The practice building looked smaller in daylight.
At night, it had loomed—glass and steel and ambition, humming quietly like a machine that never slept. In the morning sun, it was still imposing, but more honest. Less myth. More work.
Lia adjusted Ari higher on her chest as she stood at the entrance, watching trainees stream in. Some laughed, some walked fast with headphones in, lips moving silently. Others looked half-asleep, clutching coffee like it was life support.
Everyone here wanted something.
She exhaled slowly.
So do I.Inside, the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished floors. Posters lined the walls—former trainees turned idols, faces flawless, eyes burning with hunger frozen forever in print.
Minji nudged her gently. "Okay. First official day. You ready?"
Lia's lips twitched. "Do I look like I have a choice?"
Soojin snorted. "That's the spirit."
They signed in at the front desk. Lia noticed the way the staff's eyes flicked—first to her face, then down to Ari. The pause. The recalculation.
She met their gaze evenly.
She'd learned early not to flinch.
---
The vocal evaluation room was packed.
Mirrors on every wall. A long table at the front where three instructors sat, tablets in hand. A camera blinked red in the corner.
Reiko leaned in close and murmured, "This isn't ranking yet. Just assessment."
"I know," Lia replied.
Her Korean still carried an accent, but it was steady. Practiced. She'd drilled phrases alone at night, whispering them while Ari slept against her chest. Pronunciation apps muted low so they wouldn't wake the baby.
She hadn't come unprepared.
Names were called one by one. Voices rose, some trembling, some overconfident. A girl cracked halfway through a high note and looked like she might cry. Another sang perfectly and still looked terrified.
When "Lia" was called, the room went quiet in that particular way—curiosity sharpening into attention.
She stepped forward.
"Song choice?" one instructor asked.
Lia hesitated.
She hadn't planned to sing that song.
But something in her chest tightened, familiar and heavy, and she heard herself answer anyway.
"An original."
Eyebrows lifted.
"That's… ambitious," another instructor said mildly.
Lia gave a small shrug. "I know."
Music cued—just a bare piano track she'd uploaded earlier. No backing vocals. No safety net.
She adjusted Ari in the carrier, pressing a kiss briefly into her soft hair.
Then she sang.
Her voice wasn't sweet.
It wasn't delicate.
It cut.
Low at first, controlled, almost conversational—then it climbed, not in pitch but in intensity. Every word landed like it had weight behind it. Like it had been lived in.
Ilearned how to breathe in borrowed air
Learned how to smile with my hands shaking
They said "wait your turn, you're too young to fall apart"
But no one waits when the ground is breaking
The room stilled.
Lia didn't close her eyes. She stared straight ahead, jaw set, fingers curled slightly at her sides. The melody sharpened, rhythm tightening like a fist.
A flash—unwanted, uninvited.
A different room. Flickering light. Someone shouting her name too late.
Her breath hitched for half a second.
She rode it.
I don't cry pretty, I don't beg clean
I don't fit into the girl they need
If I sound angry, it's 'cause I survived
I didn't get saved—I stayed alive
The last note rang, raw and unapologetic.
Silence.
Then one instructor leaned back slowly.
"…Thank you."
Lia bowed once and stepped back without waiting for more.
Her hands were steady again.
---
Dance evaluation came next.
Ari stayed with Mina outside the room. Lia felt the absence like missing armor.
The choreography was fast, sharp, unforgiving. Lia didn't have the cleanest lines—her body was still adjusting, still healing in ways no one here could see—but she hit the beats with precision and intent.
She danced like someone who refused to disappear.
When it ended, sweat slid down her spine. Her chest burned. But her gaze stayed level.
She didn't smile.
---
By lunch, whispers followed her.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just curious.
"That's the girl with the baby."
"Her rap tone is insane."
"She looks calm but scary."
Lia ate quietly, feeding Ari between bites. Minji talked enough for three people. Soojin watched the room like she was cataloging threats.
"You didn't soften your voice," Soojin said finally.
Lia glanced up. "Why would I?"
"Some people do. First day."
Lia swallowed. "I've been soft before. It didn't protect me."
Soojin studied her for a long moment, then nodded once.
---
That night, Lia stayed late.
The building thinned out as the hours dragged on. Lights dimmed. Music leaked faintly from distant rooms.
She stood alone in a small practice studio, mirrors reflecting her from every angle. Smaller than she felt inside. Younger, too.
She pressed play.
The beat was unfinished—just a rough loop she'd been working on quietly for weeks. It thumped low, restless.
She began to rap.
Not loud. Not for anyone else.
Words spilled sharp and fast, controlled chaos braided with restraint.
They want a story they can sell and forget
Tie a bow on my pain, make it marketable regret
But I don't bleed on command, don't break
for the frame
If I'm fire, I burn in my own damn name
Her reflection stared back, eyes dark, unflinching.
Another flicker—rain on concrete. Sirens far away. A hand slipping from hers.
Her voice didn't falter.
When the track ended, she stood there breathing hard, fists clenched, heart pounding like it was knocking from the inside.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand.
"Not today," she whispered. "Not here."
Outside the room, someone had stopped.
Mina.
She didn't clap. Didn't interrupt. Just met Lia's eyes through the glass and gave her a small, steady smile.
Like acknowledgment.
Like permission.
Lia turned off the lights and walked out.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
---
The dorm was quieter than usual when Lia returned.
Lights dimmed. One girl asleep on the couch, another curled up with headphones still on. Mina was in the kitchenette, pouring hot water into a mug, movements unhurried.
"You stayed late," Mina said without looking up.
Lia shrugged as she eased Ari out of the carrier. "Couldn't sleep."
Ari blinked, yawned, then fisted Lia's shirt like she was afraid the world might pull her mother away if she let go.
Mina watched that, something unreadable passing through her eyes.
"You did well today," she said gently.
Lia didn't respond immediately. Praise always felt… slippery. Like something that could disappear if she grabbed it too fast.
"I wasn't trying to impress them," she said finally.
"I know."
That made her glance up.
Mina handed her the mug. Warm ginger tea. "That's why it worked."
---
Later, with Ari finally asleep, Lia lay on her bed staring at the ceiling.
The room hummed softly — distant traffic, the building's ventilation system, Minji's quiet breathing from the other side of the room.
Her body ached.
Not the normal kind.
The remembering kind.
She closed her eyes.
Just for a second.
---
A car door slamming.
Laughter — loud, careless.
Her name shouted once, sharp with excitement.
Then—
Silence that came too fast.
Her eyes snapped open.
Her heart was racing, fingers digging into the blanket like it was the only solid thing left.
She exhaled slowly.
Not now.
She rolled onto her side and watched Ari sleep. Tiny chest rising and falling. Safe. Warm.
Real.
The past loosened its grip.
---
The next morning started early.
Too early.
Dance conditioning at 5:30 a.m.
Lia tied her hair back with practiced efficiency, movements economical. No wasted energy. No complaints.
Soojin eyed her from the mirror. "You don't look like someone who didn't sleep."
Lia smirked faintly. "You don't know what I look like when I don't sleep."
That earned a quiet laugh.
The conditioning was brutal. Planks, sprints, core drills that burned down to the bone. Lia pushed through, jaw tight, refusing to be the first to falter.
When her arms started shaking, she remembered—
Hands slipping.
Concrete scraping skin.
Someone screaming her name again, this time wrong. Too late. Always too late.
She held the plank longer.
When it ended, she collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving.
Minji groaned dramatically beside her. "I'm dying. If I perish, tell my fans I loved them."
"You don't have fans," Soojin said dryly.
"Not yet."
Lia stared at the ceiling, sweat cooling on her skin, and let out a short breath that was almost a laugh.
---
Music theory class followed.
Lia sat near the back, notebook open, pen moving quickly. Chord progressions. Rhythm structures. Korean terminology she half-knew, half-guessed.
She caught on fast.
Too fast.
The instructor paused. "You've studied before."
Lia nodded. "A little."
What she didn't say: late nights, borrowed Wi-Fi, headphones pressed tight while a baby slept beside her.
The instructor watched her a moment longer, then continued.
---
During break, a trainee approached her.
"You're… different," the girl said, not unkindly. "On stage, I mean."
Lia tilted her head. "Different how?"
"Like you're not trying to be liked."
Lia considered that.
Then: "I'm trying to be heard."
The girl blinked, then smiled, a little shaken. "Yeah. That."
---
That evening, Lia found herself back in the practice room.
Same mirrors. Same unfinished beat.
She played it again.
This time, she let herself feel the cracks instead of sealing them shut.
I grew up quick in a slow kind of pain
Learned silence louder than people who stayed
If I look small, don't mistake it for weak
Some storms learn how to move quietly
Her voice roughened.
A flash — hospital lights too bright, beeping machines, a weight on her chest that wasn't hers alone.
She stopped.
Pressed her palm flat against the mirror.
Grounded herself.
Then restarted from the top.
When she finished, her reflection looked… older.
Not hardened.
Sharpened.
Outside the room, the hallway was empty this time.
No witnesses.
Just her.
And the version of herself she was slowly allowing to exist.
---
That night, as she rocked Ari to sleep, Lia whispered softly:
"I'm not done yet."
Ari gurgled, blissfully unconcerned with futures or ghosts.
Lia smiled — small, real.
Tomorrow would hurt.
But she'd learned something important.
Pain didn't scare her anymore.
Being invisible did.