The theater itself was wrapped in an uneasy stillness.
But the internet?
Oh, the internet was anything but quiet.
@LegalKween:
To everyone who somehow contributed to destroying this young man's life—hear me now, and hear me clearly. You might be walking free right now, but there's a special place in hell reserved for your kind of evil.
@Malory:
This is hilarious, I'm not even kidding. So now he's willingly selling his sob-story background? Be for fucking real. He's a bully. Why are we even giving this asshole a platform to come back?
→ @Kuro🖤:
Defining a person entirely by their past is the most hypocritical thing I've ever witnessed on the internet—and that says a lot.
→→ @Rumi:
IKR? People out here projecting like it's their full-time job. Like imagine if their ugly-ass selves got put on blast too.
→→→ @Yoyo:
That's why the internet is littered with attention-seeking lunatics. They're so starved for attention IRL it's honestly tragic.
→→→→ @Malory:
You people rushing to defend an abuser says everything about you. I'm not worried about myself—unlike you parasocial weirdos, I actually have a life. I'm just stating facts that were already confirmed a long time ago.
→→→→→ @IdiotProof:
The delusion is a full-blown pandemic at this point. Like COVID-level shit. Wdym facts? From what source—your own ass?
@RottenMango:
We've released a two-part series covering June on our channel. We highly recommend it to those who want deeper context. The video is meant to inform—the responsibility of forming conclusions still lies with the viewer.
→ @Hyouka_Icecream:
BET. I'll vouch for RottenMango with my life.
And so, as the emotions in the theater slowly settled into something at least remotely broadcast-friendly—after a very necessary ad break—
Foca had instructed the production team to cut. Hard. The atmosphere after June's performance was simply too heavy. Everyone needed time. Time to breathe. Time to decompress. Time to actually process what had just unfolded right in front of them.
After the brief break, the program went live once more. This time, everyone had finally caught their breath.
Tears were wiped away. Makeup was retouched—just enough so no one looked like a complete emotional crime scene anymore. Not that there was anything wrong with looking wrecked, but hey, this was still TV. You get it. Alright, moving on.
When it came time for critiques, Luca spoke first.
His eyes were visibly red, but he held himself together enough to speak.
"I'm… not even going to critique anything," Luca said, his voice slightly raspy. "Like, I literally can't. Not after something that raw and vulnerable. Everything felt exactly the way it was supposed to be. I wouldn't change a thing. So—thank you, June, for baring your heart completely on that stage."
"Thank you," June replied, offering a small but deeply genuine smile before bowing.
Then it was Tuesday's turn.
Still fanning her eyes with her hand, she took a deep breath before speaking.
"June," she began softly, "I'm just a little curious. If you don't mind me asking—after everything you've been through… why come back to the stage? You could've chosen a peaceful life, away from all the noise and drama. Why return?"
And for the first time in a very, very long time—June smiled.
Not the polite kind. Not the practiced kind.
But the most genuine, pure, unfiltered smile he'd worn since his youth—before the industry, before the scars.
It was a smile filled with light and life, like something had finally switched back on inside him. His skin even seemed to regain color, no longer deathly pale like before.
"It might sound cliché," June said, his eyes misting with unshed tears, "but it's actually really simple… This is my life. Performing is my life. Standing on stage is where I feel the most alive I've ever been."
His voice wavered.
"And it was only after performing again that I realized… I haven't really been living for a long time. I was just existing."
June sniffed and wiped at his tears.
"Being able to stand on this stage again—it felt like I could finally breathe. Like I was finally home. Uh—sorry, I'm rambling—"
"No. No, don't be sorry," Tuesday said firmly. "Never apologize for being who you are."
She stood, walked onto the stage, and wrapped June in a hug.
In the artist section, Kang Ian was furiously wiping his eyes, staring upward.
"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
The moment hit too close.
It reminded him of the first time Tuesday had hugged him—how real she was, how safe she made people feel. The way Foca, Luca, and Tuesday were looking at June now… it was the same way they had looked at him during his first evaluation.
No judgment. No prejudice.
Just sincerity.
They never judged people for what they'd been through. They only saw who they were now.
In a way, LEAVEN had saved him—saved all of them. Mika. Jordan. The Kweens. Even Nikola. This place had become a sanctuary, a safe haven where they could exist as their true selves, without holding anything back.
And Sir Foca made that possible.
In that moment, Kang Ian felt overwhelming gratitude toward him—for giving him a second chance, for opening the door and saying come in.
After a tight, lingering hug and a few more tears, Tuesday returned to her seat.
"The stage is your home, June," she said, her voice still thick with emotion. "It always has been. After being gone for a long-ass time… welcome home. You've been missed. Hard."
"Thank you," June said, bowing deeply. "It's good to be back."
He added a boyish smile—soft, bright—that made him look young again.
And just like that, the audience collectively clutched their hearts, struck mercilessly right in the feels.
After a brief swell of cheers and applause, it was finally Foca's turn to speak.
"If you'll allow me," he said calmly, "I'd like to share something that's been sitting with me throughout this entire performance."
The room leaned in.
"You may not have noticed," Foca continued, "but I've never once used the term idol to refer to anyone here. I always say artist. Or pop group."
That was when it hit people.
…Wait.
He was right.
A quiet ripple went through the theater as realization settled in. For some, it finally clicked. Others replayed past moments in their heads. He really hadn't used the term. Not once.
At first, many had assumed it was just a personal quirk. A preference. Maybe even a branding thing. So they let it go.
But now?
Oh. Now they were listening.
"I'm not a particularly religious person," Foca said evenly, "but I was raised by a woman of deep faith. And many of the values she taught me, I've kept close to my heart."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"One of them is this: never—ever—refer to a person as an idol. Never idolize a human being. No matter how talented, how influential, or how kind they may seem."
There was no aggression in his voice. Just conviction.
"Some of you might ask, Why? You might say it's just a word. Just a term. What harm could it do?"
Foca nodded slightly, as if acknowledging that thought.
"But the word idol, at its core, means an object of worship. No matter how much we try to soften it or redefine it, that original meaning still clings to it. It always has."
He took a breath.
"My mom used to warn me that human beings—anything on this earth—should never be objects of worship. Because it never ends well. For me personally, worship is reserved for God. Others may believe in different forms of the divine, and I respect that."
"What I'm saying is this: worship belongs to the divine. Not to human beings."
The theater was silent.
"Because whether we like it or not, people who are idolized often end up in one of two places—either their heads are pushed into the stratosphere… or they're crushed beneath the weight of it all."
He didn't linger on the statement. He didn't need to.
"History alone gives us countless examples of people who were worshipped by the masses, and very few of those stories end peacefully."
Foca glanced across the room.
"Some may argue that there are artists who remain humble and grounded. And I respect that opinion—truly. But the reality is, you don't know these people personally. You know the version presented to the public. You don't see what lives in their hearts or minds."
"Pride and ego have always existed in this industry. That's not an attack—it's simply reality. And I understand that reality can be difficult to accept."
He gave a small, almost wry smile.
"I respect everyone's opinions. Wholeheartedly. But I ask that you respect mine as well. And if you don't—well," he shrugged lightly, "I'll live."
A few soft chuckles broke the tension.
"This is how I choose to treat my artists. My employees. The people I work with. As people. As human beings who happen to carry exceptional talent."
"And that is how I will treat them for as long as I live."
Then Foca turned to June.
"And that is how I will treat you, June."
The room held its breath.
"As a human being who is allowed to make mistakes. A human who is not perfect. A human with limits to what they can carry."
"A human being who is allowed to exist as they are—without conforming to impossible standards set by systems, by society, or even by supporters."
"You are not a god to be idolized, worshipped, or placed on a pedestal."
"You are a human to be admired. Loved. And inspired by—because of the talent you carry, and because of who you are as a person."
"I am not cruel enough," Foca continued, "to subject a fellow human being to impossible standards. My job is not to break you, but to help you grow into the best version of yourself that you can possibly be. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He knew—of course he knew—that his words would touch a sore spot for some. That they would sting.
But truth often does.
Still, Foca hadn't spoken to preach, nor to shame. What he wanted was to warn. To remind people to be mindful—because there is a fine, fragile line between admiration and reverence. And once crossed, that line can do irreversible damage.
With a soft, reassuring smile, Foca continued.
"Thank you for an excellent performance, June. I commend you for choosing to be your most genuine self on that stage. You should be proud of the work you've done."
With that, he stood and began to clap.
The applause followed—not thunderous, not overwhelming—but gentle. Steady. Like summer rain.
The kind that comes after unbearable heat.
The kind that symbolizes renewal, quiet blessing, emotional release.
A soft promise of refreshment. Of grace. Of rebirth.
June stood tall.
He bowed—slowly, gratefully.
A bow not just of thanks, but of acknowledgment.
Of survival.
Of a new beginning.