Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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

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

Her roommate stirred. "Jiwoo?"

"Go back to sleep."

"What time is—"

"Early. Sleep."

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

"Shit."

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

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

Jiwoo spat into the sink harder than necessary.

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

Or.

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

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

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

Her phone buzzed. Mom.

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

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

"Walking to practice."

"Good. Did you eat?"

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

"The leader position. Have they said anything?"

Jiwoo's jaw tightened. "Not yet."

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

Silence. Then: "You better."

The line went dead.

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

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

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

She shook her head. The taxi moved on.

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

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

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

She ran the last kilometer.

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

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

"Early today," he said.

"Every day."

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

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

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

She hit play on the sound system and started stretching.

Perfect wasn't going to achieve itself.

—

The door slammed open at 5:15.

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

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

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

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

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

"The twins are gone."

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

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

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

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

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

Jiwoo's stomach dropped. "Five?"

"Nyoman Ayu Carmenita—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Were you?"

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

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

"And the others?" Jiwoo asked.

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

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

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

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

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

They bowed. Jiwoo's was the deepest.

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

"All eleven of us?" Juun asked.

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

She left.

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

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

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

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

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

"It always was," Jiwoo muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing."

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

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

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

"You heard me."

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

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

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

The words hit like ice water.

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

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

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

Silence stretched between them.

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

Juun looked between them, torn. "Jiwoo?"

"I need to practice."

"You need to eat," Juun said softly.

"I'm fine."

"When's the last time you—"

"I said I'm fine."

Juun sighed. "The offer stands."

They left. Jiwoo faced the mirror alone.

Eleven trainees. Seven spots. Four cuts.

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

Younger and hungrier.

Her reflection stared back, exhausted and desperate.

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

But it was all she had left to offer.

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