The practice floor was colder than Lia expected.
Not physically — but in the way places built for ambition always were.
The walls were lined with mirrors that didn't flatter. They exposed. Every slouch, every hesitation, every lie you told yourself about being ready.
Lia stood at the doorway with Ari secured against her chest in a soft wrap, her fingers curled protectively over the baby's back.
This was where dreams either sharpened… or shattered.
Jieun clapped her hands once. "Alright. This is Studio C. Most of your evaluations will happen here."
The room was empty except for a speaker, a piano pushed against the wall, and a red digital clock blinking 09:12.
Mina leaned toward Lia. "First days are usually orientation. Don't stress."
Lia nodded, but her jaw stayed tight.
Stress was familiar.
It didn't scare her.
What scared her was silence — the kind that waited for you to fail.
---
Later that morning, Ari was settled in the daycare wing — a small, bright room filled with soft mats and muted lullabies. Lia lingered longer than necessary, adjusting the baby's socks, smoothing imaginary wrinkles.
"You'll be fine," Mina said gently.
Ari blinked up at her, tiny fingers wrapping around Lia's thumb.
For a split second, a memory flickered —
a hospital corridor, fluorescent lights, a hand slipping from hers—
Lia inhaled sharply and pulled back.
"I'll be back," she whispered, voice steady. "I promise."
She always kept her promises.
---
The first vocal assessment wasn't announced.
A woman entered Studio C without introduction — tall, sharp-eyed, tablet in hand."Lia," she said, glancing down. "You have musical background?"
"Yes."
"What kind?"
Lia hesitated for half a breath. "Rap. Songwriting. Some vocal training."
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Some?"
"I learn fast."
That earned a pause.
"I'm Instructor Han. We'll see."
She tapped the speaker. "Pick a track."
Lia scanned the tablet. Pop instrumentals. R&B. Hip-hop.
Her finger hovered — then selected a bare, minimal beat. Heavy bass. Empty space.
Risky.
The beat dropped.
Lia closed her eyes.
The first words didn't come sweet.
They came clean.
Her voice was low, controlled, each syllable deliberate — not rushed, not soft. She didn't oversing. She didn't beg for attention.
She claimed it.
Bars slid out like confession without apology.
Pain threaded between the lines, but never named. Hunger. Loss. Survival. The kind of lyrics that didn't explain — they implied.
Instructor Han stopped writing.
Mina's reflection in the mirror froze.
Minji's mouth fell open.
Lia moved slightly as she rapped, shoulders loose, eyes opening now — gaze locking onto the mirror like she was staring down an old enemy.
For half a second, the studio disappeared.
She was twelve again, cramped bedroom, cracked phone speaker, whispering verses so no one would hear her cry.
She swallowed the memory whole and kept going.
The beat ended.
Silence slammed down.
Instructor Han exhaled slowly. "…You said you had some training."
Lia shrugged. "I said I learn fast."
---
"Where did you learn to write like that?" Reiko asked later, voice careful, like the question might cut.
They sat on the practice room floor during break, sweat cooling on their skin.
Lia wiped her face with a towel. "Life."
Soojin studied her openly now. "That wasn't idol rap."
"No," Lia agreed. "It wasn't."
Minji hugged her knees. "It felt… real."
Lia looked away.
Real wasn't always safe.
---
That evening, Lia returned to the dorm exhausted, shoulders aching in places she didn't know could ache. Ari greeted her with a squeal that cracked something open in her chest.
"There's my girl," Lia murmured, lifting her.
As she fed Ari later, humming softly, the melody slipped into something unfinished — a tune without words yet.
A song waiting.
Mina noticed. "You're already composing."
Lia didn't deny it. "Music doesn't wait."
---
Night came quietly.
The dorm lights dimmed. The city hummed beyond the windows.
Lia lay on her bed, Ari asleep beside her, tiny breaths warm against her arm. She stared at the ceiling, mind replaying the studio — the beat, the mirrors, Instructor Han's eyes.
She wasn't here to be saved.
She was here to build something.
Her phone buzzed.
A message notification from an unknown contact.
> Tomorrow. 7 a.m. Studio C.
We'll talk about what kind of artist you want to be.
Lia stared at the screen.
Then, slowly, she smiled — sharp, brief, gone as quickly as it appeared.
She turned off the phone.
In the quiet, she whispered — not to Ari, not to anyone else —
"Let them listen."
Outside, the city lights flickered.
Inside, something dangerous and beautiful had begun to wake.