 'stay in your lane,'" Giselle said, dropping her hand from Karina's arm, frustration evident in the set of her shoulders.

Winter, who had been quiet, tilted her head slightly. "Did they say why? Did they give specific feedback about what didn't work?"

The question was so practical, so Winter-like in its focus on improvement rather than emotion, that it momentarily cut through Karina's inner conflict.

"No," she admitted. "Just that we need to demonstrate we can execute exactly what we're given."

"So basically prove we're good little trainees who don't think for themselves," Giselle muttered.

"That's not fair," Winter said quietly. "They've invested years in training us. They have experience we don't have yet."

"Experience doesn't always equal creativity," Giselle countered. "You felt it too, Winter. What we did in there was special. It was us, not just some routine we could swap with any other group."

Ningning looked between them, then at Karina. "What do you think we should do?"

The question was simple but loaded with implication. Not just about tomorrow's evaluation, but about the kind of group they wanted to be. The kind of leader Karina wanted to be.

The trainer's warnings echoed in her mind—about risking their debut, about confusing rebellion with creativity. But so did the memory of their performance, of the connection they'd found, of the freedom she'd felt letting Jimin's instincts guide Karina's technique.

"I think..." she began, then paused, weighing each word. "I think we have a choice."

Something in her tone made all three of them focus more intently, sensing this wasn't just about choreography anymore.

"A choice? Just a choice?" Winter echoed, her normally composed voice tinged with disbelief. "They specifically told you what they want us to do tomorrow."

Karina nodded, feeling the weight of her position as leader. "Yes. They want us to perform the original choreography, exactly as we were taught it."

"So there's no choice at all," Ningning said, deflating slightly.

"There's always a choice," Karina replied, more firmly than she intended. "But we have to understand the reality of our situation. We're trainees. We haven't debuted yet. We need to prove ourselves first, follow the path that's been set for us, so that one day, we can be the experienced ones making artistic choices."

Giselle crossed her arms, her expression hardening. "That's convenient, isn't it? 'Do as you're told now, and maybe someday you'll get to have opinions.' If we allow ourselves to be handled now, we'll be handled forever."

"That's not fair," Winter interjected. "Most senior artists have more creative control."

"After how many years?" Giselle challenged. "After how many songs they didn't choose, concepts they didn't want, choreographies that didn't suit them? By then, most of them are too exhausted or too institutionalized to even know what they want anymore."

Karina felt caught between them—between Winter's pragmatism and Giselle's idealism. Between Karina's discipline and Jimin's desire for authenticity.

"The reality," she said carefully, "is that we're in no position to argue. Not yet. The trainer told me that sometimes leadership means bringing people back to reality, not indulging their fantasies."

Giselle scoffed. "Sounds to me like that'd be indulging their fantasy. The fantasy that they own our artistry, that we're just pretty dolls they can pose however they want."

"Giselle—" Winter started, but Giselle cut her off.

"No, I'm serious. Think about it. What happened in that room today? We took their choreography and made it better. We didn't change the foundation, we built something more interesting on top of it. And their response is to shut it down completely? To tell us to go back to being robots?"

"They didn't say that," Karina pointed out, though part of her—the part that sounded like Jimin—silently agreed with Giselle's assessment.

"They didn't have to," Giselle replied. "The message is clear: Stay in your lane. Don't think. Just execute."

Ningning, who had been unusually quiet, looked up. "But what if Karina's right? What if we have to earn the right to be creative? What if pushing back now just means we never debut at all?"

The question hung in the air between them, giving voice to the fear they all shared. They'd seen it happen before—promising trainees who pushed too hard against the system, who questioned too much, who suddenly disappeared from practice rooms, their dreams evaporating like morning mist.

"So we just surrender?" Giselle asked, but her voice had lost some of its edge, revealing the uncertainty beneath her defiance.

Karina looked at each of them—Winter's careful calculation, Ningning's nervous energy, Giselle's frustrated passion. She felt the weight of leadership pressing down on her, not just the responsibility to guide them toward debut, but to help them navigate the complex reality of the industry they were entering.

"Not surrender," she said finally. "Strategic compromise."

Giselle raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning we give them what they asked for tomorrow. The original choreography, executed perfectly." Karina held up a hand as Giselle started to protest. "But we also continue developing our version. Refining it. Making it even stronger. And when the time is right—when we've proven ourselves, when we have more leverage—we bring it back."

"And when exactly will that magical moment arrive?" Giselle challenged, though with less heat than before.

"I don't know," Karina admitted. "But I do know that if we push too hard now, we might never get the chance at all."

Winter nodded slowly. "It makes sense. We prove we can follow direction first, build trust, then gradually introduce our own ideas."

"Exactly," Karina said, grateful for Winter's support. "It's not about giving up our creativity. It's about being strategic about when and how we express it."

Ningning seemed to consider this. "So tomorrow, we go back to the original version. But we don't forget what we discovered today."

"We don't forget," Karina agreed, meeting Giselle's eyes directly. "We just... postpone it."

Giselle held her gaze for a long moment, clearly wrestling with the compromise. Finally, she sighed. "Fine. But I want it on record that I think we're making a mistake. That what we did today was special, and going backwards is... disappointing."

The word stung, but Karina didn't flinch from it. "Noted. And I don't disagree. But sometimes leadership means—"

"Making tough choices, I get it," Giselle finished for her. "Just don't get too comfortable making the safe choice, Karimin. It becomes a habit."

The nickname, delivered with a mix of affection and challenge, hit Karina differently than it had before. Not an undermining of her authority, but a reminder of the balance she was trying to find—between Karina's discipline and Jimin's authenticity.

"I won't," she promised, and meant it. "This isn't the end of the conversation. It's just... a tactical retreat."

Winter stood up straighter. "So, we practice the original choreography tonight? Make sure it's perfect for tomorrow?"

Karina nodded, falling back into the familiar role of leader—organizing, directing, focusing their energy toward a clear goal. "Yes. Back to basics. We show them we can execute their vision flawlessly."

As they gathered their things to head back to the practice room, Karina felt the internal dialogue quieting. Not because either voice had won, but because they'd reached a temporary truce—Karina's pragmatism acknowledging the value of Jimin's artistic instincts, Jimin's passion accepting the necessity of Karina's strategic approach.

It wasn't a perfect resolution. But as she watched her members preparing to work—Ningning stretching her shoulders, Winter reviewing the original choreography in her head, Giselle reluctantly but dutifully tying back her hair—Karina realized that perhaps leadership wasn't about perfect resolutions. Perhaps it was about finding a path forward that honored both reality and possibility, both what was and what could be.

For today, at least, that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

The subway car lurched, throwing Giselle against Karina's shoulder. She straightened immediately, gripping the handrail tighter, her knuckles whitening.

Karina glanced at her, noting the tight line of Giselle's jaw, the way she stared straight ahead at nothing. "You're pissed."

"What gave it away?" Giselle didn't look at her.

"The fact that you haven't said a word since we left the dorm." Karina shifted her weight as the train rounded a curve. "And you're strangling that handrail."

Giselle released her grip, flexing her fingers. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just talk to me."

The automated voice announced the next station. Three more stops to SM. Giselle checked her watch, though they both knew they had plenty of time.

"It's nothing new," Giselle finally said. "Just... tired of being treated like a puppet."

"The choreography thing?"

"Everything." Giselle's voice sharpened. "The choreography, the styling, the 'personality guidance'—" she made air quotes with her fingers, "—all of it."

Karina lowered her voice as a group of schoolgirls squeezed past them. "That's the industry."

"That's what they want us to believe." Giselle turned to face her now, eyes flashing. "I've been manipulated before, Karina. I know what it feels like to have everything sorted out by people who think they know better."

"This is different."

"Is it?" Giselle challenged. "My mother micromanaged my life because she thought she knew what was best for me. SM micromanages our lives because they think they know what's best for us. Different players, same game."

The train slowed again. Passengers shuffled around them, creating momentary pockets of privacy in the crowd.

"You knew what you were signing up for," Karina said, gentler than her words.

Giselle laughed, short and sharp. "Did I? Did any of us really understand what we were giving up?"

"We're not giving up, we're investing. Paying dues."

"God, you sound like them." Giselle shook her head, then immediately caught herself. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

Karina shrugged, absorbing the jab. "Maybe I do sound like them sometimes. Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Doesn't mean you're right, either."

Two stops now. The morning rush thinned slightly as business people exited toward the financial district.

"Look," Karina said, "I get it. I do. But we're so close, Giselle. Debut is right there. We just need to—"

"Play the game?" Giselle cut in. "For how long? Until debut? Until our first comeback? Our fifth? When do we get to have a say?"

Karina didn't answer immediately. A high school boy recognized her, nudged his friend. She shifted her face away, pulled her cap lower.

"I don't have all the answers," she admitted. "I just know that right now, rebellion gets us nowhere."

Giselle sighed, the fight draining from her. "I'm not talking about rebellion. I'm talking about dignity. About having a voice."

The train slowed again. One more stop.

"We will," Karina said. "But we have to earn it first."

"By being good little trainees who never question anything?"

"By being smart enough to pick our battles."

Giselle studied her face. "And this isn't one worth picking?"

"Not today." Karina checked the time on her phone. "Today we just need to get through practice."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we reassess." Karina offered a small smile. "One day at a time, right?"

Giselle didn't return the smile, but some of the tension left her shoulders. "Fine. But I'm not pretending to be happy about it."

"Never asked you to."

The train slowed for their stop. They gathered their bags, joining the stream of commuters heading for the exit.

"For what it's worth," Karina said as they climbed the stairs to street level, "I think you're right."

Giselle glanced at her, surprised. "About?"

"About deserving a voice. About all of it." Karina pushed through the turnstile. "I just think timing matters."

Giselle fell into step beside her as they emerged into the morning sunlight. "Careful, Karina. You almost sound like Jimin right now."

Karina's step faltered, just for a moment. "Maybe Jimin had a point."

Karina's step faltered, just for a moment. "Maybe Jimin had a point."

They walked the last block in silence, the SM building looming ahead of them, all glass and promise and invisible strings.

"Right, almost forgot you had trouble being her." Giselle tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes fixed on the building ahead.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you work so hard to be Karina, sometimes I wonder if Jimin gets any air."

Karina scoffed, adjusting her bag strap. "Says the girl who reinvented herself the moment she landed in Seoul."

"What about Aeri? In which part of Giselle does she fit?" Karina bumped Giselle's shoulder playfully, trying to lighten the mood.

Giselle stopped walking, forcing Karina to halt beside her. Morning sunlight caught in her hair as she turned.

"Aeri is the awful controlled person I want to leave behind." Her voice dropped lower. "Giselle is who I want to be."

A delivery truck rumbled past, momentarily drowning out the city noise.

"That's the difference between us," Giselle continued, her gaze direct and unblinking. "For you, it's the other way around. You want to leave behind the person you truly are down inside."

Karina's jaw tightened. "You don't know that."

"Don't I?" Giselle tilted her head. "I've seen Jimin slip through sometimes when you're tired or excited. She looks more comfortable in your skin than Karina does."

"We should get inside." Karina checked her watch, though she knew they had seven minutes to spare.

Giselle didn't budge. "Why does that bother you so much?"

"It doesn't."

"Bullshit."

A group of office workers brushed past them on the sidewalk. Karina lowered her voice.

"Jimin wasn't enough, okay? She wasn't disciplined enough, wasn't polished enough." Her words came faster now. "Karina is everything Jimin couldn't be."

"Or everything they told you Jimin shouldn't be."

Karina ran a hand through her hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "What do you want from me, Giselle?"

"Just honesty." Giselle softened. "Just... acknowledgment that maybe we're both running from something."

The SM building's shadow stretched toward them as the sun climbed higher.

"Fine." Karina exhaled. "Maybe I am. But Karina gets results that Jimin never could."

"At what cost?"

"At whatever cost necessary." Karina straightened her shoulders. "That's the difference between us. I'm willing to pay it."

Giselle studied her face, then nodded slowly. "For now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I don't think you can outrun yourself forever." Giselle checked the time. "Three minutes."

They resumed walking, their pace quickening as they approached the entrance.

"Not trying to outrun myself," Karina muttered. "Just trying to be better."

"Better than what? Than who?" Giselle held the door open. "Better than the version of you that might actually enjoy this life we're fighting for?"

The building's air conditioning hit them, a cold contrast to the warm morning outside.

"We can't all be rebels, Giselle."

"And we can't all be perfect, Karina." Giselle's voice softened. "Not even you."

The elevator doors opened before them. Inside, three other trainees glanced up, then quickly looked away, sensing the tension.

Karina pressed the button for their floor, her reflection fractured in the mirrored walls. For just a second, she didn't recognize herself.

"I never wanted perfect," she whispered, so low only Giselle could hear. "I just wanted to be enough."

Giselle's eyes met hers in the mirror. "Jimin always was."

The elevator climbed, floor numbers ticking upward like a countdown.

"Want to know something funny?" Karina said, her voice low but sharp. "Everyone thinks they know me better than I know myself." She adjusted her bag, knuckles white against the strap. "And, you know, there's just one solution to all of this. Either we put up, or shut up."

Giselle leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. "That's not a solution. That's surrender disguised as pragmatism."

The elevator doors slid open, revealing the practice floor's sterile hallway. They stepped out together, the other trainees hurrying past them.

"Call it whatever you want." Karina glanced down the hallway where their practice room waited. "But we're here now. We made our choices."

"Choices can be unmade."

"At what cost?" Karina challenged, turning the earlier question back on Giselle. "You willing to throw away everything you've worked for? Everything we've all worked for?"

Giselle pushed off from the wall, frustration radiating from her movements. "I'm not talking about quitting. I'm talking about standing up for ourselves while we still remember who we are."

"Tell me honestly," Karina lowered her voice as two staff members passed by, nodding politely in their direction. "You really think four girls like us can put up against a whole corporation?"

The lights buzzed overhead, casting shadows across Giselle's face as she considered the question.

"Maybe not." Giselle's shoulders dropped slightly. "But I think four girls like us should at least try before assuming we can't."

Karina checked the time again. One minute to spare. "It's not that simple."

"It never is." Giselle reached out, briefly touching Karina's arm. "But we're supposed to be a team. If we can't even be honest with each other about who we are and what we want, what's the point of any of this?"

The practice room door opened down the hall. Winter poked her head out, spotting them.

"There you are," she called. "Trainer's on his way up."

Karina nodded acknowledgment, then turned back to Giselle. "We'll continue this later?"

"Will we?" Giselle challenged. "Or will you just find another reason to put it off?"

Before Karina could answer, Ningning appeared beside Winter, waving them over urgently.

"Later," Karina promised, holding Giselle's gaze. "For real."

Giselle studied her face, searching for something—sincerity, perhaps, or resolve. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her, at least temporarily.

"Fine. Later." She straightened her posture, transforming before Karina's eyes—back straight, chin up, the perfect trainee once more. "But I'm holding you to that."

As they walked toward the practice room, Karina felt the familiar shift within herself—Jimin receding, Karina taking control. The transition was smooth, practiced, almost imperceptible.

The evaluation room door swung open. Unlike their usual practice space, this room felt colder, more formal. A long table stretched across one side, where five executives sat with clipboards and tablets. Their main trainer stood at attention beside them, his usual casual demeanor replaced with stiff professionalism.

Karina scanned the room, a fleeting memory surfacing—her mother's colleagues filling their living room, discussing her future over her head as if she weren't there. She'd been surrounded by these kinds of people all her life. Different faces, same expectant stares.

"SM Entertainment values punctuality," said the center executive without looking up from his notes.

"Our apologies," Karina bowed deeply, the others following her lead. "It won't happen again."

The executive nodded curtly. "Let's not waste any more time. Take your positions."

Winter moved immediately to her mark, shoulders squared, face composed. Ningning followed, nervously adjusting her practice clothes. Giselle hesitated for a fraction of a second, eyes meeting Karina's with that same challenge from earlier, before taking her place.

The trainer stood aside, clipboard clutched against his chest, as they arranged themselves in formation. The room's silence pressed in, broken only by the scratch of pens on paper as the executives made preliminary notes.

"You'll perform the original choreography first," the head executive announced. "Then we'll discuss."

Karina nodded, centering herself. "We're ready."

"Music," he commanded, and the familiar intro filled the room.

Karina's body snapped into motion, every movement sharp and deliberate. She caught glimpses of the executives in the mirror—faces impassive, eyes critical, tracking every step, every expression. One woman leaned toward another, whispering something behind her hand.

The four minutes felt like forty. When the music ended, they held their final pose, chests heaving, waiting for permission to relax.

"You may stand at ease," the head executive said, consulting with his colleagues in hushed tones.

Winter shifted closer to Karina. "How was it?" she whispered.

Before Karina could answer, the trainer cleared his throat loudly, silencing them.

The head executive placed his tablet flat on the table. "Let's address the elephant in the room. Yesterday's evaluation."

Karina felt the air thicken around them. Winter straightened her posture, Ningning's eyes widened, and Giselle's jaw visibly tightened.

"Your performance today shows technical improvement," he continued, folding his hands. "But your expressions convey anger rather than confidence. That's unacceptable."

"With respect, sir," Karina began carefully, "we're simply focused on—"

"On proving a point?" The female executive cut in. "We saw it in all four of you. Particularly you, Giselle."

Giselle's head snapped up. "Me?"

"Your movements were precise, but your face..." She made a dismissive gesture. "You looked resentful."

"Maybe because—" Giselle started, her voice rising.

Karina's hand shot out, gripping Giselle's wrist. Hard. A warning.

"We apologize," Karina interjected smoothly. "Pre-debut nerves are affecting our performance. It won't happen again."

The head executive leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "This industry has no room for attitude problems. Especially from rookies."

Giselle's wrist twisted in Karina's grip, but Karina didn't release her.

"We understand completely," Karina said, bowing slightly. "We're grateful for the feedback."

Winter stepped forward. "We'll work on our expressions immediately. Perhaps we could demonstrate again?"

The executives exchanged glances. One checked his watch pointedly.

"Fine. Once more," the head executive said. "This time, I want to see the bright, confident idols we're investing in. Not four angry trainees with something to prove."

Karina finally released Giselle's wrist as they moved back to starting position. Giselle rubbed the spot, glaring.

"What the hell?" she hissed under her breath.

"Not. Now." Karina's voice was barely audible, her smile fixed for the executives' benefit.

Ningning shifted nervously beside them. "Guys, they're watching."

The trainer positioned himself directly in front of them. "Remember who you represent," he said, his eyes lingering on Giselle. "From the top."

As the music started, Karina caught Giselle's eye in the mirror. A silent plea: Just get through this. Fight later.

Something in Giselle's expression shifted—not surrender, but strategic retreat. Her movements flowed more naturally, her face transformed into the bright, confident image they'd been trained to project.

Winter followed suit, her technical precision now matched with a perfect smile. Ningning's nervous energy channeled into enthusiastic performance.

Karina felt herself slipping fully into the role—Jimin buried so deep she could barely feel her presence anymore. Just Karina now, giving them exactly what they wanted.

When the music ended, the silence felt different. Evaluative, but less hostile.

"Better," the head executive said after a moment. "Much better."

The female executive nodded. "That's the image we're looking for. Bright. Polished. Marketable."

"Thank you for the opportunity to improve," Karina said, the practiced words flowing easily.

The executives gathered their materials, clearly ready to move on. "We'll see you at next week's evaluation. Continue with this attitude, and we'll have no problems."

As they filed out, the trainer lingered. "Good recovery," he told Karina quietly. "Keep your group in line."

The door closed behind him, leaving the four of them alone in the suddenly empty room.

Giselle spun toward Karina, eyes flashing. "Don't ever grab me like that again."

"You were about to throw everything away," Karina countered, dropping the smile that had been plastered on her face.

"I was about to stand up for myself!"

"And what would that have accomplished?" Karina demanded. "Getting yourself cut? Getting all of us labeled as troublemakers?"

Winter stepped between them. "Both of you, calm down. It's over."

"Is it?" Giselle challenged. "Or did we just teach them that they can say whatever they want, and we'll smile and take it?"

Ningning slumped against the mirror, sliding down to sit on the floor. "I thought we were going to get cut right there."

Karina ran a hand through her hair, adrenaline still coursing through her system. "We weren't. But we could have been."

"So that justifies manhandling me?" Giselle rubbed her wrist again, though Karina knew she hadn't gripped that hard.

"That justifies stopping you from sabotaging yourself." Karina's voice softened slightly. "And us."

Winter checked the time. "We should go. Dance team has this room in five minutes."

As they gathered their things, Giselle kept her distance from Karina, the tension between them palpable.

"I'm not apologizing," Karina said quietly as they reached the door.

Giselle paused, hand on the doorknob. "I'm not asking you to." She turned, meeting Karina's gaze directly. "But don't expect me to thank you for choosing their side over mine."

"It's not about sides."

"Isn't it?" Giselle pushed the door open. "It always has been."

"You're making it seem like it is," Karina said, following Giselle into the hallway. "I'm just trying to choose what's best for us."

Giselle spun around. "Best for us? Or easiest for you?"

Winter and Ningning exchanged glances, hanging back a few steps.

"That's not fair." Karina lowered her voice as a group of junior trainees passed by. "You think I enjoy this? Playing peacekeeper while you get to be the rebel?"

"I think you enjoy being in control." Giselle hitched her bag higher on her shoulder. "It's safer that way, right?"

"We should take this somewhere private," Winter suggested, eyeing the busy hallway.

Karina ignored her. "You have no idea what I'm trying to protect here."

"Us? The debut? Your perfect leader image?" Giselle counted off on her fingers. "Tell me which one matters most."

"All of it matters!" Karina's voice rose despite herself. She took a breath, centering herself. "This isn't just about today. Every interaction, every evaluation builds our reputation. What happens if we get labeled as difficult before we even debut?"

Ningning stepped forward. "She's right, Giselle. My friend from the last training group got cut for 'attitude issues.' She just asked too many questions."

Giselle's expression softened slightly toward Ningning, then hardened again as she turned back to Karina. "So we just accept whatever they dish out?"

"We pick our battles," Karina insisted. "And an evaluation with five executives watching isn't the right battlefield."

A door opened nearby. Their trainer emerged, frowning at the sight of them still in the hallway. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir," all four answered in unison.

"Then I suggest you use your free hour for practice, not gossip." He checked his watch pointedly. "The monthly assessments are coming up."

They bowed as he passed. When he turned the corner, Giselle exhaled sharply.

"See what I mean?" she muttered. "Always watching, always judging."

"That's the job," Winter said pragmatically. "We knew that coming in."

"Did we?" Giselle challenged. "Did we really understand what it meant to have every word, every expression, every thought policed?"

Karina grabbed Giselle's arm, gentler this time, pulling her toward an empty practice room. Winter and Ningning followed, closing the door behind them.

"Look," Karina said, releasing Giselle's arm. "I get it. I do. But there's a time and place for this conversation, and it's not right after barely surviving an evaluation."

"When is it, then?" Giselle demanded. "When we're too exhausted to fight? When we're too invested to walk away? When we've forgotten who we were before all this?"

The question hung in the air between them. Ningning sank onto a bench, suddenly looking younger than her years.

"I just want to debut," she said quietly. "I've been training for so long. I can't go home empty-handed."

Winter nodded. "My parents have already told everyone I'm going to be an idol. The embarrassment if I fail now..."

Karina watched their faces, feeling the weight of their dreams added to her own. She turned back to Giselle.

"This is what I'm protecting," she said softly. "Not just my image. All of us. Our chance."

Something in Giselle's expression shifted. Not surrender, but recognition.

"I want that too," she admitted. "But not at any cost."

"Then help me find the balance," Karina offered. "Just not by blowing up in front of the executives."

Her teeth clenched.

"You have just as much to lose as the rest of us," Karina pressed, stepping closer. "Maybe more."

Giselle's smile vanished. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm pretty sure you don't want to go back to Japan." Karina's voice softened, but her words landed with precision. "Back to being Aeri."

Giselle flinched as if struck. Her eyes darted to Winter and Ningning, who suddenly found the floor fascinating.

"Low blow," Giselle muttered.

"Just the truth." Karina crossed her arms. "We all left something behind to be here. We all have somewhere we don't want to return to."

Giselle paced to the mirror, staring at her reflection. "You think I'm afraid of failing? Of going home?"

"Aren't you?"

"I'm afraid of succeeding at the wrong thing." Giselle turned, chin lifted. "Of becoming famous for being someone I'm not."

Winter stepped forward. "We all make compromises—"

"This isn't about compromise," Giselle cut her off. "It's about who gets to decide. Them? Or us?"

Ningning fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. "But they're the ones investing millions in us."

"And that buys our talent, our time, our work." Giselle's voice rose. "Not our identities."

Karina watched her carefully. "Is that what this is about? You're tired of being told who to be?"

"Aren't you?" Giselle challenged. "Or have you forgotten what that feels like after so many years of following orders?"

The practice room's lights hummed in the silence that followed.

"I haven't forgotten," Karina finally said. "But I've learned to pick my battles."

"That's just another way of saying you've learned to surrender."

Karina's jaw tightened. "It's called strategy. Something you might want to consider before throwing away everything you've worked for."

"I didn't come all this way to be another puppet." Giselle's hands clenched at her sides. "I left that life in Japan."

"So what exactly do you want?" Karina demanded. "To be an idol or to do whatever you want? Because you can't have both."

"Why not?" Giselle shot back. "Why can't we have some say in who we become?"

Winter sighed heavily. "Because that's not how this industry works."

"Then maybe the industry needs to change." Giselle looked at each of them in turn. "Maybe we could be the ones to change it."

Ningning's eyes widened. "Us? Four rookies who haven't even debuted?"

"We have to start somewhere," Giselle insisted.

Karina shook her head. "You're dreaming."

"And you're too afraid to dream anymore." Giselle's voice softened, tinged with something like pity. "What happened to you, Jimin?"

The name hung in the air between them. Winter and Ningning exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"Jimin grew up," Karina replied evenly. "She learned how the world works."

"No." Giselle stepped closer. "Jimin gave up. She let them convince her that obedience was the only path to success."

Karina felt heat rising in her cheeks. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Giselle tilted her head. "I see how hard you work to be perfect Karina. How exhausted you are from fighting yourself every day."

"We should really practice," Winter interjected, moving toward the sound system.

Karina held up a hand, stopping her. "No. I want to hear what Giselle thinks she knows about me."

Giselle didn't back down. "I know you're tired of being everyone's idea of a leader except your own." She gestured around the practice room. "I know part of you hates this just as much as I do."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Giselle challenged. "Then why do you look so relieved when no one's watching? When you think you can just be for a minute instead of perform?"

Ningning shifted awkwardly. "Guys, maybe we should—"

"Let her finish," Karina said, eyes locked on Giselle. "Apparently she has me all figured out."

Giselle shook her head. "I don't have you figured out. That's the point. None of us really know each other because we're all too busy being what they want us to be."

The accusation hung in the air, uncomfortable but not entirely untrue.

"So what's your solution?" Karina finally asked. "We all just... what? Refuse to follow direction? Demand creative control we haven't earned?"

"We start small," Giselle said. "We pick our battles, like you said. But we actually pick some, instead of surrendering all of them."

Winter stepped forward. "Like what?"

Giselle considered for a moment. "Like our upcoming concept photos. We could suggest styling ideas that feel more authentic to each of us."

"That's... actually not unreasonable," Winter admitted.

Ningning nodded cautiously. "They sometimes ask for our input anyway."

Karina studied Giselle's face, searching for the trap. "And if they say no?"

"Then we try something else." Giselle shrugged. "The point is to try. To remember we have voices."

The practice room fell silent again, the proposition hovering between them.

"I can't promise anything," Karina said finally. "But... I'll think about it."

It wasn't much, but the small concession transformed Giselle's expression. Not triumph, exactly, but hope.

"That's all I'm asking." Giselle extended her hand. "For now."

Karina hesitated, then took it. "This doesn't mean I agree with your methods."

"And this doesn't mean I'm backing down," Giselle countered, but her grip was firm, her smile genuine.

Winter clapped her hands together. "Great! Now that we've solved the industry's power dynamics, can we please practice? We have that showcase next week."

The tension in the room dissolved into reluctant laughter. As they moved into formation, Karina caught Giselle watching her in the mirror.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Giselle replied, a small smile playing at her lips. "Just wondering what Jimin would think of all this."

Karina held her gaze for a moment, then turned to the mirror, straightening her posture.

"Why are you so fixed on finding that part of me?" she asked, voice low enough that only Giselle could hear.

Giselle adjusted her position, shoulders aligning with Karina's in the reflection. "Because it's the most human part of you."

"You didn't know Jimin." Karina's eyes flicked to Winter in the mirror, who was helping Ningning with a hand position. "None of you did."

Giselle followed her gaze. "Ah. So that's it."

"What?"

"Winter." Giselle nodded slightly toward the tallest member. "She's the one who keeps bringing up Jimin, isn't she?"

Karina's jaw tightened. "She thinks she knew me. Before."

Winter looked up, sensing their attention. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," Karina replied, too quickly. "Just finalizing positions."

Winter held her gaze a beat too long before turning back to Ningning. The weight of unspoken history hung between them.

"How long did you train together before I arrived?" Giselle asked, connecting dots.

"Three years." Karina shifted her weight, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "She was there when I... when things changed."

"When Jimin became Karina, you mean."

A muscle twitched in Karina's cheek. "When I grew up."

Giselle studied her face in the mirror. "And Winter didn't approve."

"Winter doesn't understand." Karina's voice hardened. "She thinks I'm suppressing some authentic version of myself. Like I'm betraying who I really am."

"Aren't you?"

"No." Karina turned to face Giselle directly. "I'm becoming who I need to be. Who I want to be."

"Are you sure about that?" Giselle's question came gently, but landed hard.

Before Karina could respond, Winter approached, Ningning trailing behind her.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever intense moment you two are having," Winter said, "but we have forty minutes left and a showcase to prepare for."

Something in her tone—a subtle edge—made Karina wonder how much she'd overheard.

"You're right," Karina said, slipping back into leader mode. "Let's run through it from the top."

Winter nodded, but her eyes lingered on Karina's face. "Just like old times, right? You taking charge, me following along."

"Right. Just like old times." Karina's voice remained neutral, but her shoulders tensed. "Ningning, music."

Winter didn't move. "That's it? No defense? No explanation?"

"There's nothing to explain." Karina adjusted her sleeve, avoiding Winter's gaze. "We have work to do."

"Always the perfect trainee," Winter muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Giselle stepped between them. "Okay, what am I missing here?"

"Nothing important," Karina insisted.

"Three years of history," Winter countered. "But Karina prefers to pretend it never happened."

Karina's head snapped up. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Winter crossed her arms. "You've spent so long becoming Karina that you've forgotten what it was like before. When we were just trainees figuring things out together. Before you decided you needed to be perfect."

Ningning froze by the sound system, finger hovering over the play button.

"I didn't forget anything," Karina said, voice tight. "I grew up. Maybe you should try it."

Winter flinched as if struck. "There she is. The ice queen. Much easier than admitting you're scared, right?"

"I'm not scared," Karina shot back. "I'm realistic."

"You're hiding." Winter stepped closer. "And I'm tired of pretending I don't notice."

The practice room seemed to shrink, the air between them charged with years of unspoken tension.

"Um, should I leave?" Ningning asked, glancing nervously at the door.

"No," Karina said firmly, breaking eye contact with Winter. "No one's leaving. We're practicing."

Giselle placed a hand on Winter's arm. "Maybe we should table this for—"

"For when?" Winter shook off Giselle's hand. "After debut? After our first comeback? There's never going to be a right time because she'll never be ready to admit what she gave up."

"I didn't give up anything," Karina snapped. "I made choices. Hard ones. The kind leaders have to make."

Winter laughed, short and sharp. "Is that what you tell yourself? That cutting away pieces of yourself was some noble sacrifice?"

"Stop," Ningning pleaded. "Please."

Karina inhaled deeply, centering herself. "This isn't productive. We have a showcase to prepare for."

"Always the professional," Winter said, the words dripping with sarcasm. "Always the perfect Karina."

"What do you want from me?" Karina demanded, patience finally snapping. "To break down? To fail? To throw away everything we've worked for because you miss some version of me that wasn't good enough?"

The question hung in the air, raw and exposed.

Winter's expression softened. "Not good enough? Is that what you think Jimin was?"

Karina turned away, facing the mirror. "Jimin couldn't have led us here. She wasn't strong enough."

"She was real," Winter said quietly. "That was her strength."

Karina's reflection stared back at her, perfect posture, perfect composure, perfect mask. For a moment—just a moment—it slipped, revealing something vulnerable underneath.

Giselle noticed. "Maybe Winter has a point."

"Not you too," Karina muttered.

"I'm not taking sides," Giselle clarified. "I'm just saying... maybe there's room for both. The discipline of Karina and the... whatever Jimin had that Winter misses so much."

"Humanity," Winter supplied. "Joy. Spontaneity."

"Weakness," Karina countered. "Insecurity. Fear."

"Is that really how you see your old self?" Ningning asked, her voice small. "As weak?"

Karina didn't answer immediately, the question forcing her to confront something she'd buried long ago.

"I see her as unprepared," she said finally. "For this world. For what it takes to succeed in it."

Winter shook her head. "You see her as a liability. But she wasn't. She was the reason people connected with you in the first place."

"That was a long time ago," Karina said, turning back to face them. "Things change. People change."

"They grow," Winter agreed. "They don't erase themselves."

The words landed like a physical blow. Karina's careful composure wavered, just for a second.

"I didn't erase myself," she said, her voice quieter now. "I became what I needed to be."

"What they told you to be," Winter corrected gently.

Karina's jaw tightened. "We don't have time for this."

"We never do," Winter sighed. "That's the problem."

Giselle looked between them, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So this is what you meant earlier. About having somewhere you don't want to return to."

Karina nodded curtly. "Can we please practice now?"

Winter held her gaze for a long moment, then relented. "Fine. But this conversation isn't over."

"Know what? It is. We're through." Karina's voice cut through the room like a blade. "We're absolutely through."

Winter blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "What?"

"I'm done." Karina yanked her hair tie out, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. "Done pretending that this constant undermining isn't happening. Done acting like your little digs don't matter."

"Karina—" Giselle started.

"No." Karina whirled toward her. "You don't get to play mediator now. Not after spending all morning telling me how fake I am, how I've surrendered, how I've lost myself."

Her voice rose with each accusation, years of carefully contained emotion suddenly breaking free.

"I haven't lost myself. I've protected myself. Protected all of us." She gestured wildly around the practice room. "You think this industry rewards authenticity? Vulnerability? They eat that alive and spit out the bones."

Ningning backed against the wall, eyes wide.

"That's not what I meant—" Giselle tried again.

"It's exactly what you meant." Karina jabbed a finger in her direction. "Poor Karina, so controlled, so perfect, so empty inside. As if you know anything about what's inside me."

Winter stepped forward. "We're just trying to help—"

"Help?" Karina laughed, a harsh sound that bounced off the mirrors. "By constantly reminding me of who I used to be? By treating Karina like some villain who kidnapped your precious Jimin?"

She turned to Winter, voice dropping dangerously low.

"You want to know why I changed? Why I became someone else? Because Jimin was drowning. Because every evaluation, every criticism, every failure was killing her. Because she couldn't handle the pressure, the competition, the constant scrutiny."

Winter flinched. "That's not true."

"You don't get to tell me what's true about myself!" Karina shouted, the words tearing from her throat. "You weren't inside my head. You didn't feel what I felt."

She paced across the practice room, hands shaking.

"You think I don't remember who I was? I remember everything. I remember crying in bathroom stalls. I remember throwing up before evaluations. I remember lying awake all night, terrified of not being good enough."

Giselle reached for her. "Karina—"

"Don't touch me." Karina jerked away. "You wanted authentic? Here it is. I built Karina piece by piece because Jimin was too weak to survive this place. Too soft. Too real."

Her voice cracked on the last word.

"And now you want me to, what? Go back? Become vulnerable again? Risk everything we've worked for because you miss some version of me that was easier for you to control?"

Winter shook her head. "That's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" Karina challenged. "You liked Jimin because she followed your lead. She looked up to you. She needed you. Karina doesn't, and that kills you."

Winter's face paled. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair!" Karina grabbed her water bottle from the floor, hands still shaking. "None of what we do, what we sacrifice, what we become. It's all unfair. But it's the reality."

She turned to Giselle. "You want to change the system? Good luck. I'll be busy surviving it."

Giselle stood her ground. "There's a difference between surviving and surrendering."

"Easy for you to say. You've been here what, a year? Talk to me after three more." Karina swept her gaze across all three of them. "Talk to me when you understand what it actually costs."

She snatched her bag from the corner, slinging it over her shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Ningning asked, finding her voice at last. "We still have practice."

"Practice without me." Karina strode toward the door. "I need air."

Winter moved to block her path. "You can't just walk out."

"Watch me." Karina stepped around her. "Leader's prerogative."

"This isn't like you," Winter said, desperation creeping into her voice.

Karina paused at the door, hand on the knob. "Maybe it is. Maybe this is exactly who I am now. Maybe Karina isn't just some act I put on."

She turned back one last time, meeting each of their gazes in turn.

"Or maybe you never really knew me at all."

The door slammed behind her, the sound echoing through the practice room like a gunshot. In the sudden silence, her absence felt physical, as if she'd taken all the oxygen with her.

Giselle was the first to move, starting toward the door.

"Let her go," Winter said quietly. "She needs space."

"What she needs is to not be alone right now," Giselle countered.

Ningning slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. "I've never seen her like that."

"I have," Winter said, her voice hollow. "Once. A long time ago."

Giselle turned to her. "What happened then?"

Winter's gaze remained fixed on the door. "She became Karina."

Chapter Text

Ningning shouldered open the apartment door, juggling her dance bag and a half-empty bubble tea. The living room fell silent as she entered. Two executives in crisp suits sat on the couch, while Winter perched rigid on an armchair, fingers digging into the upholstery. Giselle leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight across her chest.

"Sorry I'm late. Practice ran over and—" Ningning froze, scanning the room. "Where's Karina?"

Mr. Park, the taller executive, straightened his tie. "That's what we need to discuss."

"We were waiting for you," added Ms. Choi, her smile not reaching her eyes.

Ningning dropped her bag. "Did something happen? Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Winter said, voice flat. "Physically, anyway."

Giselle shot her a warning glance.

Mr. Park cleared his throat. "Karina has requested to move out of the dorm."

The bubble tea slipped from Ningning's fingers, splashing across the floor. Nobody moved to clean it up.

"Move out? But we're debuting this year." Ningning's voice cracked. "She can't just—"

"She's not leaving the group," Ms. Choi clarified, stepping carefully around the spilled tea. "Just the accommodation. She'll continue training and performing with aespa as planned."

Ningning's shoulders slumped. "Where is she staying?"

Mr. Park cleared his throat. "Karina specifically requested we do not disclose that information."

"You've got to be kidding me." Winter shot to her feet, fists clenched at her sides.

"I assure you, we're not." Ms. Choi's professional smile never faltered.

"So, she really thinks she's a step above us." Winter paced the small space between the coffee table and TV, each step deliberate and sharp.

Giselle pushed off from the wall. "There has to be more to it than that."

"Is there?" Winter challenged, whirling toward the executives. "Did she give you a reason? A real one?"

Mr. Park adjusted his glasses. "She expressed concerns about... creative differences affecting group harmony."

"Creative differences?" Ningning repeated, voice small. "That's corporate speak for 'they hate each other.'"

"Nobody said anything about hate," Ms. Choi interjected.

Winter laughed, a harsh sound that filled the room. "No, Karina would never say that. Too unprofessional."

"This isn't helping," Giselle muttered, then louder: "When did she decide this?"

"Yesterday afternoon," Mr. Park said. "After your practice session."

Ningning sank deeper into the couch. "After our fight."

"I bet she wanted to do this for a while now," Winter said, voice sharp with accusation. "This just was the opportunity."

Mr. Park cleared his throat. "Regardless of timing, the decision has been made."

"How convenient," Winter muttered.

Giselle stepped forward. "Did she say anything else? Leave any message for us?"

Ms. Choi's professional smile tightened. "Only that she'll see you at practice tomorrow. Seven AM sharp."

"Business as usual," Winter scoffed. "Except she gets to retreat to her private sanctuary while we're stuck here dealing with the fallout."

"There needn't be any fallout," Mr. Park said, checking his watch. "This is a professional arrangement, not a personal rejection."

Ningning hugged her knees to her chest. "It feels personal."

"That's your interpretation," Ms. Choi countered. "Karina was clear this was about optimizing performance conditions."

Giselle laughed, short and bitter. "Is that what she called it?"

Winter paced the small living room, each step charged with tension. "Always the perfect trainee. Always the company favorite."

"That's unfair," Mr. Park said, voice hardening. "Karina has earned her position through dedication and talent."

"We've all worked hard," Ningning protested. "For years."

"Some longer than others," Winter added pointedly.

Ms. Choi glanced at her colleague. "Perhaps this separation will give everyone space to... reflect."

"On what?" Giselle demanded. "How easily she abandoned us?"

"She hasn't abandoned the group," Mr. Park insisted. "Just changed living arrangements."

Winter stopped pacing, turning to face the executives directly. "Did she ever actually live here? Really live here? Or was she always just waiting for the right moment to isolate herself?"

"Winter," Giselle warned.

"No, I want to know." Winter crossed her arms. "Was this the plan all along? Build her up as our perfect leader, then separate her from us peasants?"

Mr. Park's professional demeanor cracked slightly. "That's quite enough, Ms. Kim."

"Is it?" Winter challenged. "Because it feels like we're just getting started."

Ningning stood suddenly, surprising everyone. "Can I at least give her something? A note or—"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Ms. Choi interrupted. "Karina was explicit about maintaining distance."

"For how long?" Ningning's voice cracked.

The executives exchanged glances.

"That remains to be seen," Mr. Park finally answered.

"Indefinitely, then," Giselle translated.

"Until debut, at least," Ms. Choi amended.

Winter laughed, the sound hollow. "Just in time for the cameras to capture our perfect group chemistry."

"I suggest you all get some rest," Mr. Park said, moving toward the door. "Tomorrow's schedule remains unchanged."

"Of course it does," Winter muttered. "The show must go on."

The executives paused at the threshold.

"One more thing," Ms. Choi added. "The company would appreciate discretion regarding this arrangement."

"You want us to lie?" Giselle asked.

"We want you to focus on what matters," Mr. Park corrected. "Your debut. Your future."

"Our image, you mean," Winter shot back.

The door closed behind them with a soft click that somehow felt more final than a slam.

Silence engulfed the apartment, broken only by Ningning's shaky breath.

"I can't believe she did this," she whispered.

Winter dropped onto the couch, energy suddenly drained. "I can. This is who she is now."

"You don't know that," Giselle argued, though without conviction.

"Three years, Giselle." Winter's voice hardened. "I've known her for three years. Watched her transform from Jimin into Karina. This is exactly who she's become."

Ningning hugged herself tighter. "Maybe she just needs space."

"Space from what?" Winter demanded. "From us? From reality?"

"From you, maybe," Giselle suggested quietly.

Winter's head snapped up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You push her." Giselle met her gaze steadily. "Every day. Every practice. Like you're trying to crack that perfect facade."

"Because it is a facade!" Winter stood again, unable to stay still. "And underneath it is someone who's drowning."

Ningning moved toward Karina's room, pushing the door open wider. The space was immaculate—bed made with hospital corners, closet half-empty but perfectly organized, desk cleared of everything except a single framed photo, turned face-down.

She picked it up, turned it over. Four trainees, arms linked, laughing at some forgotten joke. Before aespa. Before everything changed.

"She left this," Ningning said, returning to the living room.

Winter glanced at the photo, expression darkening. "Probably an oversight."

"Or a message," Giselle suggested.

"What kind of message abandons your group months before debut?" Winter challenged.

Ningning traced the smiling faces in the photo. "What if she's not abandoning us? What if she's protecting herself?"

"From what?" Winter demanded. "From feedback? From reality?"

"From breaking," Giselle said quietly.

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.

Winter's anger deflated slightly. "If she's breaking, she should talk to us. Not run away."

"Maybe she can't," Ningning suggested. "Maybe this is the only way she knows how to hold it together."

Winter shook her head. "By shutting us out?"

"By shutting everything out," Giselle corrected. "Including whatever's happening inside her."

"That's exactly the problem." Winter slammed her palm against the wall. "All she ever does is shut out. Even if she shouted at us yesterday, she might haven't even felt it at all."

Ningning clutched the photo tighter. "Karina wouldn't be like that. She wouldn't fake something so raw."

Winter whirled around, eyes flashing. "You don't know her. Not the real her."

"And you do?" Giselle challenged.

"For three years, I've gravitated around Karina." Winter's voice cracked with emotion. "Everything seems to gravitate around Karina. The perfect trainee. The natural leader. The company's golden girl."

Ningning stepped back, startled by the intensity. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Winter laughed, a harsh sound that filled the room. "None of this is fair. You know what's not fair? Watching someone hollow themselves out piece by piece until there's nothing left but a perfect, empty shell."

"She's not empty," Ningning protested.

"Isn't she?" Winter snatched the photo from Ningning's hands. "Look at her here. Really look. That smile reached her eyes. When's the last time you saw that?"

Giselle moved between them. "This isn't helping."

"No, I want to know." Winter thrust the photo toward Ningning. "When's the last time you saw Karina—not performing Karina, not leader Karina—but the actual person underneath, genuinely happy?"

Ningning opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Exactly." Winter tossed the photo onto the coffee table. "You can't remember because it doesn't happen anymore."

"People change," Giselle said quietly. "Especially in this industry."

"Change, yes. Disappear, no." Winter paced the small living room, unable to contain her energy. "She's constructed this perfect facade, and we're all supposed to pretend we don't notice the cost."

"Maybe the cost is worth it to her," Giselle suggested.

"Exactly. Everything is about her." Winter's voice cracked with frustration as she paced the living room. "Her choices. Her career. Her image."

Giselle recoiled slightly. "That's not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" Winter stopped abruptly, turning to face Giselle. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you the one that yesterday was so fixed on having her stand her own ground?"

Giselle flinched, looking away. She nodded, guilt flashing across her face.

"You pushed her," Winter continued, jabbing a finger in Giselle's direction. "All that talk about authenticity and not surrendering to the system. And now you're making excuses for her?"

"I didn't think she'd leave," Giselle admitted quietly.

Ningning glanced between them. "This isn't helping."

"No?" Winter challenged. "Because it seems like we're finally getting to the truth. We all pushed her, but none of us expected her to push back. Not like this."

Giselle crossed her arms, defensive. "I was trying to help her."

"Help her what? Crack? Because congratulations, it worked." Winter swept her arm toward Karina's empty room.

"That's not fair." Giselle's voice hardened. "I wanted her to be real with us."

"And when she finally was—when she finally showed some actual emotion—what happened?" Winter didn't wait for an answer. "We couldn't handle it. And neither could she."

Ningning picked up the photo from the coffee table, studying it. "Maybe she's scared."

"Of what?" Winter demanded.

"Of us seeing her like that." Ningning traced Karina's smiling face in the photo. "Vulnerable. Out of control."

Giselle sank onto the couch. "I didn't mean to make things worse."

"None of us did," Winter sighed, anger deflating slightly. "But we all played our part."

Silence settled over them, heavy with realization.

"So what now?" Ningning finally asked.

Winter ran a hand through her hair. "Now we have to decide: do we let her hide, or do we force the issue?"

"Force how?" Giselle asked, wariness in her tone.

"We could refuse to practice without her living here," Winter suggested.

Ningning's eyes widened. "The company would never allow that."

"Exactly." Winter's expression hardened with determination. "They'd have to choose: force her back or delay debut."

"That's manipulative," Giselle pointed out.

"So is moving out without telling us," Winter countered.

Ningning placed the photo back on the table. "There has to be another way."

"Like what?" Winter challenged. "Asking nicely? Because that's worked so well in the past."

"We could try understanding," Ningning suggested quietly.

"Know what? You're right," Winter said, voice suddenly calm. "I'll show my empathy for her."

She yanked her phone from her pocket, fingers tapping the screen with deliberate precision.

Giselle straightened. "What are you doing?"

"Being empathetic." Winter's smile didn't reach her eyes as she put the phone on speaker.

The automated voice announcement filled the room: "The number you have dialed is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."

Ningning lunged forward. "Winter, don't—"

Winter stepped back, holding the phone away. The beep sounded.

"Hey, thank you for being an asshole to me yesterday," Winter started, voice dripping with false sweetness. "And thank you for showing me that I, alongside everyone else, was a fucking stepping stone on your way to success."

Giselle grabbed for the phone. Winter dodged.

"Thank you Karina, thank you for saying fuck you to the last three years of our lives." Winter's voice cracked on the last word, raw emotion breaking through the sarcasm.

Ningning froze, hand covering her mouth.

"Did you plan this all along?" Winter continued, pacing now. "Was this your exit strategy? Push us away before we could see how hollow you've become?"

Giselle made another grab for the phone. "That's enough!"

Winter twisted away. "Or maybe you're just a coward. Too scared to face what you've done—what you've become."

Ningning finally moved, snatching the phone from Winter's hand and ending the call. "What is wrong with you?"

Winter's chest heaved, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Me? What's wrong with me? Ask her. Ask your perfect leader why she abandoned us months before debut."

"This isn't helping," Giselle insisted, taking the phone from Ningning.

"Nothing is helping!" Winter shouted, voice bouncing off the apartment walls. "Nothing we do matters because she's already gone."

Ningning stepped back, startled by the outburst.

Winter continued, unable to stop now that the dam had broken. "Three years, Ningning. Three years I watched her change. Become someone else. Someone harder. Colder. More perfect."

"Winter—" Giselle tried.

"No, you need to hear this." Winter jabbed a finger in their direction. "You think you know Karina? You don't. You know the version she lets you see. The calculated, controlled, company-approved version."

Ningning's voice was small. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" Winter laughed, a harsh sound. "Nothing about this is fair. You know what's not fair? Watching someone you care about disappear piece by piece and being powerless to stop it."

Giselle's expression softened. "You're not just angry. You're hurt."

"Of course I'm hurt!" Winter's voice cracked again. "Wouldn't you be? If someone you—" She cut herself off.

Ningning and Giselle exchanged glances.

"If someone you what?" Giselle prompted gently.

Winter turned away, facing Karina's empty room. "It doesn't matter now."

Ningning approached cautiously. "It matters to us."

"Why?" Winter demanded, not turning around. "It clearly didn't matter to her."

"You don't know that," Ningning insisted.

Winter's shoulders slumped. "I know she left without saying goodbye. I know she changed her number. I know she told the company not to tell us where she is."

"People do strange things when they're hurting," Giselle offered.

Winter whirled around, eyes flashing. "Excuse me, I don't get how you could be this empathetic when you were so fixed on bringing Jimin back. Maybe Karina was right about one thing, Jimin is gone."

"What are you talking about?" Giselle stepped back, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

"Yesterday." Winter advanced, voice rising. "All your talk about authenticity and not surrendering to the system. Pushing her to be someone she's not anymore."

Giselle's back hit the wall. "I was trying to help!"

"Help who?" Winter demanded. "Karina? Or some version of her that doesn't exist anymore?"

Ningning moved between them. "Stop it."

Winter brushed past her. "No, I want to hear Giselle explain why she gets to play both sides. One day demanding Karina be more authentic, the next defending her running away."

"I'm not defending her!" Giselle shouted, fear cracking through her composure. "I'm trying to understand why she'd do this to us!"

The apartment fell silent, her words echoing off the walls.

Winter's expression shifted, a cold smile spreading across her face. "Glad we're on the same page now."

Giselle slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. "What page is that?"

"That she did this to us," Winter emphasized. "Not for herself. Not for some noble reason. To us."

Ningning hovered uncertainly between them. "Maybe it's both."

"It can't be both," Winter insisted. "Either she's the victim or we are."

"That's not how people work," Giselle countered, voice steadier now. "It's not that simple."

Winter crossed her arms. "Seems pretty simple to me. She left. Without warning. Without discussion. Without a backward glance."

"We don't know that," Ningning protested.

"Don't we?" Winter gestured around the apartment. "Look around. She cleared out while we were gone. Changed her number. Told the company to keep her location secret."

Giselle hugged her knees to her chest. "Maybe she needed a clean break."

"From what?" Winter demanded. "From us? What did we do that was so terrible?"

"We saw her," Ningning said quietly.

Winter and Giselle both turned to her.

"What?" Winter asked.

Ningning met her gaze steadily. "Yesterday. We saw her. The real her. Not leader Karina. Not perfect Karina. The messy, angry, scared version she's been hiding."

Winter's shoulders slumped slightly. "And that was enough to make her run?"

"Maybe," Giselle said, pushing herself up from the floor. "If she's spent years building that perfect image, having it shatter in front of us might have been..."

"Devastating," Ningning finished.

Winter paced the small living room, energy rolling off her in waves. "So what, we're supposed to feel sorry for her now? After what she did?"

"I don't know what we're supposed to feel," Giselle admitted. "I just know I'm tired of being angry."

"Well, I'm not," Winter shot back. "I'm just getting started."

Ningning moved to the window, staring out at the Seoul skyline. "Being angry won't bring her back."

"Who says I want her back?" Winter challenged.

Giselle and Ningning exchanged glances.

"Don't you?" Giselle asked quietly.

Winter stopped pacing, tension visible in every line of her body. "I want Jimin back. But she's gone. Karina made sure of that."

"People change," Giselle said. "We all have."

"Not like her," Winter insisted. "She didn't just change. She erased herself. Built something new on top of the ashes."

Ningning turned from the window. "Maybe that's what she had to do to survive."

"Survive what?" Winter demanded. "Training? The company? Us?"

Silence answered her.

Winter's expression cracked, vulnerability showing through. "Was it me? Did I push her away?"

"Winter—" Giselle started.

"No, I want to know." Winter's voice wavered. "Was I the reason? The final straw?"

Ningning approached her cautiously. "I don't think it was any one thing."

"Of course it wasn't." Winter laughed bitterly, raking fingers through her hair. "Whenever something like this happened to Karina, we'd be on our toes making theories about what it might be. But has she ever done the same for us?"

Giselle frowned. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Winter spun to face her. "When was the last time Karina asked how you were feeling? Really asked, not just checking boxes on her leader duties."

Giselle opened her mouth, then closed it again.

"Exactly." Winter paced the room, energy crackling around her. "She's built this perfect wall between herself and everyone else. We're not teammates to her. We're responsibilities."

Ningning shook her head. "You don't know that."

"Don't I?" Winter stopped, eyes flashing. "Three years. Three years watching her transform into whatever the company wanted. Three years of her pulling away, piece by piece."

"Maybe she had to," Giselle suggested quietly.

"Had to what? Shut us out? Treat us like we're beneath her?" Winter's voice rose. "Because that's what this is. Her final statement that she's above us."

Ningning glanced at Karina's empty room. "I think she's scared."

"Of what?" Winter demanded.

"Of being human," Ningning said simply. "Of making mistakes. Of letting people see her fall."

The words hung in the air between them.

Winter's shoulders slumped slightly. "Then she's a coward."

"Or she's protecting herself the only way she knows how," Giselle countered.

"By hurting us?" Winter challenged.

"Maybe she doesn't see it that way," Ningning suggested.

Winter snatched the photo from the coffee table. "Look at this. Look at her face here. She knew exactly who she was then."

"People change," Giselle said.

"You know what? You're right." Winter's voice hardened, her posture straightening with sudden resolve. "I should change. I should make up for wasting three years of my life running behind her."

She strode to Karina's room, shoving the door fully open so it banged against the wall.

"Winter, what are you—" Ningning started.

"She wants to run away? Fine, so be it." Winter yanked open Karina's closet, grabbing the few remaining clothes. "I'm through running after her."

Giselle rushed forward. "Stop!"

Winter ignored her, tossing Karina's clothes onto the bed. "Three years. Three years of adjusting to her moods, walking on eggshells around her insecurities, pretending not to notice when she'd disappear into herself."

She moved to the desk, sweeping the remaining items into her arms.

"This isn't helping," Ningning pleaded.

"Isn't it?" Winter challenged, dumping everything onto the growing pile. "Because it feels pretty damn therapeutic to me."

Giselle grabbed her arm. "This is childish."

Winter wrenched away. "No, childish is disappearing without a word. Childish is changing your number so no one can reach you. Childish is telling the company to keep your location secret from your own group members."

Her voice rose with each accusation, filling the small room.

"You're angry," Giselle acknowledged. "We all are. But this—"

"This is me changing," Winter cut her off. "This is me finally accepting what she's been telling us all along: we don't matter to her."

Ningning stepped between Winter and the bed. "You don't believe that."

"Don't I?" Winter's laugh held no humor. "Look around, Ningning. Look at the evidence. She's gone. She chose to leave."

"We don't know the whole story," Giselle insisted.

Winter threw up her hands. "There is no story! There's just Karina, making decisions for herself, by herself, like always."

She moved to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer.

"What are you even doing?" Ningning asked.

"Clearing the space," Winter answered, voice tight. "Since she's so eager to erase herself from our lives, I'm just helping the process along."

Giselle crossed her arms. "And then what? We pretend she doesn't exist?"

"No," Winter said, slamming the drawer shut. "We accept reality. She's our groupmate, not our friend. Our colleague, not our sister. Just another trainee who got lucky enough to debut."

Ningning's voice was small. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" Winter challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, that's exactly how she's treating us."

She gathered the pile of Karina's belongings, marching toward the front door.

Giselle blocked her path. "What are you doing?"

"Taking out the trash," Winter said coldly.

"Those are her things," Ningning protested.

"Things she left behind," Winter countered. "Things she clearly doesn't care about."

Giselle stood her ground. "You can't just throw them away."

"Watch me." Winter tried to step around her.

Giselle didn't budge. "This isn't you, Winter."

"Isn't it?" Winter's voice cracked slightly. "Maybe this is exactly who I am when I stop letting someone else define me."

The accusation lay beneath her words—that Karina had somehow shaped her, controlled her, defined her for too long.

Ningning approached cautiously. "Winter, please. Put her things down."

"Why?" Winter demanded. "Why should I care about her stuff when she clearly doesn't care about us?"

"Because you're better than this," Giselle said simply.

"Right. I actually care about myself." Winter's eyes flashed with sudden resolve. She spun around, marching toward the balcony door.

Ningning lunged forward. "Winter, don't—"

Too late. Winter slid the door open with her foot, the night air rushing in as she hurled Karina's belongings over the railing. Clothes fluttered like wounded birds, disappearing into the darkness fourteen floors below.

"What are you doing!?" Giselle screamed, rushing to the balcony.

Winter tossed the last item—a notebook—watching it spiral downward. "Letting go."

Ningning stood frozen, hand over her mouth. "Those were her things."

"Things she left behind," Winter corrected, sliding the door shut with a decisive click. "Just like us."

Giselle grabbed Winter's arm. "Have you lost your mind?"

Winter wrenched free. "No. I've finally found it."

She stalked back to the living room, energy crackling around her like electricity. "I'll tell you what, I don't need more enemies. And I don't get to pick sides, but if you two want to stand between me and Karina—" She jabbed a finger at both of them. "Fine, so be it. You'll know what it's like to be in the middle of a problem you don't want a part in."

Ningning backed away, bumping into the coffee table. "Nobody's picking sides."

"Aren't you?" Winter challenged. "Defending her? Making excuses for her?"

"We're trying to understand," Giselle insisted, voice shaking.

"Understand what?" Winter demanded. "That she abandoned us? That she thinks she's too good for us now?"

Giselle shook her head. "You're not thinking clearly."

"I'm thinking more clearly than I have in years." Winter paced the room, unable to contain her energy. "For the first time, I see her for exactly what she is—selfish."

Ningning's voice was small. "What about the group?"

"What group?" Winter laughed, harsh and brittle. "We're not a group. We're four strangers the company threw together."

"That's not true," Giselle protested.

"Isn't it?" Winter challenged. "Tell me one thing—one real thing—you know about Karina. Not her favorite color or food. Something real."

Silence answered her.

"Exactly." Winter's smile held no warmth. "Because she never let us in. And now she's made it official."

Giselle moved cautiously toward the phone. "I'm calling her."

"Good luck with that," Winter scoffed. "She changed her number, remember?"

"I'm calling the company then," Giselle amended. "This has gone too far."

Winter stepped between Giselle and the phone. "Go ahead. Tell them everything. How I threw her precious things out the window. How I'm not being a good little trainee. See how fast they replace me."

Fear flashed across Giselle's face. "I wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't you?" Winter pressed. "If it meant saving the group? Saving your debut?"

Ningning finally found her voice. "Stop it! Both of you!"

The shout—so uncharacteristic from the youngest—startled them both.

Ningning continued, hands trembling but voice steady. "This is exactly what they want. For us to fall apart."

"Who's they?" Winter asked.

"The company. The system. Everyone who benefits when we turn on each other instead of supporting each other." Ningning stepped forward, suddenly looking older than her years. "Karina left. That hurts. But destroying ourselves won't bring her back."

Winter's shoulders slumped slightly. "Maybe I don't want her back."

"Don't you?" Ningning challenged.

Winter turned away, facing the dark window. "Not like this. Not as someone who can just walk away without a backward glance."

Giselle approached cautiously. "Then tell her that. Tomorrow. Face to face."

Winter stepped forward, closing the distance until she stood inches from Giselle. "Trust me, I will."

Something in her tone—cold, determined, final—made Giselle step back.

"Winter—" she started.

"Don't worry." Winter's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I won't embarrass the group. I won't jeopardize our precious debut."

Ningning moved between them. "That's not what we're worried about."

"No?" Winter challenged. "Then what?"

"You," Ningning said simply. "We're worried about you."

Winter laughed, short and bitter. "Don't be. I'm fine. Better than fine, actually."

"You just threw someone's belongings out a fourteenth-story window," Giselle pointed out.

"Minor detail." Winter waved dismissively, but her hand trembled slightly. "Tomorrow's a new day. Fresh start."

Giselle and Ningning exchanged concerned glances.

"What are you planning?" Giselle asked directly.

Winter's expression hardened. "Nothing. Just a conversation long overdue."

"Winter," Ningning's voice was gentle but firm. "Please don't make things worse."

"Worse than what?" Winter demanded. "Worse than our leader abandoning us months before debut? Worse than her changing her number so we can't reach her? Worse than her telling the company to keep her location secret from us?"

Neither had an answer.

Winter nodded, taking their silence as agreement. "Exactly. There is no worse. We've hit rock bottom."

"That's not true," Giselle insisted. "We're still a group. We're still debuting."

"Are we?" Winter challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, we're three girls left to our own."

Ningning flinched. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" Winter turned to her. "Look around you. Look at this place. You really think I don’t mean any of this?"

Silence answered her.

"That's what I thought." Winter moved toward her room. "Get some sleep. We have practice at seven."

"Winter, wait." Giselle caught her arm. "Promise me you won't do anything rash tomorrow."

Winter stared at Giselle's hand until she released her grip. "Define rash."

"You know what I mean," Giselle said.

Winter's smile was sharp enough to cut. "I promise to be completely professional. Isn't that what Karina would want?"

Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Giselle turned to Ningning. "This isn't going to end well, is it?"

"I don't know," Ningning admitted. "But I do know one thing."

"What?"

"Tomorrow is going to change everything." Ningning glanced at Karina's empty room. "For better or worse."

In her room, Winter sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. Her thumb hovered over Karina's contact—the old number, now disconnected. The profile picture showed them together, arms around each other's shoulders, smiling at some forgotten joke.

"Goodbye, Jimin," she whispered, deleting the contact. "I won't be looking for you anymore."

She set her alarm for 5:30 AM. She wanted to be the first one at practice tomorrow.

Karina wasn't the only one who could make an entrance.

Chapter Text

The practice room echoed with silence, broken only by the rhythmic tap of Winter's foot against the hardwood floor. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The digital clock on the wall blinked mercilessly, each new number fueling the fire building in her chest.

Winter snatched her water bottle, crushed it in her grip. "That's it. I'm done waiting."

"She'll be here," Giselle said, stretching her hamstrings with mechanical precision. "Traffic, maybe."

"Right. I forgot that the laws of humanity applied for a coward like her." Winter kicked the wall, leaving a scuff mark on the pristine white surface. "She walks out in the middle of practice 48 hours ago and suddenly traffic is the problem?"

Ningning huddled in the corner, scrolling frantically through her phone. "Still no response to my texts."

"Because she's avoiding us." Winter stalked to her bag, yanking out her water bottle. "One argument and she bails completely."

"Don't be like that," Giselle said, voice gentle but firm.

Winter spun around, water sloshing over the rim of her bottle. "Don't be like what, Giselle? Angry? Hurt? Human?"

"I just mean—"

"I know exactly what you mean." Winter's voice dropped dangerously low. "Poor Winter, always overreacting. Poor Winter, so emotional."

Giselle stepped back, hands raised. "That's not what I said."

"You didn't have to." Winter slammed her bottle down. "If this was Karina having feelings, you'd all be tripping over yourselves to comfort her. But me? I'm just being difficult."

Ningning shrank against the mirror, eyes darting between them.

"That's not fair," Giselle protested.

"Fair?" Winter laughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "You want to talk about fair? For three years—three years—I've been Karina's shadow. Her backup. Her support system."

"I get that, I'm not denying it," Giselle said, hands raised placatingly. "I'm just saying, we're not gonna get anywhere like this."

Winter closed the distance between them in two swift strides, backing Giselle against the mirror. "Then tell me, two days ago, where did you want to go when you were up in Karina's face telling her that we should 'fight back,' that we should protect our 'identity,' huh?"

Giselle's mouth opened, then closed. Her reflection multiplied the silence.

"That's what I thought." Winter's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You were right there with me. You pushed just as hard."

Ningning shifted uncomfortably in the corner, knuckles white around her phone.

"That was different," Giselle finally managed.

"How?" Winter demanded. "How was it different when you questioned her leadership?"

Giselle's gaze dropped. "I didn't make it personal."

"Of course you didn't. Not when you talked about bringing Jimin back. Or when you wanted to leave 'Aeri' in Japan." Winter's words landed like precision strikes, each one finding its mark.

Giselle's head snapped up, color draining from her face. "That was different."

"How?" Winter pressed, stepping closer. "How was it different when you told her to stop hiding behind her stage name?"

Ningning's eyes widened. She shifted her weight, edging toward the door.

"I was trying to help," Giselle insisted, voice thinning. "The company was pushing her too hard."

Winter's laugh held no humor. "Right. And I'm sure she felt so helped when you suggested she was losing herself."

"That's not what I meant." Giselle's back hit the mirror.

"No?" Winter tilted her head. "Funny, because I remember exactly what you said. 'Jimin's disappearing, and I don't like who's replacing her.'"

Giselle flinched. "I was worried about her."

"You wanna talk about being worried about her? I've been worried for her three years sick. And I've known her since we were teenagers." Winter's voice cracked, the first real fissure in her armor. "I watched the company strip away everything that made her Jimin until all that was left was Karina."

Giselle stepped back, caught off guard by the raw emotion.

"I was there," Winter continued, words rushing out now, "when she stopped eating because a producer called her chubby. When she practiced until her feet bled. When she cried because they told her to be sexy but not too sexy, cute but not childish, confident but not arrogant."

Ningning huddled against the wall, eyes wide.

"Winter—" Giselle started.

"No." Winter cut her off. "You don't get to play the concerned friend card. Not when you've known her for what? A year?"

"That doesn't mean I care less," Giselle countered, finding her voice.

"Doesn't it?" Winter challenged. "Because I don't remember you staying up all night when she got that panic attack before monthly evaluations. I don't remember you holding her hair back when she threw up from exhaustion."

Giselle's expression hardened. "We can't all be Winter, the perfect friend."

"This isn't about being perfect!" Winter slammed her palm against the mirror, the impact echoing through the practice room. "This is about being there. Which is exactly what she's not doing right now."

"I wouldn't want to see you right now if you were this angry either." Giselle crossed her arms, standing her ground.

Winter's eyes narrowed to ice-cold slits. "Had you been in her shoes, you'd have done the same, wouldn't you?"

Giselle opened her mouth, but Winter cut her off before she could form a word.

"That's something Karina never learned. Actions have consequences." Winter's voice dropped dangerously low. "You don't just walk out mid-practice because you can't handle criticism."

Ningning edged toward them, hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "Maybe she had a reason—"

"What reason?" Winter spun toward her. "What reason justifies abandoning your team months before debut?"

"We don't know—"

"Exactly!" Winter threw up her hands. "We don't know because she didn't tell us. She just left. No explanation. No goodbye. Nothing."

Giselle stepped closer, voice measured. "People break sometimes, Winter. Even Karina."

"We all break." Winter's laugh held no humor. "The difference is the rest of us pick up our pieces and keep going."

"Maybe she's trying to," Giselle suggested.

Winter shook her head, disgust twisting her features. "By hiding? By running away? That's not trying. That's quitting."

"It's been one day," Giselle reminded her.

Winter opened her mouth to retort when the practice room door swung open. Karina slipped in, cap pulled low over her face, shoulders hunched beneath an oversized hoodie.

The room froze. Three pairs of eyes locked onto her.

Winter's expression transformed, anger igniting like a match to gasoline. "Hey, you! You running sack of shit!"

She launched toward Karina, each step vibrating with fury.

Karina remained motionless, eyes fixed on the floor, hands buried deep in her pockets.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" Winter demanded, stopping inches from Karina's face. "One fight and you bail? One criticism and you disappear?"

Karina didn't raise her head.

"Winter—" Giselle started, moving forward.

"Stay out of this!" Winter snapped without looking back. Her focus drilled into Karina. "What, nothing to say? No excuse? No apology?"

Karina's silence only fed Winter's rage.

"You know what you are?" Winter circled Karina like a predator. "A coward. Running home to mommy and daddy because things got hard."

Ningning edged closer, concern etched across her face. "Unnie, please—"

"No." Winter cut her off with a slashing motion. "She doesn't get to walk in here like nothing happened. Not after ghosting us."

Karina finally moved, shifting her weight slightly. Still, she didn't look up.

Winter grabbed Karina's shoulder, forcing her to turn. "Say something!"

Karina's head snapped up. Her eyes, cold and unfamiliar, locked onto Winter's. "I'll be the first to tell you, stay away from me." The words came out low, almost a whisper, but edged with unmistakable threat.

Winter's grip faltered, then tightened. "Oh, is that so? That's how you're gonna act, you ungrateful piece of shit?"

Giselle lurched forward. "Winter—"

"Quit it." Karina shrugged off Winter's hand, stepping back to create distance between them.

"Quit it?" Winter's laugh verged on hysterical. "After all the hell I've been through for you? After tiptoeing around your damn insecurities?"

Karina's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath her skin. "You don't know anything about what I'm going through."

"Because you won't tell me!" Winter stepped closer, eliminating the space Karina had created. "That's the problem. You never tell me anything!"

"I shouldn't have to!" Karina's control slipped, voice rising. "I'm not your responsibility. I'm not your project."

Winter recoiled as if slapped. "Project? Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't want to talk to you." Karina turned away, shoulders rigid.

"Like hell you're going to avoid what's coming to you." Winter's voice dropped to a dangerous growl. Something snapped behind her eyes—control, restraint, reason—all vanishing in an instant.

She lunged forward, fist connecting with Karina's jaw in a sickening crack.

Karina stumbled backward, hand flying to her face. Shock replaced anger in her eyes.

"Winter!" Giselle screamed, rushing forward.

Ningning froze, hands covering her mouth.

Winter stood motionless, staring at her own fist as if it belonged to someone else. Horror dawned slowly across her face.

Karina straightened, blood beading at the corner of her lip. "Feel better now?"

The question cut deeper than any scream.

"I—" Winter started, voice strangled.

"Don't." Karina wiped the blood with the back of her hand. "Just don't."

Winter stepped forward, hand outstretched. "Karina, I didn't mean—"

"Stay away from me." Karina backed up, putting distance between them. Her voice remained eerily calm. "We're done."

"No." Winter's voice cracked. "No, we're not. I lost control. I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix this." Karina gestured between them. "Nothing fixes this."

Giselle positioned herself between them, arms spread wide. "Both of you, stop. Right now."

"She hit me," Karina stated, the simple fact hanging in the air.

"I know," Giselle acknowledged. "And that was wrong. Inexcusable."

Winter's face crumpled. "Karina, please—"

"If you tell management," Karina continued as if Winter hadn't spoken, "we're all finished. You know that, right?"

The implication stunned them all into silence.

"I won't tell," Karina added after a moment. "But I won't forget either."

Giselle stepped between them, hands raised like a referee. "Everyone needs to take a breath. Right now."

"There's nothing to breathe about," Karina said, touching her jaw gingerly. A bruise was already forming, dark against her pale skin.

"We can't practice like this," Giselle insisted. "We need to talk—"

"This is exactly why I don't want to be close to any of you." Karina's words sliced through the room, sharp and final.

Ningning flinched. Winter remained frozen on her knees.

"What?" Giselle asked, voice barely audible.

"You heard me." Karina straightened, shoulders squaring. "This—" she gestured between them all, "—is a job. Not a family. Not a sisterhood. A job."

Winter found her voice, cracked and raw. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" Karina challenged. "Look at us. Look what we've become."

"One fight doesn't define us," Giselle argued.

"It's not one fight." Karina's laugh held no humor. "It's every fight. Every passive-aggressive comment. Every competition. Every time we tear each other down instead of building each other up."

Winter pushed herself to her feet, legs unsteady. "That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair," Karina shot back. "Neither is this industry. And pretending we're something we're not just makes it worse."

Giselle shook her head. "So what, we just give up? Treat each other like strangers?"

"We treat each other like professionals," Karina corrected. "We dance. We sing. We smile for the cameras. And we stop pretending that means something it doesn't."

Ningning stepped forward, tears streaming silently down her face. "But we're friends."

Something in Karina's expression cracked—a momentary glimpse of the girl beneath the armor. "Were we? Or did we just need each other to survive?"

Her gaze hardened again, finger jabbing toward Winter. "Look at her. She can't control herself. She's done what I wouldn't have done in a thousand years."

Winter flinched, the accusation landing like a physical blow. "You're the one who left everyone to their own demise. You disappeared without a word!"

"Is it?" Karina tilted her head, studying Winter with clinical detachment. "Or you're just trying to blame someone for your shortcomings?"

Winter opened her mouth, then closed it. The question knocked her off-balance, leaving her searching for solid ground.

"What?" she finally managed.

"I was the weaker one between us two," Karina continued, voice dropping lower. "You always were far better than I was. But when I tried to step up my game, you blamed me for not staying at yours."

The practice room went silent. Ningning and Giselle exchanged bewildered glances.

Winter shook her head, struggling to process. "That's not—"

"Not what?" Karina challenged. "Not true? Every time I made a decision without consulting you first, you questioned it. Every time I changed something about myself, you took it personally."

"Because we're a team!" Winter's voice cracked. "We decide things together!"

"No." Karina's laugh held no humor. "You decide, and I'm supposed to follow. That's not a team. That's a hierarchy."

Winter stepped back, stung. "Is that really how you see us?"

"How else should I see it?" Karina gestured to her bruised jaw. "You literally just hit me for daring to have boundaries."

Shame flushed Winter's face. "That was wrong. I know that. But don't twist everything else."

"I'm not twisting anything," Karina insisted. "I'm finally saying what I should have said years ago."

Giselle moved between them, hands raised. "This isn't productive. We need to—"

"Stay out of it," Winter and Karina snapped in unison, then glared at each other for the synchronization.

Karina recovered first. "For three years, I've been trying to become the person everyone expects me to be. The perfect leader. The perfect dancer. The perfect friend."

"No one asked you to be perfect," Winter countered.

"You're right about that. I was the only one that asked to be perfect. I was the one trying to get exactly where I am right now." Karina's voice hardened, each word precise as a knife cut. "And you weren't happy about it, not one step of the way here."

Winter shook her head, disbelief etched across her features. "That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Karina stepped closer, eyes burning with something raw and long-suppressed. "Tell me, were you ever near me to share my joy whenever I improved at something? Or were you just mourning 'Jimin'?"

The name—her real name—hung in the air between them. Winter flinched as if physically struck.

"That's not fair," she whispered.

"Fair?" Karina laughed, the sound brittle as breaking ice. "Was it fair when you cried after my hair appointment? When you said you 'missed the old me'? When you kept calling me Jimin in private even after I asked you to stop?"

Ningning's eyes widened. Giselle shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

Winter's face drained of color. "I was trying to—"

"To what?" Karina challenged. "Keep me grounded? Remind me where I came from? Or remind me that you knew me before all this, so I should listen to you?"

"I was trying to protect you!" Winter's voice cracked. "From losing yourself!"

"I wasn't losing myself." Karina's voice dropped dangerously low. "I was becoming myself. The self I chose. Not the one you wanted me to stay."

The practice room went silent, the accusation echoing off mirrored walls.

Winter stepped back, shaking her head. "That's not how it was."

"That's exactly how it was." Karina pressed her advantage, stepping forward. "Every milestone I reached, every change I embraced, you treated like a betrayal. Like I was leaving you behind."

"Weren't you?" The question escaped before Winter could stop it.

Something flickered across Karina's face—surprise, perhaps, or vindication. "There it is. The truth."

Winter's shoulders slumped. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did." Karina's voice softened slightly, almost pitying. "That's the problem. You've never been able to separate us. In your mind, we succeed together or not at all."

"Because that's what we promised!" Winter's eyes glistened. "Back when we were trainees. Together or not at all."

"We were kids," Karina said simply. "Kids make promises they can't keep."

"You know what that promise meant to me?" Winter's voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding through her carefully constructed walls.

Karina touched the swelling bruise where Winter's fist had landed, wincing slightly. "I can see it now."

The gesture—so small, so damning—silenced the room.

Karina's hand dropped, her eyes hardening. "You only stood by my side because it benefited you. Not once did I hear you complain about how everything had gone wrong for you. It was always about me, I was the one who changed."

Winter recoiled as if slapped. "That's not—"

"True?" Karina finished for her. "When I got picked for the center position, who spent three days giving me the silent treatment? When they increased my parts in the showcase, who suddenly needed 'extra practice' with the vocal coach? When the trainers started praising me in evaluations, who started whispering I was getting special treatment?"

Each accusation landed like a physical blow. Winter's face drained of color.

"I never—"

"You did." Karina's voice dropped dangerously low. "Maybe not consciously. Maybe not maliciously. But you did."

Ningning shifted uncomfortably. Giselle stared at the floor, suddenly fascinated by her shoelaces.

Winter shook her head, desperation creeping into her voice. "I was proud of you. I am proud of you."

"Are you?" Karina challenged. "Or are you proud of what you think you made me?"

The question hung in the air.

Winter's shoulders slumped. "When did we become this?"

"When you decided I was yours to control." Karina's words were soft but final. "When I let you."

Winter opened her mouth to reply, but the practice room door swung open. Their trainer strode in, clipboard tucked under his arm, expression hardening as he scanned the room.

"Eight weeks to showcase and you're standing around arguing?" He checked his watch with exaggerated precision. "This is exactly why the other trainees are advancing faster."

Winter stepped back, creating distance between herself and Karina. The trainer's eyes narrowed, catching the movement.

"Is there a problem?" he demanded.

"No," they answered in unison, the synchronized response a muscle memory neither could break.

Karina stepped closer to Winter, her voice dropping to a whisper as the trainer busied himself with the sound system. "We're still teammates. I'm no longer your friend."

The words sliced through Winter's defenses, precise as a surgeon's knife. She flinched, unable to mask the hurt.

"Karina—" she started.

"Don't." Karina cut her off, already moving towards her position. "It's better this way."

"For who?" Winter challenged, keeping her voice low.

Karina's eyes met hers, tired beyond her years. "For both of us."

"Positions!" the trainer called, clapping his hands for attention. "From the top. And this time, try to look like you actually want to be here."

Four girls moved to their marks, muscle memory overriding emotion. Winter took her place beside Karina, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, yet separated by a chasm wider than the inches between them.

The music started. Bodies moved in sync, faces transformed into masks of concentration. In the mirror, Winter watched Karina dance—perfect as always, even with a bruise blooming on her jaw. No hint of pain, no crack in the facade.

When the music stopped, the trainer sighed. "Better. Not great, but better. Karina, what happened to your face?"

"I fell," she answered smoothly. "Hit the speaker."

He frowned, clearly skeptical. "Be more careful. We can't have injuries this close to showcase."

"Yes, sir." Karina nodded, gaze fixed somewhere over his shoulder.

"Take five," he ordered. "Water break."

Karina headed for the door without a backward glance.

"Where are you going?" Giselle called after her.

"Bathroom," Karina answered without turning.

The door closed behind her with a decisive click.

Winter sank to the floor, back against the mirror. "She's right."

Giselle knelt beside her. "Winter—"

"No." Winter cut her off. "She's right about everything. I've been... I've been sabotaging her. Resenting her. All while telling myself I was protecting her."

The practice room door opened again. Their head trainer entered, expression grim.

"Where's Karina?" he asked, scanning the room.

"Bathroom," Giselle answered. "Why?"

He checked his watch, frowning. "When she gets back, tell her I need to see her. Immediately."

"Is something wrong?" Ningning asked.

The trainer hesitated. "Just tell her to find me."

He left, the door closing quietly behind him.

Winter pushed herself to her feet. "I need to find her."

"Winter, don't—" Giselle warned.

"I have to fix this," Winter insisted. "Before it's too late."

She rushed out, leaving Giselle and Ningning staring after her.

In the hallway, Winter paused. Left toward the bathrooms? Right toward the trainer's office?

She turned left, each step heavy with the weight of three words that had shattered everything: "No longer friends."

Outside the bathroom, Winter hesitated, hand raised to push the door. From inside came a sound that stopped her cold—soft, muffled sobbing.

Winter's hand hovered at the bathroom door, frozen between action and retreat. The muffled sobs from inside transported her three years back, to another bathroom, another moment when everything changed.

She'd found Jimin—not yet Karina then—huddled in the corner stall, scissors in hand, chunks of long black hair scattered around her like fallen dreams.

"What are you doing?" Winter had demanded, horror rising in her throat.

Jimin had looked up, eyes wild, tear-streaked. "Becoming what they want."

Winter had knelt beside her, gently taking the scissors. "This isn't the way."

"They said I look too ordinary," Jimin had whispered. "Too forgettable."

"Then we'll prove them wrong," Winter had promised, gathering the fallen hair. "Together."

The next day, they'd gone to the salon together. Winter had held Jimin's hand as the stylist transformed her into someone new—someone with sharp edges and striking features. Someone who wouldn't be forgotten.

That night, Winter realized later, was when Jimin began to fade and Karina started taking her place. Not because of the haircut, but because Winter had inadvertently confirmed what the trainers had implied: Jimin wasn't enough.

Now, standing outside another bathroom door, Winter recognized the truth. She hadn't protected Jimin that night. She'd helped erase her.

The sobbing quieted. Water ran. Winter stepped back, unable to face what she'd helped create—and then resented.

She turned away just as the bathroom door swung open.

"Winter." Karina's voice, steady despite the redness around her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Winter couldn't meet her gaze. "The trainer's looking for you."

"Is that all?" Karina asked, the question layered with meaning.

Winter's courage failed her. "Yes. That's all."

Karina nodded once, already moving past. "Then I should go."

"Karina—" Winter started, then stopped. What could she possibly say now?

Karina paused, not turning back. "What?"

"I'm sorry." The words felt pathetically inadequate. "For everything."

"I know." Karina's voice softened slightly. "That's what makes it worse."

She walked away, shoulders straight, head high—every inch the leader she'd become, with or without Winter's help.

Winter watched her go, suddenly understanding that she'd never lost Jimin to Karina. She'd lost both of them to her own need for control, her own fear of being left behind.

In the empty hallway, Winter faced a truth three years in the making: the person who had changed the most wasn't Karina.

It was her.

Chapter Text

The city lights blinked like earthbound stars as Giselle hugged her knees to her chest on the rooftop. Eight floors below, Seoul continued its relentless pulse, but up here, the only sound was the occasional sigh of wind and her own troubled thoughts.

Three days since the explosion. Three days of Winter and Karina moving around each other like wary satellites, professional in rehearsals but hollow-eyed and silent everywhere else.

Giselle traced patterns in the concrete with her fingertip. The bruise on Karina's jaw had faded to a sickly yellow, but the wounds beneath the surface? Those were still raw.

"You shouldn't be up here alone."

Ningning's voice startled her. The youngest member stood by the access door, two steaming cups in hand.

"Thought you might need this," Ningning said, crossing over and offering one. "It's getting cold."

Giselle accepted the tea with a grateful nod. "Thanks. I just needed to think."

Ningning settled beside her, legs dangling through the railing bars. "About the showcase?"

"About the fight."

Ningning blew on her tea, creating ripples across the surface. "Not much we can do. They need to work it out themselves."

"That's the thing," Giselle said, the realization that had been forming all evening finally crystallizing into words. "I think it's my fault."

Ningning's eyebrows shot up. "Your fault? How?"

Giselle set her cup down, untouched. "Remember a few days ago? When I asked Karina about her trainee days?"

"Vaguely."

"I kept pushing her to be like before—when she was Jimin." Giselle's voice dropped. "I said something like, 'Careful, Karina. You almost sound like Jimin right now.'"

Ningning winced. "That's... harsh."

"It gets worse." Giselle twisted a loose thread on her sleeve, yanking it until it snapped. "I told her I could see Jimin slip through sometimes when she was tired or excited. That Jimin looked more comfortable in her skin than Karina did."

"You didn't know—"

"I did though." Giselle cut her off. "I saw her face when I said it. I saw how it hurt her. And I kept pushing."

The city lights blurred as tears threatened. Giselle blinked them back furiously.

"Why?" Ningning asked quietly.

Giselle laughed, a hollow sound that scattered into the night. "Because I thought I was helping. Because I was projecting my own issues onto her."

She stood abruptly, pacing the small rooftop area. "I left Aeri behind when I became Giselle. I thought she was doing the same thing—running from something. I wanted her to admit it."

"Was she? Running?"

Giselle stopped pacing. "No. That's what I didn't get. Karina wasn't running from Jimin. She was becoming who she needed to be."

Ningning swirled the remaining tea in her cup, eyes downcast. "Karina-unnie told me something once. After practice, when you and Winter had already left."

"What did she say?" Giselle perched on the edge of the concrete barrier, suddenly alert.

"That there's more to Winter than we probably know." Ningning's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "That she isn't as innocent as she seems."

Giselle scoffed. "This isn't about innocence. None of us are innocent here."

"Maybe not." Ningning set her cup down with a decisive click. "But I keep wondering what really happened three years ago. Before we joined."

"Why don't you ask Winter?"

Ningning shot her a pointed look. "Kind of hard when she's locked herself in her room for the past six hours."

The wind picked up, sending a discarded napkin skittering across the rooftop. Giselle watched it dance away into the darkness.

"She's never done that before," Giselle murmured. "Not even after evaluations."

"That's my point." Ningning hugged her knees tighter. "Whatever happened between them goes deeper than one fight."

Giselle rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Did Karina ever tell you anything specific? Any details?"

"No. Just that..." Ningning hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Just that Winter made promises she couldn't keep. That she was the one who pushed Karina to change in the first place."

"That can't be right." Giselle frowned. "Winter's the one who's been trying to keep Karina as Jimin all this time."

"According to Winter."

The implication hung in the air between them.

Giselle stood abruptly. "We're missing something."

"Obviously."

"No, I mean..." Giselle began pacing again, her mind racing. "Think about it. If Winter really wanted Karina to stay as Jimin, why would she help her become Karina in the first place?"

Ningning's eyes widened. "Unless she didn't expect Karina to succeed."

"Exactly." Giselle snapped her fingers. "What if Winter pushed her to change because she thought Karina would fail? That they'd both get cut, and they'd leave together?"

"That's..." Ningning shook her head. "That's messed up."

"It makes sense though. 'Together or not at all,' right? That was their pact." Giselle's words tumbled out faster now. "But then Karina actually succeeded. She became exactly what the company wanted."

"And Winter couldn't handle it."

"So she tried to drag Karina back to being Jimin." Giselle stopped pacing, the full weight of the realization hitting her. "Not to protect Karina's identity, but to sabotage her success."

Ningning shook her head vigorously. "That doesn't make any sense. Winter made it too. She's here, isn't she? They both survived the cuts."

"But what if..." Giselle's eyes widened as another possibility crystallized. "What if Winter didn't want Karina to make it at all?"

"Now you're really not making sense." Ningning set her cup down with a sharp clink. "Why would she gaslight Karina into being better in the first place then?"

Giselle pressed her palms against her temples. "I don't know. I'm just trying to understand why someone would—"

The rooftop door swung open. They both jumped, turning toward the sound.

Winter stood silhouetted against the light from the stairwell, her face half in shadow. "Why someone would hit their best friend? Is that the mystery you're trying to solve?"

Giselle's stomach dropped. "Winter, we were just—"

"Theorizing about what a monster I am?" Winter stepped fully onto the rooftop, letting the door swing shut behind her. "Don't stop on my account."

Ningning scrambled to her feet. "We weren't calling you a monster."

"No?" Winter's laugh was brittle. "Just a saboteur, then. A jealous, manipulative saboteur."

She moved to the railing, keeping her distance from them, fingers gripping the metal so tightly her knuckles whitened.

Giselle took a tentative step toward her. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." Winter's gaze remained fixed on the city below. "Enough to know what you think of me."

"We don't know what to think," Giselle admitted. "That's the problem."

Winter turned, her face catching the dim light. The hollowness in her eyes made Giselle flinch.

"Then ask me," Winter said simply. "Instead of spinning theories, just ask me what happened."

The challenge hung in the air between them. Ningning glanced at Giselle, uncertainty written across her features.

Giselle squared her shoulders. "Okay. What happened between you and Karina? The real story."

Winter's posture shifted, as if the question itself had physical weight. She leaned back against the railing, arms crossed protectively over her chest.

"The real story." She repeated the words like they tasted strange. "The real story is that I loved her too much."

"That's not an explanation," Giselle pressed.

"Isn't it?" Winter's eyes flashed. "I loved Jimin so much that I helped her become someone who didn't need me anymore. And then I couldn't handle it."

Ningning moved closer, her voice gentle. "What do you mean, you helped her?"

Winter's laugh held no humor. "Who do you think came up with 'Karina'? Who do you think took her to cut her hair, to buy new clothes, to practice her expressions in the mirror until they looked natural?"

Giselle and Ningning exchanged stunned glances.

"You created Karina?" Giselle asked.

"Not alone." Winter's voice softened. "But I pushed for it. Hard. When the evaluators said she was too ordinary, too forgettable, I was the one who said we needed to reinvent her."

"To save her," Ningning realized.

"To save us both." Winter corrected. "We had a pact. Together or not at all."

The city lights blurred beneath them as a light rain began to fall, speckling the concrete with dark spots.

"So what went wrong?" Giselle asked. "If you helped create Karina, why try to bring Jimin back?"

Winter pushed away from the railing, pacing now. "Because I didn't expect her to become so... good at it."

"At being Karina?"

"At being someone else." Winter's words tumbled out faster now. "It was supposed to be an act, a performance to get us through evaluations. But she embraced it completely. Started talking differently, thinking differently."

"Succeeding differently," Giselle added quietly.

Winter stopped pacing, her shoulders slumping. "Yes. Succeeding in ways Jimin never could have. In ways I couldn't keep up with."

"So you tried to hold her back," Ningning said, not accusingly but as if fitting pieces together.

"I tried to remind her of who she really was." Winter's voice cracked. "At least, that's what I told myself."

Rain fell harder now, forcing them to move under the small overhang by the door. The three huddled there, the cramped space making the conversation more intimate, more inescapable.

"But that's not what you were really doing," Giselle guessed.

Winter leaned against the wall, closing her eyes briefly. "No. I was trying to keep her tethered to me. To us. To before."

"Before she outgrew you," Ningning said softly.

Winter's eyes snapped open. "Yes. Before she outgrew me. Is that what you wanted to hear? That I'm petty and selfish and couldn't handle my best friend becoming better than me?"

"I don't think that's petty," Giselle said. "I think it's human."

Winter blinked, clearly surprised by the response.

"It doesn't excuse hitting her," Giselle continued. "But it makes more sense now."

The rain drummed against the overhang, filling the silence between them.

"I didn't mean to hit her," Winter finally said, her voice so low they had to strain to hear. "I just wanted her to stop talking. To stop being right about everything."

Ningning reached out, hesitantly touching Winter's arm. "Have you told her any of this?"

Winter laughed bitterly. "How could I? 'Sorry I hit you, I was just jealous that the persona I helped create made you better than me'?"

"Maybe not in those exact words," Giselle said. "But yes. Something like that."

Ningning leaned against the wall, brow furrowed. "So... Karina is drowning in her own poison?"

"No," Winter snapped, then softened her tone. "That's not it. One thing Karina was right about—Jimin wasn't enough. She had to become Karina to stay at SM."

"But you're the one who pushed her to change," Giselle pointed out.

"Because I saw the writing on the wall." Winter pushed wet hair from her face. "Three trainees cut that month alone. All for being 'forgettable.' I wasn't going to let that happen to her."

The rain drummed steadily against the overhang, creating a curtain of water around their small dry space.

"So you helped create Karina to save Jimin," Giselle said slowly, "then resented Karina for replacing her."

Winter winced. "When you put it like that, I sound insane."

"Not insane." Ningning's voice was gentle. "Just scared."

"Terrified," Winter corrected. "I was terrified of losing her. Then I realized I was losing her anyway, just... differently."

Giselle slid down the wall until she was sitting, hugging her knees. "Did you ever tell her any of this?"

"How could I?" Winter laughed, the sound brittle. "Hey, sorry I'm sabotaging your success because I miss who you used to be, even though I'm the one who told you to change?"

"That actually is the way," Giselle said, leaning forward. "Problem being, Karina doesn't want to be anywhere near you. Besides, management probably saw what you did."

Winter's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"

"I'm pretty sure they had cameras at the practice room." Giselle gestured vaguely upward. "Just like they have in our dorm."

Winter's face drained of color. She slumped against the wall, eyes darting around as if suddenly aware of being watched even here. "The cameras. I forgot about the cameras."

"Hard to forget something watching you 24/7," Ningning muttered.

Winter pushed herself upright, panic flashing across her features. "If they saw, then why haven't they done anything about it? Why am I still here?"

"Probably letting you and Karina handle it like adults," Giselle said with a shrug that seemed too casual for the weight of the conversation.

"Adults?" Winter scoffed. "I hit her. That's not exactly mature."

"No, it's not," Giselle agreed, her tone hardening. "But they've invested three years in both of you. They're not going to throw that away without giving you a chance to fix it."

Winter paced the small dry area under the overhang, her movements sharp and agitated. "Then why did they let her move out of the apartment? They're clearly taking her side."

"Probably to let her think," Giselle said. She caught Winter's arm, stopping her pacing. "Overthink."

Winter shook off Giselle's grip. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means they're giving her space to decide if she wants to continue with you." Giselle's words landed like stones. "With us."

The rain had slowed to a gentle patter, no longer drowning out their voices.

Ningning hugged her knees tighter. "Do you think she might leave? The group, I mean?"

"She can't," Winter said immediately, but her voice lacked conviction. "We're too close to debut."

"Eight months isn't that close," Giselle countered. "They could replace her. Or any of us."

The possibility hung in the air between them, heavy and unspoken until now.

Winter slid down the wall until she was sitting, knees pulled to her chest. "I really messed up, didn't I?"

Neither girl contradicted her.

"What would you do?" Winter asked, looking between them. "If you were her?"

Giselle considered for a moment. "I'd be weighing my options. Deciding if you're worth the risk."

"The risk?"

"Of it happening again," Giselle said bluntly. "Of investing more years only to have you sabotage her when she outshines you."

Winter flinched. "I wouldn't—"

"You already did," Ningning cut in, her voice gentle but firm. "You hit her because she called you out on exactly what you were doing."

Winter opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I need to talk to her," she said finally. "To explain."

"Explain what?" Giselle challenged. "That you're jealous? That you resent her success even though you pushed her toward it?"

"Yes!" Winter snapped. "Exactly that! At least it's honest."

"It is honest," Giselle agreed, her voice softening. "Now the problem is how to get that message across to Karina."

Winter ran her fingers through her damp hair, agitation visible in every movement. "Management is probably consuming her like a hive right now. They might even try to further devoid her of any emotion."

"What do you mean?" Ningning asked.

"I mean they'll use this as another opportunity to scrub away whatever's left of Jimin." Winter's hands clenched into fists. "Turn her into the perfect, emotionless center who doesn't let personal feelings interfere with the group."

Ningning straightened, determination flashing across her face. "Why don't we tell it to her?" She gestured between herself and Giselle. "Coming from us, she might actually listen."

Winter shook her head immediately. "She'll see right through it. She'll know you're doing it on my behalf."

"You don't give her enough credit," Giselle countered. "Or us."

Winter opened her mouth to argue, then stopped suddenly. Her eyes widened as a memory surfaced.

"Irene," she whispered.

"What?" Giselle tilted her head in confusion.

"Irene," Winter repeated, stronger this time. "Red Velvet's Irene. She might be able to help."

Giselle stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "Irene? Red Velvet's Irene? Are you crazy?"

"No, listen." Winter moved closer, energy suddenly animating her movements. "Remember when Karina met with her a few months ago? That mentorship thing the company arranged?"

"Vaguely," Ningning said. "She didn't talk much about it."

"Exactly." Winter nodded eagerly. "She barely said anything when she got back. Just that it was 'informative' and Irene had 'good insights about debut preparations.'"

"So?" Giselle raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like standard Karina-speak for any meeting."

"But it wasn't." Winter insisted. "I could tell something happened. She was different afterward. More... resolved somehow."

The rain had stopped completely now, leaving the rooftop glistening under the city lights.

"I think there was more to that meeting than Karina let on," Winter continued. "She respects Irene. If anyone could get through to her right now, it would be her."

Giselle crossed her arms, skepticism written across her features. "Even if you're right, how exactly do you plan to get Red Velvet's leader involved in our trainee drama?"

"I don't know yet," Winter admitted. "But it's worth trying."

"It's insane," Giselle corrected. "What are you going to do? Wait outside their dorm until Irene appears?"

Winter's silence was telling.

"Oh my god, you're actually considering it." Giselle threw up her hands. "Winter, no."

"Do you have a better idea?" Winter challenged. "Because in case you missed it, Karina might be considering having me replaced. We're eight months from debut, and everything we've worked for is falling apart."

Ningning stepped between them. "Let's think about this logically. Even if you could somehow get to Irene, what would you say? 'Hi, I hit my teammate, could you please tell her to forgive me?'"

Winter flinched at the blunt assessment. "No, I'd explain—"

"What?" Giselle cut in. "That you've been sabotaging Karina for years because you're jealous of who she's become, even though you helped create her?"

The words hung in the air, sharp and undeniable.

Winter's shoulders slumped. "When you put it like that..."

"It sounds exactly like what happened," Giselle finished for her.

The three fell silent, the weight of their situation pressing down on them.

"There has to be a way," Winter finally said, her voice small. "I can't just give up."

Ningning tapped her finger against her lips, brow furrowed in concentration. "Getting through to Irene might be possible, but she's so packed with schedules right now. Would she even have time to listen to this whole mess?"

"Probably not," Giselle admitted. "But maybe we're approaching this wrong. Maybe we need to work around it."

Ningning's eyes suddenly widened. "That's it. Seulgi-seonbaenim."

"What do you mean, Seulgi-seonbaenim?" Winter straightened, confusion etched across her face.

"If there's anyone who would sit down and actually listen, it's Seulgi-seonbaenim." Ningning's words tumbled out faster as the idea took shape. "When I was in SMROOKIES, she was always the one who'd show up and peek around the practice rooms."

"I remember that," Winter nodded slowly. "She'd bring snacks sometimes."

"Not just snacks," Ningning leaned forward, voice dropping as if sharing a secret. "Advice. Encouragement. She actually listened to us."

Giselle crossed her arms, skepticism evident in her posture. "That's nice and all, but how does this help our situation?"

"Because Karina respects Seulgi almost as much as Irene," Winter realized, energy returning to her voice. "She's mentioned her choreography skills at least a dozen times."

"Exactly." Ningning nodded vigorously. "And Seulgi's known for being the peacemaker in their group."

The rain had stopped completely now, leaving the rooftop glistening under the city lights. A cool breeze swept across the concrete, carrying the clean scent of washed air.

"So what's the plan?" Giselle asked. "Ambush Seulgi in the hallway and dump our problems on her?"

Winter shook her head. "No, we need to be smarter about this. Less desperate."

"We are desperate," Giselle pointed out.

Winter stopped pacing, her eyes suddenly sharp with clarity. "If we really want to get the message across, it should work like a chain reaction."

"What do you mean?" Giselle tilted her head, skepticism etched in the furrow of her brow.

"We get the message to Seulgi," Winter explained, hands moving as she mapped it out in the air. "Seulgi gets it to Irene, and Irene delivers it to Karina."

Ningning straightened. "A senior-to-senior-to-Karina pipeline?"

"Exactly." Winter nodded vigorously. "Karina respects hierarchy. She'll listen to Irene in a way she won't listen to any of us right now."

Giselle crossed her arms. "So your grand plan is telephone tag with Red Velvet?"

"It's not just about the message getting passed along." Winter moved closer, intensity radiating from her. "It's about who delivers it. Coming from me, it's just another manipulation. Coming from Irene—"

"It's wisdom," Ningning finished, catching on. "Sunbae advice."

"Being too straightforward would just make things worse," Winter insisted. "Even approaching her indirectly ourselves would backfire. She'd see right through it."

The night air had cooled after the rain, raising goosebumps on their arms. None of them seemed to notice.

"This is convoluted even for you," Giselle said, but the edge had left her voice. "What exactly is this message we're passing along?"

Winter's confidence faltered. "That I'm sorry. That I understand what I did wrong. That I'm willing to change."

"Pretty basic for all this cloak and dagger," Giselle observed.

"It's not what I say," Winter countered. "It's whether she believes it."

Ningning chewed her lip thoughtfully. "But how do we even get to Seulgi? It's not like we can just walk up to her in the cafeteria."

"Actually, we can." Winter's eyes brightened. "She has that variety filming tomorrow at the main building. The one where seniors give advice to juniors."

"You want to ambush her at a filming?" Giselle's eyebrows shot up.

"Not ambush," Winter corrected. "Intercept. Strategically."

Ningning nodded slowly. "I could do it. She knows me from SMROOKIES days."

"That might work," Winter acknowledged. "But she needs to hear it from me."

"No," Giselle said firmly. "You're the last person who should approach her."

Winter bristled. "Why?"

"Because you're too close to this." Giselle softened her tone. "You'll either come off desperate or manipulative. Neither helps your case."

Winter's shoulders slumped. "Then what do we do?"

"I'll talk to her," Giselle decided. "As the neutral party."

"You're hardly neutral," Winter scoffed. "You've been Team Karina since this started."

"I'm Team Aespa," Giselle corrected, eyes flashing. "And right now, that means getting you two to stop destroying everything we've worked for."

The words hung in the air between them, sharp but undeniable.

Winter deflated. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me." Giselle's voice softened. "Save it for the person who actually needs to hear it."

Ningning stepped between them. "So tomorrow, Giselle approaches Seulgi after her filming. Then what?"

"Then we hope," Winter said simply. "Hope that Seulgi cares enough to get involved. Hope that Irene listens. Hope that Karina believes whatever makes it through this game of telephone."

"That's a lot of hope," Giselle observed.

"It's all I've got left." Winter's voice cracked slightly.

The city lights stretched below them, a constellation of artificial stars. Somewhere down there, Karina was probably lying awake too, weighing her options, deciding their fate.

"There's one more problem," Ningning said quietly. "What if management makes a decision before this plan even has a chance to work?"

Winter's face paled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Ningning continued carefully, "they could decide to replace you tomorrow. Or tonight, even."

"They wouldn't move that fast," Winter insisted, but uncertainty crept into her voice.

"Wouldn't they?" Giselle challenged. "They've invested too much in this group to let it implode eight months before debut."

The reality of their situation settled over them like a physical weight.

"Then we need to buy time," Winter said, desperation edging into her voice. "Convince management to give us a chance to work this out."

"How?" Ningning asked.

Winter ran her fingers through her hair, frustration evident in every movement. "I don't know! Maybe if all three of us go to them together, show them we're united—"

"We need Karina for that," Giselle cut in. "And in case you've forgotten, she's not exactly on speaking terms with you right now."

"Then you two go," Winter urged. "Tell them the group needs time to resolve this internally."

Giselle shook her head. "It won't work. Not without Karina."

The rooftop door creaked open. All three froze, expecting a staff member to scold them for being out so late.

Instead, their choreographer stood framed in the doorway, expression grim.

"There you are," he said, scanning their faces. "I've been looking everywhere."

Ningning stepped forward. "Is something wrong?"

"Emergency meeting. Twenty minutes." He checked his watch. "Management wants all four of you in the conference room."

Winter's heart plummeted. "All four? Including Karina?"

"Yes." His gaze lingered on Winter. "They're making decisions tonight, Minjeong. This is your last chance."

The words landed like stones.

"Last chance for what?" Winter asked, though she already knew the answer.

"To convince them you're worth keeping in this lineup." He didn't sugarcoat it. "They're talking replacements."

Winter swayed slightly. Giselle steadied her with a hand on her arm.

"Twenty minutes," the choreographer repeated. "Don't be late."

He disappeared back through the door, leaving them in stunned silence.

"So much for our chain reaction plan," Giselle muttered.

"It's still on," Winter insisted, determination hardening her voice. "For now, I'll have to buy leverage."

Ningning's brow furrowed. "What are you going to do then? Just apologize?"

"Partly." Winter straightened her shoulders, mind racing ahead. "Karina will nod for management but won't buy it. This takes time."

"Time we don't have," Giselle pointed out, checking her watch. "Eighteen minutes and counting."

Winter pushed wet hair from her face, eyes suddenly sharp with focus. "I need to show them I'm indispensable. That replacing me would cost more than keeping me."

"How exactly do you plan to prove that in eighteen minutes?" Giselle's skepticism cut through the night air.

"By reminding them what I bring to the group." Winter moved toward the door with renewed purpose. "My vocals, my dance precision, my fanbase from the predebut content."

Ningning hurried to keep pace. "You think that'll outweigh hitting another member?"

Winter flinched but didn't slow down. "No. But it might buy me enough time to fix things with Karina properly."

They descended the stairs rapidly, footsteps echoing in the stairwell. The building felt eerily quiet at this hour, most staff and trainees long gone.

"And if it doesn't work?" Giselle asked, voice bouncing off concrete walls.

"Then I deserve whatever happens." Winter's voice hardened with resolve. "But I'm not giving up without a fight."

They reached the practice room floor, pausing to catch their breath.

"I should change," Winter glanced down at her rain-dampened clothes. "I can't walk into that meeting looking like this."

"No time," Giselle checked her watch again. "Fifteen minutes now."

Winter nodded, accepting the reality. "Then I'll go as I am. Authenticity, right?"

"Speaking of authenticity," Ningning said carefully, "what exactly are you going to say to Karina?"

Winter's pace faltered for just a moment. "The truth. That I was wrong. That I'm sorry for trying to hold her back."

"And the hitting?" Giselle pressed.

"That too." Winter's voice dropped. "Especially that."

They rounded the corner to the administrative section, slowing as they approached the conference room. Light spilled from beneath the closed door.

"They're already in there," Ningning whispered.

Winter took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Then let's not keep them waiting."

Giselle caught her arm. "Wait. Before we go in, I need to know something."

"What?"

"Are you actually sorry?" Giselle's gaze was unflinching. "Or just sorry you got caught?"

The question hung in the air between them, demanding honesty.

Winter met her eyes directly. "I'm sorry I became someone who could hurt her. I'm sorry I was so afraid of being left behind that I tried to drag her back. And yes, I'm sorry I hit her—more than I can put into words."

Giselle studied her face for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. Let's do this."

Winter reached for the door handle, then hesitated. "Whatever happens in there... thank you. Both of you. For not giving up on me even when I deserved it."

Ningning squeezed her shoulder. "That's what teammates do."

"Friends," Giselle corrected softly. "That's what friends do."

Winter nodded, swallowing hard against the sudden tightness in her throat. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and opened the door.

The conference room fell silent as they entered. Four executives sat at the far end of the table, faces impassive. Their choreographer stood against the wall, arms crossed. And Karina—Karina sat alone on the opposite side, her posture perfect, her face a careful blank.

"Ah, the rest of you have arrived," the senior executive said, checking his watch pointedly. "Please, sit down."

His gaze lingered on Winter, taking in her damp hair and rumpled clothes. "You look like you went swimming in your practice outfit."

"We were on the rooftop," Winter explained, sliding into the chair directly across from Karina. "It was raining."

"Discussing?" he prompted.

"Just getting some air," Winter answered quickly. Too quickly.

The executive exchanged glances with his colleagues. "I see."

Giselle and Ningning settled into chairs on either side of Winter, creating a united front. The tension in the room thickened, almost tangible in the air-conditioned chill.

"Let's not waste time," the executive continued, folding his hands on the table. "We're here to discuss a serious incident and its consequences."

Winter's spine stiffened. Beneath the table, her fingers curled into fists, nails digging into palms.

"Three days ago," he continued, "you punched your teammate."

The blunt statement. No softening, no euphemisms.

"It was—" Winter began.

"Not an accident," he cut her off. "The practice room footage is quite clear."

Winter flinched, eyes darting to Karina, who remained perfectly still, gaze fixed on some point beyond the executives' heads.

"Violence between members is grounds for immediate termination," another executive chimed in, her voice clinically detached. "As I'm sure you're aware."

Ningning shifted in her seat. "But—"

"We're not asking for opinions," the senior executive interrupted. "We're informing you of the situation."

He turned his attention back to Winter. "We've invested considerable resources in this group. In you. But no trainee is irreplaceable."

The word landed like a physical blow. Irreplaceable. Winter swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in her throat.

"We have three candidates prepared to step in," he continued, sliding a tablet toward her. "All with comparable dance skills, all with suitable visuals."

Winter stared at the screen, at three unfamiliar faces smiling up at her. Girls who would take her place, erase her from the future she'd spent years building.

"With eight months until debut, the transition would be manageable," the female executive added. "Challenging, but manageable."

Winter looked up from the tablet, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Are you asking me to leave voluntarily?"

"We're presenting options," the senior executive corrected. "Your departure could be framed as a personal decision. Health reasons, perhaps. It would preserve your reputation and the group's."

"And if I don't agree?" Winter challenged, a flicker of defiance breaking through her fear.

"Then we make the decision for you." His tone left no room for argument. "And the narrative becomes more... complicated."

Giselle leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "You can't just replace her. The public already know us as a unit."

"Fans adjust," the female executive said dismissively. "They always do."

Winter's gaze shifted to Karina, searching for any reaction, any hint of what she was thinking. Karina's expression remained carefully neutral, but something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, perhaps, or conflict.

"What about Karina?" Winter asked suddenly. "Doesn't she get a say in this?"

All eyes turned to Karina, who straightened almost imperceptibly under the attention.

"We've already discussed the situation with her," the senior executive said. "She understands the gravity of what occurred."

"But does she want me gone?" Winter pressed, staring directly at Karina now. "Have you asked her that?"

Karina finally met her gaze.

"What Karina wants isn't the only consideration," the female executive interjected. "This is about group dynamics, company reputation, and the investment we've made."

Winter refused to look away from Karina. "But it should matter. We've been together for three years."

"Three years during which, by your own teammate's account, you've consistently undermined her development," the senior executive countered. "This incident didn't happen in isolation."

Winter flinched. So Karina had told them everything—not just the punch, but all of it. The sabotage, the passive aggression, the constant reminders of who she used to be.

"I made mistakes," Winter admitted, her voice dropping. "Serious ones."

"Including physical assault," the executive reminded her coldly.

"Yes." Winter couldn't deny it, wouldn't try to. "Including that."

The choreographer shifted against the wall, drawing attention. "If I may," he said, stepping forward slightly. "Winter has been an exemplary trainee in every other respect. Her technical skills—"

"Are not in question," the senior executive cut him off. "Her behavior is."

Winter took a deep breath, gathering her courage. "I understand if you need to replace me. But before you decide, I'd like to speak. Directly to Karina."

The executives exchanged glances.

"This isn't a mediation session," the female executive said.

"No," Winter agreed. "But if I'm leaving, I at least deserve the chance to apologize. Properly."

A heavy silence fell over the room. Finally, the senior executive nodded once. "Proceed."

Winter turned fully to face Karina, suddenly acutely aware of their audience but forcing herself to focus only on the girl across from her.

"I was wrong," she began simply. "Not just about hitting you, which was unforgivable, but about everything before that."

Karina's carefully neutral expression wavered slightly.

"I've been trying to hold you back," Winter continued, forcing the words out despite the tightness in her throat. "Because I was afraid of being left behind. Because I couldn't handle that you were becoming something more than what we started as."

For the first time, something like surprise flickered across Karina's features.

"I told myself I was protecting you, protecting Jimin," Winter pressed on. "But I was only protecting myself. From having to change. From having to keep up."

The room had gone completely still, even the executives seemingly caught by the raw honesty in Winter's voice.

"I don't expect forgiveness," she finished, her voice barely above a whisper now. "I just needed you to know that I see it now. What I've been doing. And I'm sorry."

Karina stared at her, something shifting in her gaze—not softening, exactly, but opening. Considering.

The senior executive cleared his throat. "Well. That was... illuminating."

Winter turned back to face them, squaring her shoulders despite the trembling she couldn't quite control. "Have you made your decision?"

"Not yet," he said, surprising her. "Karina, do you have anything to add?"

All eyes turned to Karina, who sat straighter, composing herself.

"I do," she said, her voice steady and measured. "I think replacing Winter would be a mistake."

A ripple of surprise passed through the room. Winter's head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Explain," the female executive demanded.

"What happened was serious," Karina acknowledged. "Unacceptable. But starting over with someone new eight months before debut would set us back significantly."

"So you're advocating we keep her?" The executive sounded skeptical.

"I'm advocating for time," Karina clarified. "Time for us to work through this professionally. With supervision, if necessary."

Winter stared at her, unable to mask her shock. This was the last thing she'd expected.

The executives exchanged glances, having some silent communication.

"Very well," the senior executive finally said. "We'll give you two weeks. If we don't see significant improvement in that time, we'll revisit the replacement option."

Relief flooded through Winter, so powerful she nearly swayed in her seat.

"Thank you," she managed.

"Don't thank us yet," he warned. "This is probationary. One more incident—any incident—and you're out. Understood?"

Winter nodded firmly. "Understood."

"Good." He closed his tablet. "You're all dismissed. Except you, Karina. We need a word."

The three girls rose, bowing respectfully before filing out of the room. Winter cast one last glance at Karina, trying to convey her gratitude, but Karina's attention was already on the executives.

The door closed behind them with a soft click. They stood in the hallway, the fluorescent lights suddenly harsh after the dimmer conference room.

"Well, that was convenient," Giselle quipped, her voice low but tension-breaking.

A small smile escaped Ningning. "You could say that."

Winter leaned against the wall, legs suddenly unable to support her weight. "We have two weeks to fix this."

"You have two weeks to fix this," Giselle corrected, eyebrows raised pointedly.

Winter straightened, pulling herself together. "Right. And you're approaching Seulgi in the morning."

"If I can get to her," Giselle warned. "That variety filming will be crawling with staff."

"You'll find a way," Winter insisted, already moving toward the elevator. "You have to."

Ningning hurried to keep pace. "Should we wait for Karina?"

"No," Winter answered immediately. "She needs space. And I need to plan."

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding. They stepped inside, Winter jabbing the button for the ground floor repeatedly as if that would make it move faster.

"What exactly is your plan?" Giselle asked as the doors closed. "Beyond having me ambush Seulgi tomorrow?"

"It's not ambushing," Winter corrected. "It's strategic interception."

"Semantics," Giselle muttered.

Winter ignored her, mind racing ahead. "First, we need to give Karina room to breathe. No hovering, no pressuring."

"So basically the opposite of what you've been doing for three years," Giselle observed dryly.

Winter flinched but nodded. "Exactly."

The elevator descended smoothly, numbers ticking down on the digital display.

"Second," Winter continued, "we follow through with the Seulgi plan. But we adjust the message."

"To what?" Ningning asked.

"We need to get Seulgi thinking about it," Winter explained, fingers drumming against her thigh. "So she'll mention it to Irene as something curious, out of her own curiosity."

Giselle snorted. "You do realize how many chances there are that she'll even remember a conversation with me?"

"None," Winter admitted. "But if we get her to feel like it was her own case—her own experience—she'll definitely get it across to Irene."

The elevator reached the ground floor. They stepped out into the deserted lobby, their footsteps echoing on polished marble.

"So I'm supposed to make Seulgi believe she had the same problem?" Giselle's eyebrows shot up. "That's manipulative even for you."

"That's not the point," Winter snapped, frustration edging her voice. "The point is to get Irene to talk with Karina. Seulgi is just the access to Irene."

They pushed through the revolving door into the night air. The rain had stopped, but puddles still dotted the pavement, reflecting the street lights in broken fragments.

"So I'm a stepping stone," Giselle said flatly.

Winter raked fingers through her damp hair. "You're the only one Seulgi might actually listen to. Ningning's too junior, and I'm... well."

"The villain of this story?" Giselle supplied.

Winter flinched but didn't deny it. "Something like that."

Ningning stepped between them. "Can we focus on what matters? Two weeks isn't long."

"Exactly," Winter nodded gratefully. "Two weeks to prove I can change. To show Karina I understand what I did wrong."

Giselle zipped her jacket against the chill. "And you think Irene is the magic solution?"

"Not magic," Winter corrected. "But Karina respects her. Listens to her. If Irene suggests giving me a chance—"

"Then Karina might actually consider it," Ningning finished, catching on.

Winter's pace quickened, energy radiating through her movements. "Exactly."

"Still manipulative," Giselle muttered, but her tone had softened.

"Call it what you want," Winter said. "I'm fighting for my future here."

They walked in silence for half a block, their shadows stretching long under the street lights. A taxi splashed through a puddle beside them, sending water arcing toward the curb.

"Fine," Giselle relented. "I'll talk to Seulgi tomorrow. But I'm not lying to her."

Winter stopped abruptly, turning to face her. "I'm not asking you to lie."

"Then what exactly am I saying?" Giselle challenged. "Because 'please get Irene to talk to Karina so Winter doesn't get kicked out' sounds pretty direct."

"Ask for advice," Winter suggested. "About group dynamics. About how Red Velvet handled their rough patches."

"Their rough patches didn't include physical violence," Giselle pointed out sharply.

Winter's face paled. "I know that."

Ningning touched Giselle's arm. "Ease up. She knows what she did."

"Does she?" Giselle's gaze remained fixed on Winter. "Sometimes I wonder."

Winter met her eyes directly. "I do. And I'll spend however long it takes making it right."

Something in her voice—raw honesty, perhaps, or simple desperation—seemed to reach Giselle. Her posture softened slightly.

"Okay," she said finally. "I'll try. But I make no promises about the outcome."

Relief washed over Winter's face. "Thank you."

They reached the intersection where they needed to part—Giselle and Ningning toward their dorm, Winter toward the temporary housing management had arranged.

"What time is Seulgi's filming?" Winter asked.

"Nine," Giselle answered. "Should wrap by eleven."

"Text me the second you talk to her," Winter instructed. "I need to know what she says."

"Don't push it," Giselle warned. "I'm already sticking my neck out here."

Winter swallowed her retort, nodding instead. "You're right. Sorry."

The apology, small as it was, seemed to surprise Giselle. She studied Winter's face for a moment.

"Maybe you are changing," she said quietly.

"Trying to," Winter admitted. "It's harder than I thought."

Ningning squeezed her arm. "That's how you know it's real."

They stood awkwardly at the corner, none quite ready to part.

"What if this doesn't work?" Winter finally voiced the fear they'd all been avoiding. "What if two weeks isn't enough?"

"Then we try something else," Ningning said firmly. "We don't give up."

"We?" Winter echoed, surprise evident in her voice.

"Yes, we," Ningning confirmed. "Despite everything, we're still a team."

Giselle didn't contradict her, which Winter counted as a small victory.

"Thank you," she said again, the words inadequate for the emotion behind them.

"Don't thank us yet," Giselle cautioned. "Save it for when you're actually back in Karina's good graces."

Winter nodded, a hint of her old determination returning to her eyes. "I will."

They separated at the corner—Giselle and Ningning turning left, Winter right. She watched them go, their figures growing smaller under the streetlights, before turning toward her own solitary path.

Two weeks. Fourteen days to undo three years of damage. To prove she could change. To save her place in the group she'd sacrificed everything for.

Winter walked faster, each step more determined than the last. Behind her, the SM building stood tall against the night sky, its windows still lit on the executive floor where Karina remained.

Determining their fates.

Chapter Text

Giselle tugged her mask higher, shifting her weight from one foot to the other outside SM's gleaming entrance. The morning crowd—staff, trainees, idols—streamed past, none of them Seulgi.

"This is insane," she muttered to herself, checking her phone for the fifth time. 8:47 AM. "I'm supposed to just... what? Intercept her? 'Hey sunbaenim, got a minute to talk about my teammate who punched our leader?'"

She pocketed her phone with more force than necessary, earning a curious glance from a passing trainee.

"And if she tells management I'm gossiping?" Giselle continued under her breath, pacing a tight circle. "That'll be great. 'Sorry Winter, I got us both kicked out trying to save you.'"

A sleek black van pulled up, and Giselle froze mid-step, heart hammering. False alarm—just some producers she vaguely recognized.

"What if she thinks I'm crazy?" She resumed pacing. "What if she tells Irene I'm crazy? What if—"

"Are you okay?"

Giselle whirled around, nearly colliding with Seulgi herself, standing there with a coffee cup and concerned expression.

"Sunbaenim!" Giselle choked, bowing hastily. "I—yes—I mean—"

Seulgi tilted her head. "You were talking to yourself pretty intensely there."

Giselle's cheeks burned. "Was I? Sorry, I—" She took a deep breath. "Actually, I was hoping to talk to you."

"Me?" Seulgi's eyebrows rose. "About?"

Giselle glanced around at the busy entrance. "It's... kind of personal. Group stuff."

Understanding flickered in Seulgi's eyes. "Ah." She checked her watch. "I've got fifteen minutes before filming. Walk with me?"

Relief flooded through Giselle. "Yes. Thank you."

As they moved away from the building, Seulgi sipped her coffee. "So what's this about? The punch I'm not supposed to know about?"

Giselle stumbled. "You—how did—"

Seulgi's laugh was gentle. "These walls aren't as soundproof as management thinks."

"Wait. How did you find out?" Giselle's eyes widened, her hand instinctively gripping the strap of her bag tighter.

Seulgi guided them toward a quieter side path, away from curious ears. "Word spreads quick around SM. Always has." She shrugged. "Especially when it involves promising trainees about to debut."

"Great," Giselle muttered. "So everyone knows."

"Not everyone. Just..." Seulgi waved her free hand vaguely. "People who pay attention."

They paused beneath the shade of a decorative maple. Morning sunlight dappled through its leaves, casting shifting patterns on the pavement.

"How are you holding up?" Seulgi asked, her voice softening. "It can't be easy being caught in the middle."

Giselle blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Me? I'm not the one who—"

"No, but you're the one standing outside at eight in the morning trying to fix it," Seulgi pointed out, sipping her coffee. "That tells me enough."

Giselle's shoulders slumped. "It's a mess. Winter crossed a line, but if she gets replaced now..."

"Eight months before debut," Seulgi finished for her. "Yeah. That's rough timing."

"The executives gave us two weeks to prove things can work." Giselle kicked at a stray pebble. "But Karina's barely speaking to any of us, Winter's spiraling, and I'm—" She cut herself off.

"Playing peacemaker?" Seulgi supplied.

"More like desperate messenger." Giselle laughed without humor. "Hence ambushing you this morning."

Seulgi leaned against the tree trunk, studying Giselle with unexpected intensity. "What exactly did you hope I could do?"

Giselle hesitated, suddenly realizing how presumptuous her plan sounded. "I thought... maybe... Karina respects you. And Irene-sunbaenim. If she heard from someone who's been through group conflicts—"

"That she should forgive being punched?" Seulgi's eyebrows shot up.

"No!" Giselle shook her head vigorously. "Not forgive. Just... consider if there's a path forward. For the group's sake."

Seulgi took another long sip of coffee, considering. "Has Winter apologized? Properly?"

"Yes. In front of the executives and everything."

"And she understands what led to it? The pattern before the punch?"

Giselle nodded. "She does now. That's what she's trying to fix."

Seulgi checked her watch and straightened. "Walk with me to the studio. We've got seven minutes."

They fell into step together, Seulgi's pace brisk but unhurried.

"Group dynamics are complicated," Seulgi said after a moment. "Especially pre-debut when everyone's terrified of being replaced."

"Tell me about it," Giselle murmured.

"Red Velvet had our moments too. Not physical," Seulgi clarified quickly, "but tensions that could have derailed everything."

Hope flickered in Giselle's chest. "How did you get past them?"

"Communication. Brutal honesty. And—" Seulgi paused as they reached the studio entrance, turning to face Giselle directly. "Time apart when needed."

"Time apart?" Giselle frowned. "We only have two weeks."

"Sometimes space creates clarity faster than forced proximity." Seulgi tossed her empty cup into a nearby bin. "I'll talk to Irene. No promises, but she might reach out to Karina."

Relief crashed through Giselle so intensely she nearly swayed. "Thank you. Seriously."

Seulgi's expression turned serious. "But Giselle? This isn't just about saving Winter's position. If the fundamental issue doesn't change, you'll debut with a time bomb in your group."

The studio door opened, an assistant poking her head out. "Seulgi-ssi, five minutes!"

Seulgi nodded acknowledgment before turning back to Giselle. "Trust goes both ways. Winter needs to earn it back, but Karina needs to be willing to give her the chance."

"I know," Giselle said quietly.

"And you?" Seulgi asked, head tilted. "Where do you stand in all this?"

Giselle hadn't expected the question. She blinked rapidly, searching for words. "I just want us to make it. Together."

Seulgi's smile was small but genuine. "That's a good place to start." She squeezed Giselle's shoulder. "I'll see what I can do."

With that, she disappeared into the studio, leaving Giselle standing alone, hope and worry battling for dominance in her chest.

Giselle exhaled slowly, her breath clouding in the morning chill. She pulled out her phone, thumbed through her contacts, and hit call before she could overthink it.

Winter answered on the first ring. "How'd it go?"

No hello, no preamble. Typical Winter.

"Honestly? Surprisingly better than I thought it'd go." Giselle started walking, needing movement to process. "She already knew about everything."

"What?" Winter's voice sharpened. "How?"

"SM gossip mill. Apparently we're not as under wraps as management wants to believe."

A string of muffled curses filtered through the phone. Giselle could picture Winter pacing her temporary room, fingers raking through her hair.

"But," Giselle continued, sidestepping a group of chattering trainees, "she's going to talk to Irene. About reaching out to Karina."

Silence. Then: "She is? Just like that?"

"Just like that." Giselle turned the corner, heading toward the practice building. "Though she did have questions. About whether you really understood what happened. The pattern, not just the punch."

"What did you tell her?" Winter's voice had gone quiet, vulnerable in a way Giselle rarely heard.

"The truth. That you do." Giselle paused at a crosswalk, watching the light. "You do understand it now, right?"

"Yes." The word came firm, without hesitation. "I do."

The light changed. Giselle crossed, phone pressed tight to her ear. "She also mentioned something about time apart."

"Time apart?" Alarm edged Winter's voice. "We only have two weeks!"

"That's what I said." Giselle dodged a delivery cyclist. "But she seemed to think space might help more than forcing things."

Winter fell silent again, only her breathing audible through the phone.

"You still there?" Giselle asked.

"Yeah." Winter cleared her throat. "Just thinking."

"Dangerous hobby."

A surprised laugh escaped Winter. "Shut up."

Giselle smiled despite herself. This was the Winter she'd trained with —quick, sharp, but with an undercurrent of warmth that had gone missing lately.

"So what now?" Winter asked. "We just... wait for Irene to maybe talk to Karina?"

"For today, yes." Giselle reached the practice building, stopping outside the glass doors. "Give it room to breathe. No hovering, remember?"

"Right." Winter sighed. "No hovering."

Giselle hesitated, then added, "Seulgi said something else. About trust going both ways."

"Meaning?"

"You need to earn it back, but Karina needs to be willing to give you the chance." Giselle watched her reflection in the glass, noting how tired she looked. "It can't all be on you."

The line went quiet for so long Giselle checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.

"Winter?"

"I'm here." Her voice sounded thick. "That's... actually helpful to hear."

"Yeah, well." Giselle pushed through the doors into the lobby. "Turns out sunbaenims occasionally know what they're talking about."

"Who would've thought?" Winter's tone lightened slightly. "Are you heading to practice?"

"Yeah. You should too." Giselle pressed the elevator button. "Separately. Different rooms."

"Time apart," Winter said, understanding dawning in her voice. "You think that's what Seulgi meant?"

"Worth a try, isn't it? Show we're taking the advice seriously."

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. Giselle stepped inside.

"Okay." Determination had replaced the vulnerability in Winter's voice. "I'll book studio C. You take our usual room with Ningning."

"And Karina?"

"Let her choose. No pressure."

Giselle nodded, though Winter couldn't see it. "Progress already."

"Don't sound so surprised," Winter said, but there was no bite to it.

"Call it cautious optimism." The elevator doors opened on the practice floor. "Gotta go. Ningning just spotted me."

"Giselle?" Winter called before she could hang up.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you." The words came out rushed but sincere. "For doing this. For believing it's worth fixing."

Something tightened in Giselle's chest. "Don't thank me yet. Save it for when you're back in Karina's good graces, remember?"

"Right." Winter's voice firmed with resolve. "See you later."

Giselle pocketed her phone and headed toward Ningning, who was waving frantically from down the hall. For the first time since the punch, a flicker of genuine hope sparked in her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, they could salvage this after all.

---

The studio lights dimmed as the director called the final wrap. Seulgi rolled her shoulders, wincing at the stiffness that had settled after eight hours of variety filming. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket as she gathered her things.

Wendy: Dinner? Joy found this new place in Hongdae. Supposedly has the best tteokbokki in Seoul.

Seulgi smiled at her phone but typed a quick refusal.

Seulgi: Can't tonight. Rain check?

Wendy's response came immediately.

Wendy: Everything ok?

Seulgi hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen. Her conversation with Giselle had lingered in her mind throughout the day's filming, surfacing between takes and during breaks.

Seulgi: Have you talked to Irene unnie today?

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.

Wendy: This morning. Why?

Seulgi: Is she home now?

Wendy: Should be. She mentioned catching up on scripts.

Seulgi nodded to herself, decision made.

Seulgi: I need to talk to her about something. Group stuff, but not ours.

The three dots appeared instantly.

Wendy: The aespa situation?

Seulgi's eyebrows shot up. She glanced around the emptying studio, making sure no one was looking over her shoulder.

Seulgi: You know too?

Wendy: Joy heard from a stylist. Sounds messy.

Seulgi: It is. One of them came to me for help this morning.

Wendy: Which one?

Seulgi: Giselle.

Wendy: The Japanese trainee? Interesting choice.

Seulgi grabbed her bag and headed for the exit, nodding goodbye to the staff as she typed.

Seulgi: She's trying to hold things together. Reminded me of someone.

Wendy: Flattery will get you everywhere.

Seulgi smiled despite herself.

Seulgi: So Irene's definitely home?

Wendy: Yes, but fair warning - she's in one of her moods. Script feedback wasn't great.

Seulgi pushed through the studio doors into the evening air. The temperature had dropped, and she zipped her jacket higher.

Seulgi: Thanks for the heads up. I'll bring those honey cookies she likes.

Wendy: Smart move. Good luck with whatever this is.

Seulgi pocketed her phone and flagged down a taxi. The bakery was only two blocks from Irene's apartment - she could make a quick stop before heading over. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Seulgi leaned her head against the window, watching the city lights blur together.

The aespa situation felt uncomfortably familiar. Not the violence - they'd never crossed that line - but the tension, the fear, the desperate scramble to fix things before debut. Seven years later, and trainees were still going through the same struggles.

Her phone buzzed again.

Irene: Wendy says you're coming over. Everything okay?

Typical Irene - straight to the point. Seulgi smiled faintly.

Seulgi: All good. Just need your advice on something. I'm bringing cookies.

Irene: The honey ones?

Seulgi: Of course.

Irene: Door's unlocked when you get here.

The taxi slowed to a stop outside the bakery. Seulgi paid and stepped out, the scent of fresh pastries greeting her as she pushed open the door. Ten minutes later, cookie box in hand, she stood outside Irene's apartment, hesitating before turning the handle.

This wasn't just about cookies and casual advice. She was about to ask Irene to wade into another group's mess - something they'd both learned to avoid over the years. But something about Giselle's determined face that morning had struck a chord. The desperation, the loyalty, the fear of everything falling apart right before the finish line.

Seulgi took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Some things were worth the risk.

"Hello?" Seulgi called out, slipping off her shoes in the entryway. The apartment remained quiet except for the faint sound of papers shuffling somewhere deeper inside.

"In here," Irene's voice echoed from down the hall.

Seulgi followed the voice, cookie box balanced in one hand. She passed through the spacious living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Seoul's glittering skyline, then rounded the corner to find Irene cross-legged on the floor of her home office, surrounded by script pages and sticky notes.

"Your place still amazes me," Seulgi said, gesturing at the expansive space. "You could fit our old dorm in here twice."

Irene glanced up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I need the space for all this." She waved at the organized chaos around her. "Besides, I couldn't keep living with you, Joy, Yeri, and Wendy until I was fifty."

"You make it sound like we were terrible roommates," Seulgi laughed, settling onto the floor across from Irene and placing the cookie box between them.

"The worst," Irene countered, but her lips curved upward as she reached for the box. "Especially you. Snoring like a chainsaw."

"I do not snore!"

"Tell that to the voice memos I still have saved." Irene opened the box, inhaling the sweet scent of honey and butter. "So. Wendy says you're here about the aespa situation."

Seulgi blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt pivot. "Word really does travel fast."

"SM's built on gossip and talent, in that order." Irene selected a cookie, examining it before taking a bite. "What's your interest in their drama?"

Seulgi leaned back against the wall, considering her words carefully. "One of them approached me this morning. Giselle."

"The Japanese trainee?" Irene raised an eyebrow. "Not Winter or the one who threw the punch?"

"Karina. And she was punched, not the puncher."

Irene's eyes widened slightly. "Interesting. So Winter hit their leader?"

"According to Giselle, yes." Seulgi reached for a cookie. "Apparently it's been building for years. Winter trying to hold Karina back, sabotaging her progress."

"Textbook insecurity." Irene gathered several script pages, stacking them neatly to clear space. "So why come to you?"

"They have two weeks to prove they can work together, or Winter's out."

"Eight months before debut?" Irene frowned. "That's harsh timing."

"That's what I said." Seulgi broke her cookie in half, watching the crumbs scatter. "Giselle thinks if you talked to Karina..."

Understanding dawned in Irene's eyes. "Ah. So that's why you're here."

"She respects you. They all do."

"She also doesn't know me." Irene brushed cookie crumbs from her fingers. "I can't just waltz in and tell her to forgive someone who hit her."

"Not forgiveness," Seulgi clarified. "Just... perspective. From someone who's been through the pre-debut pressure cooker."

Irene fell silent, her gaze drifting to the city lights beyond her window. "We had our moments too."

"We did." Seulgi nodded. "Different, but just as intense."

"You think I can help?"

"I think you understand what's at stake better than anyone." Seulgi leaned forward. "Their whole future hangs on whether these next two weeks go well."

Irene's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "You always were a sucker for the underdogs."

"Says the woman who spent three hours helping Yeri with her math homework last week."

"That's different. She's family." Irene selected another cookie. "These trainees are strangers."

"They're us, seven years ago." Seulgi held Irene's gaze. "Terrified of failing, of losing everything they've worked for."

A hint of a smile touched Irene's lips. "You rehearsed that line, didn't you?"

"Maybe a little." Seulgi grinned. "Is it working?"

Irene sighed, setting down her half-eaten cookie. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"

"Just talk to her. Share your experience. Let her know it's possible to move past conflict, even when it feels impossible."

"And if she doesn't want to hear it?"

"Then at least we tried." Seulgi shrugged. "But something tells me she will. Giselle said Karina was the one who argued against replacing Winter, despite everything."

Surprise flickered across Irene's face. "Really?"

"She said starting over would set them back too much."

"Smart girl." Irene nodded slowly. "Practical."

"Like someone else I know." Seulgi smiled meaningfully.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Flattery and cookies. You're pulling out all the stops tonight."

"Is it working?" Seulgi repeated, hope creeping into her voice.

Irene gathered her scripts, rising gracefully to her feet. "I'll think about it."

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either." Irene moved to her desk, sliding the papers into a folder. "I need to consider the implications. Management won't be happy if they find out I'm interfering."

"Since when do you care what management thinks?" Seulgi challenged, standing up.

A genuine laugh escaped Irene. "Fair point." She turned, leaning against her desk. "Give me until tomorrow. I want to learn more about the situation first."

Relief flooded through Seulgi. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Irene's expression turned serious. "I'm not promising anything."

"I know." Seulgi closed the cookie box. "But you're considering it. That's enough for now."

Irene studied her for a long moment. "You really care about this, don't you?"

"I care about not letting talent implode right before the finish line." Seulgi met her gaze steadily. "And I think you do too."

Irene didn't confirm or deny, but the slight softening around her eyes told Seulgi everything she needed to know. Hope, small but persistent, bloomed in her chest.

"Wait," Seulgi said suddenly, straightening as a memory surfaced. "I just remembered something about Karina."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "What about her?"

"That time she snuck into our practice." Seulgi tapped her fingers against her thigh, the memory sharpening. "Remember? About a year ago?"

Recognition flickered across Irene's face. "The girl in the cap?"

"That was Karina." Seulgi nodded, excitement building in her voice. "I knew she looked familiar when I saw her profile photo in the debut announcement."

Irene leaned back against her desk, curiosity replacing her earlier reluctance. "The one who tried to pretend she was checking something for Manager Kim?"

"Exactly." Seulgi laughed. "Worst cover story ever."

"I still can't believe you caught her," Irene said, shaking her head. "I wouldn't have noticed."

"She kept watching you," Seulgi explained. "Not us—you specifically. That's what tipped me off."

Irene's expression shifted subtly. "Me? Why?"

"She was studying you." Seulgi moved to the couch, settling onto the arm. "The way you led, the way you handled Wendy's concerns about the new group."

Understanding dawned in Irene's eyes. "She was learning how to be a leader."

"From the best." Seulgi nodded meaningfully. "That's why I think she'll listen to you now."

Irene fell silent, her gaze drifting to the cityscape beyond her window. The memory seemed to play behind her eyes—the practice room, the tension, the rookie trainee caught observing them.

"She has potential," Irene finally said, her voice softer than before. "I remember thinking that, even then."

"She reminds me of you," Seulgi ventured carefully.

Irene shot her a skeptical look. "How so?"

"The intensity. The focus." Seulgi gestured vaguely. "That thing where you both seem calm on the surface but are actually calculating seventeen different scenarios in your head."

A reluctant smile tugged at Irene's lips. "I don't do that."

"You absolutely do," Seulgi countered, grinning. "You're doing it right now."

Irene didn't deny it this time. Instead, she pushed away from the desk, crossing to the window. The city lights reflected in the glass, casting her profile in a soft glow.

"If I talk to her," she said after a moment, "what exactly should I say? 'Hey, remember when you snuck into our practice? Well, I heard you got punched by your teammate, want some advice?'"

Seulgi winced. "Maybe not that direct."

"Then what?"

"Just... share your experience. How we got through our rough patches."

Irene turned, fixing Seulgi with a pointed look. "We never hit each other."

"No," Seulgi acknowledged. "But we had our moments. The silent treatments. The competition. The times we wondered if we could actually make it work."

Irene's expression softened at the memories. "We were so young."

"So are they." Seulgi stood, moving to join Irene by the window. "And they're under even more pressure than we were. Social media, higher expectations, faster turnaround—"

"I get it," Irene cut her off gently. "They're us, but with the difficulty level turned up."

Seulgi nodded, relieved that Irene understood. "Exactly."

Irene studied the skyline for another long moment before turning back to Seulgi. "I'll do it."

Seulgi blinked, surprised by the sudden decision. "Really?"

"Yes," Irene confirmed, her voice gaining certainty. "But on my terms. No management involvement, no cameras, no publicity. Just a conversation."

"Of course," Seulgi agreed quickly. "Whatever you think is best."

Irene nodded once, decision made. "I'll reach out tomorrow. Set something up for later this week."

Relief and gratitude washed over Seulgi. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Irene cautioned. "I can't guarantee it'll help."

"It will," Seulgi insisted. "Even if it just gives Karina a chance to process with someone who understands the pressure she's under."

Irene's lips curved into a small smile. "When did you become so invested in mentoring?"

"I'm not," Seulgi protested. "I just... remember what it was like. Standing at that edge, knowing everything could fall apart if we couldn't figure out how to work together."

Understanding passed between them—a shared history, the memory of their own struggles, their own fears, their own eventual triumph.

"I'll let you know how it goes," Irene promised, moving back toward her desk. "Now, did you want to stay for dinner? I was about to order."

Seulgi glanced at her watch, surprised to see how late it had gotten. "Sure, if you don't mind. What were you thinking?"

She reached out for her phone. “Maybe some Bulgogi.”

As Irene scrolled through delivery options on her phone, Seulgi's lips curved into a mischievous smile. "You know, speaking of Karina..."

Irene glanced up, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Remember that time you lied to our manager about having a headache so you could sneak out and meet her yourself? Just days after she snuck into our practice?"

Irene's fingers froze mid-scroll. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on." Seulgi leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You suddenly had an 'important errand' that couldn't wait."

"I had many important errands that year," Irene countered, but a telltale flush crept up her neck.

"Right. And this particular errand required you to wear your nice coat and put on lipstick at 4 PM on a Tuesday."

Irene set her phone down with deliberate calm. "How did you—"

"Joy saw you at that café near Apgujeong Station." Seulgi's grin widened. "Sitting with a young trainee who happened to match Karina's description."

Irene pressed her lips together, caught. "It wasn't some big secret."

"Then why didn't you tell us?" Seulgi challenged, enjoying this rare moment of having Irene on the defensive.

Irene sighed, relenting. "Because I knew you'd make it into something it wasn't."

"Which was?"

"A mentoring session." Irene picked up her phone again, scrolling with more focus than necessary. "I reached out to her through one of the vocal coaches. I wanted to talk to her about leadership, about handling pressure."

"You reached out to her?" Seulgi's eyebrows shot up. "You, who once said rookie idols should 'figure it out themselves like we did'?"

Irene's eyes flashed. "I never said that."

"You absolutely did. After that MAMA rehearsal when the—"

"Fine." Irene cut her off with a wave. "Maybe I did. But this was different."

"How so?"

Irene hesitated, her expression softening. "She reminded me of myself. Too much, maybe."

Seulgi leaned back, her teasing tone fading. "What happened at that meeting?"

"Nothing dramatic." Irene set her phone down again, gaze drifting toward the window. "We talked. About expectations, about losing yourself in the process."

"And?" Seulgi prompted gently.

"And she cried." Irene's voice quieted. "Not sobbing or anything, just... a few tears she tried to hide. When I asked about why she started dancing in the first place."

Understanding dawned on Seulgi's face. "The joy question."

Irene nodded. "The joy question."

They fell silent for a moment, both remembering their own struggles with that fundamental issue—how easily passion became obligation, how quickly dreams transformed into demands.

"She is so young," Irene continued, her voice soft with memory. "But already so... armored. I could see her processing everything I said as information to be used, techniques to be mastered."

"Like you used to do," Seulgi observed.

"Like I still do sometimes," Irene corrected. "That's why it hit me so hard. Like looking at a younger version of myself and wanting to say, 'Stop. This path you're on—it works, but it costs too much.'"

Seulgi's teasing smile had completely vanished now. "Did you tell her that?"

"I tried." Irene shrugged, a small, helpless gesture. "But I could see the moment she retreated. Put the walls back up."

"And then?"

"And then she thanked me for the 'educational' conversation and left." A hint of old frustration colored Irene's voice. "Like I was just another instructor giving her feedback."

Seulgi absorbed this, connecting it to the present situation. "That's why you're hesitating to talk to her now."

It wasn't a question, but Irene nodded anyway. "I'm not sure she'll hear me. Not really."

"But you're going to try anyway," Seulgi said, certainty in her voice.

"Yes." Irene picked up her phone again, decision made. "Because maybe this time she's ready to listen."

Seulgi watched her friend's profile, admiration warming her chest. For all Irene's claims of detachment, of letting rookies "figure it out themselves," she'd always cared more deeply than she let on.

"You're a good sunbae," Seulgi said simply.

Irene scoffed, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "I'm ordering jajangmyeon. That okay with you?"

"Perfect." Seulgi settled back into the couch, letting the subject change. "So, when are you going to talk to her?"

"Tomorrow," Irene decided, tapping through the delivery app. "I'll text her in the morning, see if she can meet after her practice."

"Not going to wait, huh?"

"Two weeks isn't long," Irene said, echoing Seulgi's earlier words. "And if what Giselle told you is true, they need all the help they can get."

Seulgi nodded, relief washing through her. "Thank you. For doing this."

Irene glanced up, her expression softening. "Don't thank me yet. She might still shut me out."

"She won't," Seulgi insisted. "Not this time."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because this time she's desperate," Seulgi said simply. "And desperation has a way of breaking down walls."

Irene didn't argue, just finished placing their order with a few quick taps. "Food will be here in thirty minutes."

As they settled into easier conversation, Seulgi couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. If anyone could get through to Karina, it was Irene—the woman who had navigated her own group through years of industry pressure without losing her core strength.

Now she just had to hope that Karina was ready to really listen.

Chapter Text

Irene squinted at her phone screen, the morning light slicing through her blinds. 5:47 AM. Too early to be awake, too late to go back to sleep. She swiped away three notifications and opened her messages.

The blank text field stared back at her. What exactly did you say to a trainee who'd gotten punched by her groupmate?

She tossed the phone aside and padded to the kitchen, jabbing the coffee maker's power button. The machine gurgled to life as she leaned against the counter, drumming her fingers against the marble.

Her phone buzzed. Seulgi.

"Already checking up on me?" Irene muttered, answering the call.

"I knew you'd be awake," Seulgi's voice was annoyingly chipper. "Have you texted her yet?"

"It's not even six."

"Trainees wake up early."

"Not this early." Irene poured coffee into her mug, inhaling the steam. "And I'm still figuring out what to say."

"How about 'Hey, heard you're having group issues, want to talk?'"

Irene snorted. "Subtle."

"Since when are you subtle?"

"I'm not showing up at her practice like some intervention specialist."

Seulgi's laugh crackled through the speaker. "That's exactly what you are."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Wait—" Seulgi's voice shifted, serious suddenly. "Remember how she watched you that day? She needs you, not some carefully worded text."

Irene's grip tightened on her mug. "Fine. I'll go to the company."

"Today?"

"Yes, today." She gulped her coffee, wincing as it burned her tongue. "Their practice ends at four, right?"

"Three-thirty. Building B, third floor."

Irene raised an eyebrow. "You've done your homework."

"Someone had to." A pause. "Thank you, unnie."

"Don't thank me yet." Irene hung up, setting her mug down with a decisive click.

She opened her closet, pushing hangers aside with sharp movements. Nothing too formal. Nothing too casual either. She yanked out a blazer, then shoved it back. Too intimidating.

Her phone pinged with a calendar alert. "Strategy meeting - 9:00 AM."

Perfect. She'd be right there in the building anyway.

Irene tossed her phone onto the bed and grabbed a simple black sweater. Professional, but not unapproachable. She'd need that balance today.

The mirror reflected someone who looked more confident than she felt. She straightened her shoulders and practiced what her members called her "leader face" – calm, composed, slightly detached.

"This is ridiculous," she told her reflection. "She's just a rookie."

A rookie who reminded her too much of herself.

Irene grabbed her keys and headed for the door. Better to arrive early than to overthink this any longer.

Three hours later, she sat through the most pointless strategy meeting of her career, checking the time every five minutes.

At 3:15, she slipped out, ignoring the curious glances from the marketing team.

The practice room hallway echoed with muffled bass and the squeak of shoes against polished floors. Irene slowed her pace, listening for the particular track she knew Aespa had been rehearsing.

There—room 304.

She paused outside, watching through the small window as four young women moved in synchronized precision. Karina at the center, face set in fierce concentration, not a hint of the conflict Seulgi had described.

The music stopped. A choreographer barked corrections. The girls nodded, wiping sweat from their foreheads.

Irene stepped back, suddenly uncertain. This was a mistake. What could she possibly say that would—

The door swung open. A girl with striking features—Winter, Irene recognized—nearly collided with her.

"Oh!" Winter's eyes widened. "Irene-sunbaenim!"

The practice room fell silent. Four pairs of eyes fixed on her.

Karina's expression shifted from surprise to careful neutrality so quickly Irene almost missed it. Almost.

"Sorry to interrupt," Irene said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I was just passing by."

The choreographer bowed. "We're honored, sunbaenim. Did you need the room?"

"No, no." Irene waved her hand dismissively. "I actually hoped to speak with Karina, if that's possible."

Karina blinked, her composure slipping for just a moment. "Me?"

"If you have time after practice."

The choreographer checked his watch. "We're actually finishing up now."

An awkward pause stretched between them. Irene could feel the other members' curious stares.

"Of course," Karina finally said, her voice revealing nothing. "I'd be honored."

"Great." Irene nodded, suddenly wishing she'd just sent a text. "I'll wait outside."

She retreated to the hallway, leaning against the wall and exhaling slowly. Through the window, she watched Karina gather her things, her movements precise and controlled. Too controlled.

The door opened again. Karina emerged alone, hair pulled back, face freshly wiped.

"Sunbaenim," she bowed deeply. "This is unexpected."

"Call me unnie," Irene said, then immediately regretted it. Too familiar, too soon.

Karina's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Is everything okay?"

"Let's grab coffee," Irene said, already walking toward the elevator. "Somewhere not here."

Karina fell into step beside her, matching her pace perfectly. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." Irene jabbed the elevator button. "Why would you think that?"

"Because Red Velvet's leader doesn't usually ambush trainees after practice."

Irene turned, surprised by the directness. "I'm not ambushing you."

"Then what is this about?" A flash of vulnerability crossed Karina's face before disappearing behind polite interest.

The elevator doors opened. Irene stepped inside, waiting for Karina to join her.

"It's about making sure you don't throw away everything you've worked for over one bad moment."

Karina's posture stiffened. "I don't know what—"

"Yes, you do." Irene met her gaze steadily. "And we're going to talk about it. Over coffee. Off company property."

The elevator descended in silence. Just before the doors opened, Karina spoke, her voice barely audible.

"How did you know?"

Irene stepped out into the lobby. "Because I've been where you are. And because sometimes we all need someone who's been through it to tell us we're not alone."

Karina followed her, uncertainty replacing her careful composure. "I don't think you've ever been punched by your groupmate."

"No," Irene admitted, pushing through the front doors into the afternoon sunlight. "But I've wanted to punch a few of mine."

For the first time, a genuine smile flickered across Karina's face. "Really?"

"Really." Irene pointed across the street to a small café. "And I'll tell you all about it. If you're willing to listen."

Karina hesitated, glancing back at the company building. When she turned back to Irene, her eyes held a mixture of wariness and hope.

"I'm listening."

The café was quiet, just a few patrons hunched over laptops in corners. Irene led them to a table by the window, partially hidden by a large potted plant.

"What do you drink?" Irene asked, setting her purse down.

"Americano," Karina answered automatically, then added, "Thank you, sunbae—unnie."

Irene ordered at the counter and returned with two cups. She slid one across to Karina, who wrapped her fingers around it but didn't drink.

"So," Irene said, not bothering with small talk, "Winter and the punch."

Karina's knuckles whitened around her cup. "Who told you?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Irene took a sip, considering. "Seulgi. Who heard it from Giselle."

"Great." Karina's jaw tightened. "So everyone knows."

"Not everyone. Just me and Seulgi."

Karina stared out the window, her profile sharp against the afternoon light. "It wasn't a big deal."

"Getting punched by your groupmate is always a big deal."

"She didn't mean to—"

"Yes, she did." Irene leaned forward. "In that moment, she absolutely meant to."

Karina's eyes snapped back to Irene's, startled.

"I know because I've been there," Irene continued, voice low and intense. "Not the getting punched part. The wanting to punch part."

"You?" Karina's disbelief was evident. "But your group is—"

"Perfect?" Irene's laugh was short, sharp. "No group is perfect."

"But Red Velvet never—"

"Back when Seulgi and I were trainees," Irene cut in, "there was another girl in our cohort. Talented. Ambitious."

Karina leaned forward slightly, curiosity overcoming her guardedness.

"We competed for everything," Irene said. "Parts, praise, positions. I resented her success, her ease with things I had to work twice as hard for."

"That's normal trainee life," Karina dismissed.

"It went beyond normal." Irene's fingers tapped against her cup. "I started sabotaging her. Small things at first—misinformation about schedule changes, 'forgetting' to pass along notes."

Karina's eyes widened. "Did she know?"

"Eventually. And she confronted me." Irene's gaze was unflinching. "I denied everything, of course. But the look in her eyes—she knew. And in that moment, I wanted to hit her. To make her stop looking at me like that."

"But you didn't."

"No. Seulgi intervened—not physically, but she was there, watching. Her presence was enough." Irene's mouth tightened. "Not everyone has a Seulgi at the right moment."

Karina shifted uncomfortably. "Winter and I have a complicated relationship."

"I can imagine. Giselle mentioned it's been building for years."

Karina's head jerked up. "What else did she say?"

"That Winter's been trying to hold you back. Sabotage your progress." Irene watched Karina's reaction carefully. "Sound familiar?"

"It's not that simple." Karina's fingers traced the rim of her cup. "We were friends before all this. Trainees together."

"And then things changed."

Karina nodded slowly. "I changed. That's what she couldn't accept."

"Tell me what happened. The day she hit you."

Karina's gaze dropped to her untouched coffee. "I'd been absent for a few days. Personal reasons. When I came back to practice, she was waiting."

Irene nodded, saying nothing.

"She called me a 'running sack of shit.'" Karina's voice hardened at the memory. "Said I bailed after one fight, one criticism."

"And you said?"

"Nothing. I didn't even look at her." A muscle in Karina's jaw twitched. "That made her angrier."

"I bet it did."

"She got in my face. Called me a coward." Karina's voice grew quieter. "Said I was running home to mommy and daddy because things got hard."

"And that's when you responded?"

"I told her to stay away from me." Karina's eyes flashed with remembered anger. "She grabbed my shoulder, called me an 'ungrateful piece of shit.'"

Irene winced slightly but remained silent.

"I told her to quit it. She started screaming about tiptoeing around my insecurities." Karina's voice cracked slightly. "I said she didn't know what I was going through, and she yelled that I never tell her anything."

"And then?"

"I told her I wasn't her project. That I didn't want to talk to her." Karina touched her jaw unconsciously. "That's when she snapped. Just... lunged at me. Her fist connected before I could even react."

"What did you do after she hit you?"

"Asked if she felt better." Karina's laugh held no humor. "She tried to apologize immediately, but I told her we were done. That nothing could fix this."

"And since then?"

"We've been... professional." Karina's voice flattened. "We practice. We perform. We don't talk about it."

"That won't work," Irene said bluntly.

"It's working fine."

"For now. Until it explodes again, on stage or in front of cameras."

Karina's eyes flashed. "It won't."

"It will." Irene leaned back, studying the younger woman. "There's more to this story, isn't there? What you told her before you disappeared for those days?"

Karina stiffened. "How did you—"

"Because fights like this don't happen in a vacuum." Irene's gaze was steady. "What really happened between you two?"

Karina stared into her cup for a long moment. "She couldn't accept that I was changing. Becoming Karina instead of Jimin."

"Your birth name."

"Yes. She kept using it even after I asked her to stop." Karina's voice hardened. "She'd cry when I changed my appearance, say she 'missed the old me.' Treated every milestone like I was betraying her."

"And you called her out on it."

"Finally, yes." Karina's fingers drummed against the table. "I told her she only stood by me when it benefited her. That she sabotaged me when I started to succeed."

"That's a heavy accusation."

"It's the truth." Karina's eyes met Irene's, defiant. "When I got center position, she gave me the silent treatment for days. When my parts increased, suddenly she needed 'extra practice' with the vocal coach."

"And she denied it?"

"Of course." Karina's laugh was bitter. "Said she was 'proud of me.' But not proud of me—proud of what she thought she made me."

Irene nodded slowly, absorbing this. "Let me tell you what happened with my trainee rival."

"I thought Seulgi stopped the confrontation."

"That time, yes. But the tension didn't disappear. We kept avoiding each other, being coldly professional. Then during monthly evaluations, she messed up her part. Badly."

Karina took a small sip of her coffee, finally engaging.

"I laughed," Irene admitted, shame coloring her voice. "Not loudly. Just a small, satisfied sound. But she heard it."

"What did she do?"

"Nothing. That was worse somehow. She just looked at me with this... disappointment. Like I'd confirmed everything she thought about me." Irene shook her head. "Two weeks later, she quit. Left the company entirely."

"And you felt guilty."

"No." Irene's answer was quick, surprising them both. "I felt relieved. That's the worst part. I was glad she was gone."

Karina's expression shifted, recognition dawning. "You think I want Winter to leave."

"Do you?"

The question hung between them. Karina's hand trembled slightly as she set down her cup.

"I argued against replacing her," she said defensively.

"Giselle mentioned that. Said you thought starting over would set you back too much."

"It would."

"Is that the only reason?" Irene pressed.

Karina stared into her cup. "No."

"Then what?"

"We've been through too much together." The words seemed to cost Karina physical effort. "But sometimes I wonder if what we've been through was real or just... convenient."

Irene tilted her head. "Convenient?"

"Winter needed someone to control. I needed someone to validate me." Karina's fingers drummed against the table. "Perfect symbiosis."

"That's a cold way to look at a friendship."

"Is it friendship when one person can't celebrate the other's success?" Karina's eyes flashed. "When one person needs the other to stay small so they can feel big?"

Irene studied her, expression unreadable. "Sounds like you've already made up your mind about her."

"She made it up for me when she threw that punch." Karina's jaw tightened. "Just confirmed what I'd been suspecting for months."

"Which is?"

"That she's a parasite." The word sliced through the air between them. "Taking what she needs, giving nothing back."

Irene's eyebrows shot up. "That's harsh."

"So was her fist against my face." Karina touched her jaw, the bruise now faded but the memory fresh. "You know what she said after? That she was trying to 'protect me from losing myself.'"

"Maybe she was, in her own misguided way."

"No." Karina's voice hardened. "She was protecting herself from losing control of me."

Irene sipped her coffee, watching Karina over the rim. "If that's truly how you feel, why fight to keep her in the group?"

"Because I'm not her." Karina's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I don't sabotage people just because they hurt me."

"Noble," Irene commented, setting down her cup. "Or practical?"

"Both. Neither." Karina shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to you, or we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The observation landed with precision. Karina's shoulders tensed, then dropped.

"Fine." She exhaled sharply. "I keep asking myself if I pushed her to this. If I could have handled things differently."

"And?"

"And I don't know." Karina's voice cracked slightly. "That's the problem. I keep replaying every interaction, every fight, wondering where it all went wrong."

Irene leaned forward. "That's called taking responsibility. It's what leaders do."

"Even when someone punches them in the face?"

"Especially then." Irene's voice softened. "The hardest leadership moments aren't about being right. They're about finding a way forward when everything's gone wrong."

Karina stared out the window, jaw working. "What if there is no way forward with her?"

"There always is. It just might not be the one you want."

"Which is?"

"Going back to how things were." Irene's words were gentle but firm. "That's not possible anymore. Too much has been said. Done."

Karina's laugh was hollow. "So what's the alternative? Pretending we don't hate each other until debut?"

"Do you hate her?"

The question hung between them. Karina opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.

"I don't know," she finally admitted. "Sometimes I think I do. Other times..."

"Other times?"

"I miss who we used to be." The confession emerged reluctantly. "Before all this. Before Karina and Winter. When we were just Jimin and Minjeong, two scared trainees clinging to each other."

Something in Irene's expression softened. "That's not hatred."

"Then what is it?"

"Grief." Irene's answer was immediate. "You're mourning a relationship that's changed beyond recognition."

Karina absorbed this, fingers tracing patterns on the table's surface. "How do you move forward from that?"

"By accepting it's changed. By building something new."

"With someone who hit me?" Karina's skepticism was evident.

"With someone who immediately regretted it." Irene countered. "Who tried to apologize on the spot."

"Words are cheap."

"Then what would convince you? What could Winter do that would make a difference?"

Karina fell silent, genuinely considering the question.

"I don't know," she finally said. "Maybe nothing. Maybe that's the problem."

"If nothing she does can make a difference, then you've already decided." Irene's tone sharpened. "And you're wasting everyone's time pretending otherwise."

Karina flinched. "That's not fair."

"Leadership isn't about fair." Irene leaned forward, eyes intense. "It's about making hard choices when there are no good options."

"What choice? Management's already made it clear—fix this or Winter's out."

"And you argued against that." Irene pointed out. "Why, if you truly believe she's just a parasite?"

Karina's fingers stilled on the table. "Because..."

"Because?"

"Because despite everything, she's still Winter." The words emerged reluctantly. "Still the girl who held my hand during our first evaluation. Who brought me soup when I was sick. Who stayed up all night helping me perfect that dance break."

Irene nodded, satisfaction flickering across her face. "That's your starting point."

"For what?"

"For rebuilding." Irene gathered her things, preparing to leave. "Remember who she is beyond this moment. Beyond this fight."

"And if she can't do the same for me?"

"Then you'll know you tried." Irene stood, shouldering her bag. "That's all any of us can do."

Karina remained seated, conflict evident in her expression. "How do I even start that conversation?"

"By being honest. Not about what she did wrong—she knows that already." Irene's voice gentled. "About what you're afraid of."

"Which is?"

"That's for you to figure out." Irene smiled slightly. "But based on this conversation, I'd say you're afraid the person you thought you knew never existed at all."

The observation struck with uncomfortable precision. Karina's breath caught.

"How did you—"

"Because I've been there." Irene adjusted her bag. "With my trainee rival. With members of my own group. The fear that you've built your foundation on shifting sand."

"Have you figured it out? How to know what's real?"

Irene's smile turned wry. "I'll let you know when I do." She reached out, squeezing Karina's shoulder briefly. "But I do know this—avoiding the conversation guarantees nothing changes."

Karina nodded slowly, resolve hardening in her eyes. "Thank you. For coming today."

"Don't thank me yet." Irene stepped back. "The hard part's still ahead."

"Talking to Winter?"

"No." Irene shook her head. "Being honest with yourself about what you really want from her."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Karina alone with her cooling coffee and uncomfortable truths.

Karina watched her go, then pulled out her phone. She stared at Winter's contact for a long moment before typing a simple message:

"We need to talk. Not as Karina and Winter. As Jimin and Minjeong."

Her finger hovered over the send button, hesitation warring with determination.

She pressed send.

—-

Irene stepped out into the afternoon sun, sliding her sunglasses on in one fluid motion. The café door swung shut behind her, cutting off the quiet murmur of conversations and clinking cups.

She walked half a block before pulling out her phone, thumb hovering over Seulgi's contact. A moment's hesitation, then she pressed call.

Seulgi answered on the second ring. "Well?"

"You owe me one." Irene didn't bother with hello, already weaving through pedestrians with ease.

"That bad?"

"Worse." Irene dodged a businessman glued to his screen. "She called Winter a parasite."

A low whistle came through the speaker. "Damn."

"My thoughts exactly." Irene paused at a crosswalk, tapping her foot as she waited for the light. "Your little rescue mission might be hopeless."

"But you tried anyway." The smile in Seulgi's voice was audible. "Did she listen at all?"

"Hard to say." The light changed, and Irene strode forward. "She's hurt. Angry. Convinced Winter's been holding her back for years."

"Has she?"

"Probably." Irene sidestepped a street vendor. "But not in the way Karina thinks."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning they're both stuck in who they used to be to each other." Irene's voice sharpened with frustration. "Like watching two people drown while clinging to each other."

Seulgi's laugh crackled through the phone. "That's poetic for you."

"Shut up." Irene couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. "Where are you, anyway? I need a drink after that conversation."

"Studio. Finishing vocal recording." Keys clicked in the background. "I can be free in an hour."

"Perfect. The usual place?"

"I'll book it." A pause. "So did you actually help, or just traumatize the poor girl?"

Irene snorted. "Both, probably. I told her some things she didn't want to hear."

"Like what?"

"Like she's grieving, not hating." Irene stopped at another intersection, impatience radiating from her posture. "And that she needs to figure out what she actually wants from Winter."

"Wow." Seulgi sounded impressed. "That's... surprisingly insightful."

"Don't sound so shocked." Irene rolled her eyes despite knowing Seulgi couldn't see. "I've been a leader for seven years."

"And yet you still threaten to quit the group at least once a month."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

"Yes." Irene's tone brooked no argument. "I never actually mean it."

"Tell that to the voice memos I still have saved." Seulgi's teasing was gentle. "So what's your verdict? Will aespa survive?"

Irene sighed, deflating slightly. "I don't know. There's real damage there."

"But?"

"But she texted Winter while I was leaving." Irene turned down a side street, away from the main crowd. "I saw it on her screen."

"That's something, at least." Hope colored Seulgi's voice. "What did it say?"

"'We need to talk. Not as Karina and Winter. As Jimin and Minjeong.'"

Silence stretched between them for a moment.

"Wow," Seulgi finally said. "That's... actually perfect."

"It is," Irene admitted. "Better than anything I suggested."

"So you did get through to her."

"Maybe." Irene slowed her pace, the conversation drawing her attention inward. "Or maybe she just needed someone to listen while she figured it out herself."

"Either way, mission accomplished." Seulgi's voice softened. "Thank you, unnie. I know this wasn't how you planned to spend your afternoon."

"No, it wasn't." Irene stopped walking entirely, leaning against a building. "But it was... I don't know. Important, somehow."

"Because you see yourself in her?"

The question hit closer to home than Irene expected. She inhaled sharply.

"Maybe," she conceded. "Or maybe I just hate seeing talent wasted on petty bullshit."

Seulgi laughed. "There's the Irene I know."

"The one who's now owed a very expensive dinner."

"I'll add it to your tab."

"My tab?" Irene pushed off the wall, resuming her walk with renewed purpose. "I think you've got that backwards."

"We can argue about it over drinks." Keys clacked in the background. "I need to finish this track. See you in an hour?"

"Make it fancy. I earned it."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Seulgi's mock-reverence made Irene smile despite herself.

She hung up, sliding the phone into her pocket. The conversation with Karina replayed in her mind—the anger, the hurt, the reluctant admission that something worth saving still existed.

Irene's pace slowed as a memory surfaced: herself at twenty, furious and frightened, convinced that every setback was someone else's fault. How long had it taken her to recognize her own part in those conflicts? To see past her hurt to the larger picture?

Years. It had taken years.

Her phone buzzed with a text notification. Seulgi:
"Reservation made. Also, Giselle says Winter just ran out of practice in tears. After checking her phone."

Irene stopped walking, staring at the message. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertain what to say. Finally, she typed:
"Not our circus, not our monkeys."

The reply came instantly:
"Says the woman who just spent an hour playing therapist to their center."

Irene smiled, shaking her head.
"That was a one-time service. I'm retired now."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared:
"Until the next time someone needs you."

The accuracy of the statement made Irene pause. She typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:
"Just make sure there's wine."

She pocketed her phone and continued walking, quickening her pace. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the sidewalk, the day already beginning to wane.

Behind her, the café where she'd left Karina grew smaller in the distance. Ahead, the city stretched out, indifferent to the small dramas playing out within it. Irene moved through it all with practiced ease, her mind already shifting to her evening plans.

But a part of her remained back in that café, hoping the words she'd offered would be enough. Hoping two scared, stubborn girls could find their way back to each other before it was too late.

Not her circus, not her monkeys. But somehow, she couldn't help caring anyway.

Chapter Text

The autumn wind scattered leaves across the concrete path as Karina checked her phone for the third time in five minutes. No response from Winter beyond a terse "OK." She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, hunching against the chill.

Irene's words echoed: Being honest about what you're afraid of.

Karina tapped her foot against the bench leg, watching the park entrance. Her memory drifted back to that first summer—not the playful encounter Winter always described, but something sharper, more desperate.

Ten-year-old Jimin hadn't been practicing BoA's choreography for fun. She'd been drilling it because her evaluation was in three days, and her mother had made it clear: improve or quit. The park wasn't an escape but the only place she could practice without her father's criticisms or her sister's mockery.

When Minjeong approached, Jimin hadn't waved her over with an easy smile. She'd stiffened, embarrassed to be caught rehearsing. The younger girl's suggestion to "play" had initially felt like an insult.

"Dancing isn't playing," she'd snapped. "It's work."

Minjeong hadn't backed down. "Then you're working wrong."

The bluntness had shocked Jimin into paying attention. Not because Minjeong was right, but because no one had ever challenged her before.

Their "alien dance" hadn't been spontaneous joy—it had been Jimin's first taste of rebellion. Of disobedience. For ten precious minutes, she'd ignored her mother's voice in her head demanding perfection.

Karina's phone buzzed. A text from Winter: "Five minutes away."

She pocketed it without responding, her mind still tunneling backward.

Their friendship hadn't bloomed from carefree play but from recognition. Minjeong saw something in Jimin that others missed—not just talent, but hunger. And Jimin saw in Minjeong something she desperately needed—permission to fail occasionally.

That day in Jimin's living room—the one Winter remembered so fondly—had ended differently in Jimin's memory. After their made-up performance, Jimin's parents had returned early. Her father had taken one look at the disheveled living room and demanded an explanation.

"We were just pretending," Jimin had explained.

"Pretending won't get you a contract," he'd replied coldly. "Minjeong-ah, it's time for you to go home."

Later, after Minjeong left, her father had lectured her about focus, about the sacrifices necessary for success. "Friends are distractions," he'd said. "Especially friends who don't take your dreams seriously."

Jimin had nodded, absorbing the lesson, but secretly disagreed. Minjeong took her dreams more seriously than anyone—she just understood that dreams needed room to breathe.

Another memory surfaced as Karina waited: their first major evaluation together. Not the playful, supportive experience Winter described in her stories, but something rawer, more revealing.

They were twelve and thirteen, paired for a dance assessment. Jimin had drilled their routine obsessively for weeks, mapping every movement down to the angle of their fingers. Minjeong matched her intensity in practice, but approached it differently—with joy rather than desperation.

The night before, Jimin had called Minjeong in tears.

"I'm going to mess it up," she'd whispered, hiding in her bathroom so her parents wouldn't hear. "I keep making this one mistake in the bridge section."

"We'll be fine," Minjeong had assured her. "We know this routine better than our own names."

"But what if—"

"Then we'll handle it," Minjeong had cut in. "Together."

The next day, disaster struck. Three judges watched with impassive faces as the music started. They moved in perfect synchronization until the bridge—where Jimin's foot slipped. Just slightly, barely noticeable.

But Jimin noticed. Her rhythm faltered for a split second as panic flashed across her face.

That's when Minjeong had deliberately missed her next step. Not obviously—just enough that the mistake became shared, distributed between them.

When the music ended, Jimin was shaking.

"What happened?" she'd hissed as they bowed and exited.

"We made a small mistake," Minjeong had shrugged. "It happens."

"You did it on purpose," Jimin accused once they were alone in the hallway. "You messed up on purpose."

"I promised, didn't I?" Minjeong had replied simply. "That if you made a mistake, I'd make one too so no one would notice yours."

"But why?" Jimin's voice cracked with confusion. "Now we'll both get bad scores."

"Because we're a team," Minjeong had said. "And teams share everything. The good and the bad."

Jimin had stared at her, torn between gratitude and horror. "My parents will kill me if I don't rank well."

"Tell them it was my fault," Minjeong offered immediately. "I don't mind."

"I can't do that," Jimin had whispered.

"Why not?"

"Because we're a team." Jimin had echoed her words, something shifting in her expression. "And teams share everything."

They'd received surprisingly good feedback—the judges praised their synchronization and emotional connection, noting only that the minor technical errors could be improved with practice.

Jimin's parents had still lectured her for an hour about precision and focus. But that night, she'd texted Minjeong: "Thank you for falling with me."

Karina touched her jaw unconsciously, the memory sharp and clear. That moment had taught her something vital—that she wasn't alone. That someone would catch her if she fell.

When had she forgotten that lesson?

Karina's mind circled back to her words with Irene: "She's a parasite. Taking what she needs, giving nothing back."

The accusation had flowed easily then, fueled by anger and hurt. Winter sulking after Karina's center position announcement. Winter suddenly needing extra vocal coaching right after Karina's parts increased. Winter's face tightening whenever directors praised Karina's stage presence.

But other memories intruded, complicating the narrative. Winter staying up until 4 AM helping Karina perfect a troublesome dance break. Winter smuggling soup into the dorm when Karina was sick with fever. Winter fiercely defending Karina when other trainees whispered about favoritism.

A parasite wouldn't do those things, would they?

Movement caught her eye. Winter approached from the park entrance, her steps slowing as she spotted Karina.

Winter stopped a few feet from the bench, fingers fidgeting with her sleeve cuffs. "Hey."

"Hey." Karina's voice came out cooler than intended.

Winter gestured to the empty space beside Karina. "Can I sit?"

The hesitation in her voice—so unlike confident, assured Winter—made something twist in Karina's chest.

"It's a public bench," Karina replied, then winced at her tone. "Yes, sit."

Winter perched on the opposite end, maintaining maximum distance. Neither spoke for several moments.

"I called you a parasite," Karina blurted out suddenly. "When I was talking to Irene."

Winter flinched, her already pale face draining of color. "What?"

"I told her you were a parasite." Karina's fingers curled into fists. "Taking what you needed, giving nothing back."

Winter stared at her, eyes wide with hurt. "Is that really how you see me?"

"I thought I did." Karina stared at the space between them. "When you gave me the silent treatment after my center announcement. When you suddenly needed extra vocal coaching right after my parts increased."

"That wasn't—"

"Let me finish." Karina cut her off. "I convinced myself you were sabotaging me. That you couldn't stand my success."

Winter's jaw tightened. "And now?"

"Now I'm not sure." Karina exhaled sharply. "Irene made me question my own narrative. Made me remember things I'd conveniently forgotten."

"Like what?"

"Like you staying up all night to help me with that dance break before monthly evaluations." Karina's voice softened. "Or bringing me soup when I was sick with fever. Or defending me when other trainees whispered about favoritism."

Winter remained silent, watching her cautiously.

"But then I remember other moments too." Karina's eyes hardened. "You telling that photographer certain angles weren't 'flattering' for me. You 'accidentally' deleting my guide vocal recording. Your face when the director praised my stage presence."

"I was jealous sometimes," Winter admitted quietly. "I'm not perfect."

"Neither am I." Karina laughed without humor. "That's what terrifies me."

A jogger passed, forcing them into momentary silence. When he disappeared around the bend, Winter leaned forward.

"You know what I remember?" she asked. "You arguing against replacing me after I hit you. You defending me to the vocal coach when he wanted to cut my lines. You helping me with pronunciation when my tongue kept tripping over that one verse."

"Those were practical decisions," Karina deflected. "Starting over would set us back."

"Is that the only reason?" Winter pressed.

The question echoed Irene's words so precisely that Karina startled. "You sound like her."

"Like who?"

"Irene." Karina's fingers drummed against the bench. "She asked me the same thing. If practicality was the only reason I fought to keep you."

"And what did you tell her?"

"That we've been through too much together." Karina met her eyes directly. "But that sometimes I wondered if what we've been through was real or just... convenient."

Winter absorbed the blow, her shoulders stiffening. "Convenient."

"You needed someone to control. I needed someone to validate me." Karina repeated her words to Irene. "Perfect symbiosis."

"Is that really what you think we were?" Winter's voice cracked slightly. "Just using each other?"

Karina's eyes filled unexpectedly, tears gathering at the corners. She blinked rapidly, trying to force them back.

"I don't know anymore." Her voice wavered. "About anything."

Winter leaned forward, concern replacing hurt. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't know who I am." The first tear escaped, tracking down Karina's cheek. She swiped at it angrily. "Or who I was in the first place."

"Jimin—"

"Don't call me that." Karina's voice sharpened, then immediately softened. "I'm sorry. I just... every decision I make is wrong somehow."

Winter remained silent, waiting.

"If I side with management, you and Giselle and Ningning give me those looks—like I've betrayed you." Karina's hands twisted together in her lap. "If I defend the group, management questions my commitment. I can't win."

"Leadership isn't about winning," Winter said quietly.

"Then what is it about?" Karina's voice cracked. "Because I'm failing at whatever it is."

Winter leaned forward, hands clasped between her knees. The evening light caught the edge of her profile, sharpening it.

"Leadership is about taking the hit so others don't have to," she said. Her voice was soft but certain. "It's what you've been doing all along."

Karina scoffed, wiping away another tear. "Is that what you call it?"

"You stand between us and management every day." Winter's fingers tightened around each other. "You absorb their expectations so we don't feel the full weight."

"And you resent me for it."

"Sometimes." Winter admitted, meeting her gaze directly. "When you come back from those meetings transformed into someone I don't recognize."

Karina flinched. A dry leaf skittered across the path between them.

"You think I enjoy being their mouthpiece?" She spat the words out. "Their perfect little soldier?"

"No." Winter shifted closer on the bench. "I think you're trapped."

"Then why punish me for it?" Karina's voice cracked. "The silent treatment, the cold shoulders—"

"Because I'm angry!" Winter slammed her palm against the bench. "Not at you. At the situation. At seeing what it's doing to you."

Karina blinked, startled by the outburst.

"You walk into those rooms as Jimin and walk out as Karina," Winter continued, her words rushing now. "Each time, a piece of you disappears."

"That's the job." Karina's jaw tightened. "We knew what we were signing up for."

"Did we?" Winter challenged. "Did we really understand what it would cost?"

A jogger passed them, music blaring from his headphones. They waited in tense silence until he was gone.

"You've always had one foot out the door," Karina accused suddenly. "Always holding something back."

"That's not true."

"It is! You keep part of yourself separate. Safe." Karina's fingers dug into her thighs. "I've given everything."

Winter's expression softened. "That's what terrifies me."

"What?"

"That you'll disappear completely." Winter reached across the space between them, her hand hovering inches from Karina's. "And I'll lose you forever."

Karina stared at Winter's outstretched hand but didn't take it.

"Maybe you never had me," she whispered.

"Bullshit." Winter's hand dropped. "Six years, Jimin. Six years."

"Don't call me—"

"Why not?" Winter interrupted, eyes flashing. "Because they told you Jimin isn't marketable enough? Because Karina tests better with focus groups?"

"Because Jimin was weak!" Karina stood abruptly. "Jimin cried when her father criticized her. Jimin doubted herself constantly. Jimin needed your protection."

Winter rose to face her. "And Karina doesn't need anyone, right?"

"I can't afford to."

"That's the biggest lie you've told yourself." Winter stepped closer. "You think leadership means isolation. It doesn't."

Karina crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one they blame when things go wrong."

"No, I'm just the one who watches you take the blame and pretend it doesn't hurt." Winter's voice softened. "You think I don't see you practicing extra hours after everyone leaves? Reviewing performance videos until 3 AM? Skipping meals when you think no one's looking?"

Karina turned away, jaw tight.

"You're right about one thing," Winter continued. "I do hold back. But not because I don't care—because I care too much."

"What does that even mean?" Karina spun back to face her.

"It means I'm terrified too!" Winter's voice cracked. "Every time you walk into those meetings alone, I wonder which version of you will come back. Every time they increase your workload, I watch you shrink a little more."

A cool breeze swept through the park, rustling the trees above them.

"So you withdraw," Karina said flatly. "Pull away when I need you most."

"I withdraw because I don't know how to help." Winter's shoulders slumped. "Because nothing I do seems to reach you anymore."

Karina laughed bitterly. "So this is my fault too?"

"No!" Winter grabbed Karina's wrist. "That's not what I'm saying."

Karina looked down at Winter's hand, then back up at her face.

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying we're both drowning." Winter's grip loosened but didn't let go. "You're trying to carry everyone while keeping your head above water. I'm watching you sink and don't know how to pull you back up."

Karina's expression cracked slightly. "I don't know how to be what everyone needs."

"No one does." Winter's thumb brushed across Karina's pulse point. "That's the point."

They stood frozen for a moment, the park growing darker around them.

"Remember what you told me after our first evaluation?" Winter asked suddenly. "When I messed up on purpose after you slipped?"

Karina's eyes softened at the memory. "That we'd fall together or not at all."

"You were a leader then." Winter squeezed her wrist gently. "Not because you were perfect. Because you understood we were stronger together than apart."

"We were children," Karina whispered. "It was simpler."

"It was never simple." Winter released her grip. "But we faced it together."

Karina sank back onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. "I don't know how to get back there."

Winter sat beside her, closer this time. "Maybe we don't go back. Maybe we find something new."

"Like what?"

"Like honesty." Winter turned to face her fully. "No more silent treatment from me. No more perfect leader act from you."

Karina's eyebrows rose. "You think management will accept that?"

"I think they don't need to know." Winter's mouth curved into a small, conspiratorial smile. "What happens between us stays between us."

"That's your solution? Secret rebellion?"

"It's a start." Winter shrugged. "Better than tearing each other apart."

Karina studied her for a long moment. "I called you a parasite."

"And I've thought worse about you." Winter held her gaze. "We can apologize forever or we can do better starting now."

The park lights flickered on, casting long shadows across the path. Karina uncrossed her arms, letting her hands rest in her lap.

"I'm scared," she admitted, voice barely audible.

"Of what?"

"That I've already lost myself." Karina swallowed hard. "That there's nothing left of Jimin to save."

Winter reached out slowly, deliberately, and took Karina's hand. "She's right here. I see her."

Karina's fingers tightened around Winter's. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because Jimin would be having this conversation." Winter's eyes crinkled slightly. "Karina would have walked away an hour ago."

A small, reluctant smile tugged at Karina's lips. "Maybe."

"Definitely." Winter bumped her shoulder against Karina's. "The question is, what happens tomorrow? When the cameras are on and management is watching?"

Karina's smile faded. "I don't know."

"I do." Winter's voice strengthened. "You'll be the leader they need you to be. And I'll have your back instead of stabbing it."

"Just like that?"

"No, not just like that." Winter sighed. "It'll be hard. We'll mess up. I'll get jealous again. You'll get defensive again."

"Inspiring pep talk."

"I'm not finished." Winter squeezed her hand. "But we'll talk about it. No silent treatment. No bottling it up until we explode."

Karina studied their joined hands. "And when I have to be the bad guy? When I have to enforce their rules?"

"Then I'll hate the rules, not you." Winter's thumb traced circles on Karina's palm. "And I'll make sure Giselle and Ningning understand the difference too."

The mention of their groupmates made Karina tense. "They already think I'm a company puppet."

"They don't know what you shield them from." Winter's voice hardened slightly. "But they will if you let me tell them."

"No." Karina shook her head firmly. "They need to focus on debut, not politics."

"See?" Winter smiled sadly. "Always protecting everyone else."

Karina's breath caught. She stared at the darkening park, realization washing over her face.

"I did it again, didn't I?" She pulled her hand away from Winter's, pressing her fingers to her temples. "Protecting everyone but myself."

Winter waited, giving her space.

"It's like a reflex." Karina laughed hollowly. "Someone mentions a problem and I immediately—"

"Jump in front of the bullet," Winter finished.

"Yeah." Karina dropped her hands. "When did that become my default?"

"Probably around the time your dad told you friends were distractions." Winter's voice was gentle but direct. "Or when your mom made dance feel like work instead of joy."

Karina flinched. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything." Winter tapped her own temple. "Including the parts you try to forget."

A distant siren wailed, then faded. The park had emptied now, leaving them alone with their words.

"What do you want, Jimin?" Winter asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Not what the company wants. Not what I want. Not what Giselle or Ningning need." Winter leaned forward, forcing eye contact. "What do you want?"

Karina opened her mouth, then closed it. Her brow furrowed.

"I don't know," she whispered finally.

"Yes, you do." Winter's voice sharpened. "You've just buried it so deep you can't hear it anymore."

Karina stood abruptly, pacing in front of the bench. "This is pointless. We debut in three months."

"So?"

"So there's no time for—" Karina gestured wildly at the space between them. "For existential crises about what I want!"

Winter remained seated, watching her move. "There's never going to be time unless you make it."

"Easy for you to say." Karina spun to face her. "You've always known what you wanted."

"Have I?" Winter raised an eyebrow. "Or have I just been better at pretending?"

That stopped Karina mid-pace. She studied Winter's face, searching.

"What do you want then?" she challenged.

Winter didn't hesitate. "I want my friend back." Her voice cracked slightly. "I want to stop feeling like we're opponents instead of partners."

The simple honesty knocked the wind from Karina's lungs. She sank back onto the bench.

"I miss you," Winter continued, softer now. "The real you. Not Leader-nim. Not Perfect Karina. You."

Karina's eyes filled again. She blinked rapidly, fighting the tears.

"I miss me too," she admitted, the words barely audible.

Winter reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a tear from Karina's cheek. "Then let's find you again."

"How?" Karina's voice strengthened with frustration. "We still have to debut. The expectations are still there. Nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed." Winter gestured between them. "This conversation? Would have been impossible a week ago."

"Talking doesn't fix reality."

"No, but it stops us from fighting each other instead of the problem." Winter shifted closer. "You don't have to carry everything alone anymore."

Karina's laugh was bitter. "What, you're going to take the heat from management now?"

"If necessary, yes." Winter's jaw set stubbornly.

"They'd eat you alive."

"Maybe." Winter shrugged. "Or maybe they'd respect that we're finally acting like a real team."

Karina rubbed her temples again. "You're so naive sometimes."

"And you're so cynical." Winter countered without heat. "We balance each other."

The park lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across their faces. Karina looked up at the darkening sky.

"I want to dance again," she said suddenly.

Winter blinked. "What?"

"You asked what I want." Karina's voice grew stronger. "I want to dance and actually feel it. Not just execute choreography perfectly—but feel something while doing it."

Winter's expression softened. "When was the last time you felt that?"

"Monthly evaluation. March. Last year." Karina's answer came quickly, surprising them both. "The contemporary piece."

"I remember." Winter nodded. "You were..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"Free," Karina finished. "For three minutes, I was just... free."

"What else?" Winter prompted. "What else do you want?"

Karina hesitated, then the words tumbled out. "I want to stop checking my phone every five minutes for messages from management. I want to eat a meal without calculating calories. I want to laugh without worrying if it sounds pretty enough."

Each admission gained strength, her voice rising.

"I want to stop feeling like I'm disappointing everyone all the time." She stood again, energy coursing through her. "I want to look in the mirror and recognize myself."

Winter watched her, a small smile playing at her lips.

"What?" Karina demanded, suddenly self-conscious.

"There you are." Winter's smile widened. "I knew you were still in there somewhere."

Karina crossed her arms. "Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not." Winter stood, facing her directly. "I'm celebrating finding you again."

The sincerity in Winter's voice disarmed her. Karina's posture softened.

"So what now?" she asked. "I can't just... change everything overnight."

"No one's asking you to." Winter took a deliberate step closer. "But maybe you start with one thing. Something small."

"Like what?"

Winter hesitated, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets as they sat on the park bench. The streetlights had flickered on, casting long shadows across the path before them.

"Like what happened in that meeting about the... incident." She stared at a point in the distance. "When you defended me."

Karina frowned, turning to face Winter fully. "You want me to tell management that we're in good terms?"

Winter nodded, her posture straightening. "Yes. I do."

"Why?" Karina's eyes narrowed slightly. "We've barely started figuring things out ourselves."

"Because I'm still on probation." Winter's voice tightened. "And every day I feel their eyes on me, waiting for me to slip."

"So you want me to lie?" Karina challenged.

"Is it a lie?" Winter countered, meeting her gaze directly. "Are we not trying?"

Karina considered this, her fingers drumming against her knee. "Trying isn't the same as fixed."

"They don't need to know the details." Winter leaned forward, urgency in her movements. "Just that we're working together. That I'm not a problem anymore."

"You were never the problem," Karina muttered.

"Tell that to the executives with their replacement files." Winter's laugh was brittle. "Those three trainees with 'comparable dance skills' and 'suitable visuals.'"

Karina's expression hardened. "They had those profiles ready too quickly."

"Exactly." Winter nodded. "Like they'd been waiting for an excuse."

"You think they wanted you gone before the incident?"

"I think they've been testing us both." Winter glanced around the empty park, voice dropping. "Pushing to see where we'd break."

"Why would they do that?"

"Control." Winter's mouth set in a grim line. "Divided, we're easier to manage."

Karina leaned back against the bench, processing this. "So when I defended you—"

"You were defending us." Winter finished. "Whether you knew it or not."

A moment of silence stretched between them.

"I'll tell them," Karina decided suddenly. "Not that everything's perfect, but that we're committed to making it work."

Relief washed over Winter's face. "Thank you."

"But I want something in return." Karina's voice firmed.

"What?"

"The truth." Karina's eyes locked with Winter's. "Between us. Always. Even when it's uncomfortable."

Winter held her gaze, searching. "Even when it might hurt?"

"Especially then." Karina's lips quirked slightly. "That's where the important stuff lives."

Winter swallowed, gathering courage. "Then I should tell you—I've been terrified."

"Of what?"

"That you'd decide I wasn't worth the trouble." Winter's voice dropped. "That you'd let them replace me after all."

Karina's expression softened. "Is that why you've been so careful around me? So... agreeable?"

Winter nodded, looking away. "I thought if I caused any more problems, you'd give up."

"I don't give up on people I care about." Karina reached for Winter's hand, squeezing it briefly. "No matter how difficult they make it."

Winter's laugh was shaky but genuine. "I have been difficult, haven't I?"

"Impossible." Karina's tone was warm despite the word. "But so have I."

Their eyes met again, something new passing between them—understanding, maybe. Or forgiveness beginning to take root.

"So what exactly do we tell management?" Winter asked. "About us?"

"That we've addressed the underlying issues." Karina's expression turned calculating. "That we're committed to the group's success above personal conflicts."

"That's management-speak." Winter's eyebrow raised. "They'll love it."

"They get the version they want to hear." Karina nodded. "We keep the real work for ourselves."

"A double life," Winter mused. "Sounds exhausting."

"More exhausting than what we've been doing?" Karina challenged.

Winter considered this, then shook her head. "No. Nothing could be more exhausting than fighting each other."

"Exactly." Karina leaned back, some tension visibly leaving her shoulders. "So we present a united front to them, and we work on the real stuff privately."

"And when they try to divide us again?" Winter asked. "Because they will."

Karina's smile turned sharp. "Then we'll be ready."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by distant traffic and rustling leaves.

"I'm hungry," Winter announced suddenly.

Karina checked her phone. "It's almost dinner time."

"I want ice cream." Winter stood, stretching. "Something completely impractical before a proper meal."

Karina's eyes widened slightly, then crinkled with amusement. "Management would not approve."

"That's the point." Winter extended her hand. "Coming?"

Karina hesitated only a second before taking it and standing. "Lead the way, rebel."

They walked toward the park exit, shoulders occasionally brushing, the first tentative steps of something rebuilt—not the same as before, but possibly stronger.

The ice cream shop bell jingled as Winter and Karina disappeared inside. From a bench across the street, partially hidden by a large planter, Irene lowered her binoculars.

"That's definitely illegal," Seulgi remarked, sipping her bubble tea.

"It's not illegal to sit in a public park," Irene tucked the binoculars into her bag.

"No, but stalking is." Seulgi plucked a piece of lint from her sleeve. "Especially with optical enhancement."

Irene shot her a withering look. "We're not stalking. We're... monitoring."

"Mmhmm." Seulgi's skepticism was palpable. "And this monitoring was your idea because...?"

"It wasn't my idea." Irene straightened her jacket defensively. "I just happened to be in the area."

"With binoculars?"

"They're compact opera glasses."

"Which you regularly carry for impromptu park performances?" Seulgi's eyebrow arched perfectly.

Irene huffed, crossing her legs. "Fine. I was curious if my advice actually helped."

"Ah, there it is." Seulgi's smile widened. "You care."

"I care about not wasting my afternoon." Irene checked her watch. "If they're still fighting after my pep talk, I'm sending you the therapy bill."

Seulgi leaned back, stretching her arms above her head. "You're the one who agreed to talk to her after I begged you."

"I did not agree to spy on the aftermath." Irene's fingers tapped against her knee. "That was a spontaneous decision."

"'What are you so afraid of, Karina? That she'll outshine you? Or that she already has?'" Seulgi mimicked Irene's voice with eerie accuracy. "You really went for the jugular."

Irene's eyes narrowed. "How do you know what I said?"

Seulgi blinked innocently. "You forgot who reported me about Winter?"

"Right. Giselle." Irene's brow furrowed. "That still doesn't explain—"

"Oh, it was a wild guess." Seulgi's lips curved into a smug smile. "You're predictable sometimes."

Irene's mouth dropped open. "I am not predictable!"

"Please." Seulgi counted off on her fingers. "One: you always go for the insecurity. Two: you always make it sound like a casual observation. Three: you always look slightly to the left when delivering the killing blow."

"I do not look left!" Irene protested, then caught herself. "And there was no killing blow."

"Sure." Seulgi nodded, unconvinced. "That's why Karina texted Winter immediately after your chat."