The first evaluation notice went up on a Thursday morning.
It was a single sheet of paper taped to the practice room door, edges curling slightly from humidity. No announcement. No warning. Just names, times, and expectations printed in neat black ink.
Lia read it twice.
Then a third time.
Her name sat at the bottom of the list.
Last slot.
She didn't know if that meant anything. She didn't ask.
As she stepped back, someone brushed past her too quickly. The faint scent of metal and disinfectant crossed her senses, sharp and intrusive.
For half a second—
Her fingers curled.
Not in fear.
In reflex.
A memory flickered — boots against concrete, voices low and urgent, the taste of iron at the back of her throat. The echo of a command she hadn't understood then, but obeyed anyway.
She exhaled slowly.
Gone.
"Hey."
Minji leaned close, whispering. "You okay?"
"Yes."
It came out too fast.
Minji studied her face. "You always say yes like you're daring someone to challenge it."
Lia shrugged. "Then don't."
Minji laughed, but it faded quickly. "I'm nervous."
"So am I."
Minji blinked. "You are?"
"Yes."
"But you don't look like it."
"That doesn't mean it's not there."
---
The evaluation room felt smaller than the practice room.
There were fewer mirrors, but the silence was heavier. Chairs lined the back wall. Clipboards rested in laps. Jieun stood near the sound system, expression unreadable.
When Mina went first, she was steady. Calm. Her voice didn't shake. She sang like
someone who trusted the ground beneath her feet.
Reiko followed, precise and controlled. Minji's energy filled the room, bright and infectious even when she missed a step.
Soojin went fourth.
She didn't ask permission.
She claimed the space.
Her movements were sharp, confident. Her gaze locked forward, unapologetic. When she finished, she didn't bow deeply — just enough.
Jieun nodded once.
Then she looked at Lia.
"Last."
Lia stood.
Her palms were dry. Her heartbeat slow.
That scared her more than nerves would have.
She walked to the center of the room, shoes whispering against polished wood. The taped lines on the floor blurred slightly as she focused on the space between breaths.
Music started.
A beat she hadn't chosen.
She adapted.
Her body moved before thought could catch up — controlled, measured, restrained power. She didn't overextend. Didn't dramatize. Every motion was intentional, economical.
Halfway through, the beat shifted.
Unexpected.
Her mind flashed — not panic, but recognition.
The same feeling as when plans changed without warning.
When things went wrong.
A broken formation. A voice shouting her name. Someone pushing her sideways just as—
She grounded herself.
Here.
Now.
She finished cleanly.
When the music stopped, the silence lingered.
Jieun didn't speak immediately.
"How old are you?" one evaluator asked.
"Thirteen," Lia replied.
A murmur passed through the room.
"And you're the rapper?"
"Yes."
"Why rap?"
Lia hesitated.
Not because she didn't know.
Because the real answer wasn't allowed.
"Because," she said slowly, "it lets me say things without asking permission."
Another pause.
"Do you feel emotions when you perform?"
Lia met his gaze.
"I control them."
"That wasn't the question."
She swallowed.
"I feel them," she said. "I just don't let them decide."
The evaluator nodded, scribbling something down.
Jieun watched her closely.
---
That night, Lia couldn't sleep.
Ari breathed softly beside her, small chest rising and falling with fragile consistency. Lia lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks she hadn't noticed before.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Her mind filled the space.
A voice echoed — laughing, teasing her about missing a step. Another correcting her stance, hands warm at her shoulders. Someone else humming off-key just to annoy her.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
The images came in pieces, like broken film.
A corridor.
A door that wouldn't open.
The sound of something dropping — heavy, final.
She turned onto her side, facing Ari.
"You're here," she whispered.
The weight in her chest eased slightly.
Not gone.
But manageable.
---
Results were posted two days later.
No ranking. No scores.
Just notes.
When Lia found her name, her breath caught.
Strong adaptability.
Unusual composure for age.
Emotional restraint — monitor.
Monitor.
She folded the paper carefully.
That word followed her all day.
During language class, when she answered questions correctly but didn't volunteer.
During dance practice, when she executed moves perfectly but didn't smile.
During dinner, when Minji chattered endlessly and Lia listened, absorbing every detail without adding much of her own.
That night, Mina sat beside her on the dorm bed.
"They think you're holding back," Mina said gently.
"I am."
"Why?"
Lia stared ahead. "Because if I don't, it all comes out."
Mina didn't push.
"That doesn't make you broken," she said instead.
"I know."
After a pause, Lia added quietly, "It makes me dangerous to myself."
Mina reached over, squeezing her hand once.
"You don't have to be alone here."
Lia nodded.
She didn't say yes.
But she didn't pull away either.
---
Later, alone again, Lia stood by the window.
The city lights below pulsed softly, alive with motion and noise. Somewhere out there, music was playing. Somewhere, people were laughing, dreaming, failing, trying again.
She pressed her palm against the glass.
A reflection stared back at her — too young for the weight behind her eyes, too steady for someone who'd lived this much already.
"I'll stay," she murmured.
Not because it was easy.
Because it was necessary.
And somewhere deep beneath the restraint, beneath the control, beneath the things she didn't say yet—
Something waited.
Not healed.
But alive.