Morning arrived without permission.
The dorm alarm buzzed at exactly 5:30 a.m., sharp and relentless, slicing through the last fragments of sleep. Lia's eyes opened instantly — no groaning, no delay. Her body had learned long ago that hesitation cost time, and time could cost lives.
She sat up quietly.
Ari stirred against her chest, a tiny frown creasing her face before relaxing again. Lia adjusted the blanket with practiced ease, her movements economical, precise. There was no rush in her — just readiness.
Around the room, the others began to wake.
Minji groaned dramatically. "It's inhumane to wake up before the sun."
Soojin didn't respond. She was already sitting up, tying her hair, eyes alert. Reiko slipped out of bed without a sound, folding her blanket neatly. Mina checked the time and nodded to herself.
Lia watched them.
Different styles. Same discipline.
That mattered.
---
The practice room was bigger than the recording booth, but it felt more dangerous.
There were mirrors on every wall.
Lines taped neatly across the floor — marks for positioning, angles, spacing. Invisible rules made visible. You stood in the wrong place, and everyone would know.
Jieun clapped once, sharp and commanding.
"Line up."
They moved quickly.
Mina took center instinctively — not because she demanded it, but because the space seemed to adjust around her. Soojin stood slightly behind, posture confident, chin lifted. Reiko to the left, Minji to the right.
Lia hesitated.
Just for half a second.
Then she stepped into the last open space.
Jieun noticed.
"Positions matter," she said. "But so does awareness. Remember that."
Lia nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
The music started.
It wasn't flashy. No heavy beat drop. Just rhythm — clean, unforgiving.
"Five, six, seven, eight."
They moved.
Minji was energetic, a little too fast. Reiko was precise, every motion deliberate. Mina grounded the formation effortlessly, anchoring them. Soojin moved like she owned the room, sharp angles and controlled power.
Lia absorbed everything in silence.
Her body learned fast — faster than she expected. She mirrored movements, corrected herself mid-step, adjusted weight distribution instinctively. When she made mistakes, she didn't flinch.
She fixed them.
Jieun stopped the music abruptly.
"Lia."
"Yes?"
"Do it again. Alone."
The room went still.
Minji blinked. Soojin raised an eyebrow. Mina's expression didn't change, but her attention sharpened.
Lia stepped forward.
No protest. No surprise.
The music restarted.
She moved.
Not perfectly — but deliberately.
Her movements weren't flashy or soft. There was restraint in them, a coiled sharpness, like someone holding back more than they showed. Every step landed with intention, like she was placing pieces on a board only she could see.
When the music ended, silence followed.
Jieun studied her.
"You dance like someone who watches exits."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Lia met her gaze calmly. "Habit."
No one laughed.
---
During break, Minji flopped onto the floor dramatically. "I'm dying. If I don't survive this trainee life, tell my story."
"You're still breathing," Soojin said dryly. "So stop lying."
Mina handed Lia a bottle of water. "You adapt quickly."
"Necessary," Lia replied.
Mina smiled faintly. "You don't say much, do you?"
"I say what's needed."
"That can be a strength," Mina said. Then gently, "Or a wall."
Lia took a sip, eyes steady. "Walls keep things standing."
Mina didn't argue.
---
Later that afternoon, Lia sat at the edge of the practice room, Ari asleep beside her in a small carrier. Jieun stood nearby, arms crossed.
"You'll need language classes," Jieun said.
"I expected that."
"You're not bad. But you hesitate when emotions come into play."
Lia's jaw tightened slightly. "I don't like speaking when I'm not precise."
"Music doesn't wait for perfection," Jieun replied. "It demands honesty."
Lia looked down at Ari.
Honesty had never been safe.
"I'll learn faster," she said instead.
"I believe you," Jieun said. Then, after a pause, "You don't need to prove toughness here."
Lia looked up sharply.
"I'm not trying to."
Jieun held her gaze. "Good. Because what you carry isn't weakness. It's weight."
That night, Lia dreamed.
Not clearly — just fragments.
A laugh cut short. A hand slipping from hers. The echo of a gunshot swallowed by distance. Music playing somewhere far away, warped and distorted.
She woke with her heart steady.
No panic.
Just resolve.
She sat up, careful not to wake Ari, and stared into the dark.
"I'm still here," she whispered.
It wasn't a promise.
It was a fact.
---
By the end of the week, her body ached in places she hadn't known existed.
Her Korean improved rapidly — she listened more than she spoke, memorizing patterns, tone, intent. When she stumbled, she corrected herself without apology.
The others noticed.
"She's scary," Minji whispered one night.
Soojin smirked. "She's focused."
"She doesn't cry," Minji added.
Reiko spoke softly. "Not everyone needs to."
Mina watched Lia from across the room, thoughtful. "She's learning how to stay."
---
During a late-night practice, the music cut unexpectedly.
Jieun looked at Lia. "Rap."
Lia froze — just briefly.
Then she stepped forward.
The words came low, controlled, rhythm tight. Not aggressive. Not soft.
Honest.
Not about pain.
About survival.
When she finished, the room stayed silent.
Soojin exhaled slowly. "Yeah," she said. "She belongs here."
Lia didn't smile.
But something inside her settled — not peace, not yet.
Alignment.
And for the first time since she'd arrived in Korea, the lines on the floor didn't feel like boundaries.
They felt like direction.