The cheers still echoed in the auditorium, but for Han Mirae, everything had fallen silent. The stage lights, the celebratory music, the glint of cameras chasing her expression—all of it felt distant, as if it were happening to someone else. She stood at the far end of the stage, not smiling, not even blinking, her hands clenched at her sides while the rest of the Top 10 trainees soaked in the spotlight. They had earned it. Every single one of them had clawed their way here with talent, popularity, and strategy.
But her? Mirae had been dragged in by the teeth of a miracle. A judge override. A wild card.
Unwanted. Uninvited.
Chosen not because of faith, but because she was a variable.
A risk.
And yet she stood among them.
Still breathing.
Still here.
"Han Mirae." A soft voice broke through the haze. She blinked. A staff member gestured toward the corridor leading backstage. "You're needed for a confessional segment. Room 4C. Right now."
She followed without a word. Her limbs moved on autopilot, her throat dry, ankle aching in its tightly wrapped bandage. Her heart beat a little too fast, and for once, not from fear. From something heavier. Something more final. It felt like the end of something. But she didn't know what.
The hallways were cold. Trainees passed by whispering. She heard her name more than once. Heard the disbelief, the spite, the confusion in their voices.
"Why her?"
"She barely made it."
"She was supposed to be eliminated."
She didn't respond. Didn't flinch. What could she say? They weren't wrong. She was a statistical ghost. She wasn't supposed to be standing. And yet, here she was, about to speak to the world from a place that wasn't meant for her.
Room 4C was dim. A single chair faced the camera. A mic waited on the table. No staff inside. Just a red recording light on the wall and a screen embedded above the lens.
Mirae sat down slowly. Her reflection in the lens stared back: pale, serious, eyes heavy with everything she hadn't said since the beginning.
The screen came to life.
> "Han Mirae. Final round confessional. Please speak directly and honestly. Today's prompt: What promise brought you here?"
Her breath caught.
And just like that, the system yanked her back.
Back into the past.
Back to the rooftop, the rain, the rejection letter that had changed everything.
---
One year earlier.
She was sixteen and standing in the pouring rain, her clothes soaked, her hands trembling as she read the email over and over.
> "We regret to inform you…"
Her eyes stopped there. She didn't need the rest. It was the third rejection in thirty days. The seventh that year. Another entertainment company. Another 'no.' Another wall slammed shut in her face.
Her umbrella lay broken at her feet. She didn't bother to pick it up.
No one came looking for her. No one asked where she'd gone.
Her parents had stopped believing long ago. Her mother had called her dream "cute" until the bills started piling. Her father only looked at her now with disappointment, muttering about wasted time and useless hobbies.
Mirae's friends had disappeared too—one by one—once they realized she wouldn't be joining them in cram school or studying for college entrance exams. She was the girl chasing smoke. The one who still hummed songs between shifts at the corner store. The one who skipped meals to afford dance classes in old warehouses with peeling mirrors.
And the boy she liked—he had once said with a smile, "You? An idol? I thought you were realistic."
She remembered laughing it off.
But it had gutted her inside.
That night, she climbed to the rooftop of the building where she worked cleaning offices. It was the only place no one would find her. The only place the city didn't ask her to smile or try harder.
She stood at the edge, the wind cold against her soaked skin, the lights below flickering in and out like blinking eyes. She wasn't going to jump. She just wanted to scream. Or cry. Or feel something again.
Instead, she whispered, "I just want a chance. Just one. Please."
Then the bracelet snapped from her wrist.
It had been her mother's. A worn red string woven with glass beads—worn for luck, she'd said. Mirae had never taken it off.
Until the storm tore it away.
She lunged to catch it, but her foot slipped. The world spun. Her scream was swallowed by the wind.
Then—nothing.
White.
Endless white.
Then a voice:
> "You have been selected for the Debut or Die system."
> "Do you accept the terms of your contract?"
> "Failure equals death."
> "Do you accept?"
---
Back in the confessional room, Mirae clenched her jaw. Her eyes shimmered, but no tears fell.
"I made a promise," she said finally, her voice low and steady. "Not to anyone else. Just to the girl who stood on that rooftop and refused to give up."
The red light blinked.
"I promised I wouldn't disappear. Even if no one believed in me. Even if I had to claw my way up alone."
She looked at the camera.
"I'm still her. I'm still fighting. Even now."
A beat of silence followed.
Then the voice from the screen responded.
> "Thank you. Recording complete."
The door opened with a soft click. No fanfare. No applause. Mirae stood and walked back down the hallway alone.
The other trainees were long gone. The practice rooms dim. The arena silent. Her steps echoed.
She didn't know where she was supposed to go next. There had been no instructions. No schedule. Just silence.
She made her way to the old trainee locker room. It was empty now, lights buzzing faintly overhead. She sat on the bench. The exhaustion hit all at once. Her ankle throbbed. Her arms trembled. And for the first time in days, she allowed herself to exhale.
She'd survived.
She had made it.
But her chest still ached with a question she couldn't answer.
Why did it feel like this wasn't the end?
Her fingers touched the red bracelet now snug around her wrist. The beads were warm. Almost pulsing.
And then, she heard it.
A voice in her mind.
> "Congratulations, Mirae."
> "But the game isn't over."
She froze.
"What…?"
The lights flickered overhead.
> "You've entered Phase Two."
> "Debut was never the goal."
> "Now comes the survival of fame."
The bracelet tightened slightly.
And then—the door slammed open.
Mirae jumped to her feet.
A tall man in a black suit entered. Not a trainer. Not staff.
Someone higher.
"Mirae," he said. "Follow me. You're needed at the executive panel. Now."
She stared at him.
"Why?"
His expression didn't change.
"There's something you need to see."
Her legs moved before her brain could catch up. She followed him down a new hallway, deeper into the building than she'd ever been. Past the rehearsal zones. Past the dorm corridors. Into a steel elevator that required a key card.
Down.
Then farther down.
Underground.
The doors opened to a room made entirely of glass and LED panels. At its center—a screen.
And on that screen:
DEBUT SURVIVAL STAGE – PHASE TWO
> 12 Trainees Will Debut Together.
2 Will Be Cut Post-Debut.
One Will Be Crowned Final Center.
Votes Resume Tomorrow.
Mirae stared.
"What is this?"
The man looked at her, eyes sharp.
"You've debuted. But now the real judgment begins."