Jae-hyun hadn't moved since they returned. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against Seong-min's bed, staring at a small keychain—a matching set they had bought during their first year as trainees. The "Puppy" of the group was gone; in his place was a shell of a boy whose eyes looked like they had seen the end of the world.
Kang-joon stood in the doorway, his own body feeling like an ill-fitting suit. The [Survivor's Guilt] debuff was more than a notification; it was a physical weight, a literal pressure in his chest that made every breath feel shallow. He tried to calculate the words that would fix Jae-hyun. He searched his memory—97 lives worth of data—for the perfect psychological script to alleviate grief.
"Statistically, only 1% of trainees debut with their best friends," he thought of saying. No. "Grief is a five-stage process that will pass in approximately three weeks." No.
He stepped forward, but his foot caught on the rug. He stumbled, his shoulder hitting the doorframe with a dull thud. His [Physical Synchronization Error] was still hovering at 25%. He was clumsy, slow, and human.
"Don't," Jae-hyun whispered, his voice sounding like sandpaper. He didn't even look up. "Don't tell me it's for the best. Don't tell me I have to work harder for his sake. I know you, Hyung. I know you're already calculating how his absence affects my voting share."
Kang-joon froze. The truth was, a part of his brain was doing that. It was an involuntary reflex, a survival mechanism honed over centuries. But for the first time, that part of his brain felt like a parasite.
"I wasn't going to say that," Kang-joon said, his voice cracking. "I was going to say... I'm sorry I didn't save him."
Jae-hyun finally looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. "You saved yourself, Hyung. You're Rank 14. The pity seat. He's gone, and you're still here because the judges like your 'growth' arc."
The words cut deeper than any corporate threat. Kang-joon had no rebuttal. He turned and walked into the hallway, his vision blurring. He was a man who lived by the merit of his own genius, and now he was a charity case in a room full of grieving survivors.
The following morning, the Top 14 were summoned to the main stage. The atmosphere was different now. The camaraderie of the "Monster Unit" had been replaced by a sharp, jagged edge. The trainees stood further apart. The air was thick with the scent of fear.
PD Na Ye-eun stood on the stage, her face as hard as flint. "The 72-hour delay is over. The Consortium is gone, but the reality of the market remains. Starline Entertainment cannot afford to debut a nine-member group. The budget for a new independent label is tight."
She let the words hang in the air like a guillotine.
"The plan has been revised," she continued. "We are no longer looking for a 'Syzygy' of nine stars. We are looking for the absolute core. The final debut group will consist of only five members."
The room erupted in a silent scream.
Five. Out of fourteen of the nation's best, only five would make it. The math was brutal. Min-soo (Rank 1), Gun-woo (Rank 2), and Jae-hyun (Rank 3) were almost locks. That left only two seats for the remaining eleven boys.
Kang-joon felt the System pulse behind his eyes.
[System Notification: The 'Five-Seat Mandate' has activated.]
[Current Probability of Host Debut: 12.4%.]
[Warning: Host is currently the lowest-ranked trainee (Rank 14). Any further performance errors will result in permanent 'Narrative Death'.]
"This is no longer a team mission," PD Na said. "This is the Unit Battle of Attrition. Two teams of seven. The winning team will receive 100,000 'Benefit Votes' per member. In a field of five, those votes will decide who lives and who dies."
The selection process began. Because he was Rank 1, Min-soo was the first leader. Because he was Rank 2, Gun-woo was the second.
Min-soo looked at the line of trainees. Usually, his first pick would be Kang-joon without hesitation. But he looked at the "Professor" and saw the man who had frozen on stage, the man who was currently Rank 14 and struggling to stand straight.
Min-soo looked away. "I pick... Rank 4, Hyun-woo."
Kang-joon felt a cold spike in his chest. It was the first time since the show started that he wasn't the first choice. He watched as the ranks were picked off. Jae-hyun went to Gun-woo's team. Do-yoon went to Min-soo.
Finally, only one person was left standing in the center of the stage.
"Lee Kang-joon," PD Na said, her voice sounding almost regretful. "Since you are the lowest rank, you will be placed in the remaining spot on Team Gun-woo."
Kang-joon walked toward his team. Jae-hyun and Gun-woo were there, but they didn't welcome him with high-fives. They looked at him as a liability—a Rank 14 anchor that might drag their entire unit into the abyss.
Practice was a nightmare. The song was 'Apex', a high-velocity, aggressive track that required inhuman precision.
"Kang-joon-ah, you're late again," Gun-woo snapped, stopping the music for the fifth time. "You're missing the kick on the third beat. It's a simple syncopation."
"I know," Kang-joon said, wiping sweat from his eyes. His brain was trying to calculate the rhythm:
But the numbers were flickering. The [Cognitive Overload] was making the music sound like a jumble of white noise. He tried to pivot, his mind sending the signal to his left ankle, but the signal arrived late.
He tripped, his foot tangling with Jae-hyun's. Both of them went down hard.
"Get up," Jae-hyun said, his voice cold. He didn't offer a hand. He just stood up and brushed off his knees. "If you're going to be the pity pick, at least don't take us down with you. Seong-min should have been in that 14th seat, not you."
Kang-joon stayed on the floor for a second too long. He looked at his hands—the hands that had mastered a hundred skills—and saw them trembling.
[System Warning: Host's stress levels are exceeding 90%. Mental Integrity failing.]
[Penalty: 'The Perfectionist's Curse' — Every error made during practice will now incur a -1% penalty to 'Global Likability' in real-time.]
He forced himself up. He practiced until his shoes were damp with sweat and his throat tasted like copper. But the more he tried to "calculate" the perfection, the further it slipped away. He was overthinking the angle of his chin, the tension in his core, the micro-expressions of his face. He was a machine trying to simulate a soul, and the gears were grinding to a halt.
Late that night, Kang-joon was the only one left in the practice room. He was trying to hit the high note in the bridge—a sharp, piercing B4 that required perfect breath compression.
He took a breath. He pushed.
His voice cracked. It wasn't a "stylistic" crack. It was a thin, ugly sound that broke in the middle.
"You're squeezing your throat," a voice said from the shadows.
Kang-joon turned. Yoon-ho was leaning against the doorframe, holding two bottles of water. The Rank 13 trainee—the one Kang-joon had nearly broken with his coldness—walked into the light.
"You told me once that the audience doesn't care about a raw throat," Yoon-ho said, tossing a bottle to Kang-joon. "But you're the one who looks like you're dying right now. You're trying to calculate the note, Kang-joon. You can't calculate a B4. You have to feel where the resonance is hitting your soft palate."
"I don't... I don't know how to 'feel' it anymore," Kang-joon admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "The data is all I have."
Yoon-ho walked over and stood in front of him. "Then forget the data. Forget whatever weird genius stuff you have going on in that head. Look at me."
Yoon-ho grabbed Kang-joon's hand and placed it on his own chest. "Listen to the vibration. Don't measure it. Just listen."
Yoon-ho sang the note. It was warm, resonant, and filled with the pain of seven years of failure. It was beautiful.
Kang-joon closed his eyes. He stopped thinking about hertz and decibels. He felt the vibration through his palm. He tried to mimic not the sound, but the feeling of the air moving.
He sang.
It wasn't perfect. It was a little bit shaky at the end. But for the first time in weeks, the System didn't ping him with an error.
[Humanity Metric: 22%. Stress level stabilizing.]
"Better," Yoon-ho said. "But you're still Rank 14. And tomorrow is the mid-term evaluation. The producers are looking for any reason to cut the 14th seat and go back to a clean 13. If you mess up, you're gone."
"I know," Kang-joon said.
"Then stop trying to be a Professor," Yoon-ho said, turning to leave. "Try being a person. People make mistakes, Kang-joon. But they also make people care. Nobody cares about a perfect calculator."
The mid-term evaluation was a slaughter. PD Na and the judges sat in high-backed chairs, their tablets glowing in the dim room.
Team Gun-woo stood in position. Kang-joon was at the back, a position he had never occupied. He was the "filler" trainee.
The music for 'Apex' started. The tempo was a punishing 160 BPM.
Gun-woo and Jae-hyun were flawless, their movements sharp and aggressive. But as the formation shifted, Kang-joon had to move to the front for a brief second.
He saw PD Na's eyes lock onto him. He saw her pen hover over the 'Elimination' box on her tablet.
His heart hammered against his ribs—not with a calculated rhythm, but with a wild, erratic fear. He hit the first move. Sharp. He hit the second. Precision.
Then came the jump.
In the middle of the air, his [Physical Synchronization Error] spiked. A sharp pain shot through his left calf—a cramp brought on by over-training and stress.
He landed poorly. His ankle buckled.
He didn't fall, but he stumbled, a visible, ugly hitch in the middle of the most important sequence. He recovered in a millisecond, but the damage was done.
The music ended. The room was silent.
PD Na looked down at her tablet. She didn't look up at Kang-joon. "Team Gun-woo... Jae-hyun and Gun-woo were excellent. But the overall synchronization was dragged down by the rear formation."
She finally looked at Kang-joon. Her eyes weren't angry; they were disappointed.
"Kang-joon-ssi," she said. "We gave you a 14th seat because we saw a soul in your last performance. But today, you were just a broken machine. If you can't be perfect, and you can't be human... then what are you doing here?"