Minjun's alarm buzzed at 5:30 AM, though he hadn't really slept at all. He lay staring at the ceiling, the trainee contract open beside him on the thin blanket. Words like termination clause, exclusive rights, and moral conduct blurred together in the dark. He didn't care about the legalese — he cared that his name was there. Yoon Minjun. Starline Trainee.
He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake his father, who'd fallen asleep on the couch again after a double shift. In the bathroom mirror, Minjun stared at the kid looking back at him. Pale, tired, but eyes burning with something stubborn and loud.
He grabbed his bag — a spare T-shirt, deodorant, a notebook. On his way out, he paused by the kitchen table where his mother had left a single rice ball wrapped in foil. She hadn't said anything the night before. She didn't have to. He tucked it into his pocket like a blessing.
The city hadn't fully woken up yet when Minjun stepped off the bus in front of Starline. He stood outside the glass doors for a second, breath visible in the dawn chill. A couple of early commuters glanced at him — just another kid with big dreams and a cheap backpack.
Inside, the lobby lights were harsh. He showed his trainee badge to the sleepy security guard and took the stairs up six floors to the practice wing. His legs already ached. He told them to shut up.
Practice Room C was smaller than he'd expected. The walls were scuffed from countless feet. The mirrors were slightly cracked in one corner. A rack of towels leaned dangerously to the side. But it felt real — the smell of sweat, the faint echo of music in the next room, the low hum of determination in the floorboards.
Minjun wasn't alone. A cluster of trainees stood near the far wall, stretching in silence. Boys his age and younger, faces all sharp jawlines and hollow eyes, branded sweatshirts with the Starline logo stitched on the sleeve. Some looked at him — most didn't.
He recognized one of them immediately: Ryu Taesung. A viral dance cover kid from Busan who'd already gone semi-famous on TikTok. Sharp nose, bleach-blond hair, posture like he owned the room. Their eyes met for half a second — Taesung raised one eyebrow, as if to say You? Here? — then he went back to stretching his impossibly long legs.
The trainer arrived exactly at seven — a woman in her late twenties with short hair and the coldest expression Minjun had ever seen. She dropped her bag with a thud.
"Alright, rookies," she barked, not bothering with good mornings. "Some of you think you're here to play. You're wrong. Some of you think your pretty faces will save you. Also wrong. Half of you won't be here next month. Maybe next week. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Ma'am," they chorused. Minjun's voice cracked.
She flipped open her clipboard. "Warm-ups. Ten minutes. Then choreography from the top. No excuses."
Music blasted through the speaker — a pounding EDM beat with a rhythm Minjun didn't recognize. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else as he copied the stretches, stealing glances at Taesung and the other trainees. Their bodies bent smoothly, shoulders loose, knees sharp, muscles used to this punishment.
Minjun's arms shook just holding a plank position. By the time warm-ups ended, sweat dripped from his hair to the dusty floor.
The trainer didn't pause. She cued up a demo track — a half-finished song, no vocals yet, just beats and placeholders. She stepped to the mirror, cracked her neck, and launched into the choreography like a whip crack.
Minjun's brain screamed to keep up — count the beats, watch the footwork, memorize the angles, fix your shoulders, don't trip over your own feet. He stumbled three times in the first run-through. Each time the trainer snapped her fingers so loud it felt like she was cracking his spine.
"Again!" she barked.
They started over. And again. And again.
The hours melted into a haze of footfalls and sweat and the sting of the trainer's voice:"Too slow, Yoon Minjun!""Fix your arms, not a noodle dance!""You want to debut like this? You'll get laughed out of your own fan café!"
By noon, Minjun's shirt clung to his back like wet paper. His knees throbbed. His throat tasted like iron. But when the trainer barked, "Break. Ten minutes," he didn't sit. He found a corner, pulled out his notebook, and scribbled down the counts. One-two-three-four, angle right, pivot left.
Taesung walked past, dropping his water bottle with a clatter. He glanced at Minjun's scribbles and let out a soft, amused scoff."You think you'll learn it like that? This isn't high school homework, newbie."
Minjun didn't look up. "You do you. I'll do me."
Taesung snorted. "You won't last a week." He walked off, laughing with two other boys who looked just like him — perfect hair, perfect swagger.
Minjun's pen dug deeper into the page. Last a week? He'd last a month. Six months. A year. However long it took to wipe that smirk off Taesung's face.
After break, the trainer lined them up. One by one, she called them forward to dance the piece alone — no mirror, no help. Just them, the music, and her clipboard.
When it was Minjun's turn, his stomach flipped so hard he thought he'd vomit on the scuffed floor. He stepped forward. The music hit. He moved — not perfectly, not smoothly, but with everything he had left in his shaking legs. He hit the counts. He nearly slipped but caught himself. His chest burned when he finished, arms frozen mid-pose.
The trainer didn't clap. She didn't smile. She just scribbled something down, then called the next name.
Minjun stepped back into line, pulse roaring in his ears. He didn't know if he'd passed. He didn't know if he'd failed. But when he looked down, the floor under his feet felt more real than anything else he'd ever stood on.
When they were dismissed that night — well past dark — Minjun limped down the stairwell, bag slung over his sore shoulder. He checked his phone. Three missed calls from his mother. A single message from his old café boss: You're not coming back?
He smiled at the screen, thumb hovering. He typed I quit but didn't hit send. Not yet. Not until he knew he'd survived tomorrow's cut. And the next. And the next.
Outside, the city hummed. Neon lights flickered on, taxis hissed by in the humid night air. Minjun stood under a streetlamp, sore and raw and trembling — but alive.
He pulled out his notebook, flipped past the dance counts, and wrote one new line:
"If they cut me, I'll come back sharper. If they break me, I'll rebuild louder. This is not the end."