The first real crack came during footwork.
It wasn't dramatic. No fall, no sharp cry, no sudden collapse that would draw attention. Just a fraction of a second where Lia's timing slipped — half a beat late, one step out of place.
Soojin noticed immediately.
She didn't say anything, only shot Lia a brief glance through the mirror. Not accusing. Not smug. Just observant.
Lia corrected herself on the next count.
Perfect again.
But her jaw stayed tight.
The instructor clapped once. "Reset."
Music stopped. The room exhaled.
Lia rolled her shoulders slowly, loosening tension she hadn't realized had gathered there. Sweat cooled against her skin. Her lungs burned pleasantly — the kind of burn that meant effort, control, progress.
She liked that feeling.
It reminded her that this body was still hers.
"Spacing was off on count seven," the instructor said, pointing. "Again."
They moved back into position.
This time, Lia focused harder. She didn't just listen to the beat — she counted it, segmented it, broke it down the way her brother used to break down lines of code.
Predictable. Structured. Safe.
The music resumed.
Five, six, seven—
Her foot landed exactly where it should.
But as her body turned, as her arm cut through the air in a sharp diagonal, something shifted inside her chest.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
Not clear. Not complete.
Just the sensation of movement in darkness. Running — not for performance, but survival. The sound of breath too loud in her ears. Someone behind her, shouting her name, urgency cracking through discipline.
Her muscles reacted before her mind caught up.
Her step widened.
The formation broke.
"Stop."
The music cut abruptly.
Silence slammed down.
Lia froze.
The instructor's gaze swept over the group before settling on her. "What happened?"
"I miscalculated," Lia said calmly.
Soojin raised an eyebrow.
The instructor studied her for a moment longer, then sighed. "Again. From the top."
They reset.
This time, Lia didn't let herself think.
She let the music take her.
---
Later, in the locker room, Minji flopped down beside her with a dramatic groan.
"I swear my legs are filing a formal complaint."
"You're dramatic," Soojin said, tying her hair.
"I'm honest."
Reiko chuckled softly from across the room.
Mina glanced at Lia. "You were quiet today."
"I usually am."
"More than usual," Mina corrected gently.
Lia shrugged, unlacing her shoes. "Just tired."
That was true.
Just not the whole truth.
---
That night, Lia dreamed of corridors.
Not the clean, well-lit ones of the company building, but narrow, concrete passageways that smelled of dust and oil. Her footsteps echoed too loudly no matter how softly she moved.
She wasn't alone.
She could feel them — close, familiar presences just out of sight. A laugh here. A whisper there. Someone brushing past her shoulder in the dark, warm and solid.
"Slow down," a voice murmured.
She did.
Then the corridor split.
She woke with her heart pounding.
Ari stirred beside her, making a small sound in her sleep. Lia reached out automatically, resting her hand against the baby's back.
Warm. Alive. Steady.
The pounding eased.
"You're real," Lia whispered.
She stayed awake long after, staring at the ceiling, letting memories drift at a distance — close enough to acknowledge, far enough not to drown in.
---
The rap evaluation was announced the next morning.
Lia read the notice without expression.
Rap wasn't just rhythm. It was voice. Presence. Ownership.
And that… that was dangerous territory.
"You're excited, right?" Minji asked over breakfast, mouth full of toast.
"Yes."
It came out flat.
Minji squinted. "You don't sound excited."
"I don't sound scared either."
"That's worse."
Soojin smirked. "She'll be fine. People like her always are."
Lia shot her a look. "People like me?"
Soojin met her gaze evenly. "The ones who don't break when things get hard."
Something in Lia's chest tightened.
She looked away.
---
The evaluation room felt different this time.
Smaller.
More exposed.
The beat chosen for her was slow. Heavy. Minimal.
A test.
She stood alone in the center, microphone cool in her hand. The evaluators watched silently.
"Whenever you're ready," one said.
Lia closed her eyes.
She didn't think of technique.
She thought of silence.
Of all the things she'd learned not to say.
The beat dropped.
Her voice followed — low, controlled, deliberate. Not loud. Not flashy. Each word placed with care, like stepping stones across deep water.
She rapped about nothing specific.
And everything.
About distance. About movement. About standing still while the world kept going. About carrying weight no one could see.
Halfway through, something shifted.
Her voice roughened.
Not enough to lose control — just enough to let truth bleed through.
For a split second, an image flared behind her eyes.
A younger version of herself, sitting cross-legged on a cold floor, listening as someone older explained things she was too young to understand but learned anyway.
You remember everything, a voice had said then. That's why you survive.
She finished on the final beat.
Silence followed.
This time, it felt different.
Not heavy.
Expectant.
"Where did you learn to rap like that?" an evaluator asked.
Lia lifted her chin. "I listen."
"To what?"
"Everything."
They exchanged glances.
Jieun's gaze never left her.
---
Walking back to the dorms, Lia's hands shook slightly.
She tucked them into her sleeves.
That reaction surprised her.
She hadn't been nervous before.
Not like this.
At the dorm entrance, Mina stopped her gently. "You okay?"
"Yes."
Mina sighed. "You know, you don't always have to say that."
Lia met her eyes. "If I don't, it opens doors I can't close."
Mina studied her, then nodded slowly. "When you're ready, we'll listen."
That night, Lia sat by the window again.
The city glowed below, endless and alive.
She pressed her forehead lightly against the glass.
Music wasn't just something she loved.
It was something that remembered her.
And that realization — quiet, unsettling, inevitable — told her one thing clearly:
This path wouldn't just make her famous.
It would make her face herself.