The schedule had the word "Evaluation" printed in bold red letters—circled twice, underlined, and practically vibrating with threat.
It wasn't just a word.
It was a warning.
A deadline.
A mirror being held up to every trainee in the building.
It loomed over the week like a gathering storm, thunderclouds made of pressure and uncertainty. Conversations became shorter. Laughter faded into silence. Even the overconfident trainees—the ones who usually strutted through the halls like they already had fanbases—grew quieter. More focused.
Because this wasn't just about getting praise.
This was about survival.
Cuts were coming.
Teams would shift.
Dreams might end.
In the practice room, Haru stood in front of the full-length mirror, rehearsing the same vocal run he'd done twenty—no, twenty-seven—times that morning. His shoulders ached from tension. His throat itched with dryness. His reflection stared back like a version of himself he didn't fully recognize anymore—sharper, more tired, but somehow stronger.
Minju hovered just behind the mirror, tapping on an invisible clipboard with a ghostly pencil that clicked against nothing.
"Posture: 8 out of 10. Emotion: 7.6. Hair floof factor: dangerously high but still within idol limits."
Haru gave a soft laugh under his breath. "You grading me now?"
"I'm preparing you," she said, dramatically adjusting her fake glasses. "These judges are scarier than me during your high note breakdowns. I need you to look so good they weep."
"I'll do my best," he muttered, adjusting his mic pack and smoothing his sleeves.
Just then, the door opened, letting in a gust of hallway chatter and the familiar shuffle of sneakers.
Jihoon entered first, humming the intro melody with that infuriating casual confidence. Taeyul followed, hoodie up, sipping honey water like his vocal cords were royalty. Hyunsoo trailed behind, already mouthing lyrics with a worried crease between his brows, and Jisung walked in last, nose in his notebook, bumping into the doorframe with a muttered "Ow."
Minju twirled midair, glancing over the group. "The squad's assembled. Avengers-style."
But then—
Something shifted.
The mood in the room dipped by several degrees.
The door swung open again.
In stepped the producer.
And behind him, a woman. Sunglasses indoors. Long black coat. Heels that clicked too sharply on the floor. A storm in heels.
Every trainee in the room instinctively straightened. Even Jihoon stopped humming.
Minju squinted. Then her jaw dropped.
"…Is that who I think it is?" she whispered, wide-eyed.
Haru blinked, and recognition hit him like a slap.
Yoon Haejin.
Vocal legend. Former idol. Now one of the most sought-after vocal trainers in the country. She'd mentored idols with triple-platinum hits. Coached main vocalists who filled domes. Rumor had it, she could spot a pitch error before a trainee even opened their mouth.
And she never—never—showed up to mid-phase evaluations.
The producer clapped once. "This is Trainer Yoon. She's joining us to assess vocal synergy for debut lineup consideration."
Jihoon leaned in toward Haru and whispered, "She coached the main vocal of TRYST."
"As in that TRYST?"
"Yeah. That TRYST."
Suddenly, Haru's throat felt like sandpaper.
Yoon Haejin said nothing at first. She removed her sunglasses slowly, revealing sharp eyes that scanned the room like searchlights.
She made no introductions.
No pleasantries.
Just: "Start from the top."
The track began.
And the tension snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
They launched into formation, bodies moving in sync—mostly. Jihoon overshot a turn, trying to hit the beat with too much force. Hyunsoo, trembling, came in half a second early on the second chorus. Jisung's blend was solid but stiff. Taeyul's voice cracked briefly on a high harmony.
And Haru—Haru stumbled on a note during the bridge. Just barely.
But he recovered. Kept going.
Didn't show the crack in his confidence.
Didn't let his eyes dart to the side.
But when the song ended and their bodies stilled in place, Yoon Haejin was already watching him.
Just him.
Minju floated two inches from her ear, arms flailing. "Why is she staring?! Is she judging your soul?! Blink twice if she's judging your soul!"
Haru swallowed hard, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.
The silence felt endless.
Then the producer cleared his throat. "Thoughts?"
Yoon Haejin's expression didn't change.
She gestured at Haru.
"You're… interesting."
Haru blinked. "Uh—thank you?" he managed, though it came out higher-pitched than he intended.
"You don't sing like you're performing," she continued. "You sing like you're remembering something painful."
Her voice was flat, clinical. But her eyes—those were curious. Almost too focused.
"That can be a strength," she said.
Haru nodded quickly, afraid to break the moment. "I—I'll work on it."
"No," she said, lifting one hand. "Don't. Keep it."
Minju made a noise that sounded like a choked gasp. "Was… was that a compliment? From her?"
Then something surprising happened.
Yoon Haejin's gaze softened—just a fraction. The edge in her jaw eased. Her voice dropped slightly.
"You remind me of someone," she said, still staring directly at Haru. "Someone who sang like that, too."
Before he could ask who, she turned on her heel and walked out without another word.
That evening, the dorm felt unusually still.
Hyunsoo had crashed face-first onto the couch. Taeyul was deep in tea and vocal rest. Jihoon had vanished somewhere with his headphones, muttering about regaining his "center." Jisung was still scribbling something complex and possibly unhinged in his notebook.
Haru sat alone on the bottom bunk, legs crossed, the letter from StarOne folded neatly on the desk beside him.
He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.
Minju floated lazily near the window, watching the night spread over Seoul like dark ink. She wasn't trying to be funny now. Her clipboard was gone.
"That was intense," she said, after a long silence.
"Yeah," Haru replied.
"She totally meant Hyunwoo, didn't she?"
"…Maybe."
Another pause.
Minju looked at him carefully. "You okay?"
Haru exhaled, chest rising and falling like a tide. "I don't know."
He turned his head toward her. "Part of me… wants to ask her. Wants to know who else remembers him. If he really mattered. If I'm not just… imagining it all."
Minju drifted a little closer, her glow softer now. Not eerie. Almost warm.
"He did matter," she said. "To me."
Her voice cracked on the last syllable. Just a little.
They sat like that for a while—one boy, one ghost, both wrapped in memories too heavy to say out loud.
Then, finally, Haru whispered, "You think I'm doing this right?"
Minju didn't answer immediately.
She floated down beside him, resting her ghostly head on the edge of the bunk like she could feel the exhaustion in his bones.
"You're not just chasing light anymore, Haru."
He looked at her.
Eyes tired. But open.
"You're becoming it."
He didn't cry.
But something inside him untangled—just a little.
He nodded.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Minju grinned. "Don't thank me yet. We still have to survive final evaluations, solo showcases, and whatever cursed group concept they throw at you next."
Haru laughed.
And for the first time all week, it didn't feel forced.