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Chapter Text

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Without a single photo released."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Now we have Hearts2Hearts."

 

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

 

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

 

"Which girls?"

 

"Either of them."

 

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

 

She blinked at the sudden shift. "Sir?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"They... continue performing?"

 

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

 

Min-ji shifted. "No, but—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"How do you know that?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"And if Hearts2Hearts claims it first?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Which is?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"No." The word came quickly.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Young for a leader."

 

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

 

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

 

"Keep reading."

 

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

 

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

 

"Talent?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"She's thorough."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"That's..."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"The others accept her?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"But I'm only twenty-eight."

 

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

 

"Institutional knowledge?"

 

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

 

Min-ji made notes. "So I should—"

 

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

 

"Manipulate her."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Twins?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Why?"

 

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

 

"That level of perfectionism could break her."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"But the real reason—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Then how do I get to her?"

 

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

 

"Why?"

 

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

 

"Was she?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Are we?"

 

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

 

"Create external threats to solidify internal loyalty."

 

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

 

"And A-na?"

 

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

 

Min-ji stood. "This is elaborate."

 

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

 

"Through manipulation."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Or it makes dust."

 

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

 

"Sir?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Today, she was the solution.

Chapter Text

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Footsteps.

 

She turned, expecting—

 

"Hello."

 

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

 

"Everything okay?"

 

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

 

She knows.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"So are you."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"The one where she—" Jiwoo stopped herself.

 

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

 

Jiwoo sipped the tea. Her hand trembled slightly.

 

"But you know what saved her?"

 

"What?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Cheol-hyuk notices everything."

 

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

 

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

 

"Dynamics?"

 

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

 

"No." Too quick.

 

Min-ji stopped walking. "Jiwoo."

 

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

 

"That's not what I asked."

 

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

 

"And you disagree?"

 

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

 

"But A-Na's challenging that?"

 

"She's... expressing opinions."

 

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

 

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

 

"Is it discussion or undermining?"

 

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

 

"Even if that teammate is threatening group cohesion?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"By yourself?"

 

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

 

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

 

"Talent? Work ethic?"

 

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

 

Jiwoo's breath caught. "What?"

 

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

 

"But she's the leader now."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Natural gift without discipline is just potential."

 

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

 

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

 

"Isn't it?"

 

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

 

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

 

"I watch everything that matters."

 

"And we matter?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"But especially me."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What? But I need—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Min-ji deleted the conversation, pocketed the phone.

 

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

 

Too perfect, Min-ji thought.

 

But perfect was what they needed.

 

Perfect was what sold.

 

—

 

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

 

She had.. maybe fifteen minutes.

 

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

 

One ring. Two—

 

"It's late."

 

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

 

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

 

"Until eleven at night?"

 

"Debut's in three weeks."

 

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

 

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

 

"Why?"

 

"To perfect the routine."

 

"Was it not already perfect?"

 

Jiwoo closed her eyes. "Almost."

 

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

 

"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

 

"Exactly. So was it perfect or not?"

 

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

 

"But noticeable."

 

"Only to me."

 

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

 

"Yes."

 

"How much?"

 

"Enough."

 

"Jiwoo."

 

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

 

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

 

"The company nutritionist—"

 

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

 

"Everyone's on the same diet."

 

"That's not what I asked."

 

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

 

"And faces no consequences?"

 

"She... works it off."

 

"So she breaks rules without punishment."

 

"It's not that simple—"

 

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

 

"Very."

 

"More than you?"

 

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

 

"Which ways?"

 

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

 

"So she's better."

 

"Different. Not better."

 

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

 

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

 

"Who's Min-ji?"

 

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

 

"Why?"

 

"To evaluate group dynamics."

 

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

 

"Nothing's confirmed."

 

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

 

"I don't know—"

 

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

 

"I know."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Silence. Long enough that Jiwoo checked the connection.

 

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

 

Jiwoo's stomach turned. "Yes."

 

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

 

"I know—"

 

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

 

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

 

"Your brother works two jobs now."

 

"Mom—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"What if I'm not good enough?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"I have to go."

 

"Leader position means better contracts. More endorsements."

 

"Mom—"

 

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

 

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

 

"Be perfect, Jiwoo."

 

"I will."

 

"Not almost perfect. Perfect."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"At midnight?"

 

"Preparation prevents poor performance."

 

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

 

"What do you mean?"

 

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

 

"She was checking on all of us."

 

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

 

"Nothing important."

 

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

 

"I haven't—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Maybe I was."

 

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

 

"I never said you were."

 

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

 

"Speaking from experience?"

 

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

 

"What happened to her?"

 

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

 

She left, door clicking shut.

 

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

 

Be perfect.

 

They can take it away.

 

She pulled up her alarm. 5:00 AM.

 

She changed it to 4:30.

 

Then 4:00.

 

Perfect required sacrifice.

 

Perfect required suffering.

 

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

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?" Ningning leaned forward.

"It's... aggressive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winter didn't respond, kept reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Loud sells," Winter said quietly.

They all turned to look at her.

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

"When did they say that?" Ningning asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence settled over them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ningning straightened. "The trainees?"

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

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

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

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

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

"They were already established—"

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

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

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

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

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

"You're paranoid."

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

"They said they're still planning—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Views aren't sales."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't know that."

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

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

Silence stretched.

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

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

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

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

"To Hearts2Hearts."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're overthinking."

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

"What?" All three spoke in unison.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Text

 

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

 

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

 

Her roommate stirred. "Jiwoo?"

 

"Go back to sleep."

 

"What time is—"

 

"Early. Sleep."

 

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

 

"Shit."

 

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

 

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

 

Jiwoo spat into the sink harder than necessary.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"No."

 

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

 

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

 

Or.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Her phone buzzed. Mom.

 

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

 

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

 

"Walking to practice."

 

"Good. Did you eat?"

 

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

 

"The leader position. Have they said anything?"

 

Jiwoo's jaw tightened. "Not yet."

 

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

 

"I know."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Silence. Then: "You better."

 

The line went dead.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She shook her head. The taxi moved on.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She ran the last kilometer.

 

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

 

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

 

"Early today," he said.

 

"Every day."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She hit play on the sound system and started stretching.

 

Perfect wasn't going to achieve itself.

 

—

 

The door slammed open at 5:15.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"The twins are gone."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Jiwoo's stomach dropped. "Five?"

 

"Nyoman Ayu Carmenita—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Were you?"

 

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

 

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

 

"And the others?" Jiwoo asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

They bowed. Jiwoo's was the deepest.

 

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

 

"All eleven of us?" Juun asked.

 

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

 

She left.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"It always was," Jiwoo muttered.

 

"What?"

 

"Nothing."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"You heard me."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The words hit like ice water.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Silence stretched between them.

 

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

 

Juun looked between them, torn. "Jiwoo?"

 

"I need to practice."

 

"You need to eat," Juun said softly.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"When's the last time you—"

 

"I said I'm fine."

 

Juun sighed. "The offer stands."

 

They left. Jiwoo faced the mirror alone.

 

Eleven trainees. Seven spots. Four cuts.

 

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

 

Younger and hungrier.

 

Her reflection stared back, exhausted and desperate.

 

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

 

But it was all she had left to offer.

 

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

Chapter Text

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wasn't going to say that."

"But you were thinking it."

Jun-ho's silence was answer enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you prefer a lie?"

"Maybe?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course you did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Professional to the end.

—

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

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

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

"Pretend. Like any of this matters."

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean?"

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

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

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

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

Winter shifted between them. "Stop."

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your honesty sounds a lot like giving up."

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

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

Both Winter and Giselle turned to stare at her.

"Like what?" Giselle demanded.

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

Winter frowned. "What kind of meetings?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing's inevitable until it happens."

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

"Giselle—"

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

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

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

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

"Bad time?"

"No," Winter said quickly.

"Yes," Giselle said simultaneously.

Karina's eyes narrowed. "What happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

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

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

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

Chapter Text

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"That's harsh."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"So what, we should just give up?"

 

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

 

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

 

"Have you tried talking to her?"

 

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

 

"You don't know that."

 

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

 

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

 

"Jiwoo's not your sister."

 

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

 

"She's scared."

 

"We're all scared."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"So she'd rather lose everything slowly?"

 

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

 

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

 

"What do you mean?"

 

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

 

Juun couldn't remember.

 

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

 

"We're all too skinny."

 

"Another thing they win at."

 

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

 

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

 

"I know."

 

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

 

"Maybe after the evaluation—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Maybe something gentler."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"You never answered my question," Juun said.

 

"Which one?"

 

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

 

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

 

"That's not it."

 

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

 

"Wait."

 

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

 

"You need her to see it. Why?"

 

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

 

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

 

"You feel alone," Juun said.

 

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

 

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

 

"Like who?"

 

"Like maybe you have."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Then why do it?"

 

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

 

"That's something she would say."

 

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

 

"And you know better."

 

"Yes."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Makes you what?"

 

Silence. The high notes down the hall stopped.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"It doesn't."

 

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

 

"It won't."

 

"But what if—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"And they cut her anyway."

 

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

 

"That's not—"

 

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

 

Juun followed. "So why not leave?"

 

"You first."

 

"I'm serious."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"It's not delusion if—"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Like you are?"

 

"I'm not—"

 

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

 

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

 

"What?"

 

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

 

"But?"

 

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

 

"Part of you envies it."

 

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

 

"Then maybe you're wrong."

 

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

 

Juun touched her shoulder. "A-Na—"

 

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

 

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

 

"No?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Because?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Which is?"

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

They looked at each other across the space.

 

The music started again.

Chapter Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That doesn't mean—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop." Winter's voice was sharp.

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

"I said stop."

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

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

"We’d lose in all three anyway."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ningning pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

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

"Giselle—" Winter started.

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

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

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

"That was—"

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

The practice room's lights hummed.

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

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

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

Winter flinched.

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

"No," Ningning whispered from the floor.

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

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

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

The silence stretched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But?" Giselle waited for the qualifier.

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

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

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

"That's not—"

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

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

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

Ningning shifted uncomfortably against the mirror.

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

"Unnie—" Ningning started.

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

The light above them flickered once.

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

"That's different—"

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

Giselle took a step back, hitting the mirror.

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

Her voice cracked on the last word.

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

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

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

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

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

"Exhausting?" Giselle's spine straightened.

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

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

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

The question hung between them like a blade.

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

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

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

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

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

Neither looked at her, locked in their stare down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My solution is to stop pretending."

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

Giselle's mouth opened, then closed.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm not—" Winter started.

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

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

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

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

"Is there a difference anymore?" Ningning asked.

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

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

Both Winter and Giselle turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They stood in triangle formation, muscle memory positioning them perfectly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tomorrow." Winter confirmed.

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

That had to count for something.