The large, glossy chart appeared suddenly during breakfast, right outside the cafeteria doors. It was impossible to ignore—a glaring reminder of the day's most important updates. The numbers displayed on it were more than simple rankings; they were the keys to the trainees' futures, their chances of standing out, and whether they would get to perform solo or stay in the background.
All around the cafeteria, trainees paused mid-chew, eyes fixed on the chart. Their faces tightened with anticipation, anxiety, or quiet determination. It was as if their entire motivation depended on those digits.
Haru, as usual, kept a calm exterior. He tried to act like the chart didn't matter much — like he wasn't obsessing over whether he'd moved up or down. He pretended it was just another number, another line on a sheet. But deep down, everyone knew he cared. A lot.
His gaze flicked toward the glowing list of names.
Seojun held firm at #2, still untouchable in his quiet, consistent dominance.Riki had made a noticeable leap, rising from #19 to #13, his expression somewhere between shock and satisfaction.
Then Haru spotted his own name — #11.
He blinked. "Eleventh?" he whispered, hardly believing it. "I was thirteenth last month…"
Just over his shoulder, Minju hovered close, her grin stretched ear to ear.
"You leaped!" she whispered, barely able to contain her excitement. "Top ten is so close—I told you they'd notice!"
Haru didn't respond, but his fingers curled slightly against his tray. His jaw tensed, his eyes fixed on the board. It wasn't the top. Not yet. But it was something. A step. A reason to keep going.
All around him, murmurs started to rise.
"Didn't he mess up that vocal run during the last challenge?" a third question echoed.
"Yeah, but he still improved. That's what counts," someone else said with a shrug.
Haru, hearing these comments, stepped back slowly. The numbers shouldn't have mattered so much, he thought. They were just numbers. Just a way to measure progress. Yet they gnawed at him, tugging at his confidence and his hopes for the future. They had become a silent barometer of his worth, a way to see how much he was truly improving.
Minju kept spinning around, her arms flailing in pure joy. "My boy is climbing! He's moving up! It's happening!"
Her excitement was infectious, filling the space with a sense of hope and celebration. The rankings weren't just a list they watched; they were a reflection of effort paying off, of dreams inching closer to reality. Everyone knew the pressure was immense — a few spots could mean the difference between debuting on a big stage and fading into obscurity. And right now, Haru's sudden surge gave everyone hope. His progress was proof that hard work might really pay off, even if the journey was full of setbacks.
This moment, at breakfast, was more than just a snapshot of rankings. It was a reminder that every trainee was fighting their own battle, pushing their limits, and that change could come fast — if they kept going. Haru's improvement was just the beginning, but for him, it felt like a huge step forward. For Minju, it was pure delight; for everyone else, it was hope that maybe, just maybe, they all had a shot at their dreams.
Back inside the dorm room, she carefully printed out a tiny version of the chart they had been working on. Wrapping the corner of the paper around her finger, she then reached over and gently taped it to the side of Haru's bunk frame. The small print was easy to miss, but she made sure it was in a visible spot, knowing how much it meant to him. She stepped back with a bright, eager smile. "Motivation!" she declared, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. Her eyes gleamed with determination, eager to see him succeed.
Haru let out a long, tired groan. He leaned against his mattress, running a hand through his hair. "This is way overkill," he muttered, voice muffled from the pillow. The chart was a constant reminder of how far he wanted to go—and how much harder he needed to push himself. But right now, it seemed almost intimidating, a mountain he wasn't sure he could climb. Still, she nodded seriously, undeterred. "I want to hit top 5 next month," she said firmly, her tone filled with conviction. "And we're going to do it together!"
Haru gave her a tired look. "You mean I'll do it," he corrected. His voice was dry, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. She shrugged firmly. "Details," she said with a grin. It was their little joke—about how she kept insisting on supporting him, even if he was the one doing most of the work. She refused to accept that he couldn't do it. It was her way of pushing him to be better, to stay motivated, even on days when everything felt too much.
But that high, that burst of motivation, didn't last long after that. The week brought new challenges. The official vocal ranking results came out later in the week, separate from their daily practice and rehearsals. To his dismay, Haru's rank had dropped four spots. Just like that, the confidence he had ignited flickered. Minju, who had been watching quietly, saw what it did to him and was quick to act. She suddenly flung herself upside-down like a furious bat, her hair dangling wildly. "Unacceptable!" she roared, tone sharp and fierce. Her voice echoed across the room as she pointed a finger at the chart. "Who decided this? Who judged your vocals? A horse with earplugs?!"
Her anger was palpable. She was furious for him and for the unfairness of it all. Haru watched her, surprised by her intensity, and before he knew it, he was laughing so hard he snorted water out of his nose. Her passion was contagious, making him forget his disappointment. "You're so dramatic," he managed to say between laughs.
She tossed her hair, pouting in midair. "I've died with better pitch than this! No offense," she added quickly, a teasing smirk on her face. Her voice was light, but her eyes shone with genuine frustration. "We need to push harder," she continued, voice getting serious again. "Vocal boot camp. I'm bringing my hairbrush mic, and I'll even sing through that if I have to." Her determination was clear.
Haru rolled his eyes, amused by her energy. "You don't have hands," he pointed out. Her grin grew wider. "I'll scream directionally. Trust me, I'll get through."
Their playful banter drew whispers from the other trainees nearby. Small groups started murmuring to each other. "He's got weird luck," one whispered, eyes narrowing in curiosity. Another added, "Some kind of charm. It's like he's got a force field around him or something." More rumors circulated about his seemingly odd ability to stay afloat despite setbacks. Someone else asked quietly, "Is it really true he talks to walls?" As if the walls could somehow give him advice or keep him safe.
One evening, Riki caught Haru alone in a corner, studying his phone with a serious expression. "So, you hiding a rabbit's foot or something?" Riki asked, arching an eyebrow. Haru shook his head quickly. "No." Riki pressed his smirk deeper. "A four-leaf clover? Lucky charm?" he guessed, voice playful but probing. Haru shook his head faster, voice firm. "Nope. Nothing like that." Riki's smile grew mischievous. "Secret girlfriend?"
Haru's eyes widened, and he quickly denied it. "Definitely not." Riki's grin widened as he leaned in. "Took you long enough," he teased, making Haru feel both amused and embarrassed.
As the days went by, the training became even more intense. They put in longer hours than before, with added evaluations that cut into what little free time they had. One day, Haru made a mistake during a recording session. He tried to harmonize but hit the wrong note, throwing off the entire segment. Three producers watched silently before shaking their heads and telling him to run laps to cool down. Haru's shoulders sagged as he jogged around the practice room, sweat dripping down his face.
Minju, observing his struggles, grew quieter with each passing day. Her usual lively attitude dimmed, replaced with a wary watchfulness. She noticed every mistake, every falter, and kept a close eye on him. When Haru practiced late at night, she would hide behind the glass in the practice room, mimicking his hand gestures as he tried to perfect a complicated routine. She whispered lyrics into his ear when she saw him forget words, offering quiet support in the dark.
One night, after a particularly harsh critique left him in tears in the stairwell, she sat down beside him without a single word. Her presence wasn't dismissive or dismissive; she just sat there, glowing softly like a nightlight against the cold wall. Haru's tears dried faster with her silent company, knowing someone understood.
She never told him he was doing it for her, that all her motivation came from loyalty or love. Instead, she simply watched, rooted in her own quiet strength. Haru realized that. He knew she was there because she believed in him—the real reason he kept going, even on days when he felt like giving up. Not because she pushed or forced him, but because her steadfast belief fueled his own resilience.
Now, with that knowledge, everything felt different. He wasn't just trying to improve to impress her, or anyone else. He was doing it for himself, for his own dreams. That shift changed everything, making every late night and every mistake worth it.
Late one night, Haru looked up from his lyrics sheet.
"Hey, Minju."
She blinked. "Yeah?"
"I want to debut."
She smiled.
"I know."